Feeding a Body the World Tells You to Starve
The Assumptions People Make
I’ve spent years inside a body the world thinks it understands. A big body. A fat body. One that turns heads in grocery store aisles or draws glances at restaurant tables. People assume it’s a body born of excess — too much food, too little control. But here’s the truth I’ve rarely said out loud: I have a hard time eating. I hesitate before a meal, not because I don’t need the food, but because somewhere along the line, I started believing I didn’t deserve it, I should not have it. When the world sees a body like mine, it doesn’t see struggle. It doesn’t see restraint. It doesn’t see the nights I went to bed hungry, not for food, but for permission — permission to care for myself without shame.
Every Chair Has a Question
I don’t talk much about what it’s like to live in this body, not just emotionally — but physically. Before I sit down, I scan the chair. Will it hold me? Will the arms dig into my thighs so badly that I’ll leave with bruises no one can see? I don’t just notice the world isn’t built for me — I feel it every day. Putting on my shoes takes a strategy. I need a shoehorn. I have to bend down the right way to breathe. And yet people think the answer is simple: "Go for a walk. Hit the gym." As if movement isn’t already haunted by the fear of stares, of comments, of being the joke in someone else’s story.
The Judgment Isn’t Always Loud
I’ve had to teach myself to care—to walk anyway, to move not because I hate my body but because I’m trying to save it. Still, it stings when people don’t even hide their judgments. During the rebuilding of my van, there were constant sideways remarks about my weight, as if I didn’t already carry that awareness every step I take. I try not to care.
But I do. Sometimes.
And then I breathe. And keep going anyway.
The Gym Wasn’t the Enemy
A few weeks ago, I joined Planet Fitness — not to train for a marathon, but to grab a shower once in a while (vanlife). Simple, right? But activating the membership meant walking through the doors. I don’t know why that stirred so much anxiety in me. Maybe it was the mirrors. The imagined stares. The fear of not belonging. I sat in my van for hours, wrestling with all of it. Eventually, I went in. They call it a judgment-free zone, and to be fair, it wasn’t that bad. I did a few basic things. Nothing intense. Just movement. Just showing up. And maybe that was the real workout — not the machines, but the quiet resistance to the voice in my head that said I didn’t belong there.
What I’m realizing is that not eating doesn’t just keep the weight — it drains my life. The less I eat, the less energy I have. And the less energy I have, the harder it is to move, to show up, to even want to try. It’s a brutal cycle — one that doesn’t break with shame, or discipline, or “tough love.” It breaks with nourishment. With care. Choosing to feed this body even when the world says I shouldn’t. This isn’t about chasing thinness or earning acceptance. It’s about survival. It’s about learning to eat. Learning to move. And making peace with a body I’ve carried through everything.
This is a trek to save my life.
If this Speaks to You
I’m sharing more of these stories — raw, honest reflections from the road back to myself. If you’ve ever struggled with food, body image, or the quiet work of healing, I hope you'll walk with me.