No One Encouraged Me to Lose Weight. They Only Mocked Me for Being Fat

No one ever said, “You can do this.”

They said, “You’ve gotten so big.”

They said it laughing, casually, as if they were commenting on the weather.

They said it with the authority of people who believed shame was a form of motivation.

But shame is not motivation.

Shame is gravity.

And for a long time, it kept me exactly where I was.

1. The First Joke

The first time I realized my body was public property, I was thirteen.

It happened in a classroom that smelled faintly of chalk and sweat. We were lining up to be weighed for a routine physical exam. The boys stood in a loose cluster behind me, whispering and snickering in the way boys do when they sense vulnerability.

When I stepped onto the scale, one of them leaned toward another and said, loud enough for me to hear, “Careful, it might break.”

They laughed.

Not loudly. Not cruelly, at least not in their minds. Just enough.

Enough to make my ears burn.

Enough to make me step off the scale quickly, as if the number itself were contagious.

The nurse wrote something down and told me I could go. She didn’t notice anything unusual. To her, it was an ordinary day.

To me, it was the day my body stopped being mine.

On the bus ride home, I stared at my reflection in the window. The glass distorted my face slightly, making me look wider.

I pressed my fingers into my stomach, wondering when it had become something worthy of mockery.

No one told me how to change.

They only showed me how unacceptable I already was.

2. The Family That Laughed

Family gatherings were worse because they were supposed to be safe.

At sixteen, I walked into my aunt’s living room wearing a new shirt I had chosen carefully—dark blue, loose enough to hide my shape.

My uncle glanced up from the television and grinned.

“Wow,” he said. “You’re getting stronger. You must be lifting a lot of food.”

The room erupted in laughter.

My mother laughed too, though hers was quieter.

I forced a smile.

“Very funny,” I said.

But inside, something folded in on itself.

Later, in the bathroom, I stood in front of the mirror and lifted my shirt slightly. My stomach curved outward, soft and undeniable.

I poked it, as if it might disappear under pressure.

I whispered, “What’s wrong with you?”

Not to the mirror.

To myself.

No one pulled me aside and said, “If you want help, I’ll support you.”

No one asked if I was unhappy.

They only laughed, and laughter is a strange kind of weapon. It leaves no bruises you can point to.

3. The Invisible Line

In college, I discovered there was an invisible line between people like me and people the world found acceptable.

It showed up in subtle ways.

My thinner friends received compliments effortlessly.

“You look amazing.”

“That dress was made for you.”

“You’re glowing.”

When I wore something new, people said nothing.

Or worse, they said, “You’re brave to wear that.”

Brave.

As if my body were an act of defiance.

One night, at a party, a guy I barely knew said, “You’d be really pretty if you lost weight.”

He said it kindly, as if offering advice.

I nodded.

“Thanks,” I replied.

As if he had given me a gift.

I went home early and sat on my bed, replaying his words.

You’d be really pretty.

The implication hung in the air.

You’re not pretty now.

No one told me how to become the version of myself they approved of.

They only reminded me that I wasn’t her yet.

4. The Workplace

Adulthood didn’t soften the cruelty. It refined it.

At my first office job, my coworkers never mocked me directly. They were too professional for that.

But cruelty doesn’t always announce itself.

It hides in tone.

In omission.

In the way people overlook you when distributing opportunities.

One afternoon, a group of colleagues planned to join a gym together.

“You should come,” one of them said to everyone else.

She glanced at me briefly, then looked away.

The invitation hovered in the air, deliberately incomplete.

Another time, I overheard two coworkers whispering near the break room.

“She has such a pretty face,” one said.

“Yeah,” the other replied. “It’s a shame.”

A shame.

I stood frozen behind the wall, holding my coffee, feeling like an unfinished version of a person.

They didn’t encourage me.

They evaluated me.

5. The Doctor Who Didn’t See Me

Even doctors spoke the language of disappointment.

During one appointment, my physician looked at my chart and sighed.

“You really need to work on this,” he said, tapping the paper.

Work on this.

As if my body were a failed project.

He didn’t ask about my stress levels. He didn’t ask about my sleep. He didn’t ask about my mental health.

He only asked, “Why haven’t you lost weight?”

I didn’t know how to answer.

Because I was tired.

Because food comforted me.

Because I didn’t believe I deserved to take care of myself.

Because every insult made me want to hide, not improve.

Instead, I said nothing.

He handed me a pamphlet and moved on to the next patient.

6. The Breaking Point

People assume mockery motivates change.

It doesn’t.

It creates paralysis.

Every insult became another layer of armor.

If they already believed I was weak, why try?

If they already saw me as a failure, why risk confirming it?

So I stayed where I was.

Until one night, something shifted.

I was at home, alone, sitting on the edge of my bed. The room was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator in the next room.

I had just returned from a dinner where someone joked, “Leave some food for the rest of us.”

Everyone laughed.

Including me.

But now, alone, the laughter sounded different.

It sounded hollow.

I stood up and walked to the mirror.

I looked at my body—not with disgust, but with exhaustion.

Not physical exhaustion.

Emotional exhaustion.

“I don’t hate you,” I whispered.

The words surprised me.

For years, I had believed hatred was the only path to change.

But hatred had done nothing.

It had only kept me trapped.

In that moment, I realized something simple and radical:

No one was coming to save me.

No one was going to encourage me.

If I changed, it would not be because they believed in me.

It would be because I finally did.

7. The Quiet Beginning

I didn’t announce it.

I didn’t post about it.

I didn’t tell anyone.

I started walking.

Just ten minutes at first. Then fifteen. Then twenty.

Not to punish myself.

To reclaim something.

Each step felt like a small rebellion against every voice that had told me I wasn’t worth effort.

No one noticed at first.

And that was fine.

Because for the first time, I wasn’t doing it for them.

8. The Irony

Months later, when the weight began to come off, something strange happened.

The same people who mocked me began to compliment me.

“You look amazing.”

“I’m proud of you.”

“What’s your secret?”

I smiled politely.

But inside, I remembered.

They hadn’t encouraged me when I needed it most.

They hadn’t believed in me when belief would have mattered.

They only noticed once the transformation was visible.

That’s the irony of it all.

People celebrate results.

They rarely support struggle.

9. What I Learned

If mockery could create change, I would have transformed years earlier.

If shame were effective, I would have been unstoppable.

But shame doesn’t build strength.

It builds silence.

What changed me wasn’t their cruelty.

It was my decision to stop agreeing with it.

To stop seeing myself through their eyes.

To stop waiting for permission to become someone better.

No one encouraged me.

But I learned something more powerful.

Encouragement from others is fragile.

Encouragement from yourself is permanent.

10. The Truth

Sometimes I wonder who I would have become if just one person had said, “I believe in you.”

Not as criticism.

Not as advice.

But as faith.

Maybe I would have started sooner.

Maybe I would have suffered less.

But maybe this was the lesson I needed.

Because now, when I see someone struggling, I don’t laugh.

I don’t judge.

I understand.

I know how heavy mockery can be.

And I know how powerful it is to rise without applause.

No one encouraged me to lose weight.

They only mocked me for being fat.

But in the end, I didn’t change because they believed I could.

I changed because I finally realized they were never the ones who mattered.