Distorted Reflections: Body Image Problems

It started when Elise was twelve—the moment she first became aware of her body not as a part of her, but as something to be judged. It was subtle at first: a classmate’s teasing joke about her “baby fat,” the way her mother gently suggested she choose the salad over the fries, or the way her older sister rolled her eyes when Elise wore shorts that showed her thighs. She didn’t realize at the time how each of these small comments would plant seeds—seeds that, by the time she reached college, had grown into a dense, tangled forest of insecurity.

By the time she turned 20, Elise was a sophomore in Chicago area college, majoring in psychology and juggling a full course load, a part-time job at the campus library, and the invisible weight of hating her body. Every morning, she would stand in front of the mirror, scanning her reflection with sharp eyes. Her stomach, too soft. Her arms, too big. Her skin, not smooth enough. Even on days when others complimented her, calling her “pretty” or “glowing,” it was like she couldn’t hear them through the fog of self-criticism.

Social media only made it worse. Her feed was filled with images of filtered perfection—flat stomachs, hourglass waists, effortless beauty. She tried to emulate them, following fitness influencers and experimenting with diet trends: low-carb, intermittent fasting, juice cleanses. Some worked temporarily, but always came with a cost—exhaustion, anxiety, guilt after eating something “wrong.” At her lowest point, she would avoid social outings, embarrassed that others might notice the body she tried so hard to hide.

Related: Body Image Therapy in Chicago

It was after one such night—when she’d turned down an invite to a friend’s birthday dinner, instead staying in her dorm room eating celery sticks and scrolling through transformation videos—that something inside her cracked. The loneliness was louder than her inner critic. She curled up in bed, opened her laptop, and searched: “How to stop hating your body.”

Among the articles and Reddit threads, one suggestion came up repeatedly: therapy.

She had never considered it seriously before. Growing up, therapy was something “other people” did. People who had real trauma, people who couldn’t hold it together. But her university offered free counseling services, and she figured there was no harm in trying.

Her first session with Megan, the campus therapist, felt awkward. Elise wasn’t even sure what to say at first—how do you explain to a stranger that your biggest enemy lives in your own reflection?

But Megan didn’t rush her. She listened, asked gentle questions, and offered a warm, steady presence. Over time, Elise began to talk more openly—about the relentless pressure to look a certain way, about the comparisons that plagued her, and about the exhausting cycle of restriction and shame. Megan helped her untangle those thoughts and name them for what they were: internalized messages from a culture obsessed with unrealistic beauty standards.

Together, they explored body neutrality, a concept Elise had never heard of before. Instead of pushing herself to “love” her body, which felt impossible, she started with acceptance. Her body was a vehicle, not a billboard. It carried her through lectures, helped her dance at parties, held her steady during morning runs.

Megan also encouraged Elise to notice the voices she had inherited—her mother’s dieting habits, her sister’s comments, the social media algorithms that fed her insecurity—and to challenge them with curiosity rather than shame. Why did thinness equal worth? Why was softness seen as weakness?

Slowly, Elise began to rebuild a new narrative. She unfollowed the influencers who made her feel less than and started curating her feed with body-positive and body-neutral accounts—people of all shapes, sizes, and backgrounds embracing authenticity. She tried intuitive eating, listening to her hunger cues rather than counting calories. She bought clothes that fit her current body, not the fantasy version she used to chase.

It wasn’t a straight path. There were setbacks—moments of self-doubt, tears in the dressing room, days when the old voices grew loud again. But now, Elise had tools. She had a voice of compassion that grew stronger with practice. She learned to pause, breathe, and ask herself, “What would I say to a friend who felt this way?”

By the end of her junior year, Elise noticed something unexpected. She no longer dreaded looking in the mirror. She still had insecurities—everyone does—but they didn’t own her anymore. She could wear the sundress. She could eat dessert without guilt. She could show up for herself, not just in spite of her body, but because she finally saw it as part of her, not the problem to be fixed.

Therapy hadn’t changed her body—but it had changed her relationship to it. And for Elise, that made all the difference.

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Details in the story shared here have been changed to protect the identity of the client.