By Jenna Miller
It all began quite innocently. You stumbled upon one of my photos online — I was flaunting vibrant red lipstick, a form-fitting catsuit, and a sparkly vest — and somehow, you felt the urge to comment. You felt the need to share a “joke,” a seemingly harmless jest: “Wow. That girl could really use a sandwich!!!”
Original and utterly hilarious, right? Clearly, the “skinny girl” must need to gain some weight. She must need a plate piled high with fries, a juicy cheeseburger, or maybe just a heaping of deli meats. But believe it or not, this isn’t the first time I’ve encountered such comments. At 5-foot tall and weighing 105 pounds, I often find my physical appearance scrutinized. However, this was the first instance where a total stranger decided to critique my body online. I am a writer, and your comment was just one of many responses to a piece focused on mental health.
I attempted to brush it off and move on. But here’s what I want you to know, commenter: I tried to ignore your words, but they lingered. Your comment disturbed me; it haunted me and taunted me because, in a way, you were right. I needed to eat. The nausea in my stomach was a sign of deeper issues. I felt weak and lightheaded, exhausted and unable to consume even a piece of dry toast. There are a few things you probably didn’t realize when you made that joke, and I want you to understand.
First off, “that girl” has a name: Jenna. Jenna is a wife, a mother, a writer, and a mental health advocate, but perhaps you didn’t take the time to read my article. You might not have cared.
You likely don’t know that “that girl” has a heart full of joy yet marred by pain — a heart that has experienced profound love, overwhelming grief, and the deep-rooted connection that comes from motherhood (a connection that flourishes when nurturing another). And yes, “that girl” grapples with the struggle for nourishment, facing the pangs of a body that feels unworthy of food.
You probably don’t care to hear that “that girl” has a past. She battled an eating disorder, and each day is a fight against those lingering thoughts. Even after seven years of what I call “recovery,” “that girl” still finds herself tugging at the skin around her waist, still sees thick thighs when you see slender ones, still fixates on imperfections that you may overlook. She works out obsessively, running five miles each day, five days a week, striving for sanity while trying to maintain a certain appearance. She runs because she wants to, and also because she feels she has to; her mind won’t allow her to stop.
“That girl” tallies more than calories; she counts sit-ups, steps, push-ups, lunges, and squats to determine if she’s earned the right to indulge in a skim milk with her iced coffee. After calculating those numbers, she finds herself questioning: Can I afford to share an Oreo with my daughter?
On the very morning you posted your comment, “that girl” stepped on the scale for the first time in a year, followed by a hot shower where she pulled at her stomach skin for nearly 20 minutes, convinced that heat could melt away belly fat, hoping to “redefine her core.” She saw a number that terrified her, prompting her to think it was time to exercise more and eat less — to forgo that dreaded sandwich.
While I know you believed your comment was innocent, and perhaps you thought it was just a joke, please realize it affected me deeply. “That girl” didn’t feel flattered; she felt criticized and judged. Once again, her body became the subject of scrutiny, and it was not just your attention but her own that was drawn back to it.
So, I implore you to pause before you joke, to consider your words carefully. Every article is penned by a real person — a writer, a mother, a living, breathing human being. You have no idea what they’ve endured or what they continue to face.
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In summary, think before you type, for words carry weight and may impact lives in ways you cannot foresee.