When Losing Weight Feels Heavier Than the Weight Itself

I need to lose weight.

Even writing that sentence feels loaded. Not because I don’t know it’s true, but because it carries so much history with it—old photos, old bodies, old versions of myself that felt lighter in more ways than one.

I was thin once. Or at least thinner. I remember what it felt like to move through the world without constantly thinking about my body. When I look back, it’s hard not to compare who I am now to who I was then. Everyone says you should only look forward, but that’s easier said than done when your past body feels like proof that you used to be able to do this.

Now, I’d love to lose thirty pounds. Thirty doesn’t sound outrageous. It doesn’t sound dramatic. But it feels enormous. Because losing weight isn’t just about food or movement—it’s about energy, consistency, motivation, mental health, and a body that doesn’t always cooperate.

And that’s where things get complicated.

I live with chronic illness and ADHD. Some days, just getting through the basics of life takes everything I have. Planning meals, tracking calories, making it to the gym—those things might sound simple on paper, but they require executive function, physical stamina, and emotional bandwidth. All things that fluctuate wildly for me.

So how does one actually do this?

People love to offer solutions. Intuitive eating. Calorie counting. Cutting carbs. Going to the gym. Just move more. Just eat less. As if “just” applies here.

I’ve tried intuitive eating. In theory, it sounds gentle and freeing. Listen to your body. Honor hunger. Trust yourself. But when your hunger cues are tangled up with dopamine-seeking ADHD cravings, emotional eating, medication side effects, and years of diet culture noise, it’s not always intuitive at all. Sometimes it feels like standing in front of a room full of people all talking at once and being told to “just listen to the right voice.”

Calorie counting feels more concrete. Numbers. Structure. Rules. But it can also turn into obsession, guilt, and burnout—especially when perfectionism creeps in. Miss a day, go over your calories, and suddenly the whole thing feels like a failure.

I went back to FAA—the approach that once worked for me—but this time it backfired. Instead of feeling grounded, I found myself craving food more than I ever have in my life. Restriction has a way of doing that. The harder you grip, the louder the cravings get.

I even joined a gym. That should count for something, right? I haven’t gone yet. The snow hasn’t melted, and honestly, it’s a great excuse not to go. I know that. I see it clearly. And yet, the barrier still feels real. When you’re exhausted, in pain, or overwhelmed, even small obstacles become walls.

And then there’s real life.

Tonight there was mac and cheese. Comfort food. Familiar. Easy. Did I eat three servings? Of course I did. Not because I’m weak or careless, but because food does more than fuel—it soothes, distracts, grounds, and fills emotional gaps when energy is low and coping skills are thinner than we’d like to admit.

Being overweight—or obese, as the doctor clinically calls it—adds another layer of shame to an already heavy load. It’s not just about health metrics. It’s about how you’re seen. How you’re talked to. How you talk to yourself.

The hardest part isn’t even the weight. It’s how hard it is to think about losing it at all.

When you live with chronic illness and ADHD, consistency feels like a moving target. What works one week might be impossible the next. Progress isn’t linear—it’s a scribble. And yet, we’re told to approach weight loss like a straight line: plan, execute, succeed.

But maybe the real starting point isn’t a plan. Maybe it’s honesty.

Honesty about how hard this is.

Honesty about the grief of not having the body you once had.

Honesty about wanting change while also feeling deeply tired.

I don’t have a tidy conclusion or a perfect method. I don’t know yet whether intuitive eating, calorie counting, movement, or something in between will be the answer for me. What I do know is that shame has never helped me change. And pretending this is easy hasn’t either.

For now, I’m trying to hold two truths at once:

I want to feel better in my body.

And I deserve compassion while figuring out how.

Maybe that’s not the final answer—but it might be the only place I can honestly begin.