The bathroom scale in my childhood home had two settings: brutal honesty and public humiliation. Every morning from the time I was twelve years old, my mother would call out the numbers to my father, who would respond with either a grunt of disapproval or suggestions about smaller breakfast portions. By the time I was sixteen, I had learned to read the disappointment in their faces before they even opened their mouths.<\/p>\n
My name is Carly Michelle Santos, and I\u2019ve spent thirty-two years navigating a world that has very strong opinions about bodies like mine. Not the kind of \u201ccurvy\u201d that gets celebrated in body-positive Instagram posts or the kind of \u201cplus-size\u201d that gets featured in fashion magazines. I\u2019m the kind of fat that makes people feel entitled to comment on my grocery cart contents, the kind that provokes whispered conversations about diabetes and heart disease from strangers who know nothing about my health.<\/p>\n
I\u2019m the kind of fat that learned early to apologize for existing.<\/p>\n
Growing up, I perfected the art of making myself smaller in every way possible. I sat in the back row of every classroom, chose oversized clothes that would hide my shape, and developed an encyclopedic knowledge of which restaurant booths I could fit into and which ones would require me to pretend I preferred standing. I learned to laugh along when people made jokes about my size, to agree enthusiastically when someone suggested we take the stairs instead of the elevator, and to always, always offer to take the middle seat in the back of the car where my size wouldn\u2019t inconvenience anyone else.<\/p>\n
By college, I had mastered the art of pre-emptive accommodation. Before anyone could comment on my size or suggest I might be uncomfortable, I would offer solutions that made everyone else comfortable at my expense. I\u2019d volunteer to give up my seat on crowded buses, suggest we meet at restaurants where I knew the seating would work for everyone, and develop an elaborate system of arriving early to events so I could scope out the least obtrusive place to position myself.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re so thoughtful,\u201d people would say when I offered to take the cramped corner table or give up my spot in line. \u201cYou\u2019re always thinking of others.\u201d<\/p>\n
What they didn\u2019t realize was that my thoughtfulness was actually a survival strategy, a way of avoiding the shame and humiliation that came from being perceived as an inconvenience.<\/p>\n
The pattern followed me into my professional life. As a marketing coordinator for a mid-sized consulting firm, I was good at my job\u2014creative, organized, and skilled at managing client relationships. But I was also the person who never spoke up in meetings when the conference room was too crowded, who volunteered to work from home during important client visits so there would be more space around the presentation table, and who always declined invitations to company events that involved physical activities or spaces where my size might be noticeable.<\/p>\n
\u201cCarly\u2019s so accommodating,\u201d my boss would say. \u201cShe never complains about anything.\u201d<\/p>\n
That was true. I didn\u2019t complain because I\u2019d learned that complaining about things related to my size was seen as whining, as making excuses, as being difficult. Better to quietly manage my own discomfort than to risk being labeled as someone who expected special treatment.<\/p>\n
The irony was that I wasn\u2019t asking for special treatment\u2014I was asking for basic human dignity. The right to exist in public spaces without commentary. The right to travel, eat, and socialize without constantly managing other people\u2019s comfort with my body. The right to take up the space I needed without apologizing for it.<\/p>\n
It took me thirty years to understand the difference.<\/p>\n
The shift began two years ago when I met Matt Rodriguez at a coffee shop downtown. I was sitting alone at a table for four, having unconsciously chosen the largest available space so I wouldn\u2019t feel cramped, when he approached and asked if he could share the table. It was busy, every other seat was taken, and I automatically started to gather my things to give him the whole table.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou don\u2019t have to move,\u201d he said, settling into the chair across from me with his laptop. \u201cI just need to answer some emails before my next meeting.\u201d<\/p>\n
For the next hour, he worked quietly across from me while I reviewed presentation materials for a client meeting. When he packed up to leave, he smiled and said, \u201cThanks for sharing your table. I hope your presentation goes well.\u201d<\/p>\n
Not \u201cthanks for giving up your table\u201d or \u201csorry for bothering you.\u201d Thanks for sharing. As if my presence at the table was as legitimate as his, as if I had as much right to the space as anyone else.<\/p>\n
It was such a small thing, but it planted a seed that grew over the following months. When we started dating\u2014cautiously at first, because I was convinced he would eventually realize what he\u2019d gotten himself into\u2014Matt never made me feel like my size was something that needed to be managed or accommodated. He didn\u2019t suggest restaurants based on their seating arrangements, didn\u2019t offer to take the aisle seat on airplanes, didn\u2019t act like my comfort was less important than anyone else\u2019s.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy do you always try to make yourself smaller?\u201d he asked one evening after watching me contort myself into an impossibly small space on a crowded subway car.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou always fold yourself up like you\u2019re trying to disappear. You have as much right to space as anyone else.\u201d<\/p>\n
The concept was revolutionary and terrifying. I had spent so many years believing that my size gave me fewer rights to public spaces, fewer claims to comfort and accommodation, that the idea of taking up the space I needed felt selfish and demanding.<\/p>\n
But Matt\u2019s consistent message that I deserved to exist comfortably in the world began to change something fundamental in how I saw myself. When we traveled together, he would lift the armrest between airplane seats so I could lean against him, creating a bubble of intimacy and comfort that made me forget about the logistics of my body in confined spaces. When we went to restaurants, he would request the table that looked most comfortable for both of us, never making me feel like my needs were secondary.<\/p>\n
Most importantly, he never made me feel like loving me required him to pretend my size didn\u2019t exist. He saw my body as it was and loved me completely, without conditions or suggestions for improvement.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re beautiful,\u201d he would say, and I gradually learned to believe him.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou deserve to be comfortable,\u201d he would insist when I started to defer to others\u2019 needs before my own.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou belong here,\u201d he would remind me when I felt the familiar urge to make myself invisible in public spaces.<\/p>\n
For the first time in my adult life, I began to consider the possibility that my size didn\u2019t disqualify me from full participation in the world, that I might have the same rights to comfort and dignity as anyone else.<\/p>\n
The test of this new understanding would come on Flight 2419 to Denver, when I would face a situation that challenged everything I\u2019d learned about accommodation, boundaries, and my right to exist in public spaces without harassment.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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