The first time I noticed stretch marks crawling up the top of my hips, I couldn’t have been more than 12. I remember staring at them in the mirror, angry and red, running my fingers over the raised lines.
I had already started my period at that point, and I was already wearing a bra—so I’d kind of assumed I was already as woman as a woman could be.
I hadn’t read about these.When I turned to my beacons of hope—Seventeen, back-issues of CosmoGirl!, and my mom’s Glamour subscription—I didn’t see anything about them.
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