I Am More Than Enough.

For most of my life, my body felt like a problem I was expected to solve.

I learned early that being plus-size came with conditions. I could be confident, but not too confident. Stylish, but only if I dressed to “flatter” myself. Visible, but preferably quieter than everyone else. My body was treated as a work in progress—something that would be acceptable once it was smaller, tighter, or more socially palatable.

I absorbed those rules without questioning them.

Like many women, I spent years viewing my body through a lens of correction. Clothes were chosen to hide rather than express. Photos were avoided. Mirrors were negotiated with. Even on good days, confidence felt conditional—granted only when I believed I was doing enough to change myself.

What made acceptance harder was how normalised that dissatisfaction was. Diet culture framed discomfort as motivation. Comments disguised as concern reinforced the idea that my body was something to worry about. Loving yourself, I was told, was fine—but loving yourself like this was dangerous, indulgent, or irresponsible.

It took time to realise how damaging that narrative was.

Living in a plus-size body means existing in a world that constantly sends subtle reminders that you take up “too much” space. Seats, clothing sizes, medical conversations, public assumptions—everything feels designed with someone else in mind. Over time, that message seeps inward. You begin to believe that your body is the obstacle standing between you and a full life.

For me, acceptance didn’t arrive as a dramatic moment of self-love. It arrived quietly, through exhaustion.

I grew tired of waiting to feel worthy. Tired of postponing joy until some future version of myself existed. Tired of measuring my value by how well I could make myself smaller—physically or emotionally.

I began to ask different questions.

What if my body wasn’t the problem?

What if it had never been broken?

My body has carried me through illness, fatigue, stress, and change. It has adapted. It has endured. It has kept going even when I was unkind to it. The more I paid attention to what my body does rather than how it looks, the harder it became to hate it.

Accepting my plus-size body didn’t mean I suddenly loved every part of it every day. Acceptance is not constant positivity. It’s respect. It’s neutrality. It’s choosing not to punish myself for existing as I am.

It also meant unlearning the idea that confidence must be earned through suffering.

I am allowed to feel attractive without shrinking.

I am allowed to take up space without apology.

I am allowed to be seen as I am, not as a before photo.

There is a quiet radicalism in deciding you are already enough in a world that profits from convincing you otherwise. That decision doesn’t mean you stop caring for yourself. It means you stop treating your body as an enemy.

I still live in a plus-size body. That hasn’t changed.

What has changed is the story I tell myself about it.

My body is not a limitation on my worth.

It is not a moral failure.

It is not a condition that needs explaining.

I am more than enough—not despite my body, but with it.