I caught my reflection in the mirror today and thought, “I wish I was 45kg again.”
Actually, scratch that—these days I’d be grateful to just lose 5kg.
And to think, there was a time I complained about being 45kg. I’d stand there, pinching my tummy, convinced my arms looked like drumsticks. I was so critical of myself back then.
Then life happened. I got sick—really sick—from being stressed over something that consumed me. And then, of course, I got stressed because I was sick. Cue the medications (some that mess with weight), the comfort eating, the late-night binges to soothe my nerves. And just like that, I was caught in the ugliest loop: stress → sickness → stress → more weight.
Now I’m about 15kg heavier, and trying to lose it feels like fighting a war with no end date.
Funny thing is, when I look at my old photos, I wonder… why on earth did I ever think that was fat?
My appetite these days is weird, my sleep even worse. I’ve struggled to fall asleep for the past four years. I’ve tried everything—supplements, calming music, magnesium spray—you name it. And when I do manage to drift off, I’m usually jolted awake at 2 or 3am.
Sometimes, I give in and take the sleeping pill my doctor prescribed. And oh, the bliss of a night with no dreams—just deep, uninterrupted rest.
I’ve stopped caring much about what people think of me. At this point, just being here—present—for my little family of three feels like more than enough.
But deep down, I still want pieces of my old self back.
Not just the 45–50kg Aliya, but the healthy Aliya. The one with the energy to chase her dreams, not just survive the day.
Aliyawanders 
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