Being a little extra makes me smile now.
But for a long time, it made me uncomfortable.
I have always had a curvy body. Voluptuous is probably the prettier word. Big busted is the more practical one. And when you move through the world in a body that other people notice, people tend to comment.
Some comments are meant as compliments. Some are jokes. Some are crude. Some are wrapped in humor but still land somewhere tender.
I have heard versions of “my boobs enter the room before I do” for… well, most of my life.
The problem was not being noticed. The problem was wondering if being noticed made it harder to be known.
And even when comments like that are laughed off, they teach you something. They teach you that people may notice your body before your face, your work ethic, your intelligence, your kindness, your humor, your discipline, your talent, your ambition, or your heart.
They teach you that being seen is not always the same thing as being known.
For a long time, I think I tried to manage that. I did not want to be reduced to my body. I did not want to be dismissed as the blonde bombshell. I did not want beauty, curves, femininity, or sexuality to make people question whether I was also smart, capable, serious, and achieving.
But I also think there were times I tried to embrace the pocket people put me in. If they were going to see me as “just sexy,” then maybe I would lean into that. Maybe I would make that the thing. Maybe I would let that version of me be the one people noticed, because at least then I had some control over it.
But something got lost in that.
I dimmed myself down to “just sexy,” and in doing that, I hid other parts of me. The smart part. The polished part. The disciplined part. The achieving part. The part of me that was building a career, raising children, learning, leading, thinking deeply, and becoming more than the version people thought they understood.
I did not want to be dismissed as the blonde bombshell, but I also did not know how to fully reject the role without rejecting parts of myself too.
So for a while, I split myself.
Sometimes there was the sexy woman I hid away, while the smart, polished overachiever stayed on full display.
Other times, there was the sexy woman I let people see, while the thoughtful, capable woman stayed protected underneath.
Either way, I was still dividing myself into pieces.
Now I am learning that I do not have to choose.
I do not have to hide my body to be respected for my mind. I do not have to choose between being feminine and being intelligent. I do not have to choose between being curvy and being capable. I do not have to choose between being a little extra and being taken seriously.
That has taken me time to believe.
There is something complicated about being a woman in a body that draws attention. There is power in it, but there can also be pressure. There is fun in it, but there can also be judgment. There is confidence in it, but there can also be the quiet fear that if you enjoy being seen, people will assume there is nothing more to see.
So sometimes we edit ourselves. We choose the safer shirt. We tone down the lipstick. We laugh off the comment. We make ourselves more palatable. We learn how to enter rooms carefully, not because we are ashamed, but because we are tired of being misunderstood.
And yet, there is a kind of sadness in constantly shrinking what is naturally ours.
A curvy body does not need to be apologized for. Femininity is not a weakness. Beauty is not proof of shallowness. Sex appeal is not the opposite of intelligence. Being polished does not make a woman less real. And being a little extra does not mean there is less substance underneath.
As I get older, I am less interested in being easy to categorize or easy to understand. I am less interested in making every part of me comfortable for other people. I am less interested in proving that I am smart by hiding that I like to feel beautiful. I am less interested in proving that I am respectable by pretending I do not enjoy style, curves, confidence, glamour, or a little bit of drama in the right moment.
Because the truth is, I like beautiful things.
I like clothes that make me feel good. I like feeling put together. I like a little sparkle. I like the right shoes, the right jeans, the right lip gloss, the right music, the right energy. I like walking into my own life feeling like I showed up for it.
And none of that cancels out the rest of me. It does not cancel out my intelligence, my work ethic, my motherhood, my faith, my depth, my discipline, my compassion, my ambition, or my ability to build something meaningful.
Maybe being a little extra is not about needing attention.
Maybe it is about refusing to dim my light and choosing to live in delight.
It is about letting joy have a little sparkle to it. It is about letting confidence have a shape. It is about letting beauty be playful instead of something I have to defend. It is about allowing myself to be seen without handing other people the authority to define what they are seeing.
That feels different.
There is a difference between performing for attention and expressing who you are. There is a difference between wanting to be desired and wanting to feel alive in your own skin. There is a difference between being reduced to your body and choosing to celebrate it. There is a difference between being put in a pocket and deciding you are allowed to outgrow it.
For a long time, I think I was reacting to the pocket. If people saw me as sexy, I tried to control it — either by withdrawing and becoming more conservative, or by leaning into it. If I felt dismissed, I tried to prove myself. If I worried I would not be taken seriously, I tried to lead with the parts of me that felt safest and most respectable.
But now I want something more whole than that.
I want the freedom to be smart and beautiful.
Curvy and capable.
Soft and strong.
Playful and serious.
Feminine and disciplined.
A little extra and deeply grounded.
I want to stop cutting myself into acceptable pieces.
Maybe the Beautiful in being a little extra is not about sparkle, lipstick, curves, or clothes.
Maybe the Beautiful lies within integration.
It is about letting the parts of me I once tried to manage finally belong to the same woman.
The smart woman.
The capable woman.
The achieving woman.
The curvy woman.
The feminine woman.
The woman who has worked hard, loved deeply, survived painful things, raised children, built a career, made mistakes, grown wiser, and still wants to feel beautiful walking into a room.
Not because my body enters before I do.
But because I finally enter as all of me.
And that feels like a very Beautiful thing.
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