This is me at Christmas 1985, when I was a 14-year-old high-school freshman. I was a bit of a late bloomer and was about the same size that G is now, at ten and a half -- a situation that caused me no end of angst, I can tell you.
The sad part is that in addition to being small for my age, I truly believed that I was hideously, irredeemably ugly. Every time I looked in the mirror, I saw a misshapen troll looking back, but in fact, I was pretty cute, or at the very least, normal. I wish I had known that then. But even more, I wish there were a way to convince G -- who already dislikes her appearance and refuses to look at photos of herself -- how beautiful she really is.
Why are girls cursed with this distorted self-image?