My relationship with my body, like for so many of us, hasn’t always been straightforward.
As a child, I was completely normal; during my teenage years, I gained weight due to extreme stress. It had nothing to do with boredom. I ate because I had to cope somehow. All fairly stereotypical… But when I think back on it I’m glad I didn’t resort to more drastic measures.
Still, during that time, my body became something I had a problem with.
A Turning Point in the Village Shop
But even then or maybe especially then as a stroppy teenager, I didn’t want to bow to social pressure to lose weight and squeeze myself into some societal mold. So for a while nothing happened. And yes as an overweight person you do get judged. One of the worst moments I can recall was when my then boyfriend related to me that his mate had asked him “why he would be going out with someone so fat.” He said it in the middle of an argument: the same one that also involved me throwing my phone at the wall. (The phone survived. Our relationship didn’t. Although it didn’t end that day.) I am pretty sure he didn’t realize how much that affected me.
There was a very clear moment in my life when I realized I didn’t want to go on like this: one winter afternoon after skiing, in a small shop in Serfaus, I thought, “No, that’s enough now.”
I can actually tell you pretty much exactly when it was because I bought a magazine (which I still have), one that, of course, needed a sensational headline. But the plan inside was rather gentle: do stuff little by little. You don’t need perfection to create change. Up to that point I thought losing weight means dieting and I didn’t want to do that.No Pressure, No Prohibitions
And so I rediscovered my love of movement and changed my eating habits… I didn’t follow the magazine exactly – it was, after all, more of a short-term plan. But it worked without strict dieting and without pressure.
No Pressure, No Prohibitions
At one point, I was doing quite a lot of exercise. But I also always made a point of keeping a stash of chocolate bars at home. I didn’t hide them, they sat openly in a bowl on the shelf.
If I really craved something sweet, I wanted to have exactly what I had consciously chosen.
For me, the key was that there was no pressure. No secret “Forbidden!” sign in my head that would spark a rebellion.
I’m not saying this works for everyone, but for me, this mindset was essential – it meant that food didn’t get the power to be a battleground.
Even though I used to be obese, even though I still carry more fat cells than most people, I’ve learned and trained myself to trust my intuition.
And when I became chronically ill, I noticed: despite everything my body was on board. We made decisions together about what felt right.
I still have the same strategy with sweets, though in a slightly adapted form: if a food isn’t exactly rich in nutrients, then at the very least, it should be rich in pleasure.
Numbers That Speak for Themselves
Here are a few numbers: at my heaviest, I weighed around 100 kg (BMI 32). Since making those changes, I’ve been hovering between 68 and 73 kg (BMI 22–23).
The fact that my weight has remained stable for twenty years even through two pregnancies does impresses even me.
And the statistics back me up: the relapse rate for such significant weight loss is estimated to be around 97–98%.
But am I thin now? No.
Am I in the normal weight range? Yes.
Do I have the kind of body people love to put on a magazine cover? Not really.
Four Reasons Why I Don’t Need to Be Thinner
Yes, I still hear that voice from time to time — the one that says:
“You could be thinner.”
“You could look more toned.”
But there are good reasons why I don’t let that voice dictate my choices:
Does health really equal thinness?
Would I be healthier if I were thinner? I eat in a way that gives me all the nutrients I need. I have energy. My cycle is regular. My bloodwork is unremarkable. I recover well after exercise.
I can carry my kids (just about!), haul heavy groceries, go hiking, dance, laugh.
What exactly would a few kilos less really do for me – other than a quick hit of external applause?
In fact, I was glad for my reserves when I started experimenting with fasting. And still, it led to hair loss. A gentle reminder that drastic interventions often come with hidden costs.
Strength matters more to me than “beauty”
If you even want to call it that because honestly, who decides what counts as beautiful?
I love that my body feels strong. That I have muscles that work, not just look good. That I have reserves for the days when I need more energy. And that I know: I can count on myself.
I still clearly remember a situation that left a deep impression on me: When I started intermittent fasting, or going for longer periods without food while hiking, I secretly feared I would crash from “low blood sugar.” I had heard and believed that I wouldn’t be able to function without constant energy intake. And then I was almost joyfully surprised by how reliably my body tapped into its reserves. How stable my blood sugar stayed. And how clear my mind was when I wasn’t chasing food every two hours.
This metabolic flexibility: the ability to burn carbs or fat depending on the situation, is something I really want to maintain. To me, it’s a symbol that my body is capable of more than I ever gave it credit for.
And most of it happens under the hood without me needing to do a thing.
I’m not selling an ideal
My body is not a billboard. It’s a record of my past experiences. I don’t sell quick fixes or perfect before-and-after photos. What I offer is clarity, lived experience, compassion. And the courage to walk your own path.
I’m not here for one-size-fits-all solutions. Partly because I don’t want to maintain some polished influencer image that comes back to bite me a few years down the line.
And partly because: We are all individuals – and that’s a good thing.
I’ve made a conscious choice not to use my appearance as a selling point. My competence has nothing to do with my dress size. My value as a nutrition scientist doesn’t depend on whether someone sees my body as a “role model.” And I’m not a weight loss coach.
I don’t think wanting to lose weight is wrong or superficial. I just think that, more often than not, we do it for reasons that don’t serve us in the long run. And then the success tends to not last either.
No conformity for conformity’s sake
Last but not least: I’ve learned that I don’t need to squeeze myself into a societal mold.
My appearance has never been particularly important to me except maybe in the sense of avoiding harassment or not wanting to stand out too much. Like in the example above it is sad and unfair when your existence is reduced to a single attribute.
Fitting in just to please others ranks fairly low on my list of priorities.
Conforming takes a huge amount of energy and I’d rather invest that energy elsewhere.
The Illusion of Perfection
And still: I feel the pressure to be perfect too. That constant sense that everything needs to be flawless. That as a woman, it’s not enough to simply be healthy, you’re also supposed to be perfectly toned, wrinkle-free, aesthetic. Even straight after skydiving.
I often feel this pressure weighs more heavily on women than on men. And sadly, while we’re inching toward equality, it looks like men are just catching up in developing eating disorders.
It’s not enough to feel good in your body – you’re expected to look like you’ve got it all under control, all the time. Your body becomes Exhibit A: proof that you’re disciplined, hardworking, successful.
But life isn’t black and white. I’ve landed somewhere in the middle with my body. Not thin, not fat. Not toned, not totally out of shape. My body is alive.
Should I have just stayed quiet because I still don’t look like a bikini model? Maybe I’m even less of a bikini model than ever – my skin isn’t firm, and I could never retouch it into some kind of ideal. And it’s not just age. A doctor once asked if I’d already had a child, ten years before I gave birth to my first. (Stress eating doesn’t exactly optimize fat distribution.)
But why should I have to? Why would that make me less credible? Why would that make my story any less valuable?
A Spark That’s Been There All Along
I actually thought about stepping away from mathematics back in 2006. My idea at the time was to start something like mymuesli because I had found the perfect breakfast mix with oats for myself and thought: how amazing would it be if you could customize it without all the added sugar?
But instead of taking the leap, I spent years posting anonymously in body acceptance and weight loss forums. Because no those two things are not mutually exclusive. Acceptance and change can exist at the same time.
(And yes, I still mix my own muesli.)
So yes, the spark was there all along. What’s pushing me now to finally dedicate myself to this decades-long interest isn’t just today’s increasingly polarized climate—it’s also the influence of social media. A double-edged sword: I’m grateful it connects me with people, ideas, and inspiration. But it’s also an echo chamber. We see these filtered and polished images of bodies, lives, personalities. And even when we know it’s not the whole story, it still gets to us. It does something to us.
And that’s exactly why I’m not a fan of extreme camps. “Health at every size” sounds just as implausible to me as the hyper-disciplined lifestyle of glossy gym bunnies.
I believe in the individual path. In self-responsibility over self-optimization mania. In relationship over control.
Because I’m convinced: feeling good in your skin starts deep down: not with perfection, but with presence.
The Perks of Imperfection
You know what might actually be the best part of not having a “dream body”? That the whole topic stays alive in me. I don’t think: “Well, that’s it then. I’ve arrived. I’m done. I’m perfect.” Instead, I’m still curious. I still get to keep learning.
It’s made me more empathetic toward others who struggle, who doubt themselves, who take on too much. It’s taught me to be on the same team as my body. Not its drill instructor.
It means I don’t need an extreme diet. That I can enjoy my food. That I don’t have to sneak the cakes I regularly bake. And that I can breathe without constantly calculating how I come across. And when I do genuinely need to change something, my body’s on board. But so many of us treat our bodies worse than we treat our pets. How are we supposed to build trust like that?
You can picture yourself like an iceberg: less than one percent of everything we perceive reaches our conscious mind. The rest gets processed below the surface and trust me, your body forms an opinion down there.
That famous willpower? It’s just a tiny rider on a very large elephant. You can try to steer it but if the elephant doesn’t want to go your way, good luck. Trust isn’t built through force. It’s built through relationship. And I believe that’s one of the reasons I’m part of the two percent of people who’ve managed to maintain their weight loss long-term.
And as I write this, I feel a shiver down my spine. I’ll take that as a systemic confirmation.
A Trial by Fire
The last three years were a true test of endurance. A trial by fire for all the principles I hadn’t had to put to the test in a long time. Chronic illness throws you into conflicts you never thought would concern you.
I struggled. I wanted to ride my road bike again because that’s pretty much the only way my mind knows how to let go. But it wasn’t possible.
So I started doing yoga. Back in the day, I used to think: yoga isn’t real exercise. I was glad I didn’t have to waste time on superfluous warm-ups anymore once school was over. And yoga definitely belonged in the “warm-up” category for me. So I was pretty surprised to discover how much I enjoyed the connection between breath and movement. I thought I’d never give that up again.
Then my lumbar spine brought that chapter to an abrupt halt. It felt like I was being reduced, piece by piece, to a place and a version of myself I didn’t want to be. At some point, the only thing I could still do was Yoga Nidra. Despite the name, it’s more of a meditative practice. You don’t move at all. But it has a strong body sensation aspect.
And still or maybe because of that something new took root. What emerged was a deeper relationship. And a renewed openness to listening. Even if it was forced at first.
The elephant made itself known and nearly trampled me in the process. But it also showed me that a relationship isn’t about training it to behave. It’s about getting to know it. And sometimes, it’s just about standing still so it can calm down.
I had long made peace with food. But that alone wasn’t enough.
And maybe that’s the most important thing I’ve learned: You can always start again even if you thought you’d already arrived.
P.S. I’m now training to become a yoga teacher.
I’m studying nutritional science not despite my story, but because of it.
Because I believe we need both knowledge and relationship. If you’re interested in the intersection of body wisdom, real life, and inner change, feel free to explore more or sign up for my newsletter. I’d love to stay connected.
And now it’s your turn:
What’s your relationship with your body like?
Have you experienced a turning point of your own?
Leave me a comment or if you’re shy send me a virtual cookie 🍪
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