My weight loss journey has been a typical rollercoaster, lasting well over half my life. Diets, setbacks, self-hatred in the mirror, and promises to “start on Monday.” Every failure left a new crack in my soul, and the kilograms I lost with incredible effort always came back, often with friends. I was just tired. Tired of shortness of breath climbing to my apartment on the third floor. Tired of finding only one wall in the store — filled with oversized clothing. Tired of pity and sideways glances. My world became the couch, the TV, and food as the only comfort. I resigned myself. I decided that my fate was to be big and unhappy.
One morning, I simply could not tie my shoelaces by myself. My heart was racing, sweat streaming into my eyes. In that moment, it hit me: this is not life. This is slow but certain self-destruction. I did not want to die at forty from a heart attack. My therapist, a straightforward and honest person, after reviewing my latest blood tests, shrugged: “You are an ideal candidate. You need bariatric surgery. Otherwise, by fifty, you’ll be on half a dozen medications and using a cane.” It sounded like a sentence. But in his eyes, I saw not judgment, but hope. That was the first time I heard the word “bariatrics.”
The next few months were spent researching. I read forums, watched reviews, feared terrible complications. It seemed to me like a crippling operation for the desperate. But the more I immersed myself in the topic, the more I realized: this isn’t magic. It’s a tool. A powerful, yet merely a tool. I had a long discussion with the surgeon ahead. He didn’t paint a rosy picture. He said honestly: “I will do my job, but 70% of success is your work afterward. For the rest of your life.” It didn’t scare me—in fact, it reassured me. There was a clear, albeit difficult, plan.
I underwent a sleeve gastrectomy. Waking up from anesthesia, I felt neither lightness nor euphoria. There was pain, weakness, and intense fear. But the hardest phase awaited ahead — the liquid diet. Three weeks on broths, water, and protein shakes. It was psychologically unbearable. I watched food on TV and cried from helplessness. My brain, accustomed to dopamine spikes from eating, rebelled. But day by day, the hunger receded. For the first time in my life, I didn’t feel a wild, ravenous hunger, just… emptiness in my stomach. It was a new, unfamiliar sensation.
After a month, I stepped on the scales. Minus fifteen kilograms. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It motivated me more than ever. The stage of puree food began. I ate cottage cheese, ground chicken breast, and vegetable purees. Portions were the size of a saucer. And I felt full! It was a miracle. I learned to eat slowly, in tiny spoonfuls, chewing thoroughly. I drank water half an hour before and only one hour after meals. This became my new rule. Most surprisingly — the craving for sweets disappeared. I used to eat a whole chocolate bar in one sitting; now even looking at a cake made me feel unwell. My body began choosing the right foods on its own.
The greatest discovery was… life. Six months passed. I lost forty-five kilograms. For the first time in ten years, I bought jeans in a regular store, not the plus-size section. I could run to the bus stop and not die. I started noticing details: how the air smells after rain, how people smile in response. It was like shedding a heavy, wet coat I had worn for years. I began living again, not just existing. Of course, not everything was perfect. There are days when I just want a slice of pizza, like before. But I can’t. And that’s good. It stops me. I have learned to find joy not in food, but in walks, new books, and meeting friends.
Now my weight has stabilized. I’m not a model; I have stretch marks and extra skin — a reminder of the past. But to me, these are not scars. They are badges of honor, proof of a battle I won. Bariatric surgery didn’t do everything for me. It gave me a second chance. It became the push that forced me to change my relationship with food forever. It is a hard path, full of doubts and self-work. But it’s worth it. Worth every tear, every effort. I breathe. I live. And I am finally happy.
Author
A bariatric surgeon with many years of experience helping patients improve their health and quality of life.
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