“Yeah, I’ve Gained Weight—But You Have No Idea What I’ve Survived”

by Shelly Moore Caron

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Three things happened this week that slammed the reality of my aging and weight gain to the forefront of my mind.

1. My father-in-law casually said, “…back when you were thin-faced…” as if I, the woman standing right in front of him, had been replaced by some lesser, puffier substitute.

2. I found an old social media account I hadn’t seen in over a decade. Logged in. Scrolled. And there she was—me. Younger. Thinner. Smiling in ways that looked vibrant from the outside. What no one saw behind those pictures was that I was battling severe, soul-murdering depression after having been separated from my young son by a thousand miles and a tumultuous divorce, working two full time jobs plus side jobs yet barely making enough to pay rent + afford trips back to New England to make sure I didn’t become just some woman named “mommy” my child knew, and skipping meals (many times for days on end) so my child could not only eat, but eat well. I was bones and burnout, but I wore it well enough to fool a camera lens. This wide smile could fool an army… and it did.

3. I posted a few of those old photos, for nostalgia’s sake, on my Instagram page. An old friend commented: “That’s the Shelly I knew.” And I felt it like a punch. As if this version—the older, wiser, heavier one—had somehow lost value in the swap.

Here’s what I need to say—what I think a lot of us need to say out loud:

Yes, I’ve gained weight.

Yes, my face is fuller.

Yes, my body is different.

But that’s not failure. That’s survival.

This body has f*cking endured. It’s held grief so heavy it physically reshaped me.

It’s mothered.

It’s mourned.

It’s gone to bed hungry and woken up scared.

It’s held trauma, joy, confusion, hope, and rage.

It has carried me through chapters of life that would’ve hollowed a lesser creature.

And still—I am here. Somehow. For some reason.

“The same water which hardens the egg, softens the potato.”

We live in a world that praises youth, thinness, and “bounce-back” culture without ever asking what people are bouncing back from.

I didn’t bounce back. I crawled forward. Through the mud of unfathomable loss, motherhood, heartbreak, health issues, and healing.

So yes. I look different. But maybe different doesn’t mean worse.

Maybe different means I finally stopped starving myself for acceptance.

Maybe different means I chose comfort over performative pain.

Maybe different means I’ve actually earned my softness.

👏🏻 Because let me be clear: I’m not ashamed of what I’ve survived. I’m tired of apologizing for the shape of my story just because it doesn’t fit someone else’s before-and-after fantasy.

If you’re reading this and you’ve also gained weight while navigating the shitstorm of life—grieve if you need to, but don’t you dare forget how far you’ve come.

This isn’t failure.

This is evidence of existence.

Of effort.

Of endurance.

So here’s to our 40-something, 50-something, 60-something bodies.

Not shrinking to be palatable.

Not hiding to be acceptable.

Just living – fully, freely, and unapologetically.

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