The truth about losing weight in your 40s

Everything feels manageable—until you’re no longer single. Because, truth be told, losing weight is a family affair.

I was never the slim, athletic girl in high school. I was always curvy, slightly disproportionate, and it took relentless determination, physical effort, and unwavering self-control to keep my weight in check. When your muse isn’t a charming man but rather vibrant, flavorful food, I’m sure you can relate.

I wouldn’t call myself a foodie, but I’ve always had a soft spot for food. Sweets are my soulmates, and chocolates—my guilty pleasure. I suspect this secret obsession with finishing an entire bar of chocolate stems from childhood trauma. And what was the trauma? My parents never let me have a whole bar to myself. It always had to be shared—meticulously divided into four equal parts. No ruler needed, just my dad’s keen eye. While that lesson instilled a deep sense of values in me, it also gave rise to a silent rebellion—an inner desire to one day consume a whole chocolate bar, in solitude, with no one to share it with.

That desire turned into a quiet obsession. After I had my first child, I’d sneak a Snickers bar every day from the vending machine, deleting all traces of evidence. Eventually, it evolved into an intense affair with Lindor chocolates during my morning commute. I even had a secret stash hidden in my car’s dashboard. It wasn’t the taste or texture that satisfied me—it was the joy of eating without sharing that brought me inexplicable happiness. The guilt would hit later, but only after I’d devoured three milk chocolates in one go.

At 25 or even 30, losing the extra pounds was much easier. My sweet tooth never dulled, but age crept in, and my metabolism slowed down. There was a time when I resolved to lose it all—again fueled by self-control, discipline, and routine. I wasn’t perfect, but I was doing okay.

And then came the second pregnancy.

I gained 40 pounds, lost 20 postpartum, and the rest has clung to me like a loyal best friend ever since. Every day, I try—truly try—to reclaim that self-control, to rediscover that discipline, only to lose it somewhere around lunchtime. That post-lunch madness hits—a desperate craving for sweetness: a bite of my daughter’s cookie, a finger-swipe of Nutella, a tiny taste of an Indian sweet gifted by a kind neighbor that turns into me finishing the entire thing. Then my husband, in an unusual show of tenderness, buys me a box of cake because “I seemed like I needed it” (because doesn’t everyone?!). I ate. Then I regretted. And then I ate again. A vicious cycle.

Maintaining a diet isn’t a simple task when you’re working full-time, managing a demanding job, and juggling family responsibilities. My husband is immensely supportive—he helps with cooking and cleaning—but there are still days I barely have a moment to breathe. Fitting in a routine, a workout, cooking, cleaning, feeding, working, feeding again, cooking again, and finally collapsing into bed—that’s the skeletal outline of my day.

And let’s not forget the challenge of cooking different meals for everyone. Sometimes, I sneak a spoonful of my daughter’s lunch—not just because I made it, but because I make damn good food. Self-love, right? But sometimes, just sometimes, the quantity matters as much as the quality.

So, if you’ve ever hidden a cookie in your drawer, wiped away chocolate crumbs before anyone noticed, or told yourself just this once—you’re not alone. This journey of weight, food, guilt, and love is complicated. But maybe, just maybe, talking about it makes it a little lighter to carry.

Some days I win. Most days, I lose to a spoonful of dessert. But here’s the truth: I’m tired of pretending this is easy. If you’re nodding along as you read this, then maybe we can stop beating ourselves up and just start being kinder—to our bodies, to our minds, and to the woman we see in the mirror. It’s absolutely ok to show up on stretchy pants all the time…