In the fall of 2011, I was a sophomore and had just transferred to The University of Alabama. I had spent the last few years of high school watching people older than me gain the “freshman 15,” and I swore that I would never “let myself go” like they had. Nonetheless, as a sophomore I had gained some weight, but I didn’t spend much time thinking about it. My weight and size became hyper-apparent to me in the early part of that fall semester after I walked past two UA basketball players outside BB Comer Hall, who laughed to each other and whispered too loudly that I looked like the Michelin Man.

After hearing this, I couldn’t wait to get home and take off the tempo shorts and tank top I was wearing and put on sweatpants and a t-shirt instead. After hearing this, I couldn’t wait to become invisible, to cover my body only exposing “appropriate” portions of it. After hearing this, I’ve never worn shorts or a tank top to class again.

I continued gaining weight throughout undergrad and even some in grad school. The more weight I’ve gained, the more I’ve desired invisibility. It’s an interesting paradox, the way fat bodies are both hyper-visible, yet are rendered invisible. We see fat people and call them names, attaching stigma and shame to their bodies, and we construct spaces in which fat bodies are not able to physically and/or comfortably exist. We see fat bodies and police them, taking it onto ourselves to offer medical advice or weight loss suggestions. And when a fat person identifies their body as fat, we feel the need to assure them it’s not – as if there’s an inherent problem with associating with the word.

Fat positivity activists on social media are reclaiming the word “fat.” Reclaiming words is difficult on both a personal and societal level. On a personal level, we have to disassociate the word from the shame, stigma and past traumas it evokes. But how do you forget the pain of having your body made the butt of jokes by being compared to things from the Michelin Man to Fiona from “Shrek?” How do you negotiate the pain of being a sexual assault survivor reading comments online saying that you “don’t ever have to worry about being raped” because of the size of your body? Growing up, my momma told me to tell kids who called me fat at school that “sticks and stones can break my bones, but words will never hurt me.” But the words hurt me, and they continue to do so.

On a societal level, we have to change the cultural connotations and power the word holds. As a society, we have to agree that the social conditions we have constructed regarding body image and size are toxic. Creating conditions in which people want to disappear because of the size of their body is toxic. Creating conditions in which people literally starve themselves to death in order to feel beautiful is toxic. As a society, we have to agree that fat people are more than the butt of jokes or comedic foil characters, and that (despite narratives like Oprah Winfrey’s in her Weight Watchers campaign) fat people can lead happy and fulfilling lives. We must acknowledge that fat people are holistic, multi-dimensional human beings who deserve to be treated as such.

I still feel shame identifying my body as fat, and I am working through that. I remind myself that the stretch marks and scars on my body represent growth and life I’ve lived, despite the moments I wished I could disappear. I remind myself that I am beautiful. I remind myself that I deserve respect, love, and all the other wonderful things life offers, and that my body being fat doesn’t negate that.

I’ve publicly come out about many of my identities in the past, but never my identity as a fat person. So, here I am: reclaiming the power that the word “fat” once had over me and publicly and proudly pronouncing my fat identity.

Cassidy Ellis is a graduate student in communication studies.