The Weight Loss Battle I Still Fight Every Day

Eight years ago, I underwent weight loss surgery and began a journey that would change my body—and my mind—in ways I never imagined. I’ve lost almost 200 pounds since then. Two hundred. That number still stuns me. It’s wild to think about how far I’ve come physically, but what no one really prepares you for is how weight loss rewires your brain, your self-worth, your relationships, and how you see the world—especially when it comes to yourself and men.

In the beginning, I was obsessed. Obsessed with dropping pounds. Obsessed with the scale. Obsessed with “getting skinny,” whatever that even meant. And I was obsessed with how men looked at me differently once I wasn’t 350 pounds. The validation was addictive. It felt like I was finally seen. Desired. Respected. But the truth is, while I had gained confidence, I was still deeply self-conscious.

No one tells you that massive weight loss doesn’t come with a neat little bow of self-love. No one tells you that once you lose the weight, your body still carries reminders of your past life. For me, that reminder has always been the saggy skin. I’ve hated it. Still do, some days. I once had a guy, after sex, ask me if I planned on getting my skin removed—because it grossed him out. That moment broke something in me. The shame, the vulnerability, the cruelty of it. I carry it with me still.

Body dysmorphia is real. Even now, I often still feel like I’m 350 pounds. Certain outfits, bathing suits, camera angles—they can wreck me. I’ll try something on and immediately see someone who doesn't belong. Someone taking up too much space. Someone who should hide.

And yet—here I am, eight years later. Still learning. Still growing. Still losing, but this time not just pounds. I’m losing shame. I’m losing fear. I’m losing the toxic belief that my worth is tied to how small I can shrink myself.

I went to the beach today, wearing a two-piece swimsuit. And like clockwork, the self-consciousness crept in. I tugged at the bottoms, covered my stomach with a towel when I stood up. I worried about how I looked—until my brother showed me a photo he snapped of me, laughing in the sun, unapologetically living. I looked at that photo and thought… I look good.

That moment reminded me of something important: this is still a battle I fight every day. The weight loss battle isn’t just about numbers on a scale—it’s about reclaiming my body, my self-image, my voice. Some days I win. Some days I cry. But every day, I try. I give myself grace now. I give myself room to be both confident and insecure, strong and tender, proud and healing.

I loved myself then. But I love myself even more now—not because I’m smaller, but because I’ve survived so much and I’m still standing. Still swimming. Still putting on the damn bathing suit and choosing joy anyway.

No matter what my body looks like.
No matter what man is—or isn't—beside me.
No matter what anyone says.

This is my body. This is my life. And I’m learning to love both a little more every day.