Originally intended to be published by Renegade Media Co, March 2021

I wasn’t always overweight. There was a three-year period of adolescence where my body was considered “socially acceptable.” 

Somewhere in between fifth and sixth grade, a growth spurt stretched me upwards like a piece of taffy, and all of a sudden I found myself overwhelmed by the style possibilities afforded to me by department stores’ straight-size sections. Now that the fashion world was my proverbial oyster, I flaunted short shorts from Old Navy and flouncy patterned tops from American Eagle in sizes four and six, where my body stayed until sophomore year of high school.

As the former “fat girl” of my class, I reveled in the new wardrobe awarded to me through entering puberty and practicing dangerously restrictive eating habits. To my disappointment, my body image issues continued to plague me throughout the remainder of middle school and high school. Why didn’t I look good in any of my clothes? Why couldn’t I just lose 10 more pounds to slide effortlessly into my eighth-grade dance dress? What was wrong with me?  The answer to that, of course, is that there was nothing wrong with me and everything wrong with how the fashion industry only portrays one type of body as “acceptable.” 

Let’s rewind for a second to the late 1990s and early 2000s. My mother and I would hit up the mall a few times a month, and as much as I looked forward to our shopping trips, I hated that the only plus-size clothing store that catered to grade school girls at the time was Sears. Yes, that Sears. The now-bankrupt company where you could get your car repaired while you shop for a new stationary bike was also the only company that seemed to acknowledge the existence of overweight children and their need for clothing. 

Lamenting the fact that I couldn’t shop at the same stores as my skinny cousins and classmates, I settled for too-long jeans with elastic waists and cotton-spandex tops adorned with rhinestones and metallic threads. I never had the chance to define my own sense of style since Sears’ minuscule section of plus-size clothing defined it for me. Their perception of what an overweight grade-schooler might enjoy wearing mirrored the frumpy, plain outfits located in the women’s plus size section. Bodies like mine were not worth the effort of trying.

It would take me the next two decades to unpack the real damage that the industry’s treatment of people like me had done to my mental and emotional growth. Even something as innocuous as the way that plus-size clothing was marketed for boys (labeled “husky”) versus girls (labeled “plus”) at the time enforced warped gender norms. It’s been 20 years but my brain still replays clips of the language and tone of voice used by teachers, retail employees and family members in discussing my overweight body versus my younger brother’s. 

Proudly exclaiming, “He’s a big boy like his father!” contrasted sharply with hushed voices sympathetically whispering, “She’s a bit thicker around the middle.” 

Do you honestly think a nine-year-old girl won’t hear those conversations and take them personally? I was literally a child! These same adults would remind me to enjoy being young while I had the chance, which was nearly impossible to do since the kids in my class and the clothing stores in my mall served as constant reminders that I did not deserve to enjoy my life — not as long as I looked the way I did. 

Now fast forward to me living on my own as an adult with a full-time job. In late 2018, my best friend from college posted on Facebook that after watching the documentary “The True Cost”, she was now committed to only purchasing ethically-made clothing for her own closet or buying from secondhand sites such as Poshmark and ThredUP. After digging further and discovering just how damaging our obsession with fast fashion is for workers’ welfare and the environment, I decided in 2019 that I would only purchase clothing either secondhand or from sustainable, ethical brands from that point on. Finding ethical brands that sold my size at an affordable price point, however, was an even more daunting task.

If you’ve kept a pulse on fashion within the last 15 years, you’ve probably noticed that plus-size individuals are often excluded from the slow-fashion table. The rise of new designers and boutique shops prioritizing sustainably sourced fabrics and ethically-treated workers has revolutionized how an entire generation shops for clothing. Sure, their intentions are golden and their respect for the real humans who cut, dye and sew their pieces is admirable, but who are they really inviting to support their mission?

While this culture of exclusivity is not entirely fostered or perpetuated by sustainable brands, given how few major-label runway shows in the last 40 years have featured any model above a U.S. women’s size 10, it’s important to call them out when they are. Why are these brands the sole determinants of who is interested in sustainable clothing? How has the sustainable fashion industry been able to exclude such a wide audience for so many years and get away with it? 

The majority of these slow-fashion brands were founded and scaled with a specific buyer persona in mind: thin white women with overlapping interests in fitness and organic eating. The U.S. food and diet industries have blazed a wide trail over the last 60 years by convincing the majority of Americans that thin people are the ultimate specimens of health and that anyone who hasn’t already achieved that ideal should devote their life to achieving it. The obvious conclusion to rejecting this ideal or possessing legitimate biological issues that prevent someone from realizing it is that the person in question is lazy and undisciplined, and as a result, undeserving of well-made clothing. After all, if a person doesn’t care about their appearance or health, how can they possibly care about the environment or workers’ welfare? 

I am the same size as the average American woman, which now falls between 16 to 18, according to a study published in the International Journal of Fashion Design, Technology and Education. While I am privileged enough to be able to fit into the high end of certain designers’ straight sizes, and larger plus-size individuals don’t have that luxury, I can’t help but wonder why the average American woman is not more widely represented in the sustainable fashion world. What is it about my body that is so fundamentally flawed that I don’t also deserve the same thoughtfully constructed clothing that these brands are selling?

Even with science recognizing the existence of not-thin people, a disappointingly small number of sustainable fashion brands are dedicated to truly inclusive sizing. Take, for example, Tradlands whose spring 2021 collection offers sizes up to 5X after only carrying sizes XXS to XL upon its founding in 2012. Everlane introduced their Curvy Jeans in Fall 2019 with an adjusted waist-to-hip measurement ratio for hourglass figures, and at that time they also expanded their women’s jeans and pants sizing upwards to 20.

Other brands seem to have catered to a wide range of sizes from the very beginning, such as lingerie newcomer Parade who offers all of their recycled nylon underwear and fleece sweatshirts in sizes XS to 3XL with plans to expand in the future. Another is Universal Standard, who not only carries all of their clothing in sizes 000 to 40 but also shows potential customers what each item of clothing looks like on a model in each size spanning that range. 

The interesting takeaway here is the difference between brands who offered extended sizing from the beginning and brands who only expanded their size ranges years after becoming an industry mainstay. Everlane and Tradlands increased their size offerings only after receiving feedback from their plus-size customers while Parade actually involves plus-size individuals in their product research, development and testing, and Universal Standard was co-founded and designed by a plus-size woman.

Inclusivity and representation are not only important in today’s world — they’re required. They’re the basic minimum courtesy that brands should strive for in all of their marketing and production. Being proactive is infinitely better than being reactive, and people of the average American size, as well as larger and petite sizes, deserve to wear clothing that makes them feel beautiful, powerful and everything in between. While it may come as a surprise to many that there are plus-size people who eat healthy and get regular exercise, there are also plus-size people who care deeply about their carbon footprint and want to know exactly who makes their clothing and how their materials are sourced. 

Where sustainable and flattering clothing is concerned, I am thankful to have more options now than I did at any other point in my life. However, if there were nearly as many options for plus-sized people in the early 2010s as there are now, the sustainable fashion marketing movement would look completely different today. 

Brands make deliberate choices in how they source their materials, how they manufacture their clothes, which sizes they carry, who they choose to model their clothes on websites and social media and how they respond to customer feedback. It’s up to us to hold them accountable to these standards, and up to them to act in the best interests of their consumers, their employees and the planet. If they strive to invite individuals of all sizes to escape fast fashion’s grip, we can create a more inclusive and more conscious world where everyone feels accepted.

I’m sure that nine-year-old girl begrudgingly trying on ill-fitting clothing at Sears would have loved that chance.