Fat, Flawed, and Unapologetic: Why I’m Done Explaining Myself

I’ve spent a good chunk of my life carrying around other people’s opinions. For a long time, they weren’t wrong—I was a mess, caught up in drugs, lying, doing things I’m not proud of. I was that person people warned you about. I own that. But what people don’t see—what they don’t want to see—is that I’m not the same person now.

Thing is, a lot of people just see your past. They remember the worst version of you and pin it to your chest like a name tag. And if you’re overweight like me, there’s a whole other layer of judgment that comes with it. People treat you different when you’re fat. Some won’t say it out loud, but they look at you and see “lazy,” “gross,” “irresponsible.” Even people who have their own struggles with weight can be the harshest critics—I know, because I used to be one of them.

What nobody wants to admit is that it’s never as simple as “just lose the weight.” That’s like telling someone with an addiction, “just stop.” For years, I wasn’t in a place where I could change. I didn’t even know how. Now, finally, I’m doing the work—taking care of my health, trying to live better. And yeah, I’m proud of that. But the shame doesn’t just disappear, and neither does the judgment. Some people will always see me as I was, not as I am.

And the hardest part is, some of those people are family. People who watched me grow up, who should know better. I had a conversation with my aunt recently that just went off the rails—she listed every mistake I’ve ever made, every way I’ve let her down. And I get it; she’s got her own demons, her own pain she hasn’t dealt with. But it still hurts.

Some days, hope feels like a bad joke. Like, “Hey, maybe tomorrow everyone will finally see the new you!” (Cue laugh track.) But here’s the punchline: sometimes you’ve just gotta be your own damn audience. I’ve learned to clap for myself on the days I get out of bed, on the days I eat something green, on the days I don’t spiral. Progress isn’t pretty. It’s not the before-and-after picture they show on TV. Most days it looks like dragging yourself through the mud and calling it self-care. And that’s okay.

Yeah, there’s pain. There’s regret. Sometimes it feels like the universe is just waiting to drop another piano on my head. But there’s also stubbornness, and a weird kind of hope that refuses to die no matter how many times life tries to kill it. If you’re reading this and you get it—if you’re still fighting, still here, still making jokes in the dark—then you’re already stronger than you think.

So here’s to us: the fuck-ups, the works-in-progress, the people with complicated pasts and messy hope. We might not get a standing ovation, but we’re still here. And for now, that’s enough.

I wish I had a neat ending for this post, some kind of wisdom that ties it all together. I don’t. I’m just doing my best to make the next right choice, even if that’s all I can do. Maybe I’ll spend the next forty years trying and some people will never see me differently. That’s their problem.

I’m sharing this because I know I’m not alone. If you’re out there struggling with your past, your weight, your reputation—whatever it is—just know you’re not the only one. I’m not perfect. I’m not trying to be. I just want to keep moving forward, even if that means leaving some people behind. And if they can’t handle it? Honestly, fuck ‘em.-Belle-