I’m Fat — And My Existence Does Not Need a Euphemism
Hi, my name is Cindy and I’m fat. As f*ck.
I’ve always been fat. Sometimes a little more and sometimes a little less but I’ve always been the ‘big girl’.
Growing up, I referred to myself in a multitude of ways — Chubby. Chunky. Fluffy. Thick. Phat (“Pretty, Hot and Thick”). I cringed any time someone referred to me as ‘big’, and ‘huge’ would set me off into a tailspin of self-hate and depression.
Because society and mainstream media told me, over and over and over again, that “the worst thing I could possibly be”… is fat.
So I called myself all these terms. I held onto them like a shield, like a life raft in the middle of the tumultuous storm I called my life, as an anything-but-thin girl and later an anything-but-thin woman trying to fit into a decidedly thin world.
I clung to ‘chubby’, ‘chunky’ and ‘thick’ for a very long time, because… Anything but fat, right?
The irony of it is that no matter what euphemism I called myself, everyone else still looked at me and saw me for what I was — fat.
Sure, I was and am many other things too — intelligent, witty, funny, honest, caring, kind, a good listener, a great friend, good at my job… But none of those mattered to the rest of the world.
Most of the world, anyway.
Because I was, and am fat.
Despite all the ‘cute’ ways I described myself, all society saw was someone who didn’t fit in. Someone unwanted and undesired by them, and in turn them unmoved and unfazed by my choice of euphemism.
Calling myself ‘chunky’ and ‘thick’ and ‘phat’ didn’t change the fact that, to most of the world, I was still fat — the “worst thing anyone could possibly be”.
I’ve grown a lot since.
I’ve done the work — to learn to love myself, to unlearn what I was taught should be my reality and to slay the demons and insecurities I harboured for years.
I’ve done the work and I’ve learnt and I’ve grown and I’ve changed and I’ve realised…
I no longer need a euphemism.
I no longer need to find ‘cute’ things to call myself to shy away from the fact that I’m fat.
Because I am. Fat. Fat as f*ck.
And that is *NOT* the worst thing I could possibly be.
And I don’t need a ‘cute’ word to validate me.
My existence is not a euphemism.
I am not ‘chubby’ or ‘chunky’ or ‘fluffy’ or ‘phat’. I am fat.
I am fat. And beautiful and talented and intelligent and kind and caring and a bunch of other great and some not-so-great things.
Me being fat, and claiming the word, owning it, does not take anything away from me.
Fat is not a swear word. It is not an insult. It is not “the worst thing anyone could possibly be”.
It is a reality.
And the reality of millions of people across the globe.
Being fat is the mere state of being where I take up more space than the “average” person. Where I shimmy my hips and ass into a size 20 instead of a size 10 pair of jeans. Where I am bigger than “average”.
Where I may be softer and squishier and larger as a default but no less worthy of all the best things life has to offer than anyone else.
Where I am all the things that make me me… And I happen to be fat too.
And that’s okay.
Because I can lose weight and change my appearance and that would not make me any more important than I am right now.
Because I am fat, and I am just as deserving of love and respect and kindness and affection as every other person on this planet.
Because I don’t need to justify or camouflage or dress up my existence to make it more palatable for the rest of the world.
I am fat. And I refuse to dress that up to make it ‘prettier’ for you.
If you have a problem with that, with how unapologetic I am about my existence, with my weight, then it is exactly that — your problem.
Which has nothing to do with me, or my fat ass.