The Weight I Still Carry

When I was 17 years old, I had gastric sleeve surgery.
At the time, it felt like the biggest decision of my life — because it was.

People assume weight loss surgery is the “easy way out.” They see the before-and-after pictures and think it’s all discipline and success, like flipping a switch. But they never talk about the in between — the grief, the confusion, the hunger that’s not just physical.

Because even after surgery, I still had to face the part of me that used food to survive.

Before the Surgery

I grew up constantly aware of my body — not because I wanted to be, but because the world made sure I couldn’t forget it.
The teasing. The comments. The subtle looks. The way “healthy” was always coded to mean “thin.”

Food became comfort, control, and chaos all at once.
When I was sad, I ate.
When I was bored, I ate.
When I was angry, I ate.
And when I couldn’t stop eating, I felt ashamed — like my body was betraying me and I didn’t know how to stop it.

Binge eating wasn’t about greed. It was about trying to fill a void — something deeper than hunger. It was about wanting to feel full when everything else in my life felt hollow.

By 17, I was tired — tired of hating my body, tired of hiding, tired of living in cycles of guilt and control.
So when the doctor brought up surgery, it felt like a lifeline.

The Day Everything Changed

The morning of my surgery, I remember feeling equal parts nervous and hopeful.
I kept thinking, Maybe this will finally fix me.

After the gastric sleeve, the physical transformation happened faster than I ever expected.
I lost weight. A lot of it.
Clothes fit differently. People looked at me differently. Suddenly, I was being praised for the same body I had spent years being punished for.

But inside, I didn’t feel “fixed.” I felt… hollow.
Not just because of the smaller stomach — but because the part of me that turned to food for comfort was still searching for something to hold onto.

The Mental Battle No One Talks About

What no one tells you about losing a lot of weight — especially through surgery — is that your brain doesn’t adjust as quickly as your body does.

I’d still have the same urges to binge. I’d still crave that familiar escape. But now, my body couldn’t handle it. I’d get sick. I’d feel pain. And yet, sometimes, I’d still do it. Because it wasn’t about the food — it was about trying to quiet something I didn’t know how to name.

I had to relearn everything — not just how to eat, but why I ate.
Food had always been my coping mechanism. Without it, I had to face my emotions raw — grief, loneliness, anger, fear.
There were days I missed the numbness. Days I missed the comfort of overeating, even when it hurt me.

And I hated myself for that.

But with time, I started to understand that the surgery didn’t erase my relationship with food — it just forced me to confront it head-on.

The Complicated Kind of Healing

Even now, years later, healing isn’t linear.
There are still moments when I catch myself romanticizing my “old habits” — when stress makes me crave the comfort I used to find in food. But there’s also a new awareness now — a gentleness that I never had before.

I’ve learned that it’s okay to grieve the version of myself who struggled.
She wasn’t weak. She was surviving. She was coping the only way she knew how.

And while I don’t owe anyone an explanation, I’ve learned to speak about my journey honestly — because silence only feeds shame.

What I’ve Learned Since 17

I’ve learned that weight loss doesn’t equal happiness.
That health isn’t one-size-fits-all.
That a smaller body doesn’t make your pain smaller.

Having the gastric sleeve at 17 changed my life, but not in the way people think.
It didn’t make me perfect — it made me honest.
It forced me to face my relationship with my body and my worth, to see how deeply tied they were to how the world viewed me.

Now, I focus less on shrinking myself and more on growing into who I am — learning to nourish, not punish. To rest. To forgive. To exist without apology.

Final Thoughts

Losing a significant amount of weight taught me that transformation isn’t linear — it’s layered.
You can change your body and still need to heal your heart.
You can look “better” and still feel broken.
And that’s okay.

Because true healing doesn’t come from restriction or approval — it comes from grace.
Grace for the girl who binged to feel safe.
Grace for the teenager who went under the knife to find peace.
Grace for the woman still learning that she was enough all along.