"I don't want to be mean," she said. "But you're kind of fat." The words rolled off of her tongue with innocence as if she were commenting on the color of someone's shirt or the weather that day. However there was underlining condescendence in her tone. She smirked, surveying my inflated figure in comparison to her petite physique, and carelessly skipped off. To her it was a remark, something that ten years later she would not be able to recollect. And yet even at the age of eight I knew that one phrase would permanently scar my memory.

Three weeks later I sat in my grandmother's den at 3am masked by darkness, alone. It was the night before Christmas Eve and I sat restlessly admiring the dim, rainbow lights wrapped around the plastic leaves. Despite the ungodly hour, I could not sleep. I felt uneasy, discontent, and empty; an odd mix for a girl who just a few years ago lost her first tooth. Yet unlike other eight year olds I was not restless because of the tooth fairy or Santa. That night, I lay awake replaying my friend's voice as she told me I was fat and wished that Santa would make me beautiful like her. Grabbing at a roll of skin on my stomach, I sat in my grandmother's den and cried on the night before Christmas Eve.

At the age of 10, my "fatness" became more apparent as I rapidly grew and the other little girls stayed the same. At 4'5" I towered over most of my friends. Their small wrists and twigs for legs paled in comparison to my 90 lb body, an observation I couldn't help but notice. My stomach poked out slightly from my tucked in oxford shirt at school and my legs were bulkier than the other girls' on the playground. I became stubborn about tucking in my uniform, afraid others would notice the weight beneath my shirt. Over the summers I would hide behind swim shirts, fearing the reactions if I dare slip into a two piece.

At the age of 10 I began to let my insecurities slowly swallow every aspect of my world. I carried my pounds, exhausted by their burden. I was an active kid, I tried almost every sport, and yet despite my efforts I continued to grow. While other children pushed aside their veggies, I would eat anything. Some parents would exclaim how jealous they were of my mom as they complained how their little Jessie only ate goldfish or sweet Anna refused to eat a thing. I was surrounded by girls who had long, sleek surfboards for torsos, while I had the build of a chubby boy. My family exclaimed how "fat girl genes" were hereditary and how each of the women in my line had at one point experienced it. For my grandmother who overcame the "fat girl genes," a healthy life meant surviving on bird's food to maintain a favorable frame. To my mother, this insecurity had never managed to weasel its way out of her existence.

As the years went by I progressively began making visits to my parents scale, obsessively checking the numbers. The day I broke triple digits I cried.

I noticed everything. The way my helpings were larger than my friends, or how I was still hungry when others were full. I saw how some of my friends would grab for thirds or fourths of pizza, and I would feel entitled to do the same.

Don't take it out of context, I was relatively healthy. My doctors showed little concern in regards to my weight, noting how my growth chart was mostly meeting the correct standards. But despite their approval, I could not accept my body type. I was fat. It had been stated plain and simple.

I tried to cover my monstrous body with expensive clothes and false positivity, but my insecurity was raw and open for the world to see. I've grown up a lot since I was eight. I've experienced a decade's worth of body shaming and even in the wake of this movement for body positivity I've struggled to accept myself. Your words have an unbelievable impact on a person's life. Never underestimate the value of what you say.