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In a world full of models short models included and insta-celebrities, is there still such a thing as a supermodel? With the fashion industry being so hectic, it is worth taking a minute to just stop and wonder: who is a supermodel? What does it take to become a supermodel? Is being blonde and tall mandatory in order to be a supermodel? Is there such a thing as a petite model? It was, in fact, with the shortest supermodels that our society ultimately took its first step in body positivism, opening its doors for all kinds of models.
For a while, as I biked down Columbus Street, the world was a blur. I blinked, slowly and luxuriously. My life as a statue had almost imperceptibly strengthened this muscle in me - the muscle of refusal - and now with every push on the pedals, I felt it, somewhere deep in my gut.
The blurred-out world returned - the weathered houses, asphalt, palm fronds against bright sky. The street sharpened and every detail was clear again, was mine. At 11, Estela killed her rapist and fled to the U. I got so sleepy. The next day I woke up all bloody, with a cut on my ankle. Mami and my sister Valery washed me and bandaged my wound. It was not only my ankle that hurt. Everywhere, my body was sore.
My back. Between my legs.
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Many years later, my therapist would explain. This was in Tijuana, where I had moved with my mother and five sisters, infour years after I was born further south, in the Mexican state of Jalisco.
Our neighborhood, Colonia Veinte de Noviembre, was a mishmash of wooden houses and shacks along the Tijuana River. Mami was a stout, resourceful woman who built a three-room house out of wood from discarded pallets.
Our bathroom was a latrine behind the house with a blanket for a door. Many mornings, I would wake up in his bed, my stomach knotted and lurching from the smell of his breath. Mami caught him in the act. I was trying to put her to bed. I would never do anything wrong to the girls. Although small in stature, Mami was strong. And violent. I was getting water from the well and he touched my chest from behind.
If you do, I will knock on the doors of all the neighbors and tell them what you do to me. I n my mind, I was safe. Around this time, another older sister of mine, Rosa, announced she was pregnant.
It was also about this time that a thin, pockmarked man named Eduardo insinuated himself into our lives. He was an itinerant farmworker who traveled between California and Guadalajara three times a year, and Mami rented him a room whenever he passed through Tijuana. Rosa initially agreed, but then she ran away with her baby. A couple of visits later, Eduardo inquired after me, asking Mami if she needed help with my school expenses.
You must do what is best for the family. Mami built a room for Eduardo, on the far end of the house, where our meetings took place. I was his sex slave for three weeks out of the year. Everyone in the family except Mami and me thought that Eduardo was only a boarder. Looking back, my older sister Carmen must have also known, because although she never said a word to me, she would have found herself alone in bed on the nights I was taken by Eduardo.
Eduardo expected me to perform like an adult woman in bed. All I knew was that after he violated me I felt like the dirtiest person in the world. Like it was a big favor. Things got worse after I graduated from elementary school. Like all of the graduates, I signed the backs of my school photos and handed them out to my friends. My signature was at the bottom.
He showed me what he wrote on the photo. Not long after, Eduardo took me to a photo studio and forced me to have a picture taken with my arms wrapped around his neck. Then he put the picture in a frame and left it in our home.
Many years later, I asked Lupe to make the photo disappear. When I started middle school, Eduardo began to get jealous. I was trying not to draw attention to myself, but he was paranoid that the older boys would notice my budding breasts and curves, so he would wait for me outside of school.
But it was too late. Eduardo used the photo with my signature to threaten Mami. He felt so empowered that he stopped giving Mami money altogether. Maybe if I was older, I would have understood that Eduardo was the villain, but at the time all I remember feeling was scared that Mami and I would go to jail. Mami convinced Eduardo to bring her a gun to protect the family, and one day Eduardo arrived with a Beretta.
Eduardo showed us the safety and how to load the gun and pull the trigger. Mami and I shot at the eucalyptus trees in our yard. Later, I watched as Mami hid the gun in her closet. Emboldened by the power he wielded because of the photo, Eduardo became increasingly offensive, obscene and demeaning.
Eyes closed, my mind did as it always did - it flew away to my happiest memory, my sisters and me making tamales. While he forced himself on me, I was in the kitchen telling jokes with my sisters and laughing so hard we cried, as the radio played the music of my favorite composer, Vincente Villa.
Depression swallowed me whole. Now Eduardo had stolen what was left of my childhood. Killing myself seemed like the only escape. Just please make him stop. Mami patted the top of my head but said nothing for a long while. The next day, when Eduardo arrived, Mami took him aside.
He then departed. He grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me across the house to his room. He latched the door behind us, then shoved me onto the bed in the corner of the room. I watched as he dug into his knapsack and pulled out something long.
As Eduardo turned away to place his knapsack on the chair, I slid my hand beneath the pillow, grabbed the Beretta and raised it to my temple, but as Eduardo turned to face me with the dildo in his hand, I turned the gun on Eduardo and fired one shot into his forehead.
I rolled out from under Eduardo and let her in. Her worn hands gripped a candle. The light revealed a fine mist of blood splatter on three of the four walls. I often hauled trash down to the river to be burned and buried, and hoped the neighbors thought I was doing just that.
I rolled him into the hole, covered the body with the silty earth, then packed the mound with the back of the shovel. After I killed Eduardo, I was no longer a child. I was a soldier who had defended my family and my home. Four uneventful years passed. I earned enough money to pay my tuition by tutoring first-grade students who were referred to me by Fernando. I converted the room where I killed Eduardo into a classroom. Then one day, the authorities arrived.
I thought they were there to arrest me, but it was for another reason. They explained that our colony needed to be evacuated because it was in a flood basin and the dam was beginning to crack. They offered Mami new land plus some money. Mami agreed without hesitation.
The first whiff of maggot-covered corpse nearly knocked me out. I went to the shed and found a pair of work gloves and the old axe I used to cut up the chickens, ducks and rabbits that we ate for dinner.
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I decapitated the skull and then cut the torso into pieces. I put these parts in paper bags, then put the bags in the latrine of the abandoned house next door, knowing that the chemicals in the latrine would quickly disintegrate them. Next, I cut up the bones and put them in smaller paper bags. I knew of a slum area with a lot of trash, so I carried the bags three at time and dropped one bag every couple of hundred yards or so.
I then returned to the body and started out again with three more bags, until eventually the bones were scattered for a mile or more along the Tijuana River, sure to be swept away in the next flood.
There are moments of eternal sunshine and moments of eternal darkness in our lives. Killing Eduardo and disposing of his body were my moments of eternal darkness. No one ever came looking for Eduardo. Perhaps no one missed him. But three months after I murdered him, Valery saw a picture of a young man in the local paper who bore a strong resemblance to Eduardo. That was the last news we ever heard about Eduardo or his family.
My plan had been to stay in my country and study to become a teacher. For the first time in my life, I lived in a nice house, working for nice people - like a normal person. Diego was a shy man. I got pregnant in lateat the age of I received a call from the clinic telling me I was pregnant and asking if I wanted to get an abortion. Both of us got our green cards injust before I had my second child, Noelle. After our third child, Dawn, was born inDiego and I became naturalized U. He asked me again and again why not.
He lacked the imagination to know that there are much worse things in life than a woman who has slept around.
When he began referring to me as a putaa whore, I knew our marriage would not last forever. However, in the meantime, he was a good father and a good provider. I bided my time until Bianca, Noelle and Dawn were grown. Then, finally, I divorced Diego. You must be a lucky charm.
Our eyes met throughout the Tijuana concert, and I felt confident that my strong attraction toward Vincente was reciprocal. After that night, he invited me to his next concert; however, the weeks that followed were some of the rainiest ever in Baja, and the remainder of his tour was canceled.
I did not see or speak to Vincente again until two years later. I was paging through a local magazine in Ontario, California, when I saw in an advertisement that Vincente was to perform at a Mexican restaurant near my home.
I purchased my ticket immediately and surprised him. From that day forward, we were a couple. The only two requests I made of Vincente were that he treated me with respect and not drink. He accepted my conditions, and in I accepted his proposal of marriage.
For the next 19 years, we bounced between Mexico and California, and lived for a brief spell in Chicago, but for much of the time we simply lived on the road, traveling from one concert venue to the next.
For my 55th birthday inVincente surprised me with a party. While Vincente slept, I passed time wandering down the garden path of my year marriage to a man whom all of Mexico loved - and had loved - much longer than I. I revisited my favorite memory of all: the first time we spent the night together, at the Grand Hotel in Tijuana. I had never imagined such opulence. It was here that I first saw the look of a man in love. And it was here that Vincente first caressed me - beginning with his eyes, then with his warm, soft hands.
Vincente opened his eyes and looked plaintively at me.
I stood and gazed down at him. A weak smile crossed his lips before his eyes lolled in their sockets. V incente would not have a goodbye tour. After eight months in an intensive care unit, fighting renal failure and a brain tumor, Vincente died of a bacterial infection in a Mexico City hospital. Friends took up a collection for me and raised enough to pay for my flight back to Tijuana.
I gave them to my American grandson, Justin, before his first prom. I moved in with Mami, who had cancer, and commuted every day to San Diego to work for a cleaning service. I met Amy Roost, who I am telling this story to, when I cleaned her house. I told her I was newly widowed. And when she asked about my husband, I proudly shared that Vincente had been a very famous bandleader. I had never sent a client of mine a Facebook friend request, until Amy.
I thought of her as my friend, and I felt confident she thought of me as her friend too. Eventually, Amy hired me away from the cleaning service and referred me to friends of hers. I also had to think of my three girls. I did not want their reputations tainted by having a mother who is a murderer. There were other practicalities to consider. For instance, who would ever hire a murderer to clean their house? And finally, the fear of going to prison, which had burrowed into me as a child, remained with me in adulthood.
Though she never forgave me for killing Eduardo, I forgave Mami. Mami deserved another kind of life. How could I blame such a brave and intelligent woman? I offered to sit with him in the hospital, so that Camila could stay at home with her baby. He screamed in pain over and over, so I called the nurse. He gave me Camila, and she loves him. I shook my head.
We were not close. He raped me! I sat next to her on the sofa, and for the first time, I told my story to someone outside of my family.
My name is Estela Salazar. I was once in the crosshairs of hunters, then I soared on the wings of love. Now I am a crystal vase covered in cracks. Not one has caused me to shatter. His clients say he saves lives. The government wants to shut him down. E ric James had about a day before the dope sickness really kicked in. But he knew the opening bars of the overture well: In a few hours, the muscles in his lower back would start to spasm; his knees would rattle; his nose would run.
But worst of all, the fog would set in, clouding his thoughts. He did not want to go through all of that again. The taxi stopped on a quiet side street in an Orthodox Jewish neighborhood in Brooklyn.
James, a year-old freelance graphic designer with warm brown eyes and buzzed hair, sat on a bench outside of a brown brick apartment building, his fingers sweeping across the screen of his phone as he waited.
The effects had worn off by morning and left him with his daily pre-dose feeling of lethargy and dread. The onset of physical withdrawal was still a few hours away, but he could feel the storm gathering.
At another building in another neighborhood, the money in his pocket could get him well for a few hours. This time, he was determined to quit opioids; this time James was after a chalky, bitter-tasting powder that would tickle his opioid receptors just enough to keep him from a full-blown withdrawal.
The door to the building swung open, and a man emerged whom James only knew by his thick Brooklyn accent and pseudonym, John Dee. His face seemed to James not 40 years old but 40 years besieged. Dee had spent about a third of his life copping prescription painkillers and heroin at Brooklyn housing projects. A diamond-shaped white patch showed where his curly black hair started to recede, as if death had been coming but beat a quick retreat.
His black, square-framed glasses and furrowed forehead gave him a hawkish look. It came in the form of two sandwich bags full of greenish powder - and a big, warm hug. O ren Levy found a new identity as John Dee, a sort of shadowy do-gooder who helps opiate addicts kick drugs.
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He does it by using a largely unregulated plant called kratom, a coffee-relative that can grow up to feet high in the jungles of Indonesia, where much of the kratom sold in the U. Kratom has long been used in Southeast Asia for its pain-killing and mood-boosting properties, but the plant has only become popular in the U.
Addicts are turning to it as a non-narcotic alternative to classic opiate-replacement drugs like methadone or buprenorphine, in the hopes that it is safer and less addictive. The main alkaloids in kratom reach the mu-opiate receptors, quieting the withdrawal symptoms that make opioids so hard to quit. Chronic pain patients and recreational users also take kratom for the subtle euphoric effects it provides.
Between 3 and 5 million people in the U. But Kratom is having something of an identity crisis. Overpriced, low-quality commercial stuff is silently marketed as a legal high in gas stations and smoke shops, where it often sits next to things such as glass pipes and amyl nitrites poppers. Online vendors like Dee, however, import high-quality kratom straight from Indonesia and sell it at a lower price than store-bought brands.
Kratom is in the crosshairs of regulation and may not be legal for long. Critics who want kratom banned say teenagers can easily get their hands on it. Legislation is under review elsewhere. For the last six years, Dee has been running a one-man kratom operation out of his three-room Brooklyn apartment. He has improvised a makeshift packaging center inside, with each room serving a dedicated purpose for his business, Red Devil Kratom. Scales, bags, and various-sized scoops caked with kratom soot sit upon a worktable in the middle of a spare room, where Dee handles packaging.
A nearby storage unit houses several hundred pounds more. Dee organizes his supply by color. An earthy smell not unlike green tea escapes when Dee opens the bins and scoops up some powder to weigh on the scale. He also sells cannabidiol CB an unregulated, nonpsychoactive hemp compound that has been heralded as a cure for everything from epilepsy to overly active pets. Dee came to the kratom industry after years of abusing opiates himself. At the time, he owned a nightclub where he worked full-time, and drugs and alcohol remained a constant during his early recovery.
The party scene wore him down. InDee quit the nightclub business to figure out his next career step. He had always wanted to work in the recovery sphere. A friend who directed a rehabilitation center suggested he try recovery coaching. Unlike therapy or counseling, which is clinical in nature, a recovery coach acts more as a motivator, confidant, and role model - helping clients focus on their future, rather than on their past. Dee went to school and became a certified recovery coach in But like the nightclubs, Dee soon found recovery coaching toxic.
The job required him to live among those he coached, with their families, at their homes, and many of his clients still used drugs.
While he was already off of opiates himself, Dee wanted to help others kick the habit, and he pursued a growing interest in alternatives to mainstream treatments for opioid dependence.
He received glowing reviews from recovering addicts. He gave most of it away again, but this time he sold a little bit to make his money back. Dee still juggled several part-time jobs while building his kratom business, working security at big nightclubs and doing recovery coaching.
He says he never mixed kratom with his coaching, despite a growing belief in the power of the plant. Recovery coaches are strictly forbidden from offering their own diagnoses or recommendations, although they can provide feedback and research on different holistic treatments if the clients bring up the idea first.
He boasts of a seemingly endless list of mothers, sons, friends, and relatives - all of whom, he claims, owe their sobriety to him and Red Devil Kratom.
Dee nodded as James told of a year pill addiction, hard drinking, and a growing distance from his boyfriend, who thought that he had kicked the habit. Dee told James to wait for mild withdrawals before taking the first dose. To supplement the kratom, Dee stressed the importance of step programs. James headed home with several ounces of kratom in his pocket.
The following morning, he started the regimen, gulping down the kratom with a glass of juice. Just a bit of cold sweats and some gastrointestinal discomfort. By Thursday, James had shattered his record of pill abstinence. James began composing a message to his dealer while looking up Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, his heart hammering in his chest.
Somehow, the step meeting won out. James went to his first later that night and found comfort in the support network. Fellow addicts texted and called him to check up on his recovery.
James had several numbers to call when cravings struck.
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Dee, who regularly attends Narcotics Anonymous meetings, was one of them. Having passed the acute phase of withdrawal, James found that kratom relieved the back pain caused by years of working at a desk. The mood boost and relaxing warmth of kratom tempts James to redose more often than he thinks he should. James views kratom as a step-down substance: something strong enough to keep cravings in check but not strong enough to provide a true high.
Some within the recovery community frown upon kratom, believing that true sobriety requires abstinence from all mind-altering substances. Whether kratom is such a substance is hotly debated. Anything is better than that. K ratom is a murky business.
Because it is relatively new to the American market, there is little scientific information about the effects of long-term kratom use for the treatment of opioid-use disorder. Much of the information online has been produced by those who have skin in the game - vendors, users, pro-kratom groups - or by government organizations and lawmakers that tend to portray kratom as a dangerous drug with potential for abuse.
While kratom remains legal in most of the country, the Food and Drug Administration warns consumers that the plant carries a risk of addiction, and inthe Department of Health and Human Services recommended a ban on the chemicals in kratom, which would make it as illegal as heroin and LSD.
Ultimately, the power to make a final decision about the scheduling of drugs lies with the Drug Enforcement Agency, which planned to place a temporary ban on kratom in but backpedaled after an outcry from kratom supporters. Online forums such aswhose kratom community includes over 75, members, contain a wealth of user reports. Some people claim to have used kratom for years and then stopped without significant withdrawal; others report withdrawal symptoms on par with opioids: sweating, headaches, gastrointestinal issues, depression and intense cravings.
Many users say a lack of information led them to believe that kratom was benign. Addiction specialist Dr. Mohamed Elsamra, who runs a medical detox in Westport, Connecticut, says that he has seen a slight increase in the number of patients using the plant over the last few years.
Although he notes the similarities between opiate and kratom withdrawals, he says that few people have come to him to detox from kratom. Ultimately, Elsamra is open to the idea of it as an opioid replacement.
Erik Fisher, an assistant professor of clinical psychiatry at Columbia University. He makes an analogy to CBD, referencing a report published in the Journal of the American Medical Associationwhich reported on labeling inaccuracies in products containing CBD, suggesting that the same could happen to kratom. Perhaps most alarming, in April the FDA ordered a mandatory recall of at least 26 different kratom-containing goods from Las Vegas-based company Triangle Pharmanaturals, after salmonella was found in some of its products.
Around the same time, the FDA also confirmed salmonella contamination in kratom products distributed by several other companies across the country. More than once, U. Dee claims that a Google algorithm change bumped his website down places in the search results. As a result, his online business has slumped, and he laments that he now barely makes enough to sustain the operation. The CDC analyzed the number of deaths in which kratom was detected in postmortem toxicology testing or determined, by a medical professional, to be a cause of death.
Of those who died and were kratom-positive, multiple substances were present in almost all cases. Fentanyl and fentanyl analogs were listed as a cause of death in more than half of the cases. Then benzodiazepines, prescription opioids, and cocaine. Kratom users took to platforms like to fume about the report and its coverage. Dee agrees with many others in the pro-kratom community that the media serves as an echo chamber for government-produced misinformation.
But a month into recovery, he faced one of the most difficult tests of his sobriety: His parents were coming for a visit. The relationship was fraught. His father had worked in a factory in Michigan for 35 years and only spoke to James about mountain biking and other athletic hobbies. The urge to use again began creeping into his mind. In a way, he thought he deserved it.
The night before his parents arrived, James told his boyfriend that he was going to a cafe to catch up on some reading. He had arranged to meet his old dealer, who lived six blocks away in a family neighborhood with brownstone buildings and a police station at the end of the street. His tolerance demanded 15 at a time to get high. The pills lasted just one night; James had taken all 30 by the time his parents arrived the next day. He has never told his parents about his opiate addiction.
The relapse remained his secret. Even though acceptance of past misdeeds is integral to recovery programs, there was still something too embarrassing about the ease with which all of the self-improvement could be undone.
James did open up to his parents about attending AA. Over dinner the night after his relapse, he exaggerated his alcohol problem, telling his mom that he wanted to try something new to cut down on his drinking. There was this unregulated plant that helped curb cravings, he told her. It also helped soothe the back pain that had long bothered him. His mom asked whether the plant was safe. James assured her that it was. His mom gave him money for the kratom.
His dad sat silently. The car pulled up to the familiar brown brick apartment building in Brooklyn. James hopped out and jogged over to Dee, who was standing about 20 feet away. When James came over, Dee gave him the usual stuff: bags of kratom and a hug.
Since then, James has managed not to relapse. Instagram then shuttered the Red Devil Kratom page, which had over 5, followers; Facebook followed suit. Both were flagged for selling illicit items. He says that even his account on Tinder was canceled because it was linked to a blacklisted credit card.
To supplement the dwindling kratom business, Dee has been focused lately on promoting CBD, a substance that is not without its own regulatory challenges. For now, Dee and his Red Devil Kratom remain at the mercy of the regulatory agencies and tech giants.
With the ever-evolving legal complications of kratom, Dee has no idea whether he will be in business next year. Is it really worth all these problems? Dee still believes it is. Kratom has given substance to his life, which was once fueled only by the pursuit of chemical bliss.
The plant allows him to both serve and be needed. In her final year, she worked furiously on a magnum opus that would change the world. Piles of books on mathematics and scientific instruments littered her desktop and spilled over onto the floor, the bureau, the shelves. No one important was going to see her anytime soon. She had long given up the pleasures of society life. What had started as a basic translation from Latin into French had now morphed into a full-blown commentary.
But she had come too far to give up now. This book, the first of its kind, was to be her legacy. The marquise was exhausted. She was 42 years old and six months pregnant with her fourth child. Others at court had already begun talking and making jokes behind her back.
But the marquise had bigger concerns than her reputation. At such an advanced age, she suspected her pregnancy would also be her end. In a time when overall life expectancy was short enough, having a child in your 40s posed considerable health risks. But she was determined to finish her commentary, to which she had devoted the last five years of her life, before she died. She had sequestered herself inside her Paris home and forced herself to work around the clock.
In one of her letters to Saint-Lambert from this period, she informed him of her daily routine. She rose at 9 a. After dinner, around midnight, she started writing again, only stopping when she collapsed into bed around 5 a. She got three or four hours of sleep before waking up and doing it all over again the next day. Such had been her schedule for the last several months. Her new regimen was grueling but effective, and she blamed herself for not adopting it sooner.
I believed that the day would suffice. Her commitment eventually paid off. On September 4, she gave birth to a daughter. It was an abrupt end to an uheynounce.comedictable life. The marquise never got to see her commentary published. To this day, it remains the only full translation of the Principia in French.
Perhaps most tragically, although the marquise accomplished a feat few could have, most of history has relegated her to a footnote. Jacquier was a great admirer of the marquise. She was an accomplished translator, fluent in Latin and acquainted with Spanish and Italian.
The Principia appealed to her since no version existed in French. The only non-Latin edition had been published in English 15 years earlier. If she could accomplish a French translation, she had a real chance to create something lasting. The subject matter, too, must have greatly intrigued her.
Born on December 17,to a wealthy aristocratic family in Paris, she was the only girl among six children. Her father was a high-ranking baron in the court of Louis XIV.
His wealth and status afforded him some of the best tutors for his children. This was virtually unheard of at a time in which children, especially girls, were expected to be docile and obedient. Emilie took full advantage of all her education afforded her. Destiny: The youngster was clearly intent upon a career in showbusiness at an early age. Above and beyond: The photographer said she knew back then Miley was destined for stardom but had no idea she would become the global icon that she is.
There were not big plans discussed at that point. She was just super nice and happy and not shy. While Rachel had no idea Miley, now 22, would reach quite the level of fame she has today, she admits she could tell the singer had the right attitude to make it in the industry even from a young age.
She said: 'She definitely had a good personality for show business, but would I ever expect what she does now? Early days: The shoot dates back even before Miley made it on the Disney channel.
Casting a big net: The youngster even back then voiced her desire to do great things. And she was in the section of kids that came in and was excited, happy and wanted to do the shoot. Rachel, who has also published four photography books throughout her year career, use to specialize in child photography, and admits the We Can't Stop singer is her biggest client who has went the furthest in the business.
A picture says a thousand words: Destiny showed she had her eye on stardom at an early age. She said: 'Yeah, she'd definitely be the biggest star, she's [also] the most outrageous star.
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Rachel claims she's most surprised at how much Miley has 'changed' throughout her years growing up in the spotlight. She explained: 'Am I surprised at how big she's become? No, none of that never surprises me. Just over a decade: It has been 11 years and now Miley is one of the world's most recognisable stars.
She's just such a little girl in the pictures. She's braids and curls, and maybe a little lip gloss, but no makeup, kid clothes, nothing stylish, her real teeth laughs. While the photoblogger, who currently resides in Melbourne with her family, isn't necessarily supportive of Miley's headline grabbing antics, which range from outrageous performances and controversial social media presence, she admits she still remains a fan of the former childhood star she once knew. Looking back through the photos, a nostalgic Rachel said: 'She was just such a cute, little girl!
I can't believe it's only 11 years ago. It seems like a lifetime, but it's also like, "look what 11 years becomes.
She said: 'I think she's awesome. As long as she's happy! She was happy then and she's probably happy now and I think she's doing exactly what she wants to do. Today: Miley has become an international star, pictured in New York earlier this month. Disney princess: The young actress first shot to fame on Hannah Montana, pictured in just three years after her first modelling photoshoot.
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Comments Share what you think. View all. More top stories. Bing Site Web Enter search term: Search. Social distancing 'heat map' reveals people in Middlesbrough are most likely to flout the new 'stay at home' As Germany's coronavirus outbreak appears to peak at fewer than 1, deaths - why HAS it performed so much World Health Organization director, Dr Tedros, faces calls to resign for 'deceiving the world by allowing ICU nurse warns Britons to 'stay inside' after finishing a gruelling night shift to discover moments later Boy, one, is rushed to hospital after catching coronavirus from father when he brought it home from 'single Norway announces it has 'brought coronavirus under control' after rate of new infections plummets Coronavirus warning for people from black and minority backgrounds as NHS data suggests they are at more Cabinet minister says coronavirus lockdown could start being eased 'in weeks' amid rumours of a 'staged' France records its highest daily death toll with coronavirus fatalities in the last 24 hours - takings How Europe is planning to lift the lockdown: Austria will open small shops next week, Denmark wants Pep Guardiola's mother, 82, dies from coronavirus in Barcelona just weeks after the Manchester City manager