30.

I don’t think of myself as the fat girl. When I lust over cute, tailored outfits on asos.com, or admire a fashion blogger’s penchant for stilettos paired with ripped jeans, I imagine myself looking not too dissimilar in the same clothes. I go to posh restaurants with my husband and enjoy the wine, feeling every bit as sophisticated as the woman two tables down in her size 6 suit. It isn’t until I accidentally catch a glimpse of my reflection in a window, or see the photo our waiter took of us celebrating our anniversary, that I really see my body for what it is: obese.

Obesity is a disease; or at the very least, an incredibly powerful predictor of future disease. Reconciling the woman I think I am - smart, driven, loving - with the person who is wilfully eating her way to an early grave is painful. I have a BMI of 30. I am at risk of developing diabetes, a diagnosis of heart disease, and leaving behind a husband who loves me. 

I am also a medical student, and my future patients deserve better.

This is not an exercise in self-loathing, or shame, or pity. I just want to live well and long. I don’t have much patience for platitudes, and I’m not going to post daily weigh-ins with regular progress photos. But I am going to use the many and varied resources available to me to get that BMI within a normal range, and write about what works. After all,  If I can’t do it, how can I possibly look patients in the eye when I tell them to do it?