On Being Enough

My fat journey

Here is a recording of my reading this essay. Enjoy!

From almost my earliest memory, I’ve been aware of my body and how it didn’t conform with what was “normal”. One of my only grade school memories was when my teacher handed out a standard fill-in-the-blank questionnaire. One of the questions was something like “What do you like to do in your spare time?”

I specifically recall my answer, scratched in juvenile handwriting which I can see in my mind's eye “eat, eat, and eat some more”. I may have thought I was being funny. Was this the beginning?

I can’t quite capture the shame I must have felt by writing this answer, but I do know it marks the point in my life when I began to grow larger – one of the first in my class to wear a bra, my waist becoming thicker with “baby fat.”

I soon grew into what was then called “chubby” sizes, and couldn’t shop just anywhere for my clothes like my friends could. This fed into my fear of being different, a mortal sin at 13. My early development was not celebrated, though I do remember my wonderful Grandma telling her friends WHILE I WAS IN THE ROOM about me starting my period when I was just 11 years old. Holy mortification.

My body betrayed me each month with monsoon level periods and debilitating cramps to the point of passing out in school and worrying every minute that my pants would show the bloody gushing coming from between my legs. I felt like the only girl experiencing this, though of course that couldn’t have been true.

When I was in my early teens, a man-friend of my Dad’s looked me up and down, and then said to him “She’d be kinda pretty if she wasn’t so fat.” In my memory, dad laughed rather than defended me. 

I saw myself as fat from puberty on, and when I look back at photos of my younger self, it’s absurd how much energy and validity I gave to that belief. In high school I weighed about 150 pounds, and sported a 38D.

There were glimmers of hope for me. When I met my husband in 1980, as a freshman in college, I gave him two caveats to our relationship. 

1. Jealousy is not allowed (having been traumatized by my step-father’s jealousy of my mom, and his resulting abuse) and

2. Don’t ever tell me I need to lose weight.

Somehow, the woman I was becoming was able to draw a boundary around the body shame I allowed others to inflict on me. That didn’t save me from self-shaming, clearly.

In 1983 I gave birth to my beautiful daughter, Megan and my amazing son Keith in 1986. The pregnancy weight did not disappear and that’s when “diet culture” grabbed ahold of me and did not let go until I was in my late 50’s.

I was fat, and it was not okay.

There are thousands of tiny moments that flash into view when I think about it. Upon seeing a photo of myself – repulsion. My body and its size was a constant point of consternation. Summers were worse, because of bathing suits and overall less clothing to cover me up. 

What did people see when they looked at me? Did they see a young woman struggling to accept the body she was given? Did they see my pretty face but then dismiss me because my body was too big? Did they see me at all? Could they possibly respect me since I didn’t respect myself?

From puberty to menopause, I gave copious amounts of energy to my weight and the idea that there was simply too much of it. I tried nearly every diet. I found vast reserves of discipline within me to stick to the food plans. I lost weight, and once the extreme eating became unsustainable, I gained every pound back – plus more.

This is typical diet culture and the cyclical certainty of it failing. Millions of dollars are made every day in the highly profitable business spouting the message that women are not good enough as they are. The fact that nothing really works perpetuates the profits, not to mention the revolving door of diet success followed by emotional trauma when it doesn’t last.

I am not good enough because I am not skinny enough.

The shame of failing in this one part of my otherwise successful life was often debilitating. I just could not figure this thing out.

Thankfully, after years of deep inner work, I began to feel differently. I became grateful for the work my body does for me every day. I birthed two healthy children. I move about freely in the world with two legs and arms and hands and a healthy brain. My body sustained me through debilitating menstruation, and viral meningitis. Even with the extra weight, I was relatively healthy.

Menopause brought more changes. As I crossed into my 50’s I started to think about how to live peacefully with my thick waist and the fifty pounds I’d held onto for decades. I started to realize that I was more than my fatness – I was powerful and my presence was valuable to others as I served them with my gifts and talents.

Nobody else really seemed to care about my body shape, and perhaps I became more aware of this phenomenon after I started hiring photographers for photoshoots for my business website. The “me” that was reflected in the work of multiple creative photographers often shocked me. I saw myself from an entirely different perspective.

In my 60’s, I forgot about myself entirely – as all my focus went into the care of my mom. This happens to caregivers. It’s not a great idea to neglect our own health and well-being even though I’ve since learned how often it happens.

After mom passed on April 6, 2024, I was deeply grieving and all my health issues came rushing forward. My heart was breaking and regularly racing. I felt weird. I was always tired, and napping! Not like me at all. I had “spells” where I felt dizzy and ungrounded. I chalked this up to the grief process.

In the fall of 2024, I finally started to feel more normal and my energy levels began to return. My husband and I started a regular hiking and walking routine. We were paying more attention to our nutrition. In this era, it wasn’t about the way I looked. I just wanted to feel better!

I had released about 15 pounds by the time November rolled around. I was confident I was getting healthier, when I had a TIA (mini stroke). This episode led me to change doctors, resulting in a series of medical testing to respond to the symptoms I was having.

In February, I was diagnosed with Diabetes. My doctor recommended medication to completely reverse my levels back to a healthy marker. The effects of these medications include weight loss. 

Now when people see me, they see 30 less pounds. I’m still me, ironically. I’m still hiking and eating intentionally. I’m as confident as ever in my roles as mother, wife, grandmother, and artist – entering my wisdom sharing years as a crone. I care less about what anyone thinks of my looks or the art that I make. 

I know I came to earth to carry the load I’ve received since birth, and that I came equipped to do the deep inner work it takes to heal myself and assist others in their healing journey.

I am finally, irrevocably enough.