I remember being eight years old and a relative telling me I’d be prettier if I lost weight. I remember being thirteen, and my aunt was so proud that I’d had a growth spurt, because “You’ve finally gotten skinnier!” I remember being sixteen, and my seven-year-old cousin said “Wow, you’ve gained weight since I last saw you.”
Growing up with these kinds of comments left lasting impressions. I became increasingly insecure about my weight and appearance. I remembered every comment on my weight I’d ever received as I would consciously skip meals in high school, hoping that if I ate a little less and ran a little more, I would reach my goal of being thin.
But being thin was not an attainable goal. No matter how much I lost, I wanted to lose more. I was never satisfied with my appearance, always convinced that I wasn’t doing enough.
I would lie to my family, insisting that I wasn’t hungry or that I’d already eaten. I’d lie to my friends with excuses that I would eat when I got home.
One day I looked in the mirror and I could barely recognize myself. I looked thinner, which is what I thought I wanted, but I also looked so sad. Where had my smile gone? Why did my eyes look so lifeless? I finally started realizing the cost of my unhealthy weight loss plan; I lost myself.
Senior year of high school, I decided enough was enough. Something had changed, where I no longer cared about my weight but I was so concerned with whether or not I was happy. I stopped counting calories and over working myself at the gym, and started joining clubs I was passionate about and spending time with friends.
In college, I started exercising to be healthy, not to be skinny. I’m still insecure about my body, and I don’t know if that will ever go away. But my best friend told me that I seem like me again, and that means more to me than any comment about my weight ever could.
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