Oops, I’m Human: Shelbi Jones

“A lot of the world wasn’t built with me in mind”

Oops, I’m Human invites women to share their relationship with their bodies—the messy, totally human parts. This series evokes the emotional gymnastics of living in our bodies, rejecting what we’ve been taught while quietly relishing the contradictions of self-acceptance. If you’ve ever felt both empowered and complicit, you’re in the right place.

Today’s Oops, I’m Human is by Shelbi Jones, a Brooklyn-based writer, DJ, speaker, and author of the Substack, Hi! I’m Here.

I first met Shelbi at the Fifteen Percent Pledge Gala—do you remember that, Shelbi? We were seated next to each other and ended up talking for nearly two hours. When I later saw she was on Substack, I was reminded just how much I enjoyed that conversation. I’m almost certain we even touched on mental (obviously, a favorite topic of mine), and I remember telling my husband afterward, “Shelbi’s great.”

Shelbi’s writing is deeply reflective, grounded in the kind of cultural conversations that matter. I love her voice, and I’m so happy she’s back in my life, even if, for now, it’s through an online connection.

Thank you, Shelbi, for this incredibly powerful piece.

An essay by Shelbi Jones

My body is not the default. I learned that early, trying to hobble together a wardrobe as a pre-teen when I couldn’t fit into most of the popular stores in the mall.

I’m thankful for my body and what it allows me to do. Walking up the steps to my apartment or the subway without thinking about it. Speed-walking through Terminal 4 at JFK when my flight is boarding and I’m not at the gate. In New York, everything is physical.

I grew up in a family that likes to eat. My dad was always in the kitchen, tweaking a recipe he found online or making one of his classics. My sister and I both love to cook. My mom is usually talking about what she’s craving or saying we should have something really good for dinner. Food is tied to home, celebration, and joy in my family.

My parents never said anything negative about my weight. When people talk about almond moms and ingredient households, that has nothing to do with me.

I have been aware of my body’s size for as long as I can remember. At my grandparents’ house, I remember being a kid wearing a bright pink Esprit top, my arms crossed over my chest. My grandmother asked if my arms were crossed because my shirt was too tight. She was just asking. I could still feel my cheeks flushing with embarrassment that someone else was noticing my body and how my clothes fit.

In a fitting room, I would try on something I was sure would fit the way I pictured it, and it didn’t. It was tight in places it didn’t need to be, and there was no bigger size available. It’s hard not to dream of being smaller, being someone who looks effortless in anything. When you see me and like my clothes, that took effort.

I cover more than I might otherwise, because people can be weird about bigger girls who show skin. It’s like, “Oh, she’s so confident,” said positively, but the vibe is still derogatory. Even when I wear something that shows off more of my figure and it gets me praise, I still feel uncomfortable. I want to fade into the hedges like the Homer Simpson meme.

A lot of the world wasn’t built with me in mind. In America, it’s built for white, straight, and smaller bodies. I’m one out of three. I also have ADHD, and I’m left-handed. I’ve always felt slightly outside of what things were designed for.

I couldn’t shop at Limited Too, Abercrombie, or Hollister. Finding a swimsuit as a teenager, and even now, feels like something I have to brace for. There was a time when I wore only dresses because I couldn’t find pants I liked, so I stopped trying. My mom is still surprised when she sees me in jeans.

A boy I had a crush on in school told me the only Black woman he’d consider dating was Beyoncé. It was an insane thing to say, but also, I wasn’t on track to look like her.

I had a kinship with women who took up space and knew they were hot, like Jill Scott. My mom played Who Is Jill Scott?: Words and Sounds Vol. 1 on repeat in the car. I was eight when it came out, and the way she sang about self-love, relationships, and loss resonated with me. She wasn’t shrinking, not in her body or in what she was saying. I saw a future version of myself in her.

I still listen to that album. On her latest, To Whom It May Concern, there’s a song called “Pressha” where she sings about the pressure to look like everyone else. Hearing your experience reflected back to you stays with you. A lot of my thoughts about my body were internal, and it feels good to be reminded I’m not the only one.

The average woman in the U.S. is a size 16. It’s strange to be made to feel like an outlier.

I’ve tried to be smaller. No one has tried harder to lose weight than someone who grew up fat. I’ve done Whole30. I went to Pure Barre five or six times a week. That was when I was at my smallest. I was eating compliments for breakfast. It feels inherently wrong that I get the most affirmation when I’m inching closer to the beauty standard. It also feels good, which is hard to admit. I can’t deny the small high of seeing a photo of yourself and not wanting to tear it apart. I still love a workout, but being on a diet wasn’t sustainable. I can see through the system and still feel it working on me.

During the pandemic, I posted something on Instagram stories about being fat, and a former friend responded, “You’re not fat, you’re beautiful.” Girl, I know I’m not ugly.

The default is so embedded that even when someone is trying to correct you, they reinforce it. She heard “fat” as an insult because that’s what the world has taught us to hear. I was just describing my body. I don’t even know if I like using that word. I’m still figuring it out. But I get to decide how I describe it. I don’t need small white women policing that.

I’ve learned to enjoy the wins that come with putting together a fire outfit even when it’s a little bit harder. I love that I can enjoy food without criminalizing it and enjoy moving my body without tying it to numbers on a scale. Growth has been realizing how much headspace all of this takes up. No one is thinking about me as much as me. Everyone has their own relationship with their body, shaped by their lived experiences. It’s clear to me now that no one has any idea about the individual tapes playing in our heads.

Even now, I still occasionally compare myself to something I will never be: small, white, neurotypical, and I wouldn’t be me if I were any of those things. I didn’t invent that idea. The world did, and I’m still unlearning it.