LISTEN TO ARTICLESynthesized Narration • 0:00 / 0:00

We never owned a body mirror. Not the kind that shows everything—the kind that forces you to face the reflection you’ve been running from. Maybe that’s mercy. Because I know that if I ever saw myself completely, I might not recognize who’s looking back. But mirrors are everywhere. On windows, phone screens, dark glass doors—they wait. They wait for me to look, to flinch, to remember what I am. Fat. Not the word people try to soften with “curvy” or “plus-size.” Just fat. A word that sticks to me heavier than the flesh it describes. I wake up in a reality where, at such a young age, I already know how to intricately observe my body in a mirror. I learned to pull my shirt down to hide my stomach, to cross my arms when I laugh, to position myself behind someone thinner during photos. I mastered the art of disappearing while standing in plain sight. I never cut myself, but my body seems to listen anyway. It breaks in ways no one sees. My body expands, softens, stretches, and the stretch marks carve themselves into me like quiet scars. They say scars come from battles you’ve survived—but what about the ones from wars you never even won? My stretch marks are my silent confessions: proof that I’ve been fighting something invisible, something that keeps whispering I’m not enough. Or worse, that I’m too much. There were days I ate less—tiny meals, skipped lunches, cups of water to trick my hunger. I liked the feeling of my stomach folding inward, like punishment disguised as progress. Then, there were nights when I ate too much, when control slipped through my fingers and I tried to fill the ache I couldn’t name. Food became both my comfort and my guilt, my escape and my cage. I wore girdles until breathing felt like a luxury. Tight enough to hurt, tight enough to make me believe that pain equals change. I’d stand in front of a mirror, watching my reflection gasp for air, as if flattening my stomach could flatten my shame too. I told myself it was worth it—that maybe one day, I’d wake up smaller. But mirrors never lie, and my reflection never changed. In clothes stores, I’d laugh it off when girls joked that my shoe size matched their dad’s. I’d smile, but inside, I’d shrink. I hated saying my shirt size, hated watching others blink before pretending it didn’t surprise them. I feared getting clothes as gifts because deep down, I knew what would happen—the fabric would stretch, the buttons would pull, and everyone would realize what I’ve known all along: it will never fit. I will never fit. I couldn’t even explain the irony of it all—that being fat somehow means being strong. “Kalaki-laki mong tao, iyakin ka?” As if the flesh I carry automatically grants me courage. They don’t admire me—they just assume that being massive means strength, that my body’s size means I can endure anything. But I am soft. A huggable one. A person you will “gigil” and pinch, my cheeks and stomach treated like toys for amusement. They laugh, not knowing that every touch leaves a mark deeper than fingers ever could. I’m indeed the opposite of strong. I am soft in ways that ache. They think my arms can carry their words, my chest can absorb their laughter, my size can protect me from pain. But what they don’t know is that this body breaks quietly—not with cracks, but with silence. Every joke I laugh off, every stare I pretend not to see, every name I let pass—they all pile up inside me until even breathing feels like lifting something heavy. It’s funny, isn’t it? They call me strong, but I can’t even stand to look at myself. Even my own family has something to say. “Sayang, gaganda ka talaga lalo kapag pumayat ka.” they tell me, like beauty is a prize I have to earn by starving. They laugh about how heavy I’ve gotten, how I take after no one but myself. They don’t mean harm—or so they say—but words don’t have to cut to wound. And maybe that’s why I always stay home. Maybe that’s why I’ve learned to hide in the only place where no one can look at me too long. I don’t know what’s worse—seeing my reflection or pretending it isn’t there. Because even when I look away, I can still feel it. The fat’s reflection follows me in whispers, in stares, in the space I take up. Still, I breathe. I eat. I exist. And maybe that’s enough for now. Because even if I can’t love what I see yet, I’m still here—alive in a body that refuses to vanish, surviving in the reflection that everyone says I should hide. But maybe one day, the mirror won’t win. Maybe one day, I’ll stop treating my body like a sin that needs forgiveness. Maybe I’ll stop apologizing for being too visible, too heavy, too real. Because the truth is—this body carried me through every humiliation, every hunger, every stare. This body endured, even when I didn’t want to. And maybe that’s the real miracle— that after all the names, the shame, the endless mirrors that tried to break me— I’m still here. Breathing. Existing. Not beautiful. Not small. Just me. And this time, that will have to mean something. Because this is the body that never gave up on me, even when I gave up on it—even when the mirror tries to shatter me.