There’s an unsettling paradox in living as a fat person: you are both hyper-visible and completely unseen. For many, your fatness becomes your only defining trait, overshadowing everything else. Strangers jeer, mock, or hurl insults, unable to look past your body. Whether I’m walking home, posting online, or even unlocking my front door, unsolicited abuse about my size finds me.

I still recall the first sting — I was a lonely 14-year-old at a bus stop when a passing car of men yelled “whale.” That single word marked the start of decades shaped by fatphobia. It clipped my confidence, silencing me in public spaces and instilling fear whenever I stood before a crowd.

Yet, while being targeted is brutal, the invisibility cuts just as deep. I shrink myself, hoping not to draw attention, but others do it for me too — avoiding eye contact, pretending I’m not there. Beyond individual acts, the systemic erasure is glaring. From media to festivals, discussions about fatness and body image are conspicuously absent. Vogue’s recent Hairspray-themed spread, featuring only thin actors in a story historically about fatness, epitomizes this exclusion.

What’s more distressing is how even socially aware, empathetic people neglect this issue. Fatphobia isn’t isolated—it’s part of a broader culture that damages everyone, breeding body hatred universally. We are witnessing a disturbing resurgence of toxic thin ideals, especially online, harming young girls and pushing dangerous beauty standards.

Fat people exist, and we deserve space, respect, and representation. If you care about equality, it’s time to stand beside us and speak up.