i thought i could never love you until suddenly, i did

a love letter to my double chin

Everybody hates you.

You, my double chin, are the epitome of undesirable. You are what people talk about when they want to be self-deprecating. You are what people don’t want; the worst thing anyone can have; the ultimate sign of personal and moral failure. You and the back roll or the tummy pooch or the bat wings or the muffin top—siblings in the family of things we use against our bodies. I’m trying to learn to live with you, but it’s hard. Sibling rivalry, I guess. It’s hard because even when I’m not thinking about you at all, everyone else is.

We were taking a photo together overlooking a beautiful piece of forest en route to Havana, Cuba. Smiling into the camera, happy in the sun, a middle-aged woman next to us told me how to hide you. “Tilt your head down and put your tongue on the roof of your mouth,” she said. Unprompted advice. She noticed you and she didn’t like you. No, actually, she didn’t like her own so she assumed I didn’t like mine either. Projecting. Although I wasn’t sure if I liked you at the time, I felt instinctively protective. Thinking about it now, I could cry (I am). You are a part of me, even when you were smaller. “I don’t think about that,” I retorted. She laughed, shrugged and continued on her way.

No offence but, at the time, I honestly wasn’t thinking about you at all. Most of the time—or until someone points you out or I see a photo of myself laughing or I catch my side profile in the mirror or I accidentally open my Camera app while scrolling on my phone on my back or I feel compressed in missionary position—I don’t think about you at all. Interesting, isn’t it, that when we’re living in the moment, we just forget about each other. You are just there; I am just there. We’re together, the same entity, neutrally co-existing. But the way you are now, so visible, is new to me. And so I’m learning.

Happy and smiling in Cuba

Years ago, before my body really changed into how she looks now, I used to be so relieved I at least didn’t have you. Relieved I could snap a selfie or have a candid picture taken of me and be perceived as smaller than I was. Relieved that you didn’t appear when I laughed. Relieved that you didn’t give away what the rest of me looked like, if one only saw me from the shoulders up. My boss at the South Korean school I worked at told me, while analyzing my new ID card, I was so lucky because of this. I agreed.

Still, even then, I instinctively pulled my shirt up above my chin to hide you, unable to relax in the presence of others until my invisibility cloak tucked you out of sight. I used makeup tricks to paint you away. I never cut my hair too short, because too short meant too exposed. I didn’t wear turtlenecks because they pronounced you. I preferred hoodies over crewnecks because there was more fabric to hide behind. I loved scarves because they felt like body armour without it being obvious that I hated myself, hated you. When taking photos, I’d rest my hand near my chin, not to pose but to conceal you, and I’d think of that middle-aged woman in Cuba. Tilt head down, tongue on roof of mouth. Tilt head down, tongue on roof of mouth. Tilt head down, tongue on roof of mouth. I do this even now and I’m sorry.

I can’t hide you now. No matter how much bronzer or contour I use. No matter where my hair falls, or how long it grows, at some point it always moves and reveals you. No matter what kind of sweater I wear, no matter how I accessorize in the winter months, you’re there. And I don’t want to hide you now. Because makeup is for creativity, not for disappearing. Because hair is for expression, not concealing, and you’ll be there no matter how I cut it. Because turtlenecks are fucking terrible anyways. Because I actually prefer hoodies, but have one crewneck I won’t get rid of out of protest. Because I hardly wear scarves now; I run hot all year anyways.

In forcing yourself on me as my body has grown over time, you’ve taught me a lesson that I needn’t hide you. And in not hiding you, I can’t hide myself either. It’s almost as if this was your clever little plan all along—trick me out of hiding and into plain sight to challenge my greatest fear and deepest desire: being truly seen.

You’ve forced me to be exposed, to stop caring or at least just keep on living with you because I have no choice in the matter, thank god for that. And in this gentle, subtle reckoning, I’ve learned to love you. I’ve learned that when you show up most beautifully, most profoundly, it is when I am laughing, I am smiling, I am living, I am loving.

I am not hiding. I am here. Tilt head up, smile.

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This essay was inspired by my internet friend BOARLORD, a fat trans essayist, pornographer and porn videogame developer. In a recent Instagram Story post, she spoke about being happy her double chin was returning after regaining lost weight. I’d never thought of my own double chin that way. It moved me so much, as does all of her work (watch this).