I used to be a body positivity influencer, preaching a simple message: Love yourself at any size. Then, I risked it all. “I don’t care how trendy or cute or fun it seems to be fat. You got to really think about your health. Love yourself at any size, but don’t forget that your heart has to beat, babes.” I’m going to tell you how I got here, from championing body positivity to renouncing it. My story starts like this. Since I was a little girl, I always knew I was bigger. But I’m from the Bronx, where having a curvy body and a fat ass is what you want. When you’re Latina, you get called gordita, and it’s a term of endearment. “Fluffy,” like Gabriel Iglesias used to say. “I called myself fat around my mom, and she was like, ‘Mijo, you’re not fat, you’re fluffy.’” It wasn’t until college that I learned in the rest of the country, thinness is the beauty standard. Even worse, fat people are seen as lazy and dumb. “I’m doing horizontal running.” It wasn’t just a fun thing to be fluffy. It was actually something people found disgusting. “Run for the hills. It’s Fatzilla!” Studies show fat people are often treated worse in health care. And for women, the heavier we are, the less we’re paid. I eventually learned that this discrimination has a name: Fatphobia. I never planned on being a body positivity influencer. I wanted to be an actress. I wanted to be a star. “Cause I love Beyoncé.” But being plus-size, I never felt like it was possible. And so I started my YouTube channel in 2010. “Make like a semicircle-type of effect.” “This is a simple tank top and it only costs, like, 13 bucks.” That’s when I started to get more attention from other plus-size women about how empowered they felt watching my content, and that just made me feel like I had a bigger purpose in what I was creating. I started posting more intentionally. “You woke up for a reason. You didn’t wake up to feel bad about yourself.” Sometimes about plus-size fashion. “They actually look like a legit 3X. They look big.” Or travel. “I deserve to be on this flight just as anyone else.” Brands started sending me clothes to model. “I have a collaboration with Boohoo.” “So I partnered with GS Love Me.” “Thank you to Forever 21 for sponsoring this video.” I was on magazine covers and making headlines. It was the late 2010s and body positivity exploded. “Versace brand featured three plus-size models.” “Full-figured, plus-size ladies.” “American Vogue.” “Sports Illustrated.” “A huge step forward for body positivity.” ♫ “I ain’t no size 2, but I can shake it, shake it.” ♫ Seeing a community that welcomes you with open arms and tells you there’s no pressure to look this way, to be this certain weight, I mean, does that not sound like paradise? Then, over time, I got heavier and heavier. I’ve always been an adventurous person, but there was a lot I couldn’t do anymore. Fitting into the seats on roller coasters, planes. I couldn’t wear heels. My dresses wouldn’t zip up. And that wasn’t all. “When you’re bigger, you might not be able to wipe as well as a thinner person. You can’t reach because there’s no space.” Some days, I would look at photos and not even recognize myself. I’m only five feet tall and at my heaviest, I was close to 400 pounds. I started to wonder if loving myself at any size had become an excuse to ignore how big I was getting. I felt like I saw myself being brainwashed, essentially. Meanwhile, the language around body positivity began sounding more extreme online. “There are a few words that I don’t allow. ‘Healthy’ is one of them.” “This comes up a lot when I talk about how the word ‘obese’ is a slur.” “If I don’t want to step on the scale at the doctor‘s. I say, ‘Oh, I don’t want to be weighed today.’” “Intentional weight loss is fatphobic.” “This is what makes exercise fatphobic.” “It’s rooted in fatphobia. It’s not rooted in science. It doesn’t work.” I’ve even seen celebrities being attacked for losing weight. “This morning Kelly Clarkson facing criticism after revealing she’s taking a prescription medication for weight loss.” “The slimmed-down star is facing criticism after her noticeable weight loss.” It wasn’t always like this. Years before, I had often talked about weight loss without getting hate. “The last couple days, I was feeling really, really, like, depressed, and I was like, I need to get my ass out there and work out.” “Today’s video is going to be a ‘What I Eat in a Day’ video to lose weight.” But as the body positivity community became more radical, I was scared to say the wrong thing, so I stayed silent. Then, my friend died. She was a body positivity influencer, who founded the world’s first plus-size salon. “All bodies, all sizes, and has custom chairs that hold up to 800 pounds.” She was just someone I considered a big sister. Taught me about business and taught me about the movement. I worried about her a lot. After she was bedridden because of heart failure, Jamie expressed her desire to lose weight. “I haven’t left the house in two years, and I just learned to walk again.” I really believed that she was going to make it out of it. But in late 2022, she died, at 37, reportedly from heart complications. I didn’t want her to feel like I was trying to tell her what to do, and I kind of wish I would have spoke up maybe more, and just let her know that I cared. And she wasn’t the only one. A week later, another body positivity influencer posted this video. “I ruined my life with food, binge eating and lack of self-care. I’m hoping that it’s not too late for me this time.” Just months before, Brittany said she developed Type 2 diabetes and serious weight-related skin infections. “My pelvic region is literally the size of like a large purse. It’s extremely swollen and hard.” One week after posting that video begging the universe for another chance at life — “It’s really scary how bad things can get.” — she died. She was 28. I don’t know for sure if Jamie and Brittany died because of their size, but hearing their own regrets, I couldn’t help but think of myself. It was one thing to sacrifice my adventurous lifestyle. It was another to put my life at risk. And so I just pressed record and everything I said just came out. “I’m going to say something controversial, and I don’t care. I actually feel kind of guilty for being a part of this movement. Health is real. Organs failing is real. Diabetes, heart disease, all that [expletive] is real. OK? It’s not fatphobic to care about your health. And this is coming from someone who’s learning those [expletive] lessons now, myself.” And the backlash was massive. “I’ve literally been seething with anger.” “It’s blowing my mind how fatphobic you’ve become.” “You should know better and do better.” The body positivity community branded me a pariah, and so I left. I want to lose more weight, but I still feel a lot better than I did before. I feel a lot more like myself. Let me be clear. Not every fat person is unhealthy. Not every skinny person is healthy. “A viral rise in SkinnyTok.” “SkinnyTok.” “Dark side of social media.” “Encourages disordered eating.” “If you want to get skinny, you need to gaslight yourself to skinny.” “View food as something that is optional always.” Not everyone can control their weight, and no one should be mistreated for it. But what’s not fatphobic is this: Being fat does increase your risk of health problems. Studies show obese people are about six times more likely to develop Type 2 diabetes. We have a 28 percent greater risk of heart disease. We have higher risk for 13 types of cancer. Up to seven times the risk for endometrial cancer, up to five times the risk for esophageal cancer. Colon, rectal, pancreatic, kidney. Higher risk of strokes. We can still be body positive, while acknowledging these risks. We can still love ourselves even if we want to lose weight. That’s what real body positivity should stand for. Loving yourself at any size and having the freedom to change it.