The comments came in fast.

But this one stopped me.

“I have a size 24 belly and size 14 legs. When skinny jeans became a thing...IMPOSSIBLE. They were all just baggy. And all pants if they fit in the waist are baggy in the rear. It’s ridiculous.”

I read it three times.

Because I have lived that comment.

I started middle school on the right foot. 6th grade. The end of summer. We all looked the same. Jean shorts. T-shirts. Everything was fine.

Until fall.

I walked into class in jeans, just like I expected everyone else to be wearing. But it wasn’t the same.

Them: Low rise. Tight to the knee. Flare to the ground.

Me: Stretchy waistband. Saggy butt. Mom tapered leg.

Not the same.

And everyone noticed.

I went straight home and told my mom. She understood. She understood why I couldn’t wear those jeans. I was mortified and she felt my pain. She had no idea that overnight trends would change. And neither did I. I was navigating a new world. Middle school. 6th grade. Boys. Girls. Hot girls.

And I wasn’t one of them.

So we went shopping.

Our first stop? Fashion Bug. My mom had bought clothes there for work and knew they had some clothes that would fit me.

Zana Di jeans enters the chat. Remember those?

I tried them on. I squeezed. The waist pinched. They were still baggy in the legs. And they were expensive. At least for middle school jeans.

We still bought them, though.

But it wasn’t good enough.

I wasn’t the hot girl. I was the girl in the Zana Di jeans that didn’t really fit. Too tight in the waist. Saggy in the butt. Flare leg, but baggy still.

Because my body didn’t fit.

I went to school.

I still felt so alone.

To the woman in the comments with the size 24 belly and the size 14 legs — I see you.

xo, Lindsey the girl with the apron belly

There’s a trend going around right now and I couldn’t resist.

Here are my top 5 horror movies as someone plus size with an apron belly:

1. Dresses that grip my belly.

2. Underwear that rolls under my belly.

3. A damp under belly that starts itching.

4. My belly poking out of the leg holes of a swimsuit.

5. Leggings that are tight in the belly but loose in the legs.

If you know, you know.

I’m not body positive. I’m body neutral. And that’s exactly why I can laugh at this list today. I’m not pretending these things don’t happen. I’m just not letting them define how I feel about myself anymore.

And listen. We can laugh about it because we’ve been there. All of us. These aren’t reasons to hide. They’re reasons to find what actually works.

That’s what I’m here for.

xo,

Lindsey

the girl with the apron belly

This is what came out of it all.

When I shared this with one of my closest friends, a woman I’ve been dressing for years without either of us realizing it, she said something that made me laugh and cry at the same time.

“It made me laugh to realize you’ve been moving me towards The Lindsey Fit for many years now. Something which I greatly appreciate and has improved my confidence immensely.”

That’s exactly what I wanted to hear. Because that’s exactly what this is.

I’ve spent my whole life figuring out how to dress this body. The apron belly. The B belly. The body that standard fashion advice always forgot about. I figured it out through years of trial and error, embarrassing moments, bad jeans, and one very important floral dress.

And I put everything I know into this guide.

16 pages of content, each one designed to give you everything you need to build an outfit with confidence. An outfit that will get you compliments. An outfit that will have you walking your very own runway.

Not because I want to sell you something. But because I can’t be there every time you open your closet. I can’t be there when you’re standing in a dressing room, wondering why nothing fits right. I can’t be there when you’re getting dressed for something important, and you don’t know where to start.

This guide can be.

The Lindsey Fit: A Confidence Outfit System for the Apron Belly Body.

$14.99. Less than a meal out.

Get The Lindsey Fit here.

I made this for the little girl in Sears.

I made this for the grown-up wanting to feel confident at work.

I made this for the woman staring at her closet, not knowing what to wear because nothing fits or feels right.

I made this for you.

xo, Lindsey the girl with the apron belly

“How do people hold their pants up?”

I was serious. I genuinely didn’t understand how everyone else’s waistband stayed where it was supposed to stay. I had my belly to hold my pants up. What did other people do without the belly?

I was in basketball at the time. I’m tall. My mom was hoping for a star.

It didn’t happen, Mom.

But something else did.

They made me tuck in my shirt for the photo.

It was the first time I truly felt embarrassment. Not just knowing I looked different. Feeling it. In a gymnasium. In a uniform that wasn’t made for my body. With a basketball under my arm and a smile, I was holding together with everything I had.

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I untucked everything after that.

For years.

Long shirts. Tunic tops. Anything that covered what I was convinced needed covering.

Until one day in a San Antonio office, I put a work t-shirt over a floral dress and looked in the mirror and thought —

Wait. This looks good.

And I started tucking again. Tying. Layering. Cropping. On my own terms this time.

Dresses with graphic tees. Skirts with Spurs shirts. Tucked tops for the first time since that gymnasium.

I started having fun.

I wasn’t searching for jeans that fit or shirts that were long enough anymore.

I was building something without knowing I was building it.

I have something to show you next week.

More soon.

xo,

Lindsey, the girl with the apron belly

Same company. New location. New role. One that required business casual clothing.

I felt so out of place. I was one of the youngest people in that role, new to the area after relocating, in a brand new job and setting.

But they wanted me. And I wanted this.

The new job was in sunny Florida. And I quickly learned how invaluable dresses would become.

I could look dressed. Polished. Finished. And cool and comfortable. Without the skinny jeans and pants that were everywhere at the time. You know the ones. Ankle length, slim cut, skin tight, came in every color. Everyone had a pair. They looked awful on me. The waist gaped. The fabric pulled across my belly. My legs looked like sticks underneath.

Dresses saved me.

I finally started to adopt a style and feel good in what I was wearing.

Almost a year in, I found myself in another job change. A huge move to San Antonio. Same company, new location, new vibe.

Everything was going great until I realized I was out of place again.

This new location had adopted a more casual dress code. Jeans and t-shirts were the norm. More casual days than dress days.

So I set off to find jeans. Skinny jeans. Because that’s what everyone was wearing.

I searched and finally found a brand that fit my legs, butt, and waist. But it wasn’t easy. And I hated how it looked. I hated how it felt.

I would squeeze into the jeans to fit my waist, but after a few hours my legs and butt would sag. I didn’t like the way I looked. I was physically uncomfortable. Constantly pulling up the jeans. I felt weighed down.

Both physically and mentally.

I started searching for long tops. I figured out almost immediately that the top needed to be at least 30 inches long for me to feel comfortable. That was harder to find than I realized.

This new location had a very specific vibe. Jeans. Spurs t-shirts.

I know what you’re thinking — just wear what you’re comfortable in.

But when you’re the new girl in a new job, often the youngest and least experienced in the room, in a whole new culture — it wasn’t about fitting in.

I wanted to blend in.

That was impossible.

I’m plus size. I have an apron belly. A B belly. Skinny thighs. A flat butt. And I’m tall. Often the tallest person in the room.

Blending in was never an option. I just didn’t know that yet.

Then one day at work it was a regular dress day for me. Floral dress. I felt good. I got compliments.

And then a work t-shirt appeared. And I needed to wear it.

So I put it on. Over the dress.

I looked in the mirror.

Wait. This looks good. This is comfortable.

Maybe this will work.

More soon.

xo, Lindsey the girl with the apron belly

I noticed.

I tried things on. Nothing fit right. Nothing felt right. Nothing looked the way I wanted it to look. So I learned the uniform that would follow me for the next two decades. Stretchy pants. Leggings. A flowy shirt — fitted under the bust, long and loose underneath. Cover the belly. Hide the problem. Be grateful that something fits at all.

That little girl deserved to know: one day you’ll get to dress yourself. One day, there will be options. One day, you’ll find things that maybe don’t look like everyone else, but they look like you. One day, you’ll feel good in the clothes you’re wearing. You’ll wear them proudly. Nobody told her that. So I’m telling you.

More soon.

xo,

Lindsey, the girl with the apron belly

But I've had something on my mind for a long time, and I'm just now getting around to putting pen to paper.

I've been working on something behind the scenes. Early mornings, late nights. It was missing a touch of this, a touch of that.

It's almost ready.

I have a lot of stories to tell you, but I think I'll start at the beginning.
The first time I remember shopping for my apron belly.

More soon.

xo,

Lindsey the girl with the apron belly