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Abstract

e waist is a few inches narrower?One morning, I take a picture of myself in the bathroom mirror. I have learned the joy of sharing photos of my body, at 38 I feel too old for the word ‘finsta,’ but here we are. I am wearing one of my new pairs of underwear, feeling the unique boost of brand new, pretty underthings. Feminist is stretched across my hip, the italic letters curved over the soft flesh of my belly.<figure id="c594"><img src="https://cdn-images-1.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:800/1*bGof0gNa6B3aPtHUYR3mlg.jpeg"><figcaption>Photo by author</figcaption></figure>I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at this picture for a long time. In the quiet morning light, my eyes trace the curving underside of my stomach, the angle of my belly.I think I like it. This is the first time I have considered putting a photo of my body on my public pages. The lack of embarrassment and disgust is unexpected and startling, like breaking through decades-old chains. I don’t post the photo, but I can’t stop thinking about it for a long time.A few weeks later, my boyfriend takes a photograph of me on our bed. Eyes closed, I am completely relaxed. The soft flesh of my belly pools onto the mattress. At first glance, I feel the shame over having a body the world has told me is wrong. I think I won’t share this photo with anybody, that it is too unflattering.But I make myself keep looking.There is something intimate and mesmerizing about the expanse of my flesh. M

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y stomach is a pillow, an invitation to something safe and warm, it looks pliable, like a medium waiting for art.The longer I look at it, the more entranced I become. These curves and valleys are not what I grew up aspiring to, but they are mine. I see myself without words, without expectations, and I am finding new words all the time. Like lava, a molasses-slow flow from within, acceptance hardens and builds a new island of self-love.<figure id="53d3"><img src="https://cdn-images-1.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:800/1*zQeM5eFjvdz3mNy8sO6--A.jpeg"><figcaption>Photo provided by author</figcaption></figure>This summer, I bought my first two-piece swimsuit. This summer, my stomach saw sunlight for the first time as I built sandcastles and waded without thinking about shorts or coverups. I embraced the shape I have, I asked my boyfriend to take pictures of my beach body. I looked at them later, and found pure joy, on a foundation of letting go.A friend once described fat bodies as just a shape people can have. Bodies come in different sizes, they are not all meant to have the same shape. This is the shape I have. These are my curves and my valleys, inviting and ripe for exploration.Embracing a shape that society has told us for years is decidedly not okay, it’s not an easy thing. It’s full of doubt and fear and defiance. It’s also full of growth and love and freedom, feelings so shiny and blinding that words aren’t enough. This is the shape I have, and that is okay.</article></body>

The Shape I Have

These are my curves and my valleys, the textures my body holds

Wide hips. Thunder thighs. A little extra. Curvy. Obese. Fluffy. Heavy. Morbidly obese. Overweight. BBW. Thicc. Plus sized. Fat.

After 30 years of living in this body, I have heard all of the words for the shape I have. I have heard all of the words for what the world thinks of it.

Lazy. Unhealthy. Disgusting. Pig. Slob. Delusional. Unwanted. Unlovable.

Words applied to the body I live in are inherently applied to my personhood. It’s ironic, how small they make me feel inside when my vessel is so large. When I squeeze into booths made for normal bodies, when I can’t find my size in normal stores, the message is clear. I am taking up too much space.

Am I too much, too big?

In the sweltering summer, I sit on the couch in shorts and a tank top. My hand rests on my thigh and I press my fingers into the soft hillock of chub, close to the spot where my body meets my leg. I’ve never felt this before, it feels different, velvety and pliable. I kneed it gently and marvel at all of the textures my body holds.

Some days, I stare in the mirror for a long time. Am I too much, too big? Am I really taking up that much more room than another woman whose waist is a few inches narrower?

One morning, I take a picture of myself in the bathroom mirror. I have learned the joy of sharing photos of my body, at 38 I feel too old for the word ‘finsta,’ but here we are. I am wearing one of my new pairs of underwear, feeling the unique boost of brand new, pretty underthings. Feminist is stretched across my hip, the italic letters curved over the soft flesh of my belly.

I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at this picture for a long time. In the quiet morning light, my eyes trace the curving underside of my stomach, the angle of my belly.

I think I like it. This is the first time I have considered putting a photo of my body on my public pages. The lack of embarrassment and disgust is unexpected and startling, like breaking through decades-old chains. I don’t post the photo, but I can’t stop thinking about it for a long time.

A few weeks later, my boyfriend takes a photograph of me on our bed. Eyes closed, I am completely relaxed. The soft flesh of my belly pools onto the mattress. At first glance, I feel the shame over having a body the world has told me is wrong. I think I won’t share this photo with anybody, that it is too unflattering.

But I make myself keep looking.

There is something intimate and mesmerizing about the expanse of my flesh. My stomach is a pillow, an invitation to something safe and warm, it looks pliable, like a medium waiting for art.

The longer I look at it, the more entranced I become. These curves and valleys are not what I grew up aspiring to, but they are mine. I see myself without words, without expectations, and I am finding new words all the time. Like lava, a molasses-slow flow from within, acceptance hardens and builds a new island of self-love.

This summer, I bought my first two-piece swimsuit. This summer, my stomach saw sunlight for the first time as I built sandcastles and waded without thinking about shorts or coverups. I embraced the shape I have, I asked my boyfriend to take pictures of my beach body. I looked at them later, and found pure joy, on a foundation of letting go.

A friend once described fat bodies as just a shape people can have. Bodies come in different sizes, they are not all meant to have the same shape. This is the shape I have. These are my curves and my valleys, inviting and ripe for exploration.

Embracing a shape that society has told us for years is decidedly not okay, it’s not an easy thing. It’s full of doubt and fear and defiance. It’s also full of growth and love and freedom, feelings so shiny and blinding that words aren’t enough. This is the shape I have, and that is okay.