It’s amusing to think that one of my most significant challenges as an adult stems from a choice I made at 13. At that age, I discovered I could essentially skip meals without raising any alarms. This little revelation allowed me to avoid the scrutiny of my weight-obsessed mother while I tried to blend into the background, dodging the destiny of a curvy Greek-Italian figure. The last thing I wanted was to make my weight the topic of conversation during family dinners.
I’ve never quite understood what it means to have a healthy relationship with food and exercise. Instead, I’ve wrestled with eating disorders for a large part of my life. I know all too well what an unhealthy relationship with food looks like, and it mirrors the chaotic narratives I see flooding social media daily. In this digital age, it’s become commonplace to flaunt every mile you run or every juice cleanse you undertake. When did it become acceptable to obsess over diet and fitness, yet simultaneously scorn those who simply exist in larger bodies?
It’s baffling. One minute, you’re praised for your dedication to your fitness goals, and the next, you’re bombarded with unsolicited health advice just because you’ve gained a few pounds. I once experienced a period in my twenties where I was constantly fainting. My friends and family treated it like a punchline, but the truth was, I was severely undernourished and over-exercised.
Recently, I penned an essay about the struggle of finding clothes in sizes 14-16, the average size for American women. The response was a mix of solidarity and body shaming. It quickly became clear that the online critics were less concerned about my health and more upset that I dared to voice my frustrations about clothing options for my size. How could I possibly want clothes that fit my size 16 frame? Shouldn’t I be hiding in shame?
It’s been four years since I’ve engaged in any disordered eating behaviors, and during that time, I’ve gained 45 pounds. You might assume that I’ve spent the last four years indulging in cake and lounging around. Instead, I welcomed my second child, moved homes, transitioned careers, and encountered a whirlwind of life challenges. I couldn’t revert to my old habits of obsessively tracking every calorie. I refused to harm myself again.
Sure, there are moments when I glance in the mirror and feel dissatisfied. I’m human, after all. But that fleeting self-doubt pales in comparison to the countless times I collapsed in despair, praying for a way to stop my downward spiral. After a bout of anxiety this year, I had every test imaginable. Guess what? I’m in perfect health.
So, when I hear the chatter about my supposed unhealthiness, it’s perplexing. Did I occasionally indulge in some unhealthy habits? Yes. But life can push you into survival mode, where your appearance becomes the least of your concerns. It’s ironic that during nearly three decades of starving myself and battling bulimia, no one questioned my health. But as soon as the scale tipped, suddenly, everyone had a health advisory.
Now, I focus on enjoying walks to admire blooming flowers and listening to music rather than fretting about my weight. I eat healthier foods because they make me feel good, not because I’m trying to fit into a certain mold. After years of self-criticism, I’ve embraced my body at its heaviest, and I refuse to apologize for it.
So, internet health experts, spare your concerns—I’m doing just fine. All my medical checks confirm I’m healthy. I have supportive friends, a fulfilling career where I uplift women, and yes, I want clothes that fit me comfortably.
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To wrap it up, I’m done letting society dictate how I should feel about my body. I’m here, I’m healthy, and I’m unapologetically me.