“Well,” she said casually, “he mentioned, ‘Alex is alright, but she’s too short.’” Taken aback, I could only nod in agreement: “That’s true, I am.”
Throughout my childhood, I was always the smallest in class, but it was during that conversation with Lisa that I first realized my height could define my identity. Before then, I had countless adjectives to describe myself: intelligent, humorous, loyal, and skilled. But after that moment, “short” became the primary descriptor in my mind.
Standing at 4 feet 9 inches, I’ve made significant strides since my fourth-grade days. However, the reminders of my height are inescapable. Hooks are too high, movie theater seating requires me to navigate around taller patrons, and on a crowded subway in the summer, I find myself at armpit level with my fellow commuters.
The verbal nudges from strangers don’t help either:
- You’re the shortest person I’ve ever seen!
- What’s your height?
- I’ve never met anyone shorter!
The last remark frustrates me the most. I would never utter such a thing to anyone, though perhaps that’s just because I’ve never had the chance.
I’ve developed a repertoire of witty responses over the years, yet often I feel compelled to ask, “Do you think I’m unaware of my own height? That I’ve just forgotten?”
After that conversation with Lisa, my teenage years reinforced the notion of being short. It meant being perceived as sweet and cute, yet also seen as un-dateable—everyone’s little sister. I became accustomed to people resting their elbows on my head, playfully exclaiming, “You make a great armrest!” At social gatherings, I often stood by, hoping to be asked to dance while dreading the prospect of reaching up awkwardly for a guy’s shoulders. High heels were my attempt at sophistication, though I knew they did little to mask my stature.
In fact, beneath my senior yearbook photo, I inscribed, “Don’t call me cute!” While it may sound like a compliment, it felt more like a box I was trapped in, and I was beginning to feel suffocated.
Once I moved away for college, where I knew no one, I was determined to dismantle the stereotype associated with my petite frame. I began weightlifting, learned self-defense, and became an outspoken advocate. I refused to allow anyone to diminish my worth.
During graduation, I was honored with a distinguished fellowship. As my name was called, I stood up and noticed the audience straining to find me. When I stood, my height matched everyone seated. A fellow graduate whispered, “Why not stand on a chair?” “No way,” I replied, smiling but feeling the heat of embarrassment flush my cheeks.
I used to confide in my mother about the challenges of being short. Standing at 4 feet 10 inches, she understands. Even at 72, she still gets patted on the head as if she’s a child. (And let me assure you, such gestures are not appreciated.) While she has grown more accepting of her height, I’ve made strides in that direction too. I remind myself that shorter individuals often excel at yoga due to a lower center of gravity. I enjoy the luxury of stretching my legs comfortably on airplanes, and when people call me cute, I strive to respond graciously, reminding myself that they likely mean well.
Perhaps it’s the perspective that comes with age, but acceptance has become easier. Throughout my childhood, I both resisted and defined myself by my height—a conflicting struggle that was exhausting. Our bodies are not mere shells; they are integral to how we experience the world and understand ourselves. If we harbor resentment towards our physical selves, how can we ever cultivate true self-love?
I married a man who stands at 5 feet 9 inches, a full foot taller than me. I cherish having someone around who can effortlessly reach the high shelves without a step stool. Occasionally, I’ll stand on a chair to meet him at eye level, recalling my graduation when I felt invisible unless I climbed up. Sometimes in my dreams, I imagine standing atop a chair, waving to the crowd who finally notices me, showering me with applause.
Now, as I stand on a chair in our kitchen, I wrap my arm around my husband’s shoulders—my partner who may not have loved me if I were taller, because that would mean I would not be me. “Wow,” I exclaim, “This is how you see the world.”
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In summary, while my height has often defined how I am perceived, I have learned to embrace it as part of my identity rather than a limitation. My journey from feeling confined by my stature to accepting and celebrating it reflects a broader truth: our bodies shape our experiences, and self-acceptance is essential to loving ourselves fully.