Being Her When the Goalposts Keep Moving

On weight loss, self-image, body agency, and what happens when you finally arrive.

Today I cried in a fitting room.

Not because something didn’t fit. Because it did.

I spent the day running errands with my son and getting a few things for myself and the business. By the time I made it to TJ Maxx, I had already been out for hours. I wasn’t even really shopping for clothes, but I decided to try some pants on because I had been telling myself for months that I needed to figure out what size I actually wear now. Most of what I own is too big. I knew that. I just don’t think I understood how much smaller I had actually gotten.

I grabbed a few pairs of pants in different brands and styles. I tried on a 12 first. Too big. So I grabbed a 10, and even then part of me was thinking, A 10? Be serious. I expected them to be tight. But as I started pulling them up, before I even got them all the way on, I could feel it. There was room!

And I started crying. Right there in the fitting room.

Because for more than a decade, a size 10 had been something I only imagined. It represented the woman I thought I might become one day, eventually. The woman who finally did the work and lost the weight. The woman who could walk into a store, pick up a size 10, and wear it.

And suddenly, there she was.

Me... I did it.

Before this, the smallest I had ever been as an adult was a 12, and even then, I never maintained it for very long. Eventually, the weight came back. This time is different. I’m here and I've been here for a while. And somehow, I almost missed it. Because when I look in the mirror, especially when I look at my stomach, I still see a much bigger woman. That realization hit me almost as hard as fitting into the jeans.

I have people telling me all the time how small I am. My mother has been saying it for months. My sons notice it. People tell me my face looks smaller, that I look younger, that I look damn good. And still, somewhere in my mind, I see myself as a size 14/16.

The big girl.

I’ve been the big girl for most of my life. I started gaining weight around seven, and from an early age I was aware that I was bigger than the other girls. I was teased for it. I have spent most of my life around friends who were smaller than me, and I was often the short, heavier friend. At some point, being the big girl stopped being something about my body and quietly became part of my identity.

Now, I was never walking around thinking I was ugly. I know I'm beautiful. I'm confident. I’m fun. I have style. I have an intriguing personality. I've always had all kinds of things going for me. But underneath all of that was still this quiet awareness:

I’m the big one.

And I’m not anymore.

I’m still trying to teach my mind what my body already knows.

And something else happened in that fitting room too. Because while part of me was thinking, Oh my God, I did it, another part was looking at my stomach and thinking, How can I be a size 10 and still look like this? That was a hard pill to swallow, and let me be a little more vulnerable with you: sometimes it's depressing.

I'm realizing I reached a goal I wanted for years and, now that I'm here, I'm finding it difficult to really allow myself to celebrate it. For years, I thought 175–185 pounds would be enough. As I lost weight, the goal became 165–175. Then I got there—and almost immediately started wondering if I needed to be smaller. The goalposts kept moving.

Maybe I’ll like my stomach more. Maybe when I lose another five pounds. Maybe another ten. Maybe then...

But I don’t think I need to keep getting smaller.

I actually like my body size. I love my legs. I like my thighs. I like the way I look in most of my clothes. I feel good. But there is one area of my body that I still genuinely dislike.

My stomach.

And I think women are allowed to love themselves and still not love every part of their bodies.

We talk a lot about body positivity and accepting the body you have. Sometimes that message is loving. Sometimes someone really is trying to remind you that you are worthy now, that you don’t need to punish yourself, that your life doesn’t need to begin ten pounds from now.

I believe that.

But sometimes “accept yourself” starts sounding less like encouragement and more like another rule women are expected to follow. Be happy with what you have. Don’t get the tummy tuck. Don’t get your breasts done. Don’t get your nose done. Don’t change anything. God gave you this body. God doesn't make mistakes.

And I keep thinking: what if I simply don’t want to accept every single thing exactly as it is?

Why does self-love have to mean surrender?

Why can’t I love myself deeply, be proud of what I’ve accomplished, appreciate my body for carrying me through life—and still decide there are things I want to change?

I don’t believe wanting to change your body automatically means you hate it. Sometimes it means you know exactly what you want and how you want to feel in your body. Sometimes a woman loses the weight and is left with loose skin. Sometimes she loses weight everywhere except the area that has bothered her for years. Maybe she wants more curves. Maybe she wants less. Maybe she wants her breasts lifted. Maybe she wants her stomach flatter. Maybe she wants absolutely nothing done at all.

I think body positivity should leave room for women to choose.

Agency matters.

I can love myself and still want something different. Both can be true.

I want women to be able to make thoughtful decisions about their own bodies without being shamed into keeping something they genuinely do not want simply to prove that they love themselves.

What I don’t want to do anymore is confuse dissatisfaction with one part of my body for dissatisfaction with my entire body. That fitting room showed me the difference.

My stomach is not my whole body. And my body is not the same body I have been picturing in my head. I think that was the real wake-up call. I spent years becoming this woman. Now I have to let myself see her.

I have to stop chasing a smaller size or a number on the scale just because my mind hasn't caught up with my body. I have to let myself enjoy what I worked for. To buy the smaller clothes. To stop reaching automatically for the larger size. To stop assuming something won’t fit or look good before I even try it on. To stop treating my body like it is still waiting to become acceptable.

I may still make changes.

Who am I kidding? I’m getting the tummy tuck.

But that is different from believing I am not enough yet. Because standing in that fitting room, crying in a pair of size 10 jeans that still had room in them, something finally clicked.

I’m already here.

And maybe the next part of this journey isn’t becoming smaller. Maybe it’s learning how to see the woman I already became.

It’s no longer about being the big girl.

It’s about Being Lovisa.

And I’m finally starting to embody that.

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Love, Beads & Culture explores womanhood, wellness, cultural adornment, personal evolution, and living beautifully through stories, reflections, and meaningful connection.