About a year ago, I shed around 30 pounds for the umpteenth time. During that period, my father visited and made a comment that both shocked and hurt me.
My dad is a good man, and I love him dearly. He truly means well, but when I share what he said, you might think he’s out of line or just plain clueless. Here’s how it went down:
Dad: “Wow! You look great! Have you lost weight?”
Me: “Yes, about 30 pounds.”
Dad: “That’s fantastic! You’re not really a fat person inside. You’re skinny at heart. My kid isn’t fat.”
Me: silence.
A. That was as painful and confusing as you might imagine. B. It wasn’t entirely unexpected, given his habit of making comments like that. C. Surprisingly, I somewhat agree with him.
As a child, I was always skinny, regardless of my eating habits—whether I indulged in a whole cheesecake or skipped meals entirely. After my second child, I noticed I had gained about 15 pounds. I distinctly remember my boss telling me I was beautiful but would be even more stunning if I lost 10 pounds. Fast forward a few years, and I had somehow added another 20 pounds. I tried various diets, lost 50 pounds, started nursing school, and then—surprise!—I gained 55 pounds again. I started marathon training, lost 65 pounds, got divorced, remarried, and gained 20 pounds at my husband’s suggestion (apparently, he believed bones weren’t sexy).
Now, I find myself in a cycle of weight fluctuations—I’ve tossed out and repurchased my entire wardrobe multiple times. Lost 15, became pregnant (yes, that’s five kids now), gained 30, lost 20, got an IUD, and then gained another 10. Are you starting to see the pattern?
Two hundred pounds. I lost 35 pounds, and my therapist diagnosed me with “exercise bulimia” (who knew that was a thing?). My husband tells me my obsessive calorie counting and exercising are driving him crazy. Six months later, every pound is back.
Now you’re caught up.
I haven’t even touched on the emotional rollercoaster of gaining and losing the equivalent of six small children or two grown men. It’s tough.
I hesitate to share this because I know the common perceptions surrounding larger bodies. I use the word “fat” just as a descriptor because that is, in fact, what I am—someone who carries extra weight. Society often labels fat individuals as lazy, undisciplined, or gluttonous. While I know that’s not true, I still don’t want to be seen as “that fat person.” I consider myself anything but lazy; I can’t sit through a movie or rest if there’s laundry piled high.
Despite weighing 200 pounds, I struggle to identify as fat. I get that I look fat—size 16, and if I indulge in Chinese food, I jump to an 18 (thanks, salt). Few women want to admit to being fat or even shop in the “fat” section of stores. My husband lovingly avoids calling me fat, using terms like curvy or voluptuous instead. He knows the stigma attached to that label.
Internally, I don’t feel fat. I’m a mother, a wife, a sister, a nurse, a friend, a writer, and so much more. However, there’s still that nagging reality that I’m not the thin person I feel like inside. No matter how I perceive myself, the fact remains: I am fat, and it does make me sad.
It makes me sad to think my husband might look for someone else—someone thinner, prettier. Do people think he’s a nice guy for staying with a fat woman? Or maybe I’m amazing despite the weight, and he’s just a great guy.
It’s disheartening to glance in the mirror and not see beauty. Who determines what beauty is? My hips, my curves, my body’s landscape—are those not beautiful in their own right?
In a room full of women, I can’t help but check if I’m the largest one present. Why do we reduce one another to mere physical attributes?
To be honest, I would prefer to be smaller. I’ve been anywhere from anorexic to obese and would choose to be somewhere in the middle. However, studies suggest that 95% of dieters will regain the weight they lose (for more on this, check out Health at Every Size by Linda Bacon, PhD). Given my history, I realize that statistic applies to me. I still weigh 200 pounds.
But I haven’t waved the white flag. I haven’t surrendered to my size. I’ve simply stopped viewing weight loss as a constant goal. I’m not counting calories or exercising just to justify a treat. I’m not trying to change my shape because I’m not “out of shape”—I’m a shape, and it’s round. Those pounds are not “extra”; they are mine, every single one of them.
I’m not focused on losing weight. Instead, I’m concentrating on being healthy and happy.
I wish I could declare unwavering love for my body, hoping others would see my fat as unimportant too. But I can’t quite get there.
I view my body as a miracle. It has birthed beautiful, wonderful children. I can walk, run, and bike. I am healthy despite my weight (and don’t even ask). I am kind and intelligent; those traits have nothing to do with my size. I appreciate all of these things, yet when I look at my body, I still see a fat person—one I wish I didn’t see.
I want to shift the conversations we have to focus on our true selves, beyond our physical forms. We are all so many things, be it fat or thin.
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Summary
This article explores the complex relationship between body image, societal perceptions, and personal identity while navigating the ups and downs of weight loss. It reflects on the emotional impact of being perceived as fat, the struggle to accept one’s body, and the desire to shift the focus from weight to the many facets of who we are.