I’m going to be very transparent about something. I’ve lost 70 pounds. That’s a lot of weight. It’s a number people hear and immediately want to high-five me for, like I’ve achieved something monumental, which, technically, I have. I worked hard for it. I stayed committed, made real changes, and earned it. I want more than anything to take these compliments and praise for what they are But here’s what people don’t see: I’m exhausted. Mentally, emotionally, and physically. Worn down by a reality no one warned me about. I thought the hardest part would be the weight loss itself. But I was completely unprepared for the aftermath. I expected some loose skin.What I didn’t expect was to feel like I’d traded in one body I struggled with for a new one that’s just as hard to live in. My arms have extra skin that moves in ways I’m not used to. My thighs feel soft and unstable. My stomach looks like someone let the air out too fast. I’m losing fullness in my chest, and the skin there is loose and thin. And my double chin didn’t vanish, it turned into this sagging neck skin with deep creases That is probably the most offensive of them all . None of these changes mean I’ve failed. But my brain doesn’t care about that. The body dysmorphia is loud. Louder than the compliments. Louder than the facts. Louder than the pride I know I should feel. People talk about the mental benefits of weight loss like they’re guaranteed. They’re not. I want to feel proud. I should feel proud. But instead, I feel like I’ve just swapped one set of insecurities for another. More shame. More overthinking. More second-guessing every single bite I eat. Food has become a mind game. I know this is a lifestyle change. I believe in balance. But the guilt still creeps in. Not because I don’t understand what I’m doing—but because I do. And it still feels like too much. I’ve cried over dinner. I’ve panicked trying to decide what to eat. I feel trapped by the same three restaurants I’ve convinced myself are “safe,” and the thought of another salad with grilled vegetables makes me want to scream. This isn’t about being dramatic. This is about being tired. Tired of guilt. Tired of pressure. Tired of thinking this was supposed to feel better by now. And the scariest part? The fear that maybe I’m just not built to feel content. That no matter how far I come, I’ll always find something to pick apart. That I’ll keep chasing something that never quite feels like enough. I thought being healthier would mean being happier. But I’m not there yet. My clothes don’t fit. My snacks, my routines, my tears of frustration.All of it is a reminder that I’m still not settled in this version of me. I know I’ve accomplished something important. I’m not ignoring that. But what no one told me is that healing your body and healing your mind don’t always happen at the same time. I am healthier. That’s true. But I’m still waiting to feel happier.
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