What I Learned from Losing 50 Pounds

The woman on the right had equally as little self-worth

as the woman on the left.

I was seven years old when I decided I hated my body. 

I didn’t look like the little girls I grew up with. It didn’t matter that I grew up in a home where health wasn’t considered, or that my ethnicity was different from theirs. It didn’t matter, because all I could see was the fact I was different. 

I was bigger than they were. I went through puberty earlier than they did. I had curves and hips and boobs. I was mortified by my appearance - apologetic for the space it took up, even more so for the attention it garnered. 

I was a child when I first thought: if only I could become smaller, I would finally be happy.

My heart still aches for that girl.

In the ocean of chaos we call life, those of us who struggle with our weight all seem to consciously, or unconsciously, come to the same conclusion; that our happiness lies at the end of the weight-loss finish line. We equate our self-worth to a number on the scale. We equate our self-love to a size printed on the tag of our clothing. We accept ourselves contingently on the amount of space we take up, or our reflections in the mirror. 

The little girl who hated her body grew up - and became an adult, who still hated her body. Upon experiencing something of an early existential crisis, I finally made the choice. Come hell or high water, I was determined to lose the weight that held me back from the happiness I’d never known. So I set out on a relentless journey to lose the weight that was robbing me of my joy, under the guise of filling that empty hole in my heart. 

I’ll never forget the moment. The one where I stood on the scale to weigh myself. I hopped on and off three times, just to make sure it wasn’t some egregious, cosmic joke of an error. 

I had surpassed my goal weight. 

I analyzed my body’s reflection in the mirror. I could no longer deny it - I looked like a completely different person. 

But for some reason, I didn’t feel like one. 

I didn’t feel anything at all.

My veins weren’t flooded with newfound confidence, the sense of accomplishment, or the feeling of success. And that empty hole was not filled with self-love, self-worth, or self-acceptance.

“What you’re looking for isn’t out there, it’s in you.”

If everything I’d been waiting for didn’t lie at the end of the weight loss finish line - where the fuck did it?

Society will convince you, as it did me, that self-acceptance can be acquired through a beauty treatment, a surgery, a weight loss goal, a fancy something - and it’s this very line of thinking that is so undeniably misguided. We are taught to believe that our worth is intrinsically bound to things; possessions, commodities, accomplishments, and successes. The more of them you acquire, the more deserving you are of your own internal validation through the external praise. Now, with all the things, you are finally enough. 

It was the relentless pursuit of enough-ness that created a gaping hole in my heart. Yet for a perfectionist, good never has the capability of being enough. It wasn’t just about checking off all the boxes. I didn’t want to be a good daughter or a good partner. I didn’t want to be good at my job or good at my training. I didn’t want to have a good body or look conventionally good. 

I wanted perfect. And anything short of perfect was certain failure. 

That day, as I stepped on the scale, my psyche began screaming. “Yeah, sure. You made it - but you’re still not perfect. You’re still not enough.” And the only response I had was “but when will I be?” 

As if there was a way in which I could twist, contort and shape myself into the perfect. The daughter of my mother’s dreams, the partner of the fucking year, the athlete, the coach, the success, the body goal - the woman who has it all. She’s not simply good enough. She’s better than that - she’s perfect. 

In the contortion of my identity; in the manipulation of my authentic self; I failed to see things clearly. First and foremost, that perfection is merely a protective armour to guard ourselves from pain, shame, and judgement; from not belonging. A lesson I’d learned in early childhood; that I simply didn’t belong. I was the adopted child, the different one, the one who didn’t quite fit the mold. And instead of embracing it as my imperfect, authentic, unique-self, I found myself undeniably apologetic & embarrassed. It was as if I’d vowed to find a way to fit, no matter what it cost me. It was as if I could rewrite my story. Travel in time to a place where I needed love and acceptance, and make up for all the pain that the lack of it had caused me. 

The second thing I failed to recognize was that the only person who can decide whether you are good enough is you. Perfect doesn’t exist. It’s human nature to seek out flaws, to dichotomize black & white, and to ostracize the presence & discomfort of that which isn’t considered uniform. For every person who perceives your difference as imperfect, there will be plenty of others who look at you with admiration, adoration, and sometimes even envy. Society decides the perception of perfect. Individuals decide the perception of perfect. History, culture, time - all of it implicates what is deemed to be perfect. What is considered to be perfect today, will be considered imperfect tomorrow. It’s a harrowing, exhausting, intangible moving target. Just when you think you have it in your grasp, it slips through your fingers like a handful of sand - only to leave your palms empty. 

If perfect doesn’t exist -

If perfect isn’t meant to lie in the perception of others -

All you have left is you. 

All you have left is the voice in your head as you berate your reflection in the mirror. 

The voice of the harrowing pain of never being just so. Of never being able to shape shift and mangle your way into fitting in the box of expectations. Of always being too much or not enough of something. 

So, what changed?

I’m still not perfect. Not as a daughter, a partner, a coach, an educator, a woman, nor as a human being. I’m far from it. 

But I’m learning to be okay with it. 

I’m learning that it doesn’t matter whether I’ve accomplished enough. Whether I’m successful enough. Whether I’m thick enough or thin enough -

Because I’m simply good enough for me. 

You can’t buy, convince or bargain your way into self-love or self-acceptance. I wish it were that simple. I wish it really came from external validation, from reaching the impossible goal weight, from checking off the many boxes of success, or from purchasing a shiny new car. 

All that’s left is you, and for you to do the hard things. To be brave enough to show up authentically as your imperfect self, no matter the criticism, judgement or shame. To treat your mind and your spirit with the kindness and wisdom of a nurturing parent. To treat the body you’ve been given with respect through honouring it’s boundaries - in output, in play, in movement, in nourishment, and in rest. To live in accordance with your core values and show up each day as someone you are proud to be. 

You don’t have to be perfect for anyone, but you do have to be good enough for you. 

In embracing your authentic self, you grow to realize the intangibility of perfection. It never even existed. It was merely the chasing of an impossible expectation with no light at the end of a very long tunnel. It isn’t the weight, the body, the success, or the perfect, where that feeling of good enough comes from.

It comes from - and could only ever come from - you.