I move the stars for no one

The world I grew up in, a tiny, thick-walled, warped bubble of a small-town nightmare with funhouse mirrors on every side, was one in which no woman who looked like me could ever be considered a great beauty.

The world I found when I left was one in which I was far from perfect and miles short of the ideal, but still openly called and considered beautiful.

The world I created when I decided to begin my journey as a model and shaped when I decided to take risks, ask insane questions ("Hi, Michael Helms. I know I look nothing like the people you usually shoot. Wanna take a whack at it, anyway?" is a textbook example), and apply the same determination I'd used to conquer every subject in school to the task of learning how to be a good model was one in which I wouldn't ever be one of the great beauties or the greats of the craft

but I befriended them, I learned from them, and I was photographed by the same people who photographed them.
And by virtue of my presence in that world, I widened the circle of acceptance just a little bit, allowing for a slightly broader idea of what makes a person beautiful.

Not bad for an average girl with a small-chested, large-framed body that was 25-35 lbs heavier than society said it should have been.
(until Lyme disease got ahold of me, that is)

Taken by Pelicanh
on January 10, 2009