What do numbers actually mean?

Trigger Warning

This text includes personal experiences with disordered eating, body image struggles, weight, and competitive sport.

Please take care while reading.

As part of my journey with The Body Positive course, I’m doing a lot of inner work.

It has brought me back to my childhood, my teenage years, and especially my early twenties, a time when many of us leave home for the first time, move away from our parents, go to university, and suddenly have complete freedom.

That freedom can feel exciting, but it can also be overwhelming. All of a sudden, there is no external guidance anymore. You are expected to guide yourself, without ever having learned how.

I didn’t know how. And in many ways, my body became the place where I tried to regain control.

One of the biggest questions that has come up for me is this:

Did I ever truly see my body? Or did I only see it through the lens of society, through my family, media, magazines, and the people I met growing up?

I grew up in a time of diet magazines, “lose weight fast” headlines, good food versus bad food lists, and constant judgment of bodies. Celebrities were never enough, too thin, too big, too something.

Weight gain was framed as failure.

Weight loss was praised, no matter what it took.

I absorbed those messages deeply. Food was never neutral.

Carbohydrates were “bad.”

Eating less meant discipline. Losing weight meant success, control, worth.

I was surrounded, often unintentionally, by people who struggled with their own bodies. Conversations focused on appearance:

“Did you gain weight?”

“Did you lose weight?”

“You look so good now.”

No one asked why. No one asked what was happening beneath the surface.

During my university years, this showed up as excessive exercise and restriction. I trained constantly, Thaiboxing, conditioning sessions, running, yoga, kitesurfing, five to six days a week.

I pushed my body hard but didn’t give it what it actually needed: rest, enough food, recovery.

I checked the mirror daily, especially before going home to visit friends or family, just to make sure no one could say I had gained weight. I wanted to prove I was “taking care of myself.”

But I wasn’t.

I had a mental list of forbidden foods.

I calculated how much I was “allowed” to eat.

If I ate pizza, that was it for the day.

If I wanted a drink with friends, I compensated by eating less.

Everything was controlled, justified, measured.

From the outside, it looked healthy. I was fit. I was strong. I got a lot of compliments, regarding my body.

Sport added another layer.

In combat sports like Muay Thai and later Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, weight matters.

Weight classes define where you belong.

For me, stepping on a scale became terrifying. My self-worth was directly tied to the number I saw.

If I was under a certain weight, I felt worthy, stronger and better.

If I was above it, I felt like I had failed.

When the day of a competition came, I had to step on the scale again for the official weigh-in. It was dreadful. Absolutely terrifying.

And then someone from my team made a joke:

“Oh, you’re too fat.”

It was meant as a joke.

But for me, it wasn’t funny at all.

In that moment, everything collapsed. I thought: Yes, you’re right. I’m fat.

Even though I wasn’t.

The entire day was ruined. I felt incredibly small, like I was 14 or 15 again, back in that mindset of needing to shrink myself, needing to lose weight, needing to be better.

My body was ready to compete, but my mind wasn’t there anymore.

That experience was horrible for me. And I know so many people in martial arts experience something similar.

Weight cutting is incredibly normalized in combat sports, and it often leads to disordered eating and body image issues.

When you cut weight, you may look extremely lean and “fit,” but what isn’t visible is what your body is going through.

A calorie deficit.

Stress.

Fight-or-flight mode.

A body that thinks it’s in famine.

Your body needs food to perform.

It needs fuel, recovery, nourishment.

And when you don’t give it that, when you restrict, dehydrate, and obsessively control intake, you are actively working against yourself.

Especially as a hobbyist.

If you practice BJJ, Muay Thai, or any combat sport as a hobby: you do not have to cut weight.

You can choose a weight category that fits you. You are not a professional athlete whose livelihood depends on it.

Cutting weight does not make you better.

The struggle does not make you stronger.

The hustle of losing weight does not make you a better athlete or a better person.

In my experience, it actually makes you worse.

All the energy that could go into training, building skills, working on weaknesses or strengths, goes instead into food rules.

What can I eat?

How much water can I drink?

What do I need to cut out?

Your world shrinks. Your mind shrinks. And over time, your mental health suffers.

I know this is easier said than done. I’ve been there. I’m still unlearning parts of it.

But I truly believe this: don’t take the joy out of movement and sport because of a number on a scale.

That number doesn’t tell your story.

It doesn’t show what stage of life you’re in.

It doesn’t reflect stress, travel, grief, joy, rest, or growth.

Bodies change. Weight fluctuates. Life happens.

What matters more is this:

How do you feel in your body right now?

Do you feel nourished? Supported? Okay?

A number can’t answer that.

This is why I care so deeply about working with children, teenagers, and young adults, especially during puberty, when bodies and identities are changing at the same time.

I want to help shift the focus from appearance to function, respect, and care.

A body is not a problem to be fixed.

It is not a number.

It is not a before-and-after photo.

A body carries you through life.

It adapts, protects, heals, and changes with you. It deserves compassion at every stage.

This is the work I’m committed to. And I can’t wait to use what I’m learning now to support others on their own journeys.

If you need support, or if any of this resonates

with you—please reach out. You’re not alone