By Kristen Alkire Eshleman

I was 16 years old the first time I lost 25 pounds. 

The idea of dieting, of course, was nothing new. From an early age, I recognized that my mom was “on a diet” when she began eating peaches and cottage cheese in place of regular meals. In an act of self-justification that I took as incrimination, she explained to me that she had always been skinny before I was born. 

In elementary school, my friends and I listened eagerly when a group of teachers staged a weight loss competition amongst themselves on the playground. While the boys played tag, the girls, far more mature, pontificated about which teacher would win and how much weight each should lose. Weight loss commercials were ever-present in the after school TV lineup, and diet culture was synonymous with femininity.

By age 12, most of my friends knew exactly how many calories were in a donut, and one of my friends took up the habit of proclaiming, “I might as well just glue this to my thighs” when she ate one. Dieting was as much a part of becoming a woman as wearing eyeshadow and hiding tampons in a purse. My own participation was inevitable.

When I was 16, my favorite high school teacher and dance team coach counseled me to lose weight before a big dance competition that upcoming summer. His intentions were kind, but inarguably inappropriate. He merely thought I would have a better chance of winning a national dance competition as a cute size 4/6 rather than the 8/10 I had become.

I committed to walking 3 miles a day every day that summer and eating only salads. At one point, I indulged in a breadstick for which I punished myself with a day full of sit-ups. I was obviously smaller by the time the competition rolled around in August and everyone noticed. And my teacher was right, apparently: I won the top prize. Soon thereafter, I caught the attention of both teachers and boys. I was given leadership positions in my school and asked out on dates to a degree I had not previously experienced.

Dieting was as much a part of becoming a woman as wearing eyeshadow and hiding tampons in a purse. My own participation was inevitable.

Was the timing a coincidence, or did my new size afford me opportunities heretofore unseen? I don’t know for sure, but I was changed by the experience regardless. I had learned the power of being skinny and the joy of being truly seen. I came to depend on compliments as I depended on oxygen. I felt beautiful. I felt like a woman. 

I soon resumed normal eating habits, however, and slowly watched the weight return. When it did, I felt like I had become “un” everything: unattractive, undisciplined, and unsuccessful. Unwomanly. Unworthy.

And so the cycle began. More concerned with happiness than health, I would let myself enjoy all the foods I desired, become embarrassed by my appearance, and then do whatever it took to quickly become skinny once again. I gained weight by eating free donuts and midnight pizzas in college and lost it by eating only chocolate fat-free frozen yogurt until the weight was gone once again. 

I knew at the time that my diet choices were unhealthy, but I was more focused on size than health. I was young and unconcerned with vitamins or nutrients. I just wanted to have fun and look pretty while eating all the foods I wanted–was that too much to ask? 

Life is hard, and the unhealthy cycle continued as I aged, especially when times were difficult. I gained when I hit rocky days in my marriage and lost when I found hope once again.

I gained when I struggled with depression and lost when I pursued therapy. Gained when parenting babies was depleting and lost when I found sleep once again. Gained when my parents became ill and lost after they passed. Gained when I fueled for a half-marathon and lost when I gave up carbs. Gained when I used cake to distract my family from Covid losses and lost when I limited myself to only 1200 calories per day. Gained when I comforted myself while sick with Covid and lost when I  . . . well, I haven’t lost from that one yet.

I want to be more than my weight, more than my appearance. I want to find my beauty in kindness, generosity, and vulnerability.

Every time the scale goes down, I feel proud, unencumbered, pretty. Every time it goes up, I feel like a failure, a disgrace, an embarrassment. For 35 years I have been tormented by this never-ending cycle.

I want to be more than my weight, more than my appearance. I want to find my beauty in kindness, generosity, and vulnerability. I want to find purpose in the way I love and encourage the people around me. I want to live as a person who is free from dieting cycles and number-based evaluation. I want to see food as fuel and treat my body well by giving it the nutrition it deserves. I want to look forward to things that don’t involve sugar. I want to go through my days neither over-indulging nor counting calories, concentrating more on being healthy than being skinny. I want to make sure my daughter knows that I am proud of her for reasons that have nothing to do with her appearance. And I want to be proud of myself, regardless of size. I want to be strong, healthy, and free. 

It is time for a little cycle-breaking. Today is the perfect day to begin.

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Kristen Eshleman is a writer and school theater choreographer who is currently working toward a master's degree in Teaching Writing from Johns Hopkins University. She teaches writing workshops, volunteers with English language learners in her community, and is a host for the Moms Don’t Have Time to Move and Shake podcast. She has three children and a cute but mischievous dog. She hopes to become a cycle-breaker . . . but only time will tell. She no longer eats fat-free frozen yogurt regardless of the flavor.

Kristen can be found at @penpalsstorycenter on Instagram and penpalsstorycenter.com.