You keep hearing it’s just about eating too much
That’s what they told you. As if your body was built like a calculator. Eat less, weigh less. Burn more, become less. But your body never played by those numbers. You skipped meals, drank water, walked further—and still carried more. The math never added up.
Because it was never just math.
The math never added up
You counted calories, then steps, then reasons. Each number felt heavier than the one before. You tried the apps. The plans. The “new science.” But your body didn’t budge. Or it did—for a moment—then climbed back like gravity pulling from within.
Disappointment always arrived disguised as discipline.
Disappointment always arrived disguised as discipline
No one asked about your childhood. About whether meals were safe or urgent. If food was love or survival. No one asked if your body started gaining when you finally felt safe. Or when you lost someone. Or when silence felt louder than hunger.
The answers are never just in your plate.
The answers are never just in your plate
You learned to eat without noticing. And to hide the noticing when you did. You learned how to shrink your hunger without shrinking. You learned how to hold shame without naming it. You learned not to complain.
Because everyone thinks they already know your story.
Everyone thinks they already know your story
Doctors weighed you before looking in your eyes. Wrote plans before asking questions. Said “try harder” without hearing “I already am.” You nod. You leave. You wonder why you ever showed up in the first place.
Your body is louder than their clipboard.
Your body is louder than their clipboard
Obesity became the word they said instead of asking how you sleep. Or how often your mind races. Or if your joints ache before noon. Or if you’ve ever had a full night’s rest. They didn’t mention cortisol. Or medication. Or grief. Or being a woman in a world obsessed with less.
They only said: weight.
They didn’t mention cortisol. Or medication. Or grief
You’ve watched your weight fluctuate like weather—predictable in pattern, impossible to explain to strangers. You gain when life feels like pressure. You gain when things are still. Your body doesn’t ask permission. It holds the moment anyway.
Like muscle memory, but for surviving.
Your body doesn’t ask permission
They say it’s willpower. But you’ve had enough willpower to rebuild your life five times. What they mean is: don’t need. Don’t ask. Don’t eat. Don’t feel. They don’t talk about hunger that isn’t in your stomach.
They don’t talk about hunger in the nervous system.
Hunger in the nervous system
You’ve done it all. Starved. Measured. Joined. Failed. Rejoined. Starved again. You’ve celebrated weight loss that came from heartbreak. You’ve been applauded for looking smaller when you were barely holding on.
No one asked what else you were losing.
No one asked what else you were losing
You used to think smaller would fix it. That the scale would unlock something better. But nothing changed, except your pants. Your sadness stayed. Your loneliness didn’t budge. Your thoughts didn’t quiet down.
Thin was not peace. Thin was just quiet panic.
Thin was just quiet panic
Some days, you wake up and forget your body is a problem. Those are rare days. Beautiful days. You move without apology. You eat without bargaining. You breathe like it’s allowed.
You wish more people could see what that feels like.
You move without apology
You’ve tried to explain. To friends. To family. To partners. That food isn’t always food. Sometimes it’s memory. Sometimes it’s the only thing that doesn’t leave. Sometimes it’s the only yes in a life full of no.
They nod, but they don’t understand.
Sometimes it’s the only yes
You stopped looking for transformation. You started looking for quiet. For space. For comfort in your own skin. Not because you gave up. But because you finally stopped believing they were right about you.
You were never a failure. You were just unheard.
You were never a failure
Obesity is not laziness. It is not lack. It is not giving in. It is the echo of too many expectations. It is the side effect of being told to disappear in a world that sees size as shame.
And you’re done shrinking for someone else’s comfort.