Big Girl Panties

Big Girl Panties

In California, I used to fear police.

The sight of a squad car would make my stomach drop. My hands would shake. I’d been through too much — homelessness, court dates, systems that felt designed to break me. I thought if I stayed small, stayed quiet, maybe they wouldn’t see me.

After 2023, something shifted. I got stronger.

My sister always said, “Put on your big girl panties and face the things you did.” For years I thought that meant shame. I thought it meant hiding. I was wrong.

Big girl panties meant dealing with police face-to-face instead of running. It meant handling my issues instead of letting them handle me.

I even started telling rookie cops they had “little butts.” It’s my joke — I don’t mess with big butts, because that’s my term for the experienced ones. The ones who’ve seen it all. I say it to remind myself I’m not scared anymore. I can laugh. I can hold my ground.

None of it killed me. Every hard conversation, every walk through those metal doors, every time I stood still instead of bolting — it made me stronger.

I don’t care what others think of me now. I used to. I used to carry every judgment, every si de-eye, every whispered comment like rocks in my pockets. Now I worry about myself, and where I’m headed, and my future. That’s enough weight.

Gaining confidence and loving the body I’m in has given me so much strength. This body survived the streets. Survived bankruptcy. Survived California and the fear that lived in my chest. It’s 51 years old and it’s still here. It walks into rooms I used to avoid. It speaks to people I used to fear.

I’m not the same woman who flinched at sirens.

I put on my big girl panties every morning now. Not because I have to hide who I was. But because I’m proud of who I’m becoming.

And I’m not done yet.

Cathrynmharris