During my adolescence, I would come home and watch The Ellen Degeneres Show every day as I ate my after school snack. I lived in a very Christian, conservative part of Indiana, and she was essentially the only celebrated gay person on TV. She was a beacon to a younger me: stylish, funny, exuberant, and light on her feet. Every episode of her show famously opened with her flitting about the audience, appearing so comfortable in her thin body, her cropped hair, her cool sweaters.

When she came out on stage and everyone cheered, I ached. I thought, I want to be her. I wanted to be openly queer; to walk into a room and be welcomed with applause for who I was. Instead, I feared sneers of disgust. “I will get clothes like that,” I wrote in my journal, “when I lose weight.”

Part of the reason I didn’t feel I could identify as queer or gay or lesbian as a teenager was because I was fat. I come from a family of people of all sizes and sexualities, yet my true conception of valid queerness came from who was safe from harassment at school — who was safe from vitriol and disgust around me. Most importantly, I looked to those who were celebrated so unanimously for their charisma, talent, charm, and beauty. I did not look like those people.

The word “fat” felt like it was burned into my flesh with a branding iron. Every visible stretch mark felt like a declaration I did not authorize. I was the funny friend, the one that adopted a hyper-feminine style, donned tons of makeup, and fretted over minute physical details because I felt I needed to overcompensate for my weight.

I wanted to dress in a masculine way and feel confident about it — like Ellen in her blazers, sweaters, layered shirts, and cool shoes — yet men’s dress shirts never buttoned past my stomach and my hips wouldn’t fit into anything that wasn’t made for “curvy women.” I was often so ashamed of my breasts and belly; of my thighs coated in stretch marks that make me look like I’ve been clawed by tigers. I didn’t know how to present as a masculine queer woman when everything about my body was not just deemed feminine, but unacceptably fat.

Queer media doesn’t include or represent many fat people, and this puts pressure on fat queer folks to tell ourselves that we are valid, without external reassurance or role models to look to.

When I slowly started to come out as queer to those around me during my senior year of college, I started with dating apps. I immediately noticed that upon changing my photos from pictures of me in dresses with a full face of makeup and to pictures of me in men’s button up shirts, with my hair pulled back and no makeup, I matched with significantly fewer people. I felt I had to choose between masculinity and desirability.

After changing my presentation online, I started to experiment with masculine outfits both at work and while out on the weekends. The catcalling and whistles I was used to receiving in my high-waisted shorts and pastel bodysuits turned into fat-calling and shouts like, “move, you fat bitch.” Flirting turned into threats and passive-aggressive slights. A man outside a club flicked the ashes of his cigarette onto me and wiped them off of my backside with his hand. Another man followed me down a street to tell me I look ugly in my makeup — despite the fact that I wasn’t wearing any. These incidences only occur when I wear men’s shirts and jackets that don’t hug my figure like dresses or tight skinny jeans.

When I walk to the train at night in heels and a tight black dress, I feel armored by my sensuality and normalcy. I can’t ignore the low whistles and glances, but at least I don’t get admonished for my weight. The less conventionally straight I look, the more people feel they have permission to criticize my body. My fat body is only acceptable to the world when it is feminine.