Last year, the only thing I wanted was to reach a certain weight goal on my birthday. I remember waking up that morning; the sun filtering through my curtains, as I nervously stepped onto the scale. The numbers flickered, and my heart raced with anticipation. With bated breath, I watched as the number blinked once, then twice at me. I did it. I reached my “goal weight.” Months of effort culminated in two digits. It feels like I have waited my whole life for this. Yet, instead of happiness or accomplishment, I felt an overwhelming emptiness. It was not enough. I decided then that I was not worth celebrating. I came back home from work that day to a birthday cake and flowers proudly presented on the coffee table. The sight of it all irritated me. Everything felt like a mockery, a reminder of all the things I couldn’t indulge in or celebrate. I blew out the candles and wished I was smaller, smiling in photos only to spend hours later criticizing my appearance. Thus began another year of...