On identity, worth, and the parts of me that really matter
I feel like most fat people — myself included — live in a perpetual state of “trying to lose weight.” Rarely have I met someone my size who feels content, who isn’t on some kind of diet, or who isn’t constantly searching for more motivation to exercise.
Why is that?
I think it’s because when you’re fat, it becomes the most obvious — and often the most defining — thing about you. Not by choice, but by default. To other people, your size overshadows everything else. When someone sees you and you’re big, that’s often all they think they need to know. They don’t care about who you are, what drives you, or what lights you up. They see your body and stop there.
Before I was married, I always felt like most men would dismiss me instantly because of my size. I wasn’t even a possibility to them. They didn’t know me, and they didn’t care to. I wasn’t valid as an option — not because of my personality, but because of my body.
But here’s what I know now:
A body is just a body.
It’s the house, not the soul. The shell, not the substance. It holds you, but it isn’t you. Like a gift wrapped in a plain box, the value is what’s inside — not the packaging.
And if someone chooses not to know me because of how I look? They’re missing out. Because I am so much more than just fat.
I’m funny. Ridiculously so. Some of that came from being fat — like I had to offer something else to make up for what I lacked in looks. Humor became my armor and my connection. People might not like how I look, but they’ll laugh — and that’s something.
I’m thoughtful. I care deeply and often. I think about the people I love and try to bring them joy. I’m thoughtful in the deeper ways, too — empathetic, moved by suffering, heartbroken by loneliness. I tear up over abandoned dogs and aching hearts. I carry the feelings of others close to my own.
I’m smart. I’m educated and curious. I read widely, research endlessly, and know a little (or a lot) about a lot. I never stop learning and I never stop caring about understanding the world around me.
I am successful. I’ve built a life I’m proud of. I’ve pivoted careers, taken chances, and done hard things. I’ve chased dreams that scared me — including putting my voice out into the world and making something of it. I’m not afraid of starting over anymore.
I’m passionate. Obsessive, even. About books. About writing. About the things that make me feel most alive. And when I love something, everyone knows it.
I’m stubborn. Determined. Strong-willed. Sometimes that gets in my way, but more often, it pushes me forward.
I’m a mom. A daughter. A sister, friend, niece, and aunt. I’m a cousin and a coworker. I’m a writer. A homeowner. A person with a life full of people and places and purpose.
I love farmhouse decor and scary movies and sweet things. I watch trashy TV and collect too many books. Lately, I’ve been loving clothes — maybe my body isn’t what I wish it were, but it still deserves to feel good in what it wears. I buy the dress anyway. Because my body is not the problem.
Even though I want to lose weight — and probably always will — my size shouldn’t matter as much as it does.
Because all those things I just listed? They don’t change with the size of my jeans. I was all of them when I was smaller. I’m all of them now. And I’ll be all of them no matter what the scale says.
I am a lot of things. Fat may be one of them.
But fat is the least important of them all.
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