I'm twelve, trying on shorts for the summer. I pull on a pair, and I can tell right away they will fit. Finally, something fits! I try to zip them up, but they won't budge; a broken zipper. I call to my mother through the dressing room door: "Mom, the zipper is caught on something."

"Yeah, it's caught on your fat."


How ridiculous is it that I still remember this? I remember the wash of the denim, what store we were in, everything. Can't I allow myself to forget something just once? This one moment comes back over and over again, crystal clear, every time I try to lose weight.

So why does it matter? My mom called me fat, big deal. I was fat then, I'm fat now, and even though I am losing weight, I will remain fat (at least for a while.) My mom was always kind of mean to me, and this wasn't the first or the last time. She's said things that were more cruel, and about things that were more important to me. I need to let it die.

It's a reason to stop trying. Someone who is supposed to love you mocks you and makes you feel like being fat is inevitable. So why fight it?