Mourning my size XS clothes
I treated my new body like a heinous crime for morphing into something sudden and unexpected.
Content warning: Mentions of body image issues
There is a particular angle I dislike when I get water from our dispenser.
I never knew when it started precisely but I would look at my forearm, annoyed, when it presses the button. Since when has my arm looked more round and vase-like? It has always resembled a stick that was aligned with my tiny, bony wrist. Ever since then, I avoided looking at my arm from the side view. I started refilling my glass with my body farther away from the dispenser, so my arm looked more petite and flatter. That way it formed an illusion of placation that I was still my normal self—I was still thin.
At first, I was silently in denial of my slight weight gain. It’s probably just the angle or the lighting. My friends and family were even incredulous, scolding me for picking up an unhealthy mindset. “Ano ka ba? Payat-payat mo pa rin,” they insisted. I didn’t read much into it until I began scrolling obsessively back to photos from high school and early college. I am taken back to the girl known for having a naturally slim physique and fast metabolism.
Back in school, the litheness of my wrists was treated like a magic trick when measured. I never had toned abs, but I had a flat stomach and a small waist that could endure all the fried food I would immaculately consume. My thighs formed a big gap and my jaw was certainly visible. I wasn’t the best shoulder to cry on when people hugged me, as they jokingly complained it was uncomfortable because my shoulders were too stiff and pointy. I took this as a compliment (and most likely the origin story that explains why physical touch is my least preferred love language).
Anyhow, I couldn’t stop reminiscing about the noticeable glow my body exuded onscreen when I was thinner. I compared them to the photos now, where I mostly covered my figure by hiding behind people. Even the Photos app on my phone recognizes two different people from my debut and my second pandemic birthday. I sat on my toilet—amused then disgusted—when I faced the metal towel lid reflecting my tummy rolls in all their bare glory. I spent a day or two listing theories. Did I self-sabotage my neat streak by eating something I wasn’t supposed to, like when Adam and Eve ate the Forbidden Fruit? Did I start sleeping in the wrong positions? Did I slack off that badly? When did the weight gain exactly start? I treated my new body like a heinous crime for morphing into something sudden and unexpected.
My thinness was my muse. It was the perceptible aspect that spoke on behalf of the feminine and youthful identity I tried so hard to present to the world—the first thing people pointed out, the first thing I based my validation on. Now that some uninvited kilograms have crashed the party, can people still actualize me as the pretty and likable girl they used to know?
I slowly tried accepting this change in my body, telling myself that it was normal. But with all the relatively stable things occurring in my life, this should be my most minor concern. I thought of it as the price—or somewhat side-effect—I had to pay for becoming a self-absorbed academic and workaholic who simply had a poor performance in the self-care department. An indicator of how privileged and petty I can be. I coped by incessantly reminding myself of being blessed to eat 3 meals a day amidst a worldwide plague. There are days when I think I look fine—if I could act vain, even as a joke, then maybe my worries would go away and my confidence might grow back.
Until I see a tagged photo of me that looks completely disorienting from how I actually see myself in the mirror. Until an old friend jokes that I can finally find fitting jeans that aren’t in the tween section. Until a relative says I look unusually chubbier or healthier. And I know most of them have (hopefully) bantered with no malice—it’s a typical Filipino and Asian household. It just never crossed my mind that it’d be scientifically possible for someone to tell me “tumaba ka,” until meetups and parties during the pandemic came. When these words were uttered, my whole world paused and for the first time, it hit me—the rude awakening that my permanent thinness or blessed genes weren’t that true at all. I understood the change in atmosphere, mimicked the pregnant pause, then the shy chuckle my cousins let out when they get comments on their bodies, love life, or work. The baton has been passed to me; it’s ceremonious.
The sentence was easy to brush off initially, but it sent my self-esteem into a spiral. This also contributed to my post-pandemic socialization skills, which even made my awkwardness more striking than ever. I kept invisible tabs on people. I scrutinized our interactions as soon as I got home. Do they think my change was drastic? Have they liked me less already? Was it obvious I was trying hard? I made self-deprecating jokes to keep my head above the water. But when others did it, I just submerged. And it was hard to swim back up.
I thought I would never have to relate to the strict world of collagens, dieting, and exercising. But believe it or not, I have bookmarked tabs on calorie deficit plans and Chloe Ting routines which felt awfully sacrilegious. Shopping for clothes used to be fun until flipping the size tags became a dreadful reminder of my size going up and down from XS, to S, to M. I wore my signature bottoms less; my favorite mini skirts were buried by my stack of long-sleeve shirts and jeans. I performed my expressions in Zoom meetings, making sure my bad angles were out of sight.
I began to skip breakfast sometimes with the excuse of either laziness or busyness but in reality—it was a way to divorce my body. Wrapping the tape measure around my waist and stepping on weighing scales were no sweat, but the two-digit number now sends a pang of guilt when I get my second piece of chicken. I could fit myself between narrow pillars, aisles, and gates like a fluid mermaid. Now, I’m a big fish flailing in the pond, who’s too afraid of making even the smallest splash.
Like a marionette that lost its shine, I feared the cheapening quality of my limbs and its grating rustiness would extract from my enjoyment and appreciation of the other things I love—and more importantly, life. On the internet, I was comforted by fellow women in their 20s with similar experiences on such a personal yet universal topic. Apparently, the overwhelming change is called “body grief.” It’s a relief that I wasn’t alone in feeling this but a protracted ordeal that many of us still endure. “Our younger bodies were children, we have to accept that,” one of them wrote.
No one told us we’d be envying our younger selves by trying to live through them vicariously in our 20s. No one gave us the heads up that when the purpose of the sterilization of beauty reveals itself, we’ll be mourning our teenagehood desperately. We’re just warned that when we hit our 30s, we’ll expire if we don’t settle down with a man or become corporate girl bosses.
I was culture-shocked to see my thin fantasy slowly wane, and it was wounding. But it was more self-destructive of me to think that it was my thinness that made me an invincible and exceptional person. When I see thin and fashionable teens or even people my age, I see myself (my old self, rather). I mask that timid jealousy. I grieve the loss of consistent ego-stroking compliments I receive on celebrations; that I look like this certain thin, black-haired, mestiza celebrity (though they can be exaggerations, that’s the point!).
Perhaps I can’t maintain or replicate my prime—my body exactly as it was when I was a teenager permanently. But I realized I wanted to be my younger self for once—not the teenager, but the kid—who was still oblivious to the percentages and nutritional facts behind food packaging and the puritanical demands of beauty. I’ve never had a perfect relationship with my body in the first place, and it’s time to come to terms with that. I’m back to enjoying food unapologetically while getting balanced portions, I can face the cameras with a newfound smile, and I try to refrain from defensively shrugging off or devaluing people’s genuine compliments. And although progress is never linear, I think I’m still getting somewhere.
When I throw or donate the favorite clothes I’ve outgrown, I hope I won’t confuse myself for something that’s easily disposable or replaceable too.