Kat Atwell is a freelance writer, blogger & stage presence telling stories that deliver laughs, validation & community.

Mental Health | Wellness & Self Image | Experiential & Reviews


Someone has taken it upon themselves to hide my scale.

I had surgery October 12th, and the day after returning home, I stepped on the scale to discover I’d “gained” ten pounds. Ignoring the fact that there was massive fluid retention and I had just gone through a major medical procedure, it made me cry.

I’d like to say that was the only time it happened, but I started stepping on that damn scale daily. A week ago, I had my first post-op visit, and the only time I cried while I was in the exam room was when — you guessed it — I saw my weight between my feet.

See, several months ago, I managed for the first time in several years to drop below 200 pounds. I was hovering in the 190s, edging my way downwards. This procedure put me back up over 200. Should this matter? No. Should I be kinder to myself? Yes. Have I finally come to the realization that I have a very unhealthy relationship with my weight and body image, to the point that it potentially could be considered an eating disorder?

I’m tired of dictating my self-worth by numbers. I’m grateful (and more than a little annoyed) that someone did take away the scale, and I’d be lying if I said I haven’t experienced more than a few desperate pangs of desire to play hide and seek in the house. However, upon finding it, what purpose would it serve? I’d step on it with trepidation, take note of the time, mentally review what I’d eaten for the day, consider the last time I pooped, and then blindly hand over complete control of my mental state to the number on the scale and allow all the self-judgment to land squarely on my shoulders, be it “good” or “bad.”

It’s exhausting, especially when your sole responsibility currently is to rest and heal. To step on a scale right now goes completely against the healing process. This recovery is as much mental as it is physical.

My outsides are beautiful. Even when I’m naked and staring at the stretch marks, and the pooch that carried my daughter and now is void of a uterus, and trying to adapt to this new body, I know I’m OK. Do I love myself on the outside as much as I do on the inside? No. But, there are times the opposite is true, too.

Finding the balance and ability to be satisfied by my body, knowing I respect it and love it, is hard. I’m struggling right now. But, fortunately, I can’t measure this insecurity by pounds now, because SOMEONE HID MY SCALE.

Thanks, mystery person.

Saying it out loud.

Proud Mary