Have you ever asked yourself, “Do I truly love who I am?” If so, congratulations — you’ve just leveled up to The Midlife Meltdown Stage. Prize: A deep sense of confusion and a sudden, inexplicable urge to buy a €100 face mask.
For most of us, self-love feels less like a warm hug and more like trying to assemble IKEA furniture without instructions. Social media says “just love yourself,” while also gently suggesting you invest in a €90 serum, drink chlorophyll, and surgically alter your face — just a little! So natural!
The Chubby Kid Who Lived
Hi, I’m that kid who always had a snack in one hand and a backup snack smuggled into her pencil case. I wasn’t obese, but I definitely had the body type best described as “a future target for flyers about weight loss programs left mysteriously on the kitchen table by concerned relatives.”
Food was my comfort, my coping mechanism, and also my Saturday morning hobby. My parents, bless them, tried — mostly by doing nothing, and then later panicking and signing me up for diet plans marketed like cults for sad, hungry preteens.
And school? A chaotic blend of questionable fashion choices and overly enthusiastic teachers. But I was cool. Like, genuinely cool. I had the confidence, the comebacks, and the snacks that could start alliances. People didn’t just want to sit with me — they wanted to hang out with me. Or at the very least, borrow my lip gloss.
The College Glow-Up (and Starvation)
Fast forward to college: I lost weight, gained compliments, and became addicted to both. I was slim! I was pretty! I was absolutely starving!
My entire personality was green smoothies and visible collarbones. I would eat one meal a day and call it “clean eating,” when really it was just “disordered eating with better branding.”
People told me I was too thin — and I loved it. Nothing says “healthy mindset” like smiling when someone is concerned about your vitamin deficiency.
Thin, Loved, and Still Not Happy
Then I met my husband. He fell for me when I was at my thinnest and most caffeinated. Back then, I thought I was happy because I had love and I could fit into jeans without crying.
Spoiler alert: I was actually running on compliments and black coffee.
I liked being “pretty”. And I was — until I gained 10 kilos and had a mild-to-moderate identity crisis because my face had the audacity to look… healthy. Like someone who sleeps and eats and maybe enjoys life a little too much.
Pandemic Pounds and Pizza Regret
Then COVID hit, and the world fell apart — so naturally, I responded by emotionally eating like I was training for an Olympic carb-loading event. My husband and I gained weight, stress, and a deep, spiritual connection to Wolt.
Suddenly, I was soft again. Round again. In leggings full-time. And yet, somehow, still deeply lovable.
We decided to start a family. I got pregnant. Then I un-got pregnant (thanks, thyroid), and my body turned into a confusing blend of sadness, hormones, and stubborn belly fat. And yet… he loved me. Like, genuinely. Like, even when I looked like a sentient bean bag chair.
Pregnancy Round Two: Revenge of the Self-Acceptance
During my second pregnancy, I decided to focus on health. Not weight. Not calories. Not the toxic scale that once made me cry because it was “looking at me funny.” Just health.
I walked. I ate. I grew a human. I didn’t gain weight — but more importantly, I didn’t lose my mind. I even let someone take a photo of me on purpose. Growth.
I realized my worth wasn’t tied to my waistline, and if I wanted my kid to grow up with a healthy body image, maybe I needed to fake one until I made it.
I Still Hate Mirrors, But I Like Who I Am
Three years post-baby, I’m still “a little overweight” — which is a polite way of saying I live in fear of dressing rooms but will fight anyone who suggests I go back on Herbalife.
I don’t avoid cameras as much. Still delete photos where I’m not represented the way I see fit. I still wince when someone tags me on Instagram, but I’m working on it. I’m learning that self-love isn’t loud. It doesn’t always look like dancing in your underwear in front of the mirror. Sometimes, it’s just eating the cake without apologizing for it afterward.
And you know what? The people who matter think I’m beautiful. Even when I’m wearing the same sweatpants for the third day and have Pringles dust in my sports bra.
Final Thoughts From a Work in Progress
Next time someone comments on my weight — because someone always does, right between “How’s the baby?” and “Have you tried intermittent fasting?” — I will take a deep breath, smile, and internally tell them to go lovingly step on a LEGO.
My weight doesn’t define me. My joy isn’t a before-and-after photo. And I refuse to spend one more year hating myself over a number on a screen that doesn’t even take muscle into account, thank you very much.
What About You?
Do you love yourself, or are you also just pretending while secretly Googling “how to accept your double chin”? Either way, I see you. I am you.
Self-love is messy. It’s slow. It’s uncomfortable. But it’s also the most badass thing you’ll ever do. So buy the jeans that fit your current body, eat the damn pasta, and remember: you are already enough.
Even if your thighs touch when you walk. Especially if they do.
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