It starts the moment I catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror, squinting past sleep and hope. The Arizona sun might be blazing outside, but inside my brain, the weather is unseasonably grim. There’s a gray cloud parked directly over my head—and it’s not moving anytime soon.

The first thought, before I’ve had coffee, before I’ve had time to armor up, is cruel and quiet:

I hate my body.

No one says it out loud. No one has to. It’s stitched into my skin like a label I never asked...