I remember the day that photo was taken—the one marked Before. It was a quiet morning. The house still smelled like the lavender candle I lit the night before. I was wearing my favorite soft gray sweater, the one that used to feel like armor. I smiled for the camera, but my eyes… my eyes were tired. Not from lack of sleep, but from carrying a version of myself that didn’t feel like me anymore.
For years, I hid behind a look, a figure, a presence that people praised. “You look amazing,” they’d say. “I wish I had your curves.” But no one ever asked how I felt in my skin. And the truth is, I didn’t feel seen. I felt like I was performing a role I never auditioned for—confident, sexy, put-together. But inside, I was quietly grieving the woman I used to be. The one who danced barefoot in the grass. The one who laughed without checking her reflection.
The change didn’t happen overnight. It was a slow whisper at first, then a conversation with a friend who saw through my practiced smile. Then came the decision—the radical, terrifying decision to choose me. Not the version others wanted. Not the body they admired. Just… me.
The After photo was taken six months later, in the woods behind my house. I remember the wind playing with my hair, the soft laughter of my niece behind the camera. I wasn’t posing. I was being. And for the first time in years, I felt weightless. Not because I was smaller. But because I had shed the layers of expectation.
This isn’t a story about looks. It’s about reclaiming identity. About trusting that change—even painful, uncertain, vulnerable change—can lead us home to ourselves.
I still have the gray sweater. It fits differently now, not just on my body, but in my heart. And when I wear it, I don’t see the “before.” I see the woman who chose to become whole again.
