As a child, I was nice, funny, and fat. And that combination made me perhaps the most vulnerable kid my age I knew. I had been both accepted (invited to parties and sporting events in friends’ backyards) and rejected (picked last on teams, called “fatso” as I played) by my peers.

So thrilled I was for having been invited to anything AT ALL considering my appearance, I found myself berated, in public, even by my closest of “friends.” One time in seventh grade an older boy decided to call me fat the whole way home on the bus. As I waited for my stop, hiding in my seat, embarrassed, and afraid I might cry, I hoped that my best friend, seated right behind me would jump up to my defense. Instead, he jumped up and ripped on me as well, having obviously decided that being friends with the other, older, thinner boy would do more for him socially than I could. And since I had made it clear to my friends that I would come back for more, he didn’t really risk losing my friendship at all.

And then I grew up. I placed limits on how others could treat me. I lost some weight, but was still heavy, but disallowed anyone from thinking I was less than them. Suddenly, my sense of humor and kindness made me among the more popular kids in school. As for my “close friend” on the bus, I explained that once he “walked away from me, he could keep on walking.”

Being fat isn’t a crime, and it doesn’t make you gross. But you can’t make anyone think more of you, or treat you the way you deserve to be treated, until you think more of you, and treat yourself with the respect you hope for from other people.