The Unexpected Grief of Weight Loss: What No One Tells You

As 2025 came to a close, I found myself surrounded by the inevitable, shallow noise of New Year’s resolutions. I braced myself for the “New Year, New Me” vibes on social media. To me, there is something deeply wrong with the way we’re told to resolve ourselves into better shape, as if the struggles of the past year were just a lack of willpower. 

For as long as I can remember, the world has spoken about weight loss in the shallow language of a “glow up”. We are conditioned to view it as a triumphant montage- a linear path toward happiness, confidence, and a better life. But as I look back at this past year, I don’t see a montage. I see a reckoning. Standing here now, having lost a significant amount of weight not by choice but by necessity, I realized no one ever talks about the mourning period. No one tells you that this transformation can be a funeral for the person you used to be, or a painful realization that the world’s kindness is reserved only for the version of you that fits. 

My journey wasn’t sparked by a New Year’s resolution or a desire to fit into a specific jean size. It was sparked by survival and the terrifying reality of a rare neurological condition. In August 2024, I was diagnosed with idiopathic intracranial hypertension (IIH) and was told there was a very real threat that I was going to lose my vision. I didn’t lose weight to look better; I lost weight because I wanted to see.

Losing a massive amount of weight comes with a disorienting body dysmorphia. I can look at a photograph of myself taken yesterday and feel a physical jolt of electricity in my chest because I don’t recognize the woman staring back at me. My brain is still operating on the map of my old body; I still brace myself when walking through tight spaces, and I still instinctively head for the plus-size section in stores.

When I do see my new reflection, the “success” people congratulate me on, it feels like a battlefield. Underneath the clothes that fit “better” is a landscape of loose skin and sagging breasts. I find myself hiding my abdomen, strategically choosing outfits to mask the physical evidence of my transformation. I am thinner, yes, but I feel more like a stranger to myself than I ever did when I was plus-sized.

For ten years, I lived in a cycle of self-blame. I tried every diet, hired personal trainers, and restricted myself until I was hollow. Every time I failed, I internalized it as a moral failing. When I went to the doctor with blurry vision or fatigue, I was met with the same dismissive script: “Lose weight, and it will solve everything.” It was a blanket treatment for a fire they refused to investigate. This is why I believe the New Year’s resolution industry is so toxic- it reinforces the lie that health is purely a matter of willpower, ignoring the reality that sometimes your chemistry is the one holding the door shut. 

Eventually, the truth came out in the form of a rare neurological disorder and a nodule on one of my adrenal glands, which was causing an overproduction of aldosterone. I wasn’t failing; my body was working against me the whole time.

When I finally began using a GLP-1 medication, it wasn’t a “shortcut”. It was a key that finally unlocked a door that had been deadbolted for a decade. This medication did more than help me lose weight; it has also managed my IIH and Lupus. It allowed me to stop taking Diamox, a drug so brutal that its side effects- neuropathy, upset stomach, brain fog, and exhaustion- were often worse than the condition itself. At one point, the treatment for my health resulted in walking with a cane. The GLP-1 gave me my mobility back, yet I still find myself defending its use to people who think I’m cheating or injecting myself with an unknown substance. There is a stinging irony in being judged for the very thing that has saved my life. 

Grief isn’t just about the weight itself; it’s about the pieces of myself I had to leave behind. Because of the intense medications, my hair- which was always sacred to me- began to fall out in clumps. Watching my identity thin out in the shower is a trauma I wasn’t prepared for. Cutting it short wasn’t a style choice; it was a white flag. 

Then there are the clothes. I find myself standing in my closet, holding pieces of clothing that represent memories, having to say goodbye to them because they no longer fit my body. It feels wasteful, and it’s a massive financial burden. Between the high cost of the medication, the price of healthier groceries, and the constant need to replace a wardrobe, the cost of living has taken on a literal, heavy meaning. 

I flew for the first time recently since the weight. As I sat down, I realized I didn’t need to ask for a seatbelt extension. For most, that’s a non-scale victory. For me, it was a trigger. I was immediately transported back to the first time I had to ask for one. I remembered the heat rushing to my face and the way I broke down crying as I buckled the seatbelt extension. Sitting there now, with inches of belt to spare, I didn’t feel happy. I felt a profound, aching sadness for the woman I was back then. 

This sadness is compounded by the way the world treats me now. Strangers are kinder. They hold doors, make eye contact, and smile at me more often than before. While it is nice, it fills me with a quiet rage. It confirms that the world’s kindness is often conditional based on the space you occupy. 

As I process this grief, I am beginning to find the beauty in the after. I am realizing that while I mourn the woman I was, I am also deeply proud of her. She is the one who survived complex medical traumas. She is the one who advocated for herself when doctors wouldn’t listen. She is the reason I am standing here today. 

The positive isn’t found in a smaller clothing size or a completed New Year’s checklist; it’s found in the absence of pain. It’s found in the fact that I no longer need a cane to walk. It’s the clarity of my vision- a gift I was so fearful of losing. I am learning to appreciate my changed body, not because it meets society’s beauty standards, but because it is a vessel that continues to fight a war and is winning. 

The loose skin is a map of my survival. The shorter hair is a testament to my resilience. I am no longer beating myself up for things that were never my fault. I am finally in a place where I can nourish myself, move my body comfortably, and look forward to a future that isn’t clouded by the fear of blindness or the fog of debilitating medication.

I am not just smaller; I am freer. I am finally healthy enough to actually live the life I spent so many years just trying to survive. And that, more than any compliment or clothing size, is the real victory!

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