In a casual conversation, my friend casually remarked, “He said, ‘Emily’s fine, but she’s too small.’” Caught off guard, I could only manage a weak nod and murmur, “That’s correct; I am.”
Throughout my childhood, I was always the smallest in the class, but until that moment with Lisa, I had never considered my height as a defining feature. Before that, I could easily identify myself with words such as intelligent, humorous, or talented. However, from that point on, “small” became the first descriptor I used, even internally.
Standing at 4 feet 9 inches tall, I like to think that, at 43, I’ve grown beyond those early insecurities. Yet, being small means frequent reminders of my stature. Hooks are too high to reach. In movie theaters, I can’t see the screen without craning my neck around taller patrons. On the subway during hot summer days, I find myself at armpit level with fellow commuters.
Then there are the comments from strangers:
- “You’re the tiniest person I’ve ever seen!”
- “How tall are you, exactly?”
- “I’ve never met anyone shorter than me!”
This last remark is the most frustrating. I would never dream of saying such a thing to anyone else, though perhaps I’ve not had the chance.
I have countless clever retorts stored in my mind that I rarely utilize. Mostly, I want to ask them, “Do you think I’ve never heard this before? Do you believe I’m unaware of my height?”
After that conversation with Lisa, I navigated the complexities of being small. In my teenage years, it often meant being labeled as sweet and cute, but also un-dateable—everyone’s little sister. I became accustomed to having people rest their elbows on my head, jokingly declaring, “You make a great armrest!” At social gatherings, I found myself wishing to dance but was secretly terrified of looking silly reaching for a boy’s shoulders. Even wearing high heels did little to change perceptions.
Underneath my senior portrait in the high school yearbook, I inscribed, “Don’t call me adorable!” While it sounded complimentary, it felt more like a limiting label that was becoming increasingly suffocating.
I ventured out of state for college, where I didn’t know anyone, and made a conscious effort to challenge the stereotypes associated with my petite frame. I started lifting weights, learned how to assert myself, and refused to be condescended to.
During my graduation ceremony, I was honored with a distinguished fellowship. As I stood up when my name was called, I noticed the audience straining their necks, trying to spot me, since I was now at eye level with those seated. A peer beside me whispered, “Why don’t you stand on a chair so they can see you?” “Absolutely not,” I hissed back, unable to hide my embarrassment as I sat down.
There were times when I confided in my mother about the struggles of being small. She understands, standing at 4 feet 10 inches herself. Even at 72, she still faces the same condescending comments about her adorableness. (And if you think that such comments are welcomed, you might want to reconsider.) Nevertheless, she has come to terms with her height, and I’ve begun to do the same. I remind myself that shorter individuals often excel in yoga due to a lower center of gravity. I can stretch my legs comfortably on airplanes, and when people call me cute, I can usually manage a genuine smile, recognizing their good intentions.
Perhaps it’s the wisdom that comes with age, but acceptance feels more attainable now. Throughout my childhood, I battled my height while also letting it define me. It’s exhausting to be in conflict with oneself. Our bodies are not just vessels; they are the means through which we interact with the world and learn about our identities. If we harbor resentment toward our bodies, how can we ever hope to embrace ourselves fully?
I married a man who stands at 5 feet 9 inches, a full foot taller than I am. I genuinely appreciate having someone around who can reach the high shelves without assistance. Occasionally, I’ll stand on a chair to align our eye levels and survey the room together. I recall my graduation day when I chose to remain seated, feeling invisible—as if climbing onto that chair would only highlight my differences. Sometimes in my dreams, I imagine standing up and being recognized, greeted with applause and cheers.
Now, as I stand on a chair in the kitchen, I wrap my arm around my husband’s shoulders, a man who might never have noticed me if I were taller, for then I wouldn’t be me. “Wow,” I say, “this is how you view the world.”
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In summary, height may shape perceptions, but it doesn’t define our worth. Embracing individuality, regardless of stature, fosters self-acceptance and celebrates the unique experiences that come with our bodies.
Keyphrase: Embracing height differences and self-acceptance
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