Born in the Eyes of Others

                                                     

My body has always been up for discussion. Before I even understood what “overweight” meant, remarks were already flying. Little jabs at family dinners, unsolicited advice, stares when I reached out for a second piece of cake. Early on, the world made it clear: my body was taking up too much space.

In secondary school, I was “the fat one,” “the big one.” Not my name, not my skills, just those words clung to me like wet clothes; uncomfortable, heavy, and impossible to ignore. The relay race was always the worst. I could feel it before it even started, the mockery already brewing, the sideways glances, and the quiet snickers. The sports teacher didn’t say much, but the way he looked at me, half-apologetic, half-annoyed said enough. When the baton finally hit my hand, I ran as if I owed the world proof. But my legs were heavy, my breath already short. I was falling behind. Then it came…The groans, the shouts from my teammates, eyes full of blame like I had ruined something sacred. “Come on!” someone yelled. Another just shook their head. I crossed the line last, lungs on fire, and felt their disappointment wrap around me like a second skin. The word “loser” didn’t need to be said. In daily life, I have always been the friend you could count on in class, who could lend pens, give a sheet of paper or helped catch up when you are sick. But never the kind of friend you want to ask for a bike ride or a talk about makeup in the school hallway. None of them wanted to be associated with “the kind but overweight one”. You quickly learn to be small when you are fat. To be forgotten. To pull in your stomach even if it is useless. To hope to disappear.

Grossophobia doesn’t always wear a sign. Sometimes it slips into a backhanded compliment or a light joke. It creeps into a doctor’s remark that reduces all your ailments to your weight. In a shop where saleswoman who tells you, without even checking, that there is “nothing for you here.” In the unsolicited advice of complete strangers convinced that they know better than you do what your body needs. In the remarks slipped into a family meal with my great parents. After a quick hello my great mother keep saying to me that I look bigger than the other time, or my great father who said to me “you are big” just to hurt me. And it did hurt me a lot more than I was thinking because I was used by other people but by my own family it was a first that I don’t want to experience again.

These psychological violences, accumulated over the years, shaped my perception of myself. I had the idea that my body was a problem that I needed to fix. To be loved, respected or simply to exist without justifying myself, I had to be thin first.

I started dieting at a very young age. Sometimes by choice, often under pressure. Every dietitian had his miracle method, his list of forbidden food, his guilt-ridden speech about my “will.” Hypocaloric diet, hyper-protein, intermittent fasting, detox juices, sugar deprivation… I tried everything, convinced that one day, the right method would turn me into a new version of myself – thinner, more acceptable, more dignified.

Each pound I lost felt like a win, each pound gained felt like a failure. My body became a permanent construction site, a source of shame and frustration. It no longer belonged to me, it was the enemy to be put down.

As if this struggle wasn’t enough, there was the contraceptive pill. This little tablet that was supposed to give me freedom and control turned into a silent trigger for sudden weight gain. All my efforts were wasted because of hormones, and nobody really explained that to me. My body was slipping away again, and with it, the little confidence I had tried to build. Several years have passed since the beginning of this new fight, until the idea of a gastric balloon opens up to me.

I was so tired of being tired that I looked into getting a gastric balloon. Deciding to do it wasn’t a walk in the park, but I felt like I was out of options. I thought it would give me a boost, something to lean on while I got back on track.

The first few months were strange. Hunger, which had always been a faithful companion, was fading. The weight went down, the numbers on the scale became an obsession. Every gram lost was a validation, every gram picked up a disaster. I weighed myself morning, noon and night, trapped in this addiction to numbers, unable to measure my progress otherwise.

But despite this spiral of control, the balloon triggered something else. It allowed me to stop. To ask myself the question I’ve been avoiding for so long: what next? If I can’t fill up with food, what do I really need? This emptiness, I could no longer fill with restriction or weight loss. I needed something else. My body wanted to move. I tried multiple sport that I’ve always wanted to try but I didn’t felt confident enough for them. Then, my dad asked me to come with him at the gym.

That’s how, almost by chance, I walked through the door of a gym. I went there to “optimize” weight loss, to maintain the effect of the balloon. But what I found there went far beyond.

The first few sessions were awkward, uncomfortable. I felt like a stranger in this space where  bodies all seemed more toned, more legitimate than mine. But little by little, through repeated gestures, I felt something change. My body was moving, resisting, progressing.

Every movement became a conversation with this body that I had always despised. He was no longer a shapeless mass to correct – he became a force, an ally. For the first time, I wasn’t fighting my body anymore, I was working with it.

Right there, before my eyes, a new version of myself was taking shape. A me who could lift, hold, breathe harder without apologizing. A woman who was learning to celebrate the power of her muscles rather than focusing on the size of her clothes.

Every drop of sweat was a re-appropriation. Every ache and pain was proof of my resilience. I didn’t train to lose weight anymore. I was training to find out. To prove to my body; and to myself, that we were capable of so much more than we thought.

The scale, however, remained there. Like an old habit, toxic security. After each session, I went up there, hoping to see my effort validated by a number. But one day, after an intense session, I understood. What I felt in my body – this happy fatigue, this quiet pride – was worth far more than any number.

Gradually, Scale lost its power. I learned to measure my victories differently: in my strength, in my breath, in my posture. My body was no longer just a weight. He was my story, my house, my tool.

Today, I no longer seek to disappear or fit in a box. I’m trying to be me, fully. My body is no longer an excuse or a problem to be solved. It is my ally, my witness, my life partner.

Every muscle that emerges, every deep breath, every step forward tells my story. That of a woman who survived mockery, diets and pressure. That of a woman who got up, who learned to look at herself with kindness. That of a woman who understood that her worth does not weigh.

I am that woman. I am taking up space, and I don’t apologize anymore. My body, as it is, is enough. My worth, I carry inside of me. Not on a scale. 

 

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