My New Year’s resolution has always been pretty consistent: to shed some pounds, even during those times when I wasn’t actually overweight. Life would be so much better if I could just drop those pesky 10 pounds.
As someone who stands just under 5 feet tall, I once believed I needed to weigh under 100 pounds to be considered attractive. Not being a size 0 was a source of genuine anxiety. Honestly, being a size 4 or 6 felt downright embarrassing. What was wrong with me? Clearly, everything.
I prioritized working out five times a week, which pretty much topped my to-do list. Lunch often consisted of a single can of peas. When I lived solo, my fridge had no alcohol or meat—two things I had no clue how to buy (thankfully, I’ve learned since then). Instant mashed potatoes and Frosted Flakes were my go-tos.
So, I subsisted on a miserable, calorie-restricted diet while dedicating my free time to being “fit.” I’d cling to my one indulgence—a Snickers bar—like it was a rare gem. It was exhausting to constantly monitor what I ate and have the elliptical trainer be my sole hobby. And yet, despite my efforts, I couldn’t even drop a jean size.
With a physique reminiscent of Mary Lou Retton, I yearned to embody Gwyneth Paltrow. I wouldn’t rest until I transformed into a long, lanky, waif-like figure. You know, one of those girls whose pin-straight hair always looks immaculate in a bun, complete with an enviable thigh gap. Although I never developed an eating disorder, I was perpetually dissatisfied with my appearance and my diet.
Fast forward to now—I’m nearly 50 pounds heavier than that sad, misguided skinny girl. And since pounds on shorter individuals seem to carry more weight (pun intended!), I’m practically 300 pounds bigger than her. If you’d told me at 28 that I would weigh this much at 38, I would have gone into hiding, afraid of the future I faced. I would have forsaken love and happiness, said goodbye to my family, and booked a one-way ticket to a cave in Tasmania to escape my fate.
A combination of factors contributed to my weight gain: aging, children, and thyroid issues. Back in graduate school, I was diagnosed with Graves’ disease, which went unnoticed for about a year, as a doctor erroneously attributed my symptoms to stress.
During that time, my skinny girl dreams seemed to flourish. I could indulge in anything I desired, and miraculously, my pants kept getting looser. Breakfast could have been two peanut butter sandwiches, with dinner for lunch, a healthy dinner, and another dinner as dessert. My hair was falling out but finally looked sleek and straight. Life felt like a party—until my heart was about to burst. But who cared?!
Thanks to modern medicine, that carefree chapter came crashing down. My metabolism would never return to its youthful Porsche state; instead, it was now a loaded secondhand Hyundai. That marked the first significant, terrifying spike in my weight.
I came to terms with the fact that size 0 was off the table. As I approached 30, I settled into a size 6—not too shabby. It was even considered the ‘perfect’ size according to my favorite Sweet Valley High books (yes, that’s how they described the twins in one of those tween classics). If I could just manage to avoid gaining any more weight, I’d be fine.
Two kids later, the waif of my dreams now resides under my chin. I keep her satisfied with Oreos and non-diet soda. I’ve left behind my size 6 days, now fitting comfortably into a medium for sweatpants and leggings. And you know what? I’m genuinely the happiest I’ve ever been.
I have a fulfilling career, children who fill my heart with joy, and a wonderful husband. I dabble in crafts, write, sing a little, and occasionally cook. I do laundry and begrudgingly keep the cat alive. I even bought myself a banjo ukulele. Life is vibrant and delightful. Working out and obsessing over my diet? Boring.
My looks no longer dominate my thoughts. And guess what? I look adorable. I no longer shop for a body I’ll never possess; instead, I choose clothes that feel and look great. My closet is packed with treasures from Ann Taylor LOFT’s clearance section.
I’m not quite ready to pen “Chicken Soup for the Pudgy Girl’s Soul” just yet. I was neither wealthy enough nor slender enough to return for my 20th reunion. Don’t expect many full-body shots of me in my sassy peplum tops on social media. We’ve even picked vacation spots that are actually colder than Minneapolis.
While I haven’t fully embraced my body, I’ve certainly come to terms with the one I used to have. I promise the gods of all seven-minute workouts that if I ever drop even 20 pounds, you’ll never hear me utter a weight-related resolution again.
In the end, I lack profound wisdom on self-acceptance or any miraculous mom fitness hacks. Instead, I offer a gentle reminder for all of us to be kinder to ourselves. May this year inspire you to pursue something interesting and wonderful.
Summary
In this lighthearted reflection, Jessica Lane shares her journey from an unhealthy obsession with weight loss to embracing a happier and more fulfilling life despite being heavier than she once was. She emphasizes the importance of self-acceptance and encourages readers to prioritize joy and kindness over societal standards of beauty.