I found myself needing some Prozac. Yes, you read that right—I needed an SSRI in my life. My particular cocktail of medications required it, and after Zoloft stopped doing its job, we opted for Prozac. Ironically, we chose it because the other options had a reputation for packing on the pounds. Cue the laughter.
I was rocking dresses every single day, so I didn’t notice the slow creep of tight jeans. I just…got bigger. I went from a size 8/9 to a 14/16, morphing from medium to XL/XXL. I began buying dresses in XL, convincing myself it was my fabulous double D cups that were making things fit a bit too snug. Turns out, that wasn’t the case.
One summer morning, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and grabbed my belly, which looked like I was about four months along. Oh no, I thought. I’ve gained weight. Well, not “gained weight” in the traditional sense, but I had definitely surpassed my comfort zone. I used to weigh 120 pounds before kids, and I was now the size of the average American woman—the smallest size at Lane Bryant and Cacique.
In a panic, I ditched my Prozac, thinking the other meds would fill the gap. (Spoiler: they didn’t recommend this approach, and neither did my psychiatrist.) I figured once I stopped the Prozac, the pounds would just fall off. Right? Wrong. I lost about 10 pounds in water weight, and then I hit a wall. I decided to confront my ancient analog scale. I hopped on, and it read 180 pounds.
I stepped off and burst into tears. If you’re a woman in America in 2016, what are you supposed to do when that dreaded number stares back at you? You cry. A lot. And then you get mistaken for being pregnant—twice.
“You don’t look like you weigh that much,” my partner, Mike, said.
“Well, I do,” I retorted. “The scale says so.”
Determined to shed the weight, I committed to a strict, modified paleo diet, and I didn’t cheat. I began the Couch to 5K program, running three days a week.
After two weeks, I stepped back on the scale. It still read 180 pounds. I cried again. I remembered what I looked like after having my second child—double chin and all. I didn’t see that version of myself in the mirror, but I could picture it vividly.
Five weeks in, I felt like I had lost weight. My belly was smaller—small enough that no one would think I was pregnant. I was feeling good; I could run eight minutes without stopping. My psychiatrist advised me to ditch the scale and trust my body instead.
I stepped on again. Still 180 pounds. I kicked it under the dresser, bruising my toe in the process. That was it. My clothes fit better, my stomach was smaller, and I felt great. Maybe I was gaining muscle, or maybe my body was just adjusting. Whatever was happening, I was happy with it. I was getting fitter and had more energy.
That scale was taking up precious space, so I tossed it in the trash. It felt liberating. I didn’t care if I wore Lane Bryant sizes for eternity; I looked and felt better. Suddenly, I realized that was what mattered—not some arbitrary number that could fluctuate based on whether I’d had enough water or food that day.
Before I recognized I was “bigger,” I felt fine about myself. But as soon as I saw that number, it shattered my confidence. I began fantasizing about extreme measures to change my body. But that number stayed the same, despite my strict diet and dedicated running. My clothes fit better, I felt better—there was something wrong with the scale, not me. Tossing it out felt like severing ties with a toxic friend.
I get that some people may find comfort in tracking their weight, but for me, it’s harmful. The word “fat” carries a negative connotation of laziness and unhealthiness, but I am neither. So, why accept those labels? Like the scale, I tossed those thoughts aside.
Now, when someone tells me I look good, I choose to believe them.
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In summary, I’ve learned that my self-esteem shouldn’t hinge on the digits displayed on a scale. I’m embracing my journey, feeling good in my skin, and defining my worth by how I feel, not by a number.