I never thought I’d write about this.
For the longest time, I almost forgot how it felt, so much so that I thought I’d struggle to tell this story at all. But now that my heart has healed, or at least feels whole again, I think I’m finally ready to talk about it.

It started during my first year of college.
But honestly, even before that, I’d already been struggling with my identity, my appearance, and all the quiet insecurities I never said out loud. No matter where I went, I felt out of place. I was raised by my grandmother, and I didn’t grow up with my parents around. In high school, my classmates were three or four years older than me, making it difficult to form friendships or relate to them. When I finally moved in with my parents, I still didn’t feel a sense of belonging. It felt like I was always in the wrong place, in the wrong skin.

In the country where I was raised, I felt too different to fit in. When I moved to another country to live with my parents, I felt the same.
So, I thought: Maybe if I’m not fat, I’ll belong somewhere.

I was still a kid back then. I didn’t know how to process the comments, so I just believed them.
In Japan, where I moved, weight gain is treated like a crime, literally. In some workplaces, gaining weight can mean getting your salary deducted. When I arrived there, and I finally had access to the kinds of food I never got to enjoy growing up, I got excited. I ate. I gained some weight, not a lot, but enough for people to notice.

That’s when the comments started.
“You’re getting fat.”
“I can’t see your neck anymore.”

At first, I brushed them off. But over time, the remarks cut deeper.
I started hiding what I ate. And of course, the more I stressed about food, the more weight I gained. My mother wasn’t happy. She hid food from me. She made me walk to school, uphill, in the mountains, while my siblings rode in the car. There was no transportation where we lived, unless you walked down to the city just to catch a train or a bus. And I had no money for that.

I remember asking myself so many times, Why is my mother doing this to me?
The comparisons started too. I was constantly measured against my lovely sisters, of course. But the more I was compared, the more I shrank. Not just physically, but emotionally and mentally.

Eventually, the only thing I felt I could control was my mouth.
So I stopped eating.

The relationship with food that once brought me joy turned into fear. I avoided it. I denied myself. I lost weight fast. I wasn’t hungry. No one ever really said anything about it. No one asked. No one checked in. And maybe that silence made it worse. I don’t know if they were proud or just indifferent. I can’t remember anymore.

But what I do remember is learning how to lie.
How to act normal. How to hide.
Until one day, my dad noticed. He asked about my health. He showed concern.
But I was in denial. I couldn’t even see what he was seeing. Every time I looked in the mirror, I still saw the fat, ugly sister. The least-pretty daughter.

I think the turning point came when I almost ruined a relationship, because of how deep my insecurities ran, how much I hated my own body, how unworthy I felt of love. That’s when I realized:


I don’t want to lose someone who sees me.
But more than that, I don’t want to keep losing myself.

And healing… it wasn’t instant. It wasn’t even pretty.
There were days I cried after meals, and days I had to remind myself that I deserve to eat. That I deserve to exist. That my softness is not a weakness. That my worth isn’t measured by how small I can make myself.


It was slow. Some days felt like progress. Other days felt like failure.
But I kept choosing to try again. Not just for myself
but for the people who truly saw beauty in me, even when I couldn’t.
For the people who didn’t love me for how I looked but for who I was.

Their love gave me the strength to offer that same love to myself.
Not the version of me that was thinner. Or prettier.
But the version of me who survived.
The one who stayed.

And now, I’ve come to understand:
Healing doesn’t mean I’ll never hear those old voices again,
the ones that told me I wasn’t enough.
It just means I know better now.
I know who I am.
I know what love should feel like.
And I know who’s worth listening to, and who isn’t.

So to those who couldn’t see the beauty in me,
the people who only looked at my body and not my heart:
I’m no longer asking you to understand me.
I’m done shrinking for your comfort.

I was never the problem.
The problem was a world that tried to convince me that my body made me unworthy.
But not anymore.

Now, when I say “I’m not hungry,”
I mean, I’m no longer starving for approval,
no longer hungry for love that hurts,
no longer chasing acceptance from people who never truly saw me.

I am full now.
And I’m finally learning to feed myself, with kindness, softness, and peace.