I remember the very first moment I became aware that I was “FAT.” I was six years old. We were lined up for recess when Chelsie Herman—yes, I still remember her name, maybe because of her bright purple pants or maybe because she didn’t invite me to her seventh birthday party, saying there wouldn’t be “room”—showed up in a pair of jeans that glowed like my Lisa Frank lunch box. I had never seen jeans like that before, and instantly, I knew I had to have them. When my mom picked me up from school that day, the first words out of my mouth were, “Can I have a pair of purple jeans, PLEEEEAASEE?”
I can’t remember exactly how long after that it happened, but I do remember the first time I found myself crying alone in a Limited Too dressing room. I was six, maybe seven, and if I had a dollar for every time I’ve cried alone in dressing rooms since then, I could buy more than a few pairs of jeans. They had the purple jeans, and my mom was more than willing to buy them for me, but standing there, looking in the mirror, I didn’t understand why they didn’t have any bigger sizes. This was the first time I remember hating myself—but it would not be the last.
Over the next twenty-something years, this new, crushing self-hate became a familiar companion. I was the “fat girl” who hated herself. Boys laughed when they found out I had crushes. Cute or trendy clothes were mostly off-limits—the only options in my size were matronly, black, and clearly meant for women ten times my age. When I did manage to find something current, it was usually a hoodie. I wore that hoodie with my sleeves pulled over my hands, even in the scorching Georgia summers, thinking it was better to nearly pass out than let someone see my “repulsive” body.
I missed out on shared experiences with friends, from swapping clothes to cheering on the sidelines of high school. Cheerleading uniforms weren’t made for me. I had to use a men’s T-shirt for eighth-grade spring break airbrush projects in Panama City. I even tried maternity clothes, hoping they’d fit better. There was nowhere and no one to turn to, no guidance or support. I was ashamed. I felt completely alone. And, if I’m being brutally honest… I was lucky to have made it out alive.
My drive to become a plus-size blogger comes from those twenty years of feeling isolated and miserable. Puberty was brutal. Dating in high school and college felt impossible when no one looked like me or told me it was going to be okay. There were no women with stretch marks rocking crop tops, no plus-size girls with boyfriends in magazines, no one showing me that I could be beautiful, loved, and worthy. My parents tried to reassure me—but what teenager believes that? It took me years to understand that my struggles were shared by girls and women everywhere, and that a movement—a revolution—was beginning to change the narrative.
The light at the end of my tunnel came in the form of a hashtag: #bodypositivity. Suddenly, I saw women who looked like me—happy, successful, and confident—living full lives while wearing cute, trendy clothes. And in that moment, I knew my story had come full circle.
I hesitated at first, letting the old voices of doubt and fear creep in. I remembered the boy in middle school telling me he’d never date me because I was fat. My sophomore homecoming date who recoiled at my “girdle” while slow dancing. The strangers in traffic who shouted cruel names as they passed me. But I realized that none of that mattered if I could save even one little girl from the pain I had felt—the crying alone in dressing rooms, the self-starvation, the relentless self-hate.
A recent experience at Target reminded me why I do what I do. My mom and I were shopping for a bralette to take to the beach. The dressing rooms were closed due to COVID, so I tried on the bralette over my tank top in the underwear section. I hadn’t noticed anyone watching, until I saw a shy, teenage-looking girl emerge from the racks. She smiled and said she wanted to buy the same bra because it looked good on me. Together, we walked up to the register—two plus-size girls, heads held high, bralettes in hand. I was overwhelmed with joy. This—helping others feel seen, confident, and beautiful—is exactly why I endured all those years of struggle.
I was fortunate enough to find self-love and confidence through the #bodypositive bloggers who came before me, but I know where there has been trauma, healing is always needed. My healing now comes from lifting others out of the trenches of diet culture, sharing my love and confidence until they can carry it for themselves.
We are all worthy. We are all beautiful. And yes—we can all be fly as hell.
