I could fill an entire book listing, in chronological order, my failed attempts at weight loss. Instead, I’ll just offer some highlights: Seven halfhearted rounds of Weight Watchers; two days each of every crash diet you can think of; two juice cleanses; training for and running three half-marathons; and diet pills that were basically prescription meth and made me such a raging lunatic my now-husband threatened to call off our wedding if I didn’t stop taking them.
Sure, I’d lose three pounds here and seven there — except for those diet pills; I looked damn good on those — but I always ended up where I started, or heavier. Slowly, those extra 15 pounds I’d never been able to shake turned into an extra 20, then an extra 25.
Friends, family, and even some doctors had told me to stop worrying and accept my body the way it was. And maybe I didn’t need to lose it — not everyone needs to lose weight. But my issues went beyond the scale. It was clear I had a complicated, if not clichéd, relationship with food.