Getting hot after having an eating disorder is weird. What’s even weirder is when it happens in your late twenties AFTER you’ve had two kids. The imposter syndrome of living in your dream body and still not feeling good enough because there has to be something wrong with you.
As a kid, I watched a lot of TLC. While my peers were watching Spongebob Squarepants, I was binging shows like Clean House, What Not to Wear, and How Do I Look. But my real favourite was The Biggest Loser. I was captivated by the transformation stories, the rigorous training programs, and the emotional reunions with family members, so wowed by the “new person” during the big reveal. Being the best at looking good became an obsession of mine.
From the 6th grade, when I got my first period, I was more terrified of the concept of gaining curves than I was about accidental blood stains. My, mostly white, friends had started to get boobs, they had more hips and ass than I had — but I was scared of curvy and they were too. So we starved ourselves, we vomited what we did eat. I knew what it took to be the biggest loser, and I would beat everyone.
As I entered my late teens and early twenties, I found myself at my heaviest weight ever. I rarely shared pictures beyond my face, and when I did, it was only the ones I took because I loathed how I appeared when others captured me. I couldn’t bear to see myself through their eyes — as someone huge. There’s a mindset that comes with being a larger girl, I understood that I couldn’t rely solely on my looks for people to like me. So, I developed a vibrant personality, filled with humour. I proclaimed how cool, hot, and “a vibe” I was before anyone had the chance to disagree. But deep down, I hated facing my reflection in the mirror; I dreaded shopping for clothes, fearing I had gone up a size, or three, with nothing to wear.
When I fell pregnant with my son, I struggled with the surreal experience of grappling with an eating disorder while expecting a child. It was a paradoxical ordeal — I was gaining weight because I was nurturing a life, not because I was getting fat. I hated the morning sickness but prayed it wouldn’t go away because I lost 15kg in my first trimester from puking everything up and I looked “hot”. After my daughter’s birth and during the lockdown, I regained all the weight I had lost, and then some.
At 23 years old, as a newly single mother of two, weighing 93 kilograms was not acceptable to me. Inspired by binge-watching Revenge Body, I decided to hire a personal trainer and become the star of my own transformation story. I vividly recall telling a friend that my goal was 75 kilograms, and she deemed it ambitious. Ten months later, I found myself weighing 64 kilograms on a good day. I had lost the weight and was beginning to look good. However, that’s when the fear crept in. What if I regressed? What if people discovered I used to be larger? What if my new, slender appearance was merely a facade, and I had to work excessively to maintain it? So, I decided to show my past self to the world — the girl I still identified with.
Recently, something shifted within me. Body dysmorphia is a peculiar experience. For the first time in almost 16 years, I gaze into the mirror and genuinely love the reflection staring back at me. As a woman, especially as a black woman, we’re conditioned to believe that something is inherently wrong with us. Our noses are deemed too wide, lips too big, skin too dark, hair too curly, and our bodies too curvy — or not curvy enough. Embracing my own reflection in the mirror feels like an act of rebellion. In my mind, I’m still the girl in the pictures from three years ago — 30-something kilograms heavier, battling depression, and feeling lost. Yet, now people take pictures of me, and it’s surreal. Yes, the person in those images is undeniably beautiful, but it can’t possibly be me. My body isn’t that one. My skin isn’t that one. I’m not that woman. She’s the type of person whose posts I would save on Instagram for inspiration. But now, I’ve become her?
The thing is, it’s incredibly exciting. It’s amazing to finally feel attractive and to acknowledge it, as well as to share it. However, I’m not entirely that girl anymore. There’s a disconnection between my mind and my body. Yes, I have a hot girl body, but my mindset still occasionally reverts to that of an insecure girl.
Except, I’m not.
I’m confident and sharing my journey. Yet, in the era of influencer culture, it feels increasingly superficial to share mirror selfies/body pics/workout videos. But in reality, it’s about appreciating and embracing my appearance. Of course, there are areas I want to work on, but it’s simply part of the process.
I’m content, healthy, and focused on creating a life I love as a twenty-something mother of two. It’s an amazing place to be, and I wish you all could experience it, so I’m sharing it here.
