I want to recognize the person in the mirror again.
I went to the bathroom at 8:15 PM. I came out at 9:30. And I wasn't even sick. That’s how long I hid in that single-stall restroom at my boss's retirement dinner. My dress, a beautiful navy blue I’d bought for the occasion, felt like a corset. Not when I put it on at 6 PM, but by 8 PM. By 8:15, I couldn't breathe. The bloating had hit so fast, so hard, it felt like a bomb had gone off in my stomach. I looked six months pregnant. I wasn't. I just had PCOS. That's the thing nobody tells you about PCOS. They talk about the weight gain, the irregular cycles, the chin hairs. They don't talk about the bloat. The random, violent, painful bloat that makes you look and feel like you're swelling from the inside out. It's a life of constant anxiety. You can eat a perfectly "clean" breakfast—eggs and avocado—and be fine. Then you have a salad with grilled chicken for lunch and by 3 PM, you're unbuttoning your pants under your desk. It makes no sense. There's no rhyme or reason. It's a Russian roulette with food, and you never know when you're going to get the bullet. I had tried everything. I was militant. No gluten. No dairy. No sugar. No fun. I took my myo-inositol and my berberine. I tracked my macros like a scientist. I drank apple cider vinegar. I drank peppermint tea. I did everything the doctors, the blogs, and the Facebook groups told me to do. And still, the bloat bombs would drop. Out of nowhere. I’d be at my desk, feeling fine, and then I’d feel it. That first twinge of pressure. That subtle tightening of the skin around my middle. And the dread would wash over me. Oh no. It's happening. The breaking point was that dinner. It was supposed to be a celebration. I felt pretty when I left the house. I felt confident. By the time the appetizers came, I was already feeling it. By the main course, I was in physical pain. The waistband of my dress was cutting into me. I couldn't sit up straight. All I could think about was how everyone must be staring at my belly, won
