I'm fat... So what?

I don’t want to remind you every single day, but here we are. Again.

My body is no sin. Not the loose skin, not the stretch marks, not the way my thighs touch when I walk. Not the double—no, triple—chin that appears when I laugh too hard. None of it is a crime. None of it is your business.

And no, I’m not going to drop dead tomorrow because of my weight. Let’s drop the act. You don’t actually care about my health. If you did, you wouldn’t be lurking in my comments, spewing nonsense disguised as concern. You wouldn’t be waiting for me to post something—anything—just so you can twist it into a reason to attack me.

The Lies You Tell Yourself

You don’t care about my body. How could you? You’ve never even seen it in person. You don’t know my medical history, my struggles, my victories. All you see is a target. A punchline. A way to make yourself feel superior for five seconds before you scroll away.

But here’s the thing: I irritate you. And that’s the real issue, isn’t it? You can’t stand that I exist unapologetically. That I dance, that I exercise, that I dare to be happy in a body you’ve decided is unacceptable.

If I post a video of me doing splits, suddenly your script falls apart. You can’t say, "She’s too lazy to move!" If I post a picture of me smiling, you panic—because how dare I be happy when you’ve already decided I should be ashamed?

The "Crime" of Existing

To you, my joy is a crime. My confidence is a crime. My refusal to shrink myself—literally or figuratively—is a crime. And what’s the punishment? Your unsolicited "humbling." Your passive-aggressive "concern." Your jokes that aren’t jokes, just cruelty wrapped in a laugh emoji.

You love to say, "The time you spent smiling, you could’ve spent losing weight!" As if joy is a waste of time. As if your words hold some profound truth instead of just… bitterness.

But let’s be real: Your words don’t hold logic. They never have. They never will.

The Truth You Avoid

I’m not begging you to stop. I’m telling you. Stop.

Stop pretending my body is the reason for your misery. Stop blaming me for your own unhappiness. "Oh, she disgusts me, I had to let her know!" "Oh, he’s so fat, how dare he exist?"

Here’s a newsflash: I’m not the problem. You are.

You’re ignorant, and worse—you’re proudly ignorant. You don’t know me. You don’t know if:

Surgery is my only option for weight loss.

I can even afford that surgery.

I fast for days, surviving on nothing but water.

My exercise routine is stricter than yours will ever be.

But most importantly? You don’t know if I even want to lose weight.

The Questions You Can’t Answer

So what if I have a double chin? Does it make you feel better about yours?

So what if my skin is loose? Does it keep you up at night?

So what if you find me hideous? Since when did your opinion become law?

You call my body a sin, but the only sin here is your arrogance.

The Part You’ll Never Understand

I am healthy. I eat healthy. I love my curves, my folds, my flaws—because they’re mine. Because they tell a story. Because I refuse to hate myself just to make you comfortable.

So let me ask you, internet troll: Do you love you?

Yeah. That’s what I thought.