Just as you have, I have spent a truly impressive amount of my life being judged. And, if nothing else, I have to admire the consistency.
When I was over 400 pounds, people judged my body.
I was too big. I needed to lose weight. I needed to take better care of myself. I needed to eat differently, move more, try harder. Because obviously, anyone existing in a larger body has never heard those groundbreaking suggestions before. Thank God someone finally cracked the code.
Then I lost the weight. A lot of it.
And suddenly?
I was too skinny.
I needed to eat more. I looked different. Was I taking weight meds? On drugs? Had I lost too much? (Don’t worry, most weren’t talking about it out of concern or they would have asked me or asked the questions about my health, I know who is genuinely concerned and who are just assholes. 🙄 )
Well, shit.
Apparently there was a very specific acceptable body somewhere between those two versions of me, and unfortunately nobody bothered to provide the measurements.
But it wasn’t only my body.
I’ve been judged for the way I’ve lived my entire life.
For years, I bent over backward for people. Actually, that’s inaccurate. I bent backward, sideways, upside down, tied myself into a decorative little bow and probably apologized for taking up too much space while doing it.
I said yes when every part of me wanted to say no. I showed up exhausted. I answered the phone. I fixed the problem. I carried things that were never mine to carry because I loved people and somewhere along the way I learned that love meant being useful.
Be dependable.
Be helpful.
Be easy.
Be strong.
Don’t inconvenience anyone with your own needs.
People liked that version of me. She was incredibly convenient. She could be falling apart internally and still ask you if you needed anything.
Then chronic illness came along and started teaching me lessons I had absolutely no interest in learning. My body started creating boundaries before my brain was brave enough to.
Suddenly, I couldn’t always push through.
Sometimes I had to cancel. Sometimes the pain won. Sometimes fatigue wasn’t something another cup of coffee and a sarcastic comment could fix. Sometimes my brain simply would not cooperate, no matter how desperately I needed it to.
And somehow chronic illness comes with its own fascinating little collection of judgments.
You don’t look sick.
You’re too young to have all of that wrong with you.
But you were fine yesterday.
Maybe you just need more sleep.
Maybe you should exercise more.
Maybe it’s stress.
Maybe it’s your diet.
Maybe—
Maybe my immune system is just an asshole, Karen. 🙄
I’ve learned that apparently you’re supposed to look sick enough for people to believe you’re sick, but not so sick that your illness becomes inconvenient.
You should be strong, but not talk about how much strength actually costs.
You should continue living normally, but also take care of yourself.
You should rest when you need to, unless your need for rest interferes with someone else’s plans.
And God forbid you look good while you’re sick.
Because apparently makeup, curled hair and a decent outfit can cure autoimmune disease.
Who knew?
I became very good at looking okay. Maybe too good.
Because people often confuse carrying something well with it not being heavy.
They see the smile. The makeup. The hair. The heels. The career. The jokes. The loud laugh.
They don’t always see the nights when my body hurts so badly I don’t know how I’m going to do it again tomorrow.
They don’t see the brain fog that makes me question myself.
They don’t see the grief that comes from remembering who I used to be—or who I thought I would become—before my body started renegotiating the terms of my life without asking permission.
They don’t see how humiliating it can feel to need help when you’ve spent your entire life being the helper.
Or the guilt of saying no when your heart desperately wants to say yes.
They just see the version of me I managed to get out the door.
And then came healing.
Which, as it turns out, pisses some people off too.
Because healing isn’t just bubble baths, inspirational quotes and drinking water out of an aggressively oversized emotional-support tumbler.
Sometimes healing is ugly.
Sometimes healing is grieving.
Sometimes healing is realizing that the survival mechanisms that kept you alive are now slowly destroying you.
Sometimes it’s looking at relationships, friendships, family dynamics and even your marriage and asking:
Can I keep being who I am becoming and still survive here?
That’s a brutal question. Because sometimes the answer is no.
I spent fourteen years creating a life with someone I loved. And deciding to go our own ways didn’t magically erase that love. Divorce didn’t suddenly rewrite the entire story and turn every beautiful chapter into a lie.
Two things can be true.
Someone can be a good person and still no longer be the right person for the life you’re growing into. You can be grateful for the life you shared and devastated that it ended. You can mourn what you thought your future would look like while still knowing you cannot keep abandoning yourself to preserve it.
And yes—people will judge that too.
They’ll wonder what happened. They’ll choose sides. They’ll fill in blanks they were never invited to fill.
They’ll decide who was right and who was wrong based on tiny pieces of a story they never lived.
Some will think you should have stayed.
Others will think you should have left sooner.
Some will believe you changed too much.
And maybe I did.
I hope I did.
Because I don’t want to spend an entire lifetime surviving things without allowing them to change me.
I don’t want pain to make me cruel. But I also don’t want kindness to keep making me available for my own destruction.
There is a difference.
I’m learning it.
Slowly. Sometimes painfully.
And always with an impressive amount of swearing.
I was judged when I gave everything to everyone.
Then I learned the word boundary and, even more scandalously, started using one.Suddenly I was different.
Suddenly I was different.
Selfish.
Difficult.
Cold.
Apparently, “I can’t do that today” sounds remarkably offensive when people are accustomed to you saying, “Don’t worry. I’ll figure it out.”
I’ve been judged for working too much and for needing rest.
For being too independent and for admitting I need people.
For being loud and for the years I made myself small.
For staying.
For leaving.
For forgiving.
For finally saying enough.
For loving too hard.
For protecting my heart.
For being strong.
For breaking.
For changing.
For healing.
For becoming someone certain people no longer recognize.
And maybe that’s the part I’ve had to make peace with:
There is no version of me that everyone will approve of.
There never was.
Because the goalposts will always move.
Become smaller and someone thinks you’re too thin.
Become confident and someone thinks you’re full of yourself.
Become successful and someone thinks you’ve forgotten where you came from.
Become softer and someone thinks you’re weak.
Become stronger and someone thinks you’re cold.
Give endlessly and they’ll tell you that you need to take better care of yourself.
Start taking care of yourself and they’ll call you selfish.
Stay in something painful and they’ll ask why you don’t leave.
Leave and they’ll ask why you didn’t try harder.
Talk about chronic illness and you’re complaining.
Hide it and apparently you can’t possibly be that sick.
Heal and people will miss the version of you who tolerated things the healed version no longer will.
You cannot fucking win.
And maybe that’s the freedom in all of this.
Maybe you’re not supposed to.
Maybe the goal was never to finally contort myself into the one magical version of me that nobody could criticize.
Maybe the goal is simply to become someone I can live with.
Someone I respect when the room is empty.
Someone who can admit when she’s wrong.
Someone who apologizes when she hurts people but doesn’t apologize simply because someone dislikes her choices.
Someone who is kind without becoming a doormat.
Generous without emptying herself.
Strong without pretending she never needs somewhere safe to fall apart.
Someone who still believes deeply in love after learning that love doesn’t always mean forever.
Someone who can live in a body that sometimes betrays her without spending every day hating it for what it can no longer do.
Someone who can grieve the woman she used to be while still being curious about the woman she’s becoming.
Because some of my old versions were drowning while making damn sure everyone around them stayed comfortably dry.
I love those versions of me. They got me here.
They survived things I didn’t yet know how to heal.
But I don’t owe anyone my suffering simply because they preferred me before I started getting better.
I don’t owe anyone unlimited access to me because I once struggled to say no.
I don’t owe anyone the old version of me in any form –
My body.
My marriage.
My life.
My capacity.
My beliefs.
Or myself.
People are allowed to misunderstand me.
That’s a hard sentence for someone who spent most of her life desperately wanting to be understood.
People are allowed to be disappointed in me.
They’re allowed to disagree with my decisions.
They’re allowed to think I’ve changed.
They’re even allowed to decide I’m not their cup of tea.
That’s okay.
I’m probably more like tequila anyway 😜 – A little loud, occasionally questionable and known to result in stories people tell for years.
But beneath the jokes, this is what I know now:
I don’t want to reach the end of my life and realize I spent it auditioning for acceptance.
I don’t want to spend another decade measuring my worth by how useful I can be to everyone around me.
I don’t want to make myself smaller—physically, emotionally, spiritually or otherwise—so someone else can feel bigger.
I don’t want to keep breaking my own heart just so nobody can accuse me of breaking theirs.
I want to live.
Really live.
In whatever body carries me through it.
I want to laugh obnoxiously loud.
Love people ridiculously hard.
Rest when my body demands it.
Work hard when I can.
Travel.
Wear the outfit.
Change my mind.
Take the picture.
Say no.
Say yes.
Start over.
Fall apart occasionally.
Put myself back together differently.
And keep becoming.
Not because everyone understands it.
Not because everyone approves.
Not because I’ve finally figured out how to fit into some universally acceptable mold.
But because this is my one wild, messy, painful, beautiful life.
So let them think you’re too big.
Too skinny.
Too loud.
Too quiet.
Too independent.
Too needy.
Too ambitious.
Too emotional.
Too sick to do something.
Not sick enough to need help.
Too changed after the divorce.
Too guarded after the heartbreak.
Too different after the healing.
Let them feel however they feel about you.
Their feelings are real.
But they are theirs. (And quite frankly, none of your business)
You don’t have to carry those too.
You will never fit everyone’s mold.
And thank God for that.
Because maybe a good life isn’t one where everybody likes you.
Maybe it’s much simpler.
Be a good person.
Do the right thing when nobody is watching.
Own your mistakes.
Apologize when you’ve caused harm.
Give grace when you can.
Hold boundaries when you need to.
Love people well without abandoning yourself in the process.
Live your truth.
Find your happiness.
Protect your people.
Discover your peace.
Leave people and places a little better than you found them whenever you can.
And then let people feel however the hell they want to feel about you.
Because after spending so much of my life trying to fit into everyone else’s mold, I’m finally realizing something:
I was never meant to fit the mold.
&
People will always have something to say when they are unhappy with theirselves. (That is something they should work on, but not my luggage to carry – it doesn’t match mine, anyway. 🤷♀️)
I was meant to become myself.
And I am pretty fucking amazing.
-🩷-
desiree.angelica 