An Untold Story

Back in 2011 when I was training for the New Bedford Half Marathon I was finishing up a 6 or 7 mile run. At that point I was nearing what would be my lowest weight of the last 8 years and was feeling fantastic. I was in the last mile when I heard a man's voice shout out, "That's right, keep running fat ass!" This is Boston so of course there were several people running around me, but when I glanced around, I realized I was the only person who didn't quite look like I was training for the upcoming Boston marathon. I knew the man was shouting at me and I was completely mortified. I quickly turned off the main road and nearly sprinted the rest of the way home, holding back a waterfall of tears the entire way. It was probably the fastest mile I ever ran (go figure).

I thought about the man every time I went outside for a training run after that. I was always worried someone else would yell at me, their words all meaning the same thing: I don't belong out there. Not in *this* body anyway. Even during the half marathon itself, while I was bursting with incredible pride and strength as I crossed the finish line, there was still a tiny voice inside of me screaming, "YOU DON'T BELONG!" Telling me I would never be good enough -- I would never be a real runner. 

I've never told anyone this story. Truthfully, it's something I've chosen not to forget, but to put out of my mind. This morning I went out for a 3.1 mile run in prep for the 5k I'm running next week, the first one I'm running since July, 2014. I haven't been running much (ahem, at all) and it showed. It took me almost 44 minutes to finish the run and I felt it the whole way. But that's not the point. During the last mile, when I was struggling to finish the run, I passed a group of guys finishing up a basketball game. Suddenly I felt a wave of fear and the story of 6 years ago came rushing back into my mind -- and with it came all of the fear and embarrassment I felt in that moment. I was sure that they were going to say something to me, or at the very least, laugh among themselves at my red face and huffing breath. 

But just as suddenly as it arrived, the fear disappeared. I've grown a lot over the last 6 years. In terms of my self worth and confidence, I am nearly unrecognizable from the girl I once was (thanks to plenty of therapy, reading, amazing friends and family, and my kickass boyfriend). I knew in that moment that should any of these men dare to say or shout something, it's a reflection on them, not me. I read a lot about people (women especially) who are fat shamed. Women who are screamed at in the street, told they are disgusting and unhealthy, told that they shouldn't be subjecting the *rest of us* to their horrible bodies. As I ran past the group -- who honestly, paid no attention to me at all -- I considered these stories. If a person is so moved by my "unhealthiness" that you just MUST say something to a complete stranger, shouldn't it be words of encouragement instead of words of degradation? When you see an overweight person exercising, shouldn't you cheer them on if you're so concerned about their health, not make them feel discouraged, isolated and ashamed? What these people don't get (or maybe they do and that's part of the cruelty) is they are reiterating the thoughts we overweight folk already have told ourselves thousands of times over.

Over the past few weeks I've listened carefully to the way my mom talks about her body. She talks about it like it's not the same body that grew and gave birth to me and my sisters, the same body that cared for my ailing grandmother and now for my father. I feel bad for her that she still feels like her body is something to hide, and that she misses out on life experiences because she's still waiting/pushing toward a (likely impossible) goal of what her body should look like.

I'm certainly not perfect, and I still have a ways to go in terms of acceptance of my body, but I feel lucky to no longer tell myself that same old rhetoric.