Unbecoming 'That Girl'

The following story is part of my collection of personal essays called The Menial Stories of a 21-Year-Old. It portrays my own interpretation of how events have played out in my life— take it as you will. Please note that this particular essay may be triggering for some, as it regards the topic of eating disorders.

Maybe it was the toxic Instagram algorithm that displayed collages of joyful slender white women promoting their no-nonsense low-calorie diets and vigorous 7-days-a-week exercise programs. Or perhaps it started earlier on in my childhood from when my father used to call plus-sized strangers on the streets “whales.” “God, look at the size of that whale!” he’d exclaim, pointing out the car window at a fat person as he drove past him or her. He’d give himself a belly-full chuckle, and I’d naively laugh along in the passenger seat next to him.

So, how did it all begin? What was it that triggered me to force myself to exercise during my off days, to start meticulously calorie counting before every meal? 200 calories— 1 cup of white rice. 190 calories— the total of two granola bars that come within one Nature Valley package. My mind’s scarred by the numbers associated with every food I’ve calculated and eaten, and I cannot forget. Sometimes this memorization still allows me to backtrack and think if I should be consuming less. Perhaps ½ cup of white rice and 1 Nature Valley bar instead?

Currently, I’m having a tough time trying to pinpoint and write about exactly how this story began. In the end, I think it was a combination of that toxic Instagram algorithm and my non-funny father among other things that enabled me to start an exhausting journey with a 1500-calorie eating disorder and copious amounts of compulsive exercise.

At least I know that I can write about exactly when this story began. In August 2019, I wanted to start off my senior year of Pembroke Pines Charter High School as brand-new. I wanted to be that girl. I wanted routine, a healthy one, and when I began to do what I mistakenly envisioned that healthy routine would be, eating less and exercising more, I felt more seen by the world around me. Usually it was a “Wow, you’re much thinner than the last time I saw you!” from acquaintances or a “Damn girl, you look good!” from friends and family. I felt more eyes on me in the school hallways, or runways, and I actually reached 300+ likes on my Instagram posts. Finally. Even my tiny Chinese-Jamaican tiger mom started to notice me a bit more, which certainly boosted my self-esteem up a notch or two. I always felt like she had high standards for us children back then— over our weight, our grades, our crushes, our friends, et cetera.

The first time that my mother commented on my progress of becoming that girl was on a November afternoon at our local Publix supermarket. I was already three months into my “healthy routine,” and so I was quite prepared, thrilled even, when my mom led us to the 8-foot tall weight scale at the storefront. It was tradition for us Manning kids to track our humiliating weight gain with our mom whenever we visited Publix, but this time was gonna be different for me.

She stepped aboard onto the large scale. Of course, the usual 120-something pounds. Skinny queen. Then, it was my turn… and I knew I was about to see my lowest weight ever. I could feel it. As I stepped onto the scale and watched the scale’s finger stroll from 0, I gathered my sweaty hands into fist balls of anticipation. C’mon. The scale finger slowed to 130, then to 134, and eventually stopped at 136. Holy guacamole. The last time I checked, I was 10 pounds heavier. I must’ve worn the world’s smuggest face at that moment because I couldn’t be any prouder of myself. The diet is actually working. I just couldn’t wait to see my mother’s reaction.

“Oh wow,” she said, with her widened, curious brown eyes. “You’re back to the same weight that you used to be before your knee surgery!” She grinned, and so I grinned back at her. Both of us knew that I had knee surgery three years ago, during the midst of my middle school puberty process when a female’s supposed to be her lightest, skinniest, and fittest. I may have been 136 pounds then as a 14-year-old girl and shouldn’t have been 136 pounds again as an 18-year-old woman, but what does that matter? She’s impressed! I must be making real progress here.

I may have been 136 pounds then as a 14-year-old girl and shouldn’t have been 136 pounds again as an 18-year-old woman, but what does that matter? She’s impressed!

“Yeah,” I said, trying to play it cool and confident. “I’m doing the 1500-calorie diet to try to be healthier.” Wow, saying that sounded so mature. I’m a woman, for real.

“Oh nice,” she replied quickly, “I did the 1200-calorie diet back then. It was hard.” Damn, could I even go that low as she did?

“Oh wow. I don’t think I can do that. That’s too low.”

She nodded her head thoughtfully. “Yeah, 1500 seems like a good number.”

Thanks, Mommy.

That interaction with my mother and a few subsequent mom-approval moments became my external motivation to endure two long years of obsessively counting calories and going on runs almost every single day. We might as well include those other skinny-praising interactions with extended family members, soccer teammates, and teachers who also commended my sudden reduction in human size. Whatever I was doing must’ve been right if I got so much applause from it. Who am I? That girl.

The only person who ever suggested to me that I was out of my mind was my quirky thick-haired Venezuelan best friend Alai. In fact, she was quite emotional about the whole ordeal. Pisces women, am I right? We both captained the varsity football team at our school, and she began to notice how my thick Serena Williams legs had turned into thigh-gapped, almost model-quality ones.

One day after practice, an obviously bothered Alai walked up to me in a haste as I was exiting the field. “Jena, what the hell?” What did I do now? Potential problems: I said something too blunt that it sounded mean, I was too friendly with the boy we both have a crush on, I forgot to tell her a secret that I already told everyone else…“You have to eat more,” Alai told me, with a set of brown straight shooter eyes. Oh, seriously? That’s it?

She continued, looking like she was going to cry, “My parents are watching you at games, and your legs are so much smaller! Whatever diet you’re on is not good.” Wow, so she basically just called me Naomi Campbell!

I giggled at her, genuinely taking in her concerns as a compliment. “Ah, it’s nothing to worry about, chica.” Alai had a history of being a straight-A Ms. Know-It-All since we were in first grade, and sometimes she worried about the most miniscule things. Crazy girl. I’m totally fine. I walked off to the parking lot.

"Ah it's nothing to worry about, chica."

From that moment on, Alai pestered me about my eating habits only twice or three times more. I think she decided to stop when she realized that she couldn’t get through to me. After all, I have a habit of not listening to others when I think that my way is the right way. Still working on that, of course.

And so, I continued eating 1500 calories or less and forcing myself to do at least 30 minutes of vigorous cardio every day until the end of my freshman year at the University of Miami. Yeah, that’s right. I had endured two freaking years of this so-called “healthy routine,” or rather atypical anorexia, which was often so difficult to follow day to day. Every morning, afternoon, and night, I was tired. I woke up with fatigue and ended my day with fatigue. So, going out to explore Miami’s super clean and glorious science museums, boutique (a.k.a. expensive-as-fuck) shops, and hot beaches was an overtaxing hassle for me, although I did it anyway to stay socially relevant. Sometimes my friends and I went out for a Saturday dinner night out in Coconut Grove or Downtown Miami, and I would know for a fact that I ate too good and well above that 1500-calorie limit. Nights like those always led to a tough self-punishment of inducing myself to vomit my intestines out into the girls dormitory toilet once I returned to campus. Whenever one of the girls on the floor caught me, I’d pretend that it was food poisoning: “Yeah, there was definitely something wrong with the chicken I ate at the restaurant,” I’d say, with a fake disgust. Spoiler alert: I never had food poisoning before.

In the back of my mind, I knew it was all wrong— doing the math for every meal every day and going for a 2-mile run at the ass crack of dawn when I definitely didn’t even feel like taking a stroll out of bed. Yet, why did I do it anyway? Toxic Instagram algorithm, non-funny father, other things. All I know is that if I didn't go to Colombia during the summer of 2021 after freshman year, I’d still be torturing myself to be that girl today.

I mean, when I went to live in Bogotá for a two-month voluntary internship position, it was quite difficult to count the calories of my meals and exercise on a daily basis. I literally had a physical checklist of over 50 places to explore in and out of the city, and that meant less time and energy for those life-restricting shenanigans. Because I wanted to go out to La Candelaria, the Usaquen flea market, Zona Rosa (basically a whole neighborhood dedicated to clubbing and bar-hopping), and other cool sites on the weekends, I refused to do any exercise on Saturdays and Sundays. Carpe diem. Because my local mercado bogotano didn’t have the ingredients for making my low-calorie safe meals and because I often went out to eat with mis amigos colombianos, I frequently settled for ajiaco and arepas and tamales and other delicious carb-heavy plates with questionable calorie counts. I was livin’ la vida loca.

“Venir aquí me curó.” I said once to my costeño friend Victor in our building’s kitchen.

But Colombia didn’t cure me. There, I still feared becoming the plus-size “whale” that my dad would point out on the side of the road and laugh at. In fact, I was horrified at the colossal weight I had been gaining during the trip. My face grew fatter, and so I eventually stopped taking selfies. My favorite red long-sleeved crop top didn’t fit me anymore, and I had disgustingly jumped from a pants size 6 to a pants size 10. When I finally returned to Florida, I remember crying to my mom because half of my closet at home was no longer relevant to my bigger body. It took a lot of mental strength to not revert to my old ways of an extremely limited diet and everyday compulsory exercise once I was home again. I persisted through the painful process of shedding a very carefully curated part of my identity— the skinny, “healthy,” Instagram-perfect Jena.

Now, two years since my trip to Colombia, I’m more intuitive with what I eat and when I exercise. I’m more at peace with my healthy-enough round tummy and its occasional desire to eat too good, and I don’t hold guilt for eating a mere loaf of bread or a heavily frosted vanilla donut alongside my meals. I also feel more energetic throughout my days, enough so that I’m not cranky before even stepping foot outside to go out with friends. And because exercising isn’t so much of a to-do-list chore anymore, I slowly fell back in love with football. I’ve also learned that I actually hated that running routine that I had continued for so long. What a terrible way to torture yourself.

Of course, sometimes my fat-shaming subconscious still taunts me from the depths of my subconscious. Too big of a meal to be healthy. IHOP pancakes for breakfast, really? Why those extra carbs with that bagel? Even though I gave up my calorie-counting efforts, I still make sure that I don’t eat too much for my own good. Sure, I stopped exercising on the weekends, but too often I continue exercising on the weekdays even when I’m injured or too fatigued to do so. I’m still in the process of unbecoming that girl, and that’s okay. I’m not perfect.

Anyway, I’m not sure if there’s a lesson from all of this because it’s definitely not listening to your friend Alai or going to Colombia. And I’m certainly not one to tell another that they should pucker up and just start a thriving relationship with food and exercise. It’s not simple, and I know it. It’s also different for everybody. However, I hope that in writing this someone deeply troubled with toxic eating and exercising habits could start to trust that it could get better because life is so much more than the self-destructive effort of trying so hard to be that girl. Yes, it’s a difficult process, but I believe in you— after all, I’m still believing in myself, too.