What Gaining 60 Pounds Taught Me

When I gained weight and let my hair go grey, instead of freaking out, I got curious.

Hey,

There were so many different little trips I went on during the past 13 years I’ve been off the professional radar. And, of course, I don’t mean trips to Europe or the Caribbean. Sure, that too. But more significantly, I’m referring to the internal journeys I’ve taken…research expeditions, so to speak.

One was my exploration of the natural…my most unvarnished self. 

Like, I focused on being more honest with the people around me: I noticed there was just too much automaticity in our conversations. Almost like a call and response we had all silently agreed to: “How are you?” “Great!” “How was your weekend?” “Great!” So, I started to give real responses when people would ask the requisite “How are you?” The mere pause as I checked in with myself would send some folks spinning. You could practically see the thought bubble saying, “Good! You’re good! Say it!” Oh, and the best was when I would tell people the real reason I was cancelling plans instead of making some shit up. “Honestly? I’m just kind of feeling down today and want to marinate in it and understand why.” Huh?? Who says that? I do. This simple tweak has helped me drill down and identify my core group of closest friends. I used to have sooooo many friends. And they were wonderful people. But the friends I have today are much more aligned with my most authentic self. They know, love and accept me, absolutely unvarnished.

During this process, at one point, I also stopped coloring my hair. Of course, for the first few weeks, it just looked like I was too busy to have my grey roots touched up. But eventually, I could literally see my mom tense up when she saw me. On the flip side, my girls said I looked like Elsa had hit me with her ice powers. They thought it was the coolest thing.  My friends were…interested. Surprised, but interested. Plenty of people grow out their grey and do something super cool and edgy. Usually, it’s done in collaboration with their colorist, where they try to blend and camouflage the ugly in-between stage. I, on the other hand, was really mesmerized by the ugly in-between stage. I had so much curiosity. In between the fancy 5th Avenue colorist appointments, you could barely see a peek of how grey my hair really was. It became a fixation: What did I look like? What the fuck did I really look like? Like, what was my natural 40-something year-old God-given hair color? I wanted to see myself as I really was. I never judged myself the whole process but the people around me got more and more nervous. They thought I’d lost my mind. In retrospect, perhaps my grey made them face their own aging process. I can’t be sure. But as for me? Just curious.

And just like that, one day, I was done. Sort of like how Forrest Gump just stopped running. I guess I finally understood what I really looked like by the time the roots had grown to the middle of my hair. I did not look like the lead singer of Berlin as I hoped I might. And I was done. I was done. I was done. I went to my beloved Adrian at Rita Hazan salon and he restored me back to Middle-Aged Iranian Barbie status and everyone in my orbit breathed a sigh of relief. She’s back. My mom literally gasped and said, “Oh, Thanks to God!” and whispered an Islamic prayer when she saw me. It made me realize, they relied on me to look a certain way. It gave them a sense of comfort, my in-control image. If I’m in control, they’re in control. We are all avatars for each other, I learned. Grateful for that sacred lesson.

I’ve had other explorations outside of our culture’s Barbie-eque standard of beauty. 

For about a year, I was almost 200 pounds. I was sick (the mold, remember?) and I kept gaining weight. But I also wouldn’t do anything to lose the weight. I was far enough in my spiritual growth that I didn’t want to get into a battling relationship with my body. So I watched the unfolding with (you guessed it!) curiosity. Not just my growing body, but my family and friends’ response. No one was saying anything. But everyone was watching. Only my husband was vocal (“You’re so beautiful, why are you letting this happen?”), but again, I could tell my family was uncomfortable. (Not my children, “I love your squishy belly, Mommy!” 🥴 A child’s unconditional love is real, people.) And with that change in my body, came more comfortable, baggy clothes. It was during this time that I heard the Karl Lagerfeld quote, “Sweatpants are a sign of defeat. You lost control of your life, so you bought some sweatpants.” I won’t lie. That partially resonated for me. At that point, I did feel like I had lost some control of my life. But I didn’t see it as a sign of defeat. I still sat with curiosity. But perhaps acceptance and curiosity is what he meant by defeat. But I disagree. See, I had always been known for having a great body as a younger person. Who was I if I didn’t have a great body? To voluntarily stop fighting my changing body felt like another way of exploring the natural. After all, no matter what I weighed, I was getting older and making peace with my body seemed like a wise move. My 23-year-old hottie days were behind me and I was committed to learning so I could grow old gracefully. In time, I realized I was numbing myself with food because I was deeply unsatisfied with my relationship. I don’t think I would have had that epiphany if I focused on fighting my body instead of listening to what it was telling me.

I won’t lie, that time with a heavier body helped me also understand how much I relied on male attention. How much my ego craved it. It was depressing not to have it and more upsetting to realize how much I needed it. It was a destination I needed to visit. It wasn’t an easy visit, but I learned a lot about myself there. 

I think these explorations were all an effort to fight what felt like The Domestication of Atoosa. My automatic buy-in to being what my family needed me to be. I wanted to go back to being wild. I remember when I was wild. Do you?

For me: Age 8, chia pet hairstyle, running out of my house without a shirt on to play soccer with the boys. “Stop!!!,” my mother would yell. “You can’t go out without a shirt!” But I refused to be categorized back then. I refused to follow any laws of domestication. I would spit when I wanted to spit. And oh, how we loved when our friends would burp loud! (I sadly, never had that skill but delight when my daughter’s best friend has monster burps on demand.) I said what I meant and I meant what I said. If it was uncomfortable, I wouldn’t wear it. You get where I am going with this.

Today, we are always containing ourselves, containing ourselves, containing ourselves. The other day I told a close guy friend I just got my period. “Okay,” he said. I couldn’t help myself but keep talking. “I just love the really heavy days when the blood just squishes out and you can feel it?” (I was kind of fucking with him at this point and was dying laughing inside!) He was like, “You’re kind of into your period, huh?” I lit up. Yes, I am! I am! Our periods are another thing that we’ve had to keep hidden. In fact, I think it was with the advent of my period that I began my domestication. This idea that once a month my body was a burden…add to that the undercurrent of shame or dirtiness. My blossoming womanhood that needed to be hidden. Clearly an undeserving reputation considering those same body parts create life!

My divorce feels like an invitation to be wild again.

Don’t worry. I don’t need to talk about menstruation ad nauseum. But let me tell you this one time: I fucking love getting my period now. And I do color my hair. But because I like the way it looks better. I wanted to make sure, and drumroll please…I’m sure! And my body? Like most people, sometimes I’m a little heavier than others. (I usually gain about ten pounds this time of year – sorry, ‘Tis the Season for stuffing my fucking face, I don’t hold back.) I get many more compliments when I’m on the thin side and as a result, I’m more confident during those times. But I just stay present with it, try to love myself through it, and maintain curiosity instead of judgement. 

These off-roading experiences have helped me explore the question, Who is this girl called Atoosa, if she isn’t who she looks like? If she isn’t what we expect. If she isn’t what we need her to be? She defies definition. And now she defies domestication. Let’s see what that looks like, my sister. Let’s see what that looks like. Thanks for being along for the journey. I’m here for yours, 24/7, as always at atoosa@atoosa.com.

xo, atoosa

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