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For much of my life, my relationship with my body has been a relentless struggle. It’s a battle that has played out behind closed doors, in front of mirrors, and in the quiet moments when I’m alone with my thoughts. This isn’t a story of triumph—at least not yet. It’s a story of an ongoing war, one that has left me bruised, exhausted, and, at times, hopeless.

Over 15 years ago, I wrote something that encapsulates this struggle perfectly:

“I look in the mirror, and all I see is a fat girl staring back at me!”

This one sentence defines me best. I don’t see big blue eyes or the pretty smile everyone tells me they see. I don’t notice the perfect curls or even my “award-winning personality.” All I see is a fat girl who is tired of being fat. Yeah, I know—if you’re unhappy with your body, do something about it. Famous last words from someone who isn’t in this body.

This body has traveled through hell and back. Some of the hell, I’ve caused myself. Some was due to the actions of others. However, in the end, I allowed those people into my life. Which means even the hell they brought into my life was technically my fault. No one wants to admit that. It’s easier to blame someone else than to admit that, because of our own selfish or stubborn reasons, we let a toxic individual into our life. With that being said, back to the fat girl I see every day.

When we find ourselves lost (and lost is the word I will focus on for now), we tend to find comfort in food. At least I have. This is where my story will begin. Sort of.

I was the youngest of three, almost like an only child since my siblings were married and starting families by the time I was born. I could lie and say I had a terrible childhood, but I can’t. To be honest, I don’t know if it was good or bad. I’ve blocked out most of my childhood. Only vague memories remain. But it’s okay. I’m not looking for sympathy. It’s just part of this fat girl’s journey.

I haven’t always been fat. I was once too skinny, or so I was told. I moved from one small town to another the summer between 8th and 9th grade. Small town #1 saw me as me. Maybe some saw me as poor, but I hid that pretty well. Small town #2 was brutal. There were days I wanted to crawl under a rock and never come out. People never had anything nice to say (unless they were boys looking for a hookup). Now that I look back, no wonder I have crappy self-esteem! Thanks, high school! You were my true beginning. From being told, “You have big eyes,” and “I can see the veins in your eyelids,” to “You have bird legs,” and “Are you anorexic?” Ha, “You are way too skinny.” And the famous, “Didn’t you already wear that twice this week?” These are just a few of the things I remember. This all may seem unimportant to you, but to a freshman, it was huge. Especially when I had a bad case of chickenpox and had to get glasses that same year. Being talked about and picked on was just the beginning.

People wonder why teens battle suicidal thoughts. Trust me, it starts with little comments like the ones I mentioned. Not everyone in high school talked crap to me, but those select few who did, I allowed to take up space in my head and left them there for years.

These words from my past still resonate with me today. Even now, the struggle with body image persists, and it’s just as consuming as it was back then. I’m still fighting to see anything other than that “fat girl” staring back at me. Every glance in the mirror seems to confirm what I feared most: that I wasn’t enough. Not thin enough, not toned enough, not attractive enough. These thoughts have followed me like a shadow, darkening even the brightest of days.

Dieting and exercise became tools of punishment rather than care. I would push myself to the limit, not out of a desire to be healthy, but out of a desperate need to mold my body into something more acceptable. But no matter how hard I tried, I could never reach the ideal I had in my mind. Instead of feeling better, I felt worse—physically exhausted and emotionally drained, yet still unsatisfied with what I saw in the mirror.

The impact of this struggle isn’t just skin-deep; it has permeated every aspect of my life. There have been days when I’ve avoided social situations, too ashamed to let others see me as I am. There have been moments when I’ve turned down opportunities because I felt undeserving or unworthy due to how I looked. The negative thoughts about my body have seeped into my mind, convincing me that I’m less than, simply because I don’t fit a certain mold.

This is where I am now. I wish I could say that I’ve found the light at the end of the tunnel, that I’ve discovered the key to self-acceptance and body positivity. But the truth is, I’m still in the midst of the battle. Every day is a challenge, and while there are small victories, they often feel overshadowed by the ongoing struggle. It’s hard to see the positives when the negatives seem so overwhelming.

So, this blog isn’t about finding a silver lining. It’s about being honest with where I’m at—acknowledging that this is a fight I’m still fighting, and some days are better than others. I’m not here to offer solutions or quick fixes because I don’t have them. All I can do is share my experience and let others know that if they’re struggling too, they’re not alone.

Maybe one day I’ll be able to look back on this struggle with a sense of accomplishment, but today is not that day. Today, I’m just trying to get through it, one step at a time.