For as many years as I've been a competitive runner, people in the running community have made comments about my size and weight. The comments grew more frequent starting when I was in high school, around the time that my running transformed from hobby to sport. People often said they were surprised I could run so well for being "bigger." Or they'd note that I was "strong," a notoriously condescending word in running culture. Even my competitors discussed my size (although they weren’t quite as politically correct).

These comments followed me to college, where I competed as a Division One athlete. The scrutiny grew unnerving. I didn’t look like most of the women I lined up against, and, even worse, I increasingly felt like I had to in order to run well. Indeed, anytime I delivered a lackluster performance I was met with rhetoric that I needed to lose weight to perform better. My collegiate career did not live up to expectations, which only reinforced this idea. It seemed clear that if I wanted to achieve my athletic goals I needed to conform to the stereotype of the rail-thin elite runner.

Courtesy of Nike

I was passionate about my training and eager to compete as the fittest version of myself, and the criticism and negative messaging impacted my morale. It was also deeply confusing. Off the track, I didn’t feel "big." Actually, I felt beautiful. I filled out the curves in a dress and cups in a bra. I knew, intellectually, that to people outside of the running community I was on the smaller side—and that in all other areas of life I benefited from the privileges that society bestows upon people who fit into straight-size clothing. But on the track, I felt different—uncomfortable and inadequate.

So after years of hearing it, I started to believe it: I was "too big" to be a competitive runner. In 2012 I wrote a series of blog posts about cutting weight. I documented how I tracked calories and fat, met with a nutritionist, did body fat tests, and eliminated entire food groups with unhealthy determination. My obsession with my weight, and losing that weight, wasn't that different from other women in similar situations; I've known and heard of many collegiate and elite female runners who suffer from eating disorders because their coaches tell them that they need to be as light as possible to win races. The consequences of this messaging are severe, as I soon learned firsthand. Inevitably my unhealthy practices led to where this destructive pattern always does: injury. A stress fracture in my tibia prevented me from competing in the 2012 Olympic trials.