By Anonymous
They think I just lost weight. That’s the story I let everyone believe. One day I was the girl who always wore oversized shirts and black jeans, and six months later, I became the girl whose waist snatched itself into Instagram-worthy curves.
“Gym girl era,” I captioned my soft launch on Instagram. Hundreds of likes.
The truth? I haven’t stepped into a gym in over a year.
I was 27, scrolling on TikTok in the middle of the night, when I landed on a “BBL journey” vlog. Normally, I would have rolled my eyes. But that night, the girl in the video looked too much like me. Same full cheeks, same bloated midsection, same hidden body behind flowy dresses. She talked about years of low self-esteem, the feeling of being invisible in every room, and the joy she felt when she finally saw her body reflect how she felt inside.
I watched that video ten times.
Two months later, I was booking my consultation.
I wish I could say I did it for me. But the truth is layered. I did it for the mirror, yes. But I also did it because I wanted to know what it felt like to not be the friend who holds the camera, to not be the one who gets described as “sweet” and “kind” while everyone else gets called “hot” or “beautiful.”
I was tired of watching life happen to other women. I wanted to be chosen for once.
The healing was painful. I bled. I cried. I wore compression garments for weeks. I flinched every time I looked at my swollen body, terrified I had made a mistake.
But then one day, it settled.
And I stood in front of the mirror, and I didn’t hate what I saw.
You would think the story ends there. But here’s the part I never expected:
Even though my body changed, the insecurities didn’t leave immediately. In fact, they started to shape-shift. I became obsessed with angles. I overanalyzed compliments. Was I finally seen, or was it just the BBL? Did they really think I was pretty now, or were they just reacting to the figure society told them was worthy?
And then came the guilt. Because my friends were asking me for gym routines. People were saying, “You inspire me to take better care of myself.” And I was smiling and nodding, pretending I got here with kale and squats.
But it was surgery.
It was secrets.
It was shame wrapped in beauty.
I don’t regret it. But I also don’t glorify it.
There’s a loneliness in carrying a body that everyone admires but you didn’t fully earn. There’s a silence in standing in rooms where you suddenly matter more, but only because you look a certain way.
And there’s a strange kind of sadness in knowing that you had to alter yourself to finally feel visible.
People will say, “You should have loved yourself as you were.”
But no one claps for the girl who hides. No one chooses the woman who blends in.
We’re living in a world that screams self-love, but only after you fit the mold.
I wish that weren’t true. I wish we taught girls that they’re beautiful *before* the filters, the angles, and the procedures. But we don’t. And until that changes, women like me will keep making decisions in silence.
Not because we’re ashamed. But because we’re surviving in a world that told us our worth was in the way we looked long before we had the chance to become anything else.
So yes, they think I lost weight.
And maybe that’s the lie I need them to believe.
For now.
