I often find it amusing how many people commend me for my openness. What they call vulnerability, I see as honesty—sometimes brutally so. Vulnerability implies exposing your emotional side, like when we sob uncontrollably in the bathroom, hoping no one will notice. I keep that stuff locked up tighter than a vault.
When people label me as vulnerable, it feels off. I would rather say I’m candid—sometimes painfully so. Sharing the truth comes naturally to me, which can be virtuous until you realize that what you think is common is actually uniquely yours. It’s liberating, though, to shed the weight of unbearable secrets.
Raising a unique child can be exceptionally isolating. Yet, when I started sharing my reality with others, I found a way to connect. Downsizing our living space has brought its share of judgments and unsolicited advice, but showing my life has turned skeptics into supporters, or at least into those willing to agree to disagree.
Now, I’m diving into a realm that feels terrifyingly vulnerable. This isn’t something I take lightly. But I’ve learned that when a weighty matter tugs at my heart, it’s often a sign that I need to confront it, regardless of my fears. So, hang on, everyone—especially those guys reading because their wives nudged them to see if they can relate.
This is 300.
Currently, my weight, as measured on the scale at my aunt and uncle’s house, is 300 lbs—304.1, to be precise. I’ve hesitated to write this post for weeks, burdened by my own insecurities. It’s a bit ironic since I constantly remind my students how vital it is to embrace who you are at every stage, to own your insecurities. I tell them how my husband loves me and how incredible my body is for carrying two children.
All of that is true. I believe every word. Yet, I realized that hiding behind jokes and refusing to accept that number wouldn’t change my reality. I don’t seek pity or judgment, but I hope that sharing my truth—raw and unfiltered—might resonate with someone else.
People need to see the human side of obesity. We have a responsibility to educate ourselves and our children about others’ struggles, just as we do with racism and poverty. It’s unacceptable to gawk at someone who is overweight, just as it would be to stare at a person of a different race. By sharing my story, I hope to help others see that we are not monsters; many who struggle with their weight have faced their own battles.
This is 300.
While I’m using my weight as a way to own my truth, many who share my sentiments may weigh less. Each person’s struggle is unique.
My weight gain began in fourth grade, back when kids had to see your face to make fun of you. I was blissfully unaware of my differences until sixth grade when a boy, under a bet, asked me to be his girlfriend and gifted me a pack of SlimFast for Valentine’s Day. Awkward, right?
Honestly, it didn’t devastate me. I was never the girl obsessed with boys or trends. I rocked the ‘90s looks, but focused more on achievements and involvement than fitting in. It wasn’t until I wrote a fan letter to Jonathan Taylor Thomas, asking my cheerleader friend to send her picture instead of mine, that I realized I might not be “acceptable.”
Fast forward through countless diets and fads in high school and college. Nothing worked. Funny enough, I now look back at those pictures and wish I could look like I did back then, even though I felt enormous at the time. I maintained the facade of confidence, but inside, I felt isolated. I hid behind layers of clothing—all in an effort to mask my insecurities.
I thrived in sports, wanting to belong, but I often felt like an outsider. I walked down the aisle at 175 lbs., shocking everyone. We Americans have a skewed perception of body sizes. I confidently wore a bikini on my honeymoon, but then gained 50 lbs. in my first year of marriage and another 80 lbs. during my first pregnancy. This, I regret deeply.
The struggle to bounce back post-pregnancy hasn’t been what I anticipated. How long is it socially acceptable to wear maternity clothes after giving birth? Will anyone notice if I show up in my nursing bra at my daughter’s college graduation?
This is 300.
What many don’t realize is that being overweight affects every aspect of daily life. It’s not just about seatbelt extenders on airplanes or choosing a van over a compact car. When we decided to downsize to a tiny home, I worried about whether I could navigate stairs and fit in tight spaces. Surprisingly, it’s been manageable.
In public places, I constantly assess how wide seats are. I avoid buffets because I feel like I’m on display, even if I’m just loading my plate with a salad.
This is 300.
At home, I use baby powder for comfort, and I lie about it to my husband when he asks if I’ve spilled deodorant.
This is 300.
Every glance from fitter folks at the park feels like judgment. I can’t help but feel scrutinized for my size, even if their stares are innocent.
Describing my body as a prison is an understatement; it’s more complex than that. It’s a painful existence, as I yearn to run and play, but my body often betrays me. If you haven’t lived this, it’s hard to grasp the struggle.
This is 300.
While others share their success stories from rock-bottom moments, I find myself grappling with the notion that I may never reach that pinnacle. I’ve faced those moments, but here I remain.
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In summary, my journey with weight has been anything but simple. It reflects a deep-rooted struggle that many can relate to, and I hope that by sharing my truth, I can foster understanding and compassion.