Season 4: Character Development, Bitch

Fourteen pounds, a belly slap, and the only review that matters.

I never had a paediatrician.

Straight out of med school, Dr. Husain took care of my grandma. Then my mom. Then, as fate and family referrals go, me.

He’s been my GP for 33 years, which means he's seen all the versions of me: the cult kid, the teen newlywed, the pregnant woman five times over, the survivor, the divorcee, and the single mom rebuilding from rubble.

He heard every one of my babies' heartbeats for the first time at 14 weeks. He confirmed each pregnancy - five pink lines, five quiet congratulations - five moments where someone said “congrats” before I even knew who I was.

He knows our entire family history because he actually talks to his patients. He doesn’t just throw prescriptions at symptoms and hope they stick. He listens, remembers, and he follows up.

He’s the one who quietly checked for signs of abuse when no one else noticed. He ran tests to make sure I was safe and he doesn’t flinch when doing a Pap smear or talking through trauma, because he sees the full person in front of him, not just a patient chart.

When I left my ex, he didn’t just nod and move on. He looked me in the eye and said he was there if I needed support, not as a doctor, but as a human being.

He’s not just a GP. He’s part of my village. One of the good ones and I don’t say that lightly.

I went in for my yearly checkup today.
He hadn’t seen me since April.
Still calls me Buddy, like he didn’t just open a chart that reads like the sequel to my time in the cult - malnourished, anxious, and stuck in survival mode.

At last year’s physical, I weighed 119 lbs.
Same weight I was at nineteen, dressed like a virgin sacrifice, walking down the cult aisle to promise myself to a man I barely knew and God barely approved of.

Since then, the unsolicited commentary on my body has been non-stop - a real group effort.
“You look pale.”
“You look frail.”
“You’re gonna blow away in a breeze!”
“Are you eating?”
“Getting enough protein?”
“You look sick.”

Thank you all for your medical degrees.

Sometimes it’s delivered with a side of concern.
Other times, it’s a “joke” sandwiched between a smile and a passive-aggressive snack suggestion.

“How do you stay so skinny?”
“There’s no way you had five kids.”
“What’s your secret?”
“You have the dream body.”
“You make other women sick with jealousy.”

Ah yes, the greatest hits of weaponized compliments, performed with a smile and a side of body dysmorphia.
Spoiler: the secret is trauma, starvation, and a nervous system that thinks rest is a threat.
But sure, let’s call it a dream body.

Either way, I got the memo:
My body is apparently public property again. How nostalgic.

Now, I’ve gained weight.
And no, I don’t say that heavy with ridicule or regret.
I say it with disbelief.

Because I’ve never, never, been able to gain weight and actually hold it.
My body has always treated fat like sin: reject it, repent, purge immediately.

Even in pregnancy, I stacked on sixty pounds like a champ…
only for it to vanish the moment I pushed out the placenta.
Like poof - thanks for playing.

I literally walked out of the hospital in my pre-pregnancy clothes.
Picture it: a long, stiff denim skirt with zero stretch
wrapped around a fresh postpartum belly like a denim chastity belt.
Iconic. Horrifying. Somehow both.

And then came the eggshell diet.
Not a trend, just the natural result of chasing toddlers, running a dayhome, living on cortisol and abuse…

Up the stairs.
Down the stairs.
Wiping tears, cleaning spills, wiping asses, on repeat like some kind of domestic speed drill.
No time to eat.
No appetite anyway. Who needs food when you're running on pure adrenaline and survival mode?

And so, my weight hovered - predictably, obsessively, between 119 and 121lbs.
My body kept the score and I just kept losing.

My divorce wasn’t just an ending - it was a plot twist.
The start of her-story, finally.
Because shocker: I was exhausted from ghostwriting his story like some unpaid intern with no editing rights.

Years of playing narrator to his delusions, emotional support wife, full-service emotional janitor, and full-time ego-fluffer?
Hard pass.

He got the spotlight, the sympathy, the storyline.
I got the bills, the trauma, and a newfound appreciation for noise-cancelling AirPods.

So yeah, the divorce was the end of his-story,
and the pilot episode of mine.

Season 4: opens with me weighing in at 133.6 lbs.
Yes, you read that right - I’ve gained 14.6 pounds since last August and, character development - bitch, I HAVE KEPT IT ON.

Go ahead. Cue the commentary.
I’ve got hip dips, cleavage, thick arms, and the most adorable little belly that I slap like I’m auditioning for the role of Shrek’s stunt double.

My doctor looked at me today and said, “Something’s different, Buddy. You’re happy. You’re healthy. You glow, and I am SO proud of you.”

That’s it. That’s the only review I’m accepting this season - five stars, verified, from someone with an actual medical license.

Everyone else can keep their unsolicited Yelp ratings of my body, their TripAdvisor critiques of my thighs, and their Google reviews of my waistline.

I’m not taking feedback from anyone who didn’t study anatomy for eight years or hasn’t personally kept me alive. ✌🏻