The Weight I've Carried Isn't All on My Body

This might be one of the most vulnerable things I've ever written. But maybe it's time we talked about the things we spend our entire lives trying to hide.

I'm fat.

There. I said it.

Not curvy. Not pleasantly plump. Not just a little extra cushion for the pushin'. I'm overweight. Morbidly obese, if we're using the medical terminology.

And I've spent the better part of my adult life struggling with that reality.

This isn't going to be one of those inspirational weight-loss stories where I tell you I've lost 100 pounds, discovered the secret to happiness, and now wake up at 5 a.m. to drink green smoothies and run marathons.

Hell, I can barely convince myself to get out of bed some mornings without negotiating with my alarm clock.

This is about something much harder than losing weight.

It's about learning to love a body I've spent most of my life being ashamed of.

And it's about finally deciding that I deserve to take care of myself, not because I hate what I see in the mirror, but because I'm starting to love the woman looking back at me.

The "Big-Boned" Little Girl

I've always been the chubby kid.

Or, as my mother lovingly called it, "big-boned."

Sorry, Mom, but that's bullshit.

I wasn't built like a linebacker because my bones were unusually enthusiastic. I was chubby. And somewhere along the way, being chubby became part of how I identified myself.

I was never the skinny girl. Never the girl who could throw on absolutely anything and look adorable. Never the girl who could eat a cheeseburger in public without wondering if someone was silently judging her.

I was the girl who compared herself to every other girl in the room.

The girl who wondered why her stomach wasn't flat.

The girl who desperately wanted to look like the other teenagers who seemed to effortlessly fit into the clothes, the expectations, and the version of beauty that everyone told us we were supposed to be.

And the saddest part?

I started believing that being overweight somehow made me less worthy of being loved.

Nobody had to come right out and say it. Society does a pretty damn good job of delivering that message all on its own.

Food Has Always Been My Love Language

Here's something you should know about me.

I LOVE food.

Not just eating it. Cooking it. Sharing it. Feeding people.

If I love you, I'm going to feed you. And chances are, I'm going to feed you enough to sustain a small military installation.

That's how I show love.

A homemade dinner, a big pot of soup, a casserole that could feed 47 people when only four are coming over.

Food is comfort. Food is family. Food is memories.

And growing up, food came with rules.

You finished what was on your plate.

Why?

Because there were starving children in Africa, of course.

Now, I'm not blaming my parents. They were raising us the way they were raised. You didn't waste food. You ate what was served. And if you wanted dessert, you better clean that damn plate.

So even when you were full, you kept eating.

Because there was dessert waiting, and apparently your stomach was expected to have a separate storage compartment for that.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped listening to my body telling me I was full.

And food became something much more complicated than nourishment.

The Shame Nobody Sees

This next part is hard to admit.

Through years of therapy, I discovered something about myself that I hadn't fully understood.

I was so ashamed of being fat that I developed a pattern of binge eating.

Now, if that sounds completely backward, welcome to the inside of my brain.

For some reason, eating quickly, almost frantically, made sense to me.

If I ate it fast enough, maybe it somehow didn't count.

Maybe the calories wouldn't have enough time to stick.

I know. Completely irrational.

But shame doesn't exactly operate on logic.

And I was terrified of people watching me eat.

Because in my head, I could practically hear what they were thinking.

"Look at her. She's already fat. Does she really need to eat that?"

"Maybe she should have a salad."

"Maybe she should just stop eating altogether."

Nobody even had to say those things out loud.

I said them to myself.

Over and over and over again.

So I'd eat in private. Eat too quickly. Eat more than I needed. And then feel absolutely disgusting afterward.

And what did I do with that shame?

Sometimes I ate some more.

It's a vicious, exhausting cycle.

And I cannot adequately explain how heartbreaking it is to realize that you've spent decades punishing yourself for something you've also been using to comfort yourself.

And Then My Body Decided to Add a Few Plot Twists

As I got older, I learned that my weight wasn't simply a matter of loving pasta a little too enthusiastically.

I was diagnosed with PCOS — Polycystic Ovary Syndrome.

And let me tell you, that little diagnosis comes with a whole collection of unwanted party favors.

Irregular menstrual cycles? Check.

Being told I might never have children? Check. (Thank God I was blessed with mine.)

Insulin resistance that makes managing weight even more complicated? Check.

And then there's the facial hair.

OH, THE FUCKING FACIAL HAIR.

Ladies, I'm talking about chin hairs that have their own ZIP codes, Social Security numbers, and probably retirement accounts.

I swear I could grow a full werewolf beard if I stopped paying attention for a week.

And those little bastards are relentless.

I've tried to find the magical cream, pill, potion, or miracle that makes them disappear.

No such luck for me yet.

Yes, I know laser hair removal exists. Unfortunately, so do bills, responsibilities, and a bank account that doesn't support casually throwing money at every problem my hormones create.

So I manage it the best I can.

But beneath the jokes?

It's another thing that makes me feel less feminine.

Another thing I worry someone will notice.

Another reason to avoid looking too closely in the mirror.

And because apparently PCOS wasn't enough entertainment, my body decided to throw in a couple more conditions.

I have hidradenitis suppurativa, or HS.

For those unfamiliar, it's a chronic inflammatory skin condition that can cause incredibly painful boils, abscesses, and cysts, often in areas of the body that are already sensitive and uncomfortable.

And when they heal, they can leave scars.

Not cute little scars with interesting stories behind them.

Scars that make you want to hide your body.

Scars that make intimacy feel terrifying sometimes.

Scars that remind you of every painful flare-up you've endured.

Then there's my vitiligo, which affects my face and intimate areas.

Areas that already carry so much insecurity.

And sometimes, when I put all of it together — the weight, the facial hair, the scars, the discoloration — I feel like a walking freak show.

I know that's a terrible thing to say about myself.

I would NEVER describe another woman that way.

But that's exactly the problem.

I've spent my life giving other people compassion that I couldn't seem to give myself.

When Love Makes You Feel Even Smaller

I'm not going to sit here and pretend that all of my insecurities came from inside my own head.

Some were reinforced by people who were supposed to love me.

Past relationships have a way of leaving marks that you can't see.

A comment here.

A look there.

A lack of affection.

Feeling like your body is something your partner tolerates rather than something they love.

And eventually, you start believing that you should just be grateful someone wants you at all.

Imagine that.

Being so ashamed of your own body that you start thinking love is something you have to earn by being thinner, prettier, or somehow less of yourself.

I carried that feeling for years.

Decades, really.

And I got very good at pretending it didn't hurt.

I'd make jokes about my weight before anyone else could.

I'd laugh at myself.

I'd be the funny girl, the generous girl, the one who takes care of everyone else.

Because if everyone was laughing, maybe nobody would notice how insecure I really was.

And Then Along Came Jet

I'm not going to tell you that a man came along and magically fixed my self-esteem.

That's not how this works.

But I will tell you that sometimes, having someone love you the way you should have been loved all along changes the way you see yourself.

Jet looks at me differently than I've ever looked at myself.

He sees beauty where I've spent years seeing flaws.

He makes me feel wanted.

Not tolerated.

Not accepted despite my body.

Wanted.

Loved.

Beautiful.

And he does it without making some grand production out of it.

It's in the little things.

The way he looks at me.

The way he makes me laugh.

The way he makes me feel safe being completely myself.

I don't feel like I have to hide my body from him.

I don't feel like I need to apologize for taking up space.

And for someone who has spent so much of her life feeling physically inadequate, that kind of love is almost impossible to put into words.

But here's the really beautiful part.

The more he loved me exactly as I was, the more I started wondering why the hell I couldn't do the same.

And slowly, something started changing.

I began looking beyond my reflection.

I started seeing the actual woman underneath all those insecurities.

And you know what?

I LIKE HER.

A LOT.

She's funny.

She's loving.

She's generous to a fault.

She's awkward as hell sometimes.

She's a little loud, occasionally inappropriate, and has a tendency to turn ordinary situations into complete chaos.

She loves fiercely.

She feeds everyone.

She cries at things that matter and laughs at things she probably shouldn't.

And every once in a while, she's actually quite lovely.

Why have I spent so many years treating her like she wasn't enough?

This Time, It's Not About Being Skinny

I've tried to lose weight more times than I can count.

Diets.

Programs.

Promises to myself that Monday is the day.

Oh, Monday.

That poor, overworked bastard has been responsible for more of my failed lifestyle changes than I care to admit.

I've also gone through the process of pursuing weight-loss surgery.

Twice.

And I know people who have had tremendous success with it. I also know people who have struggled afterward.

For me, after a lot of consideration, I decided that surgery isn't the right path at this point in my life.

I've also tried GLP-1 medication when my insurance covered it.

And you know something?

It helped.

For the first time, the constant food noise in my head got quieter.

If you've never experienced food noise, imagine having a radio playing in the background of your brain all day long, constantly reminding you that food exists.

What should I eat?

When can I eat again?

What's for dinner?

Do we have snacks?

I wonder what's in the refrigerator.

It can be absolutely exhausting.

And when that noise finally quieted down, I realized just how loud it had been.

But I wasn't fully committed to changing my habits or addressing everything that came along with them.

I wasn't ready.

And that's difficult to admit.

Now, after a LOT of therapy, thinking, talking, crying, budgeting, and probably driving Jet slightly insane with my endless internal debates, I've made a decision.

I'm going to invest in myself.

Financially.

Emotionally.

Physically.

I'm working with my healthcare team, including a nutritionist, and I've decided to pay out of pocket for GLP-1 medication because my insurance no longer covers it.

Which, by the way, is an entirely separate rant for another day.

But this time, my goal isn't to fit into a smaller pair of jeans.

It isn't to make strangers think I'm attractive.

It isn't to become some completely different woman.

My goal is HEALTH.

I want to feel better.

I want to move easier.

I want to have more energy.

I want to give myself the best possible chance at a long, happy, active life.

And I want a future with Jet that includes doing things together instead of sitting on the sidelines because I'm physically uncomfortable, exhausted, or afraid I can't keep up.

He's introducing me to new hobbies and experiences, and I want to embrace them.

I want to explore.

I want to be adventurous.

I want to make memories.

I want to participate in my own damn life.

And while I fully appreciate that stuffing my face could probably become an Olympic event if I trained hard enough, I'd really like to explore some other sports.

Preferably ones that don't involve competitive mozzarella stick consumption.

I'm Not Starting Over. I'm Starting Differently.

Here's where this journey is going to be different.

I'm not throwing out everything in my pantry.

I'm not swearing off bread.

I'm not pretending that cauliflower is pizza crust and expecting everyone to go along with that nonsense.

I'm going to eat real food.

I'm going to enjoy dinners with the people I love.

I'm going to cook.

I'm going to celebrate birthdays and holidays without treating a piece of cake like a moral failure.

And I'm probably going to have days when I eat more than I intended.

Days when I don't feel like exercising.

Days when the scale doesn't move.

Days when I look in the mirror and those old, ugly thoughts come creeping back.

But instead of throwing my hands in the air and declaring the entire journey a failure, I want to learn from those moments.

Because one bad day doesn't erase a hundred good decisions.

One indulgent meal doesn't make me a failure.

And one setback doesn't mean I have to abandon myself.

I'm trying to unlearn decades of shame, habits, and beliefs about my body.

That's not going to happen overnight.

And for once, I'm not demanding that it does.

The Woman I'm Fighting For

Here's the part that makes me emotional.

For most of my life, I've wanted to lose weight because I didn't like myself.

Because I thought I wasn't pretty enough.

Because I was embarrassed.

Because I thought being smaller would somehow make me more deserving of happiness.

But this time?

I want to get healthier because I finally believe I'm worth taking care of.

I want to do this for the little girl who was told she was big-boned.

For the teenager who hated trying on clothes.

For the young woman who thought she had to hide when she ate.

For the woman who felt ashamed of her scars, her skin, and her body.

For every version of me who thought she needed to change before she deserved to be loved.

I wish I could go back and hug every single one of them.

I wish I could tell that little girl that she was never the problem.

That her body wasn't something to apologize for.

That she was going to grow into a woman who loved people fiercely, made them laugh until they cried, survived things she never thought she could, and eventually found someone who looked at her like she hung the moon.

But most importantly, I wish I could tell her that one day, she'd finally start looking at herself that way, too.

And that she wouldn't have to wait until she was thin.

So Here We Go Again...

I'm nervous.

I'm hopeful.

And I'm scared of disappointing myself again.

Because I've been down this road before.

I've started with the best intentions before.

I've told myself this is the time before.

And sometimes, I've fallen flat on my face.

But something feels different now.

Not because I suddenly have superhuman willpower.

Not because I found some magical solution.

But because I have an incredible support system, a healthcare team, and a man who makes me want to build a beautiful future with him.

And because, maybe for the first time in my adult life, I'm not approaching my health from a place of self-hatred.

I'm approaching it from a place of love.

I don't know how much weight I'll lose.

I don't know how quickly things will change.

And I certainly don't know whether this journey will go the way I hope it does.

But I do know this.

I am done waiting to become a smaller version of myself before allowing myself to live a bigger life.

I want to be healthier, stronger, happier, and more present.

I want more years.

More adventures.

More laughter.

More memories.

More time with the people I love.

And yes, more time with Jet, who somehow managed to show me that the body I've

spent decades criticizing is also a body worthy of tenderness, affection, and genuine love.

It's amazing what happens when you finally have the right people in your corner.

They don't make you feel like you need to become someone else.

They remind you that the person you've been all along is worth fighting for.

And sometimes, that little bit of love is enough to make you want to spread your wings and soar.

So here's to the next chapter.

To better health.

To making mistakes and learning from them.

To loving myself on the good days and the really ugly ones.

To appreciating everything my body has carried me through, even when I haven't been particularly kind to it.

And to finally realizing something I wish I'd understood 30 years ago.

I don't have to hate the woman I am to become the woman I want to be.

She's already pretty damn amazing.

And I think it's about time I started treating her that way.

With love, laughter, a few chin hairs, and a whole lot of hope,

Kelly

P.S. If you're reading this and you've spent years hating your reflection, I hope you know that you deserve love, happiness, and a beautiful life right now. Not 20 pounds from now. Not 100 pounds from now. Right. Freaking. Now.