My daughter was so excited. She practiced her lines for weeks, reciting them over and over with big dramatic gestures. She kept asking me if I’d sit in the front row. I told her yes, of course, but deep down I was panicking.
I dreaded the idea of sitting in those tiny auditorium seats, squeezing my hips in while everyone watched. I imagined the metal arms digging into my sides, my stomach pressing against my thighs. I pictured the judgment in the eyes of other parents.
When the day came, I lied. Told her I was too sick to go. She was so disappointed. I watched her leave with her friend’s mom, waving at me with a forced smile. When the door closed, I sank onto the couch and cried until I couldn’t breathe.
It wasn’t just that day. It was every school event. Every birthday party. Every chance to be there for her that I dodged because of my own shame. I told myself she was better off without the embarrassment of me showing up like that.
I tried to fix it for her. God knows I tried. Meal replacement shakes, expensive diet apps, punishing workouts before dawn. I’d lose ten pounds, gain back fifteen. My body felt like it was fighting me at every turn.
I hated the mirror. Hated my clothes. Hated the way people pretended not to notice when I got winded climbing stairs. The worst part was feeling like I deserved it all. That this was the price I had to pay for failing myself.
Then one night, alone in my room, I read about a morning method that wasn’t about dieting or exercise at all. It was about telling your body it was safe, calming the stress response that made it hoard fat. It sounded weirdly gentle.
I started doing it. Just a few minutes each morning. Slow breathing, forgiveness for myself, gratitude. It wasn’t magic. But over time, the cravings eased. I didn’t need to binge to soothe my anxiety. My energy improved.
Months later, the weight was dropping steadily. More importantly, I felt lighter inside. I went to her next play. Sat in the front row. I cried watching her, but this time it was with pride.