What If I’m the One Holding Me Back?
It’s late. The kind of late that cracks you open.
I had one of those quiet breakthroughs—the type that only seems to arrive when the world is still and your mind finally gets a word in. And this one landed hard: I’m a fat person who’s fatphobic… toward myself.
Not toward others. Toward me.
And I hate that.
Why I Still Hold Myself Back
I almost booked a paddleboarding lesson last year. I did all the things—I asked for the info, bought the bathing suit and wetsuit, saved the schedule. I was ready. And then I vanished.
I ghosted the idea of it completely.
Because underneath all that prep, I was scared:
scared I’d be the biggest person there
scared I wouldn’t have the strength to pull myself back up on the board
scared I’d panic in the water, out of my element
scared of being bad at something and being seen doing it
It wasn’t just physical fear. It was existential. It was the fear of being visible and ridiculed. Of not being enough. Or worse, of being too much.
I self-rejected before anyone else could.
This isn’t just about body image. This is tangled in my internalized ableism too. I’ve spent years overriding my own needs to “prove” I can keep up. That I’m not a burden. That I don’t need help.
I ignore fatigue. I power through sensory overwhelm. I tell myself “you should be able to handle this,” and then spiral when I can’t.
So much of it boils down to the same thought: You don’t deserve ease until you’re better. But better never comes. Because better was never the point.
The funny thing is, I’m surrounded by people who live in the fullness I want for myself. My friend Poppy, for example. She probably doesn’t even realise she’s doing it half the time, but the way she exists—in her body, in her joy, in her passion—gives me permission to do the same.
She believes in me. In my products. In my ideas. And when someone really sees you and holds space for your magic without asking you to shrink first—it changes you.
We bounce off each other creatively, and that back-and-forth fills me up in a way that quiets the noise. Even just for a while.
Lately, I’ve started booing the inner critic in my head. Out loud, if I need to. It sounds silly, but it helps interrupt the loop.
“Do I actually believe that?”
“Is this mine or something I absorbed?”
“Do I want this? Or am I just afraid of not being good at it?”
When I slow it down, I can usually find the root. And if the root’s rotten, I don’t need to keep watering it.
Being Perceived Is a Mindfuck
This came up in full force recently while performing with my band, Gravity. I love performing. I also want to crawl into a hole when I see unflattering footage afterward.
Every time someone films me on stage—without warning, from angles I didn’t pick—I’m reminded how much I still struggle with being perceived. I live in my head so much, I forget I even have a body sometimes. I feel like a floating consciousness who just happens to be borrowing a vessel. And when I see it reflected back at me on screen, it’s… jarring.
It forces me to confront the dissonance between how I feel and how I look. And that’s been a deep part of my healing, especially while doing vocal rehab and physically retraining my muscles. Because it’s not just emotional—it’s embodied.
I Don’t Want to Shrink to Be Loved
I’m so tired of seeing ozempic ads and weight loss content on my feed. I’m tired of watching people I admire fall into the idea that they have to shrink to be happy. It breaks my heart, because I get it. I do.
When it’s quiet and I’m tired, I wonder—should I be doing that too?
But those thoughts don’t feel like mine. They feel like other people’s hands rearranging the furniture in my brain. I don’t want to chase weight loss to be palatable. I want to build a body that feels powerful, that holds me through life. I want stamina, joy, strength—not compliance.
I Don’t Want to Be the Before Photo
I want to feel free in my body now.
Not later. Not when I’m smaller. Not when I can paddleboard without pausing to catch my breath. Now.
Because the truth is, what I’ll leave behind won’t be my body. It’ll be my joy. My impact. The words I write. The calm I bring. The laughter I share. The hands I hold.
And that version of me—the one who lives in moments, not mirrors—that’s who I’m fighting to stay connected to.
If You’re Still Scared, You’re Not Alone
If you’re like me—dodging life because you’re scared of how you’ll be seen—I want you to know that I see you. I am you.
But the truth is:
You don’t have to earn joy through suffering.
You don’t have to shrink to be worthy of space.
You don’t have to wait until you feel confident to try new things.
You get to show up scared. You get to be bad at things. You get to wear the wetsuit and fall off the board and laugh.
That’s not failure. That’s aliveness.
And I want more of that.
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