Category Archives: Body Confidence

Fatass (A-Z Challenge)

One evening about three years ago, I left my apartment in the Haight in San Francisco to go meet some friends for dinner (or maybe it was just wine? Lol it was usually just wine.) at their place, which was about a three minute walk away. I reached a crosswalk at a four-way stop sign intersection, where there was a white pickup truck stopped across the street. I began crossing the street, and the truck suddenly lunged forward; I thought it was going to kill me. I jumped back, shaken and panicked, the truck stopped about a foot away from me. The driver, a white dude around age 30, stared at me angrily, as if it were my fault that he’d almost run me over. Still shaken, I yelled something along the lines of, “You almost killed me, you asshole!” He revved his engine and sped past me, yelling out the window, “Watch where you’re going, you fatass!”

I stood stunned in the intersection for about five seconds, and then I started walking–and crying.

I cried all the way to my friends’ apartment–heaving, sweaty sobs that wouldn’t let up despite all efforts to control myself. I think I frightened every hipster in Cole Valley as I staggered unsteadily down Cole street, but through a combination of muscle memory and luck I somehow managed to make it to my friends’ place and rang the doorbell. They buzzed me up, where I immediately collapsed on the couch, wailing and saying I wished I was dead. And in that moment, I truly meant it. I wanted to die, because some asshole in a pickup truck almost killed me, and, more importantly, called me a fatass. Let that sink in. A dude called me fat, so I wanted to die. I almost wished he’d hit me.

My friends (a married couple, two of my best friends) were bewildered. They obviously agreed that the dude was an asshole, and they consoled me, calling me beautiful and a good person and all the great things friends say, and they were wonderful. I was so lucky that I was with them that night, because I honestly don’t know what would have happened if I’d been home alone. I don’t remember too much after finally calming down, presumably because I got really drunk. The next day I went to work as usual, if a bit hungover, (I was still at Google then) and tried to forget all about it.

I failed.

That moment occupied my thoughts for weeks, making me cry repeatedly. Even now, from time to time, I still replay that incident in my mind, and feel a huge combination of shame and anger. Ashamed that I was apparently fat enough to invite insult from a stranger who almost ran me over; angry that he’d insulted me; ashamed that I’d broken down like that and said such horrible (if true) things about suicidal ideation in front of my friends; angry that I let this guy get to me and couldn’t just brush it off. Sometimes I go weeks without thinking about it; sometimes months, but at least three to four times a year, I remember that guy and it’s like I’m standing in Cole Valley crying my heart out all over again.

Lately, I’ve been reading more and more about the body positivity movement. I think it’s a great thing, but it’s been really hard for me to internalize its messaging. The images that surround us and the expectations that are forced on us (“us” meaning mostly women, but men get this shit, too) regarding body shape, weight, and general beauty standards are out of control and pervasive. I get this. I also know, from my own experience and from #Science, that no matter how much I diet I will never be anything below a size 8, and that would be pushing it, so loving myself the way I am is the right way to go. I also know that I am not a repulsive-looking human to most people. I know that my physical health is good. I know that we are all perfect the way we are. I’ve read the blogs and watched the vlogs and am a regular commenter on feminist sites to the chagrin of bros everywhere. I know that I will be happier if I can let go of my body issues, eat well and exercise, and just let my body be what it is. I know that this will be a wonderful thing.

So why, three years later, am I still so upset about what one asshole with sub-par driving skills had to say about my body that I let it screw with my head–and my eating habits? Why does the word “fatass” still fill me with self-loathing and the urge to throw up or binge? Why do I sometimes conjure up an image of his face (though I never really got a good look at him; my subconscious has filled in the details, I guess) in my head and feel so much rage that I imagine inflicting serious physical harm on him? Seriously, I’m not kidding. I fantasize about punching him in the head, kicking him in the balls, stabbing him in the chest with a knife, shooting him between the eyes with a gun. I hate this stranger so much because he made (who am I kidding, he still makes) it easier for me to hate myself, and then I give into his words and hate myself some more. I call myself a “fatass,” and not in an affectionate, self-deprecating way. I look in the mirror at my thighs and my stomach (and this is after losing some weight over the past few years, ironically!) and cry at how much of me there is.

There are many reasons why I do this, I suppose: society is a bitch, my depression and anxiety are shitty, being a perfectionist is the worst, a history of hearing fat-phobic and sexist comments from people (men and women, but in my case especially men) my whole life has not helped. I also carry guilt for having, thinking, and once or twice even expressing similar sentiments about fat people in the past. What right do I have to let go of my feelings about this one-time incident when I’ve thought equally mean things about other people, even if it was years ago?

I wish I could overcome these barriers to self-love, but where I stand right now, even with all the reading and self-educating and therapy and life changes that I have experienced in the past three years, it is still really fucking hard. Some days, it feels impossible. For every time I eat a piece of cake and don’t care, there are four instances when I cry out of guilt over eating a piece of bread. The bad days still far outnumber the good days.

So, you may be thinking, what the fuck is even the point of this post, Jackie? Just to depress us? No. I think the point is to acknowledge, in writing, where I am and who I am right now in the “journey” of self-love. I am a girl who is still thinks that being fat is the worst thing I could be. I am a girl who sometimes eats cake and doesn’t care. I am a girl who sometimes cuts carbs and feels great about it. I am a girl who reads body positivity blogs and loves the shit out of them. I am a girl who looks in the mirror and hates herself. I am a girl who puts on my favorite black dress and thinks back to that asshole on in the white pickup truck and thinks, “He wishes he could get a piece of this fat ass!” I am the girl who still imagines punching that asshole in the stomach.

Maybe by talking about this and telling you all that I want to punch him in the stomach, I’ll be able to let some of that anger go. I don’t know; we’ll see if it works.

think, I hope, I want that my progress to date will be enough for now. I know that when I die, no one is going to give a shit about the size on my pants, or what I weighed, or whether people thought I was hot or not. No graveyard ever sports headstones reading, “She died thin!”

I will try to remember that. I will try to remember that I am enough. I hope you remember that, too.


I’d love to hear your thoughts on this post in the comments. xo

April A-Z: Thoughts on Boobs


Seriously though, I have some thoughts on boobs, in particular because I have a pair of them myself. You WILL find them enlightening, OR ELSE.

  • Boobs are great. Boobs really don’t get enough credit other than as, you know, a turn-on for (mostly) straight dudes in Western culture. Sure, many humans find them sexually appealing, and that’s wonderful, but for a good number of us they also were our primary food source for, like, the first 1-3 years of our lives! That’s INSANE. Like, women can literally just feed their kids from their own bodies in many cases! FUCKING WOW! They also give nice shape to dresses, and if you wear the right bra you can sometimes store stuff in them, like IDs and cash and full-sized margaritas. Very useful.
  • Boobs are terrible. As a 36H sized person, sometimes boobs SUCK. Really big ones can get in the way of things like crossing your arms, wearing certain clothes, walking down the street without hearing uninvited gross commentary, and not having back and shoulder pain. Small boobs often provoke teasing because people are shitheads, and ones that are in some way prevented from or incapable of feeding children as described in the first bullet point are often shamed (or their owners are). And when they ARE able to feed children, their owners are shamed for doing this in public, because alsdjgnpwoe[awh]e9faw #ragetyping. Boobs are also the fixation of some really weird (and thankfully unsuccessful) politicians who are desperately afraid that someone might see a woman’s nipple in public and, I dunno, die or something? They can also get cancer, which is awful and scary and a big problem 😦
  • Boobs are not a big deal. People should get over boobs because they are just a normal part of women’s (and some men’s which is cool) bodies, and bodies are normal and cool. So we should chill, and definitely not read click bait-y blog posts about them.
  • Boobs are a huge deal. Due to aforementioned awesomeness and terribleness of them. You should read and share my click bait-y blog post about them.
  • Implants and reductions and mastectomies are fine. Do what you want to or need to do with your boobs to make yourself feel better and/or treat serious illness because it’s your body and who gives a shit.
  • You should pay no attention to anyone else’s opinion on your boobs in particular or boobs in general…
  • …Except my opinion. My thoughts are the best and only useful thoughts on your boobs in particular (I think they’re GREAT) and boobs in general (I think they’re GREAT and TERRIBLE for the above-mentioned reasons).

In closing, I will only add:



Like boobs or this post? Please drop a line below!

Shame (Part I)

Disclaimer: this post is not about the film “Shame” starring Michael Fassbender.  I have not seen this film, but am assured by many that it is great, and also that you get to see Michael Fassbender naked in it, so I understand if you got excited upon reading the title of this blog post and are now intensely disappointed.  Sorry.

Brené Brown, a researcher/therapist/speaker type person who specializes in shame and vulnerability, defines shame as the sense that we are not worthy of love or belonging because we are deeply flawed.  This is a definition of shame that I am familiar with after 2 years in therapy, but only recently have I truly understood this definition in my heart and soul and come to grips with the extent to which shame has shaped my life.

Some of my earliest recollections are of feeling ashamed, especially regarding my body.  When you’re a young girl who, ahem, develops early, everyone (and I mean EVERYONE) in your life feels the need to comment on your body, from fellow students to teachers (oh, the skeezy male teachers, how I DON’T miss you), relatives, and strangers on the street.  Now, I’m not trying to be all “woe is me!” because I had boobs at age 10 – ALL kids, especially girls, are shamed by others about their bodies at one point or another.  The point is that I, like most people, grew up with shame, and it still defines me – except now as an adult, my shame about my body has lessened (somewhat) and has been replaced by other shames…pieces of myself that I’m afraid to name out loud to my closest friends, family members, and therapists, much less to the internet at large.

And that’s too bad, because the way out of shame is vulnerability.  Being open and honest and risking failure or rejection or hatred or disgust – THAT is how to regain a sense of worthiness, of belonging.  That is how to overcome the limitations of shame.  Vulnerability is the light shining in the darkness, the sun revealed by a shifting cloud, the…other metaphor about light?  I dunno, insert one yourself, I’ve run out of metaphors because I only had one cup of coffee.

Here on this blog, I’ve shared a lot of myself, especially regarding my depression and anxiety and even body confidence.  But I still feel unworthy and like I don’t belong.  Why?  Because there’s so much more I could share, that part of me is DYING to share, but that I can’t bring myself to even whisper aloud.  I don’t have the courage yet.  There are secrets (not, like, “I murdered someone!” secrets, to be clear, but still, secrets) that I rarely, if ever, discuss with the most important people in my life because a primal part of me just KNOWS that if I talk about these things I will be rejected and banned from the human experience.  The universe will confirm what part of me has always known – that I am fundamentally and irreversibly wrong.

So basically I feel like a coward – another source of shame.  I’ve been vulnerable on this blog and in my personal life, but only about certain things, so I vulnerability-shame myself (#vulnerabilityshaming, let’s get it rolling peeps) to the point of paralysis.

So how do you overcome shame with vulnerability when you’re ashamed of your lack of vulnerability regarding your shame?

I’m not the therapist, I don’t effing know, but I’m going to give it a stab by posting this entry and being vulnerable to you, dear reader, about my lack of vulnerability.  I’m saying it out loud (well, out loud on the internet): In my own mind, I am a coward for not being vulnerable enough.  I don’t have the courage to say the things I really want to say.  I am a fraud.  Sorry.

So there it is – my entry on Shame: Part 1.  I don’t know if this will make any sense to anyone; it hardly makes sense to me.  I don’t when – or if – I will write a Part 2.  For now, I hope that this is enough, and I wish you all the ability to be vulnerable in the face of shame, because you are a worthwhile, lovable person.  You are enough.


I want the confidence to wear this outfit again

I’m visiting the folks and the dying dog in New Hampshire and found some old photo albums and had no choice but to share this picture:

What are those pants even?
What are those pants even?

I believe this was taken when I was about six or seven years old.  I’m seated in between my little brother, Bryan, and my younger cousin, who was always ten times better behaved than either of the two of us and who I probably resumed torturing the moment after this photo was taken (sorry, cuz).

Look at how happy I am!  Despite being mostly toothless, clad in the ugliest overalls of all time, and sporting some truly awful bangs, my younger self is OVERJOYED to be in this photo.  You can see the confidence oozing from every one of my pores that isn’t covered with your grandmother’s wallpaper in pants form.

Nowadays, however, I HATE being photographed.  I avoid it whenever possible.  And even when there are no cameras in sight, I am constantly worried about my appearance.  Do I look fat?  Are my boobs hanging out?  Do I look too slutty, too conservative, too tired, haggard, old?  Most of my clothes are purchased with the intent to flatter my body and make it look as small and unassuming as possible – black pants or leggings with a neutral top is my uniform, and I stick to it without fail.

A little over a year ago, I joined a weight loss program and lost about 45 pounds from my highest weight ever.  I had to throw out a bunch of my clothes and get smaller ones, and people who saw me over this time period commented all the time on how much weight I’d lost.  Now, our culture teaches us that when we lose weight we’re supposed to be happier, lighter, and sexier.  You’ll want to wear bathing suits and tight jeans and men will fall at your feet and Jonathan from the Property Brothers will show up at your apartment with a ring AND a construction crew to retile your bathroom.  Most of all, though, you’ll be more confident.  Thinner = confident…er (not a word, yeah I know I want to be a writer WHAT OF IT?).

One year and forty-five pounds later, my confidence in my body has gone up approximately zero percent.  Today I was out shopping, and I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror as I was walking through Macy’s and I literally turned my head away from the mirror in disgust and made a grunting cavewoman sound.  My mother was with me and asked me what was wrong.  “I just saw myself in the mirror, that’s all,” I replied.  Used to this insanity, she sighed and we continued on to the shoe section.  But seriously, though, how screwed up is that?  How screwed up is it that so many women, of all sizes, engage in this self-hating behavior on a daily and hourly basis?

So what’s the answer?  I still want to lose more weight, mostly because my huge boobs hurt my back and shoulders, but I know now that I can’t derive confidence from the number on the scale or the tag in my jeans.  So if weight loss, the goal I’ve been chasing for years, can’t do it for me, what will?  How can I be this happy with myself again?  How do I get this little girl’s confidence back?

This picture was appropriately taken at a circus; still no teeth.
This picture was appropriately taken at a circus; still no teeth.

When I figure out the answer, I’ll let you know.