I can’t remember a time when life felt easy. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve ever really been happy, or if I’ve just kept making choices that led me down the wrong paths. I think about the “what ifs”: what if I’d been born in a different time, to a different family, under different circumstances? But I know, deep down, none of that would change the constant weight I carry. It’s always there, shadowing every part of my life.

  Insecurity clings to me like a second skin. I never felt beautiful, never thought of myself as the one people would remember. On a good day, people might have called me a six or a seven—maybe an eight if I lost a little weight. And trust me, I’ve tried. I’ve tried every diet, every sport, every program. Each time I thought I was getting somewhere, all my motivation would just drain out of me, as if I’d reached some invisible limit.

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  This isn’t the first time I’ve felt that way. Every time I start to feel excited or inspired, that spark dies before I can do anything with it. And so, the cycle repeats, over and over again.