I know the depths of that joy and excitement in planning to have a child, but for me, it’s layered with fear. My partner and I have been having conversations about having a child sometime in our lives but still, there is something like heavy, unshakeable dread. My partner is a Black woman, and the more we forge ahead, the more the stories and statistics about the alarming rates of complications and even mortality that Black women face in childbirth haunt me.

It terrifies me, actually, just to think that only because of a certain somebody whom I hold so dear, she will be at risk because some system is broken and not because the natural risks involved in childbearing are at play. To be so in love and so excited about family, only to be burdened with the fact that for Black women, having children presents a certain unique and profound peril. I imagine her being dismissed, her pain being chided, and my heart goes out.

You wouldn’t know that by looking at us. Still, it is part of my day: visualizing hospitals and staff of medical professionals, creating options, and even finding an advocate to hire, in a desire for her to get the respect, care, and empathy that are due to her. Nothing every plan, every reading, every advocacy can eliminate one terrible fact: Black women in America have added risks due to systemic racism and neglect.

I hate that this fear even exists, that I have to think about it, that our joy is clouded by an injustice so deep it’s shaped by centuries of prejudice. This fear lives here in the quiet spaces: in the way I think about a future, in the way I look at her and feel in my heart the love we share, the life we want to build. It’s in those fears that, on a day that’s supposed to be nothing less than perfect, I’ll have to fight for her to be seen and heard.

We really don’t talk about this enough weight carried by families like ours. I truly hope sharing this brings to light what has been a reality for many but understood by few. This should not happen to anyone, and it is high time things change.

I’ve always been weird about physical touch. Even from a young age, I have been hyperaware of my body in relation to others’ bodies. I have also always been fat. I have also always been queer.

In first grade during cheer practice, I was always the base. Everyone took turns being a flyer, but I stayed the base. Even at 6 years old I told myself I was too big to be lifted. Even at 6 years old I saw my weight as a burden. Even at 6 years old I felt like people would be repulsed by touching me because I was fat.

Growing up, I was always the biggest person in my friend groups. Everyone around me was tiny and cute. They would pile on top of each other and carry each other and joke about being “too heavy”. I stood to the side and watched. If they were “too heavy” then what was I?. There was no way they would want to carry me or let me be a part of the pile. 

From elementary school through middle school, I remained the biggest girl in class. Then in high school, I came out as a lesbian. And I was still one of the biggest people in class. And was still in a friend group of thin people. I would look around and see all the (straight, thin) girls climbing all over each other and being all touchy-feely with each other without reservation, meanwhile I was too afraid to even hug a person or lean on them. No doubt my weight would crush them. I was probably disgusting to them. I didn’t want to be the weird, predatory, fat lesbian at the all-girls Catholic high school. I didn’t want people to see me as that fat dyke who stands too close for comfort (think Big Boo in Orange is the New Black). So I once again distanced myself. I never leaned on someone unless they leaned on me first. I overthought every interaction. My mind went into a panic whenever I accidentally stepped on someone’s foot or grazed their hand or bumped into them. How could I? How could I enter their personal space? How could I repulse them by my presence.

It is this intersection of being fat and queer that I think has held me back from so many relationships, familial, platonic, romantic, sexual, you name it. Da’Shaun Harrison said it best in Belly of the Beast: “The feeling that your gut is figuratively and literally keeping you from experiencing what it’s like to wrap your whole self around someone and for them to do the same to you is almost suffocating” (Harrison 22). Who would want me? I can’t go on a date because I’m a fat lesbian. I can’t cuddle because I’m a fat lesbian. I can’t have sex because I’m a fat lesbian. No one wants to touch a fat lesbian. 

This insecurity is why I allowed myself to be in a toxic friendship/relationship. She called me beautiful. She allowed me to put my weight on her. She initiated physical contact and made me feel like my body wasn’t a burden. I saw past all the toxic things she did because of the way she treated my body, even though she just wanted to use me to experiment with a (fat) lesbian.

This feeling, this anxiety that I ingrained in myself from childhood has been nearly impossible to shake. I am still trying to teach myself that my fatness shouldn’t prevent me from living and loving. Starting small with letting my arm touch my friend’s arm if we are sitting close together. Initiating a hug. Laying my head on my friend’s shoulder. Slowly, but surely, allowing myself to just be a fat lesbian.

Growing up, mental health was just one of those things we never talked about. Within my community, illnesses such as depression or anxiety, or even everyday stresses, were looked at as weaknesses, something you had to bottle inside you or defeat on your own. And I will be honest; I am guilty of once believing the same stereotypes-that people who struggled with their mental health were somehow less capable or resilient. I lived by these assumptions ever since, feeling that if anything similar happened to me, I would simply get over it somehow. Life does not work that way, however, and finally, after a while, I ended up suffering in silence. The burden of all the things was more than I can bear, and then I realized how my beliefs about mental health had been not only wrong but damaging-too much to myself and others.

It wasn’t until I faced my own battles with anxiety and depression that I truly understood how damaging stigma could be. I remember feeling so isolated and ashamed, somehow convinced that I was failing, that I was somehow “weak” for needing help. But in time, through some therapy, support from friends, and my own reflections, I came to learn that struggling with mental health does not make you weak; it makes you human. The shame I grew up with was based on illusions. As I regained my freedom from stigma, self-compassion fostered my journey. Now, I see that there is nothing different between mental health and physical health. And for healing to take place-not just for me, but for everyone-silence and stigma surrounding mental health have to be broken.

Throughout college I’ve had a recurring will-they-won’t-they relationship with a friend of a friend – nothing major, we don’t see each other too often, but we’ve flirted back and forth for a few years now – recently that relationship came to a head, and I found myself confiding in another friend of mine, while catching her up in all the drama I’ve found myself in recently during one of our once-in-a-blue-moon wine nights. As I was regaling her about my situationship, she stopped me halfway. “Wait wait wait, is this guy cis?” As I sheepishly affirmed her assumption she continued “Cause so far this guy sounds like a chaser.” Just a little embarrassed, I took another sip of wine. I had been afraid of that, but didn’t want to think too hard about it. The thought that this guy I had been talking to only wanted me to fulfill some sort of fetish, to have sex with me only for bragging rights, that my body would have been nothing more than a bucket list item for him, it was a good way of making me feel cheap, unloved, unwanted any further than through sex. 

There’s a sort of pressure you feel if you’re a trans person to only date or hook up with other trans people. It makes sense honestly, how can you – as a trans person – be sure that your partner sees you the way you want to be seen? Knows and validates the struggles that you face in your day to day life? Understands the intricacies of your body outside of a cisgendered understanding of the gender binary? Acknowledges the importance of your identity without making it the entirety of your being? Date another trans person. Really it’s best to avoid cis people all together.

Some people, like my friend, are lucky and stumble into a t4t relationship almost accidentally – she and her fiance had been dating for years, before both realizing and coming out as trans to each other around the same time – others find it relatively easy to find and be with other trans people – finding a mystical Goldilocks zone where they’re able to signal to each other that they’re both trans without outing themselves to the cis crowd around them. I, on the other hand, find it to be a herculean task to find a trans partner, possibly in no small part due to – and forgive me if I’m being full of myself here – my ability to pass remarkably well as a cis man. I’ve gotten to a point in my transition where when I come out to cis people, their first reaction is to think I’m a trans woman early on in her transition, instead of a trans man with years of HRT, surgery, and social training under his belt.   

While I have many friends who are trans, just by coincidence I tend to find myself hanging out and partying with cis people, drunkenly telling strangers and friends of friends that I’m trans, seeing their look of surprise, trying my best to answer their genuine questions, listening to my friends roommate – a little drunker than I meant to be that night – tell me that “Really I’m bi, but I never had the chance to try anything out before” as I vaguely register him moving his hand from my shoulder, to around my waist. 

How do I know if a cis man is a chaser? Really it’s best to just avoid cis people all together.

Do you ever notice how easily influenced this generation is? The power that influencers hold over “Gen-Z” is huge. These influencers often overlook the power they hold. The podcast episode “Ozempic” is a perfect example of the trend of wanting to be thin has become widely popular. Most of the audience on social believed that influencers are using this type 2 diabetes drug to lose weight. Over 50 influencers who drastically lost weight have been accused of using this drug and many of them won’t deny that they haven’t used it.

Influencers who constantly post updates about their daily lives disregard the power they hold over other individuals who look up to them as inspiration. If they are magically losing weight and ignoring comments to address tips they’d suggest to help their audience who are struggling, this will lead to negative stereotypes about body image. I wonder if influencers feel offended by their audience making assumptions or if they acknowledge the mindset they are putting out to everyone? If so, why not address it instead of ignoring it? Is it to gain more popularity?

Normal/desirable bodies are the affect that come from losing weight so suddenly. Why does one need to have extreme weight loss to be appealing to a crowd or feel beautiful? “More weight loss than any previous generation of weight loss drugs and we’ve had this immediate huge wave of media being like is this the end of obesity does this invalidate body positivity”. This quote from the podcast highlights how media will encourage one another to love their body and embrace the flaws yet, they will say this is the cure to losing fat. We need to do better…