I'm a nurse—long shifts, skipped lunches, eating too fast between patients. One afternoon, I grabbed Chipotle during my break. Ten minutes to eat before running back upstairs. "It's just rice and veggies... it's clean."
Thirty minutes later, helping a patient, I felt that familiar pressure—my stomach swelling like someone pumped air into me. That painful bloat women describe as "looking 6 months pregnant after a meal."
My scrubs dug into me. I couldn't breathe right. I kept adjusting my waistband.
Then, walking out of a patient's room, a visitor smiled:
"Aww, congrats… when are you due?"
I froze.
"Oh—no, I'm not pregnant… just bloated."
The look she gave me—pity, embarrassment—burned into my chest.
I held it together until I reached the supply closet… and cried.
Because it wasn't just that moment. It was every moment:
The jeans I couldn't wear anymore. The baggy sweaters I hid under. Convincing myself I was "fat" when it was bloating. The skipped dinners, canceled plans, pain and shame no one understood.
