Why Eating In Public Has Empowered Me

A woman put pig emojis under my exercise video last week. Another person commented: “I didn’t know land whales exercised.”

I find these two comments ironic. Don’t most people who care about how heavy fat people are encourage them to go to the gym? Don’t they encourage them to get active? And, then—and only then—can they live a fit and free and thin life. I was exercising for health, and still I was body shamed. Guess large people can’t do anything right. Damned if you do and damned if you don’t.

So, if this is the case, then why do we try so hard to fit that mold of the “good fatty”? The “agreeable fatty”. The fatty who is always trying to show others that they are indeed trying their hardest to be smaller. Shrink themselves into an oblivion. Accept Susan’s excruciating diet plan once and for all.  

Seems like people who are deemed the outliers—body wise, ability wise, color wise—are always being made to feel like they could always do more to “fit in”. And, if they aren’t striving to fit the status quo then they should be made to feel shamed at every waking moment.

Hat: Amazon

No.

Nope.

A revolution has begun. Where the shame has been shed like the emergence of a fat ass, bomb ass butterfly. I made a decision to stop carrying other people’s shame on my back, on my chest. I stopped cradling it like it was my newborn baby who needed to be nurtured. I plucked that shame bare, chopped it up, seasoned it, dropped that bitch in some batter and fried it.

I’m not carrying the shame others feel about my body being big and not having a thigh gap or not being able to squeeze my fat into designer fits.

This is me. Like it or not. But shame is something I will no longer carry.

With that said, I’ve found power in eating publicly. And, not just eating healthy in public, diet coke and a nice cut of salmon with greens but eating anything in public: pizza, cake, ice cream, a bucket of chicken. Whatever.

Pants: Rebdolls

I hadn’t always been able to do that. I remember going out to eat with my thinner friends and sitting as tall as I could and making it a habit to suck my stomach in. As they ordered burgers and fries, I’d sit there starving, slowly and deliberately sipping on a diet coke with light ice. Proclaiming to the foodie universe that I was not hungry. I was not hungry. Not hungry. At all. Hunger is a mindset. A mindset that you could rewire.

I’ll never forget this thin white woman giving me unsolicited diet advice on Facebook: “The longer you just sit with your hunger, the faster it’ll just go away. Like you won’t even be hungry anymore if you just let those hunger pangs past.”

Sounds like an eating disorder to me. But, what do I know? *Hunches shoulders*

And, she’s passing it on down, spreading it just like other nasty habits that are unhealthy and degrading and problematic.

Top: F21

I’ve been told to eat salads instead. To not go back for seconds. To cut out sugar and cut out dairy and cut out air. LOL. I’ve been told that fat people eating makes them want to vomit. That it’s unattractive. Unappealing. Been called pigs and cows and pig-cows and fat bitches.

So, what do I do? I create a high-fashion spread…including food. McDonalds to be exact. Even though McDonald’s is eh. Fat people have been associated with this particular fast food restaurant for decades. I dive head first into any and all stigmas in order to challenge the way our minds are set up.

Some big people eat unhealthily. While others eat healthy. Some of us are in-betweenies and eat very balanced. Some thin people eat unhealthily and remain thin. Some eat healthy. Some are in-betweenies. Gasps. Just like big people! Everyone deserves to be able to nourish their bodies how they see fit. Without the shame of other’s gazes. Without having to become closet eaters. Without having to starve and wait till they get home. Without developing eating disorders.

Purse: F21

If you feel disgusted by someone eating, then turn your face in the opposite direction. If you feel the need to degrade someone who is eating, then pinch your lips together and mind your own business. If you feel the need to spew unsolicited diet advice, then don’t.

Worry about your health and your lifestyle and your 9-5. Okurrrrrr. *Tongue pop*

That is all.

Xoxo,

Leah V

Thighs That Touch

“The reason why your aunt can’t get a job is because she’s fat,” Mom said matter-of-factly to my younger sister and I. 

In my own fat thirteen-year old body I thought, that’s not the reason why. It’s just a bad economy.

Although Mom wasn’t as big as my aunt, her weight was up and down. Mostly up. She had suffered from eating disorders for most of her life including mild anorexia. To be honest, I never really recalled Mom eating ‘real food’ like the stuff she fed us. She was a closet eater who binged on cakes and doughnuts in the privacy of her bedroom. The sheets would be riddled with crumbs and the aroma of sugary frosting lingered. 

Mom showed us old photos of her younger, thinner self in the 70’s with her short shorts on, a crop top, and rocking a thick, black afro. She said proudly while pointing, “See. My thighs didn’t touch back then. When they touched, I knew that I was eating too much.”  Thin was good in our house. Great even. Fat was unacceptable. 

And I was fat. 

My thighs touched. My belly hung over my panties. My boobs jumped when I jumped. My double chin greeted you before I was able to. My arms squeezed into jackets that didn’t stretch. 

Obsession. 

One day, I decided to turn on my own fat body. To mistreat it like it was my worst enemy. To destroy it until there was nothing left. I was tired of boys only flirting with my thin friends, I was tired of stuffing myself into jeans that only made it partially up my thick thighs, and I was sick and tired of obsessing over how other people perceived my fat ass! Am I eating too fast? Should I get the salad instead? Should I just shut up? Who wants to hear what a fattie has to say?  

Scouring the latest teen fashion magazines, I ripped out dozens of pages of unrealistic supermodels, thin white actresses, and statuesque bombshells with straight teeth. I went on a rampage and started pasting them on my bedroom wall, the closet door, and around my dresser’s mirror. I wanted to see what I wasn’t, but what I could possibly be. Skinny and beautiful. Wanted and validated. Mom would be proud of me. But only if my thighs didn’t touch. 

I went out and bought a pair of stylish jeans that were three sizes too small. When I got home, I placed them on a hanger and hung them on the window over my bed. Motivation. The person who could fit inside those jeans was better in some way. Outgoing. A fuckin’ boss. 

I envisioned myself in those jeans every morning when I woke up before school, when I ate a handful of pretzels and drank a low-calorie drink for lunch, when I thought about having a slice of pizza, and right before I went to bed. My inability to focus and the migraines due to malnutrition didn’t matter. Nor had the churning and grinding of my empty stomach. Not even the silent late night cry sessions due to gaining a half a pound the day prior meant anything. 

After five months, I had lost seventy pounds. And how things changed. Everyone was sooooo happy. It was as if I had won some sick lottery. My teachers asked me how I did it. “It’s easy,” I lied. Guys started to notice me. Girls were jealous of me. I was living the life. 

At home, when the cheers died and I was all alone, I was still fat. Inside. The scale said one thing, but my mind told me another. 

Losing the weight was brutal. Maintaining it was different. My antics got wilder as I scrambled to stay thin. In the morning, I’d clear my bowels and bladder, strip, and hop on the scale butt naked. If the scale was even a pound heavier, my entire day would be ruined. If the scale was in the negative, the day would be amazing because I was closer to being more skinny. I was on the no-carb diet, so I peed on a stick twice a day (sometimes three if I got crazy) to see if I was in optimal ketosis, fat burning mode. I’d chew on no-sugar sticks of gum all day to curb my appetite. I’d go through packs and packs of gum. Mom bought them in bulk from Costco. She was trying to lose weight, too. I’d strip again, in the evening, and hop on the scale. Then I’d turn on the Style Network and watch models strutting down the runway in expensive clothes and cry.    

Nothing ever lasts.

For spring break, I purchased a cheap flight to my grandma’s house in the south. I finally arrived and plopped down in a chair at the kitchen table. 

“What’s wrong?” she placed her palm on the small of my back. 

I held back tears. I hadn’t eaten that day. “I’m just—I’m so hungry.”

She fried shrimp and baked biscuits. I ate it all. Every morsel. Felt sicker. I wasn’t used to the heaviness of food. 

After that, I never stopped eating and gained the seventy pounds I’d lost, plus some. 

Over the last ten years, I’d lost some and gained more. On this body awareness roller-coaster, I’ve hated my body, I’ve mistreated it, and allowed others to dictate how I felt about it. But I’ve also loved it, caressed it, celebrated it, and adorned it. 

I’m at a point where I’m in complete awe of it. The way it breathes for me. Blinks for me. Allows me to type this very essay about it. I’m in love with myself and how it rolls and sways when I move. How it affects others so delightfully. 

I’m happier in this fat body than I ever was trying to fit into those jeans that were three sizes too small.    

My thighs touch. My belly hangs over my panties. My boobs jump when I jump. My double chin greets you before I am able to. My arms squeeze into jackets that don’t stretch.

And that is very much so acceptable.  

XOXO,

Leah V.

Momentum: The Life of a Black Socialite

I had just come back from a long, adventurous, and life-changing trip to London. I got lost on the subway, on the street, had to carry like my entire life on my back. My ankles were sore, my back demolished, and my arms ached. But I had companies and designers depending on me to make those photoshoots happen, to deliver what I said that I’d deliver. To show up on time and produce bomb photos. With no phone, shotty internet, and a bad sense of direction, I made it happen. But when I tell you that I was beyond dead, I had turned into a fashionable zombie. Dark circles under my eyes and the works.

Traveling had taken its toll on my mental and body and I needed desperately to regroup. I’d finally made it back to Michigan and passed out, but I knew with my schedule that I’d have maybe a day or two to recoup.

“You need to rest.” My friend messaged me.

“What’s rest?” I replied.

“You play too much.”

“You know how my life is. When opportunity knocks, I gotta jump on it. I’ll stop when I’m dead or when I start my period. Whichever comes first.”

She sent a trillion laughing emojis.

Neckpiece: Leyton's 

But it was true. I haven’t gotten to where I’ve gotten by sitting down, taking the safe route, watching other people move forward and trying to drive in their lane or hopping in their backseat. I’ve had four failed blogs and Youtube channels over the span of six years. I’ve been used and abused by local (so-called) fashion influencers in the city of Detroit promising glitz and glam. I’ve been side-eyed and at certain points, disrespected by bloggers who thought that I was ‘taking too much of the spotlight’ in a very weak ass fashion/social climate in the city as well as in the suburbs.

I’m not trying to take shots, but unfortunately, Detroit, Michigan isn’t a hub for true fashion creatives. I rarely get paid and certainly others are struggling that freelance model or style or even blog. We have pockets of bomb fashion influencers but for the most part, people who have ‘connections’ (usually white girls) with very little style, get the play. And that’s cool. But we won’t ever elevate to a New York or a Paris level with that type of mindset.

But, I digress.

Cape/Jacket: Forever 21 + Leggings: Lane Bryant + Shoes: Torrid 

In this industry, mostly any industry can you sit still and comfortable and become an icon. Become national or international. The process of creation, invention, and reinvention is painful, it’s slow, and it takes time. It takes failures. It takes guts. It takes people behind you, real people to support. To believe in what you’re doing is going to make a difference. It takes relatability and a certain kind of vulnerability. It takes being able to get ready for a full-fledge shoot in twenty minutes. Borrowing clothes and accessories from a friend because you have $2.14 in your checking account. It takes humbling yourself. Shutting the hell up and just listening. It takes helping others to achieve. It takes changing in the backseat of your car. Changing in a greasy bathroom at a Coney Island. It takes working with a stuck-up bitch you may not like.

Self-worth and value.

I wish that someone would have told me in the beginning to find the value in myself and to know my worth. I went in the door of some places with my head down and willing to do anything for some sort of gain in the industry. Ya know because I was new and I didn’t think what I knew held any weight. I was lesser than this and lesser than that. I hadn’t valued myself so why should I have expected them to? I got used, a lot, and I’m sure the people who had used me in the past are reading this piece right now. But, I want to thank you because you taught me such a valuable lesson. And the lesson isn’t to burst down the door like Mariah Carey and claim that you are the shit, but to go into situations knowing what you are and aren’t willing to do. You’re not being difficult and you’re not being a bitch. You are being a businesswoman and you are claiming, and or, reclaiming your stakes.

Stop saying what you can’t do or what’s impossible. I’m talking to myself as well. We complain and complain and moan and complain. Which is fine, but when all is said and done, what are you going to do with what you have right now? Not what you could have or should have if blah, blah, blah. But what are you, with your two hands, a camera, and a janky set, going to do with the resources that are available to you? Creativity. The best campaigns I’ve ever done have literally been with the smallest to zilch budgets. So, stop saying what you can’t do or where you can’t go. You can. You just don’t want to.

All of this is to talk about momentum, that thrust forward. Right? It’s a valuable key to achieving stuff. Momentum is hard to get. No lie. But once you get into the groove and start to get it, really get it then you’ve got to push it. For example, this shoot with my friend, Remy. Now, when he messaged me, I was dead in the bed and very jetlagged. He says let’s shoot in two days. In my head, I’m like how can I put together two looks when I can’t even string together a coherent sentence? I was backlogged on blogging and my wallet had been stolen. People needed answers to questions and emails were in the hundreds.

Here’s where the push came in. Just for Remy to even reach out to me is humbling. I mean, his work is amazing. Who was I to lose an opportunity for a pro bono shoot with a photographic genius? I sucked it up, placed heavy concealer under the racoon rings around my eyes, and met him at the Detroit Institute of Arts.

Yes, I was tired. My feet burned. And modeling is fun but certainly not as easy as it looks. But I was there, and he was there, and I gave him not 60% but 110% of my energy and zest. And he did the same for me. Then, he made me look like some sort of Baroque painting. He played with shadows and lighting and mood. I fell in love.

Keep that momentum going. When you’re at the bottom of the barrel and life’s piling on top of you, I need you to dig deep in your gut, your soul and with that last bit of energy left, I need you to push to the end. Jump on those opportunities. Stop doubting yourself. Complain less and do more.

xoxo,  

Leah V  

The Non-Valentine’s Day Valentine’s Day

This is my first Valentine’s Day without a Valentine in about ten years. Which may seemed fucked up to the naked eye, but because I’m trying to live my ‘new and improved’ life as an Optimistic Sally, I’ve come to terms with my current situation.

I’m divorced. Single. I ain’t got no man. Or woman. Except for my friends, but that doesn’t count. I had a few suitors, but they got swerved and didn’t make the cut. Which again, makes me very single. I’m not bitter, though, I solemenly swear it.  

I won’t be getting any flowers.

I won’t be getting one of those cheap little bears with the heart in the middle that says ‘I LOVE You” that was made in China.

No romantic dinners at the local Coney Island.

Jewelry. Nope. Hotel. Nope. Sweet nothings. NOPE. How bout dah?

Turban: Flossy's Suitcase + Faux Fur/Pant: Forever 21 + Long Sleeve: Rainbow Shops + Booties: Pay-Less Shoe Source + Shades: Alley and Eye

All this in theory sounds great, until my timeline starts getting flooded with ‘happy couple’ selfies and photos of bouquets of roses. What is a single girl to do? Well, if you’re like me you can totally stay off the internet for that entire day. But because we are lurkers, we won’t. Which is fine. At least you’ve admitted it.

Valentine’s Day isn’t really the issue here. It’s the stereotypes of being single that irks me. If you aint got a man then what are you doing with your life? If you don’t have a bae to cuddle up with at the end of a long day then you must be unhappy, desperate, undesirable. The only goal in life is to marry, have kids, get cheated on, then ultimately be single anyway! So, why not just start now? LOL. And, I’m not saying that being single is the way to go for every person, because we all have that friend who just has to have a man or she feels incomplete.

But isn’t that a sad existence? If you need another person to make you feel whole. Shouldn’t that be something that you should be working on within yourself? With these types of situations of heavy co-dependency, I notice that the co-dependent person always get the short end of the stick in the relationship. They usually do anything to keep that other person around. They ended getting mistreated by their significant other because they know that they need them in order to thrive.

I, for one, neeeeever want another person to feel like I need them or I’d just crumble into nothingness. No, sir. You aren’t about to have that much power over me. I hold my own power. Boom!

Whether you’re married or not, you need to be OK with being by yourself. And I’m not saying shut everyone out and become a recluse, I’m saying that there is usually too much noise going on and you need to have quiet, self-reflective time for you and only you. Whether it’s five minutes a day or for a month trip overseas. You-time is good for the soul. It regenerates your ummph. Puts a pep in your step. And allows you to think more openly and freely.

Do you know how much I learned about myself by doing things alone? I’ve traveled alone and learned that I’m able to hold my own in hectic situations. I’ve gone to the movies alone and figured out that I didn’t look weird by doing it, and I really enjoyed not talking throughout the film. I’ve gone to an opera alone, I’ve had coffee and alone and read a book, I’ve been to networking events alone and was made to feel like an outsider because I hadn’t come with anyone. You win some. You lose some, but it’s a very cool experience to be ok with yourself. You don’t always have to depend on another person to dictate whether you have fun or not or are able to experience the fullness of that activity.

So, Leah V. what are you doing for V-Day? Well, if you must know. I’ll be on my first “Eat. Pray. Love.” trip to London. This is my first time overseas without my ex. It’s very bittersweet. I want to prove to myself that I can and I will. And, I’m so hardcore that I’m not even going with a friend. Yeah, they’re still hurt by it, but this is my journey that I have to take alone. I want to explore the culture without bounds, I want to get lost on the ‘tube’, and party with the locals. I want to take a train to Paris and see the Eiffel Tower and take one of those very touristy photos in front of it. I want to eat good food and take cabs to nowhere. I want to take weird selfies and visit the Royal Palace.

And, that’s what I plan to do.

But, if you’re not planning on taking a trip or don’t have a bae, it’s all good. I want you to get dressed anyway, put on some falsies, go buy an expensive yet not-expensive matte lippie, and be your own bae. Make a fancy reservation at a posh restaurant with some girlfriends and have a photoshoot in the bathroom. Post it on social media so everyone with a man can be jealous that you’re having soooo much fun basking in the glow of your single-dom!

As always, you know I have to give you the word with a dose of V-Day outfit inspirations.         

Xoxo,

Leah V.