I recently went hiking with my fiancé Paul. It was one of those sunny British days when the weather demanded shorts. I have a pair of black walking shorts in a size 8-10. However, as soon as I pulled them out of the drawer, that same old voice started to echo in my head.
“You can’t wear them!” she whispered. “Not with your legs! They’re like a rugby player’s. Why don’t you stay at home, put on your old baggy sweatpants and open a packet of biscuits?”
In the past, I would have obeyed that voice. It’s a voice I’ve heard every day of my life, urging me to hide away from the world and stuff myself with endless amounts of junk food.
At 20, I was a size 28 and weighed 22kg. It took me over 20 years to lose 12.5kg, which is more than my current weight of 9kg. Now, at 52, I wear a size 10, and all my friends flatter me by telling me that I look a bit like Benjamin Button, in the sense that I look younger as I get older.
At 20, Sarah-Jane wore a size 28 and weighed 11.5kg. Now, at 52, she is “a svelte size 48”.
She says she has heard “the voice” every day of her life, “urging her to hide from the world and stuff her mouth with endless amounts of junk food.”
And yet, despite my outward appearance, I know I still have a “fat brain.” No matter what the scale or the mirror says, I fear I will always think like an overweight woman.
It’s a dilemma comedian Ed Gamble recently acknowledged, explaining that despite having lost 70 pounds many years ago and no longer being overweight, he still feels like he has a “fat brain.”
“I’m constantly thinking about food,” says the 38-year-old, who once weighed 80 kilos. “I’m always thinking: ‘I shouldn’t eat that.’ I’m always ready to overeat.”
“But now I have an extra layer to my thoughts, where I can think about how the food will make me feel in the future. I can think about the next few hours instead of instant gratification.”
I know exactly what you mean, but having a “fat brain” isn’t just about how you think about food. It also constantly affects how you see yourself, regardless of your outward appearance, and how you fear others will see you.
I’m constantly on guard because my “fat brain” can be triggered by anything, from having a stressful day at work to hearing someone shout “Hey, fatty” on the street. I always look around and assume they’re talking to me.
People are surprised when I confess that I still think like this. After all, my weight loss has given me a lot of confidence to achieve a lot, both in my professional career working in mental health for the NHS and in my personal life – I left my unhappy marriage and now I have to remarry next month.
No matter what the scales or the mirror say, Sarah-Jane fears she will always think of herself as an overweight woman.
But I am still haunted by memories of the overweight woman I once was, and who, in many ways, still lives inside me.
Let’s take the simple act of going on holiday as an example. At the age of 22, I took my first trip abroad with my then-boyfriend. I was so excited, but after boarding the plane, I found myself in the desperately embarrassing situation of literally wedging my body into the airplane seat between the armrests. Also, the seat belt didn’t stretch across my belly – there was a huge gap between the buckle and the clasp. The flight attendant had to get me a seat belt extender so I could fit in.
Totally humiliated, I could hear the passengers laughing as I sat there with tears rolling down my cheeks.
Even now that I’m little, I still get anxious when I arrive at an airport. All those old emotions come flooding back and make me feel huge again. I feel like my body is expanding as I get closer to the plane and I really panic about not being able to buckle up again.
It’s when I find myself in this kind of stressful state that my fat brain responds: “Buy that huge bar of Toblerone from Duty Free,” it says. “Go on, eat it. You’ll feel much better if you do.”
Unfortunately, we are so used to comforting ourselves or indulging in food that our brains are complicit in it. Experts say that sugar can be as addictive as cocaine thanks to the reward and pleasure response it provides.
In the past, when I was struck by these kinds of impulses, I would go to the nearest store and buy a bag full of food. These were family-sized packets of biscuits, chocolates and sweets. As soon as I got home, I would devour them all.
I ate and ate until I couldn’t eat anymore. But even though my brain tried to trick me into believing that this kind of behavior made me feel better, I would suffer from palpitations, sweat profusely, and feel physically exhausted and emotionally drained.
It can be incredibly difficult to deal with a fat brain. For me, what finally marked a turning point was when my sister died four years ago, aged 40, from pancreatic cancer. I knew I had to take better care of my physical and mental health.
I still have moments of weakness, but when I do, I remind myself forcefully that while that food may taste good in the moment, what happens afterwards? The self-loathing, the weight gain, the horrible skin. It’s just not worth it.
Usually, after 20 minutes or so, the wave of temptation passes quietly, though I still feel the need to take precautions, just in case – I intentionally don’t keep junk food or ultra-processed food products in the house.
But while I can resist the temptation to overeat, getting rid of negative thoughts about my appearance is much more difficult.
Triggers are everywhere. If I’m at the beach, I never walk around in just a bikini; I have to wear a sarong because I’m convinced those (non-existent) rolls of fat are still hanging off my hips and thighs. I also have to force myself to wear a dress or skirt, because my fat brain tells me I’m too big to wear them.
I’ve been a lifelong fan of Swindon Town Football Club, but I’ll always have Paul go through the turnstiles behind me so he can help me if I get stuck, as I did once years ago.
And some days I’m so convinced I’m gaining weight that I have to go to the bathroom just so I can sit in the privacy of the stall and stare at the labels on my clothes to convince myself I’m still a size 10.
Sarah-Jane says the turning point in her weight loss journey was when her sister died four years ago, aged 40, from pancreatic cancer. Sarah-Jane knew she needed to take better care of her health.
At times like these, my fat brain uses every weapon in its arsenal to dismantle the arguments my thin, healthy, happy self presents. It scoffs at all of them. It doesn’t believe they’re true. “I look good and I feel great. I deserve to feel good about myself,” I tell it.
“But do you really do it?” he replies.
Rationally, I know that even if I were to gain some weight again, as long as I didn’t gain it back to the point of putting my health at risk, it shouldn’t be something to crucify myself for. But after years of enduring public ridicule and self-loathing for my size, the fear I’m experiencing right now is very real.
So how do I cope? Being outdoors, no matter the weather, helps me disconnect from those negative thoughts. When I’m outside, listening to the birdsong or watching the clouds pass by, I’m present only in that moment.
I take one day at a time and each morning I wake up and set my intentions for the day, deliberately choosing to be healthy. Every morning and every night before I go to sleep, I listen to a guided meditation (one of my favorites is The Power of Thoughts by Louise Hay). For a treat, I give myself an Indian head massage or go to a restorative yoga class.
These treats make me feel permanently better, not temporarily better and then absolutely horrible like I did with binge eating.
After decades of being teased and considered less worthy for being overweight, I am so grateful for my health and the body I have now. But I know that in order to feel truly happy, the last battle I need to win is how I view myself.
As told to Samantha Brick.
