A year ago, I managed to shed around 30 pounds for what felt like the umpteenth time. During that period, my father visited and casually dropped a comment that left me feeling shocked, hurt, and frankly, quite irritated.
Let me clarify: my dad is a decent guy whom I love dearly. He means well, but when I share what he said, you might be tempted to think less of him. Here’s how it went down:
Dad: “Hey! You look great. Have you lost weight?”
Me: “Yeah, I’ve been trying. About 30 pounds.”
Dad: “Oh, that’s fantastic! Because inside, you’re not really a fat person. You’re skinny inside. My kid isn’t fat.”
Me: silence.
First off, that comment was as hurtful as it was confusing. Second, it wasn’t completely unexpected; he often makes remarks like this. And third, I actually resonate with his sentiments to a degree.
As a child, I was always slender, regardless of my eating habits—whether I indulged in nothing or devoured an entire cheesecake. But when baby number two arrived, I noticed I had gained around 15 pounds. I distinctly recall my boss at the time complimenting my beauty, but suggesting I’d be stunning if I lost 10 more pounds. Fast forward a few years, and I had inexplicably packed on another 20 pounds. After a rigorous diet, I lost 50 pounds, started nursing school, and took on night shifts. When I weighed myself, I nearly experienced a heart attack upon discovering my body fat percentage was about 35% Oreos. I gained 55 pounds back, then went on another diet (a never-ending cycle, reminiscent of Groundhog Day). I began marathon training, lost 65 pounds, got divorced, remarried, gained 20 pounds at my husband’s request, got pregnant (yes, that’s four), paused my marathon training, and gained 60 pounds.
Now, I feel like I’m living my own version of Oprah. I’ve purged and repurchased my wardrobe four times. I lost 15 pounds, got pregnant yet again (five now), gained 30, lost 20, had an IUD inserted, and then gained 10 more. Are you following along?
I’ve reached 200 pounds, lost 35, and my therapist labeled my behavior as “exercise bulimia.” Apparently, that’s a real issue. My husband confesses that my calorie counting and obsessive exercising drive him up the wall. Six months later, I’ve regained every single pound.
And that brings us to the present moment. I haven’t even begun to discuss the emotional upheaval that comes with gaining and losing weight equivalent to six small children or two grown men. It’s a real challenge.
I hesitate to share my story because I’m conscious of society’s perceptions of people with larger bodies. (I use the term “fat” descriptively, as I identify as a fat person myself.) The stereotype suggests that fat individuals are lazy, undisciplined, and gluttonous. While I know this isn’t true, it’s a prevalent belief. I don’t want to be viewed as that stereotype. In fact, I pride myself on my work ethic; I’m one of the least lazy people you’ll ever meet. I can’t sit through a movie without fidgeting, and laundry piles stress me out.
Despite weighing 200 pounds, I resist identifying as fat. I don’t FEEL fat. Sure, I know how I appear. I’m a size 16, and if I indulge in Chinese food, I might squeeze into an 18 due to the sodium. I suspect many women hesitate to embrace the label “fat.” My loving husband avoids calling me fat at all; he prefers terms like curvy or voluptuous. He understands that “fat” carries a negative connotation.
Yet, deep down, I don’t perceive myself as fat. I’m a wife, mother, sister, nurse, friend, writer, knitter, and a bit of a yarn hoarder. I struggle with depression, experience moments of mania, and navigate life as the daughter of an addict. I’m many things beyond just my body.
Yet, a shadow looms over me, revealing a hard truth: I’m not the slender person I feel I am inside. Regardless of my self-perception, I am, in fact, fat—and it saddens me. It’s disheartening to worry about my husband potentially finding someone thinner or prettier. Do people think he’s just a nice guy for staying with a fat woman? Or could it be that I’m an incredible partner despite my size?
It’s painful to look in the mirror and question my beauty. Who defines beauty, anyway? My wide hips, round backside, and the curve of my belly form the landscape of my body. Is beauty merely a product of societal standards?
I often scan a room full of women, wondering if I’m the largest one present. Why do we reduce each other to mere body sizes?
The truth is, I would prefer to be smaller. I’ve experienced everything from anorexia to obesity, and I find myself more comfortable in the middle. However, research shows that 95% of dieters regain the weight they lose (you can check out more in Health at Every Size by Linda Bacon, PhD). Given my history, it’s clear this statistic applies to me as well.
I refuse to wave the white flag of surrender. I’m not resigning myself to being fat forever; I’ve simply stopped viewing weight loss as a constant goal. I’m not counting calories or exercising to justify a milkshake. I’m not trying to “get in shape.” I’m already a shape—round, to be precise. I’m not attempting to shed “extra pounds,” as they’re not extra; they belong to me.
Ultimately, I’m focused on being healthy and happy, not on losing weight. I wish I could assert my love for my body so that others would, too. But, honestly, I still see a fat person when I look in the mirror.
And I don’t want to. I want to change the conversations we have to be about who we are beyond our bodies. We are all multifaceted individuals, far more than just fat or thin.
For additional insights on body image and self-acceptance, consider reading 4 Truths About Our Post-Baby Bodies.
In summary, my journey reflects the complexities of body image and self-acceptance. Despite societal pressures, I strive to focus on my health and happiness rather than conforming to expectations of weight loss. The narrative needs to shift from body size to individual worth.
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