Shine Me Brite

I woke up that morning with the best intentions.  . . . I had my meals planned, my water bottle filled, and my willpower set on high.  Today was supposed to be another successful day of staying on track, fueling my body with balanced meals, and proving to myself that I had control.  . . . But by the time the sun set, I found myself surrounded by empty wrappers, my stomach uncomfortably full, and my mind drowning in guilt. . It started small.  A little extra peanut butter on my toast at breakfast. No big deal.  Then, a few unplanned bites of chocolate while making lunch. Still manageable.  . . . But as the day went on, the cravings grew louder.  My stress levels were rising, my self-control was slipping, and that little voice in my head started whispering, You’ve already messed up today, so what’s the point? And that’s when it happened. . I gave in.  I stopped fighting.  . . . I raided the kitchen, eating anything that felt comforting—chip...

  Dear Diary, It started with a comment—casual, thoughtless, the kind of thing someone says and forgets in seconds. But I didn’t forget. “You have a little fat on your arms.” . . . Maybe they didn’t mean it cruelly. Maybe it was just an observation. But to me, it wasn’t just words. It was a verdict. A confirmation of the thing I feared most: that my body was too much. That I was too much. And just like that, my world flipped upside down. . . . Church used to be my safe space, a place where I could sing, laugh, and feel at peace. But after that comment, I couldn’t enjoy it anymore.  Sitting with my friends, all I could think about was how I looked.  During worship, instead of lifting my hands in praise, I worried about how big my arms looked when I raised them.  Fellowship meals weren’t about bonding anymore—they were just tables full of temptations, plates stacked with the enemy. . . . So on that day when my pastor brought burgers and fries for everyone, ...