The Weight of Survival

I’ve been feeling a bit insecure about my weight lately.

If I’m honest, I’m probably 10 to 15 kilos over where I’d like to be. But I’m still fit. I’m still healthy. I still move my body with ease. There’s just… a softness to me now. A physical underbelly that mirrors, in many ways, the emotional softness I’ve had to grow into.

And I can’t pretend this weight just appeared without reason. I know why it’s here.

I needed comfort.
I needed something to hold me when life felt heavy, and lonely, and unspoken.
And food—predictable, soothing, easy—stepped in where no one else did.

It worked.
Not perfectly. But it worked.

And now I’m here. With a body that tells a story not just of meals eaten, but of a nervous system that was trying to regulate. Of nights I spent trying to feel safe. Of moments when isolation made me reach for something warm, something that never judged me.

So is it my fault?

Is it the food’s fault?

Or is it the fault of being born into a world that never really accepted me the way I needed it to?

I don’t know.
But what I do know is this:

This isn’t weakness.
This isn’t laziness.
This is survival.
This weight is part of how I got through.

And now, things are shifting. I’m eating healthier food. I’m cooking with care. I’m enjoying being active again. The emotional pull toward food has softened—not because I’m punishing myself, but because I’m finally learning to soothe myself in other ways.

There’s still shame, sure. But there’s also compassion.
A voice that says, “You did what you needed to do. And now, we can choose something new.”

I don’t need to erase this version of myself to move forward.
I just need to love him enough to keep going.

And maybe—just maybe—this softness is something I can carry with tenderness, not shame.

Because this is the weight of survival. And I’m still here.