“These outfits just aren’t meant for your body!” the photographer fussed before taking the photo.

“Do you ever feed her?” a family friend questioned at a picnic in the park.
 
“You’re too skinny to be a cheerleader!” my mom noted when I mentioned an interest in trying out for the squad.
 
“You’d look better with a little more meat on your bones!” my dad commented when I asked how I looked getting ready for a school dance.

Nobody ever meant harm. I knew this then. I know this now.

I look in to those big brown eyes and I also know:

The effects of walking around on eggshells her entire life.
 
She’s keeping her loud thoughts and ideas small.

She’s doing her best to stay out of everybody’s way.

Don’t provoke your mother.

Don’t provoke your father.
 
Don’t walk that way, don’t talk that way, don’t dress that way, don’t act that way.
 
Using her inside voice.
 
Not rocking the boat.

Hiding in plain sight, behind fragile human skin.

Nobody ever meant harm. Who could have known how much energy she spent actively trying to be small?

On the surface the words were right.

I was a skinny kid.

It wasn’t until well in to adulthood that I realized I should take up more than zero space.