The Overbooked Life

By Someone Who Knows Better Now

In this day and age, it’s heartbreaking to see how common body image mocking still is. At the same time, sadly, it’s not surprising. We’ve developed a nasty habit as a society—this addiction to believing we know what everyone should look like. Somewhere along the way, we forgot a very simple truth: there have been entire periods in human history where women with thicker bodies were considered the pinnacle of beauty.

Being curvier once signified wealth, fertility, and health. In the Middle Ages, a fuller figure was not only normal—it was desired. Yes, of course, their concept of health was different than ours. But the point still stands: beauty standards are cultural and they are fluid.

But today? It feels like if you don’t fit into a narrow, often impossible mold, you’re treated like something’s wrong with you.

I say this as someone who was once guilty of holding those same judgmental beliefs.

Not when I was 16. Not even at 19. I’m talking into my twenties—full-on adult years. I used to look at people with larger bodies and think, “I’ll never let myself get like that.” I curled my lip. I judged. I thought it was always a result of laziness, or overeating, or not caring about your body.

In a word: I was ignorant.

The world I grew up in? We all had our own version of being sheltered. In my version, if someone was overweight, it was their own fault. Self-neglect and poor choices. That’s what I was shown. That’s what I believed. And now, sitting here almost twice the age I was then, I know how dead wrong I was.

It’s so easy to assume someone is overweight because they “just let themselves go.” But that’s the lazy assumption. It’s the assumption of someone who doesn’t understand medical complexity, genetics, or the impact of trauma.

Let’s talk about Marilyn Monroe. Most people picture her as this tiny pin-up figure, but she was actually a size 14–18 by today’s standards. So let’s quit pretending that only one kind of body has ever been beautiful.

I write this now as a thicker woman myself—someone who used to believe in the cookie-cutter ideals of beauty and health. Someone who was “educated” by life, and not gently. My body has become my teacher, and the lessons have been hard-earned.

You want to know the reality of being mocked or silently judged for your body?

It’s not just the comments. It’s not even always the stares. It’s the thoughts that echo in your own head long after.

Thoughts like:

• “Maybe I need to work out more.”
• “This is where my self-esteem came to die.”
• “This is the result of being gross.”
• “No one wants your drooping belly.”
• “You’re disgusting, better layer up to hide the rolls.”

Those weren’t random insults I heard from someone else. Those were the thoughts I had this very morning as I stood in front of the mirror getting dressed for work.

Then I sit at my desk, feel the waistband of my pants dig in, and think:

• “Maybe I should’ve worn the black ones.”
• “Why did I choose pink? Now I just look bigger.”
• “I should just buy bigger pants before I pop these.”

And here’s the ironic part: people think I wear black because I like it. Truth is, I love bright, bubbly colors. But black? Black is slimming. It hides the parts of me I’m still ashamed of. It keeps me invisible where I want to disappear.

All of that mental weight sits on my shoulders before I even open my work emails. It drains my focus, affects my confidence, and makes it that much harder to perform well.

And yet, I know why I look the way I do. I know this body isn’t the result of laziness, or overeating, or neglect. And no, eating just salads and “healthy” foods won’t fix what’s broken inside me.

I have a thyroid condition.

After my second pregnancy, I was diagnosed. No shock—my mom has it. So did my grandmother. It runs deep in our bloodline. Before that? I was rail thin. I could eat like a bottomless pit and not gain an ounce. But that wasn’t health either.

Turns out I had Graves’ disease, an autoimmune disorder that causes hyperthyroidism. It went undiagnosed for years. Growing up poor, food was scarce. Combine that with a disease that kept my metabolism in overdrive? I was malnourished, anxious, thin—and unwell.

Let me give you a quick list of what Graves’ disease can do:

• Weight loss despite constant hunger
• Fast heartbeat, nervousness, irritability
• Menstrual changes
• Extreme fatigue
• Bulging eyes and skin issues (Graves’ dermopathy)

My body went from one extreme to another. From too thin to what some might now label “too much.” But it wasn’t my choice either way.

Now I live in a body that doesn’t reflect the effort I put in. It reflects years of autoimmune battles, pregnancies, surgeries, and hormonal warfare.

So yes, I used to be one of them—the people who judged. I used to look at bodies like mine and think, “That will never be me.”

But here I am. And I finally see the truth: Bodies are not billboards for discipline or self-worth. You can’t read someone’s habits, trauma, or medical history by looking at them.

And if you think you can?

You’re still ignorant. Just like I once was.

Until next time, keep the coffee strong and the chaos manageable.