Mamafierce | body positive
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I think it’s safe to say most women remember the first time they saw Dove’s first ad campaign featuring “real women”–non-models of different skin-tones and shapes standing proudly in white bras and panties. I particularly remember this so vividly for one reason. It was jarring as fuck. It was ground-breaking. Seeing normal-looking women endorse products your normal-looking ass has been using for a while suddenly made you feel like you were part of the conversation rather than just being talked at.

dove curves ad

Sure, the body above wasn’t and isn’t my body, but it was closer to it than anything I had ever seen in mass media. It fulfilled a need I didn’t even know I had, problematic firm-thigh beauty standard reinforcement aside. I didn’t know representation mattered until I got a taste for it. And yet, there was more to come from Dove.

The brand seemed to be pulling back the curtain on perceptions of beauty with this ad and displaying a solid commitment to challenging said perceptions with their self-esteem campaign and educational resources for young girls. This was exciting stuff. It almost made some of us forget that their inclusivity in terms of models had completely failed to progress. That the “real curves” they were finally starting to shed light upon weren’t getting much more real. Their fattest models were acceptably fat. Their oldest models had acceptably aged. All of their models were able-bodied. We were letting this slide until it all suddenly went pear-shaped.

Pear-shaped fucking bottles, that is.

Thank god they reminded us of this epic resting upon one’s laurels by giving us these wtf-worthy goddamn bottles. I got the message loud and clear. “Hey yeah, about that representation thing, ummm, like did you know that your body shape already exists in the world around you and can be seen literally everywhere? Like this VW Bug or these cotton balls or this Gloworm doll. So really, you don’t need us to cast models who look like you. You are all around you! So…ok byeeeeeeeee.”

This was the shriveled cherry atop the sad sundae of mediocrity Dove advertising had now become. And this wasn’t because they devolved before this. They just failed to keep the momentum going. BOPO as a movement is speaking to more people and resonating with more groups than ever before. Dove’s failure to take that opportunity, to see there could possibly be less risk than ever before in giving visibility to those who desperately need it, produced this.

THIS is not what we want. The world knows we come in all shapes and sizes. What they don’t know, because they don’t see it, is that we simply exist in our bodies without being at war with them. All. The damn. Time. We are not constantly in radical acceptance mode of our own bodies. We are not spending all our mental energy deprogramming ourselves of diet culture. We’re not all on weigh-loss journeys or vowing to start one on Monday. We’re not even constantly dealing with fatphobia. Regularly, sure. But not constantly.

We do not personify a war within or a war with society. We’re just fucking here.

We’re doing the things. We’re having careers. We’re building families. We’re brunching, We’re opening up and saying ahh at the dentist. We live everyday fucking lives with many moments completely devoid of “fat struggle.” Yet that is exactly what were a reduced to and it’s tired. Overcoming obstacles is tired. Show us being. Keep your bottles.

blush2Muh colors are blush and bashful. Oh Shelby from Steel Magnolias. One of my first style icons. And what is more dreamy than a big pink skirt like this little baby from Eloquii? I remember the first skirt I ever wore as an adult was pink because I figured if I was going to “woman” I was gonna go balls deep. But of course I wore that pink maxi skirt with a giant Marilyn Manson t-shirt but, you know. Baby steps.

blush1So I know the sunglasses kinda ruin the whole princess act, just when I had it kicked into high gear with silver shoes and errythang. But I couldn’t wait to wear these since I worked so hard to find Fendi knockoffs on eBay for $13. Obsessed. Seriously considered digging up my hidden credit card to buy a real pair for $550. Seriously.

blush3Also, yes that is my armpit hair in full glory. It’s a legit situation, guys. It is full grown and puts my husband’s to shame. I love it. You may have seen an article or two about how hairy female armpits are officially a trend. Way to miss the point entirely, Internet. The trend is women realizing that the world doesn’t come to a grinding halt when they stop trying to meet certain visual expectations. It’s a small army of brave women daring to be different and then more women feeling safe enough to do it, too. It’s some of us waking up and realizing, “wait, my body my choice WAT OMG THAT’S AWESOME.” And that’s literally how it happened to me. It dawned on me that I always hated shaving my pits and that I actually like how hairy armpits look and POOF I am liberated from the bondage of Biq. Me and my Buckwheats are very happy together.

beforeandafterWhen I think of plus-size role models or icons, I always think back to Roseanne. She was maybe the first fat woman I remember seeing on TV who had most of the shit woman are supposed to want–a husband, kids, a house, a job. She had friends, was well liked and was even hit on by strangers occasionally, proving that she wasn’t the leper I felt all fat women were considered to be. Fast forward 20 years, the world knows gorgeous and fabulous fashion icons like Gabi Gregg and Tess Holliday who not only refuse to hide their bodies, but dare to be noticed for their curves. We’ve come a long way with body diversity and positivity and women like this have made it easier for me to be myself, without a doubt.

So why am I losing weight?

The picture on the left is me over 50 pounds ago. I’m wearing a neon mixed print dress to my homie’s wedding. Obviously, I’m over the whole hiding my body thing. I had been wearing “look at me, I’m fat-bulous” clothes for quite some time, ever since I started working retail in women’s fashion when I was 20. I ditched t-shirts and cargo pants and started showing my arms, which was something I had refused to do since junior high. Embracing my body didn’t come from giving up on being thin because I never really dared to hope for that. I witnessed the women around me hate on their bodies and battle their bulge all my life. I watched my beautiful mother constantly dieting and resolving to lose the weight only to fail over and over again. So not only did I think I would surely fail as well, being thin never seemed worthy of this “torture,” this losing war we waged against ourselves. I was ready to wave my white flag and go on with my life in the body I was given.

Never, EVER will I regret learning to love my body, even as it climbed up to 238 pounds on a 5’1” frame. I found love in this body. I graduated college in this body. I took this body to London and bought it some clothes (thanks, French Connection). I started my career in this body. I got married in this body in a gorgeous size 22 wedding dress. The only thing I was ever terrified to do in this body was have a baby.


Big beautiful bride.

Never mind my chronic back problems, knee aches, the removal of my diseased gallbladder and the development of fatty liver, which caused excruciating gastrointestinal distress that made me pass out on many occasions. The idea of getting pregnant and gaining what I thought was the standard 60 pounds, which would get me dangerously close to the 300-pound mark, was what really had me scared. That’s how warped my definition of “health” was. It was some alarming number on a scale and not actual facts about how my body was functioning. Or failing.

Little did I know, my sickness wasn’t just physical–it was mental. I couldn’t stop eating. No matter how hard I tried.

Not all fat people have a “problem” with food, but I sure do. What I don’t have is a “weight problem.” Weight is simply a symptom of a bigger disease, in my case. I used food like an alcoholic uses booze–in copious amounts, at any time of day, for no particular reason, to the detriment of my physical, emotional and spiritual health. Once I realized how much I was letting food rule my life, I was able to accept help. This help has resulted in weight loss and weight loss has cured my health problems. But losing weight is not the goal itself. Not being a numbed-out slave to food and not killing myself is. And however my body changes while I become this person, who has a sane relationship with food, is as far as I am concerned, none of my business.

So I don’t care about being “fat.” Not anymore.


Me. Not curring.

People have asked me what my goal weight is and I’ve laughed and said “I just don’t want to be a fat person anymore.” These were true words when I spoke them. I have been fed up with the label, that scarlet F letter painted on my chest my entire life. Only recently through my own blogging and following other body positive bloggers and their supremely inspirational examples of self acceptance have I realized that a big chunk (pun intended) of what I hate about being fat has to do with other fucking people. From fat shaming to the segregation of size, these are not problems of my doing. This is oppression. And it helps no one. Trust me. If shame was ever an effective motivational tool, I would have put down the fork a long time ago because I’ve been dealt my fair share.

I love my body but my body is changing. This is a tricky spot I find myself in. It is hard to not get hung up on weight when all you are trying to do is be healthy and all everyone ever tells you is that health depends on weight. It’s just not that simple. I am now 187 pounds and a size 16. I can swim 20 laps. I complete 5Ks. I give my 2-year-old pony rides in the living room and chase him around playgrounds. I do not have diabetes, high blood pressure or high cholesterol. And my fatty liver? That’s gone. I. Am. Healthy. I have peace around my food. This is my body for today and I am celebrating it. Every pound, inch, dimple and stretch mark. We all deserve that.