Hi, I’m Annmarie Miles, and welcome to another chapter of my journey through words, wobbles, and wisdom. Today, I want to share a deeply personal story about my first foray into the world of slimming clubs. While I know slimming clubs have been a lifeline for many, my own experience was far from positive. It’s a story that’s stayed with me for decades, shaping how I view food, shame, and self-worth.
I was about 12 years old when I first walked into a slimming club. Actually, “walked” might be too generous—it felt more like I was dragged there. My mother, concerned about my weight, signed me up, hoping it would help. My older sisters were supportive too, but I didn’t want to be there. I’d already started feeling the weight of expectations (pardon the pun), but nothing could prepare me for the shame I’d encounter that night.
It was a cold winter evening. As I entered the hall, I noticed everyone peeling off their layers—coats, shoes, even thick sweaters. Most were dressed in lightweight leggings and T-shirts, trying to shed every possible ounce before stepping onto the scales. As I joined the queue, I watched women climb onto the scale, scrunching their eyes in anticipation. Was this some kind of prayer meeting? I couldn’t figure it out.
When my turn came, Jackie, the leader, looked me over and suggested I remove my coat and shoes. Shivering, I complied, feeling exposed and out of place. Jackie jotted something on a card, handed it to me, and I shuffled away. The card said “12/4”—that’s 12 stone 4 pounds (or 78 kilos in today’s terms). I didn’t fully understand what it meant, but I quickly learned that numbers ruled this room. High numbers brought shame; low numbers brought praise. The message was clear: the scale dictated your worth.
As the meeting went on, Jackie called on women who had “a good week” to share their secrets. They spoke of deprivation, self-control, and avoiding life’s pleasures. One woman—let’s call her Sandra—regretted attending a cousin’s wedding because she gained three pounds. Sandra’s sorrow etched itself into my memory. I left that meeting determined never to return.
That night, I had my first real encounter with food shame. I argued with my mother, stormed upstairs, and smuggled a snack to bed. For the first time, I felt the sting of eating in secret, a habit that stayed with me for years. Looking back, I realize that this marked the beginning of my battle with food, a fight that continues to this day.
Over the years, I’ve learned that weight loss isn’t just about food and exercise. The real battle lies in the mind. Negative self-talk, guilt, and isolation fed my unhealthy relationship with food. But now, I’ve found tools to help me, like my simple 5-4-3-2-1 method. When I’m tempted to eat mindlessly, I count down to let my rational self catch up with my impulsive thoughts. It doesn’t always work, but it’s a step toward mindfulness.
If you’ve ever felt alone in your struggle with food, let me assure you: you’re not. I’ve buttered bread on both sides, eaten three days’ worth of food in one, and even raided my nieces’ and nephews’ sweet jars (sorry, kids). But through it all, I’ve learned that we can’t fight this battle alone. Shame isolates us, but vulnerability connects us.
To anyone reading this: take a breath, step outside, and let the sun touch your face. We’re in this together, and together, we can take small steps toward healing. If you have your own story to share, I’d love to hear it. Let’s keep the conversation going. You are not alone—and because of you, neither am I.
