Growing up, I was often labeled the "chubby" kid. The word stuck to me like a nickname I never asked for—whispered by classmates, echoed by well-meaning relatives, confirmed by every tight waistband and fluorescent dressing room mirror. School shopping was humiliating, and summers at the lake were worse. While other girls ran down the dock in their bikinis, I tugged at my oversized T-shirt, terrified to take it off.

Gym class was no better. I stood stiffly against the wall, waiting to be picked, my stomach sinking as I was left standing—again. The unchosen. The afterthought.

Then came an even greater loss—my mother's battle with colon cancer. The woman who once filled our home with rich, slow-cooked meals grew too weak to cook. Our diet changed overnight—boxed mac and cheese, fish sticks, and frozen fries became our staples. My weight climbed, and with it, my insecurities.

I thought being "thin" would fix everything. So, I starved myself into a Twiggy-like figure, ignoring the hunger, dizziness, and trembling hands.