No One Knows What a Fat Person Goes Through Every Day

Every morning, before I leave my apartment, I look in the mirror.

Not because I want to.

Because I have to prepare myself.

Not for the day.

For the reactions.

There’s a moment — just a few seconds — when I study my own face, my own body, and try to predict how the world will treat me.

Will today be neutral?

Will today be humiliating?

Or will today be invisible?

Most people don’t have to think about this.

But when you’re fat, you learn that your body enters every room before you do.

And sometimes, it speaks louder than your voice ever can.

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The Subway Teaches You Where You Stand

I take the subway every morning in New York City.

It’s crowded. Always crowded.

People squeeze into tight spaces without speaking, without looking, without acknowledging each other.

Except sometimes, they acknowledge you.

Not directly.

But through hesitation.

One morning, I found an empty seat between two people.

Or what looked like an empty seat.

As I moved toward it, the man sitting on the edge shifted slightly. Not enough to block me. Just enough to signal discomfort.

He didn’t look at me.

He didn’t say anything.

He just adjusted his body to protect his space.

I understood immediately.

I kept walking.

Pretended I hadn’t intended to sit there.

Pretended I hadn’t noticed.

When you’re fat, you become fluent in silent rejection.

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Clothing Stores Are Quietly Hostile

A few months ago, I walked into a clothing store in Manhattan.

I wasn’t looking for anything special. Just a shirt.

Something simple.

Something that fit.

I picked up a shirt I liked and checked the size.

Large.

I looked around.

No XL.

No XXL.

I walked to the counter.

“Do you have this in a larger size?” I asked.

The employee didn’t look at the shirt.

He looked at me.

Then he said, “No.”

Not apologetically.

Not regretfully.

Just factually.

Like my existence was outside the design of the store.

I nodded.

“Okay.”

I left.

No one followed me.

No one asked if I needed help.

No one expected me to buy anything.

Because they already knew I couldn’t.

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People Think Fat Means Lazy

That’s the assumption.

Not always spoken.

But always present.

One afternoon at work, my coworker Daniel was talking about his gym routine.

“I wake up at 5 a.m. every day,” he said proudly.

He looked at me.

“You should try it. It’s all about discipline.”

He meant well.

I think he meant well.

But discipline wasn’t the problem.

Exhaustion was.

Loneliness was.

Survival was.

He saw my body.

He didn’t see my life.

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No One Sees the Invisible Battles

They don’t see the negotiations.

The internal conversations.

“Don’t eat that.”

“You’ve already eaten enough.”

“You can wait.”

Sometimes you win those conversations.

Sometimes you don’t.

But even when you win, you don’t feel victorious.

You feel temporary.

Like the battle will return tomorrow.

Because it always does.

Hunger isn’t always physical.

Sometimes it’s emotional.

Sometimes it’s existential.

Sometimes it’s the need to feel something other than emptiness.

Food fills space.

Even when it doesn’t solve anything.

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The Worst Part Isn’t Cruelty — It’s Indifference

Cruelty, at least, acknowledges you.

Indifference erases you.

Cashiers avoid eye contact.

Strangers look past you.

You exist in peripheral vision.

But rarely in focus.

One day, I held the door open for someone entering a building.

He walked through.

Didn’t say thank you.

Didn’t look at me.

Just continued forward.

I stood there, holding the door, feeling like part of the architecture.

Functional.

But not human.

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Mirrors Become Complicated

Mirrors don’t lie.

But they don’t explain anything either.

They show you what is.

Not how it happened.

Not why it happened.

Not how to change it.

Just reality.

And sometimes, reality feels permanent.

That’s the most dangerous illusion.

Not that change is impossible.

But that change is inaccessible.

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One Night, Something Unexpected Happened

It was late.

I had just finished work.

I stopped at a small deli to buy water.

The cashier was an older man.

Gray hair. Tired eyes.

He handed me my change and said, casually:

“Long day?”

I nodded.

“Yes.”

He looked at me for a moment.

Then he said:

“Take care of yourself.”

Not in a generic way.

In a sincere way.

Like he understood something.

I nodded again.

“I will.”

It was a small interaction.

Forgettable, to most people.

But to me, it was evidence.

Evidence that I was visible.

That I existed.

That I wasn’t just a body occupying space.

I was a person.

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The Truth No One Talks About

Being fat doesn’t just change how you look.

It changes how you move through the world.

How the world moves around you.

It teaches you awareness.

Not confidence.

Not at first.

Awareness.

Awareness of space.

Awareness of judgment.

Awareness of invisibility.

You learn to read people quickly.

You learn to anticipate discomfort.

You learn to minimize yourself.

Not physically.

Socially.

Existentially.

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But There Is Something Else No One Talks About

Strength.

Not physical strength.

Psychological strength.

Because continuing to exist in a world that constantly misunderstands you requires resilience.

Getting up.

Going outside.

Facing people.

Facing yourself.

That is strength.

Even if no one applauds it.

Even if no one notices.

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What I Wish People Understood

Most fat people already know they’re fat.

They don’t need reminders.

They don’t need advice from strangers.

They don’t need solutions shouted from a distance.

What they need is what everyone needs.

Recognition.

Dignity.

Humanity.

Because beneath every body is a person navigating a life no one else can fully see.

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The Truth Is Simple

No one knows what a fat person goes through every day.

Not completely.

Not fully.

Not unless they’ve lived it.

But they wake up.

They go outside.

They exist.

Despite discomfort.

Despite judgment.

Despite invisibility.

And sometimes, that quiet persistence is the strongest thing a person can do.