My spin instructor has been losing weight. It’s been gradual, but noticeable. It started with
her arms, then her face, then her hips, then her stomach. I can’t
make her class every week, but when I do, she gives me
the biggest smile and cheers me on during sprints.
In the doctor’s office, waiting for my first Wegovy injection,
I imagine everyone in my life taking turns pressing the needle into my stomach.
My father is up first,
giving away sample jackets from his work to my boyfriend, our neighbors, friends of friends
me, asking if I can try anything
him, saying nothing is for me
him, loving that his fat daughter has a boyfriend who runs marathons
How did she swing that?
I bring him to my favorite restaurant for braised beef noodle soup
the large bowls arriving in front of us
him, exclaiming how big they are
me, telling him he can bring the rest of it home
also me, silently tracking how much I consumed for my calorie app
his eyes, examining our bowls at the end of the meal
him, saying unprompted that his bowl looks fuller than mine
For what other reason than reassurance that he ate less than his fat daughter?
My spin instructor has been losing weight. I’ve never met a person who exudes
as much joy in 45 minutes. She crafts perfect playlists — femme pop, Broadway
deep cuts, and festival headliners. When she started teaching, she branded herself
as a big girl. Big girls could be athletes too. She drew me in when I didn’t know
if spin was for me. When the last taste in my mouth had been an instructor shouting
“Can you move your legs any faster?!”
My mother is next,
taking me to appointments as a little girl
specialists, nutritionists, personal trainers
everyone in search of how to make her daughter normal
inappropriate comments from a doctor
that I eat to satisfy the sadness from my mother’s cancer
inappropriate comments from a cardiologist
that my arms are huge
inappropriate comments from a therapist
that I must be a great singer, since opera singers are always fat
“Save room for dinner”
so I start wrapping cookies in a napkin to hide them
so I make my chews extra silent
eating chips on a road trip in the back seat
so, when I have a stomach bug,
I admit to her that at least I vomited a few times, maybe I lost a little weight?
“Don’t say that,” her eyes wide
I never do again
My spin instructor has been losing weight. When 47 was elected president for a
second time, all I could think about was her having to teach a class that night. I bought her a
big slab of caramel chocolate and a card covered with butterflies. I thanked her
for her generosity, getting up on the podium when all she probably wanted to do was
cry and order takeout. Now I wonder: did the chocolate trigger her? Did it sit in her
cabinet for many days, like it would in mine, waiting for the right moments to be
savored piece by piece?
My friends follow my parents,
friends in middle school
DIY makeovers on bedroom floors
them, keeping me at arm’s length
me, their fat friend
to pose behind in photos
friends in high school
hours together scrolling prom outfits online
them, trying on dresses in person, asking each other if they look fat
me, shrinking
nothing in the entire store would fit me
friends in college
losing each other in the campus bar
them, debriefing over library tables the next morning
me, wondering if I’ll die a sexless death
friends I’ve met as an adult
inviting me to their weddings
them, brides in ivory dresses
lace, cutouts, trains
that fit around their perfect bodies
me, ordering a dress online that covers my arms
dreading the day I may make my own wedding dress appointment
My spin instructor has been losing weight. It’s none of my business. Does she
scan herself in the mirror like I do? Does she
secretly hope someone has noticed? Does she
feel scared someone has? My spin instructor has been losing weight. Does she
— it’s none of my business.
I inject myself for the first time in the sterile doctor’s office,
tears in my eyes. The medical assistant nods knowingly.
It hurts less than I expected.
Photo by Gastro Editorial on Unsplash, licensed under CC 2.0.
- My Spin Instructor - August 8, 2025
Gorgeous and haunting essay!