TRAVELS IN SAMBAS

Well a wedding is one thing, but discovering a little piece of Indonesia that rarely sees foreigners is a whole other exciting kettle of fish.

I recently travelled to Sambas with my husband and two of my sons, to share in the Valentine’s Day wedding celebrations of my middle son.

What a day that was! It will stay in my memories forever. But it wasn’t just one special day – it was five days of cultural immersion. (This is going to be very long so gird your loins – I don’t want to forget the experience!)

We left Hobart at 4:30am on a Friday morning and arrived in Sambas Saturday afternoon – after flying via Singapore for a night at the airport hotel and a quick flight to Kuching. Then a two hour taxi ride to Biawak and Aruk on the Indonesian-Malaysian border to go through immigration. Land border crossings are never much fun. It was a long 36 hours.

Our driver, Liew, insisted on taking us to a little local food court in Kuching where we were instructed to eat the Laksa for breakfast. It was spectacularly delicious and the best laksa we’ve had anywhere. A wonderful welcome to Malaysia.

The drive immediately reminded us we were in South East Asia. Road rules are fluid, motorcyclists are everywhere and overtaking is a constant affair right down the centreline of the road.

We got to Biawak without incident where Liew tried to explain we needed to go to the Malaysian immigration area to have our passports stamped and he would meet us on the other side of the barrier with all our luggage.

We queued and hoped for the best.

Our photographs and fingerprints were taken for the third time in 24 hours then Liew was standing on the other side waiting with our luggage. He spent five minutes trying to explain that a second van was going to drive us the one kilometre to the Indonesian immigration centre and that we need to pay 20 Malaysian ringgit for the transfer. Initially we assumed we’d be walking it like everyone else but with the language barriers our luggage was being piled into the doorless van so we had no option but to squish in and join it. They drove us the kilometre and I handed over the money. Then we had to queue for customs at Indonesia and fill out all the forms.

We had all done our visas before arriving thank goodness. Nevertheless, we were in the line about 20 minutes trying to explain why we were coming to Indonesia, where we were staying and how long we’d be there. They asked for evidence of our hotel stay but all I had was a screenshot of a WhatsApp conversation my daughter-in-law had between her and the hotel. In the end that was enough. They eventually waved us through one at a time. We ran our luggage through yet another security check then looked up to see my daughter-in-law’s brother standing there waiting for us with another taxi driver. I was so relieved.

We piled all the luggage into the back then the six of us squished into the seats with no seatbelts and we began the two hour ride to Sambas. There is a clear difference between the Malaysian roads and the Indonesian – there were a lot more potholes now.

We passed acre after after of palm oil plantation, dotted with the occasional coconut and banana trees. Small unpainted wooden houses appeared consistently along the sides of the roads and the riverbanks as we drove through. Plenty of dogs resting on the side of the road. The occasional mosque. As we drove through little townships dozens of Islamic school students would appear on their motorcycles and push bikes, heading home for the afternoon.

We were weaving our way through a sea of children on motorcycles. It all passed smoothly.

Eventually we crossed a large bridge over a long muddy river, stilt houses stretching out into the water with wooden boats nearby. The streets filled up with taller buildings and more lanes. Little shops selling fruit and motorcycles and clothing appeared. Before long we did a big u turn and pulled into the Hotel Pantura Jaya – our home for the next five nights.

We were welcomed like celebrities. Our luggage was wheeled to our two VVIP rooms and then we were left alone to unpack. My son and his wife-to-be appeared with my granddaughter in tow. I finally had all three of my boys together. Time for happy snaps.

The hotel had a grand staircase in the foyer and our VVIP rooms were very spacious. There were burgundy sheets on the beds with big burgundy bolsters behind the pillows, little white slippers, a prayer mat, lots of space, pink and white wicker chairs and toilets with no toilet paper but a conveniently placed hose. We even had a fridge for keeping things cool and bottled water to drink.

After we’d unpacked we got to meet my daughter-in-law’s family. It was wonderful to meet them despite the language barriers.

We two mothers finally had all three of our children together and I think we could recognise how special the occasion was.

As we were sitting chatting, a great thunderstorm rolled in and a few seconds later there was a loud bang as the power went out. My son just laughed and said it happened all the time. We got out our phones to light up the room while we were deciding what to do.

It was after lunchtime and we travellers were pretty hungry. After about 15 minutes of torrential rain and two power outages that quickly restored we decided to walk in the drizzle to the cafe next door to get some lunch. It was a very western looking cafe and not the cheapest place in town but it was comfy with air conditioning and we were all happy to be together. Eight staff members stood around the register with excited looks on their faces. We ordered our nasi gorengs and mie gorengs and some coffees. The coffee arrived made with sweetened condensed milk so that was a bit of a surprise. We got used to it – it’s surprisingly good.

After lunch I went with my eldest son for a walk up the street, hoping to find an atm for cash as the town appears to be cash only. There were none to be found but plenty of people who waved and stared at the two tall white people walking down the street. There are no footpaths and the roads have large puddles everywhere, so our number one priority was to walk the streets without being run down by a motorcyclist.

Time runs differently in Sambas – especially with a young couple with a baby.

It was pretty late by the time we all met up again at the outdoor restaurant and sat cross legged on the wooden floor around the large low wooden table. We were also pretty hungry again. We had all of both families there – 15 of us in total. It was a pretty special evening. My daughter-in-law ordered a whole pile of different dishes to come out for all of us. And especially for me she kept insisting to the waitress, tidak pedas– no spicy!

A huge bowl of steaming rice appeared and then the dishes started coming out. Indonesians seemed to enjoy their food – there was no end to it. We’d been given peanuts and peanut crackers to nibble on before it arrived then prawns and noodles and beef and curry and chicken satay and cucumber and all sorts of things just appeared one after the other. It was all delicious – fresh and tasty and just for me, tidak pedas.

By 9pm my eldest son was falling asleep at the table so we made our farewells and went back to the hotel. Our first day in Sambas all done.

Early the next morning we were picked up in another taxi and spent the day heading to Singkawang. We stopped in a small town at a bank and withdrew cash – insider knowledge of ATMs coming in very handy. The streets were busy and crowded with motorcycles. Houses squished up next to all the businesses together. Rubbish lining the streets. At regular intervals, mosques and Chinese temples would appear. While Indonesia is 90 per cent Muslim, the area we were staying had a large Chinese influence and only 70 per cent of the population worshipped Islam. The rest being Taoist or Catholic.

Our next stop was a Chinese temple. 2023 is Year of the Rabbit so statues and paintings of fluffy bunnies were in abundance. It was Sunday and the temple had two classes of young Indonesian students sitting cross legged on the floor learning Mandarin. They all stared out at the tall white foreigners they’d never seen before. We climbed to the top and went into the temple areas. A giant drum boomed out and then a gong was played, before incense was lit and prayers were offered. The views were of Chinese lanterns hanging from the tall tropical trees with the minarets from the mosque standing tall in the distance. The stilt houses on the muddy river below filled with people going about their daily business.

After the temple we drove another half hour through all the little townships to a Chinese market for lunch.

Enormous tables were spread out under a covered area with the takeaway shops all lined up behind. A small number of wares were on offer including handmade goods and local fruit. The durian always looks curious.

My daughter-in-law ordered lunch for everyone and again we had an amazing array of foods. I was particularly fond of the deep fried banana with chocolate and cheese.

We then walked across to the Chinese temple that was much bigger than the first one, my boys all being mobbed for photographs along the way. We crossed the little bridge and found a display of statues commemorating the 1970s television show, Monkey. More photographs of us were taken.

We got back into our two air conditioned taxis and made our way to the township of Singkawang where we visited a tourist destination called Batu Belimbing – a giant rock in a pond with a lovely mountain backdrop and a small carnival atmosphere. We were swamped by people wanting selfies.

The three boys went out on the paddle boats with my daughter-in-law’s brother. My two oldest boys far too tall for the little pedals. The loud speaker made announcements in Indonesian but the only words we heard were “Australia” and “Tasmania”. We were swamped by more people wanting photographs.

On the return to Sambas we stopped at a very cheesy and worn out park that we thought were botanical gardens but did in fact turn out to be world miniatures – a little Eiffel Tower, leaning tower of Pisa, the Titanic etc. It was terribly run down and not the best $1 we have ever spent but the nice man running it was insistent on getting a photo of us in every corner. We stopped for a last coffee in the Hong Kong district of Singkawang then started heading back.

On the long ride home we passed two Islamic wedding celebrations in full flow – streams of motorcycles lining the streets and guests milling about dancing and socialising. Big weddings seem very popular in Indonesia. A huge gathering of family and community.

It was a long day and a cultural immersion.

On Monday the bride-and-groom-to-be were busy with preparations so we had a quiet day exploring Sambas. We didn’t know how to order any kind of ride so we walked into the main part of town. In the high humidity everything seems a long way away. We were waved down by more well wishers wanting photos and eventually found our way into the town centre where I wandered down to the riverbank to see the local stilt houses.

Being used to a dry cool climate, we weren’t coping particularly well with the humidity so made our way back to the hotel to rest for the remainder of the day. Waving to local school kids practicing their English as we went, “Where are you from?!”

We went out for more rice and noodles for dinner then had an early night in preparation for the big day ahead.

The wedding went spectacularly well and much celebration was had by all. Many more rice and noodles consumed. But by then we felt we’d explore all of Sambas so decided to head back to Kuching a day early and explore the Malaysian capital of Sarawak, Kuching. So Wednesday we did the two taxi rides in reverse with the same drivers, paid another doorless van to move our luggage one kilometre between immigration checkpoints and got our fingerprints and photos taken yet again.

Kuching turns out to be a really lovely little city and we were staying by the waterfront in a rather lovely hotel. We wandered over the bridge, visited a mosque (where the robes we were given made us look like Jedi knights) and walked through a market where a local guy called out to my husband, “Hello white man!” I guess we were still considered a novelty.

And that my friend, sums up our travels in Sambas. From Kuching our next adventure was to begin – Kota Kinabalu.

MARRIED IN SAMBAS

I am so proud, excited and overwhelmed to share the story of my son’s marriage with you. It has been an exciting few days in West Kalimantan on the tropical island of Borneo.

There is something unbelievably precious about seeing your children grow into adults, living their best lives and making wonderful choices. I am immensely proud of the young man Liam has become. He is creating a beautiful life and doing so with a lovely young woman by his side – Erika.

IN AUGUST 2022 THEY ANNOUNCED THEIR ENGAGEMENT

I can’t begin to express my level of excitement at this news. Erika was now wearing my mother’s emerald ring, polished up and fitted to perfection. My mother must be smiling down on them, thrilled to be a small part of their lives. Like so many brides before her, Erika wanted to be married surrounded by her family so in February 2023 our whole family travelled to a little town in North Western Indonesian Borneo called Sambas. We were the only white folk in town – quite the celebrities for the space of a few days.

With language and cultural barriers quite firmly in place, we were not in a position to offer much in the way of practical assistance but instead were given front row seats to a culturally fascinating wedding.

TIME RUNS DIFFERENTLY IN SAMBAS

I am a planner. Anybody that’s ever met me can tell you that. But it was not my wedding to plan and we weren’t given access to the running sheet so everything came as a surprise. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from a Sambas wedding it’s to be prepared.

Erika’s family heritage is Hakka Chinese so the traditions and customs of their wedding reflected that. Her day began at 2:30am when she got up in time to be ready for the hair and makeup artist who accompanied her for all the morning ceremonies as well as the evening reception. She did a jolly good job. Erika’s hair and makeup was spectacular.

According to custom, the couple must not spend their last night together so Liam came and spent the night at our hotel – complete with red lanterns that stayed on all night in his room as part of the good luck symbolism. In the morning he had a bit of a sleep in compared to Erika – he didn’t need to get ready until 5am.

At 5:44am I got a hurried message asking if we were awake and saying that apparently my husband and I need to assist him with the dressing. Lucky I’d already had my shower so I managed to put my dress and heels on, slap on a bit of makeup and then twist my wet hair on top of my head, all in the space of five minutes. My husband moaned and groaned as he crawled out of bed to whip on his suit pants and fancy shirt.

WE WENT TO THE HONEYMOON SUITE TO HELP HIM DRESS

As we got to his room we learned it was not just Liam with us – there was a videographer, a director, my other son as a photographer, a translator and the wedding officiant. Three’s a crowd. I’m not sure what seven is.

Liam was wearing his pants, shirt and shoes, his freshly shaven face looking so young once more. Laid out carefully on the bed were his suit jacket, tie, white gloves, a bunch of flowers and the traditional Chinese red pockets (envelopes). The videoing was very important and carefully orchestrated by the director. Liam put on his tie then was instructed to stand in front of the mirror straightening it. His shirt was checked. Then Mick and I both helped him on with the jacket, doing his buttons, before placing one glove each on his hands. Next the red envelopes were placed into his pockets and we handed him the flowers.

Liam then presented us with a kiss on each cheek and a bow, whispering under his breath that it was a most humiliating experience. Bowing is not a tradition in our family.

BUT FOR HIS BRIDE AND HER CUSTOMS HE WAS WILLING TO GO TO GREAT LENGTHS

Once all fully dressed we left the room and the three of us walked arm and arm down the old grand staircase of the Hotel Pantura Jaya, out to the waiting car that was decorated with floral pieces.

As I was busy photographing Liam getting ready to go and greet his bride he slipped into the car and raised his middle white gloved finger in silent defiance of the morning’s rituals. The car drove off and we were once again left to our own devices, completely unsure of what would be happening next, or when.

We head back to our room to await whatever happened next while Liam drove to Erika’s parents house to await the first tea ceremony. He waited in the car until exactly 7am when he was escorted inside to see her for the first time on her wedding day. She was dressed in a figure hugging white wedding dress, ornate heeled wedding shoes and a veil. Not normally heavily made up, Liam could barely recognise his wife. She looked a picture of perfection.

Liam and Erika then participated in the tea ceremony that was for her family members only – married family members. I believe her parents, grandmother and aunt were gathered together to be honoured and to witness the couple.

ONCE THAT CEREMONY WAS COMPLETED IT WAS OUR TURN

I had asked Liam to let me know when they were heading back to us so we could be prepared. But his wifi connection didn’t send the message in time so the first I knew it was our turn was about 8am with the sound of his voice coming down the corridor. It was unfortunate timing… my husband had just gone to sit on the toilet. But I was now ready with my hair no longer pulled up with wet strands on top of my head. I’d had time to dry it a little and let it down, my bright pink fascinator stuffed onto the side.

With a most undignified start to the tea ceremony, the couple and entourage waited casually outside our hotel room while my husband got himself organised. We then invited them into our room for the ceremony which turned out to be very brief. We were seated on the large white wicker chairs with the giant burgundy king bed behind us. Liam and Erika stood in front of us while the makeup girl held a tray with two tiny tumblers and some lemon tea. They poured some tea for us then handed it to us to drink, bowing as they went. Lots of conversations were happening with Erika and the officiant but we didn’t understand.

Once the tea was drunk we all headed back to Liam and Erika’s room where we were instructed to pick up one of the red lanterns each and at the appropriate time hand one to each of them. When they were holding the lanterns the four of us collectively turn them on, symbolising the lighting of their marriage.

THEY WERE NOW FORMALLY MARRIED ACCORDING TO THE CUSTOMS

And there was nothing left to do until the reception. The videographer and my photographer son got busy taking photos of Erika in the corner window and then the makeup artist carefully helped her out of the veil. We all returned to our rooms to get dressed back into our day clothes.

We met Liam and Erika for breakfast (more rice and noodles) and then together we all walked into town to run a few errands. It was 29 degrees Celsius with beastly humidity so we arrived back at the hotel drenched in sweat. Time for shower number two.

We all pottered around for the rest of the day with instructions to be ready for the ceremony at 5pm. I was catching on though – I told my husband and two sons to be ready by 4:30 just in case.

About 4:30 we saw them coming down the corridor heading to the reception in the hotel restaurant. Erika dressed in a second white wedding dress with a long train. I threw on another coat of lip gloss, grabbed my phone and we headed next door. At the foot of the stairs was a giant red sign welcoming everyone and wishing Liam and Erika a happy marriage. There was a long table with lots of little things on it that remain a mystery to me. At the end of the table was a large box with a hole in it for people to donate their red pockets – all filled with some amount of money, a contribution from the guest to the wedding.

At the top of the stairs Liam and Erika were lined up with all her family members shaking the hands of every guest as they arrived. We were ushered into the queue to shake hands. By the end of the evening the tables had 603 guests. I’m not sure we shook everyone’s hands as they arrived, but we definitely shook several hundred.

THE BUZZ IN THE ROOM WAS ELECTRIC

There were 67 tables set for nine people spread through the room, all covered in white table cloths. Down the centre was a walkway with coloured glass lights on the floor and an enormous archway of pink flowers. It all led up to the huge stage with a backdrop of more pink flowers, a three tiered cake with lights and a green sequinned MC. Tucked in the corner of the stage was the karaoke machine.

When the hand shaking was done we were all lined up in pairs to walk down the centre of the room to the stage. Erika’s parents led the way, then my husband and I followed with my two boys and the rest of Erika’s family. The extended family members went to the reserved family tables and then we lined up across the stage with Erika’s parents, my husband always to my right and then watched as Liam and Erika walked together hand in hand under the pink floral archway to step up onto the stage.

My heart was just filled with joy to see them, surrounded by 600 people with their phones out and applauding. They were ushered to stand in the centre of the stage while the MC was making announcements in Indonesian. Everyone’s names we’re being announced and eventually we heard our own and waved to the adoring crowd. We felt a little like royalty, waving out to the 67 tables all videoing us, the videographer right in the centre taking it all in.

When the waving and announcements were done we headed down to the main table where I sat next to Erika’s grandmother. Neither of us had a word of each other’s language but I tried to communicate how proud she must feel of her beautiful granddaughter.

Over the duration of the next three hours, nine courses of food were brought out – fish ball soup, battered prawns, chicken satay, chicken curry, beef curry, sweet chilli fish, sea cucumber vegetable platter – and two others I can’t remember. Followed by a large bowl of lychees. The volume of food was overwhelming. The curries delicious. The sea cucumber too scary for me to taste test. Every table in the room had bottles of orange juice, lemonade and beer. By the end of the night almost all the beer remained. We found it delightfully refreshing to be at a large crowd of people who weren’t intoxicated. The evening was just fun and laughter and high energy and excitement.

THE GREEN SEQUINNED MAN MC’D ALL NIGHT

For three hours we listened to Indonesian karaoke. Everyone who arrived had an opportunity to register to sing and a great many people were keen. The MC would look through his list and call a name. The lucky person would then grab the microphone and follow the words on the screen. Most singers were presented with a red envelope by the family and some lucky singers were also given an empty bottle filled with some cash.

Later in the celebrations Liam was coerced on stage by a singer to start dancing, his five year old nephew joining him with great enthusiasm. All the rest of the male wedding party members were dragged on to stage to dance, including my other two boys. I definitely had my video out for that. Nobody could coerce my husband to get up there but I have wonderful footage of him with a large belly laugh spread across his face. Eventually all the women were on stage dancing too, including Erika and baby Sofia. Liam and Erika joined hands and he spun her around.

The joy radiating from everyone’s face was absolutely contagious. Someone even managed to hand the microphone to Erika and she joined in the singing. Liam turned down the chance to sing, but stayed holding her hand, dancing away.

When the song ended we all returned to our seats and were then instructed to fill our plastic cups with the drink of our choice. Erika and Liam were invited back onto stage with her parents, my husband and myself. The MC talked a lot and then we all clinked glasses and raised them in a toast to the audience. We finished our drinks, returned to our seats, and the night started to wrap up. Gradually all the hand shaking began again as each of the guests began to leave. My white boys were all photographed in selfies with adoring fans. Mick and I shook another couple of hundred hands and gradually the room quietened down.

We spent some time gathering everyone together for a variety of formal photos, all of which were videoed as well, the director carefully choreographing everybody. When the photos were over, the room dispensing, Liam and Erika held hands and walked back down the floral archway waving goodbye to the cameras as they left.

AND WITH ALL THAT THE WEDDING CEREMONY AND RECEPTION CAME TO AN END

It is a surreal experience to be participating in events that have foreign customs in a foreign language. We were very much swept along for the ride. The symbols of respect are incredibly touching – the bowing, holding hands and kissing of cheeks. Symbols it would be nice to see more of in our own cultures. The symbolism of the lights shining on this new couple also touched me enormously. I truly wish them all the best for all their years ahead.

Liam and Erika looked so special and so in love. It warms the cockles of my heart to know that the little boy I held in my arms has grown up into such a magnificent young man. And that he too can now embark on a lifelong journey with a partner at his side and their baby in their arms.

I am so thrilled and honoured to have had the opportunity to travel to Sambas and see them formalise their commitment to each other. The memories of this Valentine’s Day will stay with me for a lifetime.

BOUND TO MY BODY

I have made it abundantly clear since I started sharing my story with you, that I have an eating disorder.

Or should I say, I had an eating disorder.

I have been pursuing recovery since I first graced the doorstep of my psychologist in 2015 and I can say with absolute certainty that I have reached a very happy place when it comes to my relationship with food.

Two inpatient eating disorder stays taught me a lot. I don’t know why it took so long for recovery to really settle upon my shoulders – or whether in fact, eight years is a short time in the context of a lifetime of disordered eating. But I do know my relationship with food is now really happy and healthy.

I CANNOT SAY THE SAME FOR MY BODY

Wrapped up in the little parcel of eating disorder hell, is the relationship with my body. Not everyone with an eating disorder has body image issues, but a fair whack of us do. I would even go so far as to say most women have some kind of issue with their body, believing it’s the wrong shape or size, colouring not quite right, or bone structure not perfect. Collectively as a society, we crave the photoshopped airbrushed perfection of two-dimensional images – images that rarely even accurately represent the original subject of the photograph.

Out in the real world bodies are round and soft and firm and crooked and tall and petite and scarred and wrinkly and saggy and flabby. Full of folds and crevices. Speckled with freckles, moles, stray hairs and cellulite. That’s what the human body looks like and for the most part, we are very accepting of reality in other people. When I look at another person I see the spark in their eyes or the sad droop of their shoulders. I admire their intelligence or their quirky laugh. Passion, kindness, softness and strength inspire me. I don’t seek out people for their bone structure or percentage of body fat. I’m sure you’re the same.

BUT I HOLD A DOUBLE STANDARD FOR MYSELF

The story about how my body hatred came to be is long and convoluted. I even wrote a book about it if you’d like to know more. But at the end of the day, it is what it is and I have to live with the way things are right now.

I am no longer prepared to starve, purge and exercise my body into submission. Even on the darkest bad hair days I still choose mental health over psychological comfort. But I feel that discomfort – really acutely.

I am big now. Fat is the word that best describes my body. I don’t say that with judgment – merely observation. After five decades of dieting, my body has learned to store fat. It was so deprived for so long, now it clings to fat like a drowning woman on a flotsam of wreckage. My body has been exactly the same size for nearly three years. With normal, healthy, consistent nutrition and some regular activity, this is how I look. This is the final result of years of dieting – I am bigger than when I started.

If you are the kind of person that likes to diet let me just categorically state here and now that in my opinion (opinion – not research) dieting leads to long-term weight gain. So stop dieting right now and learn to love yourself as is.

THAT IS THE JOURNEY I AM TRYING TO EMBRACE

I am bound to my body for life. We are in it together forever. Hating it has never helped. Loving it is a long uncomfortable step from where I am at now. I have been many sizes and I know that I was uncomfortable in all the sizes. So it turns out the problem is not my body but my thoughts.

I now practice gratitude for my body. It sounds naff – I’ve said that before. But gratitude is something that has been a key component of my psychological healing. The strength in my legs and the willingness for my immune system to heal is a beautiful miracle. I am glad I live without pain and physical discomfort. I am so thankful for the healthy babies I carried, the sex I’ve enjoyed, the songs I have sung, and the mountains I have climbed.

But you know what? Climbing mountains is harder when you’re heavier. It just is. Every limb is weighted compared to someone who is slimmer. And I am struggling to accept this. I begrudge other people’s ease for climbing mountains. I miss the ease with which I could walk uphill without my heart rate spiking uncomfortably.

The thought of gastric bypass surgery crosses my mind on a daily basis. A thought that is abhorrent to all who love me. History would suggest I might do it anyway, just as I had a gastric lap band fitted all those years ago. That didn’t work out so well for me – it became surgical bulimia. I fear a gastric bypass would become surgical anorexia.

I STRUGGLE TO FIND RADICAL ACCEPTANCE

There are psychological mind games sporting at an Olympic level inside my head. What is the reason for me to even consider a surgical intervention with my body? Am I actually just struggling with the fact that I’m “not thin”? Do I believe I will be happier, or healthier, at a lower weight? I ask myself these two questions again and again and I feel like my psychological health is really good. My happiness and health are independent of a number on the scales. I’m really healthy and I am actually pretty happy with my life right now. Losing weight won’t change that. I also know actively pursuing weight loss through dieting will make me unhappy. That is a road I will never travel again.

But I also know mountains are good for me. I love standing on the top looking at the sky on the horizon and the last straggle of trees on the mountain top and the birds flying high above the forests. And I yearn to climb more mountains and I just want it to be easier.

SO I JUGGLE THE WAR IN MY HEAD

My psychological well-being is even more important than mountains so if I decide to pursue a surgical intervention that is my primary focus. It has to be. I was so unwell in 2020 – I never want to go there again.

But life isn’t perfect and learning to live with a body is not easy. I have accepted I will probably never love it. I have learned to be grateful for it. Despite all the years and progress, I am here to confess that there are still days when I hate it but those days are fewer and further between.

I am bound to my body as Severus Snape was bound to Narcissus Malfoy with an unbreakable vow. There is no separation – we are together forever. I have felt fleeting moments of acceptance wrapped up with frustration at the limitations of living in a larger body.

I do not know what the future holds but I do know my mental well-being comes first and foremost. And at the end of the day, no matter what happens, my body and I will still be together.

PUT AWAY THE MOP

My house was spotless when I was growing up. I can take no credit for this – my mother was a meticulous housekeeper. Things were lined up neatly and dusted and surfaces were wiped over regularly. Beds made. Floors vacuumed. Windows cleaned. My mother was very house-proud.

I love being in a clean house. It gives me a sense of completeness and comfort. I feel happier and safer when I’m around clean things. Conversely, I feel sadder and unsafer when I’m around mess and dirt.

HOW UNFORTUNATE IT IS THEN, THAT I HAVE OUTGROWN CLEANING

When my children were little we had routines. Daily bed making. Weekly toilet scrubbing. Nightly kitchen cleaning. It didn’t vary and we all pitched in at our own level. There was much complaining and procrastination – oftimes from me – but everyone helped out and the house was (almost) always clean and tidy. Naturally, when someone came to visit I would bemoan, But the house is such a mess! as women are wont to do – regardless of the state of the home. But my house was, for the most part, clean and tidy. Usually old and in need of repair, but clean.

Then I had a nervous breakdown and everything went to shit. Nervous breakdowns take a physical and psychological toll. If you’ve never fallen apart, don’t judge. Breathing uses up all the available energy and there is nothing left for anything else. The world becomes a tiny place with no light. Life gets dirty and messy – both literally and metaphorically. Nervous breakdowns don’t last forever (thank fuck for that) but we are irreversibly changed as a result. Those changes aren’t necessarily all bad – sometimes things have to change and hands are forced. But everything is different.

FOR FIVE YEARS, I COULDN’T CLEAN MY TEETH PROPERLY – MUCH LESS THE HOUSE

I am married to a man who doesn’t delineate household tasks as masculine or feminine. When something needs to be done it gets done by the person most able at that point in time. And for many years I was not able so he picked up the load. Now I am able, but I am changed. I struggle.

I am older. More tired. I am more worn out. I have cleaned a lot of toilets in my lifetime. And I have learned that cleaning can wait – if I don’t do it today, it will still be there tomorrow. I have learned that cleaning is a hamster wheel – do it today and it still needs to be done again tomorrow. And sometimes I want to throw my hands in the air and scream, What’s the point?

The point is that mess and dirt make me sad but I have developed a psychological block to doing the actual work. Put simply, I don’t want to do it. I want the results but I don’t want to put in the effort. I think that is probably a definition of lazy. That’s okay – you can label me. I do it all the time.

Now that I am in the workforce once more (six long months thank you very much) I have decided my energies need to go into things that add value and meaning to my life. Pushing the vacuum cleaner around my house adds little value and no meaning. I hate it. It can’t really be articulated enough.

I . . . HATE . . . IT . . .

It’s like grocery shopping. I’ve done it a gazillion bazillion times and it has to be done a gazillion bazillion times more and it subtracts joy from my life. Strolling through supermarket aisles is a borderline valium-inducing experience. Cleaning my house is much the same – although at least I can clean in my pyjamas. I don’t have to do the dreaded, getting dressed, routine.

And don’t get me started on cooking. Gone are the days where I make bread, butter and jam from scratch. Curry paste now comes in a jar. No more homemade pasta dishes where I’ve made the pasta as well as the sauce by hand. From homegrown ingredients. If I pan-fry a pile of frozen vegetables it’s a good night. I used to look with much scorn upon the supermarket freezers full of frozen dinners. Now I wonder when I will succumb and put them in my much-hated shopping trolley.

I am 56 years old. Neither young nor old is my best guesstimate. I am too young to give up entirely but too old to feel enthusiastic about life’s bare necessities. I have necessitied myself out. And I don’t want to do it anymore.

SO I HAVE DECIDED TO GET A CLEANER

I feel an astonishing level of guilt about this. I have had cleaners in the past – but only when my husband and I both worked long hours and had young children. And even with a cleaner, I still did lots of cleaning. Now I have the time to clean. I am well enough to clean. But I don’t CARE enough anymore. I am beating myself over the head with shame. I don’t know why. Lots of people use cleaners. But my mother didn’t. She was a most excellent housewife and a brilliant cook and she did both those things until her terminally ill health precluded her from doing what she had always done. I am comparing myself – as I have so often done – to my mother. And I find myself coming up short.

I have fought this mental battle for quite a while now and have finally decided I am going to fight the battle in a clean house. One that I will pay someone else to clean. Rather than trying to gather up the motivation to crack out a mop, I’ve decided to work on my experience of guilt. I have been doing my own cleaning since I left home at 17. That’s nearly 40 years. That’s enough. Isn’t it?

SIZE ZERO

I was at the gym shop the other day, buying new gym clothes. As you do. While rifling through the racks I noticed clothing marked Size 0.

WHAT DOES THAT ACTUALLY SAY ABOUT A WOMAN?

If she is a size zero does she actually exist? Given that we live in a society where smaller is so often deemed better – being smaller is associated with being smarter, prettier, more desirable and successful – what does it mean when your dress size is a zero?

I will never know for sure because let me just categorically state right here and now that I was shopping at the other end of the rack. Where there are practically no clothes because everyone is trying to get smaller and shop down a size – to the point the clothing label might actually state they don’t actually exist. There is great shame perpetuated in wearing larger dress sizes. The clothes are hidden away in the back corner of shops and frequently not stocked.

A lot of men’s clothing uses measurements – a 32-inch waist or a 40-inch chest. Don’t get me started on why we’re still measuring things in imperial measurements, but at least there is logic in that system. And it can be consistent. If you wear size 36 pants in one brand there’s a good chance you’ll be 36 in the next brand.

NUMBERS AREN’T SUPPOSED TO LIE

Sometimes clothing comes in small, medium, large etc. While those labels do have a judgmental tone they are often at least consistent. A woman living in a smaller body will probably wear a dress with a small tag on it. Small is a much nicer statement than zero.

When I asked my son what size zero means to him he said, “It means it doesn’t exist. Something that is size zero can’t exist in three dimensions.” He had no idea such a thing was for real in women’s retail.

I have had clothes hanging in my wardrobe that are three or four different sizes on the label but all fit me exactly the same. And psychologically I can’t get past the idea that clothing with a smaller number is better. Even though the number of centimetres across the hip (see? centimetres make more sense) is exactly the same.

WOMEN’S CLOTHING HAS NO CONSISTENCY

I will never be a size 0. My skeleton is bigger than that and as much as I’d love to shave a few edges off some of my bones, I don’t think that’s going to happen. So I’ll have to settle for more average numbers.

This may all seem like pie in the sky complaining about nothing but I believe it’s an important conversation to have. It’s 2022 and women are still judged and categorised by their size – and bigger is never better.

Health and fitness comes in every size – from 0-100 (or whatever number labels stop at). So does physical and psychological illness. A woman can be any size and healthy. A woman can be any size and unhealthy. A dress tag does not determine wellness. A clothing size label should be a standard measurement that makes it easier for any one of us to grab an item off a rack and know that it is in the right ballpark. In a society where women consistently try to starve themselves into invisibility, labelling clothes “zero” makes them seem appealing – for no apparent reason.

AND WHAT ABOUT “ONE SIZE FITS ALL”

Does this concept even exist for men? I have friends who are tiny little things. They’re fit and healthy and strong and intelligent and funny and kind and all sorts of important things. But they’re not the same size as me. The laughable concept that a woman 20 centimetres shorter than me and 40 kilos lighter is going to be wearing the same size clothing is quite frankly abhorrent.

Clothing labelled one size fits all is nearly always a mid-range, average kind of size. There’s nothing wrong with that, but someone much smaller or larger won’t fit in it. Couldn’t we just call them “medium fit”? And when you can’t wear an item of clothing that claims to fit everybody, what does it say about you? How do you fit in when you don’t belong to “all”? I have been in tears with that exact scenario.

Let me just reassure you right now that “one size fits all” clothing is highly unlikely to fit nicely on a size 0 woman. Apparently, nothing fits her.

I have been many sizes (zero is not one of them) and choosing clothing to try on has always been problematic. I often don’t know what size I am and when the clothes that actually fit me are numbered somewhere between 8-18 it is just a minefield trying stuff on. Sometimes I wear things called small (I’m not small, so what are the small people wearing?) Sometimes I wear things called extra large (there are bigger people me, so what does their label say and how do they feel about it?)

CLOTHING LABELS FOR WOMEN HAVE INHERENT JUDGMENT

It is bad enough that women are categorised and condemned for how their body looks. It is just sincerely unfair that navigating the horror of dress labels reinforces the condemnation. Clothes should be made to fit bodies. Bodies don’t need to be made to fit clothes.

The message we hear loud and clear is that women need to get smaller and smaller. And if they finally reach a tiny size (at any psychological and physical cost), their clothing label declares they don’t exist.

THIN PRIVILEGE

The things we take for granted . . .

I have experienced a great deal of privilege in my life. I am white. Able-bodied. Educated. Straight. Middle class. I have never been subjected to violence or deprivation. But I am also a fat, middle-aged woman and there are a great many assumptions that come along with that (provocative) statement.

PRIVILEGE IS INVISIBLE. YOU DON’T REALISE YOU HAVE IT UNTIL IT’S GONE.

We don’t hear much about thin privilege – the distinct advantages bestowed upon those people who have always lived in bodies considered more acceptable in society. We hear a bit about fatphobia, but not a lot about thin privilege.

There is a perceived correlation between beauty and weight – that somehow thinner is prettier and worse still, somehow this is important. Because I was born fat (I was a rotund little 10lb 10oz) I have always felt unattractive.

I would just like to say right here and right now that I do not need anybody telling me any different. I was raised in an environment where a lot of emphasis was placed on appearance and I have worked hard (not necessarily successfully) to try and separate my physical appearance from my intrinsic worth. Whether you consider me beautiful or ugly or somewhere in between should be utterly irrelevant. My value as a human being – as a woman, wife, mother, friend, sister, writer, musician, hiker, cat-lover – needs to be based in who I am, not what I look like.

I have been many sizes over the years and I have to admit that I still feel less intelligent when I carry more weight. Society often typecasts fat with stupid. Now I am no scientist, but I sincerely doubt that the number on the scales impacts IQ. Our diet culture-obsessed society saturates us with so much information about weight loss that it is often assumed people are overweight because they are too stupid to know any better.

AND I USED TO FEEL STUPID

I have certainly met plenty of people who want to educate me thinner. Trust me – I am painfully familiar with most weight loss methods. I’ve tried them all and in the end, I just got fatter. That’s how diets work. (Sorry if I sound a bit bitter here – I gotta confess, I regret every diet my younger self ever did.)

Fat people are assumed to be less healthy than thin people. Thin people are considered fitter and stronger. Neither of these things are true. Health and fitness comes in all shapes and sizes. So does illness. I am now fat again but I am in excellent health and reasonably fit. Last week I climbed a mountain labelled “challenging”, so that’s got to count for something, right?! The views were spectacular and I hope to climb as many mountains as possible while I am able to do so.

My mental health is now so good that I don’t believe exchanging it for a different dress size would be a good (or smart) trade. No matter how much I stare with longing at my old (much smaller) wardrobe.

Thin people are more likely to receive advantages in the workplace and in customer service. I have been a smaller size and I received more accolades and more attention – I was less invisible. I didn’t appreciate it at the time because let’s face it, as somebody with an eating disorder and body image issues, I have always felt fat – regardless of the facts. But nonetheless, I can still look back and appreciate that life is easier when your waist size is smaller.

PEOPLE JUDGE YOUR FOOD CHOICES LESS

When you’re fat it feels like you have to “earn” food. Clothes are in abundance in the stores. Queues are magically shorter. Opportunities abound. The fact is, life is easier when you are thinner.

And health care? Don’t get me started on health care. If you’re overweight and sick the first thing you will be told is that you must lose weight. It doesn’t matter what that illness is – diabetes, cancer, broken leg, ingrown toenail – according to most of the medical fraternity everything can be cured with a ten per cent weight loss. Thin people are automatically afforded a level of health care that the rest of us do not receive without having to fight through the wall of fatphobia first.

Including mental health. I once had a psychiatrist put me on the scales and tell me to cut out all white foods. I have no idea how that was going to cure my Bipolar II Disorder . . .

Now don’t get me wrong – looking after your health through good nutrition and regular exercise is incredibly important for both physical and psychological health. That is true for people of every body shape and size. But you cannot look at someone and make an assumption about their lifestyle. People carry weight for all sorts of reasons – genetics (predominantly), the results of chronic dieting (sadly), medication (frustratingly), and other reasons (that I can’t think of).

Life is also easier when you’re younger, prettier, richer and all sorts of other privileges that we take for granted.

LIFE IS TOUGHER WHEN YOU’RE MARGINALISED

If you have lived your whole life with thin privilege, I am just a little bit envious. I feel it is important we all acknowledge whatever privilege we do have and then try to remember that people experiencing different realities will have different experiences. And sometimes those experiences have a profoundly detrimental effect.