When my father passed away unexpectedly, the way I moved through the world irreparably changed. Grief came in unpredictable waves—sometimes gentle, often crushing—and it became harder and harder to stay afloat. Like many who’ve lost someone they love, I scrambled to find coping mechanisms to serve as a temporary band-aid. I began overdrinking, over-relying on prescribed benzodiazepines, and overeating.
Within six months, I had gained over 40 pounds. For someone who had typically hovered between 115 and 120 pounds in adulthood, the fluctuation in my weight felt substantial and heartbreaking. In addition to the emotional turbulence I was already navigating, my body began to feel foreign. My clothes didn’t fit, my face and body looked fuller in photos, and every reflection of myself felt like a confrontation. I didn’t recognize the face, or the person, staring back at me.
Making myself small
Before I knew it, I found myself shrinking in other ways. I didn’t laugh as loudly. I slowly stopped speaking up in group settings. I sidestepped eye contact with people I used to flirt with effortlessly. Somehow, weight gain had triggered an instinct: make yourself smaller. Not just physically, but emotionally, socially, and sexually. I convinced myself that if I stayed quiet and unnoticeable, I might spare others the discomfort of my presence. That I wouldn’t offend anyone simply by taking up space.
That instinct, I’ve come to realize, isn’t natural, it’s learned. It’s the byproduct of a culture that tells people in larger bodies they’re worth less than their thinner counterparts, and that they should apologize for the space they take up. Especially for women, weight becomes a warped metric—used to measure beauty, value, and even visibility.
In dating, that messaging takes on an even more confusing and painful shape. I encountered the dual sting of fatphobia and fetishization, often at the same time. People flirted with me privately but ghosted me publicly. Hinge dates came with backhanded compliments like, “You’re actually really cute for a bigger girl.” On some apps, I was ignored entirely; on others, I was flooded with explicit, dehumanizing messages that made me feel more like a category than a person.
The experience was both exhausting and disorienting. Somehow, my weight made me feel like I was always too much and never enough. Too visible, yet still overlooked. Too loud, too opinionated, too fat. The only thing I seemed to carry in abundance was shame. People didn’t just look at me less, they looked into me less, as if my body made me less worthy of curiosity, attention, or care.
Learned shame
Having lived in both a thin body and a heavier one, I’ve seen how drastically the world shifts based on how you look. When you’re perceived as attractive and fit, people praise you for the bare minimum. But in a bigger body, you’re expected to be the funniest, the most charming, the most impressive person in the room, just to be seen as enough. And even then, it often still falls short.
But shame is not a sustainable state of being, nor should anyone be forced to live with the notion that their very existence is offensive. Eventually, I got tired. Not of dating, but of disappearing. Of bending into a version of myself that didn’t include joy or agency. I missed being flirty. I missed the electric possibility that comes with a glance or a grin. I missed that feeling of being in your body and enjoying it.
So I eased back into flirting. They say confidence is the sexiest thing a girl can have—and when I didn’t have it, I pretended to.
Fake it ‘til you make it
Letting go of what other people think turned out to be surprisingly liberating. I started small. I wore that bold lipstick from Ulta I’d been eyeing, even if it clashed with my outfit. I chose dresses that hugged my stomach in all the so-called “wrong” places. I posted thirst traps—even when I knew they wouldn’t rack up the same likes or comments they might have if I were thinner. Then I got bolder.
I started flirting with people I actually wanted to talk to—not just the ones I assumed would say yes. I stopped treating myself like a backup option. And for the first time in a long time, I asked myself the most important question: What feels good for me?
Because here’s the truth: flirting isn’t just performance, it’s practice. It’s a way to reconnect with your body, your voice, and your self-image. For those of us who’ve been told our bodies are wrong, flirting can become an act of quiet rebellion. A reclamation of space, confidence, and joy.
That reclamation, though, isn’t without its daily battles. Fatphobia doesn’t disappear just because I’ve chosen to love myself out loud. There are still days when I want to retreat. Dates still go sideways. Some compliments still cut. But I have more tools now. I know how to spot the moments I start shrinking. I’ve learned to recognize when a compliment is really a red flag. And I’ve come to understand that while validation can be sweet, self-trust is sacred.
So, I started putting it into practice: flirting not as performance, but as presence. One night, I was out at a bar with friends when I locked eyes with someone across the room. My old instinct kicked in. Look away, assume they were judging me, or that I was blocking the view of a thinner, more conventionally attractive girl. I almost disappeared into my drink or someone else’s joke to escape the moment. But this time, I didn’t.
I held their gaze. I smiled. I didn’t overthink it. I let myself be seen. The night didn’t end with a number or a grand romantic gesture—but it felt like a shift. A turning point. Because for once, I wasn’t faking confidence. I was inhabiting it.
Taking up space
Learning to take up space, in love, in lust, in life, requires unlearning so much of what society has taught us. It means unraveling the quiet scripts we’ve internalized since childhood: the hushed warnings from grandmothers not to go back for seconds; the rom-com myth that someone has to choose us before we’re allowed to choose ourselves; the lie that only certain bodies are worthy of desire, flirtation, or love.
It means recognizing that twisting ourselves to fit someone else’s preferences only breeds resentment. And it means understanding that liberation begins the moment we stop waiting for permission to exist, and start giving it to ourselves.
There were many times I caught myself editing my own body language. I wouldn’t touch my hair, lean in too close, or laugh with my whole chest, worried I’d come off as too much. But then I started noticing the women who didn’t shrink. The larger girls at brunch wearing bold colors, dancing in their seats, filming themselves with joy and without apology. The ones who flirted openly, loved loudly, and took selfies without angling to look smaller. They reminded me: taking up space isn’t just about volume—it’s about presence. It’s about letting your full self show up in the world, unfiltered and unafraid of consequence.
Dating while fat
I spent most of my childhood watching love stories unfold on screen between thin, conventionally attractive people. The romantic lead was always the size-two woman with long legs and an effortless smile. If someone bigger showed up on screen, she was the best friend, the comic relief, or worse, the punchline. It turns out, I internalized that messaging more deeply than I realized. It made me think that fatness was a barrier to romance. That it disqualified me from desirability.
But when I started seeking out stories that centered fat joy and fat love, something in me shifted. Watching shows, reading books, and following creators who embodied confidence at any size allowed me to see other possibilities. These stories didn’t sugarcoat reality, but they offered something powerful: representation. They helped rewrite the tired narrative that fat people can’t be objects of desire and reminded me that I wasn’t alone. That my experiences were real. That my body was not a before photo.
One of the biggest shifts came when I started dating from a place of curiosity instead of insecurity. I stopped bracing for rejection and started asking a much simpler, more powerful question: Do I even like them? I challenged the belief that I should accept a date just because someone was interested in me. For the first time, I considered what I wanted, not just who might want me.
The truth is, dating while fat can make you feel like your pool of options is painfully small. That belief alone changes how you move—who you consider, what you tolerate, what you believe you deserve. I found myself settling for people I never would have before, just grateful to be noticed. But I’ve since learned that mutual interest isn’t a prize. It’s the bare minimum.
I also began reimagining what desire looked like—for me. I stopped waiting for someone else to activate it. I danced in my room wrapped in a towel. I bought lingerie even when I wasn’t seeing anyone. I let myself blush when someone complimented me instead of brushing it off. I stopped treating desire as something I had to earn. Instead, I recognized it as something I already carried, and could honor, just for myself.
And here’s what surprised me the most: The better I felt about myself, the more fun flirting became. It wasn’t about strategy or outcomes, it was about energy, connection, and possibility. Sometimes flirting turned into a conversation. Sometimes a date. Sometimes nothing at all. But every time, I allowed myself to flirt from a place of self-assurance, I felt more whole.
I think a lot about who I could have been if I had given myself permission to live out loud earlier in life. If someone had told me at 16, or even at 22, that I didn’t need to earn love through weight loss or by hiding the parts of myself I was afraid wouldn’t be accepted. That I could be desirable, sexual, and worthy exactly as I was. That I didn’t have to wait to be thin to start living.
Learning together
When I began sharing these reflections with friends—and with other plus-sized folks—I was struck by just how universal the experience was. So many of us had been taught to flirt strategically, to lead with self-deprecating jokes, to act grateful when someone showed even a shred of interest. That kind of conditioning runs deep. It shapes how we move through the world, how we interpret signals, and how we decide whether we’re even allowed to reciprocate attention.
But the truth is: it doesn’t have to be a negotiation. It can be playful, curious, and affirming. It can belong fully to you—not filtered through someone else’s comfort, but shaped by your own pleasure, your own voice, your own desire. Flirting doesn’t have to be an apology wrapped in a punchline. It doesn’t have to ask for permission. It can be soft or bold, awkward or magnetic, loud or quiet. It just has to be yours. And the moment you stop shrinking it to fit someone else’s expectations is the moment it starts to feel like freedom.
Self-acceptance
I firmly believe that the first step to self-acceptance is letting go of the idea that flirting is off-limits until you can present a “better” version of yourself. Flirting doesn’t start when you’ve perfected yourself — it starts when you show up as you are. You don’t need to transform to be desirable. You already are.
I know it may sound like a tired cliché, but there is such power in letting yourself be radiant in the body you have. Let yourself make eye contact. Let yourself giggle when it feels good. Say no when something feels off. Remember that attraction is not currency. It’s chemistry. And you don’t have to earn it by disappearing.
Today, I flirt from a place that feels powerful because it’s rooted in truth. My body hasn’t changed much, but my relationship to it has. I let it take up space. I let it want things. I let it be seen.
And sometimes, someone flirts back. But even when they don’t, I still win. Because I’m not flirting for them. I’m flirting for me. And that’s more than enough.
