If you’re reading this, it means you’re about to watch my play. Holy shit! That’s terrifying and amazing! Thank you for being here.

This is a workshop production. That means that we are hoping to convey to our audiences what this play “can be” rather than what it is. We hope it will receive another iteration in a larger theater with additional resources. (Hit us up if you have access to one or both of these things!) But, for now, we hope this will wet your whistles. 

Parts of this play are autobiographical. Parts of it aren’t. I am a fat woman—and I’ve been fat my whole life. When I say “my whole life,” I mean my whole life. I was born a month early, weighing eight pounds and six ounces, and have never existed as anything but fat. I also grew up with a mother who had an eating disorder, something that impacted every part of her life—and many parts of mine.

There was harm in our relationship, as there is in most. But let me be clear: her eating disorder didn’t harm me, and it didn’t make her harm me. The harm that existed within our relationship was something else entirely. (As I say in the play, “All mothers hurt their daughters,” and later, “All daughters hurt their mothers.”) Maybe it’s instinctual. Maybe it’s the endless cycle of each generation trying to do a little better than the one before. If I knew exactly what it was, I probably wouldn’t have needed to write this play.

I wrote this play because it terrified me. I’d taken a three-year break from playwriting, convinced that the stories I had to tell weren’t worth telling anymore. And then I changed my mind. I wrote it because my mother is now years into recovery, and it felt safe to tell the story I’d always wanted to tell. I wrote it because I saw The Whale and was so tired of that being the gold standard for exploring fatness onstage. I wrote it because I wanted fat actors to have roles where they’re not just punchlines or objects of pity. I wrote it to figure out how I feel about my own body.

I know bodies, food, and disordered eating are deeply complex topics. My relationship with all of them is still a rollercoaster most days. This play has brought up a lot of emotions for a lot of different types of people—sadness, anger, joy, confusion, even catharsis. I’m not sure what it will bring up for you, but my goal here isn’t to teach or change anyone. It’s just to tell the truth.

I’d also be remiss if I didn’t mention the inspiration for fat liberation and fat positivity that I’ve learned so much from over the years. If this is a subject that is new for you, I’d highly recommend these books: What We Don’t Talk About When We Talk About Fat by Aubrey Gordon, Fearing the Black Body by Sabrina Strings, Shadow on a Tightrope: Writings by Women on Fat Oppression, and Hunger by Roxanne Gay. They are all pretty easy to source online (or even better - in your local bookstore!) and will offer perspective that (in my experience) might really begin to shift your perspectives on the complexities of fatness, specifically in America. 

There are no villains in this play. There are no heroes either. Nobody is 100% right or 100% wrong. Like life, this story is full of messy, imperfect people doing their best, falling down, and trying again. That’s what this play is. And that’s who I am. Who, I think, we all are. Thank you for being open to this story - even if it makes you uncomfortable.

Sarah Galante - Playwright