I grew up in a family where the women were the dominant force. The world seemed like a matriarchy to me.

I saw them, my mother, sister and aunts, holding the reigns over their individual families, dictating how things should be done, and I thought that I would one day be like them. Powerful. When I got married and life was nothing like this, I was puzzled at first.

I soon realized that they were in charge, but not empowered at all. They were in their positions through calculated choices. They chose husbands who also grew up thinking this is the way things should be. Men who were glad they didn’t have to do anything but provide and fix up the house, according to how the wife’s wishes, and then be rewarded with children, a hearty dinner every night, and a smoothly run household.

Looking back, I also see that they are not proud women, they are prideful. They may gain joy and a sense of worth through their families and jobs, through their sparkling Christmas celebrations and lavish parties, but they judge anything and anyone that isn’t like them. In typical small-town fashion, they knew everything about everyone, and gossiped, seemingly unaware that that is what they were doing.

This is the influence I grew up with, and the firm grip I still feel around my throat at times. I was told to dress and be “ordentlich”, a very German thing to say, by the way. To be decent and proper. “You don’t do that!”, as if to say, “This is not how a person behaves.” I have heard more times than I can count.

Even when I went through my hardcore goth phase, it was the rips in my pants and mesh gloves that irked my mother more than the black lipstick or spiky collar.

All throughout my childhood, I heard them talk about people we knew or we saw, no matter how distant or close. When a big person didn’t wear a potato sack, they were ridiculed mercilessly. No empathy, no shame on their part, although most of them are big themselves, or have been at one point or another.

I remember a time, specifically, when one of my cousins showed up to a Christmas party in a dress that was deemed too short. Nobody said anything out loud, but the collected gasp and the hushed silence, full of meaningful glances exchanged between the matriarchy, said it all. No love in this world, no family bond, would have prevented their judgment. Not even the fact that anyone’s outfit at this party is of no consequence. My cousin, who made the choice wearing this dress, probably feeling pretty at first, seemed very uncomfortable the entire evening.

Looking back, I feel so bad for my cousin. But also for myself. My mother would constantly say that I have a face that “only a mother could love”. I think it was supposed to be funny, but I can hear it in my head to this day. I began early on to hide away, to not show my body. It began with not wanting to wear short sleeves, and it ended with me avoiding my beloved beach because I was too scared of their judgment and criticism. The feeling of not being right or good enough, of needing to hide away, runs through my life like a thread. I can clearly tell that is started with them. My family ingrained it in me, just because of their own insecurities disguised as righteousness.

It was only a few years ago that I began showing my arms, and wearing tube and tank tops in the summer. I remember one time, sitting at night in the car with my husband in front of the drug store, having a melt down because, a moment prior, I had decided to go out in a tank top. After arriving at the store, I couldn’t bring myself to go in with bare arms. My husband gave me his sweater, and I felt defeated.

I also remember wearing a red dress without sleeves to a family dinner at a restaurant a few years ago, and being worried out of my mind about what our family would think or say. I could have sworn that our aunt gave me an awkward look after seeing my “massive” arms.

Strangely, since showing my arms, they don’t look so massive to me anymore. This must have been some sort of dysmorphia that I can thank my family for.

Which brings me to these pictures of myself, and the power they have. To me, posting pictures like this makes me feel incredibly vulnerable, even though these ones are somewhat normal, not even that revealing or playful. They represent years and years of oppression, self-hate, insecurities, and the desire to break free from all of that and reclaim the authority, my agency, over my body and the way I want to express myself.

These pictures, and others that I will share in the future, are proof for me that I matter, and that the choice is mine.