I learned to sketch bodies for clothes in college. But I learned to sketch bodies that do not exist.

Last year, I got a Remarkable tablet to help with my brain and the unexpected outcome is that I started sketching clothes again. I began with the body I’d learned, the body that doesn’t exist – but it didn’t take long for me to be like wait, this isn’t how this would look on me at all.

I tried toning it down, taking length out of the legs, making angles softer, putting in hips. It took so many iterations to get close to an honest representation of my body, because we’re trained not to see what’s really there.

At this point, it’s impossible for most of us to accurately describe or draw ourselves because the lens is so grimy with misleading images and shame and our culture’s disgusting viewpoint.

I don’t feel like a short person. My self-image and personality make me believe I’m something different. When I sit down and force myself to look, it’s quite a painful experience.

Christ, am I really that dumpy? And maybe I’m not. It’s so hard to know, and I’m not a mathematician so I’m not about to draw to scale.

The back of my head is not my business the TikTok girlies say about our double crowns or bad extensions. I kind of feel like how I look full stop is none of my business – I’m putting on clothes for the art of it. I’m not trying to meet a lover or get a job or anything at all. If I could dress up a robot every day instead of myself, I’d be happier.

But I am happiest in my clothes on the island. I forget I exist there, in a way. When I go to the mainland, I’m incredibly self-conscious. By that, I don’t mean I’m shy. I’m conscious of every word I say, how I’m walking, how my collar is sitting. It’s depleting. It makes clothes into work, not creativity.

Perhaps the only way to accept how I really am is to make it irrelevant. I am invisible; only my clothes show my shape. We spend far more time than is natural looking at or thinking about our physical selves.

My body is no one’s business, not even my own.