A bit about me.
My name is Sarah Simons and I am a middle-aged fat lass.
I was a fat kid, a fat girl and a fat woman. I was a fat actress, a fat writer and a fat teacher. A fat friend, a fat wife and a fat mum.
During a lot of those versions of myself, being fat caused me much anguish. How other people saw my fatness affected who I was. Those lazy, reductive perceptions burrowed deep into me and reduced my self esteem to flimsy nothingness, and for a long time I genuinely hated myself because of it. I believed that by taking up too much room I was somehow less. Less of everything. In particular, less of a woman.
The 'fuck it' years.
Then things changed. I moved into the ‘fuck it’ portion of life. I decided to blow a massive raspberry at the notion that my sense of self could be defined by any other person’s rules but my own. People are free to think whatever they like about how I look. Any judgements based on my appearance are absolutely none of my business. In short, if anyone has a problem with how I look, it’s their problem not mine.
Your ‘fuck it’ mindset, like mine, have come with middle age. Maybe your life presented a turning point that allowed you to question some skewed beliefs. Maybe you were born with a ‘fuck it’ attitude. How fabulous. What power you must feel, what freedom. Maybe your ‘fuck it’ time hasn’t arrived yet. I look back at the huge swathes of my life before I reached full ‘fuck it’ and I want to either shake me by the shoulders or give me a massive hug. I could’ve been having so much more fun if I’d stopped wasting time feeling anxious about how other people see me.
My version of ‘fuck it’ isn’t about being disinterested in my appearance, I adore a bit of glam when the mood grabs me, it’s just that I have no interest in the assumptions that may be made because of my appearance. My own ‘fuck it’ isn’t simply about body positivity or fat acceptance, it’s about the irrelevance of it all. I am fat. I am also a million other things.
The birth of Middle Aged Fat Lass.
I started Middle Aged Fat Lass as a Facebook page to try and reclaim a little bit of my own identity and create some space for me.
I'd reached that age where I defined myself by how successfully I was supporting other people - my teenage son, my husband, my elderly (recently separated) parents. I take full respnsibility for falling down this rabbit hole; much of my dwindling sense of self happened because I'd stopped paying attention to my own life.
Back then my son's Youtube channel had blown up beyond belief making him a global star and at the same time I was becoming a carer for my dad who has Alzheimer's. It was a time of extreme life experiences and in the midst of it all, I was lost.
Here's the video I made at the time.
The power of community.
A growing gang of wonderful people congretaed on the Middle Aged Fat Lass page to chat about the stuff that matters to them: How their body image is linked to their changing role in life and how they're navigating their way through these profound shifts in identity.
And it wasn't just middle-aged fat lasses like me who were joining the conversation. How we see ourselves and how that version of us impacts confidence (and ultimately identity) is a topic that resonates with many, regardless of age, shape or gender.
I gained so much comfort from connecting with people from all stages of life, to share, learn and support each other. I hope that you do too.
One last thing... Why there's a torn hammock on the front page.
A few years ago I was on holiday in a cabin in rural Wales with my husband, son, his pal Freddie and our dog. It was idylic. Shortly after we arrived I mosied on over to the hammock by the lake and clambered on, where a few gentle sways lulled me into slumber. Absolute bliss.
That was until I awoke to the sensation of my body sinking, seemingly in slow motion. The hammock had given up trying to hold my substantial weight and ripped down the middle, leaving me with arse on the floor and feet up by chin. Not my most elegant of moves.
My family looked over in shock, waiting for my reaction. I laughed. They laughed. We all laughed. It was a pants wettingly funny moment.
Later that day I went to the nearby farm to see the cabin's owner, tell him about my mishap and offer to replace the hammock. He said the fabric was old and it was he who should apologise to me. He also said he'd had individual visits from my husband, my son, and Freddie who'd all claimed to have torn the hammock. It was a real 'I am Sparticus' moment.
I have never felt so loved. I knew that all three skinny lads had individually taken the blame to spare my blushes. I was so touched by their sensitivity and kindness. However, I had no blushes for them to spare.
I know in years gone by I would've been mortified by taking out the hammock with my heft. But by then I had changed. It was a simple accident. It had no affect on my self esteem. It was another signal that I had reached the 'fuck it' years.
In fact I popped a post on Facebook...
