I love fashion. I’ve subscribed to Vogue since I was 14. But I’m a size 20, and trying to shop on the high street as a plus-size woman feels like being told, over and over again: you’re not invited.
I don’t know why I still go into Zara. I don’t know if it’s become some kind of humiliation ritual but I work in the city, and at least once a week, I’ll take a detour on my way home and pop in. You know, just to see if this is the week they’ve decided to cater to people with hips and a visible digestive system (spoiler, it never is!) But still, I go. I’ll trail through the rails, occasionally picking up an “oversized” shirt that wouldn’t fit my left thigh, or a pair of trousers labelled XXL that are doing a very convincing impression of a size 12. And sometimes, just for sport, I’ll try something on. Then stand under the world’s most unflattering lighting while attempting to wrestle it over my boobs like I’m being attacked by a linen blend jellyfish.
I think I’m fed up with shopping in general. I recently went charity shopping with my skinny friends and whilst they found vintage Levi’s, oversized jackets, and gorgeous silk slip dresses. I had my choice of… accessories. And while I do love styling, it often feels like I’m building outfits around what fits, rather than what I like. My friend commented that I’d “barely got anything!” as if it was a quirky shopping choice, without acknowledging that the options available in my size were mostly tired, dated, or stretched-out jersey. Or that the so-called “oversized” pieces they swim in would’ve been skin-tight on me. But to be fair to them — what can they really say? “Yeah, I’m slim and everything fits me, that must suck for you”? There’s no version of that conversation that doesn’t end with me crying in the changing room. So we all pretend. I say I’m being picky. They say I have great accessories.
And I know there are plus-size brands out there, and I shop them too. But overtime, I’ve internalised the idea that real fashion belongs to the slim. That when I get smaller, then I’ll deserve to play dress-up too. And sure, I could shop at “fat girl brands.” But I don’t always want to. There’s a horrible internalised fat-phobic part of me that just wants to fit into the same brands my skinny friends wear. Zara represents more than just a brand to me. It’s a symbol of an aesthetic that’s still largely reserved for thin bodies and one I continue to feel left out of.
Even brands that claim to offer inclusive sizing are often online only. Or it’s just a few styles. Or the cut is so off that a size 20 is basically a size 14 with wider seams. Yes, I can shop. But it never feels like fashion.
Take Rixo, for example. On paper, they go up to a size 26. In reality? Most stores only carry stock up to a size 20, and even then, they’ve never had a 20 in any style I’ve actually wanted to try on. When I’ve asked about sizing in-store, I was told cheerfully that I can just “order online if I want to try and return it if it doesn’t fit.” As though we’re talking about £12 ASOS basics and not £250 silk dresses. I’m supposed to order four, try them on in my kitchen, send three back, and just pray my credit card isn’t declined in the process? Or Lululemon, their website also says they stock up to a UK 24. Great. So I popped into their Marylebone store, asked for my size — and the smiley shop assistant nearly laughed as she told me, still smiling, that they only carry up to a 12 or 14 in-store. No pause or flicker of embarrassment. Just a casual, polite “Oh God no, not here.” And then, inevitably, I start spiralling — was that humiliating? Or am I just being dramatic? Surely she didn’t mean anything by it. How could she know how that might land? And yet, I still left the store feeling like I’d wandered into a room I wasn’t invited to and my body was somehow inappropriate for the surroundings and that I was the problem. Not to mention that sinking feeling that follows you out of the store and into the rest of your day. Because that’s the worst part, you don’t blame the brand. You blame yourself.
Hollister is another good example. They recently launched a curve range with one of my favourite plus-size influencers, Emma Arletta. And fair play the staff in store were lovely, supportive and welcoming. But when I asked to try on the jeans that Emma was wearing in the ad (I presume that me and Emma would wear a similar size) The largest they could find in store, in ANY style (not even the style I wanted to try) was a 39, and whilst I could get them past my thighs there was absolutely no way I was getting them done up around my tummy. So what message does that send? That the model’s body is good enough to sell the clothes — but bodies like ours aren’t welcome to shop in store?
I often see women out and about in gym shorts and oversized tees, looking like they’ve just stepped out of a Vogue editorial. But when I try to do casual, I just end up looking like I’ve run to put the bins out. So, I feel like I always have to be dressed up and hyper feminine just to seem presentable and even then, I still somehow land on matronly. I think it’s the big boobs, you can wear the exact same outfit as someone else and while they look effortlessly stylish, you look like you’re on your way to supervise detention.I want to be clear: I’m not saying I can’t find clothes. I can. But they’re rarely the ones I actually want. And even when they’re technically available in my size, the fit often tells another story.
It doesn’t help that the current fashion moment, all feels so built around thinness. It’s hard not to feel like current trends weren’t made with bodies like mine in mind. And yet, I do see people with bodies like mine making it work. I follow people online with soft stomachs, full chests, wide hips and they look amazing. I see plus-size influencers absolutely owning the clean-girl aesthetic or Y2K looks, in body con dresses, crop tops, low-rise jeans, and they look amazing. But when I try the same outfit, I second-guess myself. I don’t want my belly out. I don’t want tight seams across my middle. I’ve internalised so much about what is and isn’t “flattering.” I become frustrated because I want to look like the model, not like me wearing the model’s outfit. And unfortunately that’s unrealistic because I’m buying the clothes, not the body. And no matter how good the styling is, it won’t transform me into someone else. And if I’m honest, I’ve also been critical of other plus-size people at times. Thinking things like, “That’s not flattering” , when what I really meant was, “That doesn’t make them look smaller.” I hate that andI hate that I’ve bought into a system that makes me police not just myself, but people who look like me. Truthfully, I was okay with being plus-size when I was a size 16–18 because I still had a waist and I could buy into the acceptable version of “curvy” that fashion brands are more willing to embrace. I had shape. I could make outfits work. But now? After gaining more weight, most of it going to my belly and upper waist, I don’t feel “curvy.” I feel big. Because so much plus-size fashion is still marketed to my old plus-size body which in many ways was the socially acceptable kind of fat. Not the body I have now, with a rounded belly and no obvious waist. And when I look for style inspiration now, I find influencers doing their best but talking about bodies like mine using phrases like “styling my apron belly” or “how I dress for my apple shape.” I know they’re trying to be helpful but I personally don’t feel empowered by that language.
So, what’s next? Well, I’m working towards a 10-day Italian holiday, imagine sun, gelato, and plenty of people-watching. I’m trying to lose a bit of weight, sure, but mostly, I want to feel neutral in my own skin. This isn’t a journey to body love. It’s more of a truce. Learning to feel okay in the skin I’m in, while also gently plotting against it with Pilates and protein shakes.Along the way, I’m documenting this whole messy, sometimes frustrating fashion journey on my blog. Because if there’s one thing I want to show, it’s that style isn’t about fitting into a shape or a size. It’s about owning whatever body you’ve got, curves, belly, boobs, and all, and finding your own kind of fabulous in the process.
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