I’ve been gently asked by the Universe to prod my feelings about fatness and fat people.

I’ve gradually added people on social media to make my feed more size inclusive. I’ve followed the movement in the sewing community to hold pattern makers accountable for providing inclusive sizing.

And I’ve been reading Lindy West.

I was in my early twenties and taking courses towards my nursing degree when I attended one Saturday Anatomy and Physiology class wearing a shirt that said “Chubs.” My professor asked me about it.

“Oh, it’s just an inside joke in my family,” I said carelessly. We’d been calling baby carrots “chubs,” and then it became something we called each other, with variations ad infinitum, including the plural “chubs and ubs,” and so on.  We made shirts. We never thought too much about it.

The professor looked me in the eye. He said, “You can do that because you’re not fat.”

Well.

I never stopped thinking about what he said.

It’s utterly gross to have your face stuck in your privilege, and yet it is necessary. It is necessary to be taught in our culture that fat is more than all the negative stereotypes it’s associated with. Fat is the home of interesting, funny, beautiful people whose size doesn’t make them less amazing.

At work, I use my body to serve others and to help them get well. It often literally means leveraging my physical strength to turn the bodies of those who are unable to move themselves to help them get comfortable or to prevent bed sores. The bigger a person is, the more people are required to assist when the patient needs to be moved.

We have tools at work to help make this easier, including specialty beds and chairs made for larger bodies. Technically called Bariatric Beds, we casually refer to them as Big Boy Beds; the recliners, Big Boy Chairs.

When we are getting report from the nurses down in the ED, and a big patient is coming up to the floor, we have to communicate about if we have a bed that can handle the person’s weight or enough staff to move the person without anyone being injured.

The way we talk about this at work can be professional and matter-of-fact, but it can also slide into toxic, as can so many things that have to do with fear and negative social training.

The last time I was at work, this happened. A mistake was made when entering a patient’s weight in the computer, and one of our nurses thought the patient being admitted was much larger than they were. It wasn’t handed professionally.

I felt disgusting and disgusted hearing the conversation between my coworker and the ER nurse (perhaps they were disgusted with themselves as well), but I didn’t say anything, because I want to be liked.

I’m familiar with the idea of being an ally. I look for opportunities to be one, but sometimes, that opportunity presents itself and instead of calmly speaking up, my posture is more akin to a wilted piece of lettuce.

That’s why it felt important to read Lindy West. I recently finished one of her books, Shrill. I won’t lie, it made me uncomfortable. It also made me laugh.

I know what it is to be a woman in this world. I don’t know what it is to be fat. Or non-white. Or from a gender identity or sexuality that isn’t accepted.

This comes back to being able to hold space for people to be vulnerable. It comes down to learning how to speak up when an injustice is being done. It’s about being an advocate for people who may not even be in the room.

I’ve lived my whole life in a body that society says is within the accepted ideal. It’s still taken my whole life to even start to learn to love myself. The structures of society are built on the idea that if people feel inadequate, they will spend money to fix their “problems,” real or perceived. Like everyone else, I digest media informing me of everything I lack. I walk around feeling like I’m missing an essential something without which I will never be whole.

Some say that something is our God-shaped hole.

I can’t know what it’s like to live in a body that society says is Not OK. I caught a glimpse, unmarried and pregnant at 21, but most of that revulsion probably came from within. Living in an socially unacceptable body must create a chasm to cross on the path to self love. Swimming upstream is exhausting.

I wish we didn’t live in a world that made it so hard to love the bodies we’re in, no matter what they look like, and by extension, the meat suits of others, as well. Why can’t we provide a place where everyone is worthy of human dignity no matter what they bring to the table?

I’m thinking of the homeless man I saw on the corner today, with sandals and no coat. I’m thinking of the article on hostile architecture I read that brought that man back to mind.

I’m thinking of the person down in the emergency who wasn’t actually fat but could have been. I’m thinking of the nurses and patients who witnessed the joking conversation betweeen my colleagues, and my inability to speak up.

Read Shrill. Squirm a bit. Dare yourself to look at a fat person in a different way than you’ve been trained to. Dare yourself to look at your own self with loving eyes. Challenge the stories you’ve been telling yourself.

There are too many aspects of our world that literally thrive on the discomfort of others. Is there something you can do about it?

Keep an eye out on Monday for a dedicated Lindy West book post. It also serves as a much-needed movie guide for those of us who feel we’ve exhausted current sources of entertainment.