Tor Cardona is a journalist covering beauty, wellness and fitness. Her writing on everything from diet culture to workout trends, mental health and mindfulness can be found in SheerLuxe, Refinery29, Get The Gloss, Grazia and plenty of others. Find her on Instagram. Here she tells the story of how she found her runner’s high…

There are two types of people in the world: those who jump out of bed at the crack of dawn to effortlessly pound the pavements for five miles and those who wouldn’t be seen dead running for anything, let alone the number 38 bus. I’ve been both of these people. For much of my life the very concept of running filled me with dread, until I found a way to make it empowering instead.

I was genuinely terrible at all sports throughout secondary school: bad at hitting a rounders ball, even worse on the tennis court, and had weekly nightmares about the hockey pitch (I can still smell the damp grass and taste the mouthguard). But my absolute nemesis was running. I’d do anything to get out of it – swapping cross-country for extra Latin and faking period pains for the 800m were just a couple of my trusty strategies.

It makes me feel powerful and capable of anything

So how in the name of Nike did I become a run junkie, clocking up hundreds of miles every year? To be honest, I’m not sure of the exact moment I fell in love with running but I do remember that smug feeling of elation having dragged myself round my local common in the wind and rain around ten years ago. I might have been slow, my form less than perfect and my breathing ragged, but the sense of achievement was overwhelming.

Perhaps the revelation came when I realised running was something I could do with just a pair of trainers and my headphones – forget a seven-a-side netball squad breathing down my neck with the pressure of having to fend off a goal (GK was legit the only position I could ever play due to the fact it required movement in the smallest possible space). Far from school-enforced team sports, my running journey has benefitted from the power of perspective – I now run for me, without judgment or pressure. We’re all capable of running, remember, but it’s those ever-present demons that tell us we’re not fast enough, thin enough, or fit enough that stop us from lacing up. Anyone can be a runner.

I switched gears and started running simply because I was able to. Last year, I ran a whopping 1,160km and so far in 2019 that figure stands at 600km. I run at least three times a week, it’s my meditation, my ‘me-time’ and the thing that keeps me sane. It makes me feel powerful and capable of anything, whatever the day throws at me. I’ve clocked up one full marathon, several halves and dozens of 5 and 10Ks, some in the name of time but the majority for the sheer satisfaction.

But remember all runners, even those keen beans who insist on wearing the skimpiest of outfits chez Barry’s Bootcamp, have bad days. When training for the London Marathon in 2018, I remember tears running down my cheeks on a freezing January morning as I plodded through Brockwell Park; and ironically even the morning prior to writing this I dragged myself down my road for four minutes before realising that run just wasn’t going to happen. And hey, that’s okay. Tomorrow is a new day and we’re all human.

For me, running is an ongoing relationship that’s never going to be perfect. But my advice in the meantime? Lace up, and embrace every step.

The post Tor Cardona: How I Went From Hating PE to Smashing PBs appeared first on Stories.

Big lips. Fish lips. Gorilla lips. Names hurled at my confused eight-year-old self in the school playground, weighted words that neither my primary school peers nor I could’ve known would have the lengthy impact that they did. 

In the innocuous way that all insecurities mount, I found myself shying away from drawing any attention to my lips without making a connection to those experiences at school. As I got older and absorbed more of the beauty conversations taking place around me, I began to understand that my full lips, which form a perpetual pout, were not the ‘norm’.  I learned very quickly that my lips were viewed as undesirable and an unnecessarily exaggerated feature, and in some ways they felt almost cartoonish. 

When people would talk about how every woman needs the perfect red lipstick, all I could think about what was my fear that it would clash horrifically with my skin tone and make me look like a garish clown, not too dissimilar from the racist Golliwog doll. I shied away from applying any of the many glosses my mum had rattling round our home; adding additional shine and shimmer was out of the question, especially when many of the ‘nude’ pink-toned lip glosses weren’t made for me anyway.

It’s only in learning to love so much about my lips that I’ve started to realise just how much I once detested them

And then we entered the era of celebrating white women who possessed features that black women were criticised for. The fascination with the likes of Angelina Jolie and Kylie Jenner has been covered extensively by black women and the way in which cosmetically enhanced full pouts have been deemed attractive but only on white faces. I began to understand the hard lesson that we exist in a world that covets blackness but minus the black people.

However, in spite of this, now in my mid 20s, my lips have become my favourite feature. Through surrounding myself more and more with black people who challenge and defy narrow concepts of desirability, over the years, my understanding of beauty has expanded. Being privy to people I admire loving themselves fully in the face of a society that tells them they shouldn’t, has given me permission to be more forgiving and loving towards myself, turning my ideals and standards of beauty on their head.

I’ve learned to love the way my lips stand out from my face, their fullness adding another level of depth to my face. I’ve learned to love the definition of my cupid’s bow, often carefully outlining those curved peaks of my mouth with lipsticks favouring bold reds, deep purples and brilliant teals. It’s only in learning to love so much about my lips that I’ve started to realise just how much I once detested them. My lips are a very decidedly black feature, one that I tried to escape from as a young teen when my blackness felt burdensome, a source of mockery and made me target. But as I’ve grown and thrived in understanding myself and my identity as a black woman, my lips have become a source of pride, their plumpness decidedly and unapologetically setting me apart.

The post Paula Akpan: Learning to love my full lips appeared first on Stories.

In my career as a writer, what I have found most interesting is talking to women from different backgrounds, races and cultures about their insecurities. For me, it’s highlighted the similarities we have as women, and drawn attention to the sad fact that it’s rare to find someone who doesn’t have hang ups. As rare as finding eyeliner that genuinely doesn’t budge.

Although being self-critical is a common theme when interviewing women, listening to inspiring stories and advice that leaves you feeling uplifted happens a lot. And I’ve found these positive conversations make a difference to how you view yourself. So here are some of my favourites to hopefully help nudge a few of you in the direction of getting over those totally unnecessary hang-ups.

Look after your skin

I interviewed a woman with extremely severe eczema and her advice to really care for your skin – whatever its condition – really stuck with me. Her perception changed when she had a baby and he developed eczema. She told me she would lovingly spend so much time rubbing in moisturiser and researching ingredients that could help him. Then she realised that she should be doing this for herself too. By putting in the time to care for herself she noticed a difference (both inside and out) and it made her able to better accept her skin, even on the days it really flared up.

Try not to compare yourself to others

It’s a tough one in this social media-mad world, but talking to a woman called Fabiola for the beauty brand Dove really opened my eyes to how important this is. Originally from Nicaragua, she was so nervous to be filmed at first, but equally gave off this aura of someone very content within herself. She told me that she doesn’t really compare herself to others anymore – whether that’s a model in a magazine, her friends or people on the street. It’s often easier to do as you get older, but something we should all be actively trying to do whatever our age.

Be open about your issues

I once interviewed this 15-year-old girl for AXA Healthcare about her anxiety and eating disorder. The thing that left it’s mark on me most was how things had started to change once she’d opened up to her family, friends and teachers. A load had been lifted off her shoulders and people were there to support her in getting better, or just listen when she was struggling. It’s so helpful to have conversations with people about how you’re feeling so problems and hang-ups don’t become all consuming. And then equally as importantly, actually listen to what others have to say. Often you need an outside perspective more than you realise.

Have fun with beauty

Beauty shouldn’t be about covering perceived flaws or conforming to what everyone else does. After interviewing a student from the US called Chizi, I came away realising this more than ever. She was studying art in London and I spoke to her about her life and how she wasn’t afraid to have fun and play around with how she styles herself. She had bright red lips, glowing skin, a shaved head and a colourful dress sense, but by far the most noticeable thing about her was her confidence and kindness. I really wish everyone could have a conversation with Chizi.

The post Lauren Jackson: it’s important to talk about our beauty hang-ups appeared first on Stories.

“Why do you always have a rash on your legs?” my friend asked as we sat on the bench ahead of swimming class. I was around 13 and had, as far as I recall, never given the skin on my thighs much thought before. I didn’t know the answer to her question but I immediately assumed that this ‘rash’ wasn’t normal. I went from barely having noticed it to then spending many, many years afterwards trying to fix it.

It turned out though that, like many things in life, what I feared was abnormal about myself was in fact quite natural. I have keratosis pilaris, otherwise attractively known to some as ‘chicken skin’. It is described by the NHS as ‘a very common, harmless condition where small bumps appear on your skin’, which can be dry, rough and itchy and tend to form on the arms, thighs or bum. The condition – which happens when a build-up of keratin blocks the hair follicles – can run in families and has a tendency to stick around for years. Always nice to have something to look forward to…

With age I became increasingly aware of this staggering difference between my ‘rash’ legs and those that I saw in the media

So why, with this being such a common affliction, did it make me feel so strange and embarrassed? Perhaps it’s because, as a teenage girl looking to the outside world for reassurance, I’d realised that this was something we just don’t tend to see out in the open. After all, those affected by KP probably aren’t too keen on showing off their bumpy skin for all to see (which I can now attest to), and for me – with the condition particularly manifesting on my thighs – this has been made worse by the lack of ‘normal’ looking legs in the media. Take a look through a glossy magazine and you’ll notice that adverts and photoshoots tend to depict blemish-free, silky-smooth and evenly tanned pins – no ‘chicken skin’ in sight. And don’t even get me started on the alarming falseness of many Instagram and social media images.

With age I became increasingly aware of this staggering difference between my ‘rash’ legs and those that I saw in the media, and it turns out I’m not the only one. Actress and activist Jameela Jamil recently admitted in a candid Instagram post that seeing her legs looking flawless in a heavily airbrushed photo of herself negatively affected her mental health. So imagine the issues it can cause as an outsider looking at a picture that we may not be aware has been retouched – we assume that this snapshot depicts the norm, and worry because our bodies don’t match.

Perhaps without realising it for a while, this confusion between image and reality damaged me too. I was convinced for years after the swimming incident that my legs were something to be embarrassed about, and felt paranoid over the reactions of others. This sucks the most when it gets in the way of you living your life; on one occasion I was exploring a Greek island for the first time on a press trip, yet instead of taking in the beautiful scenery I couldn’t help but wonder whether my travel companions were looking at my thighs – bare in a tiny playsuit thanks to the 36-degree heat – with secret disgust.

The insecurity led to years of trying various products and tricks in the hope of ridding myself of the issue, which was ultimately a tactic to overcome the low self-esteem underneath it all. That old chestnut of “If x happens I’ll be happy” type-thinking crept in; “If it’s gone and I have perfect legs I’ll be a more attractive and confident person”. I went through a variety of shower gels, lotions, exfoliants, soaps and even hair removal methods on my mission. Occasionally I had minor results, only for the KP to reemerge again as angry as ever.

they’re natural and mine, and just real life really

But then something unexpectedly changed – not with my stubborn skin (there’s no way that will back down without a fight, oh no), but with my mind. Recently, with the rise of the body positive movement, I’ve started to be more accepting of the condition. Okay, so I won’t exactly be pointing it out to strangers and asking them to feel the, um, lovely tactile bumps, but if I’m having a particularly aggressive outbreak – and it’s a hot day and I want to bare some skin – then I’m not going to feel that I have to hide it away. My legs will still be out in their pale, blemished and bumpy glory, because they’re natural and mine, and just real life really. I’ve spent too many years fretting about the way my body looks and frankly I don’t want to waste much more time on doing so. Who wants to be so preoccupied with what they look like that they forget to actually enjoy life experiences? Changing my mindset is a work in process but I’m determined to set a positive example to those like my insecure teenage self; I look at my friends’ gorgeous young daughters and can’t bear the thought of them receiving the negative body image messages that so clearly affected me.

I’m not saying that you have to throw out all products and be done with it, of course – if you find something that works and gives you that extra bit of confidence then go for it. Personally I have yet to strike upon anything that offers solid results with KP; I’ve tried some of the specialist products available on the market and had some success, but find that I really have to commit to using them regularly (which, let’s face it, in today’s insanely busy world can be a challenge). My advice would be to occasionally use a very gentle exfoliating mitt along with an equally mild body lotion. And perhaps, rather than focusing on getting rid of the condition, think of these more as self-care tools. There is also the option of course to speak to a pharmacist if you’re really struggling.

But if you try all of that and it still doesn’t clear (which, with keratosis pilaris known for persistently returning, is sadly quite likely)? Please don’t worry. We’ve come so far recently in showing that things like cellulite and body hair are perfectly normal – so isn’t it about time that natural, blemished, angry-red-bumpy legs, like mine and countless other women’s, become the next skin ‘taboo’ to be broken?

The post Anna Francis: normal skin conditions are the next beauty taboo to break appeared first on Stories.

According to a recent University of Bristol study, participants who practiced mindfulness showed a reduction in anxiety and negative thought patterns, an improved resiliency to stress and better emotional wellbeing too. Well, what’s not to love about that? But like anything, knowing something is good for us and actually doing it can be two very different things – in our time-pressed society, it’s often best to find small changes to make, meaning we can more easily introduce these helpful effects into our day-to-day lives.

Yoga teacher and mindfulness expert Rebecca Foster knows a thing or two about the topic. She describes yoga as “a tool to anchor herself to the present moment.” And she takes that stance of being present with her outside the studio too.

“Mindfulness got me through one of the hardest periods of my life,” Rebecca told us. “I started practicing when I broke up with an ex and I felt like I needed to reconnect with myself. Now I find the more mindful I am, the more I appreciate the smaller things in life, instead of being wrapped up in the issues that I can’t do anything about at that time.”

After practicing yoga and mindfulness for a few years, Rebecca decided to train to become a professional yoga teacher. “I thought I’d really like to share the experience I’d had with at least one other person,” she told us. “For me, mindfulness helps to cultivate beauty from within – I sleep better, my skin glows, and it positively affects how I feel about my appearance. I want others to feel that too.”

It seems we can all benefit from a little mindfulness, and if you’re a beginner, it’s best to start small. We asked Rebecca’s for her tips on how we can easily introduce mindfulness into our day-today lives.

Boost your beauty ritual

From focusing on the soothing feeling of your morning shower, to really enjoying the scents and sensations of your products, your beauty routine is made for mindfulness. Plus, you’ll probably enjoy it all the more.

Switch off auto-pilot

Every now and again, try using your least dominant hand for basic tasks like drinking, opening doors and picking things up. This means you’re less likely to let your mind drift on to other things, as you’ll focus more on what you’re doing in that moment.

Eat meals mindfully

If you tend to jump straight onto Instagram when you’re eating, try to kick the habit. Chew your food slowly and focus on savouring the taste instead – especially if you’ve spent time preparing a delicious meal for yourself.

Write a gratitude journal

It’s easy to take the good things for granted. By writing down each day something you’re grateful for – however small – it can help you appreciate life more.

Do yoga (and keep it up!)

Yoga is essentially guided meditation, helping you really keep your focus on the present moment and calming even the most active of minds. Generally, the more you do it, the better you’ll become at being mindful.

Make mindfulness a habit

Start by doing something mindful that isn’t too difficult to incorporate into your routine. That could be meditating, stretching or simply brushing your hair. Then pick a time each day you do it and stick with it. After three weeks your mindfulness technique will become a good habit that’s hard to stop.

Forgive yourself

If you’re forgetting to be mindful or your thoughts keep wandering, don’t be hard on yourself. This is the start of a new moment, so you can begin again right now. Instant forgiveness is key to mindfulness. And practice makes perfect.

The post Expert tips on how to make mindfulness part of your everyday life appeared first on Stories.

The worst part about shopping is the changing rooms. The acidic white light flares up my skin so that every blackhead, flaking scab, hair or spot is presented with forensic precision. It never feels like a conscious choice, my nails just start squeezing and pressing into skin until my pores weep. I stand there until my lower back aches from leaning close to the mirror and scattered around my feet are bloodied tissues.

There are other places I hate: The hairdresser chair, the shopping centre lift mirror, washing my hands with strawberry scented foam in the train station toilets while reflected back at me are hundreds of imperfections speckling my nose. The car wing mirror, looking at an iPhone front camera on the tube.

I have a skin-picking disorder called dermatillomania. Dr Adam Friedmann from the Harley Street Dermatology Clinic explained the condition to me. “It’s characterised by the repeated urge or impulse to pick at one’s own skin until either psychological or physical damage is caused. Dermatillomania is related to hair picking or ‘trichotillomania’ where people injure themselves intentionally or unintentionally. These conditions are often exasperated by anxiety and depression. It can get to the point where people become convinced there’s something living in their skin.”

Social media makes us susceptible to seeing flaws where they don’t exist, fuelling a desire to expunge them from the body

In more severe cases, skin picking can actually make you physically ill. Dr Friedmann told me: “When people believe there’s a parasite living under their skin, they become more aggressive in their treatment of their skin and they sometimes start to use instruments to cut these imaginary beasties out of their bodies. These people will look much more aggressively injured because they have cut bits of themselves off.” In some extreme cases, obsessive picking can lead to septicemia.

I used to think that I acted this way because my body was imperfect. But the problem is not that my skin is dirty, but rather my belief that it shouldn’t be so. What gave me that idea in the first place?  

I blame the Instagram home feed. When I feel low I often find myself scrolling through images of flawless skin. Even under an HD lens, a woman’s cheeks show nothing but balmy undulations of cheekbones. Another glows make-up free on a pillow, her eyes still sticky from sleep. A model has skin so smooth it’s like the hard ceramic casing of a robot. I look at these women and I want to inhabit their skin like a costume. When I catch sight of myself in the mirror again, I lose control.

Studies linking Instagram to body dysmorphia are nothing new. Social media makes us susceptible to seeing flaws where they don’t exist, fuelling a desire to expunge them from the body. As Dr Freidmann said to me, “Anything that can raise levels of anxiety or self-loathing can trigger skin picking. Social media may be a means by which someone could find themselves stressed or anxious or irritated.”

But now when I feel stressed I sometimes scroll past a different type of face, one that’s a lot less smooth and a little less perfect

For some people skin-picking gets so bad they avoid birthdays, they call in sick, they cancel on people, hiding under duvets so that no-one can laugh at the holes in their face. It hasn’t got to that point for me yet. I am an expert with concealer, endlessly dotting beige blobs on scars until no one could see what I have done to myself. It doesn’t make me feel much better, I still know what’s underneath. The red flecks where I’ve hurt myself are now permanently pressed into my DNA. Now when my cells replace themselves they come back red. If you keep picking into your flaws you will find nothing but more flaws, more dirt, wetness, infection. The body isn’t clean and it’s not supposed to be.

There is hope; people do get better. Some women say acrylic nails stopped them picking, others wearing gloves, avoiding mirrors, practising mindfulness, 10 step K-Beauty routines.

One evening I was curled on my bed in a damp towel scrolling through Instagram until my phone overheated. I clicked on a face, I liked the way her nose curled up all cute at the end. Her skin wasn’t quite like other women’s, pinky patches were mottled over her forehead. I noticed that in the caption she’d spoken of her problematic history of skin picking. Of taking tweezers to her face until her complexion was broken. Of slathering acidic face masks onto open wounds. She looked like she was healing.

I still haven’t managed to stop picking, that would mean accepting that there will never be skin without dirt and at the moment that’s a thought which is too stressful to bear. But now when I feel stressed I sometimes scroll past a different type of face, one that’s a lot less smooth and a little less perfect and it makes me feel better about all the monsters living under my face.

The post Annie Lord: Dermatillomania (aka skin-picking) and the triggers and solace of social media appeared first on Stories.

Penny Rutterford is a freelance writer and blogger. She writes on health, lifestyle, travel and positive ageing. Her blog Great Things about Cancer explores life with and beyond breast cancer. Follow her on Twitter or Instagram @pennyrutterford.

I was walking across London’s iconic Millennium Bridge when a gust of wind whipped my headscarf from my bald head. As it swept away like an out of control psychedelic comb-over, I simply let it go. I was mid-way through treatment for breast cancer. I might have been bald, but boy was I wearing some mean face furniture and it made me feel bold.

I thought I was prepared for hair loss when I started chemotherapy. I’d seen the cancer movies, I’d applauded all those friends and family who ‘brave the shave’. But no, in reality things were very different. The day my hair came off in my hand was unnerving, but what I saw in the mirror was the real shock. I wasn’t prepared for the loss of my eyebrows and eyelashes. Looking at my reflection I was faced with something akin to a ping-pong ball. I looked like a cancer patient.

Shallow as it might sound, before cancer, my eyelash curlers would have been my luxury item of choice should I find myself stranded on a desert island with only Tom Hardy for company. We take our facial hair for granted, but without it there is little to frame our features and my make up skills were ill-prepared for the extreme blank canvas of my bare and bloated chemo-face. My answer: massive spectacles. I took inspiration from 97 year old model and style icon, Iris Apfel. Signed by a modelling agency in her 90s her trademark look includes massive thick framed round glasses –  with 1.3 million Instagram followers and a Barbie doll in her likeness, her approach to style can’t be wrong.

 I decided that if I had to stand out, I needed to style it out.

It is hard to fade into the background when you have cancer. People stare. I tried wigs but they were hot and uncomfortable and gave me an overly coiffured ‘mother of the bride’ look which was ageing. I decided that if I had to stand out, I needed to style it out. On a visit to a flea-market I unearthed some round black 80s frames to match the globe of my bald head. And that is when my love affair with quirky glasses began.

Glasses haven’t always been considered  cool or sexy. There were scenes in films when the lead actress would remove her glasses, let down her hair and only then would the male lead be moved to take her into his arms for a passionate embrace. Back in my school days, glasses were for nerds. But now nerds are the height of fashion. Gigi Hadid and Kylie Minogue have their own eyewear collections. I may not have the pert bum but I do now have more than breast cancer in common with Kylie because apparently, she too has a penchant for vintage inspired frames.

I’ve always loved a rummage at a fleamarket and now I do so with purpose. To date I own six pairs of vintage glasses and counting. It’s close to an addiction, I even excused myself for a ‘comfort break’ at a work meeting to win some especially covetable 60s frames on Ebay. The fashion world is currently still in love with statement glasses, demonstrated by the recent launch of Gucci’s pre-fall collection, which includes some pretty groovy frames. My glasses have now become integral to my style. I’ve appeared in charity campaigns and on the cover of a Macmillan Cancer Support booklet on body image extolling the virtues of glasses during cancer treatment. I probably own a pair for every mood and mode. I now have hair, and no longer have cancer – but I’m keeping the look.

The post Penny Rutterford: when cancer treatment meant I lost my hair, statement glasses helped me find my style appeared first on Stories.

I gave birth to my first baby 18 months ago. She is walking, talking, asking for a cuddle, saying an emphatic ‘noooooo’ to brushing her teeth. She’s old enough to have actual opinions. And I still look pregnant.

Before becoming a mum, I had a flattish stomach, I never had lower back pain and I considered myself reasonably strong. But now I have a gap of around 3-4 cm in my abs – a deep, diamond-shaped depression around what remains of my (previously innie) belly button. I also have what can only be described, depressingly (as if I were a marsupial) as a ‘pouch’ of soft, stretch-mark criss-crossed skin, which makes high-waisted jeans look odd and makes body-con a thing of the past. Medically, it’s called Diastasis Recti (DR), a condition where your ab muscles separate during pregnancy and don’t knit back together again. Emotionally, it’s a car crash.

any physical change post-partum is doubly mentally debilitating because your sense of self has already changed so much

Coming to terms with my new body is an ongoing process, tied up with so many expectations, from myself and from the world around me. I’m not the first to say this, but there is one hell of a pressure to get back to looking exactly like you did before your body grew another human. It’s just sort of in the ether – on social media, in the press, in the envious or otherwise glances of other mums at play groups, inside your own head.

I had no idea I had internalised the societal pressure to look like some kind of Love Island contestant so deeply, but any physical change post-partum is doubly mentally debilitating because your sense of self has already changed so much. In the new baby days, when you’re conjoined 24/7 with a person you’ve just met (whom you also somehow love) and your emotions, hormones and social life have all radically altered, you can become unrecognisable to yourself. That makes it even harder to come to terms with a physical manifestation of all this seismic change.

I was officially diagnosed at about six months postpartum after taking a Google search and the word of my Pilates teacher to my GP (who had to Google it himself). I was then referred for some light-touch physio, which did not much at all, and subsequently paid for an online exercise program specifically to heal DR and other pelvic floor problems. I’m gradually, slowly, closing the physical gap, although I know my abs may never join back together completely.

maybe it’s not as blaringly obvious to others as it is to the afflicted – we obsess about our own physical imperfections, but really, no one else cares

Mentally, I’m trying to be OK with my new body – sort of like I’m coming to terms with my new life. I worry about what future pregnancies and births may do to my already fragile core – I had a forceps delivery, which, along with a big baby (she was 9lbs) is a major contributing factor to DR.

Instagrammers like Anya Hayes of @motherswellnesstoolkit and Joanna Diplock of @the_motherhood_movement are doing great work raising awareness of DR and helping women rationalise and celebrate their post-pregnancy bodies. It made me feel a whole lot better when Instagram mumfluencer Gemma Breger from @ThisIsMothership talked about her DR recently – I follow her outfit posts religiously and I hadn’t even realised she had it. That made me feel maybe it’s not as blaringly obvious to others as it is to the afflicted – we obsess about our own physical imperfections, but really, no one else cares. So I’m trying really hard not to care either – it’s a work in progress, but I’m getting there.

The post Sarah Lillywhite: Diastasis Recti and learning to love my post-partum body  appeared first on Stories.

Watching Love Island this summer I sat open-mouthed when contestant Anton announced to his fellow Islanders he shaves all of his body hair off – with his mum even giving him a helping hand with his hard-to-reach backside. The girls in the villa laughed at this and found it off-putting, as did I, but the reality is those girls are probably hair-less from the eyebrows down themselves. Whether we agree or not, body hair is no longer a feature of the ideal female body. I’ve worked in the magazine industry for many years, and it would be air-brushed away to meet this beauty standard. But why do we think differently when it comes to men? The episode fuelled my ongoing confusion with why us women are expected to shave, wax, pluck and even laser our way to this supposed ideal.

My confusion started when I was 13, at secondary school, when walking between classes a boy in my year pointed at my legs and shouted ‘eww look at your hairy legs’. I was so embarrassed, I went home and stole my mum’s razor and shaved for the first time. Before that day, I had never given a moment’s thought to my body hair, but social pressure made me conform.

Female body hair might be natural, but we’ve become conditioned in society to find the presence of it unnatural. It’s often labelled ‘gross’, ‘disgusting’ and even ‘unhygienic’. So much so, if it’s spotted on a celebrity it makes headlines for standing out. Just look at the media field-day it got when Julia Roberts walked the red carpet with armpit hair or Gwyneth Paltrow talked about how she prefers a 70s bush. It seems so offensive to some, but why? It’s natural!

To be more body confident when I forget to shave, and not really care what other people will think.

Let’s talk more about the hair between our legs. Popular opinion from our opposite sex is that they prefer us with minimal to no hair at all. You just have to watch the Channel 4 show Naked Attraction to see this. Now, I’m normally with Gwyneth on this one and like to rock a more natural vibe. But dating a new partner last year, I decided to join the ’Hollywood’ gang (that’s waxing the lot off) for my third date. So once again in my life, I conformed to what I thought was a social norm.

It’s refreshing to see that women are finally on the backlash. Celebrities like Adele and Ashley Graham are reported to be proud of their body hair. Miley Cyrus is often spotted rocking the au natural look, even dyeing her armpit-hair pink, and Instagram is full of pictures of women embracing their body hair with hashtags like #bodyhairisbeautiful. My beautiful sister-in-law even gave me a shock, when she flashed her arm-pit hair at me and proudly told me she’d stopped shaving. And it was great to see earlier this year, a razor advert finally got real, as Billie’s razor advert showed not only arm and leg hair but pubic hair in their campaign.

These women’s collective honesty and refusal to conform to these idealistic values of what makes a woman beautiful, has made me be more honest with myself. That it’s ok that I like hair in places where others don’t. I’ll no longer be removing any of my body hair to please a man, but it’s ok to do it to please myself. To be more body confident when I forget to shave, and not really care what other people will think. To love individuality, because the world would be a boring place if we were all the same. If we all ‘just do you’ we should see a change in people’s attitudes to it. If men can go as hairy or hair-free as they please, women can too.

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Remember when men got blamed for nicking their girlfriend’s moisturiser? Now it’s blokes who’re more likely to moan that their partner’s at their skincare stash.

That’s because post-metrosexual men aren’t afraid to moisturise (and cleanse, and tone). We’re au fait with face masks, fairly sophisticated about scent and would use foundation if someone could teach us how to blend properly (my DMs are open).

It hasn’t always been this way. My dad’s grooming regime was basically non-existent beyond shaving. So when I peered into the bathroom cabinet pre-school disco, hair glitter-gelled in accidental Sonic the Hedgehog tribute, there was nothing of his to pinch.

Poor guy. His options were limited to dusty after-shave that reeked like cigarette end-flavoured gin, and the cheapest spray deodorant from the market. I dabbed on the after-shave anyway. It wasn’t the woman-slayer the ad claimed.

Today the contents of my bathroom cabinet are a lot more expansive than dad’s ever was. But don’t worry. Like most people, I’m under no illusion that my favourite products will help me channel the Hot Priest from Fleabag or Ryan Gosling (I wish).

I do know from personal experience that when you’re depressed, grooming makes you feel that little bit better.

But that’s not the point. Women have known for centuries that beauty is far more than skin deep. You understand that having the right beauty products is an effective form of self-care. That a quality moisturiser does more for your wellbeing than traditional male feel-better tools like booze and junk food.

This matters, because today men need all the self-care we can get. According to Men’s Health Forum, 12.5% of all men in the UK are living with a mental health disorder. Men are less likely to get therapy too – only 36% of referrals to mental health specialists are men.

Now, I’m not daft enough to think that cleanser has anything on anti-depressants and talk therapy (and you should talk to your GP or contact the brilliant people at CALM if you need either). But I do know from personal experience that when you’re depressed, grooming makes you feel that little bit better.

Plonking on a nice-smelling moisturiser can inspire you to get out of your slump and go outside. It’s that self-esteem boost in the bathroom mirror that helps you face the world. A posh-looking product that signals ‘Hey, you’re an OK person’ when the critical voice in your head’s telling you otherwise.

Some commentators (mainly men) moan about the gender-fluid ‘snowflake generation’. But we’ve had ages of strong, silent (and a li’l bit grubby) macho role models. And to be honest, it’s done faff-all for our mental health.

I love the fact that men are being braver and ignoring those that claim you’re not much of a man if you moisturise. Hopefully, it’s another tiny step to building gender roles that don’t leave us feeling so inadequate, stressed and depressed.

Plus, at least we’ll all smell better than our dads.

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