Can We Stop Auditioning for "Guess My Weight"?
Dear Stranger, My Body Isn’t a Before-and-After Photo.
Somewhere along the way, society decided that the most exciting thing about a chronically ill person is… their weight.
Not their courage.
Not the fact that they got out of bed after sleeping like a rotisserie chicken all night because every joint had a different opinion.
Not that they smiled through pain that would make a healthy person cancel every plan for a week.
No.
It’s always…
“You’ve lost weight!”
As if my body is competing in a reality show called Keeping Up with the Inflammation.
Here’s the tea.
Yes, I was on Ozempic.
For one month.
One.
Tiny.
Month.
Nearly two years ago.
That chapter ended long before my doctors found the treatment that finally convinced my immune system to stop acting like an overdramatic theatre kid who thinks every healthy cell deserves a standing ovation… before attacking it.
Autoimmune diseases are strange little poets.
They write their verses in swollen joints.
Their punctuation is fatigue.
Their metaphors are brain fog, aching muscles, burning nerves, and days where making toast deserves an Olympic medal.
Fibromyalgia is the friend who says, “Let’s keep life interesting,” and then hides your energy, steals your sleep, sprinkles pain like glitter, and somehow convinces everyone else that you look absolutely fine.
It’s rude, really.
The funny thing about invisible illnesses is that everyone becomes an unsolicited detective.
“You’ve lost weight.”
“You look tired.”
“You look well!”
Thank you, Sherlock.
Now kindly explain why my hips sound like bubble wrap every morning.
My body has become the world’s most confusing weather forecast.
Today’s prediction:
A 90% chance of pain.
Scattered fatigue.
Possible emotional support snacks.
Strong winds of brain fog.
And a slight chance of remembering why I walked into the kitchen.
Living with chronic illness teaches you that bodies are seasons.
Sometimes they bloom.
Sometimes they hibernate.
Sometimes they become an entire thunderstorm wearing leggings.
Neither season makes you more worthy.
Or less beautiful.
Or less human.
In two months, I’ll be back in the office of the woman I jokingly call my autoimmune fairy godmother—my rheumatologist. She doesn’t wave a magic wand (although I wouldn’t complain if she did), but she listens. She remembers. She cares. My entire medical team has become something I never thought I’d find: people who see me before they see my blood results.
After years of feeling like another folder on someone’s desk—or another medical aid claim waiting to happen—finding healthcare professionals who genuinely celebrate every small victory feels like coming home.
Healing isn’t always dramatic.
Sometimes healing is simply someone believing you.
Someone saying,
“I know you’re trying.”
Someone refusing to give up.
That’s medicine too.
So if you meet someone whose body has changed…
Resist the urge to become a commentator on their size.
Instead, ask them,
“How are you feeling today?”
Because weight tells you almost nothing.
But that question?
That question makes space for the whole story.
And trust me…
The bravest chapters are rarely the ones you can see.
I’d like to leave you with this thought:
We are not shrinking. We are surviving.
Some days survival looks like medication.
Some days it looks like tears.
Some days it looks like laughter so loud that pain has to wait its turn.
And if my autoimmune disease insists on being the main character, I’ll simply keep writing better chapters.
Flare & Flourish
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