The morning after my daughter was born, I overheard a nurse on the recovery ward.
‘The BMI…’ boomed a loud female voice, ‘if she weighs this much, we’ll need a bariatric (heavy duty) bed.’
There followed a brief pause containing barely audible murmurs. Whoever she was speaking to was clearly trying to be discreet.
But then the original voice blared again.
She went on to repeat the bariatric bed point at least three times, always including the precise number of kilograms (which I won’t).
I heard her say with a derisive sigh, ‘I bet she’s got gestational diabetes.’ Then a few seconds later, her voice took on a tone of undisguised surprise, ‘Oh! she hasn’t!’
I listened aghast. I can’t say for certain she was talking about me – though my BMI is high, and I didn’t have gestational diabetes.
But it doesn’t matter. In that moment, hearing a body like mine discussed with such blatant antipathy, I felt humiliated, and dehumanised, and overwhelming, bone-deep shame.
I’m certain that incident added to the profound disconnection from my body I experienced in the weeks after giving birth, and even now, almost 18 months later, I still think about it on a too-regular basis.
It was a stark and painful reminder of something I already knew: when you’re fat, you’re treated differently. Becoming a mum wouldn’t change that.
Growing up I was constantly anxious about my body: I’ve always been bigger than my peers and felt self-conscious about curves which, in the skinny-obsessed noughties, seemed like something to be ashamed of. I did everything I could to try and shrink myself, eventually developing an eating disorder, which meant my weight fluctuated dramatically for years.
These days, I’m a UK size-20 which makes me one of the lucky ones: in fat acceptance circles I’m what is termed a ‘small fat’, meaning that, compared to those larger than me, I experience a relatively low level of discrimination as a result of my size.
Plus, I’m white: for fat women of colour, the negative impacts of anti-fat bias are compounded by racism, which, when it comes to healthcare, can sometimes have deadly consequences.
It’s also important to note that many fat women are denied IVF treatment because their BMI is deemed too high.
I might well have been one of them: I knew that my endometriosis could potentially make getting pregnant difficult, and I was terrified that years of further damaging my body with disordered eating might have made it completely impossible.
It did take a long time – over 18 months – but eventually, thankfully, I was able to conceive naturally.
Still, the spectre of my BMI loomed large over my pregnancy. Because of it, I was told to take aspirin to prevent high blood pressure and underwent extra tests for gestational diabetes. All despite the fact that its efficacy as a health-indicator has been widely cited as flawed, and my other vital statistics were, apparently, excellent.
At my 12-week scan, I cried in the hospital toilets after an overly-enthusiastic graduate student gave me the hard-sell on her obesity trial in a waiting room full of non-fat (and therefore non-eligible) pregnant women.
‘You understand why I’m asking you, right?’ she said, her tone half-hushed and patronising. I understood.
I’m afraid that, because I’m fat, I’ll be judged a bad mother, and she will be taken away from me
Pregnancy and early motherhood are tough: mums-to-be and new mums are judged for so many things, whether it’s failing to perform at work while pregnant, drinking too much coffee while breastfeeding, or using disposable nappies because the prospect of more laundry is simply too much to contemplate.
Being fat lends this a whole new dimension, because you’re forced to contend with the many (false) preconceptions commonly associated with fatness.
For example, all mums have, at one time or another, felt judged about what they feed their children, but for fat mums this is heightened by an awareness that society already views us as lazy and unhealthy.
If I feed my daughter convenience foods, I don’t only risk being judged as a mother, I risk reinforcing existing stereotypes about fat people, and being judged for them, too.
Even though no one has said anything to me directly, years of conditioning have taught me to fear anyone’s eyes on the contents of my shopping basket.
That’s why there’s a small part of me – and I’m not proud to admit this – that is afraid of my daughter being fat.
Not because I think it would in any way diminish her beauty or brilliance (I already know that is impossible), and not only because I don’t want her to endure the same scrutiny and self-consciousness I have.
I’m afraid that her fatness would be taken as proof of my own fat failings; of my laziness, unhealthiness, lack of control.
I’m afraid that, because I’m fat, I’ll be judged a bad mother, and she will be taken away from me.
But a much larger part of me knows that my daughter isn’t responsible for any of this, and it will never be her – or her body – that needs to change. It’s society’s anti-fat bias.
Fat mums – like all mums – need support, not judgement.
We deserve dignity, compassion and respect, and shouldn’t be made to feel – as I was, mere hours after giving birth – that our bodies are shameful.
To borrow a mantra from the author and activist Aubrey Gordon, we should treat fat people – including fat mums – like people.
It’s not so much to ask.
Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk.
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