I absolutely hate when people constantly police women’s bodies—and by women, today, I’m talking about me. I underwent gastric bypass surgery in October 2018. That decision came after nearly bleeding to death from a 13-pound fibroid and being diagnosed with both multiple myeloma—a blood cancer—and scleritis, a painful autoimmune disease, in 2017. On the day of my surgery, I weighed 376 pounds. Today, I weigh 195. Yeah, I had surgery but I have been working my ass off since 2017 on my weight loss journey because I refused to die in my season.
I didn’t lose weight because I hated my body. I loved that big body. I found confidence in that big body. I found my strength in that big body. I popped style in that big body. I built a whole brand—Phat Girl Fresh—on that love, confidence, strength and style because I understood the assignment and my purpose. After years of depression and feeling helpless due to childhood traumas; I shifted in that big body to heal myself and help others heal too. I lost weight because loving her also meant saving me. And to do that, I had to change my mind.
As Black women, we carry so much. The culture. The pain. The expectations. The doubt. The generational weight of being the “strong one.” And for years, I wore that armor proudly. I masked my pain behind purpose, my fear behind fashion, and my health behind hustle. But when I was diagnosed with two life-altering conditions, my body asked me—begged me—to prioritize healing. And for the first time, I finally listened.
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Maui Bigelow Weight Loss
Weight loss wasn’t about becoming acceptable to others—it was about becoming accountable to myself. But here’s what I know, although it’s rarely said out loud: no matter what size you are, somebody’s going to have something to say.
When I was super plus-size, people offered me backhanded compliments like, “You have a pretty face” and “You’re pretty for a big girl.” They dished out health advice that they couldn’t even back up. And now, after losing over 180 pounds, folks have the nerve to say, “You’re losing too much weight,” or ask, “Are you sick?” or “How much more are you trying to lose?” The irony? Those same folks were silent when I was dying—when stress, survival, and sickness were breaking my body down from the inside. They were silent when I couldn’t walk a flight of stairs without it feeling like my heart was going to beat out of my chest. Why? I’m not sure but I feel like some people felt good because me not being my best made them more comfortable with themselves.
