The thing we don't really talk about

Like the Voldemort of being alive

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about body image. It’s such a fraught, paradoxical subject, so personal and yet so universal. So hush-hush, so talked about. Some people are of the opinion that if you discuss weight loss or gain, it gives it too much power or influence over others. I’m of the opinion that not talking about something gives it too much power. Still, while I’ve always been very honest in my writing this is a subject I shy away from. Why is that? Guilt, shame, not wanting to give insecurities credence? Not wanting to make anyone else feel less than, more than?

This year, I resolved to get fitter and healthier in a very organic, long-term way. I turned 38 in January, and wanted to be more mindful of my wellbeing – my blood pressure, cholesterol, joints, hormones. I also wanted to look nice for my book launch. There is zero point in denying that. I knew I would be the subject of many photographs, both candid and posed, and didn’t want to be horrified by what I saw like I have been in the past.

I think there’s a disconnect in my brain between what I actually look like, and what I think I look like. I know many people imagine themselves to be larger than they actually are; I am the opposite. The Vicki in my mind is the 29/30 year old me, with a much firmer jaw line and smaller boobs. Thus it’s always a bit of a jolt to be faced with the reality of now.

So I decided to take control back, actually put an effort in to looking how I feel and it was all going great, really. Fantastic, even. The physical changes were minor, but the mental ones were huge. I was proud of myself for working out, seeing signs of muscle tone and definition. I’m never going to be someone who exercises every single day, or who truly ADORES it, but I was enjoying what I was doing even though I was frequently tired and sore. I never weigh myself anymore, but I was feeling comfortable in my clothes, with my reflection. Far from perfect but I looked and felt good.

It only took a couple of things to thwart me post-launch. Busy-ness is always a big one – life speeds up and gets hectic, I get tired and lazy in my downtime. Then I caught a horrible virus that was definitely Covid-esque, and left me exhausted and wheezy. Then I heard that someone I know had commented on how much weight I’d gained, gleaning this opinion just from looking at the photos of my launch. I was told this by someone who was defending me, but still it stung. This person hasn’t seen me in ages, so perhaps I have fluctuated to their eye. But why did that matter? I was extremely annoyed at myself for caring about their opinion. I had achieved so much, this was such a special time in my life. Why was it being reduced to the size and shape of my body?

I will admit that before my health kick this year, I made and cancelled two appointments to get a prescription for Ozempic or similar. I’m not a huge overeater, but I figured the drug might encourage me towards smaller portions, fewer takeaways. I’d heard major success stories and massive horror stories. In the end, the latter won out. I was afraid. I wanted to do it naturally, over a long period of time, without any aid. For me, taking drugs felt like cheating. I am well and able, I could do it alone.

I don’t want to take Ozempic. I don’t want to mess with my blood sugar levels, I don’t want to inject myself, I don’t want to spend the money. I lived with a type one diabetic for four years, I know those needles kept in the fridge well. I know what they do to the body, good and bad.

But it was so tempting, because the playing field is already so uneven. So many people do things in secret to look better, from tweakments to surgeries to drugs. I can rant about beauty standards and diet culture but the simple truth is, we all just want to feel our best. Confident and comfortable in our own skin.

I would love to be able to just be comfortable as I am now. But it’s hard when the dress that fit you last year that you looked great in won’t zip closed, or the shorts you loved in Mexico in 2022 are like “nah bitch”. It’s hard when the biggest size in the shop won’t go over your substantial chest. Or when you feel sluggish and tired, have cravings or want to stress-eat. I would love to be one of the cool girls who don’t think about this too much. Who neither over nor under eat, who move naturally through life without being breathless or sweaty or shaking with hunger. Or even those who just embrace themselves exactly as they are, caring not for the sweat.

I also don’t want to deny myself the things I love; the things that to me, make life worth living. Good wine, gooey cheese, crispy chips, soft, warm bread. But the truth is, fat loss and being fit is about so much more than just willpower and denial. I know diets don’t work and it has to be a lifestyle change, but do I want a lifestyle that doesn’t include the things I love?

At my fittest, I wasn’t saying no to any foods. I was moving constantly and eating lightly. My allergies improved, everything felt better. But that felt like a halcyon time, one that’s incredibly difficult to replicate now, over a decade later. I have to remind myself of the facts - I was 27/28 then. I was a social smoker, I was under a lot of stress. I probably wasn’t eating enough, I was drinking too often. The fact is, I started putting on weight when I got happy - when I started taking SSRIs and beta blockers, and quit the cigs.

Yet there’s no point in lying about the bad bits of weight gain either. I don’t want to have painfully chafed thighs and rashes under my boobs. I don’t want my clothes to pinch, to strain, to hurt when I’m sitting down. I don’t want to avoid cameras. I want to be comfortable in this meat sack I live in. I don’t want to feel bad every time I have to buy new clothes to cover myself appropriately. I want to not be mortified being weighed at the doctors, even if they kindly don’t tell me the number. I want to not feel like I’m failing at being a healthy human.

Bodies are so complex, so unique.I never want to admit to feeling less-than. I always want to be grateful for what I’ve got. But it’s hard sometimes, and that’s the truth. Hard to count your blessings when you’re physically uncomfortable and the world is telling you to you don’t have to be. There are things you can do. Whispers of prescriptions. Hard to be confident when other people are counting your flaws, sometimes gleefully.

It's hard. Yet I’m so lucky. Both things can be true at once. Nothing is black and white. I often feel like I’m taking two steps forward and one step back with my fitness and health. I often look at other women and think “why can she lose weight successfully when I find it so difficult”. I often look at my past self and wish to be her again, but only physically. And that’s where the gratitude comes in, for how far I’ve come.

What I know for sure is that at 38, I have a gorgeous, lucky life that I am profoundly grateful for. Incredible relationships, decent health (probably a B minus in the grand scheme of things), a vast majority of happy days. Amazing opportunities, huge achievements. If I want to reduce that all down to one snarky comment or a still from a tv show, well, that’s on me.

And what’s more is, I’ll never give up trying to love myself as fully as possible. I won’t give in to laziness and slothfulness, the kind of inactivity that makes me feel AWFUL mentally and physically. And that’s the main thing. Onwards, always forwards. I want to be able to walk up the stairs with ease when I’m 80. Maybe even race you. And always, always order the chips.

My novel REALITY CHECK is the best-selling debut of the year (Woohoo!) and has been described by many as THE read of the summer. You can purchase it here, and it’s also available on Kindle and Audible. This support helps to keep my Substack free to read. Thank you xxx