A few nights ago, I dreamt my best friend stole my boyfriend—and to add insult to injury, everyone was mad at me for not being happy for them. Excuse me?? In what universe is that a reasonable emotional response? Apparently, in Dreamland, I’m the villain for having feelings. Love that for me.
Then last night I dreamt I was pregnant. I’m 48. My ovaries audibly laughed when I woke up. But in the dream, I was wearing my boyfriend’s graphic tees, proudly showing off my bump like some Pinterest-worthy mum-to-be. The subconscious is wild.
In real life, I’ve been having weird, sweat-inducing, doubled-over-in-agony pelvic pains and suspect it’s time to say goodbye to the IUD that’s been living rent-free in my uterus for a while now. I’ve been dreading having it removed. Not quite as bad as having it inserted, but still—hello!!! A little anaesthesia wouldn’t hurt.
I mentioned this to my Mother, and, bless her, she warned me to be careful I don’t fall pregnant. At 48… with cyst-infested ovaries? It would be an act of the divine. (SFX: angels singing)
Still, the dream left a strange warmth behind. I don’t have children—I couldn’t (unless you count the four-legged, fur-covered kind)—but that dream baby felt oddly real. Maybe it’s just hormones. Or gas. Or the fact that I became an aunt again recently, and my new niece is absolute perfection. I’d love to be more present in my nieces’ and nephews’ lives, but I live on the other side of the world. I suppose that makes me a digital aunty. A pixelated presence with a Wi-Fi connection and a whole lot of love.
It’s weird. And a little sad. Call me old-fashioned, but I want to hug the people I love. Not just double-tap their faces on a screen.
Speaking of hugs—Bugsy (my dog) prefers his affection delivered in flying leaps and enthusiastic face-licks. Not exactly subtle, but I get the message. Imagine if humans did that. Note to self: Get some tea tree face wash.
So yes, last weekend we stayed up talking till 3 am, laughing like teenagers, like there wasn’t a chronic illness or middle age looming in the background. Was it irresponsible? Definitely. Was it worth it? Absolutely. Sometimes, connection matters more than rest. (MS doesn’t care about my emotional growth. It wants naps. Now.) Still, sometimes the pain is worth the priceless joy of two souls connecting.
Which brings me to today: I am completely out of spoons. No cutlery left in the drawer. My battery is flat, my tank’s empty, the engine won’t even turn over. I had another one of those weird spells yesterday where I just… shut down. One minute I was upright, the next I was horizontal and unconscious—like a phone that forgot to warn you it’s on 1%. It’s happening more often. Still trying to figure out what it is.
I made a beautiful lunch disguised as breakfast. (Don’t come for me, I don’t eat before 11 am unless bribed.) Toasted seed loaf, smashed avo, egg, spinach, feta, and edible flowers—because I’m clearly in my edible flower era. They make the plate look happy. And honestly, if your food can’t spark a little joy, what even is the point?
Anyway, I’m rambling. That’s what happens when you’re sleep-deprived and slightly hormonal with a head full of dreams and a body full of meh. Someone, please bring me coffee. Or a hug. Or maybe just a soft place to nap where no one expects anything from me for at least 12 hours.
Here’s something I wish someone had handed me like a glass of cold water in the middle of a body-image meltdown: talking about weight doesn’t have to be an act of war against yourself.
But for a lot of us? It is. Or it has been. Or it’s still whispering in the background every time we say we’re “body neutral” but silently pull our shirt down before we sit.
This is the first in a series I never thought I’d write. Not because I don’t think about weight; I do, more than I want to admit, but because this conversation comes loaded with shame, confusion, and about twelve inner critics screaming at once. It should come with a trigger warning and a therapist on call.
But avoiding it hasn’t made it go away. It’s just made it lonelier. So yeah, we’re talking about it. Honestly. No thigh-gap propaganda. No smoothie cleanses. No shame spirals. Just truth, complexity, and a serious side-eye at diet culture.
Why talk about weight at all?
Because weight is never just a number. It’s a story. Or more like a thousand stories:
That time a doctor talked to you like your BMI was a personality flaw.
The jeans you swore you’d “earn” back.
The compliment that felt like a warning.
The breakup you blamed on your thighs.
The silent math you did before every meal.
Weight is memory. It’s grief. It’s every time someone taught us, explicitly or not, that our value had a dress size.
But also? It’s embodiment. Your body carries you through life. Through joy and loss and orgasms and hangovers. Through parenting, periods, dancing, surgery, and grief. It deserves care. But the way we’ve been taught to care for it? Mostly bullshit.
The emotional landmine of the word “diet”
Say it with me: diet.
Did your shoulders tense up? Mine did. It’s a word soaked in guilt, rebellion, hunger, and spreadsheets of sins. For many of us, “diet” means war; against our bodies, our cravings, and our sanity.
And now we’ve just rebranded it: “wellness,” “clean eating,” “biohacking.” Same control, different font.
But what if food wasn’t punishment? What if hunger wasn’t a moral failing? What if eating wasn’t something we had to earn?
This is where body trust comes in. It’s radical. It’s messy. And it starts with unlearning the idea that your body is a wild animal that needs to be tamed.
Respect > Restriction
I’m not here to sell you weight loss. I’m here to talk about body respect.
That might include weight loss. Or not. It might mean more movement. More rest. Less people-pleasing. More carbs.
It might mean feeding yourself like someone who matters.
Because weight loss, if it happens, should be a side effect of listening, not loathing. Not fixing. Not performing.
This isn’t about control. It’s about connection. It’s about neutrality over perfection. It’s about the kind of love that isn’t conditional.
Your body isn’t an algorithm
Your body doesn’t speak in macros or TikTok challenges. It doesn’t care what your fitness tracker says. It communicates in much quieter ways:
The ache in your shoulders after a day of pretending.
The craving for something warm when the world feels cold.
The anxiety that flares when you skip meals in the name of discipline.
The tears you swallow when you catch your reflection and feel like you failed.
This body? It’s not broken. It’s talking. Are you listening?
Because the minute you stop outsourcing your cues to apps, influencers, and medical charts, you remember something: you already know.
What you need isn’t another damn plan. You need presence. You need compassion. You need to stop treating your body like a battlefield.
So yeah. Let’s talk about weight.
Let’s drag it out of the shadows. Let’s unpack it. Let’s get messy and curious and kind. No “before and after.” Just the middle. Just this moment. Just you, as is.
What does body respect look like for you right now? Drop it in the comments. We’re building something here.
There are days my body feels like a battlefield. Days when getting out of bed is a full-contact sport. Days when nothing fits right, nothing looks right, and my reflection feels like it belongs to someone else — someone heavier, sicker, older, and more broken than the version of myself I still carry around in my head.
If you know that feeling — that deep, gut-punch disconnect between who you are and what you see — then you already know: Body positivity isn’t always about love. Sometimes, it’s just about survival.
Body respect: the version of self-love that doesn’t require a mood ring
For most of my life, I thought body positivity meant waking up every morning, throwing on a bikini, and twirling in front of a mirror, shouting, “I’m a goddess!” (Newsflash: That’s not reality. That’s an Instagram ad.)
When you’re living with chronic illness, disability, trauma, aging, or just…being a human being in an unpredictable body — forcing yourself to “love” everything all the time is another impossible standard. Another stick to beat yourself with.
So I stopped chasing love. I started chasing respect instead.
Feeding my body even when I’m mad at it.
Stretching gently, even when it feels stiff and foreign.
Dressing in clothes that fit me, not the me I “should” be.
Taking rest seriously, not as a guilty secret, but as a freaking necessity.
Speaking to myself like I would to a dear friend who’s fighting hard to stay alive.
It’s not glamorous. It’s not always photogenic. It’s real healing.
The world profits off our self-hate. I’m opting out.
The wellness industry, the beauty industry, even the so-called “body positivity” movement sometimes, they all whisper the same garbage: “If you just try harder, spend more, punish yourself longer — you’ll finally be good enough.”
You know what? I’m tired. And I’m not buying it anymore.
This body — right now, as it is, on its best day and its worst — is good enough. Not because it looks a certain way. Not because it performs a certain way. But because it’s mine. Because it carries me through all of it: the heartbreaks, the flare-ups, the ordinary Tuesdays, and the small, stubborn joys.
That’s worth respecting.
How I endeavour to practice body respect (even when I don’t feel like it)
Here’s what it looks like on a normal, messy Tuesday:
I move when I can, how I can. Sometimes it’s yoga. Sometimes it’s hobbling to the couch. Both are valid.
I feed myself like I deserve nourishment. No punishing diets. No apology meals.
I rest without guilt. Productivity culture can kiss my very tired, very worthy ass.
I set boundaries with media. If my feed makes me hate my body, I unfollow, block, delete, walk away.
I celebrate functionality over appearance. This body digests food. It hugs my people. It lets me laugh until I snort. That matters more than what it looks like.
I’m not aiming for perfect self-love. I’m aiming for loyalty. I’m aiming for partnership. I’m aiming for showing up for myself, even on the days I don’t feel lovable.
Because guess what? Respect doesn’t wait for perfection.
You deserve that too.
You don’t have to earn your own compassion. You don’t have to be “fixed” before you’re allowed to care for yourself.
If you’re breathing, you’re worthy. If you’re fighting, you’re worthy. If you’re just surviving today, you are already doing something extraordinary.
Let’s stop waiting until we feel like we “deserve” to treat ourselves kindly. Let’s just decide — right now — that we do.
