My fork hovered over my slice of chocolate pudding pie covered in homemade whipped cream, and right on cue, Auntie said, “We’re being so bad! We’re going to be good tomorrow, right?” 

I nodded, gritting my teeth, and moved to the other side of the room to try and escape.

I didn’t tell her what I was really thinking: that I eat something sweet almost every day, that we’re not committing a crime by consuming pie, and that it’s incredibly sad her 82 years of life have mostly revolved around how small she wants her waist to be. 

As I stewed in the corner, I thought of the mental gymnastics leading up to Thanksgiving, preparing for the inevitable barrage of food and body comments that family gatherings guaranteed. To prepare for the holidays, I attended half a dozen appointments in therapy and dietician counselling, trying to centre myself.

My aunt left me feeling self-conscious about the body I inhabit, my normal comfort and acceptance of myself slipping away with a single comment. I chose not to say anything; I see my extended family a couple of times a year, and it doesn’t feel worth my effort or energy to try to change their conditioning on diet culture.

I tried to shake off the discomfort as I started a conversation with a cousin. 

When I finished up my pie, I thought it’d be fun to bust out my new virtual reality headset to share silly games and workouts with my family. My uncle said he had to get in it, so I set him up in a game where you shoot at cute alien blobs. I was glad I brought something that could bring us together, give us something to talk about and bond over.

When the game ended, he got out, sweat dripping off his forehead, and said, “Ginelle, you know, you could finally get into shape using this thing.” 

I nodded, wanting to disappear from the room. Why couldn’t it just be about how fun the game was? Why did it have to come down to bodies… again?

As limoncello was being passed around for an after-dinner shot, my aunt chimed in once more — this time directing remarks at my cousin.

“You’re so skinny,” she said, poking at my cousin’s midriff. “What size are you now? How do you stay so small? You’re beautiful.”

My cousin shrugged and brushed it off, but the absence of comments on my body weighed heavily in the air for me. There were no questions about my size, no comments about how I looked. Not this year. Not since I’d gained weight. 

I hugged my belly. Normally, I felt OK. However, that day, in that moment, I wanted to be someone else.

Not only was my family driving me nuts, but I also heard comments everywhere else, like in my yoga class, where I’d attended weekly for three years and where I usually felt safe and accepted.

I was unfurling my yoga mat in the cozy studio when my instructor said, “With Thanksgiving coming up, let’s focus on ‘pretoxing’ our bodies today.” My heart sank. 

“Pretoxing”? I remembered all the bodies that had passed in and out of this class — the sizes, colours and shapes. I’d never heard a comment like that from my teacher before, and suddenly, I didn’t feel safe.

As class continued, he dropped the “pretox” thing, but the word rang through my head like Auntie’s comments. I couldn’t escape. As I moved myself in and out of yin yoga poses, I wanted to cry. I left class feeling shaken up and angry.

Most of my family and people I interact with in other environments have no idea of the ways that I’ve struggled. I’ve counted the calories in every single little almond I’ve eaten, driven myself to the point of collapse on the elliptical, and gone to fat camp for weeks before college. My relationship with my body has been tumultuous for as long as I can remember.

I’m recovering from years of disordered eating. The disorder has had many forms: anorexia, binge eating, orthorexia and, lately, eating disorder not otherwise specified, or EDNOS, a catchall term for those who do not meet the criteria for anorexia or bulimia. Many of them were driven by dieting. Research shows that the majority of people who diet will gain back most of the weight they lose while dieting and will even end up weighing more than before.

My recovery from eating disorders has been a factor in living in a fat body. After decades of dieting and weight cycling, I’m classified as obese, according to my body mass index. Genetics and lifestyle, among other things, likely play a role, but I’m actively trying to make peace with my body.

I pursue health and take care of myself in a way that makes sense for me. These days, movement looks like gentle walks, weekly yoga classes and, recently, the occasional Zumba session in virtual reality. I eat in a way that balances taste, desire and gentle nutrition, making sure to eat three meals a day and trying to include snacks in between.

However, the most important thing I do to take care of myself is connect with like-minded folks and communities. My family and many others may not understand, but there are those who do.

During Thanksgiving dinner, I texted B, one of my closest friends, and shared my family’s comments, my yoga instructor’s “pretox” nonsense, and the heavy silence around my bigger body. Without judgment, she reminded me of how much work I’ve done to trust myself: the gentle movement I enjoy, the unapologetic delight in a slice of pie, and the fact that I’m forging a path defined by care rather than shrinking. Her honest words soothed me and let me know I wasn’t navigating this alone.

My dietician is also supportive, believing in the idea that all bodies can pursue health in a way that makes sense for them and that gentle nutrition is just one piece of a larger puzzle that is food. During our last session, post-Thanksgiving, she left me with a lot to chew on.

I explained how bad the comments from my aunt, uncle and yoga teacher made me feel. Her response was, “Their values are different than yours. They value thinness and the pursuit of it.”

“You’re right,” I said. “Health actually isn’t even their main focus because if it was, it’d be about behaviours, not body size. The focus would zoom out, be more holistic. It’d be about the bigger picture — how they’re taking care of themselves, including their mental health. But that isn’t in their vocabulary.”

“Remember that, during Christmas, when you see them again,” she replied. “That your values aren’t aligned. And that’s OK. But you can stay true to yours. What else helps you stay grounded during these times?”

I thought about the friend I met the day after Thanksgiving. She runs a group called Ample Access Outdoors. It’s a hiking and movement group for marginalised bodies. She also occupies a fat body. I’d gone on a hike with her before, and she made a group announcement that diet and weight loss talk were not welcome in that space.  

I knew that she’d be a good post-Thanksgiving hiking buddy. We walked on a wooded trail outside Boston, both of us bundled in jackets as our boots crunched over leaves. When the leader of the walk spoke of “earning” his Thanksgiving leftovers after this walk, I knew she’d be rolling her eyes as well. I also mentioned that my family had given me a hard time, and she said she understood, leaving me feeling less alone.

When I’m not hiking with her, I run to Instagram to feel like myself. I’ve cultivated my feed to be full of body-positive influencers like Megan Jayne Crabbe, whose belly rolls, stretch marks, and jiggly parts remind me of my own, making me feel more at home in my body. She made a recent post about how we can set boundaries with those who make body and food comments, which I aspire to for myself. Although I’ve been able to set boundaries with closer family members, I mainly redirect and ignore such comments when dealing with extended family.

I know that with Christmas coming up and the relentless wave of “new year, new me” culture just around the corner, the diet talk won’t stop. But I’m learning to stand firm in my beliefs, unapologetically care for my fat body in ways that honour my needs and lean into the support of friends who uplift me when family and society fall short.

Too much of the world is fatphobic and does not understand my value system. I can’t change this; all I can do is keep living a life that is authentic to me and surrounding myself with a bubble of people that are safe. I’m happy to be one of these people — and I wish the same for you as you navigate this holiday and new year season.