She had spent years chasing a fantasy that sounded powerful but felt like slow-motion suffocation. Monica believed becoming the heaviest woman alive would finally quiet the loneliness that had followed her since childhood. Instead, each added pound stole something small but vital: the ability to stand, to shower alone, to walk outside without help. Strangers online cheered her on, but they didn’t hear her gasping after a trip to the bathroom or see Sid’s exhaustion as he carried the weight of both their lives.

Pregnancy shattered the illusion. The idea of a tiny heartbeat relying on a body she was actively pushing toward collapse was a line she couldn’t cross. For the first time, the future wasn’t a fantasy headline; it was her children growing up beside an empty chair. Letting go of her old dream wasn’t instant or easy, but it was deliberate. She chose breath over spectacle, motherhood over martyrdom, and a messy, imperfect life over a record that would have cost her everything.