Pretty Lynne Writes

CW: diet culture talk 

I think of it like armour. It’s heavy, and cumbersome, but I wear it to protect me. When I can finally take it off, I’m tired. 

I recently spent time with an old friend. I love her. She’s been so wonderful to me during a hard time. She encourages me. She laughs with me and praises me for my wins, commiserates about my losses. 

But she’s a woman tightly held by the grip of diet culture and, for the time we spent together, I had to wear my armour.

I’ve talked about the changes in my body as I’ve aged. I’m a different shape now – full and curvy – and I’m learning to take care of myself in new ways. Those new ways include eating food that helps my body feel good, enjoying food that I want to enjoy, and moving my body to help me stay strong as I age. 

We ate beautiful Italian food (pesto, prosciutto, figs, panzanella, burrata!). We ate delectable ice cream. We tried many types of wine and watched people. We shopped for clothes. We walked on the beach. It was a lot of fun. 

Except, this:

• “We need to earn this dinner, so let’s walk.”
• “I can’t gain any weight or I won’t be able to wear this.”
• “We’re being so bad, eating all of this food.”

The armour went on and stayed on to protect me from the implicit message that there’s something wrong with how I look; that I should be making different choices for food; that I should work harder to make my body an acceptable shape. 

I started to get tired, wearing my armour. You could argue that I could tell her how I feel, and I could. I know she would never judge me for how I look. And she is entitled to think of her own body in any way without me interfering in that. She has a right to change her body for any reason she chooses. 

The armour I wore wasn’t to protect me from my friend; it was to protect me from the voice of diet culture that taught me to be ashamed of being overweight in any capacity, of wanting food, of being hungry, and of taking pleasure in food. It’s the voice that lives inside my head, telling me that my size is the most important thing about me. 

When I came home, the first thing I did was set the armour down. Then, I did something kind for my body: I had a drink of water, a snack, and a nap. 

I know that, as I learn to be a better caretaker and friend to my body, I will have to hoist the armour less and less. And maybe someday it can sit in the corner, a relic that is no use to anyone anymore, gathering dust.