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teacher tried to reassure me: “It’s okay, Victoria. We’re all the same, no matter what color our skin is.”
    Yet, I didn’t see color. What I saw were little legs—pair after pair of skinny little legs. And my legs didn’t look like that. Mine were big and round and they rubbed together when I walked. The teacher continued to try to coax me into the room. “They are just like you,” she said. I wanted to scream, “They’re not like me!” I have thighs and they don’t! As I took my seat, which felt snug against my body, I realized for the first time in my life that I was different. I was big.
    Despite every attempt to lose weight and be accepted by the other kids, I never outgrew my baby fat. By the time I reached high school, I was obsessed with food and dieting. As soon as I got up in the morning, I’d wonder what was for breakfast. Then, after the last bite of Mama’s homemade biscuits and butter, I’d think about what she’d packed in my lunch.
    By the time I went to college, one of my friends had taught me a handy technique for keeping weight off—throwing up. I spent a good portion of my college years hunched over a toilet and trying to hide my shame. Yet despite throwing up, I still managed to gain the freshman fifteen—and then some. Instead of paying attention to the signals my body was sending me—low energy, depression and headaches—I’d reach for a candy-bar pick-me-up or a jolt of soda with lots of caffeine.
    You know the old saying, “If you want to look thinner, hang out with people bigger than you”? That’s exactly what I did. To soothe my emotional needs, I hung out with women who looked like me, thought like me and ate like me. Believe it or not, I was their fitness instructor at the time. Unfortunately, we didn’t view exercise as a way to gain health—it was a justification to eat more. My girlfriends and I would get all dressed up in our workout clothes, barely break a sweat and then hit a McDonald’s drive-through. “Sure I’ll have fries with that! I just worked out—I deserve it!”
    One day while I was leading the class, I felt a little dizzy. Ten minutes into the workout, I fainted. The blackout scared me and I immediately scheduled a doctor’s appointment. I sat with clipboard and pen in hand at the doctor’s office as I began to lie about my health history, with no regrets.
    â€œHas anyone in your family ever had diabetes?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œDo you…?”
    â€œNope, never. I eat fruit and vegetables and drink eight glasses of distilled water every day.”
    Then I had to answer the magical question, “How much do you weigh?”
    Well, when exactly? In the morning? Before PMS? After PMS? I scribbled one hundred and thirty.
    The nurse came in to check my vital signs and glanced over my questionnaire. “One hundred and thirty?!”
    â€œWell, last time I checked it was.”
    â€œPlease step on the scale.”
    â€œShouldn’t I take my shoes off? And my belt—it’s metal. It must weigh a few pounds.”
    After removing everything I reasonably could, I stood on the scale, held my breath and pulled in my stomach, trying to be lighter.
    She whizzed the metal bar way past 130 before she clicked to 150, 160, 170. When the ruler clicked at 175, I jumped off the scale in horror.
    Still shell-shocked, I met with the doctor. What he said did little to soothe me.
    â€œYoung lady, if you do not change your eating habits and your lifestyle, you are on your way to developing type 2 diabetes.” Holding a large syringe and getting right in my face, he continued, “You will have to take this needle and stick yourself with it every day. You will become a pharmaceutical drug addict if you don’t make a major life change!”
    His words hit me like a hammer. I thought about my aunt who had her leg amputated