In college, as a Division I athlete, being in the “best shape” wasn’t a choice — it was an expectation. Weekly weigh-ins. Coaches watching our every move. My body didn’t feel like mine. It felt like a number, a performance, a product.

When my sports career ended, so did my will to keep pushing. I stopped going to the gym, stopped caring about what I ate, and within three years, I had gained 120 pounds. I accepted that I was just going to be “the fat one.” I even let people call me The D.U.F.F. (Dumb, Ugly, Fat Friend).

At 26, I decided to take my life back. My sister and I started the process of weight loss surgery together. We were both approved for gastric bypass. But two months before our surgery date, my sister was murdered.

My heart shattered — but I carried on, determined to honor her memory. I went through with the surgery and lost 150 pounds in a single year.

On the outside, I looked like a new woman. On the inside, the battle raged on:
💎 I still believed I wasn’t skinny enough.
💎 I still worried if I could fit into chairs or booths at restaurants.
💎 I hid under sweatshirts.
💎 I hated the loose skin that reminded me of the body I’d escaped.
💎 And I felt deeply uncomfortable in the bedroom — ashamed to be seen, touched, or desired.

When my girlfriends joked about my breasts, calling them “saggy bags,” I laughed along — but inside, it was humiliating. In 2019, I booked skin removal surgery. I literally had myself cut in half to feel better.

For a while, I felt unstoppable.
But then Covid hit.

I gained 60 pounds back. My drinking spiraled. I cringe when I look at my wedding photos because I see a woman inflamed by alcohol, shame, and self-destruction. My pancreas shut down. I spent five days in the hospital. Doctors told me I was morbidly obese and needed to stop drinking.

So I did. After another family death, sobriety finally stuck.

Even then, the truth was clear: weight loss alone couldn’t heal me. I needed more than smaller jeans or a flatter stomach. I needed forgiveness.

I started therapy. I started medication. And I attended Body Temple.
In that space, I fell in love with my body again — not because of what she looked like, but because of what she survived.

Now, I celebrate the wounds, scars, and silent battles I once hid. I still have days when my inner critic whispers. I still notice the way people treated me differently when I was my heaviest, my smallest, and now. But here’s what I know:

💎 I am enough.
💎 I can take up space.
💎 I’ve lived in many bodies, and every single one was worthy of love.

Body dysmorphia tells us we are never enough.
Healing reminds us that we always were.