I keep telling myself I am beautiful. I am lovely. I am unique. Powerful words that some days I believe and some days I do not…

I am someone whom the world would classify as ‘clinically obese’.

There are a lot of unspoken preconceived notions that cushion this term and its meaning, but in a nutshell it’s this; I am a long way off my ideal weight.

Most days I find myself trapped in a battle of the mind. All around me the ideals of beauty are flaunted. They are perfect skin and teeth, a lithe Cameron-D-like figure and Rapunzel-like golden hair. Everything I’m not.

I’m 5’9, black as night, with laughter lines and an excess 10 stone and 16lbs.
I cannot blame my heaviness on my five kids or diabetes or a slow thyroid.
I am a self-confessed food lover. I love real Italian food, Chinese, chocolate and
am also quite the cook. I was one of those kids at school, who was always going up for seconds or thirds at the cafeteria queue. I always had a healthy appetite and was encouraged by my parents to finish my food because of the starving children in Africa. Back then I thought nothing of it.

By the time I turned 13, my hormones went into overdrive and I went from being a skinny, confident girl to a shy teen with a womanly bust. By 17, I was wearing plus-size clothing and one bad-first-boy-friend-break-up later, at the age of 20, I struggled to find my size in stores at all.

In those interim years, I didn’t bother to climb on the scale. What was the point? I’d lost the battle. I felt embarrassed by my body and thought maybe if I were different, more beautiful in the world’s eyes, that people would respect me. I found it impossible to love myself. Yet deep down I wanted everybody else to love me. I wanted to scream, “What’s wrong with me? I am beautiful too!”

At first I was stubborn. I wanted people to like me for me and I was a modern women, darn it! With modern ideals! I could be anyone I wanted to be! Diets were humiliating, as was exercise in any public place and neither ever seemed to work. It seemed as though every gym, park or public swimming pool was filled with model-perfect girls who looked at me as if I were intruding on their space!

For years I drifted in a blurry state of broken-heartedness. Being the only obese person in my family, I felt isolated and ashamed. My family tried their best to help me but ultimately, I was the one left carrying the excess weight. At my lowest, I attempted suicide on three separate occasions.

It had happened quickly, this crazy descent into depression and compulsive eating. All at once I’d felt overwhelmed. I didn’t know what to do or how to help myself. I had exhausted all my own plans and ideas.

Until one day I found myself down on my knees, crying and praying and then crying and praying all over again. It was the day I cried out for help, help that I knew only one person could give. If there was a God, I had a few questions for Him. Like “Why did I have to live my life? Why did I have this body? Why couldn’t I just love myself? And why was I so afraid?”

That day I didn’t get any of the answers, but I was left with an intense feeling of peace. I had stopped pretending to be okay with my weight, putting on the faces of “the funny girl,” “smart girl,” “talented girl” in order for people to like me. I finally let go of the food I’d been over-medicating myself with and decided to put down the controls.

I don’t know how it had happened, but somehow I’d bought into the lies of the media and the world about what true beauty looks like and actually is. When I realized I didn’t fit in that mold, I’d become increasingly depressed. And the more depressed I became, the more I wanted to disappear behind my weight.

That day was like a watershed moment for me and miraculously, over time, I managed to climb out of the despair. There was a glimmer of hope that I’d never seen before. It had a lot to do with truth and faith and a renewed determination to hold on. I decided to try liking myself.

By concentrating on what I felt was nice about me—not just the physical, but things like my voice, my accent, my ability to write, my compassion for people, my heart. I forced myself to recognize that not everybody was made the same. That we serve a God of variety and our difference is to be celebrated. And then I began the slow journey of self-acceptance.

This journey is where you have met me. I am by no means at its end, but I have come a long, long way. And the funny thing is since I began this process I’ve been steadily dropping the pounds. I’ve realized I am not defined by a few numbers or anybody else’s opinion. I don’t strive so hard to loose weight or for others approval and I no longer feel the need to hide.

I just lead a healthier, cleaner, happier life than I ever did before. I still love me my food and chocolate—just in moderation! At 29, I finally figured out that its OK to just be me and I really do love the me that I’ve given myself permission to be.

Anna Marie Hopewell is a Journalism Graduate from London. She has a passion for missions work, social justice and women’s issues. You can email her directly at ameverwell1@yahoo.com