I came across a hilarious meme today that resonated with me deeply. It featured a hefty guy on a surfboard with a caption that said, “When you finally give up on your diet and just think, ‘screw it, I’m overweight.’” Honestly, they could have used a photo of me — it’s spot on.
Society has its expectations, and I know I’m meant to feel disheartened about my weight. I should sit in a corner feeling sorry for myself while my daughter runs around, effortlessly playing as I struggle to keep up. I’m supposed to have an epiphany in the grocery store while eyeing the latest fitness magazine, inspiring me to transform my life, hit the gym, shed some pounds, and subsequently blog about my journey as a “thinspiration” for others.
But the moment society imposes its so-called “shoulds” on me, I start to feel rebellious. That’s when my middle fingers come out!
Instead, perhaps I can be someone’s FATspiration. Here’s my “path to self-acceptance” or whatever you want to call it.
I haven’t always felt this way. The first time I realized I was overweight, I was in third grade. I can’t pinpoint the exact moment — maybe a comment from a classmate or a remark from a family member. Being observant as a child, I likely just compared myself to the other girls in my class. But that was the beginning.
Throughout elementary school, I held onto the hope that I would “grow out of it.” I did slim down a bit in junior high, but not enough to feel confident. I still had my insecurities — the little stomach that I was too shy to show off. By then, I was 5-foot-2 and weighed around 135 pounds, which was technically in the normal range, but I felt nowhere near as attractive as the popular girls. That’s when I started experimenting with fasting, and my inner critic began its relentless chatter.
During high school, my weight fluctuated. I was never satisfied with my appearance, convincing myself that a bikini was out of the question and just going with the flow. I was fortunate to attend a small school where bullying wasn’t rampant; however, I had a sharp tongue and a self-deprecating sense of humor that kept me off the radar. Even if there were bullies, they couldn’t compete with the harsh voice in my head.
By the time I graduated, I was in a relationship with the man who would become my first husband, weighing in at 165 pounds. I felt out of control and resorted to fasting and pills — a vicious cycle that never seemed to end.
Throughout my first marriage, my weight was a constant source of anxiety. I often questioned why my husband would want me physically, which only served to dampen my interest in intimacy. I would exercise, fast, lose a bit, then regain it all. My life revolved around my weight, leaving little room for anything else. It wasn’t until my doctor diagnosed me with hypothyroidism that I understood why the pounds wouldn’t budge. You’d think that would mark a turning point, but then I broke my ankle — and not just a simple break. I was immobilized for almost four months, and during that time, I gained a significant amount of weight. When my marriage ended, I found myself tipping the scales at 250 pounds.
While it wasn’t the sole reason for our breakup, I couldn’t help but blame my weight for the split. I spiraled into depression, barely leaving the house, yet I plastered on a smile for everyone else. I was furious with myself for allowing my weight to dictate my life.
A year after my divorce, I embarked on an extreme diet, dropping back down to nearly my high school weight. I received plenty of compliments and caught the attention of men. It felt exhilarating. They didn’t need to know I was subsisting on just 500 calories a day. I hit the party scene hard, reveling in my newfound attention. But was I truly happy? I’d lost weight, so wasn’t I supposed to be overjoyed like the people flaunting their success in weight loss commercials? All that self-hate didn’t vanish; it merely shifted to other insecurities: “You’re still not skinny enough. No diet will ever make you beautiful.” “You’re still single.” “That guy won’t call you back; you’re too quirky.” “You’ll end up a lonely cat lady.” The battle seemed endless.
Then I met my current husband. Falling in love with him and his children was transformative. After we married and I had my daughter, everything changed. Her arrival was a catalyst for my life. Suddenly, the incessant worries about my weight faded. What mattered most was nurturing this little being and my family. This shift made me reevaluate what happiness truly meant and how society defines it. I realized that bliss isn’t a constant state; challenges will always exist.
Why complicate my life further with a relentless campaign of self-hatred? I didn’t want my daughter to inherit my struggles with self-acceptance. She would face enough external pressures; I didn’t want to add to them. So, I decided to stop.
I stopped obsessing over diets and finding time for exercise. I let go of the anxiety surrounding my jeans size. I quit worrying about what others thought of me. I no longer felt guilty about eating. I stopped linking my worth as a person to my weight. I let go of the notion that being overweight was the worst thing I could be.
Did all my self-doubt evaporate? Absolutely not. Am I blissfully happy? Of course not. But I’ve come to accept that no one is, regardless of their shape or size. I shifted my focus, got out of my own head, and started appreciating the good things in life that exist beyond the number on the scale. Does this mean I’ll never attempt to lose weight again? Not necessarily; I might want to in the future. But for now, that fight isn’t on my agenda.
There are many who view me as undisciplined or lazy, believing I’m a burden on healthcare systems because of my “unhealthy” lifestyle. I’d challenge them to compare doctor visits; I bet I’ve seen a doctor less than they have in the past year. There was a time I would have agreed with their assessments. But now? Now, I hope the sight of my body out in the world irritates them enough to ruin their day, and I can enjoy my cheeseburger while I’m at it.
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In summary, it’s possible to embrace who you are, regardless of societal expectations. The journey to self-acceptance is ongoing, but it’s one worth taking.