When I look in the mirror, at my face, I sometimes smile. I like who I am. I even like the curve of my hips and the swell of my breasts. I have managed to extract some self love from the battlefield that is my body. Like yours, my body has been under scrutiny and judgement for most of my life. We both face a constant barrage of images and expectations of what our bodies should be like. We will probably never be enough. Skinny enough, curvy enough, tall enough. We will never be just right. And if we are, or close to it, our reward all too often is harassment from strangers in the street, in the store, on the bus, where ever we have the nerve to be attractive to or noticed by someone in public. From early on, we are watching what we eat, binging and purging, counting calories, measuring inches, thinking about our “skinny jeans,” sold diets and fasts, and scrutinized for what we put in our mouths. And despite that, maybe because of that, your words did not shame me. That’s why I held your gaze for so long after you said it.
To the Girl Who Called Me a Fatass On The Bus, by dcmazzie
I don’t look in the mirror and see myself as beautiful. I probably never will. It just isn’t a word that I think fits me. But that’s okay. I don’t have to be beautiful. I don’t have to be sexy or gorgeous or even pretty. I don’t owe that to anyone. I’m not saying that someone who calls me beautiful would be lying. I’m not saying someone couldn’t think me beautiful. I’m saying that, for me, giving up the goal of “beautiful” lifted a weight off my shoulders and allowed me to move on.
I can still look in the mirror and like what I see, even if I’m not beautiful. I can still love and accept myself, even if I’m not beautiful. Because if I were to think of the worst possible things you could call me, ugly, undesirable, and unfuckable wouldn’t make the list. If “beautiful” was the goal, I was destined to fail. So, instead, I ditched it and made new ones.
Acceptance, by Heidi (Attack of the Sugar Monster)
According to the World Health Organization, obesity is having a body mass index equal to or greater than 30, where body mass index is a height-weight ratio “defined as the weight in kilograms divided by the square of the height in metres.”
It is not a measure of blood glucose, cholesterol, triglycerides, blood pressure, or resting heart rate.
It is not a measure of what I had for breakfast, what my daily food consumption looks like, or how many Big Macs I’ve had in the last week. (From what I know, Big Macs contain pickles in two places.)
It is not a measure of how often I work out or what my yoga practices are “really” like.
It is neither a measure of whether I’m lying when I talk about running three miles nor a reason “why [I] should just stay out of the gym entirely, so people don’t have to look at [my] rolls of fat.”
It is not a measure of my strength, endurance, or flexibility.
It is not an excuse to keep me where you don’t have to look at me.
Obesity Isn’t, by Anytime Yoga