Every Story of Weight Loss Isn't a Success

For as long as I can remember, my weight has been a constant source of stress in my life. It all began when I was in elementary school and completely oblivious to the fact that physical appearance may be a measure of a person's desirability and beauty.

As destructive as children might be to one another, it all began with careless remarks. It all started when I convinced myself I didn't like certain food types and cut them out of my diet. I said goodbye to meat and white bread initially. After that, all fruits excluding apples. Then there came chocolate, which was always a sad farewell because I loved it as much as any other child.

The toughest maybe was to let go of the concept that I might have a nice and healthy body without putting myself through a lifetime of endless struggle.

At the age of 12–14, I already knew a lot about diets and tried a number of them after hearing it from peers, or my parents, or reading it in a not-so-trustworthy magazine. I wanted to be small and frail; I wanted to be pretty; I wanted to be gorgeous—and adored.

I never had to think about my mind; it just worked—no struggle, just results. There was nothing I couldn’t do when it came to school exercises, new languages, or whatever new endeavor I took on. And because it merely worked, I never really appreciated it. I never understood how someone may struggle with math or learning huge pages of Latin text by heart. My intellect absorbed it in.

My body never collaborated as much as my brain did, and as we always crave the things we can’t have, I wanted just that: my body to comply.

So I punished it. I starved it. I forced myself to perform exercises and ridiculous fad diets. I limited calories to a point where it was non-existent. I lost my way, and I lost my connection with food. I loathed eating. I despised everything about it. I never ate in public because I convinced myself that people looked at me thinking to themselves, ‘This chubby one shouldn’t eat at all.' I hated to feel full, and I always thought that hunger is a sign that I am getting closer to the beautiful, slender person who I wanted to be.

I measured myself according to the scale, according to BMI tables and statistics. I hid behind large garments, and I remained away from people—they never saw me anyway.

I wasn’t obese. I was a chubby youngster, with baby fat. But the roller coaster of diets messed up my body, and the more I did to reduce weight, the less it worked.

I did lose weight—quite a few times—but then when I returned back to normal food and less extreme activity, my body got back to where it was before. I regarded it as a perpetual conflict between letting go of myself or overdoing the weight loss. There was no in-between. Since my twenties, my weight may be anywhere between 130 and 200 pounds. And despite my 5 ft 7 height, 200 is lying in the overweight category and 130 in the lower normal; I always felt FAT. And I always wanted to lose weight.

This year, just before the pandemic hit us and turned our whole life upside down, I started one last weight loss journey, vowing to myself that this time, I will have the success story; I will get to my dream body—which is a stable, healthy weight that is sustainable—even if I am 42, it’s still doable.

I did everything I could. I exercised 5 times a week, I was reducing calories—but not to the point of starving; I was paying attention to macros and a nutritious, clean diet. I was walking a lot every day, and I even sought guidance from a professional trainer and dietician. I assured myself that I won’t give up, not this time. I will do it, whatever it takes, no matter how long it takes.

But deep down, I desired rapid success. I wanted to witness the pounds melting off me, as my body is transforming, as my abs become evident as the rolls of fat leave.

This is—obviously—not how it happened.

Not every weight loss tale is a success story. Even if you manage to lose weight.

If you look about, you may see the dramatic transformations of other people who shed 10 dress sizes, who disappear and then reappear as new individuals, nearly impossible to identify their faces—and you just gaze at them, green with envy, because they made it; they managed what you couldn’t. And they appear happy. And they radiate; their smiles are filling the whole room, and their confidence is sky-high.

They tell you how they accomplished it, and it always sounds so straightforward. It’s just intermittent fasting, regular exercise, lots of water, cutting carbs, decreasing calories, or whatever you name it. Maybe there is a magical medication or plant or some form of tea/coffee/shake that makes it feasible. And they swear that you can accomplish it too; it only needs time and persistence.

But they don’t tell you about the challenges during the months and years they get there. They don’t tell you about all the times they want to shout ‘fuck it’ and eat a whole bag of chips with a giant dish of guacamole and a container of Ben and Jerry’s and toss away the running shoes to watch Netflix forever. They don’t warn you about the despair you see when you step on the scale, and despite a week of training every day with egg-white omelettes and spinach and tuna fish, the scale betrays you, and it shows more than a week before.

I have done it so many times that I should know how it is. I should know how it is a long procedure and a tedious one too. I should already know that the older you are, the harder it gets. That you can’t mess with your metabolism without it backfiring. That calorie restriction and starving yourself is not the way. That it is a journey, and you need to go through it if you want results.

It still surprises me. Because for me, weight loss is not causative. In all the areas of life where I can succeed, there is one consistent denominator: the more I put in, the more I take out. This is how it works with learning, with my career, with attempts with my kids, and with social interactions. But not with weight loss. My body doesn’t cooperate—it still doesn’t cooperate. Never did.

It’s a lengthy game. It doesn’t happen overnight. It doesn’t happen in a month or even in half a year. It doesn’t matter if I am exercising more than I ever did in my life—and that I start to enjoy it, which I never did. It doesn’t matter if I allow myself cheat meals or not.

It fills up my days. It’s the only thing I can focus on. Everything else comes after. I schedule gatherings with my friends according to when I can eat anything—the one night of the week. I put myself on hold to start dating because in a month or two or three, I will be skinnier, prettier, more appealing, and thus more loveable. I almost put off my holiday as I wasn’t at the weight I decided to be at.

I wanted to write a success story since I have a success story. In the previous 6 months, I shed 30 pounds (14 kg) and many inches. I am stronger, I have more stamina, and I am more healthy. I can do things I couldn’t do in January. I still have a long way to go, but I am on the correct path. It is a success, right?

It doesn’t feel like a success. And not because I am ungrateful. It’s because the challenge I had to face is harder than I expected it would be. It is taxing, it is challenging, it leaves me desperate. It makes me doubt if it’s even worth it. I don’t feel more gorgeous, and I don’t feel more lovable. I acknowledge that I am healthier, but I also know the price of it.

The limits, the hurt, the sorrow—the constant, lingering feeling of not being enough and the other emotion of being so superficial. After all, I should be respected for my personality, my skills, and my caring, loving heart—not for my ass or abs. I have to admit that I am not doing it to be healthier. I am doing it solely to be skinnier and hence beautiful. I am doing it because I want to be the one to choose my relationship and not settle for anyone who comes across. I am doing it because I want to be respected and cherished—and because, naively, I believe that it is tied to my looks.

I ascribe all my dating mishaps to my looks, which I know is silly, but it does have some truth to it. It is about confidence and complete realization of what one deserves. It’s about drawing the correct boundaries and saying no to things that don’t serve you.

My weight loss journey is not a success. It’s a work in progress currently, and all I can hope is that when I get to my dream weight, I will feel better about it, and looking back on it, 6 or 12 months later, I will say it was worth it.

But for now, I want to be honest about it.

It doesn’t feel nice. It doesn’t make me feel accomplished. I can’t celebrate every single pound I lose. I can’t bounce up and down buying smaller size jeans. I am still hungry—all the time. I am sore from all the activity, and there are more bad days than good days. I am grumpy and cranky, and despite the daily workout, I feel low many, many times. I focus on it because it is vital, and because once and for all, I want to see it through—but it occupies my days too much, and I repress everything else.

I am trying to look at the positive side of things. I am trying. I have a healthy regimen. I am highly conscious. I am getting lighter. I know that it is healthy for me. But make no mistake, it does make me miserable too.

I know that there are a lot of people suffering with weight loss. And it’s either a retrospective success story that entitles one to spread the word and promote the life-changing strategy they utilized, or it’s a sad story of failures and yo-yo dieting. If you ever struggled with it, if you ever tried to lose weight and you couldn’t, or you did, but it was incredibly tough, I hear you. It’s hardly a stroll in the park while you are doing it. It’s not all sunshine and rainbows and progress pictures. It’s a war inside your thoughts and in your body. It’s a struggle of desires and necessities and useful things.

You might experience it better than me; you might have more success; you might have it quicker, easier. Or you would do anything to drop 30 pounds within 6 months—and you want the effort and the anguish of it, as long as it shows.

All I can say is don’t give up. Because looking back, it will be worth it. Slowly, you are constructing a new world for yourself; slowly you will find what works for you; slowly you will get there. Even if it’s not a success story. Even if it’s more difficult than it seemed. Even if it’s a bloody struggle.

At least this is what I am telling myself.