On Size and the Permission to Be Seen
The first time, I did it through sheer will. Counting. Tracking. Exercising for hours. Controlling everything I could.
The second time, I had surgery.
Neither was easy. Both required discipline. Both demanded something from me.
And after that second loss, something shifted.
I didn’t just weigh less. I moved differently.
I got LASIK eye surgery. I went to an esthetician to learn how to do my makeup. I bought clothes I wouldn’t have tried before. I took pictures of myself almost every day because I couldn’t believe what I looked like.
Holden or Caleb would take outfit-of-the-day photos for me in the yard. I’d scroll through them later like I was studying someone else. I looked lighter, sharper, more defined.
More visible.
My confidence wasn’t perfect. Even at 118 pounds, I fixated on the loose skin. My stomach didn’t match the fantasy. No number would have fixed that.
But I was there. In the frame. In the photos. In my own camera roll.
Then life shifted.
Divorce. Moving. A job change. Stress layered on top of stress. Structure dissolved. Some of the weight came back... not all of it, but enough to notice. Enough to feel.
And with it, I noticed something else.
I stopped reaching for the camera.
There are almost no recent photos of me on my phone. I take one and immediately see my face as too round, my body as too soft, my angles all wrong. I delete it before it has a chance to exist.
And that's where it starts.
It’s subtle at first. Easy to miss. But it shows up in small ways. I speak less. I hesitate. I pull back. I assume I am less desirable, less impressive, less worthy of attention.
It doesn't stay contained to just photos.
The bigger I am, the smaller I shrink.
The bigger I am, the smaller I shrink.
Not physically, but in the way I show up. In the things I hold back from, the ways I make myself smaller without saying it out loud.
And so I tell myself I’m just waiting. I’ll feel better when I lose it again. I’ll take pictures again when I look better. I’ll put myself out there when I’m smaller. As if visibility is something I have to earn.
And so I tell myself I’m just waiting. I’ll feel better when I lose it again. I’ll take pictures again when I look better. I’ll put myself out there when I’m smaller. As if visibility is something I have to earn.
And that's how I end up starting over.
Recently, I started another weight loss journey.
I missed the sharper jawline. The flatter stomach. The version of myself that felt easier to photograph, easier to take up space in.
But it was also about control.
I missed the sharper jawline. The flatter stomach. The version of myself that felt easier to photograph, easier to take up space in.
But it was also about control.
After everything shifted — my life, my home, my routines — I felt untethered. Like too much of my life had moved at once. My body felt like another thing slipping.
Watching my food again, watching the number move, paying attention in a way I hadn’t been... it gave me something steady when everything else felt uncertain.
And I can feel it already, down more than 25 pounds so far. The subtle lift. The steadiness. The structure returning. The way my confidence ticks up slightly when I catch my reflection and don’t immediately flinch.
And the way I start to feel a little more acceptable in my own skin.
That’s the part that unsettles me.
Because it tells me how closely I’ve tied my sense of worth to my size.
I can trace this thinking all the way back to high school. I remember crash dieting with a friend before a movie date with two boys. The goal wasn’t health. It wasn’t strength.
It was to be wanted.
Somewhere along the way, I internalized a version of the same equation: that smaller meant safer, more lovable, more worthy of being chosen. And even when I got close to that version of myself, it never quite held.
Even at my smallest, I still found something wrong. The skin. The angles. The way nothing ever quite looked how I wanted it to. The finish line kept moving. I’d get there, and then immediately start looking for the next thing to fix.
What I’m starting to understand is that I’ve been bargaining with my body for permission. Permission to be photographed. Permission to be in photos with my kids instead of behind the camera. Permission to feel confident, to take up space, to exist without constantly editing myself down.
I know, logically, that my weight does not determine my intelligence, my work ethic, my resilience, my ability to rebuild. But knowing that and feeling it are not the same thing.
Because I still feel it.
I feel it in the way I second-guess myself. In the way I quiet my own voice. In the way I shrink myself down without even realizing I’m doing it.
The bigger I am, the smaller I become.
Not physically, but in presence. In how much of myself I allow to be seen, how much space I take up, how willing I am to be in the frame instead of just around it.
Somewhere along the way, I internalized a version of the same equation: that smaller meant safer, more lovable, more worthy of being chosen. And even when I got close to that version of myself, it never quite held.
Even at my smallest, I still found something wrong. The skin. The angles. The way nothing ever quite looked how I wanted it to. The finish line kept moving. I’d get there, and then immediately start looking for the next thing to fix.
What I’m starting to understand is that I’ve been bargaining with my body for permission. Permission to be photographed. Permission to be in photos with my kids instead of behind the camera. Permission to feel confident, to take up space, to exist without constantly editing myself down.
I know, logically, that my weight does not determine my intelligence, my work ethic, my resilience, my ability to rebuild. But knowing that and feeling it are not the same thing.
Because I still feel it.
I feel it in the way I second-guess myself. In the way I quiet my own voice. In the way I shrink myself down without even realizing I’m doing it.
The bigger I am, the smaller I become.
Not physically, but in presence. In how much of myself I allow to be seen, how much space I take up, how willing I am to be in the frame instead of just around it.
I disappear from my own life in small, quiet ways: fewer photos, fewer risks, less boldness. I keep waiting to reappear.
And maybe that's the part I need to stop doing.
And maybe that's the part I need to stop doing.
Not waiting. Not postponing. Not deciding I'll show up later, when I look different.
Maybe this time, the real work isn't just about losing weight.
Maybe it's about learning to show up anyway.
It breaks my heart to know that you feel this way. You are a beautiful, intelligent and talented young woman with so many blessings in your life. And you will always have a gramma who loves you.
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