trueThis summer a woman who I barely know came up to me and patted my stomach, inquiring about my pregnancy – in front of my boys, who are twelve and ten and old enough to understand that no non-pregnant woman wants to look like she’s pregnant.

FACT #1: I get asked about my imaginary due date far more often than I’d like to admit. FACT #2: I’m not pregnant, and probably never will be again.

When I told this woman so, she tried to backtrack by saying (over and over and dearLORD over again) that the dress I was wearing made it look like I was expecting. I told her she needed to stop talking because she was being offensive. Needless to say, the rest of the conversation was awkward at best, and it left me feeling so shamed – shamed at the pool later that day, shamed when I put that dress (a new dress that I was in love with) in the laundry. Shamed when my boys saw my distress and wanted to come to my rescue – everything from wanting to shoot her in the foot with a BB gun to wanting to yell every bad word at her they knew. I explained to them that in our family we choose to love people who hurt us, and that none of those things – violence or angry verbiage – would bear any kind of good fruit.

But oh my God, the shame. It’s a deep shame. It’s a poisonous shame. And you want to know what else it is? It’s an alien shame, one that is given to a person from the outside in. Through little cues and thoughtless actions shame about weight is handed out one bit at a time, like coins for a wishing well. Sometimes the coins are little, pennies and dimes. Other times they are larger – half-dollars that are heavier to carry. And though this shame is a thing handed to us outwardly, it takes root inside us, curling around our psyches like a choking parasitic vine.


I was very young – maybe five or six the first time it happened. I loved my grandmother so much. She was joyful and funny and loved to cook and adored my sister and I. We were never a nuisance to her, ever. Up until this day there was never a moment where I felt like she wished I would just leave her alone for a couple of minutes.

My grandmother was heavy. I never thought about it much, but I remember, every now and again, feeling curious about it. One day when she and I were making pie crust together, I asked her, “Grandma, why are you so fat?”

Please understand that, as a young kid, the word FAT had no negative connotation to me. It was just a descriptive word, like blue or windy or warm. It was just a way that some people were. I didn’t know that it was negative, and I didn’t know what made people fat. The question was just simple childhood curiosity.

I can only imagine how the question must have hit her, a grown woman who had probably faced ridicule on more than one occasion about her weight. She heard my question through years of filters, and took it to mean the only thing she could comprehend me meaning:

I wanted to know why she was FAT. I wanted to know why she was UGLY. I wanted to know why she was GROSS. I wanted to know why she was LAZY. I wanted to know why she was WORTHLESS.

I know that these were the things that were going through her mind, because the same things have gone through my own mind, time and time again – when I’m at the doctor’s office being weighed, when someone asks me when I’m due (THE LIVING WORST), when I have a muffin top over my jeans (daily). I know exactly what her internal dialogue sounded like, because I am an adult, and I have walked a mile or two in those shoes.

But then, as a kid, all I knew was that Grandma Marge was fat, just like her hair was grey and her skin was white and her eyes were blue. It wasn’t negative. It was just a part of the woman I loved.

She stopped rolling out the pie dough and looked down at me. Her eyes were glossy and full of tears. Then she left the room. She just left me there, standing on a stool, hands slick with Crisco, confused as I heard the backdoor shut.

I climbed off the stool and sat down on it, wiping my hands on my jeans as a feeling of restlessness came over me. This is a feeling that I would come to rely on in later years when the shit was about to hit the fan.

I can still hear the heavy footfalls of my dad’s boots – he has the same gait today. Grandma was following him, and I knew, I just knew, that somehow I’d done something wrong.

Do you know that to this day I can’t remember what color my grandmother’s bathroom was? She had two kitchens – one was green, the other was yellow. Her living room was white and brown, with kicks of yellow and orange in it. Her bedroom was white, all white, with soft blankets and lots of lovely light coming in the windows. But I can’t remember what color the bathroom was.

My dad took my hand and led me to that colorless bathroom, and without a word, gave me a spanking that I’ll never forget. He was angry. I was in pain. And I didn’t know why.

After the spanking he turned me around. His finger – dirty, not in a bad way, but just the way farmer’s fingers are – was in my face and these words were in my ears:

“If you ever – ever – call your grandmother fat again, I will use the belt.”

I learned some lessons that day. I learned that being FAT was something to be ashamed of. I learned that FAT wasn’t just a descriptive, like orange or wet or dry. I learned that FAT was a word that carried power, the power to hurt someone you love, and the power to make the people you loved hurt you.


I remember the first time my mom took me to a dietician. I was in the second grade, and thought we were going to the doctor’s office for a check up. When we sat down with the dietician (after taking my height and weight…a thing that until that day I’d always enjoyed), she looked at me and asked,

“Why do you want to lose weight?”

I looked at my mom, thoroughly confused and unsure how to respond. She nodded at me, wordlessly telling me to answer.

I answered honestly. “I don’t know.” What I meant, of course, was I don’t know why I’m here. We were half-way through that visit before I realized that losing weight meant I was fat and of course I already knew fat was something to be ashamed of, so 

Yes, Mom, I will write down everything I eat (even though I might not be able to spell everything I eat) and I promise to do sit ups every day.

Oh, the shame. The vampiric, life-sucking shame.

Me, fifteen years old, 180 lbs. I hid this picture after it was taken because I was disgusted by my body. *head, desk*

Me, fifteen years old, 180 lbs, on Spring Break with my sister and her friend. I hid this picture after it was taken because I was disgusted by my body. *head, desk*


When I was in high school somebody dear to me offered me $1,000 to lose fifty pounds. I was 5’10” and weighed 180 pounds. I know now that I wasn’t – by any stretch – fat, but still,

oh the shame. The all-consuming, life-sucking shame.


My heroes growing up were Princess Buttercup. Red Sonja. Ariel. Super Girl (I was obsessed with that movie). Strong women. Beautiful women. Women who were lovely and tough and determined and who were girls. But I couldn’t emulate them. I didn’t have the courage. I cut my hair short even though I ached for it to be long. I wore jeans and flannel shirts because it was the 90’s and grunge was acceptable and it was the only look I thought I could pull off. What I wanted to wear were cute dresses and lip gloss and high heels. But between my height and the miserable voices in my head screaming at me that I was shamefully fat, I couldn’t do it. Instead I spent the bulk of my high school career feeling like a lumbering giant, always hunching my shoulders over so I’d appear shorter, telling myself that I would never get asked out because of all the FatOhMyGodI’mSoFatNoGuyWantsToDateLetAloneTouchAGirlThisFat. At least I’d never end up a teen mom, I’d tell myself as if that was some kind of consolation prize for being disgusting.

Shame? Ohhhh yeah. Fuck. I’m so glad I never have to repeat high school.


So much of my life has changed. I married a guy who has taught me the meaning of passion and unconditional love. I have four beautiful, ornery, drive-me-nuts, awesome kids (a tiny little testament to just how wrong I was on the  no guy will ever want to touch me front), a career that I love, hair down to the middle of my back, a closet full of dresses and a drawer full of lip gloss.

And even though I’m better, the shame haunts me.

I am still 5’10”, but instead of weighing 180, I weigh 240. My first pregnancy happened during a time of bone-deep grief, and the weight I gained then – a lot of weight – has always seemed to hang around. I’ve done Atkins and toyed with Paleo, I’ve lived by the canon of Weight Watchers, I’ve ran miles and miles and jumped rope and breathed through yoga poses I was sure would kill me (and still do every morning because yoga is a drug you just don’t quit), and all the while my weight has fluxed too and fro like the tide. But it always comes back to where it is now. During the day when I’m busy chasing kids and writing words and folding laundry and grocery shopping I can ignore the shame I feel at that. I can even manage to feel good about myself. But at night, when I undress for bed, the self-hate returns in the wake of a quieter mind. And when I wake up in the morning it’s there, as blatant as the sunlight that brought me out of sleep.

It’s there when I go down; it’s there when I get up.

So those in-between times – when I’m not thinking about it, and on the rare occasion that I can believe in my own physical beauty – are important. And when it gets shattered by someone – willfully or ignorantly – handing me a little coin of shame, it hurts.


We all have That Thing that we feel insecure about – too skinny, too fat, skin problems, thinning hair, teeth that aren’t perfectly white or perfectly straight, boobs that are too small (or too big). Maybe it’s your nose or the stray hairs on your chin. Whatever it is, I’d wager that, more often than not, you have to fight to not be hyper-aware of it. The struggle is real. But I hope that you can find a way to see yourself beyond your perceived flaws – see yourself as a person of infinite worth, of undefinable value – and live your life as if you really, truly believed that was true. And then, apply that same standard to everyone around you. Stop looking at their exteriors and judging them against your own. Recognize their infinite and eternal worth – a worth that is completely separate from the skin they walk around in.

I’m preaching myself here, by the way. I have my own record of judgmental thoughts and verbal diarrhea, both toward myself and others. I’m a work in progress.

greyp.s. This post is part of a series of posts called I’M LYING TO YOU: FOUR TRUTHS AND A LIE. Click here, here, and here if you’d like to read the previous posts in this series.



  1. Jolyse Barnett says:

    Myndi, this is one of the most powerful pieces of writing I’ve ever read. And I am ashamed. I was a child who called my older sister fat on a date by by my older brother. I can never take those awful words back. I once congratulated an acquaintance on her upcoming baby and tried so hard to backtrack. I still recall the horror on that poor woman’s face. Your perspective will stay in my heart forever.

    I want to give you a massive virtual hug and take away your pain, that bone numbing shame. But I know I can’t. Still, hugs and love to you. Remember you’re perfect in your imperfections. As we all are.

      • Jolyse Barnett says:

        Thanks, Myndi. My sister and I are extremely close. Apparently she chose to forgive me. I’m ten years younger than she and I didn’t really know better. Was kind of pressured into the stupid comment by my brother, eight years older than me. I still felt guilty about it for a long time, knowing how much it hurt her feelings. 🙂

      • Fantasy For the Rest of Us. says:

        I’m so happy to hear that you are close!! I hope you can let go of the guilt you feel, especially since she’s forgiven you. 🙂 We all mess up at some point, and childhood is so dang bumpy and full of pressure. ❤

  2. ianmathie says:

    I found this a very moving post. So there’s a little more of you to love than many women have. Their loss. You are worth lots of loving, for what you give to life to your family – and I’ll bet they all adore you – and, by your nature, to everyone you meet. Carry on believing in yourself Myndi, and hang what unthinking rude people think.
    That woman who patted your belly was probably envious f the fact that someone found you attractive enough to share his love with. She’s probably frustrated and wishing someone cared for her like that. But then her own demeanour s likely to put people off, so she’ll continue to be a loser there.
    So keep your body in the shape that suits you and your family. Live in it and enjoy it. At 5’10” you’ll need to carry more weight than a twiggy elf of 5’0″ anyway, otherwise you’d look like a stick insect instead of a real woman.
    In West Africa, where I spent many years working any woman under 20 stone (280 lbs) was considered sickly and not a real woman. They gave their women special foods to bulk them up before their weddings so that the men found them properly attractive. It’s all a matter of perspective. There are lots of large people around who are nevertheless fit and able to lead their lives without impediment. Only if weight and bulk stop you doing normal things should you worry about it, but you already manage that, so it doesn’t apply to you.
    The next person who asks you something rude like that you could ask them what disease they have that makes them so thin it stops them casting a proper shadow.

  3. Amber says:

    I’ve been asked when I am due more times than I care to remember. Sometimes it has accompanied tummy pats. It is so very embarrassing. And humiliating. I am so self-conscious of my stomach area anyway and that surely doesn’t help.

    I have a couple of cute dresses that I’ve bought recently that I really want to wear but haven’t had the guts to wear them out of the house yet. My 9yo daughter, bless her heart, always gets excited when I try one on and tells me how beautiful they are. And my sweet husband is always so encouraging and tells me he thinks I am beautiful. I need to start seeing myself through their eyes.

    • Fantasy For the Rest of Us. says:

      Ohmygoodness, Amber, I can totally feel your pain. One of the daily checkmarks in my brain when I get dressed is: DOES THIS MAKE ME LOOK PREGNANT? How silly is that? But it is so humiliating when you’ve gotten dressed, feel good about yourself, and then get ran over like a freight train by a well-meaning stranger.

      I love wearing dresses, and am trying to coach myself into a place where the whole “When are you due?” question won’t completely ruin my day.

      And Greg is right, by the way. You are GORGEOUS.

  4. Melinda VanLone says:

    Awww. First, I wanna find that woman and slap her. And I also have to confess that I did something similar to someone else. Thing is, I truly did think she was pregnant (she’d gained a lot of belly weight from the time I’d seen her before) but the second I saw her eyes change and her lips move to tell me she wasn’t I filled with remorse and an intense desire to sink right into the ground. I knew I could never, ever make it up to that poor woman. I told her it was just the top she was wearing. But we both knew it wasn’t. I felt the shame of having inflicted that kind of distress on another woman, and I never, ever did it again. I won’t ask if a woman is pregnant until she’s wearing a sign that says “baby due in 2 weeks” lol. I’d rather her tell me her happy news when she’s ready, than live through another moment like that one. The pain in her eyes that day…I’ll never forget it. Ever.

    I morphed into a fluffy girl after college (lots of reasons), but I can say even before that I was curvy. Soft around the edges. I’ve never been and will never be the skinny girl. And even then, I felt the shame. I felt fat. I was never good enough. No man would ever want me. I had one guy in high school tell me he wouldn’t touch me if I was the last woman on earth, and I guess that stuck in my brain and I equated his dislike to my body. Because in high school, won’t boys take just about anything that’s willing? Apparently not. I was apparently too gross for a high school boy to deal with.

    High school. Yep. Might as well call it Torture. The place where we all learn to shame, judge, needle, bully, and abuse each other. Yay. Education.

    No matter what has been said to me about my weight over the years (and it’s been plenty, from the well meaning concern of a friend to the derision of strangers and beyond), it’s nothing…absolutely nothing…compared to what I say to myself on a daily basis. Fat shaming…the most acceptable form of discrimination left to humans. Embraced with relish by the masses and perpetuated onto our children from the second they learn to feed themselves and start eating in public where others can judge. And judge they do. Every time I take a bite of food in public, I feel eyes on me. Judging. “she shouldn’t be eating that.” “She needs to go to the gym.” “Damn no wonder she’s so fat.” Do they really think these things? Does it matter? I hear the words, whether they’re said aloud or not. Every bite I take feels like a mistake. A failure. Every. Single. Bite.

    You’re beautiful, Myndi. Inside. Outside. I’ve always thought you were. Your avatar pictures make me smile. Your eyes are full of joy, and your smile is contagious, and I find that beautiful. I hope you do too, when you look in the mirror.

    And if you need me to punch that woman in the nose, I’m ready 😀


    • Fantasy For the Rest of Us. says:

      Isn’t it the worst when you’ve said something damaging and there’s not a damn thing you can do to take it back? I’ve so been there, and really hope I learned enough from that moment to never ever hurt someone like that again.

      “Do they really think these things? Does it matter? I hear the words, whether they’re said aloud or not.” << The internal dialogue is so important. Self-hate is so destructive, and seemingly impossible to overcome. We're our biggest critics, for sure. For what it's worth, lovely, I think you are beautiful. And I think that enjoying food is a part of the human experience. I hope that one day those bites will feel like bliss, and not like a mistake.

  5. Jennifer Jensen (@jenjensen2) says:

    Oh, Myndi, you made my heart ache! First, I LOVE the picture of you in costume – I think you were (and are) physically gorgeous! I love your smile and the light shining in your eyes. Isn’t it incredibly sad that what a few people say can impact us so much?

    Second, your post brought back a lot of memories, some good, some not. I wasn’t terribly overweight as a teen, but enough so that our “health checks” in the open gym were totally embarassing – it felt like they were shouting my weight across the whole space. And while I’m around a lot of young families and learned early on not to ask someone when she was due – 5/6 months pregnant looking can go either way – I goofed big time once. There’s a big shift when you hit 7/8 months and it’s obvious. Right? One friend looked about 7+ months pregnant, so I asked when she was due. Nope, it was just how she carried her weight. She must have gotten the question before, because I was more mortified than she was, but who knows how much I added to her silent burden. So like someone else said above, I don’t ask about a baby until I hear it officially!

    For me, I’m still 20+ pounds more than my biggest pregnancy gain (50 lbs), and that was 24 years ago! The weight comes and goes, and I hate not feeling pretty in the clothes I’d like to wear, but I’m working on being fit. If the weight comes off, great. If not, at least I’ll be strong and healthy!

    Here’s to the joy in our hearts and the light in our eyes, and the people who love us no matter what. And everyone else can go jump.

    • Fantasy For the Rest of Us. says:

      OH. MY. WORD. Those public ‘health checks’ were the living worst. I was always the tallest girl, and always the heaviest. Ugh.

      Little funny fact: My sister’s rule of thumb for inquiring about a pregnancy is this: If you can see the baby’s head crowning, it’s okay to ask. When she told me that, soda went spewing out of my nose. I almost died laughing.

      “Here’s to…the people who love us no matter what…” << WORD.

  6. Eden says:

    Myndi… I want to cry. For what you’ve gone through, for my own frightfully similar experiences (I remember a day when my father stood in the livingroom and chided me with “Fatty fatty tat fat fat, just like your mother!”)….

    You’re so right that the hurts come inside and linger.

      • Eden says:

        Thank you. It took years to understand he was hurting in ways too. And people who are hurting need to find an outlet somehow… some blog, some talk with friends… and some… hurt others.

  7. Laird Sapir says:

    This made me tear up.
    Partly because I SO get it (I battle the fluff), and partly because you gave me an “oh wow” moment about the internal life of a 6 year old (and a reminder to think before reacting when next one of my kids asks me an innocently offensive question), and partly because you exude happiness and beauty, and all I ever think when I read what you write or see the photos you post is that you have an AMAZING light and smile, and I hate that the weight thing has the power to make amazing women feel less-than-amazing.

    • Fantasy For the Rest of Us. says:

      Thank you so much for your sweet words! Weight issues are so, so powerful, and it’s a struggle that folks (at least I do anyway) have a hard time talking about, because of the shame we feel. I have been stunned – truly, stunned – by the amount of people, mostly women, who have commented here or on Facebook that they feel similarly, or have had similar experiences. The fact that so many of us are carrying around these hurts, buried in our hearts where no one can see, makes my heart ache. It’s like we sort of feel like we deserve it because being fluffy (as you put it) is a thing to be ashamed of.

      My God, imagine how the world would change if even just the handful of people who read this post recognized that for the lie that it is, and decided to live the rest of their life in graceful confidence, dress size be damned??


      As for the kid POV, that has been a defining memory for me, in terms of how I parent. It’s such a vivid memory, and it makes me remember that my kids are coming at this world with a totally fresh perspective. Most kids aren’t mean by nature. Just because they’ve said something offensive doesn’t mean they meant it to be cruel. That memory has caused me (many times) to stop before I act, and ask them about what they meant. Most of the time it was an innocent blunder that could be fixed with a conversation.

      And for what it’s worth, after seeing how my own boys reacted to the hurt I felt, I understood what was happening that day with my dad and my grandma. He adored her, and wanted to come to his mother’s rescue. True, it wasn’t handled well, but at least I understand it. No grudges. ❤

  8. Anonymous says:

    For the record Myndi, I had absolutely NEVER thought of you as fat. In fact, I remember a day when The Buckle came to school to give a fashion show, and I had wished I were as brave as you because you modeled an outfit for them. I’d wanted to, but was afraid that if I’d tell them I wore a certain size that I wouldn’t be able to fit into it when they brought it. I loved how you were unapologetically no one but yourself. And it sure takes guts to tell everyone your story. Thank you for sharing.

    • Fantasy For the Rest of Us. says:

      Ohmygosh, that’s so crazy that you remember that! I was petrified that day – oh my goodness, and when the outfit they’d picked out for me didn’t fit, another girl traded with me. I wish I could remember what prompted me to volunteer to do it…

      Thanks for your sweet words, and I’m so glad you popped by.

  9. Elizabeth Anne Mitchell says:

    I will join the chorus of “yes, me too,” in the comments, Myndi. I was anorexic until I started breaking bones (16 in 15 years), and spent lots of time in wheelchairs. The comment I hate the most: “You’d be so pretty if you were thinner.” Weight seems to be our last prejudice, where hurtful things are acceptable, and even offered as helpful.

    I hope some part of you knows how pretty you are and how, as Laird says, your smile and beauty shines so brightly.

    • Fantasy For the Rest of Us. says:

      Oh my gosh, Elizabeth. My heart aches for your childhood! Anorexia was never on the radar for me, nor was bulimia, and I feel really lucky that I didn’t have a predisposition to those diseases.

      I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard the You’d Be Pretty If You Were Thinner mantra. Often enough that it’s a thought in my head every time I look in a mirror. Every damn time. 95% of the time I’m able to counter it with I’m Pretty NOW, but it’s a sort of anemic belief that is prone to crumbling under the slightest breeze. Work in progress.

      Thanks for the sweet words, and for stopping by!

  10. K.B. Owen says:

    Oh, my hunny. I’m so sorry you’ve gone through this and still are. I did that to someone once (without the tummy pat, cannot imagine ANY scenario when I would conceive of doing that), and I still feel badly about it. I cannot tell you how many times I wished I could take that back. I was young, and didn’t yet understand the vagaries of women’s bodies at that point in my life. But still, it’s no excuse, and it was a quick education in the pitfalls of making assumptions based on someone’s appearance.

    The real issue though, is how you feel about YOU. Like each of us, you are a work in progress. Try to focus on what your body can DO rather than how you think it looks to the outside world. Whenever I am unhappy with my appearance (and let me say that menopause has NOT been kind to me in terms of slow metabolism and significant weight gain), I go for an “attitude of gratitude.” I am no in pain. Everything works, and works reasonably well. I am not limited in my range of motion. When I grumble about having to exercise, I remember that there are people who would give anything to be able to lace their sneakers and go for a walk in the fresh air. Oh, I still have plenty of grumbly moments, but it helps enormously.

    Thank you so, so much for sharing, Myndi. You have helped many people by voicing this so well, and the ripples will continue to be felt, I’m sure.


    • Fantasy For the Rest of Us. says:

      Isn’t it crazy how sometimes you have to have the perspective of AGE to be able to have empathy? I will never, ever knock growing older because frankly, experience is priceless and worth any amount of wrinklage. *wink*

      I totally feel ya on the attitude of gratitude thing. I am so blessed to be uber healthy and able to do pretty much anything I want. Life is good.

  11. connecttheknots says:

    I’ve been asked my due date many more times after having my two girls than before. Also… after having my second girl, I lost 40-50 pounds (and am still overweight)… and I have got more due date questions after I lost some weight than I ever did when I was heavier.

    Thanks for that post. I’m glad to know that I’m not the only one who feels like that.

    • Fantasy For the Rest of Us. says:

      ARGH, I had that same problem after I dropped some weight. I always carry in my belly, and I think when I lost weight, my face and arms and legs looked thinner but I still had a pooch. People thought the pooch was a baby. *shrug*

      I hope that you feel loved today, and that you feel gorgeous!

  12. Christine Ashworth says:

    Wow. From the first word to the last, this was riveting. I didn’t gain my “fluffiness” until I was too old to be considered pregnant, so I never went through that particular humiliation; but the internal hatred? The fear of putting on dresses because I’m no longer thin? That voice inside me telling me I’d be worthy, if I just lost 40 pounds? Yeah. The self-hate is there. I battle it daily with self-love, but it isn’t easy.

    Hugs, Myndi. I’ve always considered you to be beautiful, inside and out.

  13. Jess Witkins says:

    Myndi, I think you’re one of the most beautiful people I know – inside and out. You have an infectious smile. I LOVE reading your blog and seeing glimpses of your life on instagram. I’m so sorry that you’ve had to and continue to deal with body image issues. But I get it. And I deal with them myself. It does come back. The hurtful things we hear. I’m telling you now, and I hope you’ll remember the supportive words of everyone here, that YOU ARE ENOUGH. You are beautiful. You are an amazing individual who is kind, good-hearted, encouraging towards others, and honest. It’s been amazing watching your journey and I wish you all the best in the future!

  14. ajhawthorn says:

    I am overweight, but not a lot(doesn’t matter though…does it?) I often get the questions “what are you having?” or “When are you due?” And of course, most of them come at me at work (evil day job) when I am obligated to smile and be polite. I’m really tempted to tell people that “Oh! I’m not pregnant, I just need to poop.” But I smile say no, I’m not. I tell myself people don’t mean any harm and are naturally curious, but still… that little bit of shame lurks. That’s just where my extra weight likes to go… I try to teach my children to be more considerate. Hopefully the lessons will take. *hugs*

    • ianmathie says:

      When people ask “What are you having?” have ever thought you thought of replying “A walrus!” ?
      You could have a lot of fun with that!
      Hope it all goes well and you have a successful, healthy outcome. Big hugs.


  15. TeacherWriter says:

    Wow, you really know how to get to the heart of things, don’t you? I think your high school photo is terrific! You are fabulous! Who cares what size package we all come in? I’m OLD, and when you get to my age, you realize how size and weight don’t matter. It’s who and what you have in your life that make the difference. You have wonderful people in your life. You are amazing.

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