Stolen Spotlight

They all look at me now. 
At the gym. In the hallway. Even when I’m just walking my dog in leggings. 
They look like they want me—and sometimes, I wish they wouldn’t. 

Because no one used to look at me. 
Not when I was 180 pounds, sweating through gym class and pretending I was “just big-boned.” 
Not when I wore my hoodie in July to hide the rolls that medicine gave me. 

Now they look. And I feel like I don’t belong to myself anymore. 

But the worst part? 
My best friend doesn’t see my pain. 
She only sees a girl she thinks took everything. 

Before 

I had PCOS. Diagnosed at 14. Gained 50 pounds in less than a year. I was the “funny” girl. The “mom” of the group. Boys didn’t flirt with me—they borrowed pencils from me to write notes to Jenna. 

I cried in dressing rooms. Never wore crop tops. Sat at pool parties fully clothed while everyone else cannonballed into confidence. 

Then one day, I snapped. 

I stopped apologizing for being “big.” 
I started asking why no one ever questioned the meds that ballooned me. 
I switched doctors. 
Got serious about my health. 
Started strength training. 
Learned about macros, protein, hydration. 

Two years later, I wasn’t skinny. 

I was strong. 

My waist cut in. My curves showed up. My skin cleared. My back straightened. 

And suddenly—everyone noticed. 

Especially boys. 

Now 

“Okay, don’t yell,” I said one afternoon at lunch, “but I got a brand deal.” 

Jenna was halfway through her fries. “For what?” 

I hesitated. “Swimwear. For Tide & Tangle.” 

Her mouth dropped open. “That’s, like, huge. They have Kendall-level influencers.” 

I nodded. 

And waited. 

But instead of excitement, she blinked and said, “So I guess you’re, like, a full Instagram model now.” 

It wasn’t the words. It was the tone. Dry. Distant. 

I forced a laugh. “It’s just a campaign. Not forever.” 

She picked at her fries. “Must be nice. You just exist and people offer you deals.” 

That was when I knew—something between us had cracked. 

For the next two weeks, she was off. 

Less texting. Fewer hangouts. No “hot girl walks” like we used to do. But I still tried to include her. 

“Want to help me shoot some content for the swimwear post?” I asked one Saturday. 

Jenna shrugged. “Sure. Guess I’m your assistant now.” 

We drove to the beach. I changed in the backseat, nerves crawling over my skin like ants. 

“I feel so exposed,” I muttered, tugging at the straps. 

Jenna scoffed. “Aliza, guys would crawl across glass just to see you in a hoodie. You’re fine.” 

I looked at her. “You think this is easy for me? I used to hate mirrors. I still flinch when someone touches my waist.” 

She rolled her eyes. “Oh please. You’re hot now. Own it.” 

That stung. 

I turned to face her. “Do you know what it’s like to walk down the street and feel like everyone wants a piece of you? Not who you are—just your body?” 

She crossed her arms. “Must be exhausting. Meanwhile, I’ve literally never had a boy look at me for more than 3 seconds unless you’re not there.” 

I froze. 

“You think I stole attention from you?” 

“You didn’t steal it,” she said. “It was never mine. But now it’s all yours. Every party, every hallway, every time I talk to a guy—they end up asking if you’re single.” 

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. 

“So because I worked for a body people finally respect, I’m suddenly the villain?” 

“You didn’t work for it,” she snapped. “You had a glow-up. You got lucky. The rest of us are still stuck being invisible.” 

Silence. 

Tide & Tangle’s bikini clung to me like shame. 

I grabbed my stuff. “I didn’t do this to hurt you.” 

“I didn’t say you did,” Jenna said quietly. “But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.” 

Same night 

Jenna didn’t see the nights I skipped sleep to meal prep. 

The hours I spent crying over scale numbers that refused to move. 
The fear of going to the gym and having guys leer—or worse, laugh. 

She didn’t see the teachers who called me “brave” for wearing shorts. 
Or the TikToks I had to delete because of hate comments like: 

“No one wants to see that.” 
“She’s doing too much.” 
“Try Ozempic, lmao.” 

She didn’t see me. 

She still doesn’t. 

A week after the beach fight, she texted me: 

“Talk?” 

We met at our usual boba place. No makeup. Hoodies. No Instagram filters—just us. 

“I thought about what you said,” Jenna began. “And… I’m sorry.” 

I blinked. 

“I wasn’t fair. I was jealous. And I didn’t want to admit that to myself. But I was. And it sucked to feel like I was losing you to a version of you I didn’t know how to support.” 

I exhaled. 

“I missed you,” I whispered. “Even when you were right next to me.” 

She nodded. “I missed us. I just… I didn’t know how to be around you when every guy suddenly forgot I existed.” 

I winced. “You don’t deserve to feel that way.” 

“And neither do you,” she added. “You shouldn’t feel unsafe in your own skin.” 

I smiled. “We’ve both been trained to see our worth through boys’ eyes.” 

She reached for my hand. “Let’s start looking through each other’s.” 

We didn’t magically fix everything. 

There are still days Jenna feels invisible. Still days I feel overexposed. 

But we’re learning. 

We talk more. Share insecurities out loud. Celebrate each other without comparing. 

I signed with Tide & Tangle—but I also told them I’d only promote inclusive sizing and non-retouched content. They said yes. 

Jenna started a blog. It’s called The Girl Next to Her. She writes about what it’s like being “the friend,” and how she’s reclaiming her own space. 

And me? 

I still go to the gym. Still meal prep. Still get looked at. 

But now, when they stare, I remember: 

I’m not for them. 

I’m for me. 

And maybe that’s what beauty really is— 
Not being seen… 
But seeing yourself, clearly, for the first time. 

Comment Question: 

Have you ever felt judged, for your looks, your glow-up, or even your confidence? What would you say to someone who made you feel guilty for changing?