How I Stopped Letting My Weight Define Me
A number does not speak to who you truly are
Over the past eight years, my weight has fluctuated within a range of 40 pounds: I gained and lost the “freshman 15” during college, shed an exorbitant amount due to an eating disorder in graduate school, and have now gained back all of that, plus a fair amount more.
Now at the heaviest weight of my life, I couldn’t be more proud, healthy or happy.
Absorbed in a culture fixated on body size and shape, the number on the scale used to define who I was as a person. Watching it decrease meant I was a “good,” likable person, but watching it rise — no matter if that meant one, five or twenty pounds — meant I was out of control, disgusting and shameful.
When I think about why that number weighed so heavily on me, I realize it’s rooted in societal weight stigma. Being potentially labeled “fat” was emotionally intolerable to me, as it is for many, because of the connotation that those who inhabit bigger bodies are lazy and unsuccessful.
It also stemmed from the ubiquitous “weight talk” my friends and family members engaged in on a regular basis. My loved ones emotionally bonded by collectively fat-shaming their bodies, pinching the unwanted flesh, and sharing the latest cleanses or diets they were using to lose weight.
All of these messages, especially those from my friends and family, led me to fear becoming fat.
On the other side of fat-phobia is the glorification of thin bodies.
We gravitate towards people in smaller bodies. Many of us hold the unconscious bias that a thinner person most likely takes care of their health and is therefore successful, well-liked, intelligent, and inherently “good.”
As the daughter of a former bodybuilder, I spent years watching my father and countless strangers push their bodies to the limits to achieve the leanest possible physique. These athletes are often glorified as health and fitness role models for their dedication to extreme diets, exercise routines, and low body fat percentages. When I was in my early twenties, I idolized female bikini competitors and linked their thinness to their beauty, success, and popularity — all things I desperately wanted myself.
Mainstream media glorifies thin people by featuring them in their ads and shows, especially when that person is portraying a high-paid professional such as a doctor or lawyer, or when the ad features a status symbol such as expensive clothing or cars.
Basic commodities are also made for people in smaller bodies, like airplane seats and amusement park rides. Most of what we purchase, from non-fat, low-carb, sugar-free this to size double zero that, constantly bombards us with the idea that we need to change our bodies and lose weight to find health and happiness.
These ubiquitous messages, products, and size limitations cause many people to develop extreme anxiety, guilt, and shame surrounding their weight and bodies to the point that they begin to identify with the disgraceful number on the scale.
Like those people, I let that number control my life, and in turn, my mental health took a nosedive.
When I gained weight during my freshman year, the new, higher number on the scale told me I lacked discipline and was gross.
But when I lost a great deal of weight to my eating disorder and people started asking for my “secrets” to lose weight and look “toned,” I was on top of the world.
That tiny number on the scale was a status symbol I was proud of. The extremely thin, frail body I inhabited represented success, control, and health, and so my successful weight loss — the same goal of millions of people around the world — positively defined me.
It nearly took me a year to wake up from this illusion and recognize that by manipulating my food, over-exercising, and fixating on the “thin ideal,” I was both killing myself and losing all sense of who I was.
Through difficult, continued work with a therapist and dietician, I’ve destroyed the power of the scale, redefined my worth, and embraced weight gain.
Here’s how.
1. I read the research
I’m a scientist by training, so when my dietician told me that weight is not an indicator of physical health, I went searching for the research that proved it.
Many studies have shown that body weight and body mass index (BMI) are poor predictors of disease and life span. There’s also extensive evidence to suggest that being slightly “underweight” is more troublesome than excessively “overweight.” One study on more than 40,000 people found that nearly half of participants categorized as overweight were cardiometabolically healthy, while 30% of those within the “normal” BMI range were not.
Not to mention that the BMI scale was created in the early 19th century by a mathematician — not a physician — who believed in the idea of an “average man” and conducted the majority of his studies in White men.
By simply dividing a person’s weight by their height squared, the 200-year-old BMI formula ignores the relative proportions of bone, muscle and fat in the body that can have a huge effect on weight and overall health. And because the formula is based on observations and measurements in White men, it ignores the vast racial, ethnic, and gender differences that influence body shape and size, as well as those which predispose certain populations to disease.
Once I saw the evidence that the number on the scale didn’t predict morbidity or mortality, I was able to uncouple my weight from my physical health.
2. I ditched the scale
Like many, I grew up with a scale in my home. I remember sneaking into my parents’ bathroom when they weren’t home to check my weight and ensure it was “acceptable” by society’s standards.
In high school, my springboard diving coach closely monitored our weight. He praised those of us for maintaining our spaghetti-thin figures and would shame our teammates who were anything larger.
When I got to college, I started weighing myself at our campus gym because by that point, I recognized that it was normal — almost essential — to be hyperaware of one’s weight. What started as a seemingly benign monthly weight check turned into weekly, daily, and then twice daily steps on the scale amid my eating disorder.
I had become obsessed with the number.
Because my weight was something I could control through food and exercise, watching it decrease week after week gave me a sense of euphoria and pride. By pacifying my underlying mental health distress, stepping on the scale allowed me to forget about all the uncomfortable feelings that truly plagued me, like my inadequacies as a graduate student and my debilitating fear of the unknown.
During recovery from my mental illness, my treatment team forbid me from stepping on the scale alone and even instructed me to turn away from seeing the number at the doctor’s office. Because my obsession could no longer serve as a pacifier for my mental health problems, I was forced to face my uncomfortable feelings in therapy and develop health coping mechanisms.
Letting go of the scale was hard. Early on in my recovery, I felt compelled to step on the scale, craving the validation the number would give me. But as I developed healthy coping mechanisms and processed years of suppressed experiences, I no longer needed to use my weight as an anesthetic for my problems.
3. I emotionally detached from the number and redefined my worth
During the depths of my eating disorder, I had become terrified of the literal digits displayed on the scale. Seeing even one-pound increase caused me to panic, but watching five, ten, twenty pounds decrease gave me a euphoric-like high.
In the early days of recovery, hearing my dietician suggest a number that represented the absolute lowest boundary for my “goal” recovery weight instigated an emotional breakdown. As a 23-year-old woman, I sobbed and shook at hearing that specific number — a number that I weighed as a 14-year-old.
I thought that by increasing my weight, I would become a person who was no longer admired by others, seen as “perfect,” or loved by my friends and family. I thought a higher number meant I would no longer be successful in my career or accepted by society. I was terrified of embodying a bigger number because I didn’t want to become that target of societal weight stigma.
I had to put in a lot of work in therapy to desensitize myself to all numbers that we fixate on as a society — weight, BMI, calories, grams of fat, clothing sizes, and so on. I had to learn that the number on the scale did not define who I was as a person, nor did it speak to my health status.
Through therapy, I unpacked years of weight-centric messaging and the need for validation that linked the number on the scale to my identity as a person. Only then was I finally able to emotionally detach from my weight and begin to identify with the person I wanted the world to see?
Instead of letting pounds speak to who I am as a person, I now let my character and how I show up for myself and others define my worth.
4. I listened to my body and observed the myriad of benefits a higher weight brought me
As I started to relinquish the power of the number on the scale and allowed myself to recover from my eating disorder, I embraced the philosophy of intuitive eating.
Intuitive eating focuses on using the mind-body connection to regulate what, how much, and when someone should eat. Once I started truly listening to my body, feeding it what it desperately needed, and choosing forms of exercise that supported my mental and physical health, I naturally gained the weight my body so desperately needed to properly function.
At first, the weight gain was hard to accept because of societal weight stigma and my fears of being labeled as “lazy” or “out-of-control”. To find peace with my changing body, I shifted my focus away from the increasing number and instead concentrated on the benefits that it brought to my life:
I was getting nine hours of sleep each night.
I no longer felt physically frail and weak, and my joints didn’t ache anymore.
My blood work, particularly my reproductive hormones, showed signs of improvement.
I began to enjoy time with my partner again.
I found joy in group activities and spending time with friends.
I developed a passion for yoga and have since embarked on a journey to become a yoga teacher.
I had a healthier vision of my career future — one that didn’t necessarily live up to others’ expectations.
I embraced my flaws and no longer felt the need to hide them from others.
Most importantly, I was able to detach my weight from my identity and instead let my character and passions define who I was.
Three months ago — nearly two years since being in the depths of my mental illness — I felt comfortable to objectively look at my weight at the doctor’s office.
When the largest number I’ve ever seen in my life stared back at me, tears welled up in my eyes.
The emotions didn’t stem from feeling embarrassed, mortified, or ashamed, but they instead represented joy, pride, and contentment. That higher number failed to hold a single negative connotation, but instead signified my transformation towards becoming the happiest, healthiest, truest version of myself who couldn’t give a damn about what the scale says.
Will I be free from the emotional grip of the scale for the rest of my life?
No, I don’t believe it’s entirely possible, especially since I still live in a society riddled with diet culture and weight stigma, as well as have a history of disordered eating.
So when those feelings do come up and I notice that I’m beginning to attach my worth to my body weight, size or shape, I’ll remember the process that enabled me to denounce its power and embrace the multitude of aspects of my character that makes me a person my younger self would be proud of.
