There’s a kind of armor that doesn’t clang, doesn’t make noise, doesn’t ask permission to exist. It drapes over you softly, like a quiet declaration that you belong to yourself. Today, I wore layers—not just fabric over skin, but years of living, healing, reclaiming. There was a time they told me how to look, how to shrink, how to take up less space. They wanted me fragil e , easy to control, a reflection of their own insecurities. But they forgot—queens may bend in the storm, but they do not break. My body isn’t an apology. It’s a testament. My body has weathered storms, carried life, held me upright through every sleepless night. And now, it stands, grounded and unapologetic, wrapped in softness that no one can strip away. The Weight of Their Words I have been underweight my whole single life. I was 98 pounds. I was first degree malnourished. I can't seem to gain weight. I always got comments like, "you're too thin!" Even after giving birth, I was too thin. Some peo...