Since losing a decent chunk of weight in adolescence and narrowly avoiding heading into high school as a plus-sized 13-year-old, an obsession formed. Hovering anywhere from a size 10 to a roomier size 12 for the past 15 years, I always figured that no matter how much weight I gained or lost, I would always be fine as long as I wasn’t a “plus size.” It just wasn’t a possibility, and in my mind, if I hit that point, then I had lost the war and life would end as I knew it.
Well here I am – universally staring at the lower end of a size 14, which is officially deemed as plus size (or size 12 if you’re Forever 21 and feed off the crushed souls of women everywhere) and guess what? I’m not writing this from beyond the grave – I’m fine. But it’s taken some time to get here.