“Well,” she said casually, “he mentioned, ‘Sarah’s fine, but she’s just too small.’”
Taken aback, I could only nod in agreement, “That’s accurate, I am.”
Growing up, I was always the tiniest kid in my class, but this moment marked the first time I realized my stature could define my identity. Before that chat with Jessica, I would have described myself with words like intelligent, humorous, loyal, and talented. Yet, after that day, the first term that came to mind was “small.”
For your reference, I stand at 4 feet 9 inches tall. Now at 43, I like to think I’ve evolved from those elementary school days. However, the reality of being short persists in various ways. Hooks are often out of reach, movie theater seats require me to wiggle around to see the screen, and during hot summer subway commutes, I find myself at armpit height among the crowd.
Then there are the comments from strangers that serve as constant reminders:
- “You’re the tiniest person I’ve ever seen!”
- “How tall are you, really?”
- “I’ve never met anyone shorter!”
This last one stings the most. I would never say such a thing to anyone, even if the chance arose.
Over the years, I’ve developed a repertoire of witty comebacks that I’ve never had the courage to use. Mostly, I want to ask these individuals, “Do you really think no one has ever pointed this out to me before? That I’m oblivious to my own height?”
After that conversation with Jessica, I began to understand what it meant to be small. As a teenager, it translated into being perceived as sweet and cute, but also as un-dateable: just everyone’s little sister. I got accustomed to people resting their elbows on my head, exclaiming, “You make a perfect armrest!” At social gatherings, I lingered in the corners, hoping to be asked to dance but secretly dreading the thought of reaching up to a boy’s shoulders. I tottered in high heels, fully aware that I wasn’t fooling anyone.
Beneath my senior picture in the yearbook, I wrote, “Don’t label me as cute!” While it may sound complimentary, it felt like a box I was trapped in, and I was starting to feel overwhelmed.
I ventured out of state for college, determined to break the stereotypes associated with my petite frame. I hit the gym, learned to fight, and became more vocal and politically active. I refused to be treated as lesser.
During graduation, I was honored with a prestigious fellowship. As my name echoed through the auditorium, I stood up, only to see everyone craning their necks to find me—while I was at the same height as all the seated attendees. A guy next to me whispered, “Stand on a chair, so they can spot you!” “No way,” I whispered back through my smile, sitting down with flushed cheeks.
I often confided in my mother about the trials of being small. She understands, standing at just 4 feet 10 inches tall. Even at 72, she still hears comments about her adorableness. But she has come to terms with her height, and I’ve mostly done the same. I remind myself that shorter people often excel in yoga balance poses due to a lower center of gravity and that I can stretch out comfortably on planes. When people call me cute, I can usually respond with a gracious smile, remembering they likely mean well.
Perhaps it’s the perspective that comes with age, but acceptance has become much simpler. Throughout my childhood, I was torn between battling my height and allowing it to define me. It’s exhausting to be at odds with oneself. Our bodies are not just vessels; they shape our experiences and our self-discovery. If we harbor disdain for our bodies, how can we ever learn to love ourselves?
I married a man who stands at 5 feet 9 inches, a full foot taller than me. I appreciate having someone around who can reach the top shelf without a stool. Occasionally, I’ll climb onto a chair so we can be eye-to-eye, reminiscing about my college graduation when I sat there, invisible, as if standing would only magnify my difference. Sometimes in my dreams, I’ll climb up and wave, and people will notice me, cheering and applauding.
Now, as I stand on a chair in the kitchen, I wrap my arm around my husband’s shoulders—my husband who might not have loved me if I were taller, because I wouldn’t have been me.
“Wow,” I say. “This is how you view the world.”
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In summary, my journey as a small person has taught me valuable lessons about self-acceptance and resilience. While society may try to define us by our appearances, it’s essential to embrace who we are beyond our physical attributes.