Everyday Feminism

In that way, concern hurts all of us. For those who aren’t fat, it continues to feed that anxiety around becoming fat, the unthinkable possibility that always surrounds them. And it hurts our relationships.

All of a sudden, all of our familiarity, friendliness and warmth fell away, replaced by prescriptive, cold and sometimes condescending exchanges.

It hurts me as a fat person because of the message it sends.

Well-intentioned advice, day after day, week after week, year after year, shows me that I am seen first — and sometimes only — as a fat person. It is a tidal wave of reminders that I am, despite everything else, failing the one measure that matters.

No matter how hard I try, how much money I spend or how many calories I ration, no matter how strong my mettle, it doesn’t matter. It can’t be seen. I don’t have the luxury of an uninterrupted day.

Every day someone finds a way to show judgment, disdain or concern for the maligned vessel that carries me through the world.

Fat people learn quickly and deeply that our bodies are not our own. They are public property, to be commented on, judged, prodded, rejected. Others are always entitled to our bodies, and they are never our own.