This Body Wasn’t the Goal — It Was Just a Byproduct
A Fried Egg Toast Reflection on Body Image, Aunties, and Postponed Joy (ft. Ribs, Crop Tops, and a Spiralling Sense of Self)
🥚 The Health Glow-Up I Didn’t Plan For
So apparently, I lost a lot of weight.
Not on purpose. Not because I signed up for a six-week shred or followed a wellness influencer who drinks celery for breakfast.
It just… happened.
I corrected my iron deficiency. Cut gluten and dairy because my body staged a quiet rebellion. Started hitting 10,000 steps a day out of sheer stubbornness and boredom.
There was no plan. No before photo. No dramatic music montage.
I just wanted to feel less like a soggy tissue and more like a functioning human.
But while I was over here celebrating my ability to stand up without blacking out, the world around me was like:
“WOW. You look SO GOOD now.”
And I spiralled.
🧅 Compliments That Feel Like Slaps
You’d think a compliment would feel nice.
And yeah, sometimes it does. For half a second.
Then it feels like a slap to the face. Not a big dramatic slap — more like a little passive-aggressive one. The kind your auntie might deliver with a smile.
Because when people say,
“You’re so much prettier now,”
what I hear is:
“You weren’t before.”
“This version of you is better.”
“We prefer you like this — less of you.”
Which… ouch.
I liked old me.
She was squishy and snacky and didn’t overthink cereal.
She wore soft clothes and ate second servings and had great cheeks for selfies.
She was not a “before.”
She was a person. A good one.
And now I feel like I’m stuck between gratitude for the praise and rage on behalf of the girl who didn’t get it.
👗 I Thought Skinny Me Would Be Stylish. She’s Just Cold.
Let’s talk about clothes for a second.
I always thought once I lost weight, I’d finally wear all the pretty stuff. The slinky tops. The strappy dresses. The effortlessly cute “I-just-threw-this-on” outfits.
Plot twist: I can’t throw anything on.
The tops don’t fit right anymore — they’re too loose in the wrong places, too tight in the others.
I live in fear of my noobs slipping out during casual conversation.
And now that I can see my ribs? It’s giving donation campaign aesthetic, not runway-ready chic.
Also, real talk:
If I lost weight and still can’t wear what I want, who actually gets to wear the cute stuff?
Is there a secret size where fashion becomes fun again?
Because I’m starting to think it’s all a scam — one big elaborate performance that says “joy comes later” but never delivers.
🌀 Internal Monologue Spiral: Season 7, Episode 3
At one point I stood in front of the mirror trying to figure out if this dress made me look “too skinny” now —
and suddenly I was spiralling.
Am I vain?
Or just confused?
Or iron-deficient again?
Should I be grateful? Or mildly offended?
Do I like how I look?
Or do I like that people like how I look?
Is this health?
Or is it just thinness with better PR?
I don’t know.
And honestly, I don’t trust anyone who pretends they do.
🧡 A Little Note to My Friends (Yes, You)
Also — to my friends.
The ones I love with my long black filled heart.
You, who say:
“I have to be good today.”
“I can’t have dessert.”
“I’ll wear that when I lose a little weight.”
“I don’t deserve this yet.”
Every time I hear it, I cry a little bit inside.
Not dramatically. Just a quiet ache. A tiny internal scream.
Because to me? You’re already radiant.
You’re a walking Pinterest board of brilliance. You’re hot in trackies. You are SO much more than the number on a tag or a takeaway container.
And I hate that someone taught you to delay your own happiness.
That somewhere along the way, you were told joy is something you have to earn.
You don’t.
You don’t need to shrink to wear the dress.
You don’t need to wait to take the photo.
You don’t need to suffer to feel worthy.
You’re not a “before.”
You are right now.
And you are magnificent.
Please eat the cake. Please wear the outfit. Please don’t wait to live.
🍳 The Toasted Truth
So yes. I lost weight.
But this body? It wasn’t the prize. It was a plot twist.
The win wasn’t the mirror. It was being able to walk up stairs without blacking out.
It was laughing again. Sleeping better. Dancing in my kitchen.
Old me deserved praise too.
Not because of how she looked — but because she survived.
So this is my awkward, uncoordinated love letter to all the versions of me — and to you.
We are allowed to exist. To eat. To wear things.
We don’t need to wait until we’re “better.”
The better version isn’t smaller.
It’s the one who knows they’re enough.
🥚 Fried Egg Out.
(Slightly undercooked, mildly spiralling, always snacky.)
