There are historical moments that feel like a paradox. We advance in rights—at least on paper—and, at the same time, the margins of what is “acceptable” for the female body are narrowing. Public voice is opening up, but aesthetic vigilance is intensifying. Autonomy is discussed, while discourses that idealize traditional roles reappear as if they were the only legitimate destiny.
In the midst of this contradiction, we return to a question that seems simple, but is not: what happens to us when we look at ourselves?
The psychopedagogue Analía Pereira offers us a phrase that orders the conversation from the start: “we inhabit a body… and that body is a social body”. It is not just the organic, the visible, the measurable. It is also a history: mandates, prejudices, expectations, ways of being desired, ways of being read. And today, more than ever, that “social body” is exposed to constant, uninterrupted pressure, which does not turn off when changing the channel because it lives in the pocket, on the screen, in the infinite scroll.
Sometimes we talk about “self-esteem” as if it were an emotional accessory. Something that is bought in nice phrases. But what is at stake here is deeper: the way our identity is built, from childhood, based on what we see, what is returned to us, what is rewarded, and what is sanctioned.
The body as a territory in dispute
Ursula Pfeiffer invites us to consider an uncomfortable, but necessary idea: the woman’s body is often a space where others feel entitled to give their opinion. To decide what is “good,” what is “bad,” what “should” be corrected. And the worst thing is that this external gaze ends up settling inside. Not only do they evaluate us: we learn to evaluate ourselves with the same harshness. That is the double critical gaze: our own and the internalized one.
When we say “social body,” we are saying this clearly: the body becomes a symbolic battlefield. And the first bastion is the image. The face. The skin. The weight. The age. The supposed “normality.”
Analía links this with something many of us intuit but few name without guilt: we live in a logic that commodifies our bodies. It doesn’t just propose products; it proposes flaws. It invents them, points them out, amplifies them, and then offers us the solution. Sometimes the solution is a cream. Sometimes it’s surgery. Sometimes it’s a filter that, over time, becomes the face we think we should have.
In this dynamic, youth is overvalued and old age becomes almost a threat. Not because it is bad, but because “it doesn’t sell.” And that has real psychological consequences: if the changing body is no longer seen as desirable, the woman who inhabits that body begins to feel that she is losing value.
Body shame is not natural: it is learned
There is a phrase from Analía that crosses the clinic—and crosses many women—with silent crudeness: how are we going to ask for pleasure from a body full of shame?
She describes it with concrete, everyday examples: women who don’t want to turn off the light; women who don’t take off their bras; women who avoid certain postures because something “is seen.” We are not talking about morals. We are talking about shame. Of shame as an interruption of desire.
Because pleasure needs presence. And presence is broken when we are in surveillance: “don’t look at me here,” “don’t touch me there,” “don’t let this show.” That inner dialogue becomes an invisible barrier: the body is there, but it is not inhabited.
Ursula reminds us that there is something violent in the permanent invitation not to be natural. To believe that the normal is no longer the natural. To treat life as if it were a photo that is edited. And it is not a detail: this normalization of the artificial changes collective perception. Over time, the altered feels “common,” and the natural begins to look “insufficient.”
Radical acceptance is not resignation
Here it is important to make a distinction: radical acceptance does not mean resignation. It does not mean “that’s it, I don’t care about anything.” It means something more complex and more real: recognizing the body as one’s own territory, and deciding from there.
Analía says it without romanticizing it: it’s not easy. It’s a process. It happens to all of us, even those who think about it critically. Because it is not about turning off social influence overnight. It is about developing critical thinking: asking ourselves why we desire what we desire, where that desire comes from, and who benefits from it.
And at the same time, without judging other women. Because it is not about becoming anyone’s police. It is not about pointing out those who dye their hair, wear makeup, or have surgery. It is about recovering a basic possibility: choosing consciously. Choosing what makes us feel good, what harms us, what comes from care, and what comes from punishment.
Ursula proposes a simple tool that is, in reality, emotional training: when criticism appears, respond with celebration. Not as denial, but as reframing. If the mirror throws a flaw at you, remind yourself of a function, a history, a life: these legs carry me, this body sustains me, this skin has lived. It is about building an internal voice that does not add to the world that already criticizes.
Care versus mandate: learning to distinguish
At the center of this conversation is a practical question: how do we distinguish real care from disguised mandate?
Analía proposes a clear compass: health and well-being. Asking ourselves what impact that has on our health, on our life, on our stress, on our capacity to enjoy. Going to the gym for strength and vitality is not the same as stopping eating out of shame. Eating healthy to feel good is not the same as constantly punishing ourselves to “fit” into a mold.
She also reminds us of something urgent: accompanying girls and adolescents. Because their identity is under construction, and today they build self-esteem in an environment saturated with comparison. If a girl grows up hearing “I’m so fat,” she learns that gaining weight is a negative value. If she grows up alone in front of TikTok, she learns without a filter. Therefore, accompaniment is not control: it is presence. Asking. Opening a conversation. Offering an external gaze that enables reflection.
Not “you have to.” But: does this do you good? Why do you want it? What do you feel when you look at yourself?
Loving ourselves today is also a radical act
Analía says it with a clarity that needs no adornments: loving ourselves in a world that insists on signaling us as inadequate is a revolutionary act. And here an clarification is worthwhile: we are not talking about an empty, romantic, slogan-style self-love. We are talking about a love that is built through practice. A love that is not a destination point, but a process.
Accepting the body—this real body, with history, with time, with changes—is also recovering the right to pleasure. Not as a duty, but as a possibility. And if sex is connection, as Analía suggests, connecting with oneself is part of the path.
Not to be “perfect.”
To be present.
To inhabit the body without fear.
So that desire does not have to negotiate with shame.
We invite you to watch the complementary video “Radical Acceptance: Body, Gaze, and Self-Esteem,” where we interview Analía Pereira on this topic: https://youtu.be/RjPLYIBxUpw
