It's not that I was a fat kid
It's that my inner child needed to grow
The first person who ever called me fat was my aunt. She cupped her hands around my twelve-year-old bicep like a python sizing up their next meal. Except, it wasn’t to eat my arm; it was to show everyone in my grandparent’s living room how she could hardly fit her hands around it. It was to tell me that I was something to be measured.
The same aunt squeezed my nose before I knew what a blackhead was. She forced the little yellow lilies to bloom long before they were ready. To this day, I have scars all over my nose from chronically over-squeezing the sebum. (Which, by the way, is totally normal and supposed to be there.)
Our families mark us; it’s undeniable.
I’m writing this to say it is very likely I wasn’t alone in experiencing these moments. That some of you have scars like mine. So maybe this isn’t an essay but a bid for connection.
Here are my fat kid confessions. I used to be an expert at youtube fitness videos. I knew the ones that burned the most calories in the least amount of time. I knew which ones I could complete before my parents came home from work. I exercised in my room in private, like I was doing drugs. Like if I got caught, I’d be in serious trouble.
Once, I made homemade weights with water bottles and pennies. My siblings found them and told my crush, who lived down the street. I had to come up with an excuse, so I told everyone I was doing an experiment with vinegar and copper. The pennies should be bright and red by tomorrow morning.
They weren’t, but my cheeks were.
It’s hard struggling with weight as a child. Another skinny kid makes fun of you if they find out you’re trying to lose it. You’re not allowed to be fat, but you’re not allowed to do anything about it.
Often, the people who are supposed to be safe havens make the room so small you can’t fit inside.
“You’ll never lose the weight like that,” my father threatened when he caught me stealing two of my mother’s pecan buttercream cookies before church. (You would have stolen them too. They are seriously amazing.)
It’s true—I didn’t lose any weight for a long time. I graduated grade eight in a puffy lime-green dress with sleeves that hid my python arms. I stole my older sister’s makeup to cover up my blackheads.
When people use the term “inner fat kid” to describe their desire for an extra piece of chocolate cake, I wonder if we have the same inner fat kids.
Mine doesn’t encourage me to indulge in deliciousness and in pleasure. Instead, quite the opposite. I never really got that term.
I’m wondering if my inner fat kid will stay with me forever. In my adult years, my weight has fluctuated dramatically. A few years ago, I got into running. I ran every single day for the entire summer. Not as a means to lose weight; I just really enjoyed it. My body slimmed down substantially. Now, I do hot yoga a few times a week, and my body seems happier at a softer weight.
Turns out, my inner fat kid can’t even tell the difference. It’s still as loud as ever.
Last week, I felt something change. I went to my first adult gymnastics class.
I’m on this new journey of doing things I couldn’t do as a kid because my family couldn’t afford it. It’s a way to give my inner child what she never got.
You know what? I didn’t think about my stomach once. I didn’t readjust the waistband of my leggings so the tight part would compress the squishy part of my stomach. I hung from the bars and swung higher and further than all the other students. My leggings pulled down past my belly button. It didn’t dawn on me that I was showing my stomach to a room full of strangers. I was so fucking brave. And I wasn’t even trying to be.
It’s like I went back in time. I was participating in play again, in the time period of my life when I wasn’t aware of my body in a negative light. My brain returned to that state—the unhinged, totally free-to-explore state that kids experience every day.
I cannot wait to go back next week. I don’t know what is happening, but I know I need it.
For the record, and before I finish this essay all soft and tender, I do want to say fuck you to all the people who have called me fat in my life. And that my pythons will eat you for lunch.
I want you to know I remember everything. For a long time, I held your words like stones between my fingers. I tried to rub them smooth, but all I got were bloody fingers.
I also want to say thank you because they turned into callouses. Now, I use them to type. Now, I write beautiful words as proof I am marked. Now, this is my strength.
Thank you!
I’m seriously floating a little bit. This creative essay series has taken OFF. I’ve received countless DM’s telling me you resonate and I feel SEEN and heard. (Thank you thank you!)
My Substack is FREE, but if you feel like making this old girl’s day, kindly restack with your favourite quote. Or leave a little love in the comments—I’ll give you some back and maybe we can have a little conversation. I’d like that.
Binge-read the rest of my essays in this series:
My mother can’t tell you the name of her great-grandmother
It’s not that we fled Mexico, it’s that something was chasing us
It’s not that I’m sober curious
P.S. If you like my writing, find my poems on Instagram!
I’m so glad you ending with a big fuck you to the people who ever made you feel like you aren’t good enough! But I’m also thankful for your words that truly inspire.
ooof my twelve year old self is resonating with this right now! 🥺😩💖 beautifully personal