Growing up, my mom would always accompany me to the salon, ready to offer her advice when she felt necessary. “Don’t go too short, it won’t look right,” she’d say, looming behind me and instructing the stylist as I watched her through the mirror in front of us. She used her hands as a ruler, marking the two-inch “DO NOT CROSS” section at the ends of my hair from which the scissors could go no further, while the stylist buttoned a polka-dot cape around my neck. “I’m not trying to be mean, but I was a big girl too, so I know what I’m talking about.”

She was also always there ready to give her fashion advice. In the many back-to-school shopping days we’d had, I dreaded coming out of the JCPenney’s or Kohl’s fitting rooms. I would mentally prepare myself to walk out into the court of judgement that was asking my mom for her thoughts and approval. “That accentuates your tummy a little bit, mama, are you ok with wearing something like that?”

It was the summer before ninth grade when I was yearning to reinvent myself. I finally thought I could take control of my style, and return to the fitting room alone, without my mom’s voice present.

I was slowly getting into makeup and fashion, weaning out the frumpy and masculine flannels, baggy tees and oversized jeans that I resorted to in middle school. Those clothes weren’t necessarily my style, but they covered my body and everything that I—or others—didn’t like about it.

Every time I returned to the fitting room, my mom’s words lingered in the back of my mind, even when she wasn’t standing outside the door. They prevented me from overcoming the years of built-up insecurity. It took me years to not only find my own style, but how to find my place and fit in a world that didn’t make room for me.

I was the fat kid growing up, and I’m fat now.

The term plus-size has been around since the early 20th century, it’s one that often goes undefined and is tied to the idea of being “bigger than normal.” In an interview with CNN, Downing Peter, an assistant professor of fashion studies at Columbia College Chicago, says that about 67% of women in the U.S. are considered plus-size. A size 16 in pants, the equivalent of an extra-large, is the average for many women.

While plus-size women are the majority, most women’s clothing retailers don’t carry sizes or cater to shoppers beyond a size 12. Plus-size women’s clothing sales make up only about 19% of the U.S. apparel market.

Recently, retailers such as H&M and Old Navy—stores I once relied on for affordable and stylish clothes—have removed plus-size sections from physical stores, either exiling them to online-only, or even removing size inclusive collections altogether. In a statement made on May 26, 2022, Old Navy claims that “based on customer demand and supply chain challenges, we made the decision to remove select extended sizes from stores.”

This fills shoppers in bigger bodies like me with a sense of otherness—that nobody should see a plus size section, mannequin, or God forbid, an actual plus-size shopper in stores. It also makes the act of trying on clothes before you buy them and interacting with employees a privilege, reserved only for people who can fit into the smaller sizes. It sends the message to plus-size shoppers that “fat is not welcome here!”

Even in the stores that catered to plus-size shoppers, I still felt the tight, restrictive expectations that the fashion industry upholds.

Stores like Lane Bryant and Torrid often leave us dissatisfied with the quality and style of clothing that is being marketed. These stores’ racks often overflow with cold shoulder tops, ugly patterns and random embellishments. They all adorn some type of “flattering” or “figure friendly” shape that really covers rather than compliments.

I noticed this most during high school, I thought I could turn to plus-size catered stores as a safe-haven, where I wouldn’t be othered and where clothes would fit me. In those dressing rooms, I desperately looked for something flattering, comfortable and stylish, but walked out defeated every time.

It was when I tried on a gawdy, plum colored top with beading and cutouts that I questioned why they were selling clothes like this in the first place. Just because they fit, didn’t mean they were stylish or good, and I was left thinking, “Why can’t I just dress like everyone else?”

Before we criticize these stores though, we need to also critique how society plays into these fatphobic ideals. I’ve been fed the narrative that my body couldn’t be celebrated, or that once I was thin, I could finally dress, accessorize and alter my appearance however I wanted.

Anyone who has had a bigger body has probably been given the same unwarranted advice that I was given—certain colors make you look bigger, but black is slimming; don’t wear horizontal stripes, they make you look wider; wear baggy, but not too baggy, but not form fitting either, nobody wants to see that; don’t draw more attention to yourself.

Narratives like these that have been around for as long as I can remember are why the plus-size fashion market is the same mess it was 120 years ago.

Because of these attitudes, being stylish while being plus-size is an almost an impossible thing to achieve—and the hunt to find reliable, cost-friendly and stylish clothing makes shopping a grueling task. In the traditional plus-size fashion market, there is simply little or no room for creativity.

After my shopping experiences in high school, I rejected fashion and self-expression for fear of being ridiculed. I abandoned anything that would make me stand out, thinking that I couldn’t because I was already fat, and that alone was something “bad.”

Even picking out an outfit for school would make my days stressful, wondering if my outfit accentuated any part of my body, or if I looked ridiculous and too fat in what I was wearing.

One day, I wore a brown tank top that I had just thrifted. It was one of the first tops that I purchased and was looking forward to wearing. It was the first time I would show my arms at school, but I still brought a jacket in case I got too self-conscious.

As soon as my first class, the jacket was on and stayed on for the rest of the day. Nobody had even said anything negative to me, but my mind raced, and I convinced myself that it “didn’t look right.”

A big contributor to my past attitudes came from the media. Movies, social media and celebrities changed the way I thought about myself and my body.

The Y2K fashion trend was fun for others, but tiresome for me and other plus-size people, as thinness was once again “fashionable” and bodies that didn’t fit into the coke-thin, tabloid-esque labels were excluded and deemed unchic.

Even on the runway, where trends and fashion are meant to experiment without limits, plus-size couture is almost unheard of. In the Vogue Business Spring/Summer 2025 size inclusivity report, it was found that plus-size models make up 0.8% of looks in New York Fashion Week.

If plus-size people are excluded in and out of the fashion world, where do they belong? How are we expected to dress in a way that makes us happy, comfortable and expressive? Or should bigger people simply adjust themselves to these standards and avoid the struggle entirely?

People have told me for years that the obvious solution to this is losing weight. And sure, if I were thin, it would erase the problem for me, but not for other plus-size people. Just because I’m big now, doesn’t mean that I and others don’t deserve to feel included, especially in regard to something as necessary as clothing.

It was after graduating high school, when I was on vacation with family and best friend, who is also considered plus-size, that I learned to shed everything that had been told to me all these years.

We were getting ready in our hotel room for a night out. Despite the heat of Las Vegas, I changed into a cardigan and jeans to cover my arms and legs.

I knew I was dressing excessively warm but sacrificed my own comfort for conformity. When my friend was done changing in the bathroom, she walked out in a crop top and shorts. I felt a mix of envy and awe for the confidence that she had, and I didn’t.

From my own internalized judgement, I asked her if she was comfortable with wearing that out in public where other people would see her.

She asked me if I was comfortable with what I was wearing, and looking into the hotel room mirror, I felt my stomach drop in disappointment for myself. I realized that I was the one who looked out of place—I had let my insecurity take control of me.

When I had seen her embrace her body, I knew I could too and decided to change. I emptied out my bag and put on the tank top and shorts that I had brought but couldn’t bring myself to wear before. I showed her my outfit, prepared for the same criticism that I had been met with all these years, but she looked at me and said, “It looks good, and you look comfortable. It’s so hot and everyone is dressing the same anyway, so who cares.”

We walked up Fremont Street among crowds of people, and nobody cared what we were wearing.

From that moment on, I started a journey of self-embracement starting from the ground up. Following plus-size influencers and celebrities and seeing representation of confident women who looked like me, made me more accepting of my body. Once I accepted my body for what it is, I was finally able to embrace the clothes I put on it.

For the past few years, I have not shopped at traditional clothing stores or major retailers for clothing. I have refused to give them my business and reject the narrative that I must first be excluded to be welcomed anywhere at all.

To this day, I rely solely on thrift stores for fashion. I’ve been able to find a variety of unique clothing, both vintage and new, that allow me to express myself outside the limits that retailers have. In thrift stores, there is no “plus-size” section pushed to the back, everything is on the same rack. Everyone shopping is on a level playing field, and the choice of what clothing to buy is left to the tastes of the shopper, not the retailer.

What I’ve come to realize, especially now, is that plus-size people don’t have anything to make up for just because they are bigger. We shouldn’t have to apologize for existing.

My mom passed the same toxic messages on to me that had been passed on to her. When society upholds the same ideals that they have had for so long, they internalize and bleed out into younger generations, ultimately continuing the cycle of body shaming. Breaking the cycle begins with acknowledging how harmful the fat-phobic messages that society normalizes are.

Once I accepted that people knew I was fat regardless of what I wore, I realized that there was never a reason to hide. I don’t fear fashion anymore. I show my arms, wear shorts, embrace patterns, and ultimately, dress for myself, not for whoever might be standing outside the dressing room.

Taken from the Winter 2024 print issue of Inside Fullerton. Read it here.