I just spent two hours trying to erase a small ripple of skin from my stomach. Two hours. It’s almost 2 AM and my eyes feel like they’ve been rubbed with sand, staring at this damn phone screen, meticulously dragging a digital finger across a tiny fold that appears when I sit just a certain way. This isn’t a high school photo album I’m editing for myself, mind you. This is for work. This is the image that’s supposed to inspire, to motivate, to scream “peak physical perfection” to a thousand strangers who pay to watch me contort myself into shapes that, frankly, make my back ache more often than not. The irony is so thick you could drown in it. The studio lights are brutal, always. They find every shadow, every slight imperfection, every little whisper of humanity on your body. And the camera? It magnifies it, turns it into a gaping canyon. I know it’s just light and angles, a trick of the eye, but the little voice in my head, the one that sounds suspiciously like my landlord reminding me rent is due, screams that *they* will see it. That my followers, the ones who DM me asking for my “secrets” (the secret is mostly just being tired and hungry, honestly), will spot this micro-crease and immediately revoke my professional license. Or worse, cancel their subscriptions. And then what? Ramen for a month instead of two? There was a moment, around the 90-minute mark, when I actually started laughing. A choked, airless sound that probably scared the cat into hiding under the bed. I was zooming in so close I could practically count my individual pores, trying to smooth out what was essentially the natural elasticity of human skin, and it hit me. Here I am, a grown woman, someone who teaches people how to build strength and resilience, meticulously airbrushing the very thing I preach against: the idea that a body has to be flawless to be worthy. My hands, calloused from lifting weights, were trembling as I pushed the ‘save’ button, then the ‘post’ button. It felt like I was sending a piece of myself, a lie, out into the digital ether. And now I’m just… here. Staring at the ceiling, the blue light of my phone reflecting off it, still feeling that phantom crease on my skin. It’s a ridiculous, pathetic little secret, isn't it? The kind you’d tell a bartender at 3 AM and then immediately regret. I think about the bills stacking up on the kitchen counter, the car payment that’s due next week, and the slight, almost imperceptible quiver in my stomach when I brace myself for a plank. It’s a job, just like any other, only instead of stocking shelves or crunching numbers, I’m selling an ideal. And tonight, that ideal felt like it was going to cost me a meal. This whole thing makes me want to scream, or maybe just go to bed and hope tomorrow my reflection doesn’t look quite so… human.