They Criticized My Weight at Work, but I Took Control and Proved My Value
I aspired to build a career in the fashion industry, but from my very first day, I encountered whispers, judgmental stares, and a boss who only saw my size, not my abilities. They doubted I deserved a place there, but I was determined to show them otherwise. When the runway lights illuminated, I knew it was my moment to challenge their perceptions.
Walking to my new job, I gripped my bag tightly, trying to calm the anxiety surging through me. My palms were clammy, and my heart raced.
It was my first day, and while I often found reasons to worry, this time it felt different—justified. What if they didn’t accept me? What if I made a mistake?
Stepping into the sleek glass building, my nervousness only grew. I fumbled with my ID, swiping it twice before the elevator chimed.
As the numbers on the elevator panel ascended, I repeated to myself, “You’ve got this.” The elevator halted with a soft ding, and I exhaled as the doors opened.
At the reception desk sat a poised young woman, radiating confidence with her immaculate hair and makeup, as if she belonged on the cover of a magazine.
“Hi, I’m—” I began, approaching her.
She gave me a fleeting glance and cut me off. “Oh, you’re the new cleaning lady. Let me show you around,” she said, standing abruptly and grabbing a clipboard.
I blinked in disbelief. “No, actually—”
“Follow me,” she said briskly, moving ahead before I could finish. “You need to familiarize yourself with the cleaning supplies. The bathrooms are down the hall; check them regularly.”
I trailed behind, trying to clarify. “I’m not—”
“You’ll also handle the trash,” she continued, not looking back. “Take it out at the end of the day—or sooner, if needed. Oh, and keep the break room clean; people here are messy.”
My face burned with embarrassment. “I think there’s a misunderstanding—”
Before I could finish, we turned a corner, and I spotted him—Aiden, the designer I’d been hired to assist.
“Christy, where’s my assistant?” he barked, his tone impatient. He glanced at me and frowned. “I hate when people are late. And who is this?”
Christy smiled awkwardly. “This is our new cleaner.”
“Actually,” I interjected, my voice shaky but firm, “my name is Natalie, and I’m your new assistant.” I extended my hand, hoping to recover from the misunderstanding.
“Oh,” Christy murmured, realizing her mistake.
Aiden’s gaze scanned me critically. “Did HR even see you before they hired you?” he asked coldly.
I swallowed hard, understanding the implication behind his words.
“Yes,” I replied with determination, keeping my voice steady. “I’m a professional, and I’m confident I can contribute.”
He ignored my hand. “We’ll see,” he muttered, turning sharply.
As he walked away, I stood frozen until he snapped, “Are you just going to stand there?”
Flustered, I hurried after him, my heart pounding.
“Hmm,” he mumbled under his breath. “With that weight, I doubt you can keep up. Let’s hope she doesn’t damage the equipment.”
His words stung. I bit my lip, pretending not to hear, but every syllable echoed in my mind.
The following two weeks were grueling. What I had envisioned as my dream job felt more like a nightmare.
Every morning, I arrived hoping for improvement, but things only worsened. No one took me seriously.
I overheard their cruel comments when they assumed I wasn’t listening:
“Why doesn’t she just lose weight?”
“How does someone like her work in fashion?”
“She must not own a mirror.”
Each remark cut deeply, eroding my already fragile confidence.
I wanted to share my ideas and prove my worth, but fear of rejection silenced me. I convinced myself no one would care about my input.
One afternoon, while organizing sketches for Aiden’s latest collection, I noticed something troubling.
The sizes ranged only from 2XS to L. Upon closer inspection, even the L was astonishingly small—closer to a snug M.
“Why are these sizes so limited?” I asked, holding a sample dress. The fabric was delicate, but the restrictive sizing was glaring.
“They’re not limited—they’re standard,” Aiden replied, barely glancing up from his tablet.
“No, they’re not,” I countered, shaking my head. “Most women wouldn’t fit into this L. And we market our clothes as inclusive.”
“Sweetheart,” he said with a condescending smirk, “just because you can’t fit doesn’t mean no one else can.”
His words made my face flush, but I pressed on. “My body is average. Who exactly are we designing for—models?”
“For beautiful women,” he retorted smugly, as though the answer were self-evident.
“Beauty—” I began, but he raised his hand dismissively.
“You’re getting bold,” he said icily.
I froze, feeling small under his gaze.
If I were truly bold, I would have stood my ground. Instead, I sighed, returning to my work and swallowing my frustration.
Later, I overheard Aiden in the HR office, his voice sharp.
“I can’t have her working here any longer,” he said. “She’s ruining the company’s image.”
“She’s skilled,” the HR representative replied. “We haven’t found anyone with her expertise.”
“I don’t care,” he snapped. “I can’t stand having that fat girl around.”
His words hit like a blow. My chest tightened, and tears pricked my eyes.
But as I returned to my desk, sadness gave way to anger, and anger ignited determination.
If Aiden wouldn’t recognize my value, I’d make sure my work did.
The debut of the new collection was my chance. I worked tirelessly, creating designs that celebrated real inclusivity.
When showtime arrived, I replaced Aiden’s lineup with my own. My models were real women with diverse body types—each representing beauty in her own way.
As the runway lights came on, applause erupted. The audience’s excitement was unmistakable.
Aiden was livid, but I stood firm.
When the announcer called for the designer, I stepped forward proudly.
The cheers and smiles from the crowd validated every effort. I had proved my worth, not through words but action—breaking barriers and redefining beauty.
