“My Body” by Eriell Coleman

They called me fat. Over and over again.

The truth is, I wasn’t even fat. Not that it should matter. But I wasn’t. I was just a girl with a body, normal, growing, soft in places, strong in others. But for some reason, they chose me. Maybe because I was quiet. Maybe because I didn’t fit in perfectly. Or maybe because it’s easier to break someone else than face your own cracks.

At first, I laughed it off. Pretended it didn’t sting. I told myself they were joking, that I was being sensitive. But it wasn’t a joke when it kept happening. When I heard them whisper about me during gym class. When I caught someone saying “Fi fo fum” as I walked passed. When I avoided tight clothes, mirrors, and sitting at certain angles just to feel a little safer in my own skin.

I started believing them. Every comment, every look, every giggle chipped away at the way I saw myself. I’d stare at my reflection and pinch parts of my body I didn’t used to think about. I would overthink every bite of food. I would wish I could just shrink. Be smaller. Invisible. Gone.

And I got angry. Not just sad, angry. I started pushing people away. Being cold and sharp. I thought that if I acted like I didn’t care, they couldn’t hurt me anymore. If I looked unbothered, if I became the girl with the sarcastic comebacks and the hard stare, maybe they’d stop. Maybe they’d be afraid of me the way I was afraid of them.

But all that did was make me feel even more alone.

I didn’t tell anyone what I was going through. Not my parents, not my two faced friends. I didn’t want to seem dramatic. I didn’t want to be a burden. But the thoughts kept piling up, heavy and loud. I started thinking about hurting myself. Not because I wanted to die, but because I wanted

the pain in my chest to have somewhere else to go. Somewhere I could control. Somewhere visible.

But I never went through with it…I couldn’t. A part of me, maybe the smallest part..still hoped. Still believed that things could get better. So instead of hurting myself, I tried writing things down. Every ugly thought, every moment I wanted to disappear, I wrote it out. It didn't last long as a kid but now I find talking about my past helps me heal in the present. I express myself through poems and creative writing. I cried. A lot. And it didn’t fix everything, but it helped me breathe.

Slowly, I started realizing, the problem was never my body. It was theirs. Their cruelty. Their insecurity. Their need to tear others down to feel tall. No, knowing that doesn’t erase the damage, but it gave me back a little power. A little clarity.

I’m still not fully healed. I still catch myself sucking in my stomach in pictures. I still hear echoes of their words when I try on new clothes. I still struggle with letting people in, afraid they’ll hurt me too. But I’m learning.

I’m learning that being soft isn’t a weakness. That being kind doesn’t mean being silent. That my body…my actual body, is not something to be ashamed of. It moves, it carries me, it deserves love. And so do I.

Some days are still hard. Some days I slip back into old thoughts, old habits. More and more, I fight back. I talk to myself like someone I care about. I remind myself that I’m more than what they said about me. More than a number. More than a body.

And maybe, just maybe, I’ll get to a place where I believe that fully.

Until then, I’m still here. Still fighting. Still hoping.