Thick Lies & Thin Skin

An unapologetic look at body image after weight loss, real discipline, and why true female empowerment doesn't need a hashtag.

Well, she always knows her place.
She's got style, she's got grace, she's a winner.
She’s a Lady…whoa oh oh, she’s a lady.
(She's a Lady by Tom Jones)

We blasted that song from a rented boat as we scattered my mother-in-law’s ashes into the lake. And honestly, it’s the song I’d want played at my funeral (right after Country Roads, obviously).

Because in this era of toxic body positivity, watered-down feminism, and fake hashtags, we've lost sight of what female empowerment actually looks like.

But I know who I am, for all my many faults.

Before I get started, I’ll say this: for every perspective I discuss here, I’ve lived on both sides, in a body and mind that hid me and exposed me.

None of this comes from a place of superiority; it only comes from lived experience.

That being said…I’m probably gonna hurt some feelings with this one.

So let’s start with Marvel (pre-Disney), cause I will find a way to bring the MCU into a conversation, given the opportunity.  

Characters like Natasha Romanoff, Wanda Maximoff, Shuri, Okoye, Gamora, and Frigga were potent, complex, and powerful.

They didn’t strut around jerking their chins with that "I don’t need no man, I’m better than everyone" energy. They simply were.

This forced “girlboss” energy dripping off the newer characters is apparently Disney’s special sauce.

And all the celebrity endorsements and CGI trailers in the world can’t save an unrelatable character. It’s not about race or gender in the slightest. It’s about authentic female representation and real strength.

We can have representation without turning it into a joke. Women don’t need help being strong; we’ve been doing it just fine forever.

Look at Scarlett Johansson (whom I simply adore); highest-grossing Hollywood actor, directorial debut, openly loves her husband and kids. That’s authentic beauty and power.

Same with characters like Jane Eyre, Jo March, Arya Stark; or real-world powerhouses like Melba Beals, Malala Yousafzai, Amelia Earhart, Harriet Tubman, Marie Curie…they moved mountains by simply existing as themselves.

Being a woman is less about the clothes we wear, or refusing to kill the spider in the bathroom, and more about substance.

Strong women don’t compete with men; they both collaborate and challenge them. They love their men (or women, whatever).

The strongest thing a woman can do is embrace her femininity as a power and not a flaw. Because nothing is more dangerous to a fragile ego than a woman who knows who she is and doesn’t need to broadcast it.

✉️If you're still with me, stick around. Costs nothing to join.
I send out new pieces when I have something worth discussing.

As a kid, I pretty much lived on both ends of the proverbial spectrum.

I wore ball gowns, danced in recitals, played concerts, and styled Barbies for hours. Shirley Temple studio photos adorned the walls of my playroom, and I slept on Holly Hobbie sheets.

But I also rode a red dirt bike, fought He-Man battles, and rolled in the mud with the boy next door. Didn’t make me a princess or a tomboy. Just…me.

Today, I still love a good dress, but I feel most feminine in jeans and boots. Not because I’m trying to project “masculine energy”, but because I finally feel at home in myself.

As I get older, I see it in the mirror. My husband loves sending me old photos from when we were “new.”

All I can see is how good I looked back then, even though I thought I was hideous. Isn’t that always the way?

I recently heard about women being turned away from a South Beach club for being “too thick.” One side claims dress code, the other claims discrimination.

I’ve been down there enough to believe the truth lies somewhere in the middle, but you know what?

Rightly or wrongly, it’s the club’s prerogative (unless you can actually prove discrimination, which is tough when they hide behind “dress code”).

Exclusive places run on superficiality because that’s where the money lives. They exist to cater to the elites, not your feelings.

Extreme wealth often goes hand-in-hand with extreme discipline and strict body standards, especially for women.

A fit body implies control. Control implies ambition. Ambition implies power. And power can afford to be picky.

Deal with it. Start your own club if it bothers you so much.  Why waste your energy fighting to get into a place that doesn’t want you?

Also, and I say this as a former fatty: we need to collectively stop hiding behind the word "thick." Most people calling themselves “thick” are actually obese, and understandably, don’t want to face that truth.

Thick means having a voluptuous rear end. Fat means having two of them.

I’ve seen firsthand women proudly calling themselves “thick” before breaking chairs and blaming the venue instead of the mirror. That’s the level of denial we’re dealing with.

You’re not thick, you’re not fluffy, you’re not big boned. You’re fat. Accept it, or change it.

I say this not to degrade anyone; like I said, I’ve been there. But language shapes reality, and if we keep sugarcoating, we’re never gonna get anywhere good.

That doesn’t mean your beauty disappears. It doesn’t. Real body positivity is about respecting the body you have right now as the foundation to build from, not a finish line.

Basically, discipline and care, not denial and hashtags like #stunning and #brave.

I find it amusing how all the “perfect as I am” celebrities started sneaking Ozempic shots. You think they all just started “hydrating better” overnight? Please.

Everyone wants the penthouse view, but no one wants to take the stairs to get there. The same people screaming "fatphobia" outside the velvet rope are the same ones posting selfies the second they get inside.

Ya'll can’t have it both ways.

And I say all this as someone who still wrestles with body image. Even though things are better now, I almost always see flaws.

I recently watched Burn After Reading, and found myself uncomfortably relating to Linda Litzky and her desperation to physically “fix” herself. I’m not that far gone, but I get it.

I lost all this weight to be healthy, but the loose skin mocks me daily. It’s not extreme or horrific (and it's for sure a first-world problem in my instance), but it’s there, and I hate it so much.

That's the reality of body image after weight loss: discipline gets you far, but honesty keeps you sane (or so they say).

I train obsessively, but without surgery, I’ll never fully see what I want to see in the mirror. And that’s just the reality.

My choices, my phobias, my illnesses, everything I did and experienced, they all collectively shaped me.  I’ve had cosmetic surgery before, and I will again when I can.

Because I’ve earned the figure under there, and there’s no bigger mindfuck than feeling solid muscle under skin that insists on hiding it, distorting your shape like a funhouse mirror you can’t escape.

Here’s another one: “I can wear whatever I want.” Well, yeah, of course you can; you’re grown.
And no one has the right to touch you, harass you, or degrade you for it — ever.

But let's not pretend there isn't a difference between dressing authentically for self-expression and dressing to provoke a reaction.

Like the TikTok gym girls filming themselves in little scraps of fabric and acting scandalized when people glance their way. In a perfect world, no one would judge or objectify anyone.

But we live in this one, and it pays to be honest with ourselves about motives and consequences.

Dress how you want, but be honest about why. Own the attention or protect your energy if you don't.

OnlyFans culture calls it “empowerment,” “healing,” “sexual liberation” — anything but what it really is: selling access to your body for cash and clout.

Last week at church, a young woman was walking in front of me in shorts so short her bare ass cheeks were saying hello. I wish I were exaggerating.

Like, what was she expecting, a chorus of "Yaaas, queen" as she passed by, or was she so checked out she didn't even realize (or care) the message she was sending?

Either way, the rest of us became an unwilling audience to this form of 'empowerment'. Modesty used to be about context, a lost nuance in the age of broadcasting everything.

I know I’m going to sound old, but what happened to decorum? To common damn sense?

Her shorts would have killed it at the club or the beach. But church???

And it wasn’t a case of “that’s all she had to wear.” Not in this town full of affluent, performatively “woke” suburbanites.

For the record, I don’t fall into lockstep with any political party, and my words will never serve as anyone’s mouthpiece but my own.
In fact, I’m seriously considering starting my own party platform, The No-Bullshit Coalition™ (patent pending).

The young girl I help raise abhors dresses, lives in basketball gear, and keeps her hair in a ponytail like she’s ready for a scrimmage. She asked me recently, "What’s wrong with wanting to look good?" 

Nothing, kid. Nothing at all, until it’s the only thing you have left. When it comes at the cost of actual priorities.

The context of her question came about after a visit from her mother, a cautionary tale about trying to outrun the clock: overstuffed lips and injections wherever they can be paid for.

Living off someone new, no real place of her own, yet somehow always enough for expensive clothes, fillers, and enough makeup to spackle the border wall. It’s all just distractions to avoid the very real problems she refuses to face.

She’s chasing attention from a crowd that’s already turning its back on women over 40, too blind to see the exit signs flying past her.

I don’t envy her; sure, I might envy access to procedures in theory, but not for the mad scramble for approval that comes with them.

I actually pity her. I still believe redemption is possible for anyone truly willing to face themselves in the mirror without excuse.

But when you’re more focused on finding enablers than finding yourself, there’s only so far compassion can go before it turns into complicity.

And ya’ll know that’s not gonna happen.

And since we’re being brutally honest, I’d have more cash for “fixes” too if we weren’t pouring every ounce of ourselves into raising her traumatized children.

I’m not trying to rewind the clock or win shallow approval. I want to age well and look strong because I am strong.

You can age gracefully without pretending you’re not aging at all. Honestly, I can’t wait to be a silver vixen.  

You can be beautiful in your own skin while still wanting to improve it.  You can love yourself enough to want better without pretending that staying exactly as you are is some noble act of rebellion.

If this hits and you feel like showing me some support, here's a link. There's no pressure. I’ll keep writing either way.

And maybe that’s why this facade of "strong female" energy irks me so much. This delusion that you can crash any room and demand your "uniqueness" be celebrated even when the dress code, the vibe, or the culture were built to keep you out.

The body positivity lies that tell you to "just love yourself" while you ditch self-discipline and call it empowerment.

You don’t need every room to validate you. Choose the rooms that deserve you.

Because at some point, all that fake empowerment and self-love talk turns into nothing more than a show of "reality", an act designed to keep you liked but never truly known.

In the end, all these scenarios boil down to one question: Who are you when no one’s looking?

It’s an innate philosophy of self-governance; the scars you’ve earned, the mirrors you’ve stared down, the grace you give yourself while the rest of the world steps on your neck.

At the end of the day, after all the work, the scars, the arguments, the wins and losses… she’s still there. She knows her place. She’s got style, she’s got grace, she’s a winner.

She’s a lady.

Want more? You might like these:

• This piece belongs beside Fifty Doesn’t Look Like I Thought I Would.
• Discipline and bodily honesty show up in The Weight I Still Carry.
• For the survival-through-authenticity version, see Beautiful Lies.

Heather P. is an essayist and longtime ghostwriter publishing unapologetic stories about trauma, reinvention, and the absurdity of real life.

Creator of Unfinished Business, a platform reaching readers in over 20 countries for its dark humor, emotional precision, and refusal of performative healing, whether the story is about grief, growth, or just getting through Tuesday.