The day of my first period was a fucking good one.

I was 12 and had only just learned about puberty. I expected an uncomfortable nightmare, waited for crying and cramps and misery, but they didn’t come. Not that day anyway. I actually played outside, ran around with my dog and lay in the grass, years after I’d decided I was too old to play.

I whacked a pad on, easy as piss, got a few days off school, thank you period.

The novelty was gone when it came back the next month. This again. I became a card-carrying menstruator. It came like clockwork, always painless, always easy, always kind of gross.

At 14 it ramped up. All the way up. Crying, cramps and misery arrived at last. And I had my first leak.

My pad had become so soaked that it lost its grip and moved around in my underwear, causing the leak from all hell. I remember thinking, thank God I’m at home, thank God I’m not at school. I tossed my clothes in the dirty laundry basket because they were dirty laundry, obviously. I showered and thought the unpleasantness was over. I could get into bed with a hot water bottle and listen to Justin Bieber.

No such luck.

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My parents wanted to speak with me in the family lounge room. The family lounge room was the one I was allowed in, as opposed to mum and dad’s lounge room.

I sat on the floor. Being a card-carrying menstruator doesn’t make you old enough to sit on the couch.

Mum told me that she’d found my blood-soaked underwear. That it was disgusting. That I’d already been told wet things can’t go with the rest of the laundry; it makes the whole load yucky.

I couldn’t look at her. I played with the rug, picking tiny pieces of fluff with my fingers. I wish I was at school.

Dad sat next to mum, and I felt his eyes on me. Not really angry. Definitely not happy. Uncomfortable, maybe.

I was smaller than small. I was a little child, when I’d pushed so hard to establish myself as a young adult. As a woman.

A woman.

“So why is he here!” I snapped, pointing at dad.

“HE is here because HE’s the one who stuck his hand in period blood because of what YOU did.”

What I did.

The conversation ended with my apology. It was always going to end that way.

My leaking continued. My flow became completely unmanageable. I asked mum about tampons; she was pretty clear that I wasn’t ready.

Her answer was a bucket of water kept in the laundry sink. A bucket with a lid. I was to put my bloody underwear in and let it marinate, until mum would ring them out and put them in the washing machine.

I wanted to do it myself, load them into the machine and turn it on. Mum was always clear when I wasn’t ready.

It was my monthly humiliation.

Until I got my first part-time job. I kept a plastic bag under my bed, filled it with bloody clothes, then shoved it in the bottom of the wheelie bin out the front. I used the money from my job, and the freedom of my Saturday lunch breaks, to sneakily replace them.

Mum noticed that my flow had calmed down.

Yup! Lucky me!

I hid my period and all evidence of it for years.

I’m 27. I now have my own home and a relationship with a woman who isn’t disgusted by the fact that I’m alive; that my heart pumps, my lungs take in oxygen, and my uterus sheds its lining.

I still leak on my clothes sometimes.

I put them in the washing machine.

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I get a monthly massage from a woman named Daisy at a spa between a bakery and a bottle shop.

Daisy is the best.

The entrance of the spa displays her certificates. Some from overseas, with dripping ink and beautiful, bold green borders. Some from Australia, on boring white card.

Daisy and I don’t have a rapport, but we have a routine. She asks me if the massage is too firm, I lie and say no. Eventually she softens up or I get used to it, either way, it becomes the perfect pressure.

The room smells like Tiger Balm. I wonder if the smell bothers her, if it follows her home.

When Daisy goes to wash her hands, I hear the rattling of a metal container. Every time. Maybe mints, maybe gum, maybe Nicorette, who knows? She’s a mystery to me.

Once she asked me what I do for a living.

“I’m a preschool teacher,” I said.

“Ohh, okay,” she answered, almost like saying, that checks out, you are tense.

After each session, she asks me if I need something to drink. I lie and say no. I go home to a diet coke.

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Two months ago, I spotted a handwritten note at the register. NO SEXUAL SERVICES— do not ask.

One month ago, there was a printed sign on the door.

Today they had both been highlighted.

Daisy was working on my feet when I heard yelling and swearing coming from out the front. Happy, cheerful yelling and swearing in deep male voices.

Maybe harmless men.

Maybe not.

I pictured Daisy writing the note. Or it could’ve been the other woman who works there.

I couldn’t help but wonder what happened to require the note. What led to it getting bigger and more formal.

The more important question, what kind of person thinks they can sexually harass a woman just because they give massages for a living?

I live in a city where you can access sex work, but it seems people still look for these services at a random spa between a bakery and a bottle shop.

When they say 77% of Australians have experienced being sexually harassed, it’s easy to be shocked and alarmed by the figure, but it’s more than a figure.

It’s individual people, some just trying to do their job.

‘As a therapist, try to ensure that your client’s hands aren’t in a vulnerable position. For example, if a client is lying face down with their arms along their sides and palms facing upwards, they may come into contact with the genital region of a therapist,’ Cameron Aubrey in Discover Massage Australia.

This is how I position my arms, at my sides, palms facing upwards. I never thought anything of it.

Has Daisy?

While a true story, identifying details have been changed.

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By now I’m sure you’ve all seen Shane Gillis’ monologue on snl.

I’m not going to bore you by explaining why it was misogynistic, unfunny and embarrassing, I know my audience.

I’m also not going to outline how debating what women can wear while exercising further contributes to not only slut shaming culture, but body shaming too. (I’ll save that argument for medium.com where they like to roast my great opinions).

But I am going to highlight one comment I’ve seen a couple of times. “It’s always the ones you have to google.” This is only true for people who do better research than I do before choosing tv shows, because unfortunately, I have seen this dude before.

I’ll bet he’s pretty popular amongst the arrogant, gross male community, otherwise snl wouldn’t have risked having him on, given that they already knew about his racist history.

Shane Gillis is in the Netflix show Tires. A show I chose to watch because it was heavily advertised to me, has short episodes, and looked brainless enough to be background noise.

Tires follows Shane’s character Humpty Dumpty (can’t remember the real name but you get the idea), as he works for his uncle’s auto shop, which is managed by his cousin. Humpty is a character who really shoots for the stars, clearly.

Naturally, he has one mate who uses sex addiction as an excuse to cheat on his wife, and a couple of love interests who are certainly punching downwards.

The one woman in the main cast, Kilah, is the trashy ‘red neck’ archetype, who in one episode, is made to pretend she owns the auto shop. You know, because of all the advantages female business owners get.

Yes, I watched it, and I’m embarrassed to say there were moments when I chuckled.

I’ve learned to better vet my background shows.

Hopefully Shane has learned to write some more creative jokes. It’s not cute to be a one trick, woman hating pony.

I have wasted years of my life pretending to be skinny.

In school I liked to compare not only the size of my body to others, but the size of the space I took up. How neatly can I fit into this chair? How many hands can I fit between my leg and the end of this couch?

I never fooled anyone.

There’s no shapewear, no sucking in, no vertical stripes, or cropped photos that can change reality.

It’s better to be a fat person who is unafraid, than a fat person who is hiding. Everyone can see anyway.

This realisation is what made me start using the word fat, not as an insult or as a badge of honour, but simply as a description. I lean away from self-hatred, and from ‘body positivity,’ and instead refuse to think I’m better or worse than anyone else because of how I look, or because there are 10 hands between me and the couch’s edge.

When I call myself fat, and I don’t flinch at others using it, what I’m really saying is “I don’t need to pretend that I am thin to be deserving of dignity and respect.”

It wasn’t until I changed my point of view that I really saw fat acceptance’s importance outside of myself.

People can say they discriminate against fat people because they care about health, and maybe they believe that, but there’s often at least an undertone of disgust. Let’s pretend that being fat does guarantee being unhealthy, it would still make us no less deserving of respect, or care, or love.

People can pretend that they’re simply not attracted to fat bodies. If that were the case, they could easily choose partners who are thin, or muscular, or whatever, and leave the rest of us alone, but sometimes, they don’t. They need to make it clear that they find us ugly.

Fatphobia, which for the sake of this article I’ll define as the stigmatisation of fat people, can be linked with racism, misogyny and bigotry, even in cases when people don’t know the root of their biases.

There is more diversity in fatness than I first realised. We are different not only in skin colour, religion, ethnicity and other factors related to identity, we are also different in our sizes and how they influence our relationship with society.

The fat spectrum, which seems only to be discussed amongst us biggies, outlines the way that increasing body size corresponds with increasing barriers, and instances of discrimination.

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As a small fat person, I do encounter some challenges, but as a general rule, fatphobia affects my life less catastrophically than it does for larger fat people. In this sense, being a little smaller reflects a privilege. It’s also important to note that I am white, a cis person, and I am educated and employed, each a privilege in its own right. My experience of being ‘overweight’ is not universal.

So, yes, it’s cool if you call me fat, in fact, I prefer it.

Originally posted in Back Fat on Medium.com

Further reading

If you’re interested in learning more, try Fearing the Black Body: The Racial Origins of Fat Phobia, by Sabrina Strings.

If you’re in Australia and need support, visit the Butterfly Foundation.

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Contains discussion of Nazism, abortion, and the rights of women.

For anyone lucky enough to have not been introduced to Rush Limbaugh, this is him.

Beautiful, wasn’t he?

The host of an American conservative radio show, Limbaugh was known for his hatred and bigotry, and for popularising the term feminazi.

While he didn’t create the word, in his death he gets credit for it, highly unusual for a straight white male, I know.

Some think feminazi was thought up by Professor Thomas Hazlett, who hopefully has a better grasp of economics than he does feminism, however there is evidence of its use by newspapers before his ‘invention.’

The word implies far more than it states.

It aims to make the feminists look like the very people they oppose.

It’s not me, it’s you, a classic tactic of the bigoted, backwards, stupid male.

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What does feminazi really mean?

It doesn’t take a genius to see why feminist was spliced with nazi.

Most of us in the white, western world, love to pretend that we don’t sympathise with nazis, even though some quite obviously do (Elon Musk, I’m talking about you buddy).

A nazi is more than a person who participated in the holocaust and the second world war. A nazi is more than an antisemitic weirdo. The nazis were, are, people capable of enormous cruelty.

We’re offended by the word for good reason.

It’s a vile, embarrassing, demented thing to be.

Being a feminist and a nazi at the same time is simply impossible.

Feminism requires a belief in the equality and inclusion of all, individual people and in striving for this inclusion, it’s often women who need the uplifting, not men.

Some want us to think that feminazi means uncompromising, unreasonable, militant belief, but it goes beyond this. They are implying vile, inhumane, cruelty in an attempt to have us lumped with the evils of our human history.

I don’t agree with every word every feminist has ever said, I think there are times individual people are unreasonable, but as a movement? We are moving away from Nazism.

To make this comparison, in my opinion, is insensitive, antisemitic, unintelligent, nonsensical and embarrassing. How dare you?

When I see feminazi in commentary online, or in weird men’s rights spaces, it says a great deal about the user.

It says that they need to crack a history book.

That they’re comfortable simply repeating what they hear, without using their own brain.

That they don’t take the suffering of others seriously.

That they see not only identified feminists, but all women, as second class animals.

Often the people labelled feminazis by aforementioned morons are those protesting for the most basic of rights, or people simply trying to live without bowing down to the men of the world.

They spit it at people who protest for abortion.

I’m sure some men want to hurl it at us when we dare to vote, buy land, apply for credit cards, or build careers.

They use this word when there is nothing else to be said. It’s lazy.

Imagine reaching for the worst possible comparison to make, when all feminism asks for is equal rights. Even for men, many of whom do not want rights for women in return.

Imagine looking a woman in the face, and all you have to stutter out is ‘nazi.’

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Opinions above are my own and do not necessarily reflect those of my employer.

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Contains discussion of domestic violence, internalised biphobia and sexual violence

I’m bisexual, but for a long time, I thought I was a lesbian.

As a teenager, I think I forgot that I found men, or actually boys at the time, attractive. I was too scared of men to like them.

It’s not only that I was scared, I was also simply disgusted by the behaviour of some men I knew or saw in the media.

I think my brain decided to just act like a lesbian, to hide the truth and protect myself.

Of course, a bisexual person cannot simply choose a side, however, we’re just as capable of being closeted as any other queer person.

Now, as a 27-year-old woman, I can acknowledge that the people I’m attracted to are not strictly women, cisgender, or queer. In another life, I can see myself getting along with some straight, cis men, or even becoming sexually involved. But what I can’t imagine, what I’d avoid at all costs, is a husband.

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Here comes the disclaimer that I don’t really want to add because I think it’s obvious and dumb, but I feel like I must because some people are obvious and dumb.

Not all men are abusers. Not all men are dangerous. Not all men are useless, or lazy, or terrible husbands. The stereotyping and generalisation of all men is wrong.

Can we move on now?

Here’s why carting around a husband is my greatest fear:

I am afraid a husband will hurt me

Heavy, I know.

This may not fit neatly into a cutesy Substack article, but it simply must be discussed.

When my mum first gave me ‘the talk,’ she also included my first rape conversation.

Yes, I think young people should be taught about these things, but I don’t know, shouldn’t the talk just be the talk?

This left me frightened of rapists hiding around every corner.

I remember walking the family dog with hypervigilance, like I believed it was inevitable that this is something I’d live through someday. It was a matter of time.

The big, scary rapist I imagined would sometimes change, but one common thing remained. He was always a he.

As I’ve aged, I’ve become more realistic and my anxiety has improved a lot, but I do sometimes get this weird feeling, like I’m waiting for a man to assault me. To kill me.

This isn’t entirely unreasonable, it certainly happens, and at alarming rates.

What I didn’t know as a young person, which I do now, is that I was probably pretty safe walking my dog in my cushy neighbourhood.

This violence, this risk, increases when we move men in, and when we marry them.

I know that not every man would hurt me, but some would. Some would feel more entitled to do so if I were his wife. What could be more frightening?

I am afraid I will live to serve him

I’m terrible at washing dishes.

Like, terrible.

I’ll admit, sometimes I’d let them dry with little crumbs on them and then flick those off with a tea towel.

This was before I married a woman who is not only extremely beautiful but extremely clean. She washes the dish, then runs her fingertips over it to make sure no food can be seen or even felt and finally rinses it off again (since her hand’s been on it).

Since she likes the dishes done properly, I let her do them.

Then it occurred to me… this is like something that would happen in a very slow, very unfunny episode of Malcolm in the Middle. Weaponised incompetence alert.

The thought was “Shannan, you’re treating your wife like a maid, you’re acting like a man.”

As a same sex couple, we don’t feel bound by ‘pink jobs’ and ‘blue jobs.’ She washes dishes, I clean toilets. She takes the bins out, I relocate spiders.

How would this labour have been divided if I married a man? I think I’d naturally fall into the pink jobs, leaving my husband to do less (however dirtier and scarier) work.

I am afraid I will become a mother

To be clear, I am pro-choice, and I am a big fan of contraception. I’d happily be loaded with pills to prevent a pregnancy.

That said, if I were to become pregnant, I cannot guarantee the choice I’d make.

I live in an area where abortion is extremely accessible, but there are still barriers. Things happen. Laws change. People are influenced, abused and prevented from reaching the health care that is available.

I do not want children, but what if? What if? What if?

It’s a risk I’m not willing to take.

Maybe, what scares me more than having a husband, is being a man’s wife

I’ve recently fallen in love with thongs.

For a long time, I’ve called myself a feminist, but I only recently learned what that actually means.

I’ve taught myself that I don’t have to wear bras, or makeup, or thongs. That I can let my leg hairs grow. That I can wear big, comfy underwear.

My choices around how to dress and present my body have been heavily influenced by my not wanting to appeal to the male gaze.

Funnily enough, they’ve also been influenced by my not wanting to look fat. I’ve chosen baggy, dark coloured clothing and avoided horizontal stripes. I’ve even scratched the sizes out of my clothing, just in case someone got a peek at the tags.

This way of thinking left me in big, black T-shirts, with little room to express myself.

As I’ve learned more about feminism, fat liberation, and honestly, myself (cliche much?), I’ve realised that I was right. I don’t HAVE to dress for the male gaze, but I can make choices that might align with it, and that doesn’t mean I’m pandering to men.

I can dress in a way that slims me, if I want to, which I don’t.

Difficult as it is, I’ve tried to focus on what I like and what makes me feel most comfortable, steering away from what other people will think looks best on me.

Not only can I express myself with clothes, I can talk about them. I can read about them. I can do whatever the hell I want.

This makes me no more or less a feminist.

I have learned that I don’t really like the men’s shirts I’ve been buying, the necklines are too high, and they don’t sit right on my shoulders.

I actually do like strapless shirts, and short skirts, and a little eyebrow tint.

The thing that has surprised me the most is thongs, or G-strings as we call them down here in Australia.

They’re not extremely uncomfortable, like I assumed they would be. In fact, I often find them less restrictive and more comfortable, depending on the pants I’m wearing.

Thongs don’t look weird against my fat guts and hairy legs.

Most surprising of all, I’m not embarrassed to talk about them.

So, here comes some ‘girl’ talk.

My top five favourite pairs of undies:

1. My first and smallest, size 16 from Best and Less. I honestly bought it as a joke but I’m wearing it weekly. I guess my body is not a joke, who knew?

2. Some more coverage here, so it feels less showy, but is equally comfy. Probably from Best and Less too.

3. I love this pair because my wife got them for me. It wasn’t in a sexual way, but in a “hey these are like the other ones, I thought you’d like them” way.

She doesn’t see me as someone who should avoid horizontal stripes.

4. I like this set if I’m in a bra wearing mood.

Fat, queer, whatever, I think it’s nice for everyone to have a matchy matchy moment.

I went for a size 16 bottoms and a 20–22 top.

5. Finally, I feel like my ugliest pair deserves to be in the top five.

These are my modi bodi period undies, yes, they’re torn to shit, but I think there’s a time for clothes to be cute and a time for them to WORK.

So, big fat thong wearing weirdo, signing off.

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https://allmylinks.com/shannanyb

Originally posted on Medium in Back Fat

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I used to worry that one day I’d see my gut on the news.

Maybe they’re reporting on the obesity crisis, or the newest weight loss craze, or how Australia is getting dangerously close to surpassing the USA in fatness. Cameras love to zoom in on big bodies as we walk down the street.

As a teacher, I’ve worried that my students’ families won’t want me around their kid, since I’m a walking poor example.

I’ve worried that I’ll get sick and my doctor won’t listen. Or that someone will pull me aside at the pool to tell me that bikinis aren’t for me.

Despite any other challenge I’ve had in my life, I’ve always added extra stress because of my body.

At 27 years old, I’ve recently started undoing some of this damage and unlearning some dangerous habits.

I’m learning that I’m more than the way I look.

I’m the daughter of parents who should’ve divorced much sooner than they did.

I’m the bisexual wife of a beautiful, know it all, lesbian.

I’m an early childhood teacher, and like everyone in my line of work, I’m exhausted, underpaid, and terrified of being ridiculed for the choices I make in my personal life (so I use my maiden name at work and my married name here).

I’m a feminist, who occasionally leans too far ‘men’s rights activist’ and has to remind myself of reality.

I’ve recently started taking a narrative nonfiction course, and I feel insecure because the other students have bigger vocabularies than I do.

I love sitcoms, canned fish, claw clips, and Substack.

So that’s me, in a nutshell.

Connect with me on Medium, Substack, and Instagram (in case you need more of a visual) shannan (@shannanba) | AllMyLinks

Contains discussion of misogyny, injustice, sexual assault, and rape.

Apparently, our boys are sick and tired of feminisation in their schools.

This is according to Matt Canavan, who is an Australian politician (as in, not a schoolboy).

In The Conversation, Amanda Keddie argues that while some boys are struggling in schools, they’re not in fact ‘anti-boy.’

I’d take this a step further and argue that schools are actually anti-girl. Like much of the world, schools focus on the successes of men, placing people who are not men into supporting roles.

Of course, there are exceptions. I have no doubt that there are schools, communities, and classrooms that truly accept and empower, but the system leaves a whole lot to be desired.

Women are running the show. Without respect

There’s no doubt that women make up most of the workforce in education. As an early childhood teacher, I’m surrounded by women.

Women who are frequently underpaid, funding their own classrooms, mistreated, and assaulted.

This is not a unique experience, and it isn’t particular to early childhood. Misogyny runs wild in this line of work, and according to Adelaide University, is only getting worse.

Our students have a front row seat.

Women’s existence does not mean that they have respect, or power, or influence. Hiring women does not feminise schools.

The content asks us what boys need

Before I was a teacher, I was a student.

My school taught me all about condoms, testes pops, and wet dreams. This knowledge has certainly come in handy in my same sex marriage.

At 15, I took Social and Community Studies and was tasked with caring for a creepy, robot baby. It sparked some fascinating discussions about my future role as a wife and mother (not as a social worker, nurse, or someone in a care role, which you might expect from a class called Social and Community, but whatever).

I don’t remember any discussions about consent or emotional sexual safety, which while important for all genders, you’d think would be useful for women, given we are sexually assaulted and raped at alarmingly higher rates than men.

At 27 years old, I only recently saw an anatomically correct image of the female reproductive system. In case you’re in the same boat, here it is.

Beyond curriculum content, what other needs are we neglecting to consider?

In my case, I was always embarrassed by my see through school uniform revealing my bra, and blisteringly hot when I had to layer up in the summer. I remember sitting with my legs together, tight as a vice, because I was terrified my pad would overfill and fall off due to lacking toilet breaks.

What could current schoolgirls be challenged with? Maybe we should stop whining about feminisation and ask them? We certainly can’t look back at decades of medical and psychological research, given that it’s been dominated by research into the wants and needs of male subjects.

What about students who don’t neatly fit into ‘boy’ or ‘girl’ boxes?

All this talk of boys and girls has neglected a good chunk of our population.

There are transmen, transwomen, people who are non-binary, people who are all of these things, or none, or something else altogether. This doesn’t begin in adulthood. The gender diverse people we know as adults, were once gender diverse children and teens.

Where do they fit in?

At many schools, there’s debate around where students are allowed to go piss, I doubt there’s much discussion around how to best support their wellbeing and learning.

Schools need to be proactive in their inclusion of all students.

I think it’s safe to say that boys and their needs have had a head start.

Despite this, yeah, I do think there are circumstances when boys are hard done by. My opinion, I believe, is a feminist one, and this requires looking at all gender identities and their challenges (even when their severity is barely comparable).

Now that I think of it, maybe schools are anti-kids.

The opinions above are my own and do not necessarily reflect those of my employer

Contains discussions of mental illness, fatphobia, and disordered exercise.

“I think I’m a workaholic. I’m not even being funny, I need to join a group,” I said to a friend over the phone, driving home after a long day.

She opened sympathetically, I’ll give her that, then suggested I join a gym.

The gym is not for me.

I feel like they’re not made for people like me. I won’t be welcomed. Gyms are simply not compatible with my life.

My friend tells me I need a hobby, so I list them.

She tells me all the benefits of exercising, how good it is for mental health, and I agree.

With a frustrated huff, she says I need to get stronger, that it’ll make me feel better. She worries that I’m not really happy in my body, that I talk about my fatness because I’m overcompensating.

She says that I don’t like the gym because my opinions come from TikTok.

I saw what she sees when she looks at me. I realised the subtext behind her surprise in me choosing sugar free snacks, and owning a paddle board.

I’m a lazy fat lady, whose problems are of her own creation. I must hate my body. My mental illness must correlate with my BMI.

Hot rage washed over me, but cooled just as quickly. It wasn’t her fault. This is a common point of view, bred into most of us from very young.

Her gym suggestion, as much as it pissed me off, was genuinely supposed to help me.

Of course, movement is good for your mental health. This is not a fat lady arguing that we don’t need to exercise. This is me saying that our attitudes toward exercise matter, the gym is not necessary for everyone, and it’s not a cure all for every problem.

My relationship with exercise has changed a lot as I’ve aged.

I remember begging my mum not to drag me to soccer training or dance lessons as a kid, and crying over PE classes in high school. I made every effort not to exercise, and was damn good at it.

For a hot minute, during my clubbing and casual sex phase, I exercise too much. I suffocated my stomach with cling wrap and did sit ups until I thought I’d die — all in the name of skinniness.

Right now, I like a casual walk or swim, and keep 1kg dumbbells next to my TV to use on the couch.

Could I stand to move more or shake it up a little? Sure. But I can tell you that this is the happiest I’ve been (on the movement front, not in general, obviously).

If the gym makes you happy, go. If it doesn’t, don’t. Your body doesn’t need a membership to move.

My opinions come from TikTok.

Not all, but yeah, some.

Some gym goers body shame, secretly film you, chuckle when you haven’t learned something, and judge you when you’re doing your best.

Women are gawked at and sexualised, just for daring to wear clothing appropriate for moving and sweating.

This isn’t exclusive to gym culture, but it certainly seems to ramp it up.

I know that not everyone behaves this way, but some do, and it’s a position I won’t make myself vulnerable to.

Yes, TikTok may have highlighted this for me, but my opinions also come from the life I’ve had, the books I’ve read, and the people I know.

I’ve been the fat girl in school, on the flight, at the swimming pool, and in my own family. It doesn’t take much imagination to picture the gym.

These feelings are unique to me, or to people with my body type, it’s a well-known phenomenon known as Social Physique Anxiety (SPA). This is an intense sense of anxiety about the body being perceived as different from what is socially acceptable.

SPA can limit someone’s willingness or ability to exercise.

I’m no psychologist, but I do feel like it’s reasonable for someone experiencing this form of anxiety to avoid places like the gym.

When tackling other challenges, why bring on more?

So even if I’m wrong and the gym is beautiful place, and the experience would be wonderful, the lead up still isn’t worth it.

The fear isn’t worth it.

I want to exercise, I want the benefits that come with it, but they aren’t worth the pain (and yes, I do mean pain) of dragging myself into a place where I don’t feel comfortable.

I will never set foot in a gym.

I will never recommend it to my friends.

See if you can change my mind.

Further Reading

The soulless cycle: Social physique anxiety as a mediator of the relation between body mass index and exercise frequency — PMC

In my 10 years since leaving high school, my graduating class sure has made a lot of kids.

When the first of my classmates announced their pregnancy on Facebook, it weirdly felt like a milestone for me too. It’s not that I was friends with them, I wasn’t, this baby shouldn’t have changed anything about my life, but it did. For the first time, I felt old enough to have my own kid.

Before that, children were an idea for the distant future.

The Facebook posts have kept coming.

Last month I was invited to my 10-year reunion. Memories rushed back to me. Good ones, bad ones, really, really horrible ones.

Hey, that’s high school right?

But then the “do you have kids?” question hit me.

Usually I simply say “nah, not for me,” but in a who has the best life contest, I don’t have an answer.

I can’t say, “no, I’m more focused on my career,” because that isn’t true. I’m no further ahead than anyone else on the work front.

“No, I’ve prioritised my studies,” that’s not true either. I’m about six years into a three-year course.

“Nope, I’m too busy with my Substack,” only my 71 subscribers would buy that excuse.

Asking me if I have kids feels like more than taking an interest in my life. It feels like asking me what I’ve done with the last decade.

Have I really achieved enough to justify not having kids?

I’m pretty confident within my childfree bubble with my childfree wife and my childfree siblings.

I’m even confident speaking to parents when I’m at work; I have my professional hat on to protect me.

But out for dinner?

“So, how’re the kiddos? Still picky eaters? How’d you go with the preschool? Find a good spot?” How many times can I have this conversation?

I’m aware of the irony. While I’m worrying that my peers will judge me, I’m judging them. Of course, parents are still people with their own lives, I know that, but am I awful if I don’t want to be friends with them?

The most important part of their life, presumably their children, is something I’ll never understand.

I have responsibilities and priorities of my own, but they’re of a different nature.

You can call me a hypocrite, I get it, but that’s how I feel.

The truth is, I’m not fulfilled by career, or awards, or finances, or even children.

When I’m not focused on my high school peers, or overanalysing my adult choices, I’m happy with my life. I don’t want to lose that feeling, even for one night, so I’ll be skipping the reunion.

I am fulfilled by simple, yucky things.

Stinky puppy breath.

Pimple patches.

Microwaved pies that are soft and wet on the bottom.

That’s what I’ll be staying home to enjoy.

So, to the graduating class of 2016, have a great night. I know I will.

The opinions above are my own and do not necessarily reflect those of my employer.

Originally shared in Life Without Children on Medium

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My work uniform is seriously an apron.

A shapeless, pointless, symbol of women’s oppression.

I’m painfully aware of the kind of person I sound like. Painful. And I am.

Aprons send a message, one that I’ll respond to, even if it’s annoying.

They don’t say “I’m someone who likes to keep my clothes clean.” They’re an extra layer to dirty.

They don’t say “I’m part of the team, I work here.” A name tag does that.

Aprons don’t say “I’m protecting myself from hazards,” because let’s be real, they protect us from expressing ourselves.

They tell us who is there to serve. Who is less than.

I can picture the argument already: “but you are there to serve.”

I don’t care if you’re there to pour drinks or clean toilets; you are more than the service you provide and deserve a uniform that doesn’t come with a stereotype.

As an early childhood teacher, I work with a lot of women. It’s why we’re undervalued and underpaid. Women’s work isn’t considered a priority in most of our communities, which is funny, because it’s what holds communities together.

If most educators were men, aprons wouldn’t be a suggestion.

Of course, there are men who work in my industry. One of my colleagues is a man, and I’m yet to see him wear the apron, or be reminded of the uniform policy.

Maybe it feels unnatural to hand a man an apron.

Maybe he’s uncomfortable putting it on, for whatever reason that is probably perfectly fair, because I’m uncomfortable too.

Putting my fat, hairy body into an apron and tying it in a bow feels wrong.

Let’s make them optional. Actually, let’s get rid of them.

I’m ready to hear why we shouldn’t.

The opinions above are my own and do not necessarily reflect those of my employer.

With the rise of GLP 1 medications, skinny is having another moment in the media.

You might think that as a big girl, this trend would bother me, and I can see the danger in it, but it hasn’t changed much in my world. I’m as aware of my fatness as I’ve ever been and reminded just as often.

I still believe that people should come in all different sizes, and while it’s great for some to be slim or muscular, I’m at peace with how my body looks now.

If I had to create a wish list of things I want for myself, skinny wouldn’t be on there. In fact, here is my list.

1. Jolly

Close your eyes and picture a jolly fat person.

Who did you get? Santa? Homer Simpson? My mind always goes to Paul Blart: Mall Cop.

This is a stereotype we’re all familiar with, and like all stereotypes, of course it’s damaging. As a fat person, I’ve shied away from being outwardly funny, bubbly, happy, and bright. I’ve avoided labelling myself as the comic relief.

The older I get, the less I care. I don’t mind being the funniest, most interesting, and arguably, the best side character in another person’s story. I’m a rosy cheeked fat woman, and sometimes I look like a Christmas ornament, but I’m cool with it.

2. Wealthy

I hesitated to add this to my list because … der? Who wouldn’t want to be wealthy?

Did you know that you can’t access the country of Monaco by plane? You need a helicopter or boat. I just learned this recently, because apparently, I’m a broke loser.

Fat people, or people who simply aren’t slim, have ludicrous dreams too.

I’ll pay for a dollar menu item at McDonalds, but I’m not paying for Ozempic.

3. Artsy

This point was originally ‘creative,’ but I changed my mind. I’d rather be artsy. I don’t care as much about creating things, as I do learning and consuming.

I want to be well read, to appreciate art, to have the freedom to stroll around a museum and share fun facts like a wanker.

Busy prints come in plus sizes too.

4. Hygienic

I would rather be fat and floss, than skinny and smell like cheese.

The importance of hygiene cannot be understated.

When I was single, I prioritised smell over looks, and I now apply this same rule to myself.

I eat anything I like, but never in bed.

I’m more comfortable using a beach towel after the shower, but at least I wash it.

5. Warm

I live in Canberra, towards the south of Australia. It gets bloody cold down here, and I need to be properly insulated.

Yes, I’d rather be warm temperature wise, but I also mean kind. It may be towards the bottom of the list, but it made it on here, and I deserve points for that.

You may not know from looking at me, or from reading this list, but I do eat veggies and exercise. My point is, I’m sick of chasing the body that I’ll never catch.

If you are somebody who wants to lose weight, don’t let me discourage you, but do let me remind you of everything else you could be.

If you enjoyed this list and happen to own a chopper or a yacht, comment below.

Original published in Big List Energy on Medium

Contains discussion of weight, body size, and disordered eating.

I have been fat for as long as I can remember, but for a long time, I thought nobody else knew.

When I was in high school, changing for a PE class, I asked a friend about it.

“No!” She said. “You don’t even have back rolls. Turn around.”

I complied, ready for the final verdict.

“Oh, you do. But they’re not that bad!”

That’s when I started wearing black clothes and sticking to baggy tops and tight fitted pants. For whatever reason, I thought this was the recipe for looking skinny.

I drank hot water with lemon before school.

I ate pasta for breakfast, and nothing for dinner (since you’re supposed to eat like a king in the morning and a peasant in the evening, according to … somebody I can’t remember).

One weekend, I made myself an enema with instant coffee and a baby panadol syringe. I was too scared to go through with it.

I’ve used lots of words to describe myself: chubby, curvy, plus sized.

For a while there, my life was obsessing over either weight loss or hiding.

Recently, something clicked in me. I got so tired of the stress, that I could finally let it go.

It’s like my brain just won’t worry about my weight anymore, even at times when I feel myself pushing it to.

I look at the people who have called me ugly and I see how horrible they are.

I’m not writing to convince anyone to gain weight, or to glorify obesity, or any other weird accusation that people throw at fat people who dare to exist.

I simply want to put this feeling into words.

I’m fat and it’s fine.

We are taught to plan our lives around what is acceptable to look at, but we don’t have to.

We learn what others expect before we discover who we are.

It’s dangerous and oppressive and unjust … but also, kind of silly.

Why?

Being skinny doesn’t make us more deserving of anything. Not food, or fun, or intimacy, or clothes, or exercise. Nothing.

So let’s address the elephant in the room (and her back rolls).

If introducing myself as a fat person will make me feel lighter, that’s what I’ll do.

ED Support Resource

In my ten years educating young children, my fatness has been pointed out countless times.

At the start of my career, I’d deliver the “that’s not very nice” speech, then hide in the bathroom to cry. I hated my body, and while I knew I was big, I thought I could hide it with good posture and dark, baggy clothing.

I wanted to protect the children from feeling the kind of self-hatred that I felt, so naturally, I banned the word ‘fat’ from my classroom. I went as far as using a sharpie to censor Eric Carle’s The Very Hungry Caterpillar. I thought I was doing the right thing. I wasn’t.

I’ve noticed over the years that families are becoming increasingly concerned about their children’s diet, exercise, and ultimately, weight. In my first role we were giving the children cereal, muffins, and fish fingers with tomato sauce, no problem; now, there are questions around which fruits and vegetables are the right choice.

I believe parents’ concerns are valid, given the childhood obesity panic, but I worry about how some might respond when their child starts noticing fatness, or if they’re ever fat themselves. Educational conversations about health and bodies can easily slip into fatphobia, even when we have the best of intentions.

Fatphobia is the dislike, mistreatment, or fear of people in large bodies; it’s fed by toxic diet culture, and harmful stereotyping. In their 2024 book Unshrinking, Kate Manne argues that fatphobia is harmful in health, education, employment, and social settings, and has strong connections with both ableism and racism. This is something we can address with children and young people. We can provide an education that will challenge fatphobia, and the harm that comes with it.

So, what should we say to children when they call us, or someone else fat? How do we answer when they think we’re pregnant?

Answer honestly

When children ask questions, it’s best to tell the truth. If you’re at risk of going into a conversation that isn’t developmentally appropriate or suitable for your role, you can keep it short and sweet while still being honest.

When it comes to discussion of bodies, fat isn’t a dirty word, it’s simply a tool to describe how body sizes are diverse. This is a message consistent amongst many fat activists, so keep it in your vocabulary.

Not only do I use the word fat, but I am also happy to be called fat myself, because it is true. I don’t shy away from acknowledging that some body parts are bigger or smaller than others or appear different on some people.

When a child asks me if I’m pregnant, I say “no, I just have a big belly.”

When they ask me why I’m fat, I say “because bodies come in different shapes and sizes.”

With this in mind, of course you need to consider individual circumstances where you can. For example, I once had a child comment, “you’re fat, but not as fat as my mum.” In this case I said, “yeah, I am a bigger person, but fat is a word that can hurt some people’s feelings,” because that’s also the truth. This is how I’d address a child pointing out fat people in public or in the media, as they sometimes do.

Keep the caterpillar

The truth is, we can say whatever we like to children and they’ll still be influenced by the communities and world they live in.

‘Pig was a Pug, and I’m sorry to say, he was shockingly lazy. Such a shameful display. He lived in a flat, horizontal position, which left him in truly appalling condition.’

This is an excerpt from the children’s picture book, Pig the Blob by Aaron Blabey. This book is an example of stereotyping and makes fat people the punchline of a harmful joke. The joke lands because many of us already believe that fat people are lazy and ‘in appalling condition.’ What message does it send to children?

Pig the Blob was swiftly removed from my shelf, and the Very Hungry Caterpillar put back. I don’t regret making this change to our book collection, but I know it’ll only help so much.

These children have seen, or will see, fatphobia in action. We can help them through this with some good old fashioned role modelling. If you’re an educator, teacher, family member, or a person who is around children, carefully consider what you are teaching them with your actions.

· Find books, shows, and films with diverse characters, and fat people who are happy, comfortable, and achieving amazing things.

· Move your body in ways that are comfortable for you, and value all forms of exercise.

· Don’t villainise food. Let children see you eating and enjoying yourself, or not eating when you aren’t hungry.

· Treat yourself with kindness.

There is no need to pretend that fat people don’t exist, or to quietly whisper about us in words you consider offensive. It’s far less hurtful to simply describe people honestly, treat them with the respect we all deserve, and move on.

Children will notice body differences. We can teach them shame, or we can teach them kindness.

Continue learning

How to develop positive body image in your child: 2–8 years by Raising Children Network

Unshrinking: How to fight fatphobia, by Kate Manne is available on audible.

What is weight bias and fatphobia, and how can we challenge it? by the Butterfly Foundation

The opinions expressed above are my own and do not necessarily reflect those of my employer. Originally shared on medium.