In 1981, the compact disc was born and so was Jasper Peach. Both arrivals were greeted with surprise, and both have since drifted in and out of fashion. For the CD, it was a story of a format that revolutionised music before being eclipsed by streaming. For Peach, the parallel is personal: a body that was once celebrated as a sign of infant prosperity became a target of scorn, then a site of political reclamation, and finally a subject of quiet acceptance.
As a baby, Peach was a “majestic chonk lord” — a term used with affection and a marker of family prosperity. But that approval did not last. By the age of seven, Peach recalls asking to join a game of skipping after having turned the rope for other children. A classmate explained why that was impossible: “You are too fat to skip.” The moment was a brutal lesson in how children learn hierarchy from adults and then replicate it among their peers. Peach’s own father, well-meaning but fearful for his child’s future, sat him down and warned that no one would love, trust or employ him because of his body shape. The warning did not shock Peach; the message had already been absorbed from the world around him.
Growing up in the era of Weight Watchers, the Australian fitness programme Aerobics Oz Style, and the emaciated aesthetic known as “heroin chic,” Peach faced an impossible contradiction. Women were expected to be thin but not so thin they looked unfeminine; “thunder thighs” were the ultimate sin. Breakfast cereals were marketed as the answer to everyone’s problems. Meanwhile, the body mass index — a measure that has since been widely criticised as flawed and racist — had not yet been exposed as such, and failing to meet its standards was seen as a moral failure. Peach learned to compensate by leaning into being clever and funny, hoping it would offset the space his body occupied.
The rise and fall of body positivity
The fat acceptance movement had begun in the 1960s, led by Black and queer women fighting discrimination. But it took until the 2010s for its descendant, body positivity, to break into the mainstream. Body positivity was a philosophy that stared down criticism of shape, size, ability and skin tone and demanded that all historically marginalised bodies be embraced with reverence. For Peach, it arrived as a stark relief after a lifetime of being sent to the “shame corner.”
Yet the movement was quickly scooped up by advertisers determined to sell clothes and lifestyles. The people it was meant to serve were discarded; it became acceptable to be fat only if you were also conventionally beautiful and heavily airbrushed. Critics have pointed to several deeper flaws: body positivity often centred conventionally attractive white women, sidelining others. It remained fixated on appearance rather than letting go of the obsession with how bodies look. The pressure to always feel positive about one’s body — “toxic positivity” — left those who struggled feeling like failures. And there were debates over whether promoting positivity for individuals at medically unhealthy weights was responsible, with some accusing it of encouraging denial.
Body neutrality: a different philosophy
In response, body neutrality emerged as an alternative. Where body positivity insisted that every body was gorgeous, body neutrality stripped away hierarchy. “My body is fat” becomes a factual statement — as accurate as saying “a disco ball is shiny” or “that grass is green.” It does not need to be wrapped in compliments or apologies.
Peach compares this to feeling cold and reaching for a jumper: you neither celebrate nor criticise someone for being cold or for wanting warmth. “My body isn’t wrong because it’s cold. It isn’t wrong because it’s fat.” A person is not amazing simply because they choose an apple over hot chips, nor are they morally superior for wanting to be warm. The language is neutral, non-judgmental, freeing.
This approach, Peach says, pairs naturally with autism and a love of the literal. “I couldn’t settle on what I believed about my own body when I was so focused on what everyone else thought.” Every hateful statement hurled at him had felt accurate. Now those thoughts can be filed away with other outdated notions — like prescribing heroin for toothaches or wearing low-rise skinny jeans. Body neutrality is particularly useful for people who find the demand to “love” their body unattainable, such as those with disabilities or chronic pain, who may feel their bodies have let them down.
When Peach decided to write a children’s book about body neutrality, he consulted experts including the scientist and author Dr Emma Beckett. Beckett’s own family experience illustrated the point: her many siblings grew up in the same household with almost identical food intake and physical activity, yet they had very different body shapes. Genetics, environment and economics all play a role, Peach notes. Size is not solely determined by self-control.
Raising the next generation
Peach and his wife have tried to raise their children using neutral language — no forced positivity, no heavy shame. Bodies are described the same way as anything else. One of their dogs resembles “a wiggly pile of wigs”; the tree out front is tall. Without prompting, the way his children describe him makes his heart sing.
Recently, their nine-year-old asked whether bodies change and “get bigger in their tummies” as people grow up. “Bodies do change, but they tend to follow their own patterns,” Peach replied. “We respond to joy and safety just as much as movement and nutrition.” After bedtime stories, milky and sleepy, the boy patted Peach’s upper arms and said: “I love these floppy bits, they’re so good for cuddles.” There was no manufactured consolation in the words. Peach felt as if he was watching harm dissolve before it could take hold.
The statistics underscore the stakes. In England, nearly one in ten reception-aged children are obese, rising to more than one in five by Year 6. Socioeconomic deprivation is tightly linked to higher body weight; children in the most deprived areas are roughly twice as likely to be obese as those in the least deprived. Body shaming is known to drive anxiety, depression, eating disorders and even suicidal thoughts — with social media amplifying the damage. As a trans, non-binary and disabled writer and parent, Peach has seen the harm up close. His new book, My Body is My Home, illustrated by Beci Orpin, aims to start conversations about empowerment, confidence, autonomy and inclusion, helping children feel “at home in themselves.” He consulted educators, psychologists, social workers and his own children while writing it.
If he had been taught body neutrality as a child, Peach says, he cannot imagine how much easier things could have been — not just for him, but for everyone convinced their size was proof of being weak-willed or broken. “In 1981, CDs were born and so was I. Neither of us has stayed in fashion, but there has always been a place for us — and there always will be.”