I think the name of this blog can be startling. I started this blog a while ago and I still have second thoughts about the name. Is it too much? Too inflammatory? Will I regret this choice? Probably sometimes.

But here’s the thing, fat is only offensive if you allow it to be.
I have been overweight my whole life, and only relatively recently in my 22 years have I made it closer to a “normal” weight. I know what it’s like to be the fat girl. I know what it’s like to have your self-esteem teetering over the edge, ready to collapse and become buried under every pound. No matter how much weight I lose, I will always be the fat girl.

And that’s okay.

I’ve struggled, I’ve cried, I’ve endured snide remarks, comments, teasing. I’ve felt the despair of being in the dressing room and nothing works, the crippling anxiety of going out for a night with friends (significantly thinner friends I might add) because I didn’t feel I was worthy to be seen in public. I’ve been through it all.

I survived.

I was fat, I was diagnosed with a disease that is stigmatized as a “fat” disease. But you know what, from this I became strong. I am in tune with my feelings and I understand the feelings of those who have been ignored or criticized by our society.

Yes, I was and still am, a fat girl. A fat girl with a heart big enough for all the other fat girls and guys and everyone with similar experiences. I feel deeply, I love with all I have, and I have the courage to stand up for our spiritual and physical well-being.

I am a fat girl.

And it suits me just fine.


On the Beauty of Stretch Marks

Oh stretch marks, how I’ve loathed you.

Evidence of my late night binges, my waltz with the ice cream bucket at 2 AM when no one else was there to dance.

The permanent reminder of my battle with myself, will power versus the emptiness, the whisper of self control versus knowing that ‘just one more bite’ will never be. The guilt. The shame.

But I respect you. The red road map that I once decried as repulsive, now battle scars that prove my own fortitude. I have fought against the most difficult of adversaries, my own mind.

I have fought my own tendency to turn to food for comfort, to soothe a broken heart, a lonely night, an empty spirit, so easy to mistake as an empty stomach.

My body, once stretched to the breaking point, has mirrored my mind, my spirit, which too had been worn thin.

Now I can finally look upon these silvery streaks that still pucker the surface of my skin, even after all these years, without regret. I remember how far I’ve come, how far I can go, and that I am not damaged beyond repair. Just a little scratched up.