When I contracted COVID-19 and consequently quarantined for nearly a month in January, the thing that weighed on me most was not the isolation-fatigue my extroverted brain was drowning under. Neither was it the complete atrophy of my creative muscles that once allowed me to work and maintain inspiration. Instead, my heaviest burden was quite literally: weight. I gained a few kilos in quarantine, and once I noticed it, I couldn’t stop noticing.
This was not my first rodeo with a body image issue, but it was deeply impactful, quickly burrowing a little hole for itself into my psyche. Not disrupting my daily function, but ever-present. It showed itself in the number of times I body-checked during the day, scrutinising my reflection in every vaguely shiny surface I came across, suspiciously searching for bloat and the broadening of my body. Extra softness on my lower belly, more cushion in my arms. My face was the clearest indicator—my cheeks sagged, more rounded out than ever. I could feel it in every smile.
I hid these thoughts away for the simple reason that, beyond self-loathing and a desire to manipulate the size of my body,
