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This week, Osher Gunsberg – television personality, the host of The Bachelor Australia, and owner of my teenage heart – was ogled by some unsavoury paparazzi and media outlets, after being photographed beachside in Indonesia. One of the headlines read: Host of The Bachelor, Osher Gunsberg, shows off his 'Bali belly' while shirtless.
Osher responded to the headlines during his regular radio broadcast, referring to them as "nothing short of bullying" – and adding that he has always been open about his struggles with mental health and weight loss.
"The glint and look of glee in the photographers' eye when he was telling me, 'Ha, we got ya' – it was the same look that the bullies at school used to have in their eye", he said. He learned of the news after receiving a message from Mamamia ringleader Mia Freedman, stating, "Oh, I see you've been body shamed. Welcome to what it feels like to be a woman everyday."
Now, I'm not here to tell you that body shaming is bad. We already know this. Similarly, there's no denying that women experience the brunt of body shaming and the bulk of the pressure to adhere to societal beauty standards.
I'm here to say, that Osher Gunsberg, my god – I understand.
Being a man in the western world doesn't come without complications. Sure, we're awash in the finest of privileges, but there are some stark realities and pressures faced by men, too, that actively contribute to mental instability and gravely decreased emotional states.
Body dysmorphia and the desire to be "fit and ripped", powerful and handsome, like their male idols and celebrity-worshipped heroes, leads many men down a garden path to feelings of worthlessness and self-hatred.
I would know, because I nearly went under the knife to look more like "the ideal man".
Growing up a dude has its dramas. Growing up a gay one such as myself, even more so. My transition into adulthood was peppered with unrealistic images and depictions of men. I watched as the boys around me developed into muscular packages, influenced by mens mags and culturally deified athletes – while I remained waif-thin, with a protruding Greek nose, no jaw line, and two front teeth too big for the rest of my mouth.
When I started "hitting the clubs", these differences in my body and theirs only stood out more. I would look around at beautiful men dancing with gorgeous specimens, at shirtless hunks and jockstrapped asses, and think to myself how these men would never want to look at me, or talk to me – let alone ever know me, all because of the way that I looked.
I would think about these people and get mad. My skin would crawl with frustration, with anger – and with pain. This was a dismal self-hatred and projection that encapsulated my feelings about my body. I was immersed in a culture that demanded I be thick-chested and slim-waisted; fit, toned and immeasurably strong-jawed, something I might forever aspire to but never achieve.
The disgust I felt for my body became so bad at one point that I decided to take drastic action in the form of surgery, to bring forward my jaw and take the bump out of my nose. I was going to look like someone these people wanted to know – but more than that, I was going to tackle the vampires lurking in my head, suckling at my self-esteem and telling me "You're not pretty enough", "You're not fit enough", and above all, "You're not good enough".
It was only after a lot of introspection in the lead-up to my surgeries that I realised: I quite liked my bumped nose. I didn't mind my jaw, either.
I suddenly understood something important. These were physical qualities that made me unique. They were gifts from my family and my heritage. All of those vampires, whispering cruelties in my ears, would never have my features. They belonged to me.
So I cancelled my surgeries, a week before I was due to go under the knife.
Several years later, at age twenty-three, my features still belong to me. I didn't suddenly liberate myself from the grip of societal beauty standards; self-love is hard, and those male cover models still have an impact.
I've simply grown to understand that self-love can't come from the external validation of strangers. It can only come from within.
When the media lashes out at men like Osher Gunsberg, telling them that their apparent paunch makes them somehow less of a man, they add to sexist physical ideals about masculinity and femininity, to a culture carrying veneers of homophobia, classism and racism – and to a society that disavows us all for daring to colour outside the lines, with psychological ramifications that can be deadly. This toxic image culture hurts us all, and we should come together to smash it.
So, Osher Gunsberg, whether you have a "Bali belly" or a "dad bod", or any body at all, you've still got my teenage heart.
Because it's not your body that makes you handsome. It's all of those features that neither society, nor beauty standards, nor high school bullies or whispering vampires can take away from you.
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