The last time I lost a lot of weight, I admit I was cocky about it. I was proud of having lost 140 pounds. I was definitely proud of my new athletic abilities; I even managed to squat my starting weight of 338 pounds — as a woman in her 40’s. I also walked for at least an hour a day and had started in on jogging, something I’d never done without a PE teacher demanding I do it.

All of those accomplishments were good ones; it was my own mental attitude that was my eventual downfall. I over-exercised and hurt myself. I just had to be absolutely right about my dietary needs and became inflexible. I put myself out there as a success. I was thrilled to be able to sneak up on people I hadn’t seen in a couple years and totally surprise them with my new-to-me body. I was happy to talk to people as an authority on weight loss. I had beat the odds, after all, and wanted everyone to know it.

I lost friends over it — mostly friends who were obese. And the truth was that even after all I had accomplished, I was still obese, but in my mind, I’d become Super Woman. My attitude changed and I ended up pushing friends away; friends I’ve never gotten back and have no idea where they are, now. I regret that because while I might not have just said anything overt about weight, those people obviously felt as if they no longer had a connection to me.

The social stigma of obesity isn’t just a matter of how the obese are treated by society. It’s also in how we treat ourselves and how we let it steer our relationships with others. Just like a teenager who goes overboard because she’s made it onto the cheer-leading squad and driven away the friends who can’t bear to listen to her go on and on about her new status, I likely drove away the friends who once found common ground with me because I was obese, like them. Mind you, I remained obese, despite my then-lowest weight; my physical changes didn’t drive a wedge. My mental ones did. And for that, I’m sorry.

I did a lot of things wrong, back then, including believing that I had found the answer and that I had become infallible, somehow. I felt like I was sharing my own gospel and talking about everything I’d done right while pushing aside what I’d done wrong. When I regained all the weight lost, plus more weight on top of it, I was mentally humiliated. I felt as if I deserved any scorn others might have had for me. Quite obviously, I didn’t have all the answers. I wasn’t bulletproof. And I really needed to stop talking and making others uncomfortable with my chatter.

These days, I’ve surpassed all of those markers I set back then. I’m still obese, but not far from crossing that BMI-driven line into merely overweight. I am much more thankful for the lessons I’ve learned. I still don’t have all the answers, and I know it. I don’t silently judge my friends regarding their weights or their eating and exercise habits; if anything, I want to be supportive, because I certainly know the battles we all face. I refuse to invite karma by being boastful about what I’ve accomplished. My hope is that people who are newer friends have no idea of my previous life; not because I’m embarrassed by it, but because I strive to live in a way that keeps me true to my chosen path.

This is the biggest reason why I choose not to be defined by my weight loss efforts, and why I rarely discuss them with anyone, unless they specifically ask. If I define myself as a successful weight loss survivor (of sorts; after all, I’m not done, yet!), I put myself at risk of resting on my laurels and rejecting the flexibility and quest for knowledge that I need to complete this phase of my journey and to move into the next one. I want that more than just about anything; anyone who has dealt with morbid obesity and its consequences likely knows the deep-seated desires I once had to no longer be a captive to my body.

Instead, I hope that my friends who are on their own journeys know that I’m an ally, whatever paths they choose. I know the yearning for something better while feeling absolutely powerless to achieve it. I know what it feels like to be judged by my size instead of my mind. And until my mind is no longer obese, I have to view my successes as temporary and always at risk.

I think, like my body, my mind is nearly at that tipping point where I am ready and can accept myself in this body. I am no hero; I only hope to be able to live the rest of my life comfortable in my own skin.