Or: Why HER by Skydxddy Finally Ended the “What’s Your Favorite Song?” Crisis

For years, I hated being asked what my favorite song was.

It felt impossible. Like asking someone to pick their favorite scar. Favorite memory. Favorite version of themselves.

Music has never been background noise to me. Music is emotional archaeology. Tiny haunted relics attached to specific eras of your life. One song smells like your first apartment. Another sounds like driving nowhere at midnight. Another feels like crying in a parking lot while pretending you are definitely not crying in a parking lot.

For a little while, my answer was “You” by Evanescence in my attempt to be slightly edgy. Then it became “Sober Up” by AJR because it clawed at some strange existential ache inside my chest every time I heard it.

But now?

I can answer immediately.

HER by Skydxddy.

No hesitation. No rotating list depending on the season of my life. No fake intellectual answer curated to sound interesting.

Just truth.

And honestly, favorite songs are supposed to feel a little like possession.

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Mirror, Mirror

What makes HER so powerful is that it never feels manufactured. It feels like somebody finally put language to a thought process a lot of women quietly carry around.

“I’m body positive
Until it’s mine…”

That line alone could probably unravel half my life.

Because I was that little girl.

In middle school, I wore oversized hoodies and layered skirts over my jeans because I hated my body. In high school, I tried starving myself, weight loss pills, and every “quick fix” teenage girls whisper to each other like urban legends in locker rooms.

I genuinely believed happiness was waiting for me on the other side of becoming smaller.

Then came bariatric surgery. Then skin removal. Then the constant fear of going backward.

And that’s the part people do not talk about enough. Weight loss changes your body faster than it changes your brain. Even now, there are weeks where retaining water makes me spiral into self-consciousness. Weeks where I step on the scale too often. Weeks where my immediate instinct is wondering if I should increase my Zepbound dose because I am terrified of gaining weight back.

Not uncomfortable with it.

Terrified.

That fear doesn’t come from vanity as much as people want women to believe it does. It comes from years of learning that smaller meant safer. More lovable. More acceptable. More worthy of softness from both yourself and other people.

That’s why this song destroys me emotionally. Not because it’s about insecurity, but because it understands how early that insecurity starts.

And then suddenly the song shifts from criticism into grief. Not grief for the body itself, but grief for the little girl who learned to monitor it so young in the first place.

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The Girls We Used To Be

I think one of the most heartbreaking parts of becoming an adult woman is realizing how many of us were introduced to self-hatred before we even understood ourselves yet.

Before mortgages.
Before careers.
Before motherhood.
Before love.
Before sex.
Before any of the things adulthood promised would eventually make us feel complete.

So many girls were already standing in front of mirrors negotiating with themselves at thirteen.

That’s why this part of the song feels less like lyrics and more like grief speaking directly to your younger self:

“If I could go back in time
I would tell her she looks divine…”

That’s the part of the song that completely shifts its center emotionally for me.

Because she is not talking about changing the past. She is talking about finally giving her younger self the words she needed to hear when she was growing up.

The reassurance.
The gentleness.
The protection.
The perspective.

The things so many girls never receive while they are actively learning to hate themselves.

And I think that is why the song feels so emotional instead of just relatable. It understands that body dysmorphia is not created in one dramatic moment. It’s built slowly over years. Quiet comments. Mirrors. Diet culture. Comparing yourself to other girls. Learning far too young that being “pretty” changes how the world responds to you.

So when she says:

“You’re so much more than just a body
That needs measuring…”

it feels less like a lyric and more like a conversation interrupted too late.

Like an older version of yourself finally reaching backward through time trying to soften the damage before it settles permanently into someone’s bones.

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The Inheritance Women Carry

The older I get, the more I realize women inherit impossible contradictions.

Be confident, but not arrogant.
Be desirable, but effortless about it.
Love yourself, but never too loudly.
Age naturally, but not visibly.
Take up space, but only the “right” amount.

It’s exhausting.

Like being handed a cursed script and punished every time you forget your lines.

And the scariest part is how automatic it becomes.

You stop realizing you’re doing it.

You just learn to monitor yourself instinctively. Your body becomes less like a home and more like a project permanently under renovation. A movie set where the lighting is never quite flattering enough.

That’s why songs like HER matter.

Because sometimes healing does not begin with confidence. Sometimes it begins with recognition.

With hearing somebody else say the thing you thought lived only inside your own head.

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Unlearning the Curse

The line that stays lodged in my chest the longest is not even the most dramatic one.

It’s this:

“I’ve been unlearning
Un-hurting
Un-telling myself
I have to earn it…”

Because that’s what healing actually feels like.

Not a makeover montage from a 2000s rom-com. Not suddenly waking up one morning loving every inch of yourself beneath golden cinematic lighting while some empowering pop anthem plays in the background.

Healing is quieter than that.

It’s catching yourself before spiraling. It’s realizing water weight is not failure. It’s learning your body is not a moral report card. It’s understanding you do not have to punish yourself into deserving love.

It’s unlearning.

Slowly. Imperfectly. Repeatedly.

Like carefully peeling old curses off your own bones.

And maybe that’s why HER finally became my answer after all these years.

Because at 32, after motherhood, surgeries, trauma, divorce, rebuilding, and years of trying to shrink myself into safety…

I no longer connect most deeply with songs that simply sound pretty.

I connect with songs that tell the truth.

And sometimes the truth sounds like a woman standing in front of a mirror, trying to love the girl still trapped inside it.