Not Every Weight Loss Story Is a Success Story

I have been struggling with my weight for so long that I don’t remember a time when it wasn’t an issue. It started back in primary school when I was still blissfully ignorant about beauty and attractiveness being linked to looks.

It started with silly comments — as hurtful as kids can be to each other. It started with cutting out several food groups from my diet, convincing myself that I don’t even like them. I said goodbye to meat, and white bread first. Then every fruit other than apples. Then chocolate — which was a tough goodbye — that I loved just as much as any other kid did.

The hardest maybe was to let go of the idea that I could have a pretty 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 lot of them, after hearing it from classmates, or my mum, or read it in a not so trustworthy magazine. I wanted to be thin and fragile, I wanted to be pretty, I wanted to be beautiful — and loved.

I never had to worry about my brains, it just worked — no struggle, just success. There was nothing I couldn’t do when it came to school exercises, new languages, any new challenge I took on. And because it just worked, I never really appreciated it. I never understood how someone can struggle with Maths or learning long pages of Latin text by heart. My brain took it in.

My body never cooperated as much as my brain did, and as we always long for the things we can’t have, I wanted exactly that: my body to cooperate.

So I punished it. I starved it. I made myself do exercises and stupid fad-diets. I restricted calories to a point where it was non-existent. I lost my way and I lost my connection with food. I hated eating. I hated 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 that beautiful, skinny me who I wanted to be.

I measured myself according to the scale, according to BMI charts and statistics. I hid behind baggy clothes and I stayed away from people — they never saw me anyway.

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

I did lose weight — quite a few times, but then when I got back to normal eating and less severe exercise, my body got back to where it was before. I saw it as a constant struggle between letting go of myself or overdoing the weight loss. There was no in-between. Since my twenties, my weight could be anywhere between 130 and 200 pounds. And while for my 5 ft 7 height, 200 is falling 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 restricting calories — but not to the point of starvation, I was paying attention to macros and healthy, clean eating. I was walking a lot every day and I even sought help from a professional trainer and dietician. I told 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 wanted instant success. I wanted to see as the pounds are melting off me, as my body is transforming, as my abs become visible as the rolls of fat disappear.

This is — obviously — not how it happened.

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

If you look around, you can see the huge transformations of other people who lose 10 dress sizes, who disappear and then reemerge as new people, almost impossible to recognise their faces — and you just look at them, green with envy, that they made it, they managed what you couldn’t. And they look happy. And they radiate, their smiles are filling the whole room, their confidence is sky-high.

They tell you how they did it, and it always sounds so simple. It’s just intermittent fasting, regular exercise, lots of water, cutting carbs, cutting calories, or whatever, you name it. Maybe there is a miracle drug or herb or some kind of tea/coffee/shake that made it possible. And they swear that you can do it too, it only needs time and persistence.

But they don’t tell you about the struggles during the months and years they get there. They don’t tell you about all the times they want to scream ‘fuck it’ and eat a whole bag of chips with a huge bowl of guacamole and a tub of Ben and Jerry’s and throw away the running shoes to binge Netflix forever. They don’t tell 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 process and a tedious one too. I should already know that the older you are the harder it gets. That you can’t mess up 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 causal. In all the areas of life where I can thrive, there is one common denominator: the more I put in, the more I take out. This is how it works with learning, with my job, with efforts with my kids, with social relationships. But not with weight loss. My body doesn’t cooperate — it still doesn’t cooperate. Never did.

It’s a long 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 arrange meetings with my friends according to when I can eat something — 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 attractive — 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 because I have a success story. In the past 6 months, I lost 30 pounds (14 kg) and countless inches. I am stronger, I have more stamina, 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 right path. It is a success, right?

It doesn’t feel like a success. And not because I am ungrateful. It’s because the struggle I had to face is harder than I imagined it would be. It is taxing, it is difficult, it leaves me desperate. It makes me question if it’s even worth it. I don’t feel more attractive and I don’t feel more loveable. I recognise that I am healthier, but I also know the price of it.

The restrictions, the hurt, the despair — the constant lingering feeling of not being enough and the other feeling of being so superficial. After all, I should be valued for my personality, my skills, 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 only to be skinnier and thus prettier. I am doing it because I want to be the one to choose my partner and not settle for anyone who comes across. I am doing it because I want to be admired and cherished — and because stupidly I believe that it is linked to my looks.

I attribute all my dating disasters to my looks, which I know is stupid, but it does have some truth to it. It is about confidence and full awareness of what one deserves. It’s about drawing the right 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 still 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 good. It doesn’t make me feel accomplished. I can’t celebrate every single pound I lose. I can’t jump up and down buying smaller size jeans. I am still hungry — all the time. I am sore from all the exercise and there are more bad days than good days. I am moody and cranky and despite the regular exercise, I feel down many many times. I focus on it, because it is important and because once and for all, I want to see it through — but it fills my days too much and I suppress everything else.

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

I know that there are a lot of people struggling with weight loss. And it’s either a retrospective success story that entitles one to spread the word and promote the life-changing method they used, or it’s a sad story of failures and yo-yo dieting. If you ever struggled with it, if you ever wanted to lose weight and you couldn’t, or you did, but it was really tough, I hear you. It’s not a walk in the park while you are doing it. It’s not all sunshine and rainbows and progress pictures. It’s a war inside your mind and in your body. It’s a battle of wants and needs and useful things.

You might experience it better than me, you might have more success, you might have it quicker, easier. Or you would give anything to lose 30 pounds within 6 months — and you want the struggle and the despair of it, as long as it shows.

All I can say, don’t give up. Because looking back, it will be worth it. Slowly, you are creating a new reality 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.