I remember three distinct moments in my life when the number 77 was more than just a number.

The first time, I had found an old journal of mine from grade 7 or even earlier. I was in highschool at the time. I found one entry that burst with determination. I wrote about how I wanted to reach my “goal weight”, 77 kg, before my friend’s birthday. She was planning on throwing a pool party. 14 year old me was reminded of the ambitions of 12 year old me and it broke me. I felt shock and shame, knowing that in all the time since I first wrote that journal entry, all I had done was swell up in size and become uglier.

Fast forward to 2012 or 2013 when I was trying to exercise regularly, and dabbled in bulimia. I stepped on the scale and it read 76 kg. I was elated. I now weighed less than my 12 year old self and she could finally be proud of me, standing naked on that bathroom scale, hating myself into oblivion. Almost literally, or at least trying to.

Third. This week Monday, when I stepped on the scale at the gym. 76.7 kg. I felt hollow. As though the eight years since I wrote about wanting so badly to lose weight and be skinny had all amounted to nothing. Look at me only just now reaching my “goal weight”. What an utter shame.

Have I just been stalling all this time? Was the pain I felt cycling through phases of binge eating and dieting all for nought? I thought I was capable of more. I was supposed to be living my dream life by now. I was supposed to get skinny and fall in love and finally stop hating myself and wanting to die.

I don’t really hate myself anymore. And I want to die less literally nowadays. 12 year old me and 14 year old me would probably be disappointed in 21 year old me. But age has brought with it some wisdom, learning to love myself and my body is the progress I wouldn’t trade for anything. I am worlds apart from who I used to be. And I’m not planning to slow down. Thank goodness for that.


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