I’m 6 feet 9 inches tall—about 206 centimeters—and yes, that is my real height.
I have pituitary gigantism, and I come from a tall family, but even among tall people I stand out. In most rooms, I’m not merely the tallest woman. I’m the tallest person, period.
When people imagine being this tall, they usually think about the obvious advantages. I can reach anything on the top shelf. I never have to ask an employee at the grocery store for help. I can see over crowds. People rarely overlook me or try to physically intimidate me.
But those small advantages come with a long list of complications that most people never have to think about.
Almost nothing in the world was designed for someone my size.
Doorways require me to duck. I do it so automatically now that I barely think about it. I sleep on a queen-size bed, even though it isn’t really long enough for me. Airplanes are incredibly uncomfortable. People who are 6’2” complain about legroom, so imagine adding another seven inches. On a long flight, there isn’t a clever trick that makes it comfortable. I squeeze myself into the space, complain internally and try to survive until we land.
Cars, seats, counters, sinks and other ordinary parts of daily life can present the same problem. Washing dishes means bending over a sink built for someone much shorter. Sitting in a cramped seat means figuring out where to put my knees. I’m always adjusting myself to fit into spaces that cannot adjust to fit me.
Clothes are one of the biggest problems. Most women can walk into a store, find something they like and then look for their size. I often have to reverse that process: first find out what exists in my size, then choose from those limited options.
I buy a lot of things online. Sometimes I can wear men’s big-and-tall clothing, but that obviously limits the styles available to me. Shoes can be especially difficult. I don’t wear heels, and finding ordinary shoes that fit usually means searching specialty websites rather than walking into a regular store.
In my opinion, 6’5” is probably around the upper limit before clothes and everyday objects become significantly harder to manage. At 6’9”, I’m beyond the dimensions that most manufacturers consider worth accommodating.
People also assume that because I’m tall, I must be an athlete. “Do you play basketball?” is probably the most predictable question I hear. I played a few sports growing up, but I’m not in the WNBA. Height can help in certain sports, but it doesn’t automatically make someone athletic. Building muscle can actually be more difficult when it has to spread across a much larger frame.
The stranger questions are less innocent.
Some people ask whether my feet are “really big” and then try to push the conversation into uncomfortable detail. Others make sexual comments or repeat the same tired “snu-snu” joke from Futurama. I understand the reference—I watched the show with my dad and think it’s great—but when someone directs that joke at me as a sexual proposition, I block them.
I’ve also had people assume or accuse me of being transgender simply because they cannot imagine a cisgender woman being this tall. I think a lot of that comes from insecurity. My height challenges some people’s ideas about how large a woman is supposed to be and how a man is supposed to compare with her.
Most strangers are not trying to be cruel. Many are simply curious and don’t know how to approach me normally. But there is a difference between respectfully asking a question and treating me like a public attraction.
A single comment might not seem like much to the person making it. For them, it is one spontaneous observation. For me, it can be the fifth or tenth comment about my body that day. They walk away and forget the interaction. I carry the accumulation of all of them.
I try to ignore the negativity and remain positive. People have free will, and I cannot stop them from staring, asking questions or making jokes. Most of the time, being stared at doesn’t bother me anymore.
But if I’m being completely honest, the negativity still affects me more than I sometimes admit.
There was a time when, if you had offered to make me shorter, I probably would have accepted. I wanted the ability to enter a room without immediately becoming the subject of everyone’s attention. I wanted to buy clothes without planning an online expedition. I wanted to fit comfortably into a plane seat, a bed or a doorway.
Now, I don’t think I would change my height. It is simply one of those things in life that I have learned to live with. I don’t wake up every morning shocked that I’m 6’9”. This is the only body and perspective I have ever known.
Dating is complicated, although I’m not very experienced and I’m mostly doing my own thing right now. I don’t have a strict height preference for men. I wouldn’t automatically reject a man for being shorter than me, and considering how rare men over 6’9” are, insisting on someone taller would eliminate almost everyone.
The more common problem is how men react to my height.
Some exaggerate their own height when they meet me, as if standing next to me has suddenly turned their height into a test they need to pass. Some feel intimidated. Others are overly fascinated and turn me into a fetish. Dating a six-foot man would not bother me simply because he is shorter, but whether I would date anyone depends on the person and how he treats me.
I don’t want to be someone’s novelty, fantasy or opportunity to prove how secure he is. I want to be treated like a normal human being.
That is probably the strangest part of being this tall: everyone can see me, but they often see only one thing.
People notice my height before they notice anything about my personality. They don’t know that I love gaming. They don’t know the things I care about. They don’t know that my favorite soup is chicken noodle. They see 6’9”, and that single measurement becomes my entire identity.
My height is certainly part of me. It affects how I travel, shop, exercise, date and move through the world. Because I’m aware of the potential health problems associated with extreme height, I also try to remain active and take care of myself.
But I am not thinking about being tall during every moment of my life. Other people often think about it more than I do.
From my perspective, the world does not look unusually low. It simply looks normal because this is where my eyes have always been. I sometimes forget how different my view must be until someone asks what it is like to see the world from 6’9”.
The honest answer is that it can be useful, uncomfortable, funny, exhausting and occasionally painful. It means ducking without thinking, shopping online, suffering through flights and hearing the same handful of jokes forever. It means knowing that I will attract attention almost everywhere I go, whether I want it or not.
But it has also taught me that being comfortable with yourself does not always mean loving every part of your circumstances. Sometimes acceptance is quieter than that. Sometimes it simply means no longer wishing every day that you were someone else.
I’m 6’9”. It affects my life, but it isn’t my life.
Eventually, I would like people to notice the person standing up here—not just how far up they have to look.