Getting Sticky With Iskra Lawrence

Words by AnaMaria Glavan, Photos by Lili Jamail

Iskra Lawrence is breastfeeding her daughter, Prima, in our Google call. “She’s fallen asleep. Bless her” she says, as her daughter decides to nap at her boob.

Before “body positivity” became a retired buzzphrase, Iskra encouraged a generation of women to be more secure in their skin, as-is. Her Aerie campaigns were radical in their simplicity: unretouched back-of-arms KP, cellulite, acne, rolls, all photographic evidence of the #real human body. It was a necessary counterpoint to a culture that spent decades reinforcing the idea that thinner was better. Seeing those images plastered on big mall shop windows and small pocket-sized screens mattered.

It also feels important to speak with Iskra now, at the beginning of a new year, for a multitude of reasons. First, “new year, new you” content is indistinguishable from resolution culture. What do you hate about yourself? Here are a million ways to fix it.

Second, messaging around body positivity has largely disappeared, and it’s hard not to see how that absence has bled into the real world. Weight-loss drugs have been normalized for everyday use, fashion brands are following suit, and one can’t help but feel like years of work by models like Iskra were manipulated into a marketing ploy, retired to the past alongside skinny jeans and that green cargo jacket.

But Iskra proposes a new plan: body sovereignty. “It’s about owning your body and your choices without comparison, without capitalism trying to own it.” If you’re reading this at the advent of a new year, mentally preoccupied with all the things you feel you need to cut and pluck and cover in 2026, let this be your reminder: we are all goddesses. Always have been.

Below, Iskra Lawrence on flipping off trolls with chips in hand, the once-neglected shower ritual that morphed into Saltair (try the deodorant if you haven’t already), including her first child in the decision to have a second, and embracing each new season as a temporary adventure.

Human! Beings! Have! Cellulite! 

Modeling came about because it felt like my way out of a small town. From ages 12 to 15, it was a lot of photo shoots and little runways. Then I started to realize that my body was changing more than the other models. I got hips and a butt, which is ironic because growing up my family always said I’d get the ‘curse of the Lawrence bum.’ I hate giving body types fruit or vegetable names, but my dad’s side is pear-shaped, and it was something I dreaded. 

I ended up developing an eating disorder. I looked at myself and thought, I have to fix this body I’m being told is wrong. And I didn’t know how to do that in a healthy way. I wouldn’t eat enough calories, I’d work out on an empty stomach, get blurry vision, nearly pass out. And even after all that restriction, I was still never small enough. That fight lasted from about 15 to 19.

I eventually built up work for myself and went back to an agency that had initially rejected me. I told them I wanted to be a plus-size model, and the person I spoke to said I wasn’t big enough. I thought, wow, I’ve starved myself for all these years, and now you’re telling me I’d have to intentionally gain weight? 

Around 2009, when Instagram was starting, I used captions like a mini blog. I talked about how retouching had damaged my self-esteem. If I looked at photoshopped images of myself and felt more insecure about the KP on my arms, the lumps and bumps, the cellulite, I could only imagine how someone else would feel seeing that. 

That’s when it clicked. If I keep waiting for these people’s approval, I’ll never be good enough. These standards need to be broken. I’d already achieved quite a lot on my own. What if I put the energy I was directing toward trying to change myself into changing the industry?

An excellent FU? Flipping off trolls, chips in hand 

I moved to New York around 2012 to work with a plus-size agency. Most plus-size models were at least a US 14, and I was a 10 at the time. I was told I needed to buy a fat suit—padding—because if I wanted to work and afford to live in New York, I’d have to fake being plus-size for a while. Anytime I tried not to wear the padding, I was told I was too small. 

I told myself to keep quiet, which is such a common theme; silence yourself to get the work and to get your foot in the door. But there’s only so long you can live with that. The body dysmorphia started creeping back in. I’d look at myself in this padding, then take it off, and it was really messing with my head. I was also thinking about how unrealistic it was for plus-size women looking at these images, believing this is what a size 14 or 16 woman looks like, when I had a size 10 face and arms. The whole thing wasn’t real.

I heard about what Aerie was doing and it felt radical. Everyone else in the lingerie space was still selling a fantasy; lingerie for men instead of yourself. And Aerie was rebranding. They decided they wanted to stop retouching. Sure enough, I got the campaign, and I was the curviest girl they’d ever used. 

An image of me sitting on a chair, my rolls visible, came out (and when I say rolls, I mean a very normal size-12 body in lingerie). The image went viral on Twitter and a troll account posted it with the caption: This is the real American Horror Story. But about 80% of the comments underneath were positive.

Shortly after, I went viral again after getting trolled. Someone commented, Put down your McDonald’s and your chips, you’re the reason the healthcare system is messed up. I was on set modeling lingerie in England, and we had chips on set. I asked someone to film me, ate the chips in slow motion, and flipped the camera off. My agent called and said I needed to take it down because it would ruin my career. And for the first time, I thought, No, this is my platform. This is how I feel. I trusted that people would stand by me. And they did. 

“You own your body” 

I thought pregnancy might be triggering for me because of my history with an eating disorder, but it wasn’t at all. I felt like a glowing goddess. I’ve always called my body my home, and it became a home for my child, too. Postpartum was harder because the transition is immediate. As soon as the baby isn’t in your body anymore, there’s this emptiness. Your body feels cold, like it’s left you. And suddenly, what society tells you is left are all the “bad” things you’re supposed to fix.

What I’m navigating currently is wanting to go on a health journey without it coming at the expense of my breastfeeding journey. With my son, I really struggled with breastfeeding. I lost my milk supply because I wasn’t sleeping, I wasn’t nourishing myself, and I started working out again around six weeks postpartum. I told myself it was self-care, but I think underneath that was this idea of getting back to normal.

Pregnancy and postpartum were very different this time around. I was much sicker during pregnancy, so I barely worked out. Postpartum, work with Saltair has been incredibly busy, and I just haven’t had time. I’ve been breastfeeding almost constantly, co-sleeping, not sleeping well. Working out hasn’t even been on the table. With food, I made a conscious decision not to overthink it and to nourish myself with whatever brings me joy. I didn’t want food or my body to be another thing I was stressing about. 

Choosing joy, choosing this season, has made such a difference. I know there will be another season where I can focus more on health and fitness, and now that Prima is starting school, that might come back into the picture, but in a very low-pressure way. Not a January 1st reset or resolution sort of thing. 

At the same time, I’m nervous. I don’t want to visibly look like I’m shrinking. I know that when I start moving more and cooking in a more balanced way, my body might change. But I want people to understand that shrinking was never the goal. I don’t feel as strong right now, and I miss certain things my body used to be capable of doing that I can feel aren’t there. I notice my back feels weaker because my core is weaker. I’m not as flexible when I bend down. I feel heavier when I try to chase after my son. I know all of these things are temporary, and I know they’re because I chose to invest my time and energy elsewhere, but they’re still things I want to work on. I want to be stronger and fitter. I want to be able to jump higher again and do all those little things, for myself and for my children. 

That’s why I want to be more open about my own journey, not to prescribe anything, but to show that goals can be about strength, energy, mobility, or feeling good in your body. And yes, it’s also okay if someone’s goal is weight loss. That’s where body sovereignty matters so much. It’s about owning your body and your choices without comparison, without capitalism trying to own it. You own your body. 

Keep scrolling if your identity doesn’t feel intrinsically linked to your job :) 

My contract with Aerie was extended to a substantial amount of days. I was going to every mall under the sun, colleges, hugging people in real life, connecting with people. It was so fulfilling and rewarding. It also kind of became my sense of self—which I now understand is tricky, because you should never confuse the line of who am I? with I am my job. But it was hard not to, because people would literally call me the Aerie girl. It was so intertwined with my messaging. 

And then COVID happened, I got pregnant, and I gave birth to Alpha on April 16, 2020. Around September, I got a call from my agent that Aerie was cutting everyone’s contracts. And I thought, No, no, no. I’m going to talk to the team! Surely, this wasn’t the end. But my agent confirmed it was done. I cried for five days. 

A few months later, I was asked to get on a call and discuss things. The team asked if I knew of any up-and-coming who would be a good fit for them, and I thought, are you asking me to find my replacement? I’m not going to be mad at the people behind the brand because I truly believe they valued me, and we had a strong relationship, and we made wonderful memories. But I’m never letting a corporation make me feel disposable again. 

That being said, it’s not all predatory marketing and I believe there are brands out there that have good intentions and really practice what they preach. I’m working with Tommee Tippee right now and they've been incredible.They’ve been so supportive, and really allowed me to be creative. 

Shedding the dementor robe and geotagging square one 

I had this period in postpartum where I felt like I was just failing. I failed my breastfeeding journey. I felt like I failed making Aerie more size-inclusive. My husband lost his job because he was a tour manager for music artists and touring wasn’t happening. We lost money in crypto! I was back to square one.

I was giving myself negative affirmations, saying I feel like a mess, I feel disgusting. I decided to commit to one simple act that would set me up for success. And that act was taking a shower. There were weeks postpartum where I hadn’t showered.

I went from this extreme of living in New York with a pretty glitzy, glam life, lots of events, reasons to get dressed, put on makeup, and be social to having none of those reasons anymore. It felt like, what’s the point? I wasn’t going anywhere or doing anything. I wore a plush black robe—I called it my dementor robe—all the time, and I needed to shed that.

So I committed to the shower. And then in the shower, I felt guilty using the luxurious products because they were expensive, like I should save them for when I was going to see people or do something. Meanwhile, I was getting makeup PR and skincare PR that felt exciting and innovative, but body care was either plastic white bottles you grab on sale or super expensive. I thought, where is the brand that ties this together?

Saltair came about because I thought: if I can create a magical product that makes me excited to get in the shower, something that can transport me somewhere, even if it’s just for five minutes, that could change everything for me.

One of ten kids had an only child, and that only child wanted at least two 

Having Alpha was tough because it wasn’t what I imagined. My parents live in England and they didn’t get to come see Alpha for a year and a half. It was very lonely. I’m very close to my parents, and I didn’t have that help and support. That being said, I always wanted my child to have a sibling. 

My parents were intentional about having only one child. They were 23 and 24 and still at university, living in a flat with a shared bathroom. They didn’t have much, but they gave everything they did have—time, energy, love—into me. 

So when the time came for me, my parents were like, Why would you have more than one? You were one, and you turned out great! But Philip’s whole family is Black, my whole family is white, and there isn’t one other mixed member of either family. When Alpha is at a family gathering, he’s going to notice there’s no one like him. I wanted him to have a sibling for that shared experience. 

Eventually, Philip said he didn’t want it to feel forced. I really don’t want you checking the time and being like, okay, let’s go try to make this baby. So I started intentionally dating him again, making it fun and light and flirty. After a year, the pressure was off because we were really loving the space we were in. And then she happened. 

When I got pregnant and started to have a bump, Alpha would constantly talk to the bump and say he hoped it was a sister. It was a lot of pressure! We did find out the gender, because if we were having a boy, we knew we would have to do a lot of work to get him excited. I knew I was having a home birth again, and if the baby arrived and we didn’t know and it was a boy, he would have been extremely disappointed.

Body sovereignty > body positivity 

I’ve noticed how much the ethos of body acceptance has shriveled up alongside the medicalization of weight loss and the rise of drugs in that space. There’s been so much for people to fight for and speak up about that body image has almost started to feel unimportant. But I’m seeing the impact of no one talking about it.

This year, I feel ready to figure out what the next evolution looks like. Body positivity doesn’t feel deep enough anymore. It became a trend, and then it disappeared. What’s next? For me, that’s body sovereignty and acceptance. I want to explore whether I can help build a new framework, something that helps people truly take ownership of their bodies, because that’s what we’ve been struggling with all along. I want to start using my voice on social media again, and that’s really my focus for 2026. I want to lean into activism in motherhood, mental health, and body image space—all three feel very intrinsically linked. I want to continue growing Saltair as a brand and a community while setting healthy boundaries for my family and my own mental health. 

That’s why I’ve chosen abundance as my word of the year. I struggled with feeling like there weren't enough hours in the day in 2025, and to me, that was a signal to prioritize pockets of slowing down. I want to allow myself to feel abundance in time, energy, and love this year.