The menus hadn’t even been folded shut before the words escaped my mouth—I ordered a salad, quickly and almost defensively. It was a small piece of theater meant to deflect attention, a flimsy disguise to convince my friends that I was someone who made careful, reasonable choices. As if a dish piled with lettuce and a few slices of cucumber could erase the evidence of my midnight raids on the refrigerator or conceal the cycle of shame and comfort that defined those late-night binges. Beneath the friendly chatter and casual laughter, I silently tried to construct a version of myself I hoped others would see. Yet, deep down, I already recognized the futility of that effort. The only person deceived by the act—the only one willing to believe in the mirage—was me.
When I was sixteen, roughly four years ago, I stood at a height of five foot nine and carried more weight than my frame could manage—over one hundred and twenty pounds beyond what medical charts deemed healthy. But the heaviness I felt didn’t reside solely in my body; it inhabited my mind and clung to every insecurity that shaped my daily existence. Weighing over three hundred pounds became the unspoken yet omnipresent fact that entered the room before I did, a silent announcement that preceded every introduction, conversation, and glance. On most days, I felt less like a person and more like the proverbial elephant itself—large, conspicuous, and painfully aware of occupying too much space in a world that prized invisibly perfect silhouettes.
I distinctly remember sitting across from doctors whose faces carried practiced neutrality as they recited numbers, terms, and charts. My body mass index was too high, they would explain in careful, clinical tones. Yet their words, delivered with clinical detachment, missed the daily weight of what I experienced. The reality of living in my body was far more intimate and immediate than any chart could express. Every decision I made seemed to orbit around the desperate need to minimize my presence—to shrink myself in both body and spirit. At restaurants, I would order something small and push it around my plate to appear disciplined. I ducked out of group photos before the shutter clicked, pretending to be busy or distracted. I grew hesitant to raise my hand in class or to join a conversation, worried that attention of any kind might expose the body I was constantly trying to hide.
The fatigue was constant—physical, yes, but also emotional. I was tired of feeling uncomfortable in my own skin, tired of pretending not to care, yet the thought of changing felt like facing an impossible mountain. I would promise myself that things would be different later, that once I got to college, I would finally transform into someone freer, lighter, and more confident.
When I arrived at the University of Massachusetts Dartmouth, brimming with the hope of a new beginning, reality struck with quiet but undeniable force. Though I stood on new soil and met new faces, I carried the same burdensome weight—literal and emotional. The same insecurities that had followed me through high school clung stubbornly on. As I watched new classmates discover their independence with enthusiasm—joining clubs, exploring the campus, building identities unburdened by the past—I realized that if I truly wanted to seize this opportunity for reinvention, I could no longer continue living under the shadow of my own self-doubt. In that moment of clarity, I confronted an uncomfortable but empowering truth: change could only begin when I alone decided it was time. No one could rewrite this story for me.
The transformation that followed was hardly graceful. It was a process defined by experimentation and error—an endless cycle of trying, stumbling, and recalibrating. I began to research nutrition and basic exercise routines, sifting through conflicting advice and learning slowly how to listen to my own body. I eliminated the habit of taking seconds at meals, traded sugary sodas for cold water, and reminded myself daily that short-term indulgence—a slice of cake or an extra handful of fries—was often at odds with the long-term version of myself that I wanted to meet. The early stages were demoralizing. Each small slip felt like proof of my failure, each setback an argument against my ability to maintain discipline. Some of those failures occurred quietly, in isolation, but gradually, every time I chose to start again instead of surrendering, a tiny fragment of belief began to form. I learned that resilience is built not through perfection, but through the simple act of consistently returning to one’s purpose.
Over time, I began to notice changes—not the dramatic kind that belong in before-and-after photos, but subtler shifts that signaled a deeper transformation. My cravings grew less insistent, my daily routines steadied, and I found comfort in the structure I once resisted. I grew more confident in moments that used to terrify me: walking into a cafeteria without rehearsing where to sit, speaking up in class, or catching my reflection without immediately averting my eyes. I also began to understand that progress was not a tidy, upward trajectory. It curved, faltered, and sometimes seemed to reverse altogether. The real test wasn’t whether I could lose weight quickly, but whether I could persevere when no one was watching—when the only motivation came from inside.
Success, I discovered, did not announce itself in a single triumphant moment or display itself as a precise number on a scale. Instead, it appeared in quieter, more meaningful victories. It was realizing that I could walk across campus without losing my breath or the familiar ache in my knees. It was joining a group discussion without worrying about judgment. It was glancing in the mirror and, for the first time in a long while, recognizing a person who deserved kindness as much as discipline. These changes did not happen overnight, but each built upon the other until the life I had longed for no longer felt distant or impossible—it simply felt mine.
The endurance, patience, and focus I cultivated throughout this process soon spilled into other parts of my life. They became the foundation upon which my college experience now rests. Managing heavy coursework, adjusting to independence, navigating the complexities of friendships and responsibility—all demanded the same persistence and self-awareness that I had first practiced at the dining table. I began approaching late nights of study the way I approached exercise: patiently, one choice and one hour at a time, understanding that steady consistency accomplishes far more than perfection ever could. I learned to identify when I needed to push forward with determination and when to step back to rest, recognizing that both effort and restoration are essential parts of growth.
With my past firmly in view but no longer in control, I’ve come to appreciate the hunger that once consumed me—not for food, but for change, for understanding, for something greater than the comfort I used to find in sweets or silence. That hunger has evolved into curiosity, into a constant desire to learn more about myself and the world around me. The skills, habits, and mindset that I developed through my transformation continue to guide me. They remind me that change, while often uncomfortable, is not something to fear but to embrace. It is a force that shapes us, challenges us, and ultimately molds us into the versions of ourselves we are meant to become. Every hardship, every faltering step, and every renewed effort has strengthened my resolve to keep reaching further, both within and beyond myself.
Sourse: https://www.businessinsider.com/overweight-high-school-lost-hundred-pounds-in-college-2025-12
