Not Every Story of Weight Loss Is Successful

I have been fighting with my weight for so long that I don’t remember a period when it wasn’t a problem. It began back in elementary school when I was still blissfully unaware about beauty and appeal being tied to appearances.

It began with stupid comments—as nasty as youngsters can be to one another. It began with cutting out numerous food types from my diet, telling myself that I didn’t really enjoy them. I said goodbye to meat and white bread initially. Then every fruit other than apples. Then chocolate—which was a sad goodbye—that I adored just as much as any other youngster did.

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

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 lovely; I wanted to be beautiful—and adored.

I never had to think about my intellect; it simply worked—no battle, just results. There was nothing I couldn’t accomplish when it came to school exercises, new languages, or whatever new endeavor I took on. And since everything merely worked, I never truly appreciated it. I never understood how someone can struggle with algebra or knowing huge pages of Latin text by memory. My intellect absorbed it in.

My body never collaborated as much as my brain did, and since we constantly 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 workouts and dumb fad diets. I reduced calories to a point where it was non-existent. I lost my path, and I lost my relationship with food. I loathed eating. I despised everything about it. I never ate in public because I persuaded myself that others stared at me thinking to themselves, ‘This fat one shouldn’t eat at all.' I hated to feel full, and I always felt that hunger is a sign that I am getting closer to the lovely, slim person who I wanted to be.

I assessed myself according to the scale, according to BMI tables and data. I hid behind large clothing, and I remained away from people—they never noticed me anyhow.

I wasn’t fat. I was a plump child, with baby fat. But the roller coaster of diets screwed up my body, and the more I attempted to lose weight, the less it worked.

I did drop weight—quite a few times—but then when I returned back to regular food and less rigorous activity, my body came back to where it was before. I regarded it as a perpetual conflict between letting go of myself or overdoing the weight reduction. 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 famine. I was paying attention to macros and good, clean eating. I was walking a lot every day, and I even sought advice from a professional trainer and dietitian. 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 inside, I desired rapid success. I wanted to witness the pounds melting off me, as my body is evolving, as my abs become evident as the rolls of fat leave.

This is—obviously—not how it occurred.

Not every weight reduction tale is a success story. Even if you manage to reduce weight.

If you look around, you may see the dramatic changes of other people who shed 10 dress sizes, who vanish and then reappear as new individuals, nearly impossible to identify their faces—and you simply gaze at them, green with envy, because they did it; they managed what you couldn’t. And they appear pleased. And they shine; their grins are filling the entire room, and their confidence is sky-high.

They tell you how they accomplished it, and it always seems so straightforward. It’s basically intermittent fasting, regular exercise, plenty of water, reducing carbohydrates, 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 promise that you can accomplish it too; it just requires time and dedication.

But they don’t tell you about the challenges over 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 full 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 sadness you see when you step on the scale and, after 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 lengthy procedure and a tiresome one too. I should already know that the older you get, the tougher it becomes. That you can’t screw 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 shocks 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 reduction. 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 like it, which I never did. It doesn’t matter whether I let myself have cheat meals or not.

It fills up my days. It’s the only thing I can concentrate on. Everything else comes later. I plan gatherings with my pals according to when I can eat something—the one night of the week. I put myself on wait to start dating because in a month or two or three, I will be skinnier, prettier, more attractive—thus more loved. I nearly put off my trip since I wasn’t at the weight I planned to be at.

I wanted to write a success tale since I had 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 healthier. I can accomplish things I couldn’t do in January. I still have a long way to go, but I am on the correct road. 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 confront is tougher than I expected it would be. It is exhausting; it is challenging; it leaves me desperate. It makes me doubt whether it’s even worth it. I don’t feel more beautiful, and I don’t feel more loved. I acknowledge that I am healthier, but I also know the price of it.

The limits, the anguish, the despair—the persistent, lingering sensation of not being adequate and the other emotion of being so shallow. After all, I should be respected for my personality, my abilities, and my caring, loving heart—not for my ass or abs. I have to confess that I am not doing it to be healthy. I am doing it solely to be skinnier and hence beautiful. I am doing it because I want to be the one to pick my relationship and not settle for everyone who comes across. I am doing it because I want to be adored and cherished—and because, naively, I feel that it is tied to my appearance.

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 establishing the correct boundaries and saying no to things that don’t benefit you.

My weight reduction endeavor is not a success. It’s a work in progress still, and all I can hope is that when I get to my ideal 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 purchasing lower 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 exercise, I feel low many, many times. I concentrate on it because it is essential 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 bright side of things. I am trying. I have a healthy regimen. I am highly aware. I am becoming lighter. I know that it is healthy for me. But make no mistake, it does make me unhappy too.

I know that there are a lot of individuals suffering with weight loss. And it’s either a retrospective success story that qualifies one to spread the word and promote the life-changing strategy they utilized, or it’s a sad narrative of failures and yo-yo dieting. If you ever battled with it, if you ever tried to lose weight and you couldn’t, or you did, but it was incredibly difficult, I hear you. It’s hardly a stroll in the park when you are doing it. It’s not all sunshine and rainbows and progress photographs. It’s a fight within your thoughts and in your body. It’s a struggle of desires and necessities and helpful things.

You may experience it better than me; you might have more success; you might have it faster, easier. Or you would do everything to drop 30 pounds within 6 months—and you want the battle and the agony 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 discover 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 looked. Even if it’s a brutal fight.

I'm telling myself this, at least.