365 Days, Nearly 36 Pounds and One Hell of a Plot Twist (Part 1)

2 days ago
9 min read

There are moments in life when you know something significant is happening.

Getting married.

Buying a house.

Accidentally replying all to an email.

And then…

Standing in your kitchen, holding what can only be described as the world’s most expensive tiny pen, wondering whether you’re about to become a healthier version of yourself or accidentally inject your spleen.

That was me.

One year ago.

One tiny jab.

One enormous amount of unnecessary drama.

Because if you’ve been here from the beginning, you’ll know one thing about me.

I don’t do anything normally.

I don’t gracefully begin a health journey with a calm, inspirational quote over a picture of a sunrise and a bowl of overnight oats.

No.

I catastrophise.

I Google.

I read fourteen thousand Facebook comments written by strangers called Sharon who are absolutely convinced the injection caused their neighbour’s uncle’s hamster to lose its confidence.

I convince myself I’ll definitely be the one person in medical history who somehow injects their own eyebrow.

I panic.

I calm down.

I panic again.

Then I stare at the pen for another hour.

Honestly, the amount of emotional energy that went into my very first jab was extraordinary considering it took approximately four seconds.

FOUR.

SECONDS.

If anxiety burned calories, I’d have reached my target weight before I’d even taken the cap off.

I remember reading every leaflet.

Then reading it again.

Watching YouTube tutorials.

Watching different YouTube tutorials because perhaps the first instructor was lying.

Reading Reddit.

Immediately regretting reading Reddit.

Closing Reddit.

Opening Reddit again.

Why are we like this?

I had convinced myself I was about to experience every side effect ever documented.

Nausea.

Vomiting.

Headaches.

Hair loss.

Probably spontaneous combustion.

Yet somehow I still couldn’t quite convince myself not to do it.

Because underneath all the panic was something much bigger.

Hope.

Real hope.

Not the fluffy Instagram kind.

The quiet kind.

The kind you don’t really admit out loud because you’re scared you’ll jinx it.

Hope that maybe…

Just maybe…

This time would be different.

Because if you’ve struggled with weight, you’ll understand something that people who’ve never experienced it often don’t.

It’s rarely about food.

People assume it’s simply eating too much.

Just have smaller portions.

Move more.

Have you tried salads?

Thank you, Susan.

No.

It’s much more complicated than that.

It’s the constant negotiation happening inside your own head.

The never-ending internal conversation.

The food noise.

If you’ve never experienced food noise, it’s difficult to explain.

Imagine someone standing beside you from the moment you wake up until the second you fall asleep.

Not shouting.

Not screaming.

Just…

Talking.

“What shall we have for breakfast?”

“Actually… what about toast?”

“No… cereal?”

“Should we have eggs?”

“When’s lunch?”

“Ooh, biscuits.”

“We’ve been good.”

“We deserve chocolate.”

“What’s for dinner?”

“Should we order takeaway?”

“Maybe crisps?”

“One won’t hurt.”

“Actually…

…where are the crisps?”

Repeat.

Forever.

Every.

Single.

Day.

It is exhausting.

Not because you’re hungry.

Because your brain simply never shuts up.

It’s like living with the world’s most irritating personal assistant.

“Hi! Just checking in!”

No.

Go away.

“I’m just wondering about chips…”

Leave me alone.

“What about cheese?”

PLEASE STOP SPEAKING.

I genuinely believed everyone lived like that.

I assumed everyone spent entire supermarket trips mentally wrestling with themselves over whether they “deserved” a packet of biscuits.

Turns out…

Apparently not.

Which feels deeply unfair.

Then came the first week.

Nothing dramatic happened immediately.

No magical orchestra.

No fireworks.

No transformation montage.

I didn’t wake up looking like a Love Island contestant.

I still had all the same cupboards.

All the same food.

All the same routines.

Except…

Something had gone quiet.

Not silent.

Just…

Quieter.

I’d walk into the kitchen…

…and then walk back out again.

Not because I was forcing myself.

Because I’d genuinely forgotten why I’d gone in.

Now that had literally never happened before.

Historically I’d entered the kitchen like it owed me money.

I’d open cupboards simply to see what opportunities existed.

Not because I was hungry.

Just…

Checking.

Like the snacks might have organised themselves differently since twenty-three minutes ago.

Now?

Nothing.

I’d make lunch.

Eat it.

Then…

Carry on with my day.

Excuse me?

Where was the committee meeting in my brain?

Where was the internal debate?

Where was the emotional support biscuit?

It was honestly one of the strangest feelings I’ve ever experienced.

The noise…

was disappearing.

Not overnight.

Not perfectly.

But enough that I noticed.

Enough that life suddenly had…

space.

It’s amazing how much mental energy food occupies until it doesn’t.

I suddenly had entire afternoons where I wasn’t thinking about my next meal.

Do you know how bizarre that feels?

It’s like someone finally turns off the extractor fan that’s been humming in the background for twenty years.

You don’t realise how loud it was…

until it’s gone.

Then came protein.

Oh.

Protein.

My entire personality became protein.

If someone had cut me open during those first few months, I’d probably have bled Greek yoghurt.

Every conversation somehow became about protein.

“What are you doing today?”

“Well… sixty grams before lunch hopefully.”

I became that person.

Walking around supermarkets examining labels like I was conducting an international investigation.

Three grams?

Pathetic.

Twenty-five grams?

Now we’re talking.

Suddenly I owned enough protein puddings to survive an apocalypse.

Protein yoghurts.

Protein shakes.

Protein bars.

Protein cereal.

Protein water.

If someone had invented protein toothpaste, I’d probably have bought twelve.

My fridge looked less like somewhere people stored food and more like a sports nutrition warehouse.

Visitors must have thought I was secretly training for the Olympics.

I wasn’t.

I was just trying not to lose muscle while simultaneously becoming emotionally attached to cottage cheese.

Which, by the way…

I still haven’t forgiven.

Who decided cottage cheese was acceptable?

It looks confused.

It tastes confused.

It has absolutely no idea what it wants to be.

Yet there I was…

Eating it voluntarily.

Who even am I?

Then there were the weigh-ins.

Oh, the weekly weigh-ins.

If you’ve followed me for any length of time, you’ll know weigh-in day became an event.

Not just for me.

For all of us.

Every week I’d step onto those scales with the confidence of someone approaching a maths exam they’d forgotten to revise for.

Some weeks were brilliant.

Some weeks…

Well.

Let’s just say the scales occasionally chose violence.

You quickly learn that weight loss isn’t linear.

It’s more like trying to walk a drunk spider across a trampoline.

Up.

Down.

Nothing.

Up again.

Down a bit.

Random half pound.

Gain.

Loss.

Confusion.

At first every tiny fluctuation felt personal.

I’d stare at the scales wondering what crime I’d committed.

Was it the handful of popcorn?

Did my body remember the pizza I ate in 2017?

Am I retaining water?

Air?

Hope?

Eventually I learned something incredibly valuable.

The trend matters.

Not Tuesday.

Not Wednesday.

Not one random number after you’ve eaten three pickles and forgotten to go to the toilet.

The trend.

And what a trend it became.

Every week another little milestone arrived.

Five pounds.

Ten pounds.

Fifteen pounds.

Twenty.

Twenty-five.

Then suddenly…

People started noticing.

Now here’s the funny thing.

Nobody notices the first few pounds.

You could lose half a stone and everyone thinks you’ve changed your shampoo.

Then one day…

Boom.

Someone squints.

“Have you lost weight?”

That sentence hits differently when you’ve been quietly working away without telling everyone.

At first I’d laugh.

“Oh… maybe a little.”

Inside?

I’d already mentally thrown confetti.

Then more people noticed.

My jeans noticed before anybody else.

Honestly, they deserve recognition.

Those poor jeans spent months trying to cling onto my hips with the determination of someone hanging off the edge of a cliff.

I’d walk through Tesco wondering whether gravity was about to expose me in aisle six.

Nothing prepares you for trousers becoming traitors.

One minute they’re snug.

The next they’re halfway to your knees because apparently your hips have resigned.

Belts became essential.

Then even the belts ran out of holes.

I reached the point where I was wearing clothes that genuinely looked like I’d borrowed them from someone significantly larger.

Jackets.

Jumpers.

Coats.

Everything suddenly looked…

baggy.

Now you’d think this would be exciting.

And it was.

Mostly.

But it was also strangely emotional.

Because those oversized clothes had once been the comfortable ones.

The safe ones.

The ones I’d reached for automatically.

Now they simply…

weren’t me anymore.

It’s difficult to explain that feeling.

You’re looking in the mirror…

and the reflection doesn’t quite match the version of yourself your brain has been carrying around.

Your brain takes much longer to catch up than your wardrobe.

There were moments I’d walk past shop windows and genuinely do a double take.

Who is that?

Oh.

Apparently…

me.

Then came the funny comparisons.

Because normal people say things like…

“I’ve lost thirty pounds.”

I don’t.

No.

I have to compare it to household appliances.

Small farm animals.

Random objects.

At various points I’d apparently lost…

Several air fryers.

A medium-sized dog.

Enough butter to concern a cardiologist.

Multiple bowling balls.

A stack of cats.

An average four-year-old.

Half a Labrador.

The contents of an airline cabin bag.

Honestly, by the end of the year I could have opened a small zoo using nothing but weight-loss analogies.

Readers started sending me their own comparisons too.

“I’ve lost one microwave.”

“I’ve lost a toddler.”

“I’ve lost fourteen bags of sugar.”

It’s amazing the community that grows when people realise they’re allowed to laugh.

Weight loss is often presented as something incredibly serious.

Before-and-after photos.

Sad music.

Transformation speeches.

Perfect meals.

Perfect people.

Perfect lighting.

That’s never been me.

Life is ridiculous.

Bodies are ridiculous.

The human experience is ridiculous.

If we’re going to spend months talking about constipation, protein intake and accidentally buying trousers two sizes too big…

we may as well laugh.

And laugh we did.

The comments became half the fun.

Every week I’d sit with a cup of tea reading hundreds of messages from people all over the world.

Some were just beginning.

Some had been on Mounjaro for months.

Some were terrified of taking their first injection exactly like I had been.

Some had been silently reading every update without ever commenting.

Then one day they’d write…

“I’ve finally taken my first jab because of your posts.”

That honestly stopped me in my tracks.

Because when I started writing, I genuinely thought I was just documenting things for myself.

A sort of online diary.

I never imagined thousands of strangers would end up sitting beside me every week, celebrating half-pound losses like we’d all won the lottery.

But somehow…

that’s exactly what happened.

It became our little corner of the internet.

A place where nobody judged you for being excited about losing 0.8 pounds.

Where people understood why constipation could dominate an entire week’s conversation.

Where someone could proudly announce they’d eaten 100 grams of protein and be treated like an Olympic champion.

Honestly…

I loved every minute.

Well.

Almost every minute.

Because we also need to discuss the glamorous side effects.

And by glamorous…

I obviously mean absolutely not glamorous.

Let’s begin with burping.

Nobody tells you about the burping.

Good grief.

At one point I genuinely wondered whether I was slowly turning into a foghorn.

Tiny sip of water?

Burp.

Walk upstairs?

Burp.

Blink?

Probably burp.

Then there was the nausea.

Thankfully mine was never particularly awful, but enough to remind me that perhaps demolishing an entire pizza wasn’t the career move it once was.

Your body becomes remarkably efficient at communicating.

“Oh…

you wanted chips?

That’s adorable.”

No.

Protein first.

Always protein.

Then the fullness.

Now this fascinated me.

One day I’d happily polish off an enormous restaurant meal.

The next I’d be defeated by approximately three forkfuls.

The number of takeaway leftovers in our fridge increased dramatically.

Restaurants must have thought I’d suddenly become incredibly polite.

“Would you like a box?”

Yes.

Because apparently my stomach has unexpectedly become the size of a walnut.

My poor boyfriend...

He became the official Finisher of Meals.

Nothing went to waste.

He should probably have received some kind of honorary medal.

Or at least loyalty points.

There were also moments when my appetite simply disappeared completely.

I’d suddenly realise it was four o’clock and I’d forgotten lunch existed.

Now for someone whose brain had previously organised entire days around food…

that was extraordinary.

Of course, I still had to eat.

Which is where the protein obsession came from.

Because eating enough suddenly became a conscious decision instead of an automatic hobby.

And somewhere in amongst all of this…

life carried on.

Work.

Weekends.

Birthdays.

Meals out.

Christmas.

Holidays.

Family.

Friends.

None of it disappeared.

I just learned something I’d never really experienced before.

Food could simply be…

food.

Not entertainment.

Not reward.

Not guilt.

Not punishment.

Just…

lunch.

That sounds incredibly boring.

Until you’ve spent years negotiating with yourself every single day.

Then it feels like freedom.

The biggest surprise wasn’t losing weight.

It was gaining headspace.

So much headspace.

I didn’t realise quite how much of my life had been occupied by constant internal conversations about eating until they stopped.

Suddenly there was room for other things.

New hobbies.

Longer walks.

Writing.

Planning.

Dreaming.

Living.

It felt as though somebody had quietly removed a backpack I’d been carrying for years without noticing.