I thought it was the toxic fashion and modelling industry that had made me the way I am, which could best be described as “mostly comfortable with my body and general image but with an abject horror of things getting worse.” But the more I speak to friends who spent their formative years in the eighties and nineties, the more I realise it’s a generational curse.
As I write in the prologue of my memoir How Not to Be a Supermodel, “I like to think I came away from my twelve-ish years in the industry relatively unscathed. Apart from a deep-seated fear of gaining weight and a hyper-critical eye for my own perceived physical imperfections, I’d say that I’m completely normal and unaffected.”
