When Food Became Fear: Doudou's Path From Struggle to Support

I’ve long forgotten the exact reason why I decided to go on my first diet.

Perhaps it was because of the tall, elegant women I often saw on Rednote; perhaps it was the playful comments from relatives and friends, laughing as they said, “She’s got such a sturdy build”;or perhaps it was the envy I felt seeing friends post pictures in beautiful dresses on social media. Whatever the reason, they all piled up one day, merging into a single thought:

"I need to lose weight."

At first, I was full of hope and followed the “healthy weight loss” methods I found online.I set out to run 5 kilometers daily, skip rope 3,000 times, and prepare low-fat meals.I even set myself what seemed like a reasonable goal: to reach 50 kilograms.

The early days were filled with a sense of accomplishment.From 58 kilograms to 55, the numbers on the scale kept dropping, affirming my discipline and effort. But when I finally hit 50 kilograms, I didn’t feel satisfied.Instead, a new thought crept in: Maybe I can lose just a bit more?

I became scared of consuming carbonhydrate and protein.

From that point on, weight loss turned into a form of control. If I didn’t exercise enough in a day, I wouldn’t allow myself to eat. Every meal became a meticulous calculation of calories on my fitness app, terrified of overeating even slightly.

Sometimes, when I couldn’t resist, I’d devour an entire bag of cookies in secret, only to rush to the bathroom, forcing myself to throw it all up by sticking my fingers down my throat. I would tell myself, “ It’s fine. As long as I throw it up, I won’t gain weight. ”But the burning pain in my stomach and the tears in my eyes reminded me—something was wrong.

It felt like a switch had been flipped in me, one I couldn’t turn off. During the day, I might manage to suppress my appetite across several meals, but at night, hunger would crash over me like a wave.

I’d fling open the fridge, unable to resist. From chocolate to fried chicken, I’d stuff anything edible into my mouth. The bloated pain that followed would leave me filled with regret.

One night, I ate four slices of cake, a bag of chips, and two bowls of instant noodles in one sitting. As I curled up in bed, unable to sleep because of the unbearable stomach ache,my mind was already racing:“I’ll just run more tomorrow to make up for it.”

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My weight had finally dropped below 50 kilograms, but I no longer had the energy to feel happy about it.

Staring at the food in my bowl, I feared every bite might make me gain weight. The numbers on the scale had become the sole purpose of my existence,so much so that I didn’t even notice—my menstrual cycle had stopped.

Sometimes, I’d fall into a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Perhaps I wasn’t really overweight to begin with? I loved sports, adored badminton, and cherished trying local cuisines wherever I went. I remember the joy of sharing street food, milk tea, and fried chicken with my friends,and the laughter that came with running around the badminton court, drenched in sweat but utterly carefree.

Back then, I wasn’t perfect, but I was truly happy.

But now, those memories feel like scattered pieces of a puzzle—pieces I can no longer fit back into my life.

Every time I stood in front of the mirror, all I saw was a set of numbers that weren’t thin enough.

It took me a long time to realize that in my quest to shrink my body, I had also shrunk my life. The pursuit of thinness had robbed me of joy, energy, health, and connection. My body was crying out for help, but I had trained myself to ignore its signals in favor of arbitrary numbers.

Recovery wasn't immediate or linear. It began with small moments of clarity—recognizing that my happiness had vanished along with my weight, understanding that my obsession wasn't about health but about control, and finally accepting that the voice telling me "thinner is better" wasn't my own but one I had internalized from a world that often values appearance over wellbeing.

This is why I created Beyond Body. Because I know I'm not alone in this struggle. So many teenagers are trapped in the same cycle, believing their worth is measured in kilograms rather than in kindness, passion, intelligence, or the love they give to the world.

Today, I no longer see myself as a collection of measurements. I'm learning to appreciate my body for what it can do rather than how it looks—for its strength when I play badminton again, for its ability to taste delicious food shared with friends, for carrying me through each day of this beautiful, messy life.

My journey isn't over. Some days are still hard. But I'm reclaiming those scattered puzzle pieces of joy, one by one, and creating a new picture—one where my body is just a small part of who I am, not the entirety of my worth.

If you're reading this and recognizing yourself in my words, please know: you deserve to take up space in this world. Your body is not your enemy. And there is a path back to peace—not through restriction and control, but through compassion, community, and care.

This is the message of Beyond Body. This is my story. And perhaps, in some way, it's yours too.