So, I had to start taking Prozac. Yep, I needed an SSRI in my life because my usual cocktail of medications was not cutting it anymore. Ironically, we chose Prozac because, out of all the options, it had the lowest likelihood of causing weight gain. Cue the laughter.
I was rocking dresses daily, which meant I didn’t notice the slow slide into tighter jeans and awkwardly fitting tops. I just…got heavier. I went from a size 8/9 to a 14/16, shifting from medium to XL/XXL. I started buying XL dresses, convincing myself it was just my glorious double D cups that made things feel snug. Spoiler alert: it wasn’t.
One summer morning, I glanced in the mirror and grabbed my belly, which looked like I was four months pregnant. Oh no, I thought. I’ve gained weight.
Well, not “weight” in the traditional sense, but weight for me. Before kids, I weighed about 120 pounds and typically wore a size 8 (maybe a 6 if I had Spanx and an optimistic prayer). Now, I was sporting the “average” American woman size, the smallest offered by Lane Bryant and Cacique.
The reality hit me hard, and I impulsively tossed my Prozac, thinking the other medications would handle it. Spoiler: they didn’t, and neither did I recommend this method to my psychiatrist. I thought stopping the Prozac would magically make the weight disappear. Right? Wrong.
I shed about 10 pounds in water weight, then hit a wall. I decided to dust off my ancient analog scale. I stepped on it, and it read 180 pounds.
I stepped off, tears flooding my eyes.
In 2016 America, what does society say to a woman when the scale shouts “180”? You cry. You cry those big, ugly tears because, apparently, even your tears are fat. Twice, I was mistaken for being pregnant.
“You don’t look like you weigh that much,” my partner, Jake, said.
“Well, I do,” I snapped back. “The scale says so.”
I was determined to shed the weight. I dove into a strict, modified paleo diet and didn’t cheat. I started a Couch to 5K program, running three days a week, every week.
After two weeks, I stepped on the scale again. It still said 180 pounds.
I cried. I remembered weighing that much after my second child, and the images of my double chin and round face haunted me. I did not see it in the mirror, but I felt it in my heart. More tears.
Five weeks in, I could tell I was losing weight. My belly looked noticeably smaller—small enough that no one would confuse me for a pregnant woman. I felt energized, running for eight minutes straight. My psychiatrist advised me to ignore the scale and trust my body; she said it was healthier.
But I had to check. So, I stepped on the scale once more. It read 180 pounds.
In frustration, I booted it under the dresser and bruised my toe. That was the last straw. My clothes fit better, my belly shrank, and I felt lighter—not in weight, but in spirit. Maybe I was gaining muscle, which weighs more. Maybe my body was just adjusting. Regardless, I was happy with the change.
That scale took up valuable space, so I tossed it out. What a freeing experience! I realized I didn’t care if I wore Lane Bryant sizes forever. I felt good, looked good, and suddenly, that’s what mattered—not some arbitrary number that could change based on whether I had enough to drink or, you know, if I’d had a good poop that day.
Before I learned I was “fat,” I felt fine about my body. The moment I saw that number, though? My self-esteem shattered. I started fantasizing about liposuction and stomach staples. But that number didn’t budge, even with my strict diet and consistent running. My clothes fit better; I felt better. The scale was the problem, not me.
It was liberating to throw it away, like severing ties with a toxic friend. I understand some might find the scale useful, but for me, it was damaging.
And let’s talk about the term “fat.” It’s not inherently negative, yet it carries a stigma of laziness or unhealthiness. I am neither of those things, so why should I accept those negative connotations? Like that scale, I tossed them out.
Now, when someone tells me I look great, I choose to believe them. If you’re interested in more insights on self-esteem and body positivity, check out this excellent resource for pregnancy and home insemination.
In summary, the journey to body acceptance is complex and often tied to societal pressures, but ultimately, it’s about feeling good in your own skin, regardless of what the scale says.