I often find myself surprised by the number of comments I receive from readers who commend me for my openness. It’s amusing, really, because I wouldn’t label myself as vulnerable at all. To me, vulnerability means allowing people to witness your emotional struggles — you know, like having those moments when you cry uncontrollably in the bathroom so no one else can see? I tend to conceal that side of myself as if I were sneaking something past security.
Being called vulnerable feels strange to me. I see myself as honest — sometimes painfully so. It comes naturally to me to speak the truth, which feels noble until you share something someone wasn’t ready to hear, or you recount an experience thinking “it happens to everyone,” only to realize that your worst fears have materialized: it’s just you. Nevertheless, being truthful has liberated me from many burdens that would have otherwise been suffocating.
Raising a child with unique challenges can feel isolating until you start to let people into your reality. Life is chaotic, and they don’t have to fully understand, but honesty can offer them a chance to try. Downsizing and embracing a minimalist lifestyle has led to many curious looks, judgment, and unsolicited advice about how we should live, but by sharing our everyday experiences, we’ve transformed skeptics into at least “agree-to-disagree-ers.”
Now, the part I’m about to dive into with you is the most deeply personal and vulnerable aspect of my life. It doesn’t come easily or naturally to me. However, if I’ve learned anything in my 35 years of awkward and humorous living, it’s that when something weighs heavily on my heart, it’s crucial to follow through despite my doubts. I trust that the bigger picture will be taken care of, so here we go.
This is 300.
I haven’t always been this size. Right now, according to the scale in my aunt and uncle’s bathroom, I weigh 300 pounds — 304.1 to be precise. It’s important to mention that I’ve hesitated to write this piece due to my own insecurities. It may seem contradictory (or even hypocritical) since I regularly tell my students how essential it is to embrace who you are at every stage and to accept your insecurities. I genuinely believe my husband loves me just as I am and that my body has accomplished incredible feats, like bringing two beautiful children into this world.
Yet, I had to face the reality that hiding behind jokes and avoiding my truth, regardless of what the scale says, wouldn’t change the fact that I am overweight. I don’t want anyone’s pity, nor do I want to be judged, but perhaps sharing my truth — that raw, gut-wrenching honesty — might resonate with someone else.
It’s vital to put a face to obesity. We have a responsibility to educate ourselves and our children about the struggles others face. Just as we teach about racism, sexism, and poverty, we should also foster sensitivity towards those dealing with weight issues. It’s still somehow acceptable to gawk at someone who is overweight in public, especially when they are simply trying to enjoy a meal. If my story can reach others, perhaps we can begin to dismantle the stigma and see that many weight-related challenges stem from deeper issues, such as illness or past trauma.
This is 300.
While I share my number to claim it as part of my story, I recognize that many who share my sentiments may weigh less. Every person’s struggles are unique. My weight gain began around fourth grade, but back then, it was easier to be blissfully unaware of my differences because you had to be face-to-face with someone to be ridiculed. I didn’t realize I looked different until sixth grade when I learned that a boy had been paid to ask me out and presented me with a pack of SlimFast as a Valentine’s gift — in front of all my friends. Talk about a defining moment.
To be honest, it didn’t crush me as it might have for others. I never fit the mold of girls who chased after boys or sought trends. I was more interested in goals and community involvement. Later in life, I recalled writing a fan letter to my teenage crush, Jonathan Taylor Thomas, and asking my stunning cheerleader friend to send her photo instead of mine. Deep down, I must have known I didn’t stand a chance.
Fast-forward through high school and college where I tried countless diets, meal plans, and weight-loss fads. None of it worked. Ironically, when I look back at those photos now, I realize I would gladly embrace that version of myself again, but back then, I felt like a cow in social settings. I wore layers of clothing to hide myself, convincing myself that no one could see the real me beneath the fabric.
Despite feeling like an outsider, I found camaraderie in sports. I played football with the boys and was a college soccer goalie, often one of the first picked for games because I wasn’t afraid to get dirty. Yet, I constantly longed for a sense of belonging. I managed to walk down the aisle at a confident 175 pounds, shocking those who knew me, but that number doesn’t reflect the reality of my body’s shape.
After marriage, I gained 50 pounds in the first year. I added 80 more during my first pregnancy, treating it as an excuse to indulge without judgment. This is my greatest regret. The journey back from post-wedding weight and two intense childbirths hasn’t been what I anticipated. How long is it acceptable to wear maternity clothes after your baby is born? Will anyone really notice if I show up in a nursing bra at my daughter’s college graduation?
This is 300.
What many don’t realize is that being overweight alters your perspective daily. It’s not just about needing seatbelt extenders or choosing a van over a compact car. When we decided to downsize and live in a tiny space, I was anxious about my size. Would I fit through doorways? Could I navigate a ladder if we had a loft? Surprisingly, it’s been manageable, albeit noticeable.
In public spaces like theaters or restaurants, I constantly assess chair widths, fearing the humiliation of squeezing into plastic seats. Buffets are off-limits; I feel like I’m on display, worried that others are judging my food choices.
This is 300.
At home, our small bathroom is littered with baby powder, a necessary aid to prevent chafing because without it, the discomfort can be unbearable. My husband once asked if I had gotten deodorant on my pants, and I lied.
This is 300.
When I’m at the park with my kids, I feel the weight of judgment from more athletic parents. Why isn’t she jogging instead of walking? Why wear a tank top? Their stares feel like a guilty verdict. It’s an understatement to say my body feels like a prison. Unlike a prisoner who has no freedom and limited awareness of the world outside, I watch life unfold around me, yearning to engage but held back by my aching joints and insecurities.
This is 300.
I smile when I hear weight-loss success stories that start with rock-bottom moments; I’ve experienced similar challenges but often think, “Can I really achieve that?” I wonder if I inadvertently sabotage myself because I don’t feel deserving of success. My journey has been filled with those defining moments, yet here I am.
In conclusion, my story isn’t just about a number; it’s about the emotional and psychological battles we face every day. By sharing my experience, I hope to foster understanding and compassion for those who struggle with their weight. Together, let’s work towards a kinder world where we see beyond the number on the scale.
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