Recently I stopped by a local bookstore for a Q&A session with Jessamyn Stanley, the plus-size yoga instructor of Instagram fame. The store was packed, mostly with heavyset women like me. Stanley wore a sheer black dress, her powerful physique on full display as she chatted candidly with fat activist Virgie Tovar about her new book, Every Body Yoga.

Stanley started by charting her journey as a yoga practitioner and public advocate. She addressed some of the problems with yoga in America today. Too often, she pointed out, the practice of yoga is defined by those who are white, thin, and able to afford all the trappings: a mat, dedicated clothes, and a studio membership. The conversation ranged from fat acceptance to systemic racism to why she still teaches pay-what-you-can classes.

It was a meaty, thought-provoking discussion. And it felt geared toward people like me: an overweight woman who does Sun Salutations in her living room but has never set foot in a yoga studio. I felt a pang—not of surprise, but of frustration—at how easily the nuance and edges of a story like Stanley’s have been sanded down in much of the media coverage of her work. The woman on that stage was sharp, funny, unapologetic.

The crowd was rightfully feeling it. As soon as Stanley and Tovar finished their prepared remarks, the audience began rippling with raised hands as volunteers passed around microphones. I walked away with a copy of the book and a whole lot to think about.

Over the years I have become used to depictions of female athletes as slim, tall, and white. Seeing deviations from that "norm" is thrilling.

The first time I saw a photo of Stanley float through my social media feeds, it stopped me in my tracks. It's exhilarating to see a woman like Stanley, whom SELF has written about before and featured in videos, highlighted for her physicality. Same goes for dancer Akira Armstrong, who has garnered attention for heading up the dance collective Pretty Big Movement. Outlets like Women’s Running magazine have taken a visible step into the body-inclusivity game; the magazine has featured plus-size models and avid runners Candace Huffine, Erica Schenk, and Nadia Aboulhosn on their covers. Plus-size athletes like Dana Falsetti, Becci Holcomb, and more are shaking up the conventional images of yogis, runners, weight lifters, even pole dancers.

This is part of a broader (if still small) needle-tick toward inclusivity in women’s media, with increasing coverage of topics like Mattel’s “curvy” Barbie dolls and Dove’s ever-morphing Real Beauty campaign.

It’s hard to admit feeling conflicted about all this. But I do. Not about these remarkable women themselves—they deserve all the attention and accolades they’re getting. I wish there were more stories like theirs out there, many more. At the same time, I’m uneasy about how little space there seems to be for other plus-size women in mainstream media. When these stories crop up, they all seem to follow a familiar blueprint: This fat woman is inspirational! She's amazing! She’s busting the stereotypes!

Try as I might, I can’t shake the feeling of being simultaneously pandered to and dismissed. Are these stories really representing a new embrace of diverse bodies? Or are they highlighting a few who, while amazing, portray a certain kind of fatness? With such limited representations of fuller figures in media, where do I—an ordinary and self-conscious non-athlete—fit in?

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been aware that thin is acceptable and fat is not.

The message is clear, from advertising to entertainment to conversations with friends and family: the weight a body accumulates is entirely that person’s fault, the result of laziness or a defect in willpower. Losing weight is to be celebrated, regardless of how it happens. Anyone over a certain physical size must want to lose weight, and be embarrassed by their body until they do. It’s the cultural soup we swim in, and I—along with so many other women I know—have absorbed those ideas.