It started with a stupid, nasty little injury—nothing dramatic, just enough to ruin my beach vacation from day two onward. I slipped on a wet tile at the hotel and couldn’t go near the sea. I was furious. I sued the hotel for negligence and went on a sort of consumption strike: just breakfast and free crackers. I lost 10 kg during that trip. Back home, I kept going, slowly and steadily, until I was down 30 kg—finally at a healthy weight. The hotel eventually offered me a free vacation as compensation. I took it wearing my first bikini in decades, and I felt radiant.
That injury felt like a curse at first. I’d saved for months, dreaming of ocean swims and sunset cocktails. Instead, I spent most of the trip limping, icing my leg, and watching others enjoy what I couldn’t. I was angry, humiliated, and stuck.
But something shifted. With limited mobility and no appetite, I started eating less. Not out of punishment—just necessity. I realized how much I’d been using food to soothe frustration. And suddenly, I wasn’t doing that anymore.
Back home, I didn’t go on a crash diet. I just kept the rhythm. I walked more, cooked lighter meals, and stopped eating out of boredom. The weight came off slowly, and with it, the heaviness I’d carried for years—physically and emotionally.
When the hotel offered me a free vacation, I almost declined. But I went. And this time, I packed a bikini. I hadn’t worn one since my twenties. I stood on the beach, scar still faint on my leg, and felt proud—not of the injury, but of what came after.
That trip didn’t go as planned. But it gave me something better than a tan—it gave me a turning point. And I’ll never forget the feeling of stepping into the sea, finally free.
