My Wake-Up Call to Lose Weight

I knew I wanted things to change. I was worried about my health, about our relationship, and about the kind of mum I wanted to be. I wanted to run after my little boy, play with him without struggling, and be around long enough to meet my grandchildren. Great-grandchildren, if I could manage it. But then there was food. Calling it a love of food didn’t quite cover it any more. It felt like an addiction. I could think about all those things I wanted for my future and still spend the next morning planning what I was going to eat. I told my husband I was making an effort. And at home, I made sure it looked that way. No more peanut butter. Water to drink. Salad on my plate. Outside the house, though, it was a different story. Every bakery window felt like food porn. I’d go out and find myself on a mission to track down an almond croissant. For lunch, bacon and eggs with white bread. Then something sweet with my afternoon tea. Whatever took my fancy. The peanut butter had gone, but I’d found plenty to replace it. Somehow, I convinced myself that eating salad and drinking water at home balanced everything out. As though what I ate outside didn’t quite count. But I knew why I wasn’t telling him about it. I knew why I wanted him to see the salad and never hear about the croissant. I was lying to him. And every time I told myself I was doing enough, I was lying to myself too. My baby was almost two. I was still overweight, still struggling with food, and still telling my husband I was making an effort. He still loved me. We still had sex, but much less often than before I’d given birth. We’d been having sex right up until the last week of my pregnancy. Now, every conversation about my weight ended with the same question. “If you’re only eating salad, why isn’t anything changing?” One day, he asked for my phone. I assumed he wanted a photo or someone’s number. Instead, he opened my banking app. There they were. All those payments for food. He showed me the screen. There wasn’t much I could say. The bakery visits, the lunches, the little treats I’d conveniently left out of our conversations—it was all there. He didn’t seem angry. He seemed tired. Tired of hearing that I was trying while I hid what was really happening. Then he said something that stayed with me. “Our little one is nearly two. You said you wanted no more than three years between the children. I’m worried about your health and another pregnancy. I can’t bear the thought of losing you or a baby.”