It starts the moment I catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror, squinting past sleep and hope. The Arizona sun might be blazing outside, but inside my brain, the weather is unseasonably grim. There’s a gray cloud parked directly over my head—and it’s not moving anytime soon.
The first thought, before I’ve had coffee, before I’ve had time to armor up, is cruel and quiet:
I hate my body.
No one says it out loud. No one has to. It’s stitched into my skin like a label I never asked for. It’s been there so long, it hums just under the surface—like an annoying appliance I forgot to unplug.
And then, right on cue, comes the inherited fury. I start mentally yelling at my mom, then her mom, and maybe their moms too, for passing down this tangled legacy of body shame and Oompa Loompa genes. I’ve got tree-trunk legs and bingo-wing arms. No waist to speak of. If it weren’t for the gray roots betraying my age, I might be mistaken for someone in her third trimester. With twins.
That’s the interior dialogue. It’s not cute. It’s not motivational. And it doesn’t clock out after the morning shift.
All day long, the dread keeps working overtime.
It taps me on the shoulder when I walk past a window. It reminds me of something cringey I said in a Zoom meeting two years ago. It whispers that everyone I talk to finds me weird, or too much, or secretly annoying. Rationally, I know this isn’t true. Emotionally? I spiral like it’s my cardio.
Even bedtime isn’t safe. I’ll be on the brink of sleep, Kindle warm in my hands, heart a little calmer, when suddenly the dread slinks in like a thief. I put the book down, roll onto my side, and brace for the nightly mental inquisition. It’s the same routine: Review everything I said that day. Analyze the tone. The facial expressions. The silences. Did I overshare? Undershare? Was I too much again?
Eventually, exhaustion wins. But not before I whisper a few promises to myself:
Tomorrow, I’ll be better.
I’ll eat cleaner.
I’ll exercise harder.
I’ll be normal.
I’ll write more.
I’ll finish the audiobook chapters I keep avoiding.
I’ll stop being me, basically.
For years, I didn’t have a name for this voice. I thought it was just my own special brand of self-loathing—maybe some leftover trauma sauce drizzled over imposter syndrome and diet culture.
But then I read What My Bones Know by Stephanie Foo. She calls that inner voice “the dread.”
Yes. That’s it exactly.
The dread is real. And it’s exhausting. But naming it? That’s the first time I’ve ever felt like maybe—just maybe—it’s not in charge.
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