A Mile In My Shoes

I approach through the sea of glares and side-eyes to meet my husband and his friends, and there you are, already assuming my lifestyle through your heartless eyes.

‘Eats too much.’

‘Doesn’t care about herself.’

‘Lazy.’

‘Repulsive.’

And if I asked, you couldn’t lie and say you don’t, because I see it in your eyes. I feel it in my soul. But with a strong facade I put on my brave smile and come to talk to you and the others, knowing we will never be friends.

I give my husband a hug and kiss through labored breaths, an unfortunate side effect of my physicality. To you, it’s just another reason to despise me, to judge me.

“Hello!” I say as cheerily as I can.

Each one of you greet me with a smile, but I see the condescension, pity, and disgust in yours.

When asked ‘what’s new with you?’, I unabashedly proclaim with a smile that I’m on a new diet, a new gimmick to hopefully shed a few pounds, to be healthier. I say that I’m not looking to be skinny, just healthier.

I talk about my new lo-carb, and my attempts at working out at home. I’ve even started attending yoga practices! A slow start on all fronts, but progress starts somewhere, right?

A few of my husband’s friends nod and say praises.

But not you.

I see your face buried within your device, ignoring me, thinking—what?—that I’m lying? That I’m a sham? To which I want to ask; what do I gain from lying?

Your approval?

It’s obvious I’ll never get it. Never had it. Never had a chance at receiving it. So I bury the hurt of your silent judgments, along with the judgments of many others, down below my soul, hoping in time they will die or be drowned by the positive aspects of my life and the support of those around me.

I know you won’t take the time to acknowledge my small victories or my steps to a better life, and you sure as hell won’t be there to lift me up when I stumble or fall. You won’t encourage me with kindness or sincerity.

That’s fine. I don’t need your words.

I may not be what you think I should be, but I am still a human being, and I shouldn’t feel ashamed for existing. I am more than the numbers on a scale and the size of my clothes. I am more than the body-fat percentage I have, or the stretch marks that line my skin. I am tired of the world measuring my worth to these arbitrary scales . . .

. . . And I refuse to let people like you dictate my worth anymore.ing here…