Finding Big, Beautiful Happiness

I'd say I have always been big, but that would be a lie. I haven't always been big; I remember comfortably pulling on a size 6 vest top, hip bones sticking out the bottom, walking out in public and being told repeatedly how fat I was. I wasn't always fat, but I was always unpopular (and ginger), and I suppose calling people fat is the easiest thing to do.

The bride is still happily married, despite her friend wearing a size 24 dress.

I've grown up in a world that tells me that everything about me is wrong, and I suppose after the reception I got for the last post I did, it felt like the right time to address that. Body positivity isn't a golden-ticket opportunity: it should be a human right. It should be normal for every man, woman and child to live their lives without having to worry about what everybody thinks about the amount of skin they have on their bodies, or the amount of hair, or how smooth or dark or wobbly or angular various parts of their anatomy appear to be.

In secondary school, I was tormented because I was fat, and actually I was a size 14 when I left at age 16. I was punched, I had clothes cut up when I was swimming, I had coins thrown at me (and then shoes when people realised I was collecting the money!), I had mean things written about me and I rarely made it from class to class without at least one push or negative comment. About the ratio of flesh to bone on my body. How ridiculous is that?

We loved Wicked, even if my butt did touch both sides of the chair.

I got my first stretch mark when I was probably about 16, too. I was showering at a friend's house and I saw one on my stomach as I stepped over the edge of the bath and caught sight of myself in the mirror. Oh god how I cried. The next year I went to college to study acting (left after three months, wasn't my thing) and in the changing rooms it became clear that even the smallest of girls had stretch marks because, guess what? People grow up and out and in all directions, and stretch marks are a normal part of most peoples' bodies. 

The two things that changed how I felt about my body, ultimately, were the blogging world and having children. Lady after lady sets up a blog, shows how amazing her rolls can look in all their glory wearing easily accessible and affordable clothes and oh my god, suddenly I'm normal. And then there are the experiences I have with my children and my groom-to-be. Is our laughter dampened because I'm fat? Do they love me any less? Does our picnic taste less great because I was fat when I ate it? Did that game we play suffer because I'm above a size 20? Do they miss out? No. Are they happy? Yes. So, when all is said and does, what the fuck does it matter if I'm fat? It's not about changing who you are, it's about learning to love it and flaunt it and make the most of it in all its of its glory.

My kids love their mama's squishy rolls, because there's more to cuddle up to!

I mean, really, since when are humans valued on the amount of skin on their bodies?