Op-Ed: Stop Telling Me I Don’t Need To Lose Any More Weight

Maui BIgelow weight loss before and after — Source: Courtesy Of Talent / Courtesy Of Talent

I absolutely hate when people constantly police women’s bodies—and by women, today, I’m talking about me. I underwent gastric bypass surgery in October 2018. That decision came after nearly bleeding to death from a 13-pound fibroid and being diagnosed with both multiple myeloma—a blood cancer—and scleritis, a painful autoimmune disease, in 2017. On the day of my surgery, I weighed 376 pounds. Today, I weigh 195. Yeah, I had surgery but I have been working my ass off since 2017 on my weight loss journey because I refused to die in my season.

I didn’t lose weight because I hated my body. I loved that big body. I found confidence in that big body. I found my strength in that big body. I popped style in that big body. I built a whole brand—Phat Girl Fresh—on that love, confidence, strength and style because I understood the assignment and my purpose. After years of depression and feeling helpless due to childhood traumas; I shifted in that big body to heal myself and help others heal too. I lost weight because loving her also meant saving me. And to do that, I had to change my mind.

As Black women, we carry so much. The culture. The pain. The expectations. The doubt. The generational weight of being the “strong one.” And for years, I wore that armor proudly. I masked my pain behind purpose, my fear behind fashion, and my health behind hustle. But when I was diagnosed with two life-altering conditions, my body asked me—begged me—to prioritize healing. And for the first time, I finally listened.

Maui Bigelow Weight Loss

Weight loss wasn’t about becoming acceptable to others—it was about becoming accountable to myself. But here’s what I know, although it’s rarely said out loud: no matter what size you are, somebody’s going to have something to say.

When I was super plus-size, people offered me backhanded compliments like, “You have a pretty face” and “You’re pretty for a big girl.” They dished out health advice that they couldn’t even back up. And now, after losing over 180 pounds, folks have the nerve to say, “You’re losing too much weight,” or ask, “Are you sick?” or “How much more are you trying to lose?” The irony? Those same folks were silent when I was dying—when stress, survival, and sickness were breaking my body down from the inside. They were silent when I couldn’t walk a flight of stairs without it feeling like my heart was going to beat out of my chest. Why? I’m not sure but I feel like some people felt good because me not being my best made them more comfortable with themselves.

What people fail to realize is that body shaming isn’t just calling people fat. Body shaming is making negative comments about a person’s body, regardless of size. And the thing about body shaming—it’s never really about you. It’s about other people’s projections and hidden insecurities. Society has been policing Black women’s bodies since the beginning of time. Our bodies are rarely celebrated but always scrutinized. So when I finally prioritized myself—my peace, my wholeness, my survival—all of a sudden, people got loud.

“Damn, you’re skinny.”

“You don’t need to lose any more weight.”

“Are you sure you’re not doing too much?”

And I want to scream, where was this energy when I was drowning in pain? When I was nearly 400 pounds, silently carrying illness and trauma with a smile? Where was that energy when I was dying? Why is my thriving a threat to your comfort? I will tell you why. Because some folks are more comfortable watching Black women suffer than watching us shine and when I say “some people” that includes the people you love. My pain was palatable. My shrinking was easy to ignore. But my joy? My confidence? My glow-up? Weight loss? That makes people squirm. Because they lost their partner in misery. They lost the comfort of being able to tell themselves, “At least I’m doing better than Maui. But guess what? That’s not my problem.

True healing—the kind that shifts your entire existence—requires a full-on mindset reset. It’s not just physical. You’ve got to detox from people’s opinions, from shame, from trauma, from perfectionism, and from the lie that your worth is based on your weight. I had to unlearn what the world taught me about my body and reconnect with what I know to be true: I am enough. At every stage of my becoming. I had to change my mind and ignore the outside noise.

I chose bariatric surgery as a tool, not a crutch. And every day since, I’ve shown up for this version of myself—not just in the gym, but in therapy, in prayer, in stillness, in reflection. I broke habits. I fasted. I stopped performing strength and started practicing softness—with myself and for myself. So yes, I’ve changed. I’m still plus-size. Still powerful. Still stylish. Still unapologetic. Still proud. Still a big dog—I said what I said. But I’m also lighter—in body, in mind, and in spirit. That’s the part that matters.

To my sisters reading this: The world will always have something to say about your body. Too big. Too small. Too loud. Too bold. But your body is yours. Make decisions rooted in love, not shame and definitely not in someone else’s insecurities. Protect your peace. Honor your growth. And remember, when you change your mind, you change your life.

And as for the people who are suddenly concerned? Ask yourself, why are they more interested in you dying than in living your best life? Because that shit is weird.

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