I am incandescent with shame, knowing that fat is, by far, the worst thing you can be. Fat is lazy, fat is gross, fat is sloppy... and, worst of all, fat is forever. I am fat—and, hence, undesirable, unlovable, a walking joke—for the rest of my life.
I walk back to the dorm, eyes brimming with unshed tears, swearing that I’ll stop eating bread, sweets, desserts, anything, to lose 10, no, 20, no, 25 pounds before school starts again. My resolve lasts until dinner that night. I gain 20 more pounds before I finish high school.
Then I’m 18, sitting in the dining hall across from the crew coach. I’d been a good rower in high school, good enough for Princeton to recruit me, but now I’ve gained the 15 pounds one of my many bulimic freshmen classmates should have gained but didn’t. “If you want to stay on the team,” the coach tells me gently, “you’re going to have to lose a lot of weight.”
I bow my head in wordless—and now familiar—devastation . No matter that I am strong or that I work hard. I have no off switch. I am bigger than the other girls, and that is all that matters. The coach relegates me to the worst boat and never makes eye contact with me again. The next year, I quit the team and join the school newspaper. I find my place, my calling. On the page, nobody can tell that you’re fat.
I am 33, and after two days of labor followed by an emergency C-section, the doctor places my newborn daughter in my arms. I am shaking with exhaustion. At eight pounds, 11 ounces, she’s one of the biggest babies in the nursery. As I look at her roommates, I’m far too embarrassed to ask my doctor the only thing I want to know: Will she be normal, or will she be like me?
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