CW: This post includes mentions of weight loss and assorted body stuff
Earlier this week, I stepped on the scale and saw a number that I haven’t seen in a long time.
I stared at the digital display until the tiny screen flickered back to black. I kept waiting to feel something but mostly all my feelings were decidedly external: the awareness of the cold basement air on my legs, the time on the clock that reminded me that I needed to start hustling to get ready for work, and a brief flicker of mild irritation that, once again, one of the children has combed their hair in the shower and left the stray curls on the shower wall.
I weighed myself today because I have an upcoming video doctor appointment and they asked me to update my weight in my online chart. While there are perfectly valid reasons why some people, especially people in larger bodies like mine, choose to opt out of weighing themselves (even or especially for medical appointments), I’ve never stopped weighing myself, even as I’ve worked hard to intentionally opt out of the pursuit of intentional weight loss. In fact, my ability to weigh myself (and how I respond to that information) has actually been one of my own measure of progress for how I’ve healed my own relationship to my body.
Like many a good girl who had internalized the messages that smaller is always better, I used to weigh myself obsessively. I’d weigh myself multiple times a day, constantly relying on the scale to tell me how much I should hate myself on any given day. I gained weight, I lost weight, I gained more weight back, I lost some of the weight, I gained it back… I was, though I didn’t quite know it at the time, the living embodiment of the consensus of scientific literature about weight loss outcomes. Diets don’t lead to long term weight loss, losing weight is a strong predictor of future weight gain, our bodies yearn for homeostasis, so there is a set point weight that my body will likely return to.
As I moved from my 20s to my 30s to my 40s, I also recovered from an eating disorder, had babies and got diagnosed with PCOS. I also finally fully accepted that I’m always going to live in a larger body and that I’m never going to diet again, so my perspective on taking care of my body shifted from one that prioritized health as measured by my weight to a personal model of health that focused on how to keep myself strong and flexible and with a healthy heart and lungs.
(This is, of course, always a work in progress and also deeply individual. I’m not in charge of anyone else’s body or how they feel about it.)
For the last five years or so, my weight has basically stayed within a 5-7 pound range. There was something kind of comforting about realizing that my weight actually didn’t changed even as I trained for triathlons or got very into my Peloton1 and settled into a super consistent five days a week workout habit. It also didn’t change much when I self-medicated with candy during the early days of the pandemic or when I decided to be more intentional about how much protein I was eating. My weight was just … there.
The number on the scale has finally switched from a barometer of my worth to just a data point, like knowing my shoe size.
And when my doctor would ask if I was having “healthy habits”, I could truthfully say yes, no matter what that number was. I exercise all the time, I’ve never smoked, I drink once or twice a year, I eat fruit and veggies every day, I mostly felt like I was taking good care of myself.
This isn’t to say that I didn’t have gripes about my body sometimes. PCOS is frustrating. I’ve been trying to recover from an overuse injury in my shoulder for months now and my back gets feisty with me if I don’t move every day. I wish I didn’t grind my teeth. Perimenopause is a whole thing.
I didn’t plan to lose weight. I didn’t think I would ever really lose weight again, to be honest.
And yet the scale this morning told me that I’ve lost just over 11% of my body weight since August.
Part of my weight loss was from my breast reduction surgery. The surgery removed well over five pounds of tissue, more permanently than any diet ever could. There is also some evidence that suggests that for larger bodied people, additional weight loss following breast reduction isn’t uncommon. While some might assume that this is because people are able to exercise more once they have more manageable breasts (which might be true for some people, but isn’t the case for me), there is interesting science that breast reduction surgery has hormonal impacts like increasing insulin sensitivity and reducing leptin levels2 , which can have an impact on people like me who have PCOS.
Part of my weight loss is, I suspect, from a loss of muscle mass. Between the surgery, a bout with COVID, and the ongoing shoulder issue, I haven’t done much strength training since August. I’m not as strong as I was before the surgery and I’m not excited about that.
Part of the weight loss is also due to a more aggressive treatment approach my doctor has taken for the PCOS, trying a couple of medications to get me ovulating more and to keep my A1C levels in check. I’ve resisted medication for years (I think I read one too many horror stories about people on Metformin pooping their pants) but agreed to try because my doctor thought it would reduce my odds for surgical complications when I was recovering last fall.
I’m proud to say that I have not pooped my pants. In diet culture parlance, I think we call that a “non-scale victory”
It is a very odd thing to have kind of casually lost an amount of weight that an earlier version of myself would have only thought was possible through obsessive calorie restriction and a healthy dose of self-hatred. For most of my life, weight loss was an accomplishment, a hard fought victory.
It is also an odd, but also sort of comforting, thing to realize that losing this weight has resulted in zero improvements in my quality of life and in my own perceptions of my health.
According to both credible and questionable sources on the internet, when a fat person loses 10% of their body weight, a whole host of good things are supposed to happen: better blood pressure, better cholesterol levels, reduced diabetes risk, higher self-esteem, lowered levels of depression, improved mobility and sleep quality, and even increased sexual function.
I am hopeful about the reduced diabetes risk, as PCOS does increase my risk of diabetes and my A1C level was slowly creeping up to the high side of normal. According to my most recent blood work, that number has dropped back down in to the middle of normal range, but I’m not sure if the “credit” for that goes to the weight loss or the medication that is designed to help my A1C. I’m also ovulating more3, so that’s good in terms of reducing my risk for ovarian cancer, but, again, I’m not sure the weight loss gets the credit for that.
But all of those other benefits? Not so much.
My blood pressure and cholesterol levels were fine before the weight loss and fine afterwards. My self-esteem was healthy (perhaps obnoxiously so, depending on who you ask) before and continue to be fine afterwards. I persist in thinking I’m a gosh darn delight with strong thighs and pretty eyes. I wasn’t depressed before and I’m not depressed now.
I just simply don’t feel any different now than I did in August4. I wasn’t ashamed about my weight, so I’m not feeling proud about weighing less. I don’t feel like I’ve accomplished something. I haven’t worked hard to make this happen. It just … has.
FWIW, I don’t look any different either. I’m still visibly a fat lady. Most of my clothes still fit, though my underwear is a little baggy (sexy!) and I’m still figuring out my bra size. I’m tall and have always been solid. Even if I continue to lose weight (and I’m not at all sure I will), I can’t imagine a version of myself that would ever be anyone’s version of thin. I can’t even make myself yearn for it anymore.
Some of my ambivalence about all of this may stem from the fact that I’m not convinced that my weight won’t swing back up to where it was. There is some debate about what it takes to change one’s weight set point and I’m not willing to ever engage in calorie restriction again so maybe (probably?) I’ll be back to where I started from eventually. Ultimately, it probably makes some emotional sense to hold this current weight loosely, to not get overly attached to the idea of a new, slightly smaller version of myself.
I have muscle memory of who I used to be. I can almost physically to remember what it would have felt like to be elated about losing weight… but I can also remember the desperation that would hide in that joy. The joy of weight loss never lasted. If I lost five pounds, I’d get mad at myself for not losing six… 10 pounds would be good, 25 would be better. If I think about it for too long, it feels weird not to feel happy about losing weight, my cultural conditioning wants to kick back in.
I’m a person of quick reactions and strong opinions. Ambivalence doesn’t come naturally to me. But, for the moment, I think ambivalent just might be the best place for the 88% of me that remains to land.
I work out now more than I did in my 20s and 30s and I have fallen in love with the way my brain feels when I’m moving regularly.
Leptin is a hormone associated with weight; higher levels are associated with higher body weights.
I do have to say that after years of getting maybe 2-3 periods per year, this new getting a period every month thing feels kind of bullshit. I know it is good for my body but getting double or triple the amount of cramps is real annoying.
With the exception of the benefits of having smaller boobs
Just wanted to leave a note to let you know how deeply I appreciate and feel this. Our bodies. Up and down. Sideways? Changes of intention or invention. Thank you for sharing all of this.
I have PCOS too. My understanding is that when we ovulate it’s a barometer of overall metabolic function. However there is data that shows that stopping ovulation (even for just one year on the pill) lowers the lifetime risk of ovarian cancer greatly. They’re also putting out studies which show that ovarian cancer actually rises from the Fallopian tubes. I want to learn more about this because of possible prophylaxis.
I want to gently suggest you talk to your dentist about teeth grinding. I did a lot of damage leaving that untreated. I had to shell out for orthodontia at 60 to put my teeth back in place. I’ve also cracked teeth and broken fillings from grinding. I’ve just been measured for a night guard. Hopefully that’ll do the job but if not I’ll inquire about Botox into the jaw muscles. One part of taking care of my old lady body is making sure I go into senior years with the best possible mouth!