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What Happened When I Stopped Stepping on the Weighing Machine
When I stopped measuring my worth by my weight, I finally started living in my body
I used to weigh myself every morning.
Same time, same spot on the bathroom floor, same breath held in like that would somehow change the number blinking back at me.
I’d step on, glance down, and let that number decide how I felt about myself for the rest of the day.
If it was lower than yesterday? Relief. Pride. Permission to eat breakfast.
If it was higher, even by half a pound? Panic. Guilt. Sometimes shame so sharp it made my whole body feel wrong.
It sounds dramatic when I put it like that, but if you’ve lived in a body that’s been policed, judged, or praised based on its size, you probably understand.
That number wasn’t just a number. It was a verdict.
And I didn’t question it for years. I just accepted that tracking my weight was part of being “disciplined.”
I believed it meant I cared. I believed it kept me accountable. I believed that if I just got to the right number, I could finally relax.
Spoiler: I never did.
