One small change to my shopping trips has finally helped me love my body

I loved it the moment I saw it on the hanger: a canary yellow crew-neck jumper in a chunky cotton knit. 

It was the only one left on the sale rack, and was – miraculously – my size, a UK 18/20. 

But as I looked at myself in the changing room mirror, I could see it was all wrong: I needed to stick to v-necks to stop my full bust looking frumpy, and, to balance out my figure, I knew I should really only wear bright colours on my bottom half. This garment broke all the rules.  

For most of my adult life, my main aim when dressing has been to ‘flatter my figure’ – by which I mean ‘appear thinner’.

But standing in that changing room in 2022, aged 33, I had a sudden moment of clarity: I didn’t have to play by the rules if I didn’t want to. I could dress however I liked. 

Over the years my weight has fluctuated pretty dramatically thanks to disordered eating, but I’ve always been curvy, and, growing up in the noughties, my body felt like a problem. 

It was the age of heroin chic, diet culture, and the ‘circle of shame’, which magazines superimposed onto paparazzi pictures to highlight celebrities’ so-called flaws: cellulite, tummy fat, unshaved legs.

Women’s bodies were under constant scrutiny, and mine didn’t measure up.  

Luckily, there were ways of combating that: I could alter my body using fad diets, or I could disguise it with clothes. I did both.

I counted calories and cut out food groups, or only ate on certain days of the week. When I inevitably strayed from my regime I’d berate myself for being greedy and lacking self-control. It was exhausting.

At university, my restrictive eating habits became dangerously extreme and I lost a lot of weight, but I still never felt my body was good enough.

Meanwhile, I learned that horizontal stripes and high necklines were verboten, as these would only emphasise my curves, but that an a-line skirt served the dual purpose of making my waist look smaller, and covering up my chunky thighs. 

Fabrics that lack structure and cling to lumps and bumps were to be avoided like the plague.

Always choosing clothes based on these rules meant I often ended up buying things that felt itchy or uncomfortable, in colours or styles I didn’t actually like, simply because I thought they were ‘flattering’. 

There’s something soul destroying about focussing all that energy on disguising your shape: it reinforces the idea that there’s something wrong with it, and with you; that your body as it is isn’t good enough. 

Even in my early thirties, I continued to buy mid-length a-line skirts in thick corduroy. They made me feel frumpy, miserable even, but I thought they were the only option for my figure.

But that day in the changing room I felt something in me shift, and with the help of therapy and my partner, I gradually learned to accept my body. 

I slowly realised that there’s nothing inherently sinful or ugly about fatness, and with that realisation came the understanding that my attitude to clothes needed to change. 

Now, I try to prioritise how a garment makes me feel in myself. I look for changes in my posture, and consider the sensation of the fabric against my skin, or how its colour affects my mood. 

Recently, I bought a dress in a charity shop without even trying it on. Once, I’d have been put off by its high neckline, but as soon as I saw its pattern of inky stars against pale pink, I knew I’d love wearing it.

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It’s helped me feel more comfortable, confident, and joyful, and my friends and family have noticed my newfound positivity, too.

Of course, as a fat woman, it isn’t always easy: at a size 18/20, I’m just about able to shop on the high street (a privilege which remains unavailable to many who are bigger than me) but my options are limited. 

When your choices are restricted like this, questions of personal style can become a moot point. 

It may be that the thing that makes you comfortable is, in fact, appearing slimmer, and that’s OK. I’m not here to tell you how to dress, or how to feel about your body; I know that the pressure to love it unconditionally can sometimes feel just as oppressive as the pressure to change it. 

I would, however, gently encourage you to question your relationship with your body, and perhaps educate yourself about some of the societal structures which may be impacting it.

Try listening to podcasts like Maintenance Phase and Go Love Yourself, reading books like Sofie Hagan’s Happy Fat, or filling your social media feeds with fabulous plus-size stylistas like Stephanie Yeboah, Bethany Rutter, Lauren Smith and Laura Adlington.

You might just find that as your compassion for yourself and your body expands, so, too, do your sartorial horizons. 

As for that rule-breaking jumper: I considered that perhaps it wasn’t the most flattering knitwear for me, but I didn’t care. I loved the snuggly, tucked-in feeling of the high neckline, and its sunshine hue made my heart soar. 

So, I bought it. 

After all, I’m not trying to hide my body anymore; I’m dressing for joy.

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing [email protected]. 

Share your views in the comments below.

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