We need to celebrate all body types and not forget the thinner end of the spectrum

Hollow legs. That’s the stock response I would usually wheel out when someone made a comment about the size of my body (skinny) in relation to my plate (piled high and full of carbs).

Whether it’s because I’m tall or just have a fast metabolism, I’ve always been naturally slim.

Because society fetishes thinness, complaining about being too skinny can sound like a humble brag, like being too rich or too successful.

Get out the tiny violin, you’re probably thinking. But being thinner than you’d like to be can feel lonely at times.

As a child I hated being called “Skeletor”, “Beanpole” or “Skinny Kate”, and would try everything in my power to put on a few pounds, from forcing down chocolate bars (honestly, not as great as it sounds) to drinking disgusting protein shakes between meals.

Nothing worked and I remained resolutely rake-like. Eating disorders were rife at my school and concerned teachers would often ask me if I was eating enough, which only gave me more hang-ups about the way I looked – which was like I was ill, apparently.

When I started working, I learned to stay silent as colleagues bonded over the latest diet or poked fun at “scarily thin” celebrities. There’s still a massive double standard when it comes to slim people.

Most of us would never dream of calling someone fat or scrutinising their eating habits, and yet anyone deemed to be too skinny is seen as fair game or told to shut up and eat a sandwich.

Author Hilary Mantel wrote that “when you get fat you get a new personality… Strangers ascribe it to you”, but being thin comes with judgements, too.

You’re presumed to be high-maintenance, fragile, a skinny bitch and not maternal. From Marilyn Monroe to Kim Kardashian-West, having curves has long been the female ideal.

Ironically, it was discovering exercise that finally helped me to fill out my lanky frame. I’d always bunk off PE at school, because I equated doing sport to losing weight.

I also have the coordination of a politician on Strictly, which made team sports a challenge.

In my 20s, I was so unfit that I’d get a stitch running for the bus on my way to the pub, and the only trainers I owned were a pair of Converse.

But a work assignment to try out weird fitness classes in LA showed me that exercise could be about far more than just burning calories.

Food tasted better, I had way more energy, my anxiety was burnt away in a sweat-induced burst of endorphins. I went from thinking that sport was something to be avoided at all costs to realising it was a cheaper, more socially acceptable form of drug taking.

When I got home, I overcame my fear of being the weediest person in the gym and began to actively seek out ways to move around.

Pregnancy aside, I’m still slim (no amount of working out will give you a J.Lo bum), but I’ve now made peace with my body and I like how I look.

Although the body-positivity movement is changing things, I think our culture still has such narrow ideas of what “healthy” looks like.

We need to celebrate all body types, and not forget the thinner end of the spectrum.

So next time you presume a super-slim celebrity has an eating disorder, or feel tempted to ask a size-6 woman tucking into a bowl of pasta what her “secret” is, try to be sensitive.

Your words have weight. 

• Follow Kate on Instagram @katewillswrites.

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