Using the word fat - content warning EDs.

I recently shared that when I say “I’m fat,” I mean it as a neutral descriptor—not a value judgment. So, when someone replies with “You’re not fat, you’re beautiful,” it stings. Because that implies I can’t be both. And I absolutely can.

Several people responded to say they disagreed with using the word fat that way—because, in their view, fat (as in adipose tissue) is something we have, not something we are.

I respect that perspective. But we don’t say “I have height” instead of “I’m tall,” or “I have limited height” instead of “I’m petite.” We say “I’m muscular” rather than “I have muscle mass.” So from a grammatical or even scientific standpoint, it doesn’t really hold up.

More importantly, I didn’t choose “fat” as part of my identity—society did that long before I did. Using fat as a neutral term is a way I reclaim power, push back on shame, and make my body visible on my own terms. It’s not derogatory. It’s defiant, in the best way.

So, when someone tells me not to use it, it feels like they’re still seeing it as a slur. And I don’t want to carry that shame anymore.

I absolutely believe we shouldn’t police how people talk about their own bodies. That’s personal. But I also know language doesn’t exist in a vacuum—it affects those who hear it too.

That’s where the conversation got harder. One person responded—emotionally—to say that calling myself fat could harm people in eating disorder recovery, because part of their healing was about disconnecting from descriptors like that. To make sure I’m not misrepresenting based on my own emotions and bias their exact words were “it 1. Makes zero logical sense 2. Hurts people that are trying to accept they have fat on them, but it’s not who they are nor determines their worth.”

This didn’t sit well with me. But because of who I am as a person I also stopped to sit in the discomfort, and reflect on how we can collaboratively serve both communities and do no harm...

First, it felt like they were assuming fatness and eating disorders are mutually exclusive. That’s a harmful stereotype. People in all body sizes experience eating disorders. But larger bodies are often overlooked or labeled “atypical,” which can delay diagnosis or support.

Second, this feels like yet another way people in larger bodies can’t win. We’re told we’re “glorifying obesity,” and at the same time blamed for “triggering” disordered eating. Yes, diet culture contributes to EDs. But should that burden fall on fat people? Or on the systems that teach people to fear bodies like ours?

Being told not to reclaim fat as neutral doesn’t feel protective—it feels like gatekeeping. It reinforces the very stigma they claim to be challenging. Like telling me my body is part of someone else’s problem. And “having” fat is true of each and every person alive, but there is a particular group of us who are treated differently because of how much fat we have, and for me it feels euphemistic and over-medicalised to say that I have excess adiposity or I have higher than average levels of adipose tissue…

I get that there isn’t one right way to talk about bodies. These are deeply personal, often painful conversations. Different experiences shape different needs. What helps one person might harm another.

So, how do we do no harm to others—without adding more burden to people in larger bodies?

I really hear that fat can feel loaded or even harmful in the context of ED recovery—and I respect that certain language is carefully chosen to create safety. But for me, as a fat person, using that word is how I create safety. It’s how I undo shame. It’s how I stop letting others define me through euphemism or medicalisation.

As someone working in nutrition science, I understand adiposity as a clinical concept. But fatness as an identity goes far beyond tissue. It’s about how we’re treated, perceived, and often excluded. So, reclaiming “fat” is part of resisting that marginalisation.

We also have to be careful not to centre thin people’s fear of being fat in conversations about actual fat people’s lives. Saying “you’re not fat, you have fat” might feel comforting to some, but it can erase the lived experience of others—especially when fat people are already rendered invisible or reduced to health problems. We all have fat, but some of us live in bodies where the amount of fat we have means we are perceived and treated differently. That’s what I push back on. That doesn’t invalidate ED recovery frameworks or that context, and they’re not the only frameworks or contexts that matter.

This is hard work. It’s okay to feel discomfort. But it’s also okay to set boundaries when someone else’s discomfort tries to make your identity unsafe. But that has to be true in both directions. I want all of us to feel seen and safe.

And I want to be honest: being able to say “I am fat” as a neutral descriptor is important to me, on my journey with my body. I’m not asking everyone to reclaim that word or apply it without thought for harm. I just ask that you respect why some of us do, in our contexts.

How do we balance the needs of the eating disorder community with the needs of the fat/larger bodied community?

And this is where I landed.
❤️ Let’s first recoginse that these are not mutually exclusive communities - ED stereotypes are often centred on underweight, leading to delayed diagnosis & suboptimal support for people in larger bodies... and even disordered behaviour being encouraged for weight loss.
💙 Let’s agree that we
have the same goal -
ending stigma associated with body size, shape and composition .
💚 Can we place the burden of change on the systems & cultures that judge & harm, not pit groups suffering from that harm against each other?
💛 Can we make room for
multiple perspectives and
lived experiences in
contexts?
🧡 Can we actively make room for different relationships to language? Understanding that reclaiming the word “fat” might feel harmful for some, while it’s healing and empowering for others.
💜 Can we ask more questions, and make less assumptions so that one persons safety and dignity doesn’t come at the expense of others?

I want to do better & do no harm, but I also don’t want to be harmed. I’m open to discussion, not policing or being policed.

What might that look like in practice? It could mean using person-centered language in clinical settings and allowing people to define themselves on their own terms in personal and public ones. It could mean making space for grief, discomfort, and growth—without defaulting to shame or censorship.

Ultimately, no one group’s safety should come at the erasure of another’s humanity, and we can all keep working to do better and less harm.