Like everyone else, I get dressed in the morning, but I have one additional step: I have to tuck away the loose skin that hangs around my midsection into my jeans. This isn’t just a minor issue; it’s more akin to wrapping several pounds of warm, pliable dough around my waist. (For the record, the image accompanying this post isn’t of me—mine is even more challenging to look at, and I couldn’t bring myself to share my own photo. Just writing about it feels embarrassing enough.)
I’ve honed the art of concealing this excess skin so well that in most of my clothing, it goes unnoticed. I opt for longer shirts that reach my upper thighs, wearing them untucked, paired with high-waisted jeans. If low-rise jeans ever come back into style, I’ll have to accept being out of fashion.
Even though I lead group fitness classes, my choice of gym attire is limited. I can’t wear just any leggings; I need to invest in the pricier ones that hold everything in place like an elastic bandage, preventing any unsightly movement. Bathing suits are a significant source of anxiety, and when I wear a dress, you can bet I’m layered in shapewear.
My journey with weight began after my first pregnancy, during which I gained an astonishing 90 pounds due to pre-eclampsia. I swelled up like a balloon, gaining weight everywhere—my nose and feet were even puffy. While I shed some weight after my son was born, things spiraled as I had two more children. By the time my third son arrived, I was nearing 300 pounds and feeling utterly miserable.
Determined to change my situation, I gradually lost over 100 pounds over two years. However, during my fourth pregnancy, I regained some weight—50 pounds, despite teaching Zumba eight times a week. Pregnancy seems to put my metabolism on hold, but I eventually returned to my pre-pregnancy size within a year.
You might think this would be a cause for celebration, and to some extent, it is. I can now bend down to tie my shoes without struggling to catch my breath. My body is stronger and more flexible, and I’m undoubtedly healthier without the extra weight. But the dramatic fluctuations in my weight have left my skin in a difficult state.
Though skin is elastic, there are limits, and mine bears the marks of stretch—pearlescent scars and looser skin draping below my ribcage. There’s so much excess skin that I can’t even gather it all in my hands. It acts like a barrier to my self-esteem, holding back my confidence. While I sometimes catch a glimpse of my clothed reflection and feel attractive, taking my shirt off at the end of the day forces me to confront the reality of my body.
Once, I watched a Dr. Phil episode featuring a woman who had lost significant weight but was met with disgust by her new boyfriend when he saw her excess skin. His harsh words struck a chord with me, and I found myself in tears—it confirmed my deepest fears about my own appearance.
I am incredibly lucky to have a partner who tells me how beautiful he finds me, every part of me. He looks into my eyes and expresses this with sincerity, yet I struggle to comprehend it. After two decades together, he’s seen me at my best—when I had a flat, smooth stomach and perky breasts. How can he not compare those moments to now and feel repulsed by the changes? How can he still look at the sagging skin of my midsection with any semblance of desire?
I simply can’t understand how he manages to see any redeeming qualities in my body when I can hardly stand to look at it myself. I keep telling myself that the loose skin is a testament to my weight loss journey, a tangible reminder of my hard work and commitment to health. And while it does represent that, it also serves as a constant reminder that I don’t look the way I yearn to, even after reaching my goal. Beneath the loose skin, my abs are firm from hard work, yet they remain hidden from view, making it difficult for me to fully accept or embrace my body’s transformation.
I often think about how I can learn to love this body, one that requires me to bundle up layers of skin into shapewear. Surgery is an option, but it’s not financially viable, and there are risks involved that make me hesitant—especially when I think about not being there for my children.
I’m not seeking a perfectly sculpted body or a chance to flaunt a bikini. I simply want to wear a pair of jeans without worrying about the extra skin. Ultimately, I wish I could look in the mirror and appreciate what I see, feeling genuinely proud of my journey.
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In summary, it’s important to acknowledge the emotional journey tied to body image, especially after significant weight loss. The struggles of self-acceptance can be profound, even in the face of physical achievements. Ultimately, the desire to feel comfortable and confident in one’s own skin remains a universal challenge.