My mother was a New York fashion model in the late 1940’s. My daughter is a New York fashion photographer, and I’ve spent my whole life in the beauty business. I know how to polish “diamonds in the rough,” and I know how to make “plain” people look attractive. I’ve seen models turn anorexic and almost die. I’ve seen girls who never had a date in high school become covergirls. I’ve seen people with incredible potential go nowhere from a lack of confidence. I’ve seen popular girls enjoy the spotlight… too much. I also know what it’s like to feel ugly. I was the fat daughter of a beautiful mother.…

It happens in such a noninvasive way I barely realize it until I’m 20 minutes into scrolling…the moment my mind isn’t stimulated enough or wanders off looking for an escape, I find it processing the images that flood my Instagram feed. It feels noninvasive, but really it’s more invasive than anything. Because the images I see are the lives and stories I compare myself to, and because I find myself observing so often, it reaches beyond a normal environment of comparison and into the walls of my home. Comparison happens in my hands at the end of my fingertips. The apparent success that others are championing finds its way into…