These scenes repeat, teaching me my lipo-literacy, how we can read fat, but fat cannot read or write back. Fat is excessive and inert, overly material. Fat bodies are no longer sites of contestation. Fatness is passive, over-available to diagnosis. Fatness has no epistemic status, no agency. It is a life’s work, learning and re-learning and re-learning this. Fatness has only one story: not becoming. And I am determined to arrive. It is a constant care, this body that takes tremendous labour to read, make legible, as disciplined. The cost if I do not. So I enter an apprenticeship to disappearing women: I can be either a body whose hunger frames your work as intelligent, or a body that loses credibility, too close to all the things thinking is not. Consider the urgency of choosing, the complex entanglements of care and diminishment when a senior colleague tells me she has lost half a person in weight, then laments having donated her old suits: they’d fit you perfectly, she said. Which is the person she saw in me, when she said this — do I resemble the woman she’s lost, or the one she thinks I can become? I hunger to know. My mother’s voice: we will keep reading this together, until we’ve learned it by heart.