I'm Staying Fat (And I'm Not Alone)

I’ve lived in basically the same town for most of my life. I moved away for college in the late ’90s and early 2000s, but I came back. It’s where my mom, sisters, their families, and I all live. It’s also where I met my partner (even though he’s from the UK) and where we’ve put down roots.

Every so often, I run into someone from my past—maybe an old classmate or someone I vaguely knew from somewhere else. Sometimes we say hi, and sometimes it’s just a passing glance with someone who was never really a friend, more of an acquaintance.

That happened a few weeks ago as I walked out of a local coffee shop. I saw someone whose name I knew, though we’d never really spoken. And I had this fleeting thought: I wonder if they think I “let myself go” because I’m fat.

Growing up, I wasn’t necessarily a big kid, but I was always a little bigger than many of the other girls. I started dieting in sixth grade, when I was about 11—right around the time many girls gain weight because, you know, puberty. Like so many people socialized as women, I kept dieting off and on until I was about 41. For those doing the math, that’s 30 years.

So yes, I’m the biggest I’ve ever been in my life—but what I wish I could telepathically tell that acquaintance (and anyone else who wonders) is this: I haven’t let myself go. I’ve finally learned to take care of myself and to love my body more than I ever have.

(Should I make a t-shirt?)

These days, I don’t look in the mirror and grimace. I don’t fight with my clothes or wish I could fit into a smaller size. If something doesn’t fit, I just buy a different size. And let me tell you, it’s taken years of WORK.

And to the inevitable question: “But don’t you care about your health?”—the answer is, yes. Shockingly (I know), I’m more in tune with my health than ever before. Because here’s the thing: aesthetic is not health. I used to only care about what size I wore, and I did plenty of unhealthy things to make that number smaller.

There’s plenty of research showing that practicing health-promoting behaviors—stress reduction, movement, gentle nutrition—improves health outcomes regardless of body size, ie: while fat. And let’s be clear: some people will never be “healthy” by traditional standards, and that’s okay. We don’t owe anyone health to deserve respect.

Does society’s voice still creep into my mind sometimes? Of course—it happens when I don’t fit in a chair, when I have to ask for a seatbelt extender on a plane, or when I’m around family (families are hard, y’all). But then I remind myself: I don’t need to change—society does. We need a world that considers everyone, not just those who fit the narrow standards of beauty and worth.

And maybe that’s true for you, too. If you’ve ever caught yourself judging someone’s body — or your own — pause and ask, where did that come from? Whose standards are you measuring against? That’s not shame talking; that’s awareness. We’ve all been steeped in fatphobia since childhood. It shows up in who we picture when we think of “healthy” or “beautiful.” It shows up in the compliments we give, the clothes we think we’re “allowed” to wear, and the way we compare ourselves to others.
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Those beauty ideals — thin, light-skinned, able-bodied, young, and “pure” — weren’t created by accident. They’re tools of control. They uphold systems that benefit from sameness and obedience: white supremacy, patriarchy, colonialism, capitalism. If we’re always chasing an impossible standard, we stay distracted, compliant, and disconnected from each other — and from our own power.
That’s where the unlearning starts.​

I Will Not Conform
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My fatness—and my refusal to shrink myself—is also an act of resistance. My body might change over time, because that’s what bodies do, but I’m not going on another diet or taking GLP-1s. I’m done conforming to what dominant culture tells me I should be.

Because what’s happening right now is about control. The powers that be want conformity. They want women (and those perceived as women) to be small, quiet, obedient—to stay home, care for children, and “know their place.” They want men to be strong, lean, and stoic.

Did you hear that speech where ‘what’s his name’ said he wouldn’t have “fat generals” or “fat troops”? That rhetoric isn’t about health—it’s about power. It’s about conformity. Sirius Bonner says it better than I do. 
 We cannot forget that anti-fatness is rooted in anti-blackness. Thinness and “ideal body standards” are ideals of white supremacy, patriarchy and colonialism.  It is fascism.

They want us the same; they want us to shrink. 

But bodies are diverse.

But when we stand together—fat folks, queer folks, Black and brown folks, every person whose existence challenges the narrow story of “normal”—we remind them they can’t win.

Will you conform or will you be free?