I was sorting the pile of new fat pendants into a box with compartments to divide each colour when my mother-in-law came in with her friend and I showed them how many necklaces I was preparing to sell. They took a closer look, marveling at all the colours and how shiny the mirror one was.
“Does it say something? What does it say?”
“It says FAT!”
Ordinarily I would jump in to explain defensively, just why I had the audacity to sell necklaces with THAT WORD cut out of pretty colours in fancy letters; however I just smiled and nodded. I’m a bit tired of feeling sheepish about fat and that’s why I made these necklaces, but I realise how awkward I still feel about the F word outside my community. It’s just a word, right? No it’s not just a word. It’s an identity. It’s my body. It’s a rebellion. It’s my attitude. I don’t want to feel defensive about this part of me but it’s hard when I’ve been taught that this word, this embodiment, is so taboo.
It’s a reminder that fat acceptance, or self acceptance, isn’t a destination. It’s lots of little steps, it’s sitting down for a while to reflect on how far I’ve come, and it’s the chub rub between my thighs from making it to this point.