For as long as I can remember, I have been a bigger girl. Not My 600-lb Life big. But still too much.
I recently got diagnosed with high Lp(a) — which stands for Lipoprotein a — a genetically inherited lipoprotein and a risk factor for cardiovascular disease, strokes, and other life-threatening conditions. I have to say, it didn’t come as a complete shock. My father suffered three strokes in the early 2000s, when he was in his late 40s. Doctors were shocked, though he has recovered significantly since then.
Why Do I Feel So Lethargic?
I’m still younger than my father was back then, and technically could do something about all of this. Granted, my Lp(a) can’t be changed — but I could still do something about it, right? Could.
I feel like I’m choking alive when I think about just getting out of my seat. I’ve always had a tendency to be — in German we’d say träge — but just four years ago I was going to five workout classes a week, or working out regularly at home. Then, with the coming of fall and winter, all the stamina, happiness, and ambition made way for something hollow, deep: depression.
“It also feels like my whole body is willingly holding onto all the weight. Like it’s afraid to let go of its shell.”
So, even though I sit at home watching Michelle McDaniels or My 600-lb Life — watching where I could end up if I continue on this path — I can’t seem to break the cycle.
Black Women and Obesity
I hate to say it, but I am a stereotype. And the numbers bear it out.
In 2024, Black women were 28% more likely to suffer from obesity than other adults in the US.¹ Black and African American girls were 55% more likely than their counterparts. The NHS also identifies Black women as among the groups most likely to be obese in England.²
Poverty has to be acknowledged as one of the many reasons why Black women so often have to choose unhealthier options. As a former Black girl, I wanted to go to dance classes, wanted to have hobbies — but the intense emptiness of mom and dad’s bank account couldn’t make space for those things. I’m sure that’s the reality for a lot of young girls and women like me.
And then there’s the system itself. The BMI — the tool used to measure body mass — was created by a white man and intended primarily for white men. The metric was invented by a Belgian mathematician, not a doctor, who didn’t even intend it to be a measure of individual health or body fat.³ Women and men are built differently. Black women and white women are built differently. The tool was never meant for us, and yet it’s used to define us.
The Truth About My Situation
I wish so much that I could be like the body positivity people I see on Instagram or YouTube. But I am not.
Beyond the obvious aesthetic benefits of losing the weight I carry, I genuinely felt better when I was losing weight and reaching my goal weight. I was sleeping much better. I wasn’t winded walking up a flight of stairs. I wasn’t exhausted by the mere mention of working out. I was more positive — releasing happy hormones, watching my body change, feeling proud of what it could do. Fifty squats had nothing on me.
So it pains me to have not only gained a lot of it back, but even more. I sit here wishing I had what I had back then. It’s difficult. When I think about it, I picture myself in a morning circle like the AA meetings in the movies: “Hi, I’m the SPOT Editor, and I emotionally regulate by eating.”
It hurts to know that I could change something — but that my willpower feels nonexistent right now. And that’s the truth I’m sitting with today.
¹ Office of Minority Health — Obesity and Black/African Americans (Last accessed: 03/06/2026)
² NHS Digital — Ethnicity and Health 2011–2019: Overweight and Obesity (Last accessed: 03/06/2026)
³ World Obesity Federation — Body Mass Index: What is it really? (Last accessed: 03/06/2026)