For as long as I can remember, my body and I have shared a relationship of discontent. Growing up, I was skinnier than the other kids and at five I was told I wasn't attractive and that I must put on some weight. But no matter how much I ate, I stayed thin for years until adolescence. Then I started putting on weight almost immediately. I remember feeling happy as I began to fill out. However, my joy didn't last long.
I was thirteen when I was first called fat. Friends and neighbours would make jokes on my big size. As I entered my late teens, I had completely lost confidence in my body and, subsequently, in myself. Having failed to live up to conventional beauty standards, I was convinced that if I wanted to be loved, I needed to offer more, doing anything to please everyone around.
I entered adulthood thinking I wasn't "enough"—an idea that was seeded not only by the fact that "skinny" is celebrated, but also by the language associated with accounts of losing weight—self-improvement, discipline—all virtues. Being fat quickly categorizes you as lazy and undisciplined. Consumed by thoughts of the way my body looked, I didn't notice the other ways my body needed attention. I failed to realize, for example, that my period was much heavier and more painful than ever before. Actually I developed a rare disease and later I had two surgeries.
I was always made to feel that my weight was the root of a lot of problems in my life; I have learnt this is not true. After a lot of self-reflection and some professional help, I realized I never learnt to like myself. While two decades of selfhatred cannot be undone overnight, I have taken first steps to acceptance.
I am now much lighter than before, in body and mind. There are days I find voices on social media saying I am too fat to be loved or to be worthy, but I am learning not to focus on that thought for long. As long as I like myself, just the way I am, opinions at the end of the day are just water off a duck's back.