“Yeah, well,” she said casually, “he mentioned, ‘Jen’s cool, but she’s just too tiny.’”
I was taken aback, only able to shrug and respond, “That’s fair, I am.”
Throughout my childhood, I was the smallest one in class, but this was the first moment I realized my height could define me. Before that chat with Lisa, I would have described myself with words like intelligent, funny, loyal, or talented. But suddenly, “short” became the first label I gave myself, even in my thoughts.
Curious about my height? I stand at a proud 4 feet 9 inches. Now, at 43, I’d like to think I’ve grown from those fourth-grade days, but the reality of being short is that it’s a constant reminder. Hooks hang out of reach, movie theater seats require me to peek around taller folks, and during hot subway rides, I find myself at armpit level with fellow passengers.
And let’s not forget the unsolicited comments from strangers:
- “You’re the tiniest person I’ve ever seen!”
- “How tall are you, really?”
- “I’ve never met anyone shorter than me!”
That last one stings the most. I’d never dream of saying something like that to anyone, but perhaps that’s just because I haven’t had the chance.
Over the years, I’ve crafted dozens of snappy retorts in my mind but rarely voiced them. Mostly, I want to ask these people, “Do you think I’m unaware of my height? Do you think I’ve somehow forgotten?”
After that chat with Lisa, I began to grasp what being short meant. As a teenager, it meant being viewed as sweet and cute, but also un-dateable—everyone’s little sister. I became accustomed to people resting their elbows on my head and exclaiming, “You make a perfect armrest!” At parties, I’d hang out in the corner, hoping for a dance while secretly fearing I’d look silly reaching up to a guy’s shoulders. High heels were my attempt to fool everyone, but deep down, I knew better.
Beneath my senior photo in the yearbook, I had the words, “Don’t call me adorable!” Sure, “cute” sounds nice, but to me, it felt like a box I was trapped in, and I was starting to feel suffocated.
I decided to attend college out of state where I knew no one. It became my mission to break the stereotypes associated with my petite stature. I lifted weights, learned to punch, and became more outspoken. I refused to be treated like a child.
During graduation, I was honored to receive a prestigious fellowship. When the college president called my name, I stood up, and suddenly, I was the same height as everyone seated. I noticed everyone craning their necks to spot me. The guy next to me whispered, “Stand on a chair, so they can see you!” “No way,” I said with a smile, my cheeks burning as I sat back down.
I used to cry to my mom about the challenges of being short. She knows the feeling, standing at just 4 feet 10 inches herself. Even at 72, she still gets people patting her on the head and telling her how adorable she is. (Spoiler alert: that’s not appreciated.) While she’s learned to accept her height, I’m getting there too. I remind myself that short folks excel at yoga balance poses due to our lower center of gravity. I can stretch out on planes, and when people call me cute, I try to smile graciously and remember they likely mean well.
Maybe it’s the wisdom that comes with age, but acceptance has become easier. Throughout my childhood, I fought against my height while defining myself by it. It’s exhausting to be at war with yourself. Our bodies are not just shells; they are the vessels through which we experience life and discover who we are. If we despise our bodies, how can we ever truly love ourselves?
I married a man who stands at 5 feet 9 inches, making him a whole foot taller than me. I love having someone around who can reach the high shelves without a step stool! Occasionally, I’ll stand on a chair to be eye-level with him. It reminds me of my graduation when I felt invisible, as if standing on that chair would only highlight my difference. Sometimes, I dream of climbing up—and waving—so people will notice me and cheer.
Now, as I stand on a chair in my kitchen with my arm around my husband’s shoulders, I realize he might never have fallen for me if I were taller because then I wouldn’t truly be me.
“Wow,” I say. “So this is how you see the world.”
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In summary, embracing our unique qualities, such as height, can be a journey, but ultimately, it’s about self-acceptance and learning to love ourselves as we are.