Heaving myself out of the car, I wiped the sweat from my face and trudged through the sand. It was July 2020, and I knew exactly how the day would go – I’d spend it hiding in the shade with the tight denim of my size-26 jeans sticking to my legs.
There was no chance I’d take them off, as showing any flesh just wasn’t an option for me. Instead I’d sit there watching enviously as my husband Chris, then 39, and our daughters Connie, nine, and Olivia, seven, splashed in the sea.
Just moments later, that’s exactly what I was doing, watching my family have fun without me. I desperately wanted to join them, but I was too ashamed of my 19st 7lb body.
As I sat there, my eyes filling up with tears, I gave myself a stern talking to. ‘Things don’t have to stay this way,’ I repeated in my head.
Being this big was all I’d ever known. When I was a child, at home in The Valleys with my four siblings, my parents worked hard – Dad as a miner and Mum at a local bar – but money was tight. We ate processed, convenience foods, and Mum bought a sack of potatoes for the week. We scoffed stews and tinned pies, always with chips.
Stodgy food remained the norm for me into adulthood, when my weight began to bother me. I was desperate to fit in among my skinny friends and colleagues, so I tried to hide my size-20, 5ft 6in frame under a flowing skirt or loose smock top, but I hated the way I looked.
I never had the confidence to date during my 20s but, in May 2005, I met Chris through mutual friends on a trip to Manchester, and we chatted away on Facebook afterwards.
Diese Geschichte stammt aus der May 09, 2022-Ausgabe von WOMAN'S OWN.
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Diese Geschichte stammt aus der May 09, 2022-Ausgabe von WOMAN'S OWN.
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