I Was the Fat Kid Growing Up — The Kindred Voice

It’s not that I assumed I was a skinny kid.

I was fully aware that I had to browse the “Pretty Plus” girls’ clothing section of the JC Penney catalog. Distant relatives would use terms like “chubby” and “pudgy” to describe me - but always threw in a “cute” or an “adorable” to lessen the backhandedness of their compliments. None of the girls on my favorite TV shows looked like me.

It was hard for me to admit (and still kind of is), but I was the fat kid growing up.

Three of my elementary school classmates took it upon themselves to make sure I knew just how fat I was. In fifth grade, they scrawled pig noses over my photo on class election posters. In sixth grade, they began calling me a cow. During one particularly traumatizing lunch period, this same group of girls convinced the entire sixth grade to “moo” at me when I walked into the cafeteria.

As humiliating as it was, having an entire multipurpose room of my pre-teen peers making barnyard noises at me, I’m actually glad it happened. Grateful for that moment, even. That day, as I stood in my “Pretty Plus” sized jeans, carrying a too-tiny tray of cafeteria food, I decided something. I was never going to be like those girls. Not ever. No matter what.

Even though my adolescence was peppered with bullying and name-calling, being overweight during my most formative years was kind of a blessing in disguise for me. It helped me become skilled at reading people and quickly deciding whether or not someone was kind. I became more thoughtful, sympathetic, and compassionate toward others because I knew how it felt to be an outsider. Struggling with my weight compelled me to develop a strong, authentic personality. As a 5’8”, 200+ pound junior high girl, I felt the need to balance my hefty physical first impression with a friendly, outgoing disposition. Luckily for me, I was already fairly friendly and outgoing.

I became friends with funny, intelligent, kind, and caring kids. Kids who accepted me no matter what. My friends didn’t care that none of the clothes at Abercrombie fit me. They never wondered out loud what my bathroom scale said. We stood up for each other when it was necessary. They were my friends because they liked me and I liked them. We were friends because we shared common interests, and because we found the same exact things absolutely hilarious. And I’m still close with many of those same people, adoring them for the very same reasons I did back in junior high, even though we’re all well into adulthood now.

As high school began, I wrapped up the final stages of puberty and lost some weight. In all, I lost about 60-ish pounds. It was a slow and sluggish transformation that happened over about a year and a half. There was no overnight weight loss magic, no sparkly reveal stage for me to strut my not-as-fat self. I think it was better that way. I grew into my new body gradually, letting my authentic personality come along for the ride. I like to think that I was the same person on either side of that sixty pounds.

Today, in my early thirties, I still often struggle with body image. I don’t think I’ve met another woman who doesn’t every once in a while, though. I’m not a size zero. The clothes in my closet range anywhere from a size 6 to a 12. (Where, oh, where are you, standard sizing for women’s clothing?!) I don’t have a thigh gap. I’m a stress-eater. I usually can’t look at a photo of myself without overanalyzing it for a few moments. Sometimes I ask my husband if I look fat.

I also ask myself some questions, though. Am I being kind? Am I helping others? Standing up for those who can’t? Trying to include others whenever possible? Am I instilling good character traits into my kids? If I can look myself in the mirror and answer these questions with a “yes,” and know that I’m doing my best, no number on the scale or on a clothing tag can compete with that. Not ever. No matter what.