Before anything changed on the outside, there was a version of me that carried a lot quietly.
I carried stories about who I thought I was allowed to be. I carried the belief that confidence came later — after weight loss, after “fixing” myself, after becoming someone more acceptable.
What that looked like in real life was waiting. Waiting to feel confident enough. Waiting to wear certain clothes. Waiting to speak up or take up space. I told myself I was being patient, but really, I was postponing my life.
I didn’t always hate my body, but I didn’t trust it either. It felt like something I was constantly managing instead of living in. Even on good days, there was an underlying awareness of my body — how it looked, how it was perceived, how much space it took up — that made it hard to fully relax into life. There were days I avoided mirrors, not out of hatred, but out of exhaustion from thinking about myself at all. I remember standing in front of my closet, choosing outfits not based on what I liked, but on what felt least noticeable.
Somewhere along the way, I learned to shrink parts of myself long before my body ever did. I became skilled at being agreeable, prepared, and “fine.” I don’t think most people knew how much energy that took.
Looking back now, that version of me wasn’t lazy or broken. She wasn’t failing. She was tired. She was trying. She was hopeful, even if she didn’t know how to name it yet.
This post isn’t about shame. It’s about honoring where I was rooted — because without that foundation, there wouldn’t be anything to rise from.
Writing this now, I feel a deep sense of compassion for who I was. She didn’t know what was coming, but she kept showing up anyway. And that matters.