I Got Pregnant To Add Weight

My name is Rose Raymond, and for as long as I can remember, my body has been the subject of whispers, jokes, and cruel laughter. I was thin so thin that people felt entitled to comment on it as if it were a public noticeboard. “Broomstick,” they called me. “You should borrow flesh,” others laughed. At first, I pretended it didn’t hurt. But words have a way of sinking into the skin and settling in the bones.

I tried everything I could afford. Supplements. Food I could barely swallow. Home remedies passed down like folklore. Nothing changed. The mirror remained the same, and the bullying followed me everywhere at work, in church, even among friends who smiled while their words cut deep. I began to believe the lie that my worth was measured by the size of my body.

Then one afternoon, a friend pulled me aside. She lowered her voice, as if sharing a secret recipe. She said pregnancy adds weight hips, breasts, fullness. “Once you get the body you want,” she said, “you can remove it. Many people do it. You’ll be fine.”

At first, the idea terrified me. But fear is easily silenced when pain becomes louder. I went home and thought about every insult I had endured. I imagined walking into a room without people staring. I imagined wearing clothes that didn’t hang on me like apologies. Slowly, the wrong idea began to feel like a solution.

I got pregnant not out of love, not out of readiness, but out of desperation. I told myself it was temporary, a means to an end. As the weeks passed, my body changed. My cheeks filled out. My hips rounded. People who once mocked me now complimented me. “You look healthy,” they said. Each compliment felt like proof that I had finally done something right.

But beneath the surface, fear grew. I hid the pregnancy from most people. I counted weeks, not heartbeats. When I felt the first flutter, I pushed the thought away. This wasn’t a baby, I told myself. This was a mistake I planned to erase.

When I felt I had gained “enough,” I went to terminate the pregnancy. I was ashamed and scared, but I trusted the same voices that had led me there. I didn’t seek proper medical care. I followed instructions whispered in secrecy, given by people who didn’t know my body or my future.

Something went wrong.

The pain was like nothing I had ever felt sharp, tearing, relentless. Blood, panic, and regret filled the room. I was rushed to the hospital, barely conscious, clinging to life. Doctors moved quickly, their faces tight with concern. When I woke up, I knew from the silence that something terrible had happened.

My womb was damaged.

The doctor explained it gently, but the words hit me like stones. Complications. Infection. Scarring. It might be impossible for me to carry a child in the future. I stared at the ceiling as tears slid into my ears. The weight I had gained suddenly felt heavy in the worst way like a burden I could never put down.

I thought of the child I never allowed myself to acknowledge. I thought of my friends’ advice and my own choice to listen. I thought of how badly I wanted acceptance, how far I went to escape ridicule. And I realized something painful and true: I had harmed myself trying to fix myself.

Recovery was slow physically and emotionally. People still commented on my body, though now with pity instead of mockery. But the deepest wounds were invisible. I grieved a future I had unknowingly destroyed. I grieved the trust I had placed in the wrong hands. Most of all, I grieved the girl who believed she needed to suffer to be enough.

Today, I tell my story not for sympathy, but as a warning. No body is worth risking your life for. No insult is powerful enough to justify destroying your health. Advice from friends, no matter how confident, is not a replacement for truth or medical care.

I am learning slowly to forgive myself. I am learning that thin does not mean broken, and that my value was never missing. If I could speak to the younger me, I would hold her face and say: You are already whole. Don’t let the world convince you otherwise.

This is my story. And if it saves one person from making the same mistake, then my pain will not be in vain.