What are bodies for?

I spent the better part of my life thinking I was fat (and that it was a bad thing to be), that I was a misfit, that I never belonged, that I was ok looking, but my teeth were too small, my voice was too deep, my thighs were too close together (wtf is wrong with us), that my arms were too round and jiggly, my waist had one too many rolls. 

Goddamit, I called myself gross. I thought fat women like me owed the world a vile kind of self hate that only we could serve ourselves. AT LEAST be miserable about it, if you’re going to be fat. 

At least cover yourself. At least complain constantly. At least be fucking obsessed with losing weight. 

But don’t call yourself fat in public. People don’t like to hear that word. It makes them uncomfortable. 

So much time wasted thinking this garbage. 

And look at me. I am fat and happy and a mom and a million other things. I have built a home in this body. And I am wild and dangerous and brave. 

So this summer, if I’ve got my saggy tits hanging out of my two piece bathing suit, sprawled over a blanket underneath the warm June sun, kissing my baby, belly fat folding over… remember – I fought hard to be here and, respectfully, I don’t give a fuck if you think I’m beautiful or not. 

Because women’s bodies were not made for admiring or complimenting. They were made for living.