I was born small—like, Scotia small. Under seven pounds, which, in the grand scheme of baby sizes, is somewhere between “adorable little peanut” and “fragile Victorian orphan.” I was also short and wiry and apparently so hyperactive that adults were constantly trying to feed me, as if calories might somehow weigh me down enough to keep me from vibrating off into the ether.

It did not.

Back in those days, ADHD wasn’t really a thing, so I was just considered “spirited” or “a handful” or “for the love of God, will you please sit still.” But I burned through whatever I ate, stayed skinny, and just kept moving. That was my thing—always moving. And I stayed that way well into adulthood.

Then, I got pregnant.

I gained exactly 13 pounds, and I remember thinking, Oh, wow. I look… normal? Healthy? Like an actual person instead of a sentient twig? I could no longer count my ribs like a xylophone, and honestly, I kind of liked it. I didn’t want to be a size zero or two or four—I never understood those anyway. Size eight? Sure. That felt reasonable.

Then, round two of pregnancy. Another 13 or 14 pounds. This time, the people around me (who shall remain nameless because I’m merciful) started making little comments. “Oh, you’re getting a little chunky,” they said with affectionate grins. Chunky?! Excuse me, I am flourishing. I am embodying Renaissance beauty. I am soft and strong and maternal, and honestly, I was fine with it.

Then life, in its infinite wisdom, decided to punch me directly in the uterus.

Infertility.

Failed pregnancies.

Hormones going haywire.

And let me tell you something about trying to have a baby when your body isn’t cooperating: It’s a process. A process involving a lot of medications, a lot of emotional eating, and a lot of “Wait, how did I gain 10 pounds this month? Oh right, I was injecting myself with enough hormones to make a bull weep.”

Before I knew it, I was over 200 pounds, and I had my first “oh crap” moment. I mean, it had snuck up on me. I wasn’t lounging around eating cake all day (though honestly, what a dream). I was still moving, still doing, still me. But my body was changing, and I wasn’t entirely sure how to feel about it.

For the longest time, I denied being depressed. I wasn’t lying in bed all day. I wasn’t withdrawing from the world. Depression meant sadness, right? And I was still cracking jokes and making people laugh and showing up. But as it turns out, depression isn’t just crying into a pint of ice cream while sad music plays in the background. Sometimes, it’s just this slow, creeping numbness. A feeling of blah that settles in your bones and refuses to budge. And you know what? The body keeps the damn receipts.

Doctors would look at me, this hyper, always-on-the-go person, and say, You are the most active fat person we have ever met. Which, honestly? Not the compliment they think it is. But yeah, I was still moving. Still running around, still doing all the things.

Then 2020 hit.

COVID shut down the world, and my body decided to follow suit. All those little warning signs—diabetes, atrial fibrillation, chronic pain, heart failure—turned into full-blown sirens. And then, just to really drive the point home, I took a fall. Because, you know, why not add physical injury to the growing pile of things I didn’t ask for?

And that’s when I had to face it.

I was depressed. Not “oh, I’m having a rough day” sad, but full-on, clinically, anxiety-holding-hands-with-it depressed. Some days, they hold me hostage. Other days, I manage to wrestle them into a corner and make them shut up for a little while.

Today?

Today, I’m not winning.

Today, I’m fully aware that I weigh over 300 pounds and that my body is struggling under the weight of all of it—physical, emotional, existential. I know there are people who say, Oh, you can be fat and healthy! And listen, I’m not here to police anyone’s body, but I gotta be real—being this heavy does not feel good. My joints sound like a Rice Krispies commercial every time I stand up. I get winded tying my shoes. My body is waving the white flag, and I am finally, finally paying attention. How can I not?

And yet, here’s the thing: I don’t hate myself.

I’m not standing in the mirror, shaking my fists at the heavens, lamenting my reflection. I am still me. I am still funny and smart and a little weird and a lot stubborn. I am still capable of joy. I am still capable of change.

But right now?

Right now, I am just breathing.

I am putting one foot in front of the other.

And I am reminding myself that even on the worst days, even when depression and anxiety are doing their worst, I am still here.

And for today, that’s enough.