The Evolution Begins: Put One Foot In Front Of The Other

New to this series? Here are parts one and two.

When I got to sunny Miami, I was in for a few shocking realizations. One, everything outside of my part of Louisiana is HUGE. Two, water really does come the same shade of blue in the Crayola box. Three, I have a ridiculously thick Southern accent (and no, I don’t hear it when I speak.) Four, I am desirable.

Let’s look at that last part.

For years, I concerned myself with what others thought of me. I still did my best to march to the beat of my own drum, but it was still couched in trying in some form to fit in. And honestly, I had to realize that wasn’t going to happen. At least, it wasn’t going to happen on the level I’d hoped. All of the teen movies coming out showed that with faith and a bit of luck, any ugly duckling would blossom into a swan.

That’s bull. You’re already the swan, you just need the eyes to see it. I wish I would have.

While shopping for school clothes, with my mom before the beginning of my sophomore year in high school, I noticed I was turning some heads. I immediately felt self-conscious. I’m thinking, okay, I’m so fat folks got to stare me down? Did I grow an extra head? Do I have yet another zit? What is going on here? What is this madness?!

Nope. Apparently, I ain’t too bad to look at.

I really wasn’t sure what to do with this news. For years, I’d been told otherwise by my peers, and made to feel otherwise by family at times (“I’ll pay you if you’ll lose 50 pounds!”) And now…I’m…pretty?

I wish I could say I was modest when this realization hit me. Nope. I went from having zero self-esteem to conceited. I would create outfits that today would make me cringe if I had photographic evidence of my wearing them.

But I rocked them with reckless abandon.

What’s interesting about this is that I’d always tied self-worth to weight. I dressed to look smaller. If I was quiet, no one would notice me or my fat. Blend in, be silent, keep the people away. Then I could be liked, loved even. I could be special.

And I discovered I could be all of those things¬†and fat. Serious business, y’all.

By the time I made it to college, I understood I didn’t have to conform to be a part of a certain circle. There were plenty of circles to be a part of, and hey, I could even make my own! My mind continued to evolve, and I was a better person for it.

Whether I’m stepping in heels or sneakers, I continue to put one foot in front of the other. Time marches on; the world spins; I rise.

The Evolution Continues.


Selfie Revelation

I have never really been one for pictures. I rarely smile in the ones I took when I was younger (baby/toddler/elementary school pictures excluded). In fact, for my senior pictures, I did smile in some, and everyone requested my serious pose. That’s how they knew me, my friends said, and that’s how they wanted to remember me.

As I got older, and less secure in who I was (and am), I hated pictures more. They’re for beautiful people. They’re for skinny people. They’re for folks with perfect skin. All I got going for me is smarts, but I can never be pretty. I can never be attractive. I can never be wanted.

I belong in the background. Not center stage.

Even now, despite having selfies all over my Instagram feed, I don’t always feel 100% comfortable posting them. When no one likes them, I still feel a touch of sadness, even though I only have a handful of followers that have their own busy lives to contend with. Irrational as it is, I still sometimes feel like pictures are for people not me.

The beautiful ones.

And yet, Sunday, for whatever reason, I decided to join in the #sundayselfie craze that goes on every week. Can’t explain why. Devil made me do it, perhaps.


And there I am. No makeup, no filter (I was tempted), hair tied up in a green and blue head wrap, favorite off the shoulder tee.

And I love it.

May not mean anything to anyone else in the webisphere, but damn, that is something serious for me. I look¬†good, and I’m not ashamed to say that.

And that scares me a little.

As a fat, black woman, daring to love who I am is a radical act. It shouldn’t be, but it is. I’ve had people tell me about I’m almost perfect except I am fat. Almost perfect except my teeth aren’t completely straight (and now you know why I rarely smile.) Almost, but not there yet.

It has taken me years to realize I am not something that needs to be fixed. I’m not broken. Society is. And I am not gonna feed the machine not one more day.

I still have my moments of “ugh, bad everything day,” but more and more I am able to push that to the side, puff my chest out, and strut anyway.

Revelations from one picture.

And more to come.

Positivity Stories