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Introduction

Hello! I’m so pleased you’ve picked up this book.

Welcome to Diet Starts Monday. In case you were in any doubt, the title is obviously completely ironic.

I spent years hearing phrases like this and listening to the women around me – funny, kind, intelligent women – talk about how much they needed to lose weight and what new diet they were on (maybe you did too). And do you know what? I found it so fucking boring. We are SO much more than what we look like and the size of our jeans.

So this is NOT a book about how to stick to a diet, or about putting off your diet until next week.

This is a book that wants you to bin diet culture for good. To never say “Diet starts Monday” EVER again.

To stop finding your worth as a person in a number on a set of scales or the label in a dress.

To reclaim your body, in all its jiggly glory, from the clutches of the diet and fitness industries.

And to live a life that makes you happy.

ABOUT THIS BOOK

Diet Starts Monday is the book I wish I had growing up.

Full of personal stories, my hope is that it will not only empower you but also help you make peace with what you see in the mirror.

For too long we, as women, have been made to feel as if we have no choice but to remain trapped in the hamster wheel of body hate and dieting. And I’m here to tell you, quite simply, that you don’t.

Throughout these pages, I will share the realities of what it’s like being in a bigger body, why we’ve been conditioned to fear the word “fat” and how hard it is to take up space in a world that wants to shrink you. I’ll also be calling out the societal pressures to be something we’re not and discussing the many pitfalls of diet culture.

While I talk a lot about my own experiences as a plus-size woman, my aim is to help you find self-acceptance (and maybe even self-love) whether you’re a size 6 or 36, able-bodied or disabled, young or old. Diet Starts Monday is for everyone.

HOW TO GET THE MOST OUT OF DIET STARTS MONDAY

Diet Starts Monday is divided into two parts, and I recommend you read each part through in order.

In Part One, we’ll be “Unpacking the Problem” – looking to understand WHY we, as women, have been made to feel like we’re never good enough (thank you, diet culture, the media and toxic beauty standards!).

This will include exploring ever-changing beauty standards through the years, and the huge impact of weight stigma and diet culture.

Then, in Part Two, we’ll be “Taking Back the Power” by looking at HOW you can start living a full, fulfilling and happy life in the body you are in RIGHT NOW.

And I’ll be honest here: it does take some work. We’ll explore topics such as body neutrality, finding joy in movement and intuitive eating. I’m really excited to share with you what I’ve learnt (and am still learning) on the road to self-acceptance.

Peppered throughout the book are lots of research stats from a range of informed sources, and words of wisdom from leaders in relevant fields – from medicine and psychotherapy to nutrition and fitness. I also had the pleasure of chatting with some of my favourite experts, and am so grateful I’ve been able to include their invaluable knowledge in this book.

I spoke with NHS doctor and nutritionist Dr Joshua Wolrich on the relationship between weight and health, inclusive personal trainer Tally Rye on exercise and movement, body positivity campaigner Molly Forbes on breaking the intergenerational cycle of diet culture, relationship expert Michelle Elman on dating in a plus-size body and knowing your worth, body-image advocate Stephanie Yeboah on the nuances of body positivity and the Fat Acceptance Movement and clinical psychologist Dr Emma Cotterill on the effects our body image can have on our mental health and wellbeing.

You’ll also find practical “Self-Empowerment Tasks” in each chapter – designed to help you reflect on and overcome your own body image struggles. There’s a big difference between understanding something on a conscious level and internalising it so that you actually feel differently about yourself, so it’s important that you do the tasks as well as read the book.

My hope is that the combination of all of this will help to provide you with a grounded but inspiring framework for changing the way you view yourself and ending the yo-yo diet cycle once and for all.

Is Diet Starts Monday a magical cure-all? Absolutely not. But I hope you learn from it and maybe even pick it up again any time you need reminding that the way you look is the least interesting thing about you.

PART 1

UNPACKING THE PROBLEM

The messages telling us that our bodies are the problem are everywhere: on TV, on social media and in magazines. They’re also in our homes, in the workplace and in the playground.

But the good news is that, once you know what the problem is, it’s a lot easier to find the solution.

In this first part of the book, I’m going to help you with this by shining a light on all the ways you’ve been made to feel bad about yourself and the way you look.

1

“Such a pretty face”

My big fat life so far

I was eight years old when I was put on my first diet.

It all started after a visit to my nan’s house, during which she told me I shouldn’t be wearing the dress I had on because I was “getting chubby”. After that, talk of eating less and moving more floated around our house a lot, but nothing seemed to curb my appetite and, at 11 years old, I was much bigger than all the kids in my school and being badly bullied for it.

On the last day of primary school, all of my classmates were signing each other’s T-shirts and I remember one kid, Sean, writing the word “FAT” in great big capital letters across my entire back in permanent marker. I know, what a prick.

Even at that young age, I remember being very aware of my body, its bigness, and the problem that people around me often seemed to have with that. I realised that my body wasn’t considered normal, and that, in one way or another, I was being judged. I didn’t just have a body; I was my body.

One summer, my dad decided it would be a good idea for us all to get on the scales, so we could lose weight together, “as a family”. He was more than a little surprised by the weight he saw when I stepped on, and let out a jarring and audible gasp of astonishment that made my stomach do a little flip-flop. Shame ate away at me, and my cheeks turned pink at the sense of disapproval and embarrassment that I felt. It was as if I’d failed a test I didn’t even know I’d taken.

I burst into tears, ran out of the house and made a beeline for the tent my brother and I had set up in the garden – partly because I wanted to get as far away from my dad, and the rest of the family, as physically possible, but mainly because I knew we had a stash of Wagon Wheels hidden under the mountain of sleeping bags and blankets.

I can laugh about it now, but I remember crying my little heart out as I stuffed them all into my mouth at speed; a mixture of chocolate, snot and tears stained my face like a modern-day Bruce Bogtrotter. Little did I know that would be the start of a lifelong battle with binge-eating and secret eating.

Over the years I regularly squirrelled away chocolate and other sweet treats in my bedroom so that I could eat them in private whenever I got the urge. There was something about the deceit, the sugar and the solitude that made it all the more appealing.

The more a certain food was off limits, the more I wanted it. But of course, after each binge would come the familiar feelings of guilt and shame, followed by the voice in my head saying, “Ugh, I hate myself. Why did I do that?”

MY FIRST FORAY INTO THE WORLD OF DIETING

When I was 13, I weighed around 14 stone (196 lb/89 kg) and wore a UK size 16 (US 20). My parents were so concerned that they decided it was time for an intervention, and that’s when my mum took me to my first Slimming World group.

It’s funny how insignificant things stick in your head, isn’t it? I can still picture the room the meeting was held in, every Wednesday night – in the upstairs function room of our local pub. It was huge and had an ugly, floral, red carpet that stank of stale booze and cigarettes, which they’d tried (unsuccessfully) to mask with cheap air freshener.

At the far end of the room, in front of the tall bay windows, was a row of helpers all lined up to weigh us or sell us something. It started with the scales – or the “sad step”, as I now like to call it – and was followed by the magazines, “healthy” snack bars and raffle tickets you felt obliged to buy.

I remember shame creeping in as I stood on the scales for the first time and the lady wrote down my weight in my starter pack. She commented to my mum that I had “such a pretty face”, which was, of course, code for “She’d be so much prettier if she wasn’t such a fat bastard”.

Once everyone had weighed in, we sat in a semi-circle like the kind you see in group therapy scenes on TV shows. Our group leader, Beryl, would go around the room each week, noting everyone’s achievements (or lack there of). “You’ve put on a pound this week, Sheila. What happened? You were so good last week!?”

I’ll never forget the woman who was congratulated for losing 6 pounds (2.7 kg) in a week, even though it was because she had diarrhoea. “Every cloud!” quipped Beryl.

One person was at their “target weight” and a few women were losing weight, but the vast majority were really struggling to shift more than a pound, if that, each week. They often spoke about their lack of willpower, which, when I think about it now, makes me really sad. But what struck me the most was the quest by all of them to be thin. Not healthy, but thin.

Many of the women spoke about how they hated their bodies, and I remember one lady (who was half the size I was and double my age), telling us all how she resembled a fat whale. “I just feel like a failure,” she said. “Like I’ve let myself go.”

This was a real coming-of-age moment for me. It taught me that my body was something to be judged and feared, that I was somehow a failure as a person in my current “fat” form, and that a life in a body like mine was no life at all.

Another thing these weekly weigh-ins “taught” me was that certain foods were “sinful” or “bad”. Food wasn’t there to fuel us or, god forbid, enjoy. Food, according to Slimming World and every other diet club I’ve since encountered, was laden with a lot of moral connotations: it was either “good” or “bad”, and I was therefore either “good” or “bad” for eating it.

Not knowing any different, and with everyone around me saying the same kind of things, I just presumed this was how things had to be. So, eager to please, I did what I was told. I was willing to do anything to be “fixed”, i.e. to be skinny.

I was elated when I lost 8 pounds (3.6 kg) in my first week. I lost a fair amount in subsequent weeks too – enough for the people around me to notice and congratulate me. I even remember being cat-called in the street, which, looking back, was disgusting because I was still in my school uniform. But I can’t lie, it made me feel attractive for the first time in my life, and it was nice.

People were definitely kinder to me when I was smaller. The world felt like a safer place. “Wow, is this what life is like for ‘normal’ people?” I would think to myself. “Is this what freedom feels like?”

At the start of the diet and for a couple of months after, I fixated on what life would be like when I eventually got down to my target weight. I would think of all the friends I’d have, all the parties I’d get invited to, all the boys I’d kiss, and all the lovely clothes from Tammy Girl or Topshop I would finally be able to fit into. “This is it!” I’d say to myself. “Laura version 2.0 will be happier, prettier, more successful, more loveable, more fashionable. Slimmer. Better. THIS IS IT!” I was a walking “before” photo.

But 14-year-old Laura very quickly got bored of meat-free and carb-free days, and not eating much on weigh-in days and the days leading up to them.

I got bored of not eating McDonald’s on a Saturday, like everyone else was. I got tired of having salad for my lunch instead of sandwiches. I got frustrated with being punished for wanting to just enjoy food – something that felt so natural to me.

And, as a result, any opportunity to eat the foods I loved became an opportunity to overindulge, often to the point of feeling unwell. Chips, chocolate, cake and crisps brought me unparalleled joy. They were unrivalled in their ability to make me euphorically happy, even if fleetingly.

To me, food was like a drug. I would think about it constantly and wonder when, and what, I’d eat next. And just like a drug addict, I didn’t want to give it up.

After a while, I followed the Slimming World plan less and less, and the weight losses stalled. I felt frustrated and ashamed. “Why can’t I just eat what I want and be skinny like my brother? Like all the girls in my class? What is wrong with me?”

I came up with excuse after excuse to stop going to the Slimming World meetings, until my parents eventually caved in and let me give it up altogether.

But, while I knew I couldn’t continue with the diet, I also knew there was no way I was going to be “allowed” to be in a body that wasn’t the “right” size, as it had been made clear to me from such a young age that being fat was “bad” …

BODY-CONSCIOUS FROM A YOUNG AGE

Like a lot of people, I grew up in a household obsessed with appearances and totally consumed by the belief that weight was equal to worth. My mum was constantly on a diet, and my dad was always on at me to go on one (while at the same time always telling me I had to clear my plate).

We would also get rewarded for good behaviour with “nice” food and punished by a lack of it. If we’d been good, we’d go out for a meal or get a takeaway, and if we’d been bad, we weren’t allowed dessert or treats. I know this isn’t unique, but I think in our house, it was just a bit more extreme. Food was used as a way to show love and affection, and, because my mum grew up with a lack of both, she wanted to give it to my brother and me in spades. “What’s that darling, you want a packet of Skittles for breakfast? Sure, go ahead!”

When I packed in Slimming World and put on all the weight I’d lost, my dad sat me down one day and told me no one will ever love me “looking like that”. “Men will sleep with you,” he said. “But they won’t stick around.” I was 15.

My dad and I are best friends now, but it still stings when I think about it. And I’d be lying if I said it didn’t have a big effect on my relationship with food (and my relationships in general) for years after.

A huge chunk of my life, from the age of about eight to well into my late 20s, involved weathering the storm of conversations about my body. I lived in almost constant fear of family members passing comment on what I was eating, which meant that it was really only on special occasions like birthdays and Christmases where I felt free to eat what I wanted and not be called out for it.

In every other respect, I had a wonderful childhood. I felt loved, protected, safe and happy. But I also felt defined – and trapped – by my weight. It was a vicious circle: the more weight I gained, the more I would seek comfort in food, and the more I sought comfort in food, the more weight I would gain.

I think I also grew up a lot quicker than most people because when you’re bigger, you often look older, and, as such, you get treated that way. You also learn to grow a thick skin and think of other ways to be seen as a worthy human.

For me, this meant things like being the “funny one”, the “caring one”, the one with the nicest handbag, the hyper feminine one in the pretty dress – a practice known in the fat-liberation movement as being the “good fatty”, which you’ll read more about in Chapter 8.

I often wonder what my life would have been like if my size hadn’t been put under the spotlight so much and if I hadn’t always been made to feel like the black sheep. Would I still be fat? Would I be less fat? Would I feel more “successful”, more likeable, more loveable?

I also can’t help but wonder how different my life might have been if someone, anyone, would have just said to me, “Hey, it’s OK to be bigger than your friends. Some people are just built differently.”

I honestly don’t blame my mum and dad. I know in my heart that they did the best they could and, like most parents, they had my best interests at heart. I also have to acknowledge the fact there wasn’t really any advice back then on how to raise a fat kid.

These days, we all have a mutual respect and understanding that we don’t talk about my weight. But it took a long time (and a long list of unsuccessful diets) to get to this point.

COULD SURGERY BE THE “MAGIC CURE”?

Throughout my late teens and 20s, I started on countless attempts to lose weight. I tried everything from the Dukan diet and the detox diet to keto and Cambridge. I would start every one with the eagerness of a new puppy ready to be let off its leash for the first time. But the end result was always the same: I simply couldn’t sustain the intense restriction and I’d always put the weight back on.

I would ditch the diet, binge-eat and gain even more weight until the feelings of “I hate myself. I’m a monster. I have to do something about this” settled in hard enough for me to embark on the next one.

I look back now at the time (and money) I spent on these fad diets and feel incredibly sad. I knew I needed help to overcome what felt like an addiction to food, but, no matter where I looked, I just couldn’t find it.

I felt angry at the lack of support. Not just for me, but for other people like me, too. It bothered me that people with recognised eating disorders, such as anorexia and bulimia, were met with what felt like endless amounts of sympathy, as well as specialist doctors and clinics, whereas it was years before binge-eating disorder was categorised by medical professionals. And even then, all it felt like we got was a telling off and a marching to the nearest Weight Watchers group.

As a result, at the time, it seemed to me that my only option to rid myself of this extra weight once and for all was to have weight-loss (bariatric) surgery. I’d toyed with the idea of having a gastric band (a form of bariatric surgery) for years – thinking it would, at last, be the magic cure that solved all my problems. But it wasn’t until I hit 30 that I went to my GP to discuss having one.

My (now) husband and I had been trying for a baby for several years with no luck, and the pain of infertility was excruciating. We’d had to fight for over a year just to have the most basic fertility tests; they wouldn’t initially give us tests, as they said that even if they came back showing something was wrong, they wouldn’t be able to offer us fertility treatment due to our BMIs (body mass index) not being below 30. I’ll never forget the specialist telling me I had to lose 14 stone (196 lb/89 kg) in order to even be considered a candidate for IVF. My world fell apart in that moment, and all my hopes of holding a baby – my baby – in my arms, felt futile. “This is it!” I told myself. “I’m going to have bariatric surgery, lose the weight and have a baby. This is what I have to do.”

I was on the waiting list for about a year. There were several hoops I had to jump through to prove my eligibility – mainly pointless meetings with people who had no idea of the struggles I was facing, or what life was like being in a body like mine. In the year leading up to the surgery, I didn’t buy any new clothes – not even a new pair of knickers, because I had such high hopes of soon filling my wardrobe with smaller ones.

In my final assessment, my doctor laid out all the things I was in store for:

Only being able to eat meals the size of an egg for the rest of my life

Being at risk of severe complications, including death

A high chance of depression (as experienced by a lot of patients who no longer have food as a source of joy and comfort)

Addiction replacement (a lot of patients have been found to swap their addiction with alcohol, drugs and/or gambling)

Having to take a plethora of different vitamins for the rest of my life

It makes me laugh when people say bariatric surgery is the easy option. I don’t think anyone could honestly read the above and say that. But, despite all the risks, I decided I wanted to go ahead with it anyway.

Because of my high BMI, I was told that a gastric bypass was the only option for me. Gastric bands were apparently “not in vogue” because you could “cheat” them with high-calorie, liquified foods like ice cream, and lots of patients regained the weight they lost. With the bypass, my stomach would be cut to a third of its size, and then rerouted to my large intestine. This was so that a) I wouldn’t be able to eat as much, and b) I wouldn’t absorb the calories from the food I did eat.

I was dead set on going ahead with it all, right up until two weeks before the operation, when I had to go on something called a Liver Reduction Diet, or LRD for short. This meant eating around 300 to 500 calories a day for my liver to shrink enough for the surgeon to access my stomach.

The first week was intense and I was, of course, very hungry and very grumpy. I’m not really sure what changed after week one; it wasn’t one particular lightbulb moment that made me think “I can’t do this”, but doubt definitely started to creep in by the time I got to week two. I began to fear the operating table, the inevitable (and other potential) side effects, as well as not being able to enjoy a proper meal with my family or friends ever again.

The hunger and fear got too much and, three days before the surgery, I went to my local petrol station and bought a mountain of “bad” food and stuffed it down my face. I’m not proud of this. In fact, to this day, I’m quite embarrassed about it. But, in that moment, I was able to admit to myself what I think I knew deep down already: that the surgery wasn’t right for me, because stapling my stomach wasn’t going to heal my relationship with food. Years of disordered eating weren’t suddenly going to be resolved overnight by a knife and some staples.

My decision not to have the surgery was met with mixed emotions from my loved ones. Some were relieved, others were disappointed. Feelings of guilt and shame consumed my brain for a long time after, but I told myself (and everyone else) that I would still “lose the weight”, just in a healthier, more sensible way. But, surprise, surprise, I didn’t …

A SHIFT IN MINDSET

For as long as I could remember, I had always thought (or been led to believe) that I had to be on a diet (or at least talking about going on one) – like a “good fatty”. But, a while after making the decision to reject the surgery, I began to wonder what my life would be like if I no longer obsessed about “getting skinny”. “Would it really be such a bad thing to stay at the size I was?” I started to ask myself.

Then, that very same year – in 2020, when I was 30 – my life completely changed, and not just because of Covid.

My passion for baking had won me a spot as a baker on a TV show called The Great British Bake Off. It felt amazing to be part of a show I’d loved for so many years. (I remember racing home from work on a Tuesday night via the shops to pick up supplies so I could bake along with whatever the theme of the week was.)

In truth, I never thought I stood a chance of getting on the show, but, to my surprise, I kept getting through the various audition stages. When they called me and told me I was going to be one of the 12 bakers, I couldn’t believe it. But it wasn’t long before my excitement turned to concern. What will people say about a fat bird baking on telly? Am I cut out to handle it?

When the filming had wrapped, there was a short wait until the show was live, and, on the day the bakers of 2020 were publicly announced, a lot of the tabloids ran stories on us. I remember someone sending me a link to an article run by my local newspaper. The theme of the article was your standard “Local girl does good”, so, full of optimism, I decided to look at the comments. The first one read: “Looks like someone’s been eating all the practice bakes …” And the second one read: “And everyone else’s”. Oof! That hit me hard. This was just the announcement, and I was already getting abuse. I wish I could say they were the only nasty comments I received, but sadly it was the start of many.

Because I’d learnt how to develop a thick skin from a young age (as I mentioned earlier – you have to when you grow up different), most of the vitriol I got was water off a duck’s back – partly because I was used to receiving abuse, and partly because of the hundreds, eventually thousands, of messages of support from other women who finally saw themselves represented on TV and felt a connection to me and my story.

In the years leading to that point, I had felt completely alone with my body-image struggles – a “fat freak” who had no self-discipline and would never be able to make peace with her body. But how wrong I had been all that time about being alone in the way I was feeling.

From the very first episode, I started to hear from women all over the world who had struggled, or were still struggling, with their weight and self-worth. And it made me realise that we all have body issues and hang-ups, no matter our size. You can be a size 6 or 36 and still grapple with thoughts of not liking your stomach, your legs, your cellulite, your scar, your big nose or your acne-prone skin.

This realisation led me down a rabbit hole of research into diet culture, beauty standards, the body positivity movement, obesity studies and everything body-image related. In 2022, I started a podcast about body confidence called Go Love Yourself, and I started to curate my social media feed more mindfully (see Chapter 8 for more on this). I also started wearing colour instead of black, and saying yes to new experiences instead of always turning them down. And I realised, after years of feeling like a failure, that it wasn’t my fault that the diets hadn’t worked, and, most importantly, that my weight wasn’t equal to my worth.

I finally learned that no matter my size, I was worthy of love and respect, just like everyone else.

While the feeling of wanting Laura version 2.0 still pops up every now and again, I can honestly say that, as I’m writing this, I’m the heaviest I’ve ever been and I’m also the happiest.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t still want to be smaller at times – because I know my life would be easier if I was – but I’ve come to accept myself for who I am now, instead of constantly wanting to change. And that’s why I think this book is so important.

WHATEVER YOUR STORY, YOU’RE NOT ALONE

I want to show you how wrong it is that we, as women, have been made to feel like we “should” look a certain way and therefore always be on a diet, and prove to you that it is possible to have a healthier relationship with food and exercise – as well as a better body image – without dieting.

I want to make you see that your body has never been the problem.

The way I see it, you have two options:

You can yo-yo diet for the rest of your life, with the potential to be miserable and feel like your body – and life – are temporary.

Or you can accept who you are, make peace with food and live the fullest, happiest life you can – now.

And no, that doesn’t mean I’m advocating for us all to eat 40 donuts a day and sit on the sofa the whole time. But I am advocating for us to shift the focus to health instead of weight, to stop being slaves to diets and to stop worrying about every roll, every stretch mark and every wrinkle.

Your story might be completely different to mine – it may be that you’ve gained weight in later life, are struggling to come to terms with your body after having a child (or multiple children), or that you have a disability. You might be smaller than me or bigger than me. Whatever your story, my hope is that some of the experience that I’ve gained over the years, and that I share within this book, will resonate with you and make you feel less alone.

I want you to know that it really is possible to make peace with what you see in the mirror, just as you are. It is not your life’s purpose to lose weight. And you were not put on this Earth to look like a Victoria’s Secret model. No one is going to stand up at your funeral and say, “She had a great thigh gap and wore size 8 jeans.” It’s time to educate ourselves, take back the power, reclaim our bodies and live life to the full.

SELF-EMPOWERMENT TASK

As I mentioned earlier, throughout this book there will be tasks for you to complete in each chapter. So, grab a notebook or a journal, and let’s get you going on your journey of making peace with your body – for good.

To start, take a little time out for yourself and write a letter to your body. You might want to apologise to her for all those times you didn’t honour her, to thank her for everything she’s done for you and to let her know that you’re now ready to be kinder to her. Open your heart and write down what you’ve always thought, but never said.

On the next page is a letter I wrote mine, to give you an example. Writing it was extremely cathartic.

Dear body,

It feels strange writing a letter to you. I’ve spent so much of my life hating you, judging you, feeling betrayed by you and trying to make you something you were never meant to be.

So, I want to start by saying … I’m sorry.

I’m sorry for all the times I neglected you, abused you, ignored you. For all the times I’ve felt ashamed of you, compared you to others and wished you were different. And for all the times I’ve looked at you with disgust and frustration, measuring your value in only pounds and inches.

I’m sorry for all the names I called you. And for all the prodding and poking and sucking in.

In my attempt to gain control over you, I’ve subjected you to everything from strict diets and starvation, to punishing workouts and thoughts you’d be better off dead.

For the longest time I resented you. I wanted to take scissors to parts of you and cut them off, because you made me feel like a prisoner in my own skin.

I’ve resented you for not looking like the people I saw on the magazine covers and, most importantly, for not enabling me to be the one thing I always wanted to be: a mother.

If I’m being honest, I think I will always resent you for that.

But, I also want to acknowledge all that you have done for me and say thank you for carrying me through each day, each challenge and each triumph.

Thank you for protecting me, and for giving me the freedom to move through, and experience, this world.

I’m ready to listen to you now.

Yours,

Laura