Here’s to the pants
that fit too tight,
to the shirts
that won’t hide my rolls.
Here’s to having
that second piece of cake,
or third.
Here’s to the numbers on the scale
that are always too high.
Here’s to looking in the mirror
at five years old,
hating my dress over my belly
and having the thought,
“This makes me look pregnant.”
Here’s to going to birthday parties
at eight years old
where swimsuits are required,
as the only one wearing
a one-piece,
and hearing friends
whisper and snicker.
Here’s to being at sleepovers
with nine year old friends,
taking turns sharing
our least favorites parts
of our bodies.
Here’s to having crushes
on boy after boy
who wouldn’t look my way,
dare they be seen
with the chubby girl.
Here’s to the boy in 7th grade
sitting in front of me
who heard me say,
“I want to go to lunch;
I’m so hungry”,
and remarked snidely,
“You would be.”

Here’s to miles ran,
wheels pedaled,
knees higher,
rounds done,
weights heavier,
planks held.
Here’s to every ounce
of sweat poured
and cake ignored
that never erased the past.
Here’s to finally losing
the weight of shame,
and trying on acceptance.
Here’s to that chubby girl
who doesn’t need
to be defined by looks,
who knows
what true beauty is,
sees it in others,
sees it in herself.