The steroids came first. Then the weight.
I don't mean slowly, over a year. I mean I looked down one morning and my wrist didn't look like mine anymore. My rings were tight. My jeans made a sound when I sat down — that tight fabric sound you pretend not to hear.
Forty pounds. In about eight months.
My doctor said it was normal. My body was holding onto water and fat the way it was supposed to. But no one told me what that would feel like in a dressing room.
So here it is. The things I wish someone had said.
Thicker arms change everything.
I used to buy button-downs without thinking. Now my bicep gets stuck halfway through. I tore a sleeve once — actually tore the seam — just trying to take off a shirt at the end of the day. I stood there in my bra, holding the ripped fabric, and laughed because crying felt too dramatic.
But also cried later.
No one tells you that arm fat is real and that most "plus size" tops are cut for someone with smaller arms. I started buying stretchy sleeves only. Cotton with spandex. Nothing crisp or tailored unless it has a cuff I can undo.
Your shoe size can change.
This one surprised me. My feet got wider. Not longer, but wider. My loafers pinched. My ankle boots left red marks. I thought I was imagining it until I went to a shoe store and measured. Half a size wider.
I had to give away boots I loved. That hurt more than the jeans.
The number on the tag is a liar.
I have size 18 jeans that fit. I have size 24 jeans that are tight. I have two pairs of shorts from the same brand, same style, different colors — one fits, one doesn't.
I used to cut tags out so I wouldn't have to see the number. Now I leave them in as a reminder that sizing is made up. It's not personal. It's just bad manufacturing.
You will grieve your old clothes.
I kept my old jeans for two years. In a bin under my bed. Telling myself I'd get back into them.
One day I pulled them out. Held them up. And realized I didn't want to be the woman who wore those jeans anymore. She was sad. She was always trying to be smaller.
I donated the whole bin. It felt like a funeral. A small, quiet one.
Some days you will buy nothing. That's fine.
I went to the mall last fall. Three hours. Six stores. Walked out empty-handed. Not because there weren't options — there were. But because I was tired of trying to look like someone I'm not.
I drove home, made boxed mac and cheese, and wore my old sweats for the fifth night in a row.
That's not failure. That's Tuesday.
The first time something fits right — really right — you might cry.
I found a wrap dress at Target. $34. Stretchy, dark green, sleeves that actually covered my upper arm. I put it on and didn't have to tug or adjust or suck anything in.
I stood there for a full minute. Then my eyes got hot.
No one tells you that relief feels like crying.
I'm still figuring this out. I still have pants that don't zip and shirts that gap at the chest. I still stand in front of my closet and feel tired sometimes.
But I stopped waiting to get back to my old body.
She's not coming back. And honestly? I don't want her to. She didn't know how to be kind to herself.
I'm learning. Slowly. One weird-fitting shirt at a time.