Three times a week (if I’m lucky) for an occasionally punishing hour, I punch, kick, block, wield a staff or nunchuck, and generally feel like a ridiculous person. I’m a fat lady who does martial arts.

Sometimes I’ll catch a glimpse of my body in the window reflection and just…wish. That my body met basic expectations of thinness. That I could just be thin. That I would love that quick flash of my self in the window or the mirrors. That I could look at her without that immediate pang of inadequacy.

And then I mentally kick myself and remember why I do martial arts. It’s not a punishment for my fat body or even a quest to remove my body fat. It’s because movement is generally good for the body and I like taking out my rage on ping pong balls with a nunchuck. It’s an act of love for my body exactly as I am.

Without dropping a pound in the last two years, I am now able to:

I enjoy the mind/body aspects of breath work and meditation. Memorizing movement sequences combats my fear of future dementia. I have the rudiments of self defense.

I leave martial arts feeling flexible and strong. My mind feels shower clean when I leave, no matter the state of my mood and mind when I drag myself through the door to class. Our energy movement exercises have become some of my favorite, especially after a difficult day. I often visualize the frustrations and anxieties literally being flung from my body.

None of these things are going to lower the number on the scale, but they increase my quality of life.

Of course, my uniform doesn’t actually fit me. I cannot wear the pants. They were created in a paradigm that, in addition to defaulting male, equates bigger sizes with height rather than width. My top is hopelessly too long and yet not quite wide enough. My bottoms are made for the narrow hips of the male body, leaving me in need of much more ease along the widest part of my body if I want to bend over.

I think about sewing my own pants. I think about redesigning the Gi to fit me, the body I have right now, properly.

I think how much easier it would be to just have clothes that fit. That I wouldn’t have to stand out by wearing an ill-fitting and incomplete uniform, class after class, and catch a glimpse of how different I look in the window or mirrors.

During a particularly punishing sequence when I was testing up a level, we had to hold positions for at least thirty counts and potentially up to over a hundred counts. As my legs fought for a squatted T-position, with torso twisted and arms angled, my muscles burned, my balance wobbled, my arms threatened to drop. Instead, I remembered that I had been pregnant, experienced labor and post partum, and that if my body could survive that pain, it surely could do this as well. It did.

I used to think of my body as a weakness, a problem. But my body is actually quite resilient. It has seen a few things and carried me through.

I mean, while wearing a uniform that doesn’t fit, my body has successfully:

• Held my arms in pose for three whole minutes without dropping
• Spun a staff over my head and behind my back
• Moved a spinning nunchuck from one hand to the other and back again
• Made my spine twist in previously unforeseen ways
• Walked smoothly in a bagua circle without moving my upper body

I’m a fat lady in martial arts class who mostly looks (and feels) ridiculous, but I’m also a capable person who is engaging in an activity that brings me joy and strength. No matter how many times I catch that glimpse of myself in the mirror and feel that pang, I belong in this space, fat body and all. There’s a martial arts style for every body and a body for every martial arts style. Fat really doesn’t have anything to do with it.

*Personal photo shared with permission of my instructor

Cover Photo by svklimkin on Unsplash