“Fat and Beautiful”. That’s what they called me in my teenage years and it’s still a struggle for me to break free from these labels.

At that time, it was a strange mix of a compliment and a judgment that left me confused. It carried a label so heavy that it weighed me down my entire life.

The burden of the word “fat” became my shadow. A constant background noise—an unrelenting whisper reminding me that I was never enough.

It held my hand every time I walked into a room, telling me to pull my shirt down over my stomach. It stopped me from enjoying food, even when I was hungry, out of fear of being judged. It whispered that people didn’t truly see me—before anything else, they saw the fat girl.

This label was the weight of shame, made up of both spoken and unspoken words—a scar only I could see. A constant reminder that I was measured not by my worth, but by my weight.

“Fat and beautiful” became a distorted mirror I was forced to look into every day.

The extra pounds disappeared together with puberty, but the fat girl stayed with me.

Even now, when I look in the mirror, no matter how hard I try, I can’t fully recognise or connect with the person staring back at me.

I live in a constant battle—between what others see and what I see. Between the number on the scale and the whispers in my head.

That number on the scale, whatever it may be, is always a challenge to conquer. A never-ending struggle, hidden from everyone, in pursuit of a perfection that doesn’t exist.

Even now, I flinch and instinctively pull in my stomach when my husband or children wrap their arms around my waist.

I struggle to see myself—to accept myself—as whole. Not just a number. Not just a label.

Yes, maybe I was “fat.” But I was also strong, brave, creative, and so much more.

And yes, I am beautiful—but not just in the way I look. I am beautiful in who I am, in my laughter, in the way I choose to give and to love—even in the moments when I struggle to love myself.