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.
Let me just say this upfront: I’m not tired. I’m fatigued. And if you don’t know the difference, lucky you. Really.
Right now, I’m writing this from bed. Not in a “cozy Sunday morning with a latte and a little Netflix” kind of way. No. I’m in bed because my body has straight-up refused to participate in today. Multiple Sclerosis fatigue is not just tiredness; it’s full-body betrayal. It’s like your limbs have turned to concrete and your brain is wrapped in molasses and you’re supposed to keep going like everything’s fine. Spoiler: it’s not.
A doctor once explained it like this: if someone without a chronic illness wants to understand what MS fatigue feels like, they’d need to stay awake and upright for three days straight. Then try to function like a normal human. That’s the starting line.
The Daily Tradeoff: Do Something… or Everything Falls Apart
Lately, I’ve been doing too much. And when I push too hard, I pay. The interest rate on energy debt with MS is brutal. I need rest, like, non-negotiable, stop-the-world rest, but life doesn’t exactly come with a nap button.
I wish I were exaggerating when I say I need a midday nap just to function. But who the fuck has time for that? I’m not a toddler in daycare. I’m a woman with a life and deadlines and a cockroach infestation that’s slowly becoming a B-movie horror plot.
Oh Yeah, Let’s Talk About the Bugs
Because apparently fatigue and hunger weren’t enough, I’ve also got roaches. Big ones. The kind that have been around since the dinosaurs and act like they pay rent.
The foundation in my cottage shifted recently, which basically opened the gates of hell and invited every insect in the area to move in. Ants, roaches, you name it, they’re here. It’s a full-on wildlife convention here at Songbird Cottage. And I am not okay with it.
Last night, I was watching M*A*S*H in bed when Big Pappa Roach decided to take a stroll across my floor. Bugsy took one look, shrugged, and went back to sleep. Thanks for nothing, bro.
Love, Lattes, and Losing It
What I want more than anything right now is for my boyfriend to walk in with a cappuccino in one hand, that warm smile of his on his face, and just hold me for a minute. That kind of hug that smells like roasted coffee and promises you’re not in this alone. But no, he’s at work. And life doesn’t pause for nobody.
So I’ll get up. Slowly. I’ll do what I can. I’ll fight the roach war and do some cleaning. Bugsy will freak out over the mop and attack it. And honestly? I might give up halfway through and let him battle it while I lie back down. He’ll be proud of himself for protecting us, which will give his self-esteem a great boost.
Because this is the reality: MS fatigue isn’t lazy. It’s not optional. It’s not something you can just push through with a good attitude and positive vibes.
But still, I keep going, I try. Because I want to live. I want fruit. I want a clean house. I will not give up and I will conquer this world, one little itty bitty step at a time. And some days, just wanting is enough to get me moving. Kind of.
What about you? Ever felt like your body staged a coup and forgot to notify your plans?
Rest Like a Rebel: Why the Soft Life Still Feels So Damn Hard
Let’s talk about something no one warns you about when you start unlearning hustle culture: rest guilt.
Even now, after years of therapy and self-work, rest still makes me feel like I’m doing something wrong.
I’ll be lying down—genuinely exhausted—and my brain will whisper that old poison: You should be working. You’re wasting time. You’re falling behind.
It’s not just internal. It’s cultural. We live in a world that worships busyness and treats slowing down like a character flaw. Choosing the soft life? That’s practically a subversive act.
I used to think rest was something you had to earn
Back when I was still trying to prove I was “normal” enough to keep up with a productivity-obsessed world, I saw rest as a luxury. A reward. Something you got after you did everything else: cleared the inbox, made dinner, replied to every text, pushed through every signal your body was sending.
But here’s the thing: the list never ends. The emails don’t stop. And if you live with chronic pain, burnout, trauma, neurodivergence, or literally any human vulnerability, waiting until it’s all done means you’ll never, ever rest.
The soft life; this idea of living gently, of choosing rest and slowness over grind and self-abandonment, isn’t something I just “have.” It’s something I have to actively choose. Every single day.
Some days I choose softness. Some days I don’t.
Some days, I override every signal my body sends. I hustle. I numb out. I spiral. The voice of internalised capitalism tells me I’m lazy, and I believe it.
But on the days I do choose rest?
It changes everything; not in some dramatic, movie-montage kind of way, but in small, sacred shifts.
Like:
Letting myself wake up without rushing or doomscrolling.
Drinking tea without multitasking.
Crying in the bath without apologising to myself.
Watching something light and letting that joy be enough.
These aren’t indulgences. They’re survival. They’re the daily rituals of someone trying to live outside the grind. Someone practising rest as resistance.
Softness isn’t weakness. It’s power in a quieter voice.
We don’t talk enough about how hard it is to choose the soft life in a culture built on overwork. It’s easier to stay busy than to feel. Easier to push through than to sit with what’s underneath.
But every time you choose rest, even when it feels wrong, you’re undoing a little piece of the lie that says your worth is in your output.
You’re reclaiming your humanity.
Maybe the real revolution isn’t about never feeling rest guilt. Maybe it’s about doing it anyway. Choosing softness. Slowing down. Giving yourself care without a justification.
The world doesn’t need more burned-out people who’ve forgotten how to breathe.
It needs people who’ve come home to themselves.
People who say no without a paragraph of explanation.
People who laugh, and cry, and rest, and rage; and don’t apologise for any of it.
Still feel guilty for resting? Yeah. Me too.
You’re not alone. You’re not lazy. You’re just unlearning a system that never had your best interest at heart.
Want to explore this more? Drop a comment below and tell me: What’s your relationship with rest right now? Let’s talk about it. Let’s make softness a conversation, not a secret.
It’s strange how quiet a house gets when one little creature isn’t in it.
My dog, Bugsy, is at my Mum’s this weekend. He’s being absolutely spoiled, no doubt about that. She’s probably made him scrambled eggs and is reading him bedtime stories while feeding him snacks off a Royal Doulton plate. He’s living the high life. I know he’s happy. I know she adores having him. And he loves her too.
But the truth? I miss him like hell.
It’s only the second time we’ve been apart since I adopted him a year ago, and I feel a bit like I’ve misplaced a piece of my heart. I keep expecting to hear the jingle of his collar or feel his weight settle next to me on the bed. My eyes keep flicking toward the door like he’s about to burst through it at any second. But he won’t. Not till Sunday.
I miss his presence. His energy. His ridiculous snoring. He’s my baby. My child. My constant.
And yet, there’s something really beautiful about this too.
Letting go, even just for a weekend, is a practice. It’s a reminder that love doesn’t vanish just because someone’s not physically there. It’s about trust. About knowing that connections hold, even when they stretch.
Sometimes we hold on tight because we’re scared. Of change. Of distance. Of losing the very things that give us joy.
But love, real love, doesn’t fall apart when you give it space. It deepens.
I like that I can give Bugsy this time with someone who loves him. That I can share his joy. That I don’t need to control every moment to feel connected. And even though I miss him, I know we’ll both be better for it.
The silence is loud without him. But it’s not empty.
You’ve just heard the words. Maybe you were in a sterile office with a doctor who looked serious. Maybe you were alone. Maybe someone was sitting next to you, holding your hand—but the moment still felt isolating. However it happened, one truth remains:
Your life just changed.
A diagnosis can drop like an anvil. Whether it’s multiple sclerosis (like mine), lupus, cancer, fibromyalgia, Parkinson’s, or anything else that doesn’t have a quick fix—it shakes you. It doesn’t just change your body. It changes your future, your plans, your sense of self.
How I Found Out—and Why I Felt Relieved
I remember sitting in that neurologist’s office. He didn’t ease me into it. He just said it: “It’s Multiple Sclerosis.”
And weirdly? I appreciated that. No tiptoeing, no sugar-coating. Just the facts. And after years of being dismissed, ignored, and misdiagnosed, finally being heard was a kind of relief.
I know that sounds strange. But maybe you’ve been there too—feeling your body betray you while doctor after doctor says, “There’s nothing wrong.” Maybe you’ve been told to “lose weight” or “just relax,” even while something inside you screams that something’s not right.
That first moment—being told what’s actually going on? It hurts. But it also validates everything you knew in your gut.
The Emotional Whirlwind After a Diagnosis
You don’t have to be brave today. You don’t need to find a silver lining or start fighting. You just have to breathe.
Cry. Sit in silence. Watch dumb dog videos. Scream into a pillow. All of it’s allowed. Because you’re grieving. And that grief is real and valid.
Grief for the version of you who didn’t know. Grief for your body, for the future you imagined. Grief for the control that slipped through your fingers.
What Chronic Illness Took—and What It Gave
For me, MS has taken plenty. I can’t sing anymore. I used to love dancing—can’t do that either. Fatigue is a constant shadow. Pain, spasms, brain fog—they don’t care about my to-do list.
But strangely, this illness has given me things too. It taught me to set boundaries. To trust myself. To question everything. To listen—really listen—to my body.
I’ve become stronger than I ever thought I could be. Not because I wanted to, but because I had no choice.
Living With an Invisible Illness
Here’s the part that’ll really test you: You might still be doubted.
Even now, people see me park in a disabled spot and give me looks. “You don’t look sick,” they say.
Some “friends” even say they don’t believe me. And those people? I’ve cut them out.
You don’t owe anyone an explanation. You don’t have to look sick to be sick. Invisible illnesses are real. And so is your right to protect your energy.
To the Newly Diagnosed: You’re Still You
You might feel like your body is foreign now. Like you’ve lost something essential. But let me tell you something very important:
You are still whole. You are still worthy. You are still you.
This diagnosis is not the end of your story. It’s a messy, complicated plot twist—but you’re still the author.
And when you’re ready—when you’ve had time to sit with it, grieve it, rage at it—there’s a whole world of people out here who understand. People living with invisible illnesses, chronic pain, hard diagnoses.
We are your people.
We’re not inspirational quotes or toxic positivity. We’re the ones who get it. The ones who live in bodies that fight back—but souls that refuse to quit.
Final Thoughts: How to Cope After a Diagnosis
Write. Journal. Let the chaos spill out onto paper.
Find a support system—online or in person.
Follow accounts that make you laugh.
Listen to your body (it’s not the enemy—it’s the messenger).
Don’t waste energy explaining your pain to people who don’t care.
Grieve the life you thought you’d have.
Then start creating a new one.
And if you’re reading this today—fresh off the heels of that diagnosis—I want to say this loud and clear:
You are not alone. You are not broken. You are still here. And you’re going to be okay. Even if it doesn’t feel like it yet.
