The Weight We Carry That Has Nothing to Do With the Scale

I've spent a significant portion of my life worrying about my weight. Too big. Too heavy. Not pretty enough. Not confident enough. Too much of this. Not enough of that.

If you've followed my journey since the original RobsLostWhat days, you'll know I've had one hell of a relationship with my body. I've lost weight. Gained weight. Celebrated victories. Cried over setbacks. Started over more times than I'd care to admit.

And now, as I work towards losing 40kg before my 40th birthday, I've come to realise something. Some of the weight I've been carrying has absolutely nothing to do with what's on the scale. And I think it's time we talk about it.

When friendship starts feeling like an audition

For more than a decade, my husband and I shared our lives with people we considered family. And I mean family. The kind of people you spend weekends with. Celebrate birthdays with. Have braais with. Laugh until your stomach hurts with. People you genuinely love.

There were incredible memories. There was laughter. There was love. But somewhere along the way, there was also something else. Criticism. Little digs disguised as jokes. Comments about our lifestyle. Our financial circumstances. The things we bought. The things we did. And for me, particularly, my appearance. My skin. My eyebrows. My nails. My eyelashes. My clothes. You name it.

Now, I'm South African. I understand taking the piss out of your mates. Hell, I do it too! But there's a difference between laughing with someone and repeatedly making someone the punchline. And somewhere along the way, I became so accustomed to being the punchline that I started preparing for it.

Weeks before a gathering, I'd start planning what to wear. How should I do my makeup? Would my outfit look okay? Were my nails too much? Would someone comment on my skin? I'd try to think of every possible thing that could be criticised and fix it before anyone had the chance.

Imagine that. Spending weeks preparing yourself to see people who are supposed to love you. Not because you're excited. Because you're terrified of being picked apart.

And the saddest part? It didn't matter how much effort I put in. There was almost always something. And far too often, I'd leave those gatherings, climb into the car with my husband, and cry all the way home.

We're the kind of people who celebrate your wins

Here's something you need to understand about my husband and me. We genuinely love seeing the people around us succeed.

You got a promotion? HELL YES! You started a business? Tell us everything! You bought something you've been saving for? Show us! You finally found the courage to try something new? We're rooting for you! Big wins. Small wins. The things that might seem insignificant to someone else but mean the absolute world to you. We want to celebrate those moments with you.

But here's the thing. Being a supportive friend doesn't mean blindly agreeing with every decision someone makes. We're also realists. If we think you're about to make a decision that could land you in financial trouble, create unnecessary stress or potentially hurt you, we're not going to pretend those concerns don't exist.

We might ask questions. We might point out things you haven't considered. We might offer advice based on our own experiences. And sometimes, yes, we might privately wonder whether you're making the right choice. We're human, after all.

But there's a massive difference between having concerns about someone's decision and making them feel like an idiot for being excited about it. You can celebrate someone's excitement while encouraging them to think things through. You can offer honest advice without being condescending. You can disagree without belittling. And you can respect the fact that, ultimately, another adult's decisions are theirs to make.

Because here's something I've learnt. Not every decision your friends make needs your approval. Sometimes people will make choices you wouldn't make. They'll buy things you wouldn't buy. They'll pursue opportunities you wouldn't pursue. They'll take risks you wouldn't take. And that's okay! Their lives aren't yours to live.

If they ask for your advice, give it honestly. If you see a genuine concern, raise it respectfully. But once you've said your piece, you don't need to turn every social gathering into another opportunity to remind them why you think they're wrong. You certainly don't need to make their choices the punchline of a joke.

And this applies to so much more than purchases. It applies to career changes. Starting businesses. Weight loss journeys. Changing your appearance. Trying new hobbies. Reinventing yourself. Growth and transformation can be uncomfortable, especially for the people watching it happen.

In the wrong company, your excitement can be met with excuses, dismissive comments and reasons why you shouldn't bother. In the right company, people might still challenge you. They might ask difficult questions. They might encourage you to reconsider something. But they'll do it because they want to see you succeed, not because they need you to feel small.

A real friend doesn't have to agree with every decision you make. They should, however, be able to disagree without making you regret sharing your excitement in the first place. And that, to me, is the difference.

We don't want people around us who tell us everything we do is wonderful. We want people who are honest. People who challenge us. People who help us grow. People who celebrate our victories and support us through our mistakes. People who can say, "I'm excited for you, but have you considered this?" instead of, "That's a stupid idea."

Because real friendship isn't about constant agreement. It's about mutual respect, encouragement, honesty and wanting the best for each other. And when you find people who can give you all four? Hold on to them.

THAT'S WHAT A REAL FRIEND IS.

My husband had wanted out long before I was ready

Here's something I haven't spoken about much. My husband had wanted to walk away from these friendships for at least three years.

Three. Bloody. Years. And I want to be clear about something. He didn't initially want to leave because of how they treated me. He wanted to leave because he was already sick and tired of the attitude, the digs and the dynamics himself.

He'd experienced enough of it firsthand. The unnecessary comments. The criticism. The uncomfortable interactions. The feeling that even the simplest things could somehow become an issue. He'd reached a point where he simply didn't want to be part of it anymore.

But I wasn't there yet. I still loved these people. I still saw them as family. I still believed that the good memories and the years we'd shared were worth holding on to.

So he stayed. Not because he enjoyed the friendship. Not because he'd suddenly changed his mind. He stayed because he knew how much those people meant to me.

And as time went on, he started noticing something else. The criticism directed at me was becoming more frequent. More personal. More hurtful.

He saw the anxiety before gatherings. He saw how much effort I put into my appearance, trying to avoid giving anyone something to comment on. He saw the way my mood changed when another unnecessary remark was made. And he saw the tears afterwards.

I can't tell you how many times we'd leave a braai, a birthday or a get-together, climb into the car, and I'd start crying. And he'd say it again. We need to end this. Enough is enough. And I'd say I wasn't ready. Because I wasn't.

I kept hoping things would improve. I kept making excuses. I kept remembering the good times and telling myself that perhaps the next gathering would be different. But the pattern continued.

And eventually, Shane wasn't just tired of how the friendship affected him. He was tired of watching it affect me too. He'd already wanted to cut the cord for years. Watching me repeatedly get hurt only reinforced what he'd been saying all along.

And looking back, I realise something. He wasn't trying to take my friends away. He was trying to help me recognise that the friendship we'd once loved wasn't the friendship we were experiencing anymore. It took me much longer to accept that. But eventually, I did.

Apparently, doing nice things for yourself is a problem

Another thing that became increasingly exhausting was the commentary around our choices. You know those little things you do for yourself? Buying something you've wanted for ages. Trying a new hobby. Investing in something creative. Treating yourself because, well, you're an adult and you're allowed to enjoy your own bloody money. Apparently, those things required commentary too.

Whenever we bought something or tried to do something nice for ourselves, there seemed to be an opportunity for someone to point out that they didn't need to buy things. That they didn't need material possessions. That they were perfectly happy without all of that. Wonderful. Good for you. But why does your decision not to buy something have to become a criticism of my decision to buy it?

We weren't asking anyone else to pay for our purchases. We weren't demanding that anybody share our interests. We weren't suggesting that owning something made us better than anyone else. We were simply enjoying things that made us happy.

And yet, instead of being able to share that excitement, we started anticipating the remarks. Sometimes we'd hesitate before mentioning something we'd bought. Sometimes we'd wonder whether it was even worth showing anyone. And I find that incredibly sad. Because friendship shouldn't make you feel embarrassed about the things that bring you joy.

When supporting each other only seems to work in one direction

This part is especially difficult for me to write. Because my husband has always been someone who wants to help people succeed.

When these friends were trying to grow their income, he took them under his wing. He shared his knowledge. He helped them understand how to approach search engine optimisation properly. He introduced them to ideas and techniques that could help their business become more visible and attract more customers. He gave his time and expertise because he wanted to see them do well.

And that's what friends do, right? They share knowledge. They open doors where they can. They celebrate each other's progress. There was no issue with that support.

But when we decided to explore something creative ourselves, the atmosphere felt very different. We wanted to print our own T-shirts. Not launch some grand competing empire. Not take anyone's customers. Not undermine somebody else's business. We simply wanted to make our own bloody T-shirts.

We wanted to buy the equipment and materials, learn how to use them, experiment with designs and enjoy creating something ourselves. And instead of feeling encouraged, we were met with what felt like resentment and attitude. Maybe our enthusiasm was misunderstood. Maybe there were feelings we weren't aware of. But from our side, it was incredibly disappointing.

Because we'd happily supported their efforts to grow. Yet when we wanted to invest in our own creativity, it suddenly felt uncomfortable. And it made me ask myself something. Why should supporting someone's success mean making yourself smaller so they can feel bigger?

Friendship isn't supposed to work that way. There should be room for everyone to learn, grow, create, succeed and enjoy themselves. Someone else's progress doesn't diminish yours. Someone else's purchase doesn't invalidate your choices. And someone else's excitement shouldn't feel like a personal threat.

"It's just a joke."

Ah, yes. The famous words. "It's just a joke." "That's just how they are." "Don't take it so seriously."

Here's the thing. I love a good joke. I love sarcasm. I love people who can give as good as they get. But when someone repeatedly makes comments about something they know you're sensitive about, it stops being funny.

I remember sitting at a friend's birthday party when someone once again started mocking my appearance. It was something they'd joked about countless times before. This time, I spoke up. I told them the comments were getting old and asked them to stop. The response? Another insult. And then an argument about whether my face actually looked as bad as they claimed.

I sat there fighting back tears. At a birthday party. Surrounded by friends. Defending my own face. Let that sink in for a moment.

And for years, I convinced myself that this was normal. That I needed a thicker skin. That perhaps I was too sensitive. That maybe if I looked better, dressed better, or somehow became better, the comments would stop. They didn't.

The exhausting business of keeping the peace

Here's another thing I've had to acknowledge. I wasn't always the person who spoke up. Sometimes I laughed along. Sometimes I joined conversations criticising other people because I didn't want to rock the boat. And I hated myself for it afterwards. Because it felt cruel. It felt unfair. And it wasn't the kind of friend I wanted to be.

But when you're part of a friendship where confrontation feels inevitable and keeping everyone happy becomes a full-time job, you can start compromising parts of yourself just to avoid another argument. I became very good at keeping the peace. Even when it meant sacrificing my own.

Eventually, the friendship began falling apart. There were misunderstandings, hurt feelings, accusations and endless conversations about who said what, who didn't reply to whom, and who was supposedly upset with whom. I was already approaching burnout. I was dealing with personal circumstances I wasn't ready to discuss.

And suddenly, I found myself having to explain and defend every interaction. Every message. Every delayed reply. Every social media post. Every decision to take a little space.

I tried to fix things. I suggested sitting down over coffee and talking it through. Because despite everything, I loved these people. I genuinely did. And I didn't want to lose them.

But eventually, my husband saw how badly the situation was affecting me and encouraged me to stop engaging in the endless back-and-forth. We made the decision to walk away. After more than a decade.

And you know what? I felt guilty. I cried. I missed them. Sometimes I still miss the good parts. Because walking away from a friendship doesn't magically erase the love you once had for someone. You can miss people and still know that going back isn't right for you.

The Halloween party I almost didn't know who to invite to

Fast-forward a few months. Halloween was approaching, and naturally, I had ideas. Lots of ideas. Possibly too many ideas. Okay, definitely too many ideas. 😂 I wanted decorations, costumes, homemade props, spooky snacks, the whole bloody production.

But there was one small problem. Who the hell were we going to invite?

For more than a decade, our social gatherings had revolved around the same familiar group of people. Our little chosen family. Birthdays, braais, celebrations, weekends together. We didn't really have to think about guest lists. Everybody just belonged. And suddenly, that familiar group wasn't there anymore.

I'd be lying if I said that didn't make me sad. Because it did. While planning the party, I found myself missing the people we'd walked away from. Missing the laughter. Missing the memories. Missing the familiar faces that had been part of our lives for so long.

And then I'd remember the other side of those gatherings. The criticism. The uncomfortable comments. The anxiety. The tears on the drive home.

And I realised something. I missed the friends. I didn't miss the bullshit that came with the friendship.

And apparently, I wasn't the only one who felt that way. Another friend who'd been part of that circle expressed almost exactly the same sentiment. They missed the people too. But not the drama. And that struck a chord with me.

Because sometimes we think that if we miss someone, it must mean we made the wrong decision by walking away. But missing someone doesn't mean you miss how they made you feel. You can miss the laughter without missing the criticism. You can miss the memories without wanting to relive the hurt. You can love the people you once knew without wanting to return to the relationship as it was.

And that was exactly where I found myself. Sad about what we'd lost. But not willing to go back to what we'd left behind.

And then 25 people showed up

Here's where the story takes a rather wonderful turn. Because although we'd lost that familiar social circle, we'd also made some lovely friends along the way. People we'd met at different stages of our lives. People we'd connected with. People who'd gradually become part of our world without us necessarily realising how much those friendships had grown.

So we started inviting people. A few here. A few there. And lo and freaking behold... TWENTY-FIVE PEOPLE AT OUR HOUSE FOR HALLOWEEN! 😂🎃 Twenty-five! And what a bloody jol it turned out to be.

We went all out. Decorations everywhere. Homemade Halloween props. Costumes. Food. The works.

I'd spent days getting everything ready. And when the evening arrived, I quickly got myself dressed, did my makeup and walked outside to join everyone.

And something happened. Actually, something didn't happen. Nobody criticised me. Nobody made a dig about my appearance. Nobody mocked my outfit. Nobody felt the need to tell me what I should've done differently. I was just... accepted.

And I felt relieved. Not because everyone showered me with compliments. But because, for once, I didn't feel like I had to defend myself.

As the evening went on, people laughed, teased each other, encouraged each other and genuinely enjoyed being together. Friends took photographs of our Halloween decorations and shared them on their WhatsApp statuses. People complimented the effort we'd put in.

And at one point, after I'd finally managed to relax, I looked towards the kitchen and noticed a whole congregation gathered around my stove. Naturally, I went to investigate. There they were. Hands full. Mouths full. Absolutely demolishing my homemade bacon and mielie bread.

I made FOUR loaves. Only a quarter of one survived. FOUR FUCKING LOAVES! 🤣

And the compliments just kept coming. Not because anybody was obligated to say something nice. But because they were enjoying themselves.

The party carried on until 2:30 in the morning. And when it was over, I was exhausted. But I was happy. Genuinely happy.

And the best part? People were already asking when we were having the next jol! Not out of obligation. Not because they were part of some long-standing group that automatically attended everything. But because they'd had a wonderful time and wanted to do it again.

I started planning that party wondering whether we'd have enough people to invite. I ended it surrounded by people who were already looking forward to the next one. And that meant more to me than I can explain.

The moment I realised how much I'd normalised

During the party, a conversation came up about the friendship we'd walked away from. I explained that the person who'd regularly made comments about my appearance was like that with everyone. And another friend, who'd witnessed the dynamic for years, immediately corrected me. Yes, other people received the occasional dig. But apparently, I was the one who received the worst of it.

I was stunned. Because I'd spent so long telling myself that it wasn't personal. That everybody got the same treatment. That it was just their sense of humour.

Hearing someone else describe what they'd witnessed made me look at those years differently. And suddenly, so many things made sense. Why I dreaded getting ready. Why I worried about what people thought. Why I felt anxious when somebody left a gathering early. Why I was always anticipating criticism.

I'd become accustomed to expecting the worst, even from people I loved. And that's a bloody sad realisation.

Choose people who clap when you win

A little while after the party, I came across a TikTok video. And it stopped me in my tracks. Not because it reminded me of the people I'd walked away from. But because my first thought was about the people now coming into our lives.

People who encourage each other. Who compliment each other. Who celebrate one another's achievements. Who can laugh and tease without making someone feel inferior. People who don't treat every achievement as a competition.

And only afterwards did I think about how different that felt from some of my previous experiences.

I think we sometimes underestimate how much the people around us influence the way we see ourselves. If you're constantly surrounded by criticism, you may eventually start believing there's something wrong with you. You begin questioning your choices. Your appearance. Your abilities. Your worth. And you start shrinking yourself to avoid giving anyone another reason to criticise you.

But when you're surrounded by people who genuinely support you? Something changes. You start feeling comfortable enough to try things. To wear the outfit. To experiment with your makeup. To start the business. To chase the ridiculous dream. To be proud of something you've created without immediately wondering who will find fault with it.

And perhaps most importantly, you start remembering what it feels like to be yourself.

What this has to do with losing 40kg

Everything. Absolutely fucking everything. Because my 40 for 40 challenge isn't just about losing 40 kilograms before I turn 40.

It's about becoming healthier. Physically, yes. But emotionally too.

It's about rebuilding my confidence. Learning to appreciate my body while I'm working towards changing it. Finding joy in things again. And surrounding myself with people who encourage me to become the best version of myself, rather than making me feel like I'm never quite good enough.

I'm not pretending I've got it all figured out. I haven't. Sometimes I still hear those old criticisms in my head. Sometimes I still worry about how I look. Sometimes I still feel guilty about walking away. And sometimes I miss the people I once considered family.

But I'm learning. I'm learning that friendship shouldn't feel like a competition. That a joke stops being funny when someone repeatedly gets hurt. That needing space doesn't make you a bad friend. That loving someone doesn't mean accepting everything they do. And that being loyal to other people should never require you to abandon yourself.

I'm also learning to be a better friend myself. To encourage more. To celebrate other people's victories. To speak kindly about people even when they're not in the room. And to make sure the people who come into my home leave feeling welcome, appreciated and respected.

Not judged. Not belittled. Not wondering what will be said about them afterwards.

The weight I'm choosing to leave behind

As I approach 40, there are plenty of things I want to change. My health. My habits. My relationship with food. My fitness. My confidence.

But there's one thing I don't want to carry into the next chapter of my life. The belief that I need to make myself smaller to be accepted.

Not physically smaller. Not quieter. Not less ambitious. Not less expressive. Not less me.

I want to lose 40 kilograms. But I also want to lose the fear of being judged by people whose approval I never should've needed in the first place.

And if there's one thing I'd love you to take away from this rather personal ramble, it's this: Pay attention to how you feel after spending time with people.

Do you leave feeling happy, encouraged and appreciated? Or do you leave replaying conversations, questioning yourself and wondering what you did wrong?

Not every uncomfortable interaction means a friendship is unhealthy. Good friendships have disagreements, difficult conversations and imperfect moments. But if you consistently leave someone's company feeling smaller than when you arrived, it's worth asking yourself why.

You deserve friends who can tell you the truth without humiliating you. Friends who celebrate your wins without turning them into competitions. Friends who make you laugh until your stomach hurts. Friends who will stand around your stove at midnight, stuffing their faces with your homemade bread and telling you how fucking amazing it is. 😂 And friends who make you feel safe enough to simply be yourself.

Because life is already hard enough without having to defend your existence to the people who are supposed to be in your corner.

Here's to losing 40kg before 40. And here's to putting down the weight I was never supposed to carry in the first place.

With love, a little attitude, and a whole lot of learning,

Robs ❤️

RobsLostWhat | My 40 for 40 Journey