What Being a Fat Kid Taught Me
Being an overweight child taught me to reject my body, blaming it for the disconnection I felt with others.
It was a scene right out of the movies in all of the worst ways. Except it was my life. So instead of the sting softening under the golden haze of The Goonies or the quirky chill of A Christmas Story, in my reality, the boy’s words took the air out of my 10-year-old heart.
I was a fat kid.
When I was very little, I suffered from terrible asthma that left me in the hospital more times than not, so early on, I was nervous of any activity that would spur wheezing and heavy breathing. Therefore, I spent most of my days in the corner reading, escaping to my own world in my head instead of engaging in the one in front of me. That suited me fine until I got to an age where I began noticing how I compared to other girls. After school, I would hang out with my friends at their houses, and they would giggle over the boys whom they thought were “cute.” I would giggle with them, but instead of admitting my crush, I would give my opinion on their crushes. After all, that was much safer than admitting I had feelings for anyone. What boy would actually like me back?
My fear of rejection came true one day at school. I remember one boy in particular — Benjamin was his name — whom I always kept at a comfortable friend distance. Others commented that we talked a lot, and I enjoyed his company. But he was good-looking (even at 10). So when my friends asked if I liked him, I, of course, responded, “No, we’re just friends.” Again, why would he like me?
Finally, one day, my little fairytale dreams came true, and Benjamin’s friend walked up to me at the pencil sharpener. He said, “Benjamin likes you. Do you like him?” I hesitated, and then answered fearfully, “Yes.” The friend walked over to Benjamin and said with a smirk, “She likes you too. I GUESS you like each other, but what’s wrong with you? I can’t believe you like her.”
Those words made me shrink right back into my book-reading self. I ran home that afternoon, tears streaming down my face, feeling completely mortified. If I could have literally crawled out of my skin and gone into a new body at that point, I would have jumped at the opportunity. Instead, when I got home, I called Benjamin and told him I was wrong; I just wanted to be friends after all. Better break it off now before I get hurt any worse.
That night, through tears, I told my mom I wanted to lose weight. I hated my body, and I wanted out of it. But because I couldn’t get out of it, I would try to lose as much of it as I could. My mom did what she thought was best: her daughter asked for her help in losing weight, so she accommodated. She taught me that food had calories, and exercise burned calories.
In fourth grade, food became numbers to me.
Every day I planned out my meals based on the calories I had allotted myself, and every day when my mom got home from work, we walked our neighborhood in order to burn the calories.
I lost the weight fairly quickly. But surprisingly, I didn’t fall in love with the way I looked. Instead, I fell in love with this new feeling of control. Don’t like something about myself? Easy. I’ll change it.
I’d love to report that my life was easy from there on out — that I had all the boyfriends, joined the cheerleading squad, was popular and beautiful and all the things. But it didn’t play out that way. Instead, once I lost the weight, I also lost my best friend.
I had known this girl — let’s call her Amy — since 5K, and we grew up playing at her house riding the zip line in her backyard and dressing up like princesses while twirling around in her mother’s bathroom. Not only did I see her every day at school, but also her family was active at my church, where my father was a minister. We would always laugh that we both had perfect attendance at church; no matter what, neither of our families missed a Sunday. Oftentimes I would even go to her house to play after church, sitting with her family at dinnertime. Amy was one of only a few people allowed in the small little safe space I had created for myself.
For these reasons, when I began losing weight, I was surprised to hear some of her comments — subtle at first. At the lunch table: “Is that ALL you’re eating?” I would duck my head and say I’m not hungry. After school: “You’re skipping Girl Scouts because you have to walk to lose weight, don’t you?” I would mutter an excuse and run off. I began avoiding her every day, paranoid of the next comment out of her mouth that would direct everyone’s attention to the fact that 1) I was overweight, 2) I realized I was overweight, and 3) I was working to lose weight.
Years and years of therapy later, I realize this experience of being an overweight kid was bookended by two moments of rejection that still remain deep in my soul: When I was overweight, I was rejected by my peers. When I lost the weight, I was rejected by my best friend.
No matter what I tried, I was met with this overwhelming sense of shame — this hatred of my body and the disconnection it was causing with everyone in my life.
The struggle with body image, as well as the battle to overcome shame, have led me to research and read a lot on both subjects. If you’ve completed any research on shame, you’ve come across the famous researcher, TED Talk speaker, and writer Brené Brown. Brown says on her site, “I define shame as the intensely painful feeling or experience of believing that we are flawed and therefore unworthy of love and belonging — something we’ve experienced, done, or failed to do makes us unworthy of connection.”
According to Brown, the only way to get past this shame — this intense fear of disconnection — is to be vulnerable. “This idea that in order for connection to happen, we have to allow ourselves to be seen, really seen.”
My little fourth-grade self did not have the strength to be vulnerable. I craved connection, and I believed the way to do that was to do everything I could to fit in. Still, my 36-year-old self has not mastered this. But instead of seeking the connections, many times I shut myself out and don’t even try. Other times, I exercise voraciously, watch what I eat, and overachieve in order to seek external approval. (Oh yea. I’m TOTALLY healed from my childhood trauma. Ha!) But at least I’m aware of my actions now. And also, I’ve learned a few things from this experience that I hope to pass on to others.
Teach your children to be kind.
I don’t care if my kids have the cutest outfits or are the smartest in the class — honestly I can say this. It doesn’t matter to me whether they know all the popcorn words or finish all the reading lists. Instead, more than anything, I teach them to be empathetic to others. We live in a world full of hurt and isolation; the least I can do is raise two kids who are sensitive to others.
Everyone carries shame.
When someone hurts me, I try to see the situation from their point of view, and I search for that shame. I can say with certainty that once I pinpoint that shame, I begin to feel empathy, and I have a better understanding of where the anger came from.
We all battle to be ourselves.
At face value, it seems silly to think you have to fight for individuality. Isn’t that natural? For some, it may be. For me — the people-pleaser, introvert, approval-seeking but still independent creative — it is not. Each day, I default to being me, yet the fourth-grade fat girl tells me that “me” is not enough. Every day, though, I remind her that she is.
And when the dust storm of life is whirling around me and I begin to spin with it, something — whether my husband, my friends, my prayers, yoga, running — reminds me to breathe, slow down, keep my feet firmly planted, and remember to be vulnerable, empathetic, and proud of the person I’ve become.
