By: Laura Thompson
For as long as I can remember, my New Year’s resolutions revolved around one theme: losing weight. Even during periods when I was perfectly healthy, I felt the urge to shed those elusive pounds. Standing just under 5 feet tall, the younger version of me believed I wouldn’t be truly attractive until I weighed less than 100 pounds. Not fitting into a size 0 was a source of anxiety; being a size 4 or 6 felt like a deep personal failure. What was wrong with me? The answer, it turns out, was a lot.
I made working out my top priority, often dedicating five days a week to intense exercise. My meals were limited; a can of peas often served as my lunch. During my solitary days, I rarely stocked my kitchen with meat or alcohol—two things I simply didn’t know how to buy. Instead, I lived off instant mashed potatoes and sugary cereals. The calories I consumed were minimal, and I devoted all my spare time to being “fit.” The occasional indulgence—a Snickers bar on a rare occasion—felt like a guilty pleasure. But despite my efforts, I never managed to fit into a smaller size.
With a body like Mary Lou Retton’s yet yearning for Gwyneth Paltrow’s elegance, I was never satisfied. I desperately wanted to be one of those effortlessly chic women with straight hair and an enviable thigh gap. Although I never crossed the line into an eating disorder, my discontent with my appearance and diet was palpable.
Fast forward to now, and I’m nearly 50 pounds heavier than that insecure, overly focused young woman. And let’s be real—being under 5 feet means that weight gain hits differently, so I feel like I’m carrying an even heavier load. If you had told my 28-year-old self that I would weigh this much at 38, I would have been horrified—probably even retreating to a cave in Tasmania to escape my “fat fate.”
A mix of factors contributed to my weight gain: aging, having kids, and a thyroid condition. During grad school, I was diagnosed with Graves’ disease, a condition I had been living with for over a year before a doctor finally identified it, dismissing my symptoms as mere stress. Ironically, during that time, I enjoyed a brief period of eating whatever I wanted—two peanut butter sandwiches for breakfast, dinner for lunch, and a solid meal for dinner again. My hair was falling out, but I was blissfully unaware, as my pants felt looser by the day.
Then, modern medicine intervened, and my fast metabolism turned into a sluggish one, marking the start of a significant weight gain. I had to accept that a size 0 was no longer in the cards. By 30, I found myself at a comfortable size 6, which according to my childhood Sweet Valley High books, was the perfect size. I thought as long as I didn’t gain any more weight, I would be fine.
Now, two kids later, that waif-like version of me resides in my chin. I keep her satisfied with Oreos and sugary sodas. I’m no longer a size 6; I’m comfortably a medium in sweatpants and leggings. And you know what? I’ve never been happier.
I have a fulfilling career, children I adore, and a supportive husband. My hobbies include crafting, writing, and even attempting to cook. I bought myself a banjo ukulele, and life feels vibrant and interesting. The thought of tracking every calorie or spending hours in the gym feels monotonous now.
My appearance isn’t my primary concern anymore; I’ve embraced the fact that I look adorable just as I am. I no longer shop for an unattainable body but instead choose clothes that feel good and flatter my current self. My closet is now filled with fabulous finds from Ann Taylor LOFT’s clearance section.
While I’m not ready to write the next great book on body positivity, I’ve come to terms with my past. I skipped my 20th reunion, feeling neither rich enough nor thin enough to attend. You won’t catch me posting many full-body shots on social media, and my vacations are often in colder places than Minneapolis.
I haven’t fully accepted my body, but I’ve made peace with the version I used to have. I pledge that if I ever lose even 20 pounds, you won’t hear me utter another resolution about my weight.
Ultimately, I don’t have any groundbreaking advice for self-acceptance or supermom fitness hacks. Instead, I want to encourage everyone to be kinder to themselves. This year, let’s resolve to do something interesting and wonderful. For more insights on topics like this, check out this blog post and consider using this at-home insemination kit from a reputable retailer. If you’re looking for reliable information on pregnancy and home insemination, this CDC resource is a great place to start.
In summary, embracing my body at any size has led me to a happier and more fulfilling life. It’s time to move beyond the scale and focus on what truly matters.