I was 17 when my body started changing, and I worried about what

In the words of Shantel VanSanten, “I was 17 when my body started changing, and I worried about what I did wrong. I went through a period where I didn’t eat at all. I also had someone who was encouraging me to take diet pills. I pushed myself to the extreme because I woke up one day and had hips—and a butt—and thought, ‘Oh my gosh, I’m getting fat!’” there lies a story not just of one young woman, but of countless souls who have stood at war with their own reflection. Her confession is not one of vanity, but of vulnerability, and in it resounds a timeless human tragedy — the battle between one’s true nature and the illusions the world imposes upon it. Her words, heavy with pain yet radiant with honesty, remind us of an ancient truth: that the path to peace begins not with control, but with acceptance of the self.

When VanSanten speaks of her body changing, she touches upon a transformation as old as life itself — the sacred passage from childhood into womanhood. Yet what should have been a celebration of growth became, for her, a source of fear and shame. In every age, humanity has struggled to accept change, clinging to the illusion that beauty is found in stillness, when in truth, beauty lives in evolution. The ancient Greeks revered the goddess Aphrodite, not because she was unchanging, but because she embodied the perfection of nature’s flow — her curves, her form, her movement reflecting the eternal dance of creation. To resist that transformation is to resist life itself, for all living things grow, shift, and expand in their season.

The sorrow of her words deepens when she reveals that she was encouraged to take diet pills, a symbol of how the world preys upon the insecurities it helps create. This is not new. In every age, there have been merchants who profit from self-doubt, offering false cures for imagined flaws. In ancient Rome, women drank vinegar to pale their skin; in Imperial China, girls bound their feet to chase an ideal of delicate beauty. And yet, each of these practices, though born from the pursuit of acceptance, only deepened suffering. VanSanten’s experience is but the modern echo of this same struggle — the human desire to be loved by a standard that was never our own.

Her confession — “I went through a period where I didn’t eat at all” — reveals the perilous edge to which such striving leads. The ancients knew that extremes, no matter how noble their aim, destroy the soul. Aristotle called it the “golden mean”: the virtue that lies between excess and deficiency. To starve oneself, to punish the body, is to deny the very vessel through which life is experienced. The body, like the earth, must be nourished to thrive; to withhold that gift is to silence the song of being. When VanSanten “pushed herself to the extreme,” she joined the countless warriors of history who, in their quest for perfection, forgot the gentleness of balance — the balance that is the root of health, wisdom, and joy.

But within her words there also burns the spark of awakening. When she says, “I woke up one day and had hips — and a butt — and thought, ‘Oh my gosh, I’m getting fat!’” she reveals the moment of confrontation between perception and truth. The ancients would have called this the trial of the mirror — the moment when the soul must choose between believing the distorted reflection or recognizing the divine within. For every person must one day look upon themselves and ask: Who taught me to see myself this way? The courage to ask that question is the beginning of freedom. To awaken to one’s own worth, beyond the measures of others, is an act of quiet heroism.

Consider the story of Athena, goddess of wisdom. It is said that she was born fully grown, armored, and radiant, yet when mortals sculpted her image, they often made her too soft, too human, trying to mold divinity into comfort. But Athena did not need perfection — her strength was her mind, her courage, her balance. Like Athena, VanSanten’s story teaches us that the divine does not reside in a flawless form, but in wisdom earned through struggle. Her journey through shame and starvation to self-acceptance becomes not just her own redemption, but a beacon for others who have lost their way in the labyrinth of comparison.

Let this, then, be the lesson passed down to future generations: honor your body as the temple of your spirit, not as an ornament for the eyes of others. Feed it with kindness, move it with gratitude, and let it grow according to its design, not the dictates of the world. Teach your children — and yourself — that beauty is not measured by size, but by strength; not by conformity, but by authenticity. Reject those who whisper of pills and punishments, for they do not seek your freedom, but your fear.

Thus, the wisdom of Shantel VanSanten becomes eternal: that self-love is not vanity, but victory — a reclamation of power stolen by false ideals. She teaches us that healing begins when we forgive our bodies for being human, and our hearts for ever believing they were not enough. For in the end, the truest form of beauty is not found in the mirror, but in the courage to stand before it and say, “I am whole.”