“I don’t even see myself”: 3 Nigerian women open up about the struggles of living with body dysmorphia

This is what it’s like when your body never feels like home.

There are days you wake up and the mirror is your enemy. You squint, twist, turn — hoping for a version of yourself that feels right. Then comes the fixation; you pick and prod and stare, finding faults that aren’t there. That’s the tough reality of living with body dysmorphia.

It isn’t just an insecurity; it’s a continuous mental loop. You think losing weight will help, but when you do, you still hate what you see in the mirror. You think gaining weight might balance things out, but then you’re terrified you’ll spiral again. 

And in Nigeria, it’s worse — because people always have something to say and not enough filters. Unsolicited, unhelpful comments, jabs to your already struggling self-image: “Don’t get fatter than this o.” “You’re not even that big, why are you complaining?” 

We spoke to three Nigerian women navigating the complicated, exhausting reality of body dysmorphia. Their stories remind us that so many of us are quietly carrying this and just trying to make peace with our own reflection.

Mofijesusewa: “Big, or small — it never feels like enough”

Body dysmorphia is so weird and difficult to navigate. For as long as I can remember, I’ve always been “big for my age.” Not fat — just bigger than my mates. At 15, I had curves, and what my classmates in junior secondary school lovingly (and sometimes annoyingly) called Idi Araba, which literally means “the base of the Araba tree.” That nickname used to sting back then, but looking back, I kind of understand the admiration behind it. My body stood out.

For a brief moment, I loved my body until it changed. As I got older, especially around 18, I started to gain weight, and that’s when body dysmorphia set in.

The conversations were always the same at family events: “You’ve added [weight] oh.” “Try and lose weight so you can meet someone responsible.” And the thing is, you don’t even have time to process the words. They just slide into your subconscious and start building a home there. Slowly, I started hating my body.

But here’s the wild part: losing weight didn’t help. Every time I  lost weight, I still hated my body. I hated how I felt in a skinnier version of my body. The confidence I thought I’d unlock never came. So now I live in this weird limbo — if I gain too much weight, I hate how I look. If I lose too much weight, I hate how I feel. Where’s the win?

Over time, I realised there’s a sweet spot for me — around 75kg. That’s the size where I kinda like my body best. But even that is exhausting. How do you stay exactly 75kg every single day for the rest of your life? No fluctuation, or change; you just stay that way. It’s practically impossible, as a woman with constantly changing cycles. 

I don’t think we talk enough about the emotional whiplash of fluctuating weight — the way your body changes and your self-worth tries to catch up but never really does. And in Nigeria, the unsolicited commentary doesn’t stop. People are always offering their opinions and “encouraging” you about how you need to lose weight: “You’re getting bigger, oh!” “Don’t lose too much weight, oh!” They will always give their unsolicited opinions, and you just have to deal with it.

Dalpha: “I act like my chest doesn’t exist”

I went to an all-girls secondary school in Ekiti, and I’ll never forget one evening during prep, when someone pointed it out: my flat chest. I could’ve melted into the floor.

From then on, it became a thing. The clothes I avoided, the bras I refused to wear, the way I crossed my arms in pictures — it was all about hiding that one part of me. I didn’t feel like a full girl. I wondered what sex would be like, if a partner would notice or be disappointed. I constantly compared my friends’ bodies to mine. Random girls on the street, too. It took a toll on my self-esteem.

My acceptance journey began when I saw the consequences of using breast enhancements on a peer and decided I’d better start liking myself, since I’ll never be bold enough to use them. I have tried affirmations — some days, they help, other times they don’t. Avoidance has also become my tool of survival. I act like my chest isn’t part of me and focus on the parts I do like — my legs. 

I need people to understand how negative comments about people’s bodies can send them back to square one in their healing journey with body dysmorphia. All it takes is one offhand comment to send someone spiralling again. 

Read also: The first time I felt pretty

Ololade: “I don’t know if I’m big or not, but I always feel like I am”

I can’t remember a time I didn’t think about my body. My earliest memory of myself is weight-related. I was a skinny child until around age 10 when I suddenly gained weight. I gained so much weight that I developed stretch marks on my arms, knees, and stomach practically overnight. I’ve had them ever since.

But the weird part? I’ve never actually been “fat” in the way society defines it. I’ve just always existed in this awkward middle space. I was never thin enough to be left alone and never big enough for people to think my body image issues were valid. So, I got comments from both ends. People would side-eye me whether I was eating or lying around, making comments  like: ‘Don’t get fatter than this o,’ but when I dared to say I felt fat, they’d quickly shut me down: “You’re not even big, stop it.”

During my early teen years, I remember going into stores and retail workers would assume I wore a large size, only to be surprised when a smaller size turned out to be my actual fit. That disconnect — the way I looked versus how I was treated — made me question everything about my body. I’d look in the mirror and see a swollen face, but smaller thighs. I’d obsess over my tummy pouch in my school uniform. 

Last year, I lost the most weight I have ever lost — 18kg. It was more of a psychological journey than just the physical weight loss — and I believe that’s what made it truly successful. I wasn’t really looking in the mirror or going out, so I didn’t notice that I was losing weight. So, for the longest time, I believed nothing was changing, which made me anxious.  I kept measuring myself with a tape, but nothing was happening. 

Then, around my birthday, I went out with my friends, and they pointed out how much weight I had lost. That’s when it finally hit me —  I had lost weight. Another time, I wore a dress I hadn’t worn in a while to film a video; I noticed the weight loss after comparing it to an older video, and I instantly ran to my mum in tears.  For the first time, I could see it. 

However, the anxiety took on a new shape. Now, even though I’ve lost weight, I look back at old pictures, and I feel bigger. It’s like someone hacked my phone and inflated my old photos and videos. I used to love them, but now I delete them obsessively. It’s like a glitch in my brain that cannot be reset.

I am constantly plagued by these thoughts and anxiety about gaining weight, even though I am still doing everything right. Almost every other day, I look into the mirror and doubt what I see because what if I think I am still losing weight, but I am actually getting fatter? After all, I didn’t realise it when I was losing weight. I constantly feel anxious about what I am eating, or not eating. I really don’t know when it will end. I’ve never shared this before. But this is what it’s like living with body dysmorphia.

For anyone who’s struggling, you’re not alone

Body dysmorphia is not a phase or a passing insecurity. It’s a deeply personal war that’s hard to explain unless you’ve lived it. It’s the mental tug-of-war that tells you you’re too much, and then not enough. It’s losing weight, but never losing the hate. It’s gaining weight but still starving for kindness — from yourself and others.

In Nigeria, where everyone feels entitled to an opinion about your body, it’s even harder to heal. People mean well, but they talk too much. And those “harmless” comments sit in your chest for years. Sometimes for life.

If any part of these stories feel familiar, know that you are not alone. Your feelings are valid. Your confusion is real. Your body is not the problem — this culture, these pressures, and this internalised standard of perfection are.

Healing looks different for everyone. For some, it’s therapy. For others, it’s community. For many of us, it starts with simply saying: “This is what I’m going through.” And then hearing someone say, “Me too.”

You deserve peace in your own skin. And if no one else tells you this today, let me be the one: you are more than enough just as you are.