Dear stranger,

When you asked me “how far along are you?,” and I answered “I’m not!,” as in “I am not pregnant”, your elderly ears could not hear me, so I had to repeat myself.  The five other strangers standing in line with us were doing their best to pretend that they were not listening.  Talk about awkward.

All day yesterday I stewed about how insensitive it was for you to ask me that question.  You wouldn’t dream of approaching a woman and announcing “gee you are fat,” but that was essentially what happened.  Guess what, it’s true.  I am overweight.

I apologize, not because of anything I did, or said or didn’t say.  I am not apologizing for being “fat”. I apologize because I allowed your words to hold power over my feelings towards my body— a body that has held four children and has the scars to prove it, a body that might not be “good enough” or “pretty enough” by popular Abercrombie & Fitch standards, but it is one that comforts others and one that is housed by a soul that works to make the world a better place and I most certainly do not owe any apologies for that. In fact what you failed to see is that my heart is ten sizes bigger than my stomach.  It’s why I work to help homeless kids know that they matter and why when there is a human rights injustice, you’ll see me there, right in the thick (couldn’t resist) of things. It’s why I will be in your corner when the chips are down.

I’m sorry that I didn’t find a way to tell you that I am so much more than my body and I will not feel bad for another minute about my shape.  I’m perfectly imperfect, just as we all are.

Kindly,

Me