Her Story: A Letter To The Girl Who’s Ready For Change

To The Girl Who Wants to Change,

I’d like to tell you a story of a girl who, like you, didn’t like what she saw in the mirror. In fact, there were a few times she almost threw up when she had to stare at her reflection. And, when she finally had the confidence to work for what she wanted, she felt surrounded by people who were constantly judging her, getting mad at her, keeping her from her goal and changing her mind. All she wanted was to feel better. I know you’re smart enough to know this girl is me, so I’m asking that as you read this, you read it carefully and with open eyes and heart. I’m writing this for any of you that want to change, whether it’s your weight, an addiction you have, or whatever it is that keeps you down. Understand that I’m doing this for you, and I’m trusting you with the truth of my struggle as, “The Girl Who Gained All That Weight” to “The Girl Who Lost All That Weight.”

First of all, I honestly don’t know how I didn’t notice how much I was gaining. For some reason, eating four pints of ice cream a day didn’t seem so wrong. When it started to get cold, and my old jeans didn’t fit, I just thought, Guess I grew a little. I’ll lay off the french fries for a bit. I’d never been the kind of girl who worked out constantly, because I never needed to be. I would eat what I wanted and stay the way I was. But, I had never been in an environment where there was so much food around, and whenever I wanted it! I could have as many cookies as I wanted, ice cream at any time, pancakes every single morning. Mom barely let my family have potato chips, but now I could buy three bags myself without a nag in the world. 

Then, I went to put on some jeans and they didn’t even make it to my hips. I looked in the mirror, and, for the first time in a long time, I took a long, hard look. Didn’t my face have angles before? Have those purple lines always been on my thighs? I payed more attention when I put on my clothes. I was popping out of my bras. It suddenly hit me that when I bought pants the other day labeled 16-18, it wasn’t in junior sizes. I put on the shirt Saint Mary’s had given me when I committed and couldn’t breathe because it was so tight.

I cried and wondered why no one had said anything. My boyfriend looked at me, hugged me, practically every day but hadn’t said a word. My friends sat next to me at lunch, why didn’t they say, “Hey, don’t you think that’s enough dessert for today?” Apparently, it was because I didn’t, “look THAT big.” I confronted my boyfriend when he came to visit, but, he said he hadn’t noticed, and even if I had gotten bigger, it didn’t matter to him. He loved me, and nothing else mattered. I dried my tears, took his word for it, bought some bigger clothes and got on with my life, thinking I could still be me, just in a bigger body.

It worked for a while, after all, I was still me on the inside. But, I could see that I was slower than I used to be. If I wasn’t in class, I was sleeping until the next meal. My back and joints were always killing me, and I always felt like I was ready to vomit. 

I went home for Thanksgiving and felt sick that I had to face my family the way that I was. My mom worried that I was getting depressed. She wasn’t wrong, but I wasn’t ready to face that. I loathed my sister in her pretty dress, while I was stuck in the stretchy black pants and loose green shirt that I knew could fit. It didn’t matter, I was beautiful the way I was. There was nothing wrong with not wearing a dress.

When I went home for Christmas and had to wear the exact same outfit, then I really lost it. I begged my mom not to make me go see my relatives, and, even though she did not want me to stay behind, let me because I was crying so violently. Once my family left, I crumpled into a heap on the floor of my closet. Every once in a while I’d lift my head up from crying in the floor and look in the mirror to stare at the mess I had become. 

What have I done?

I couldn’t lie anymore, I hated this. I hated feeling so slow and like everyone was looking at me. I hated that none of my old clothes fit, and that I had stretched out most of my pants to the point where they were ripping at the seams. People would say they couldn’t see it, but I could, and worse, I could feel it. It didn’t matter if people loved me, I didn’t love me. I felt like complete crap. I had let food take control of me, to the point where it was keeping me away from my family. It made me so angry that I drove all the way to my relatives’ house. Just because I felt awful, didn’t mean they should. I had my Christmas, but I was done playing puppet. I wanted my life back.

When it came time to choose my classes, the first thing I signed up for was Fitness Challenge. I knew that if I took the class for credit, I would go consistently. I was ready to feel like the old me. I dreamed of chicken nuggets as I gulped down my protein shakes. I knew I was the biggest one in my fitness class, and felt like I was being singled out as the slowest and most pathetic. The workouts made me sore and I wanted to collapse in the middle of class.

It was all I could talk about: how sore I was, how hungry I felt, how I wanted to collapse in the middle of class. The usual reply would be a nervous glance and, “You don’t have to do this. You’re beautiful the way you are.” That same sentence again. I wanted them to stop saying it. No matter how well they meant it, it just made me angry. I used to be happier and stronger back when I was lighter, and I didn’t think there was anything wrong with wanting to be that happy again. How could feeling this awful be beautiful?

Slowly, I saw myself improving. I was more awake now, I barely ever took naps. I felt proud going to the gym, having some sweat to wipe off at the end of the hour. When Lent came around, I promised to workout every day. My grandma figured that when she took me on a cruise for spring break, that promise would go out the window. I enjoyed the impressed look on her face every time I came back to the room from running the track on the top deck. By Easter, the shorts I had worn on the cruise were too big. 

When I came home for the summer, I was a little disappointed that I wasn’t able to fit into my size 6 high school graduation dress. I’d worked so hard for so long, and I was only a size 14? While I shopped for new clothes for my job as a summer camp counselor, thoughts of giving in crossed my mind. I was tempted to celebrate my loss with a giant milkshake. Then, I came across some shirts that changed my mind. “Excuses don’t burn calories.” No, I suppose they don’t. No milkshake. New favorite shirts. I realized then how important it was that I kept going, and even had a small fear that if I missed even one workout, I’d wake up the way I had been in December. 

I figured that by working at a summer camp I’d have plenty of trails I’d be walking every day, and I could even get up early to run around the camp. Yet, when I became a counselor, I didn’t realize how much my co-workers would challenge me. On the second night, while we were all trying to get to know each other, I confessed my weight struggle, and my plans to continue my weight loss at camp. One girl, on the larger side, gave me a look like I had asked her to smell my shoes after the two hour hike we had just taken. “Oh, so do you just hate fat people?” she asked, laughing to try to make it sound like a joke.

That thought had never crossed my mind. Do people think I’m discriminating people that have a few extra pounds? Because I’m not! Some of the nicest people I know aren’t small, and I don’t care.  “No! I just felt uncomfortable, and I wanted to wear my old clothes again,” I told everyone. Now, as I walked the cook’s dog or did ab work on my breaks, I had this fear that not only were skinny people judging me for still being big, but now bigger people were looking at me thinking I can’t stand them for how they look. 

Every workout, every healthy choice, it wasn’t and isn’t because I hate overweight people or even myself. It’s because I miss feeling lighter, healthier, and strong. It’s something I want, not something that I’m forced to do. If I hate the way I feel, then I have every right to change.

That is why I haven’t stopped. I workout every day, whether it’s zumba at eight in the morning, or personal fitness instruction in Angela. I can see the improvement; I started crying on September 13, when I took a chance and tried on my old jeans and some fit. My confidence is still changing. When I first got here, my face hurt from smiling at all the girls who came up to me and congratulated me and told me how great I look. Though, there are times when I still get frustrated that I’m not back to the way I used to be, like when I wonder why I’m only fitting into the handful of my old jeans that are a size 9 instead of the ones that are a size 6. But, I’m starting to see the beauty that I’ve been missing for a year. It’s in smile, it’s in my attitude, it’s in the spring in my step that I have because I feel this freedom I haven’t had in months.

So, if you want to change, girl, you can change. If you don’t feel right with your weight, your friends, your style, an addiction to something, whatever you feel is holding you back, you work until you feel that happiness, that beauty that feels right to you. I’m not saying it’ll be easy, that no one will tell you, “You’re beautiful the way you are”, or wave temptation in your face. What I can tell you, is that you’re not alone, that there’s someone out there that knows how difficult it is to ignore what everyone tells you, and do what you think is best for you; but, there’s no better feeling than that lightness that comes with making yourself happy from the right choices. I wish you all the luck, strength, happiness, and beauty in the world. 

Sincerely,

The Girl Who Lost All The Weight

Photos provided by the author

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