To Emily Ratajkowski, and the Women Who Saw Themselves in Her Book

On the quiet cost of being looked at, and learning how to look within.

Emily, thank you.

Thank you for landing in my hands at exactly the right time. Thank you for writing a book that cracked open my eyes — the ones I had kept purposefully shut for far too long. Your voice was heard. And your body didn’t need to scream to be noticed — your mind is stunning, and that’s what echoed the most.

What’s unfair is how many women, like me, can see parts of ourselves in your stories. And how long we lived without realizing the weight we were carrying.

I will never forget the moment I met N., a man I thought could one day be my husband. Young, naive, I didn’t understand the violence buried in his words:

“Emily? She’s the perfect example of a woman you f*ck. Not one you marry.” Then he showed me a photo of another girl — smiling sweetly, soft and forgettable. I don’t remember her name. But I remember her face. And I remember something even more painful: I took it as a compliment.

I wanted to be desirable. I wanted to be “the right kind of woman.” I wanted to be Emily — or at least how he saw her.

I didn’t yet know the burden of becoming someone for someone else. I didn’t ask what I got in return.

And honestly? There’s not much to list. Except maybe:

Shame

Fear

Being constantly questioned, picked apart

And the quiet ache of never being enough for yourself.

The saddest part? To even realize what’s been taken from us — We have to stoop down, to the level of men who’ve long fed off our light. And only then can we begin to reclaim the power we were never supposed to forget we had.

I didn’t expect My Body by Emily Ratajkowski to hit me like it did. A book about the female gaze, internalized shame, and quiet reclamation — written by someone who was always seen but rarely heard — became a mirror I didn’t know I needed.

Photo by Joe deSousa on Unsplash