All Girls Feel Too Big Sometimes
Written by Geni McCallum
Published on Too Much & Not Enough, July 8, 2025.
Please stop saying weird shit about my body (and everyone else's)
“When I saw Geneviève I really liked it when she said
What she said about the giant and the lemmings on the cliff
She said "I like giants, especially girl giants
Cause all girls feel too big sometimes, regardless of their size"
My body and I have been through a lot together. Often, I’ve had very little say as to what it would do. I was just along for the ride. Have I mentioned how much I hate rollercoasters? I’m sure that will be a huge shock. Puberty was when I realised I had no control over what my body was going to do. I grew to 182 cm (5,11”) around age thirteen and felt like a giant.
The comments from family, friends and strangers about how tall or big I was began. Not often malicious, but damaging all the same. My sense of self came from that darker space of feeling out of place. As I’ve gotten older, I have realised how every height, shape and size has its pros and cons. I may never find a pair of jeans that fits perfectly, but I can still see over most people’s heads at a gig. Here are some answers to questions I’ve had as a big, tall and often fat woman, so you don’t need to ask them out loud. To ANYONE. Ever.
“You are tall. Like, really, really tall.”
“Yep…”
I still don’t know what to say to this recurring comment. Do you have a problem with keeping your inner monologue from vomiting out? Or should I begin to point out obvious physical traits that you also possess? And you mean tall for a woman. Many, many men are my height or much taller. Your shock is sexist and annoying. Stop it, please.
“Do you play basketball?”
“No. I’m not even 6 feet. Also, I am terrified of balls flying at my face.”
Note to every sports teacher ever: height does not equate to being naturally good at any sport. Bet you regret putting me as Goal Shoot in netball now. Let's all learn this lesson and actually ask kids which position they think they’d enjoy most.
“When are you due?”
“Never.”
I’m not pregnant. I’ve had several miscarriages, though. Would you also like to talk to me (a stranger) about that, too? I have a fat lower belly from eating my pain for the majority of my life, and a hormone imbalance (Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome). Don’t ask anyone about being pregnant EVER. It’s only your business if they decide to bring it up with you. As someone who has been fat on and off forever, please stop. You have no idea what that person is going through, and that shit hurts even when you ‘mean well’. Your intentions don’t indicate how your comment has impacted another person.
“You look so amazing. Have you lost weight?”
“Maybe, but I would like to swiftly exit this conversation”
My body shouldn’t be something you feel you get to publicly comment on, and it is not a topic or any of your business. I have a Binge Eating Disorder (BED), and your unsolicited comments are damaging to me and many others. Your comment may not be malicious, but it’s shitty and helps reinforce the stereotypes drilled into us that we must always focus on taking up less room in the world. My weight indicates nothing other than what I eat and how much I move around - let's talk about funnier or at least more important shit than that.
If in doubt, switch it around. Would you say that if you thought I’d gained weight? Would you say that if I were a man? Would you say that if you knew I had an eating disorder? Would you say that if I had just lost my baby or was depressed from trying to have a baby for five years? Cool, then just don’t say it. Ask me how I’m doing, and actually create space for an honest answer instead. Or talk about the weather and be done with it.
I tend to cry at almost anything. When she was younger, my daughter often looked at me quizzically when she thought I was about to cry. I think she just found it amusing at best and annoying at worst. I once told my uncle Barrie about the Titanic film narrative when I was 15. As I began to relay the scene where the lower-class people were trapped behind bars in the lower section of the boat, I broke down in tears. I can easily access my emotions, which can be a strength but is often a pain in the arse. My tears are never buried deep down, but neither is my laughter.
My empathy for people on stage can really trigger my anxiety, though. I have been known to sympathetically blush when someone on stage makes a mistake. I will cry when anyone I love cries, which isn’t great either. I don’t want to make their pain about me, so I try my best not to, but it’s nearly impossible to control.
I’m an open person, probably to my detriment. Although my Dad told me a few years ago, when I was going through my separation, that I am an open book, I share everything with people. It made me realise how little he understood me. I keep a lot to myself, which I’m sure seems bizarre since you’re currently listening to/reading my personal essays. I think it’s a popular fallacy that because someone speaks candidly about subjects that most people feel embarrassed to speak about, they’re not private people. I love talking about bodies, sex, human behaviour, mental illness and the crazy shit that people do. That doesn’t mean that I don’t hold parts of myself close to my chest. It just means that I’m open about subjects that many people aren’t. I tend not to share my deep pain, physical or psychological. I’m careful about what I share with most people. Even writing this might feel like a contradiction to you, but my honesty, even here, is curated.
Due to the dreaded PCOS, I am a sweaty, hairy person with irregular and heavy periods. The cysts on my ovaries also used to sometimes burst at inconsiderate moments, too. That shit really hurts. I was once in an exam when one burst, and I had to finish my essay questions while breathing shallowly to try and get through the pain in my lower abdomen. The cheeky fuckers don’t even do what they’re supposed to, and they have the gall to sporadically explode at whim?! The sweaty bit isn’t great fun, either. I get off my hairdresser’s seat to leave an ambiguous-looking puddle. A while ago, I began to just own it and say, “Yep, I’m quite the sweaty Betty” at least then, they don’t think I’ve casually pissed myself whilst getting my highlights.
I was once waxed on those horrible paper towels. The beautician asked me to flip over, and I heard a rip as my sticky body attempted to detach from the paper towel. The hormonal imbalances have contributed to my moustache, slight beard and inner thigh chaps situation too. If I leave my body au naturel, it looks like I’m wearing hairy booty shorts underneath my bikini. And I’m not talking about a few stray pubes in the mix; testosterone-fueled hair growth patterns are intense and voracious.
It took me a solid two years to become comfortable with my armpit hair. Now, I love it, but when I saw Emer O’Toole’s interviews about the insane controversy that took over the U.K. when she inadvertently displayed her hairy pits on television, I began to question things. The status quo for many women is that we remove almost all body hair from the eyelashes down. Why? I blame porn trends for breaching our beauty standards, but it’s probably more complicated than that. All I know is that I felt like my body hair was disgusting and unfeminine for most of my life. Which is weird because isn’t feminine anything that a female body does naturally anyway? There’s nothing much more feminine than a female body just hangin’ out and doing its thing without outside intervention. Each to their own, of course.
I think it should be a choice and an informed one that each person makes for themselves. Much like choosing to change your surname if you get married, I don’t care what you choose as long as you actively choose it. However, the change of name should, at the very least, be an equal option for both parties, not just the ones who identify as women. Feminists fought for our right to choose, not for the right of other people to tell us what to choose.
Anyway, please stop commenting on people’s bodies. I know, at least, my body has been through enough without feeling like I should apologise for how it looks and behaves.