When I was 16, my family’s entire kitchen was plastered with cut-outs of Gisele Bündchen from various fashion magazines. A beachside editorial adorned the cereal cabinet. A pantsuit-clad spread decorated the snack drawer. A page from the Victoria’s Secret catalog hung from the refrigerator. That spring, I had been instructed by my gymnastics coaches to “slim down” prior to my string of national competitions later that summer. Bündchen’s superhuman physique became my guiding light, though unhealthily. And it took me years to realize that her build was just that: superhuman. I spent the rest of high school bopping on and off the scale, inanely comparing myself to women who strutted down the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show catwalk year after year.