Weight: a word that not only has several definitions, but also has the power to give people a wide range of emotions, most of them being negative ones. The idea of and topic around weight is one we discuss often, yet at the same time never really talk about at all. 

I’m not afraid to say I’ve been overweight my entire life. I’m not afraid to admit I’ve used and still continue to use food as a coping mechanism for my anxiety and depression. And I’m also not afraid to reconcile with the fact that I’ve attempted to lose weight many times with little success. But what I’ve been afraid to open up with for awhile now is the fatphobia I’ve experienced while dating. 

Fatphobia is real, and those who say it’s not have either never experienced it or don’t want to admit they’ve experienced it. I’ve learned from a young age to never complain about the societal discrimination surrounding weight because we are given a simplistic explanation as to why being overweight or fat is worthy of discrimination. Just exercise. Just eat better. Stop being lazy. Yes, weight is something we do have a certain amount of control over, but it’s not as simple as “just lose weight.” Not to mention, there are plenty of people who physically can’t lose weight due to things like genetic dispositions, thyroid problems, PCOS, and medications.  

I’m a size 14, a size that has controlled my life for a few years now, a size I’ve tried to reduce several times. The size has come with compliments on my ass and thighs but has also made me have to sift through folded jeans to the very bottom of the pile. For most of my life, with regards to dating, I’ve felt like a pair of jeans at the bottom of the pile. Melodramatic, I know, but in all honesty, I didn’t really begin dating until freshman year of college. Much of this had to do with the way I was treated. Being bullied in middle school and high school for not only my personality but my physical appearance really put a wrench in my self-esteem. In eighth grade, I was rated the ugliest girl in the class of a list the boys made and sent to everyone. I laugh now at how ridiculous it was, but at the time, it caused me to be even more closed-off than I previously was. Up until college, I really believed nobody was actually attracted to me. I didn’t feel worthy of dating. 

I started meeting up with people from dating apps freshman year. With much of my adolescence sitting behind a screen, it was easy to talk to people online. I could say the right witty remark or the correct flirtatious emojis and meet up with a new person in a number of days. Honestly, I was kind of a pro on dating apps. I found it really easy to find people, easy to hold a conversation, and, most of all, I was satisfied with the validation I desperately wanted. I realized freshman year I was an object of desire, but what I didn’t realize at the time was that this isn’t necessarily a good thing. It’s nice to feel attractive, but I quickly came to the realization that it’s not fulfilling to put your self-worth into swipes. Admittedly, I was addicted to the instant gratification of it all, yet I’d find myself feeling completely numb after the adrenaline subsided. By the end of freshman year, I forced myself to delete them. 

The digital age of dating is not a specific issue relating to overweight people in particular. Many freshmen have their “hoe phase,” (which is just a patriarchal term used to describe causal sex and dating) so it’s not uncommon to be meeting a new person every weekend. But when I started using dating apps, I began to experience new anxieties because I’m overweight. A phenomenon that happens on Tinder in particular is men matching with you just to insult you and unmatch. Seems like a waste of time, right? Well, for some reason, this is what people do in their limited time on this Earth. One time, a guy matched with me just to call me fat. I think he was expecting me to be angry, but instead, I asked him why he matched with me just to insult me. Surprisingly, he replied and told me it was because he found it funny. I said he was a pathetic person, he proceeded to tell me my diet was pathetic, and he unmatched with me. This phenomenon isn’t just weight-related; I’ve known many girls who recounted stories of men matching with them to call them not only ugly and fat, but racial and misogynistic slurs. Many men feel entitled and have the power to exercise that entitlement behind a screen. 

I’m lucky to say I’ve never experienced this interaction in real life, but I have experienced another phenomenon of the opposite. Instead of insulting comments, I’ve gotten overwhelming reassurance that they preferred bigger women—that my body was their type, as if I should be so thankful they are rejecting the big bad beauty standard. Women would kill for your ass. I should be thankful I’m in 2021 because the Kardashians are sexy, right? So why do I feel so insecure? While I acknowledge curvier women are more appreciated, I can also point out the standard for curvy women are big boobs, ass, tiny waists, and flat stomachs. Not a stretch mark or roll in sight. No imperfections. 

I still grapple with the effects of the bullying and treatment I’ve received to this day, but I’m also tired of hating myself. I’m tired of others hating themselves for their weight. Overweight people deserve love like everyone else; we deserve fulfilling relationships. We need to talk about weight in neutrality, not disgust. It’s more than all bodies are beautiful; it's that all bodies are worthy of respect. Bodies are natural, and bodies are significant no matter what they look like. That’s the mindset I’m trying to put myself in, and it’s what I recommend that everybody should do, big or small. The body is so much more than its physical appearance, and it’s time we start treating it that way.