My Weight Loss Journey: A Peace Deal with Fat

Losing weight was almost impossible for me in the last few years. This was compounded by negative experiences I've been through such as domestic abuse, stressful court processes, missing some of my family members, dealing with the consequences of my mental health breakdown in 2024; and developing new health conditions, as well as relapsing in panhypopituitarism. I tried many things and nothing seemed to help. Clearly, something was wrong with my metabolism or hormones, perhaps triggered by such a multilateral distress-overload. The hardest part of all was tackling prejudice, ignorance, and stigma. Yet, finally, I am seeing results. You can join me in this journey and story. I'm stepping into something profoundly personal: embarking on yet another weight loss journey. At 35, with a BMI hovering at 59, my self-esteem has plummeted to depths I didn't think possible. I stare in the mirror and see not just extra weight, but a lifetime of unhealed wounds etched into my body and soul. The failures stack like unfiled court papers—diets abandoned mid-week, and promises to myself shattered by sheer exhaustion. Yet, here's the quiet truth: those failures? They're my testament to perseverance. Despite being educated, and wise; I had still remained ignorant about the complexities of nutrition. I am currently reading books on the topic, and it does help to clarify some things on my mind. One thing I have become determined about is: I need to move more. I need to transform the obesogenic environment I've created. I need to reduce sedentary routines. I need to do what I feel least motivated to do, and that is my biggest challenge. Here is a journal entry I made: As I write this, it is 15th October at 6:16 A.M. and I've been trying to fall asleep since midnight. I have been unsuccessful. It's nearly morning now, and I continue to be wide awake. Something was upsetting me. It's true I have gained weight, but it is also true I have improved my diet, and began to move more now that my anaemia is cured. This "something" upset me more than I expected because here I am, unable to sleep, reading a book about nutrition, and have not eaten all day. Moreover, I feel something is wrong with my metabolism, and I have plenty of diagnoses that can certainly support this theory. But let's be clear about the "something" because it is actually a "someone", a consultant anaesthetist surgeon I saw at the outpatients clinic. Now, about this someone... I sensed prejudice in his behaviour, even a trace of contempt perhaps. But maybe I am just too sensitive and vulnerable at the moment to understand, who knows? Normally, I overcome these states, but sometimes – like today – my brain doesn't work as planned. At that time, my self-esteem had never been worse. Nevertheless, despite the avolition, a small, stubborn part of me whispered, "This time, better health is possible". And for that flicker, I'm grateful. 💡 Something I recently learned that motivated me:Fat is not our enemy. Fat is our friend. And like all friendships, we must not abuse it, nor neglect it. Fat is what helps us feel satiety for longer periods, but if over-consumed, it accumulates until morbid symptoms develop. My Feedback to the Clinic I received an SMS with a survey asking for my feedback, and I expressed my experience. This is what I said: "The anaesthetist surgeon who saw me was clearly fat phobic. He barely allowed me to finish my sentences when I tried to explain things about my weight gain, and reduced it all to my not being able to control myself when consuming calories. He also used hate speech, and he said that I 'just ballooned' instead of using professional and empathic language. He duly gave sound professional advice, but due to his manner of speaking at me I felt very upset. My mother attended the appointment and was a witness. There was also a young, beautiful and kind lady doctor in the room, but she gave no input at all. She did not express anything derogatory towards me. Finally, the doctor assumed that due to my mother's strong Latina accent, we were not able to afford the injection, which he recommended. I felt he was making a lot of presumptions, and it seemed he didn't want me to feel hope, and instead wanted me to feel that my obesity is my fault, and that there is something wrong with my executive functions of inhibition and self-control. These seemed like gigantic prejudice-based, discriminatory statements. My mother will be buying me the jab. I remained calm, and only attempted to explain my panhypopituitarism, and how my growth hormone has not been tested, but since this was beyond his scope, he thankfully flagged endocrinology about it.Another thing is that he humiliated me when I said to him that sleeping on the left side is recommended by the sleep society due to issues like acid reflux, among other factors. He antagonised me and said "that's not true at all", which I realised was his ignorance, so I just politely replied "oh"; to prevent provoking him as he was convinced that I was better off without surgery even though I cannot sleep on my left side due to pain in the gallbladder on my right side.We left and we did not give this feedback directly to him, as he was slightly manic, and I decided not to escalate it". When asked what they could have done better, I said: "The doctor could have been kinder and used more appropriate language to address my weight gain, as well as, he could have studied more at university about sleep positions. Maybe he could read more?" Putting things into context... 🌬️ Avolition whispers, "Why bother? Stay in bed, game away the hours." Yet, perseverance isn't a fairy tale—it's the grit that keeps me improving UX quality at 2 a.m., and profiling regularly. This journey's restart feels different because it is, and I've learned to honour small steps as victories. Let's rewind, because you can't understand the impact this had on me without learning about the wreckage that's led me here. My body isn't just a vessel for weight; it's a battlefield scarred by trauma that no calorie counter can erase. Domestic abuse was my uninvited shadow. The perpetrator—a man I trusted—turned love into control, his words carving insecurities deeper than any scale reading. Emotional wounds faded, but the hypervigilance lingered, turning every meal into a potential trigger. Food became my silent rebellion, a way to reclaim agency in a life where choices were stolen. Escaping him meant navigating a labyrinth of stressful court processes just to gain safety. Endless hearings in cold courtrooms, affidavits detailing horrors I relived on paper often left me trembling. I won a non-molestation order after months of dread, but victory tasted like ash. Social problems compounded it all; stigma around my mental health had painted me as a lunatic. The consequences? A shattered professional rhythm; my 18 years of digital systems expertise—honing SEO, UX, and quality improvements for this website—ground to a halt, at least for a while. Furthermore, confidence in my autodidact forensic-psychoanalytic profiling skills evaporated, and my dreams felt harder to manifest. Emerging from that fog, I faced other obstacles. Antipsychotics slowed my metabolism to a crawl, bloating me further while intensifying the avolition. Sleep apnoea stole restful nights, leaving me groggy and craving comfort carbs. Anaemia sapped my energy, turning simple walks into efforts, and now, the relapse in panhypopituitarism has thrown my hormones into chaos—underactive thyroid, adrenal issues, growth hormone deficits making every calorie feel like a sentence. ✍🏼 5th November, 2025: "I'm scared of losing control—it's 18:08, and I haven't eaten a thing all day while stuck in my office.Yesterday, I committed to my night-time tablets at 19:00 sharp, no matter what, so that's locked in. Furthermore, I've got an impromptu plan to steady myself: at that time, I will also sip down a full litre of almond milk to ease the edge. Right now, I'm injecting my third weekly dose of Wegovy, and I've just whipped up an avocado salad—onions, honey, mustard, and lemon as condiments—to stay strong and sidestep any carb or fat temptations. Small steps, breathing through it". I dream big— I am committed to proving that "disability" can be a superpower. Weight loss weaves in: better health means more energy for code, a clearer mind for profiling, a body that carries my ambitions without apology. If I've survived leukaemia, abuse, breakdowns, and hormonal betrayals, I can nurture this body back to ally. Wanna join me? Share your steps—perseverance thrives in solidarity. Here's to us, the imperfect warriors. One breath, one bite, one move at a time. Subscribe to get access Read more of this content when you subscribe today. Log in