Chapter 1 - Prequel: The Easy Way Out

At 18, I was 5’2” and 460 pounds, a freshman in college with big dreams and bigger problems. Tuition bills loomed, my part-time coffee shop job barely covered textbooks, and the idea of grinding through years of minimum-wage shifts felt suffocating.

I’d always been heavy, but over the past year, I’d leaned into it, discovering a corner of the internet where my size wasn’t just accepted—it was celebrated. SSBBW modeling was my ticket out. It was easy, it was lazy, and it paid. A few photos in lingerie, a video of me eating a massive meal, and the money rolled in—hundreds, then thousands. I thought I’d cracked the code to a carefree life.

It started innocently enough. I’d post on niche forums, my inbox flooding with fans who called me a “goddess” and paid for custom content. I didn’t have to leave my dorm, didn’t have to sweat through shifts or beg for scholarships. All I needed was a camera, a plate of food, and the confidence to keep going. The bigger I got, the more they paid.

At 460 pounds, I was already a star in this world, and the idea of gaining more to boost my brand felt like a no-brainer. Why work hard when I could eat, pose, and cash out? I’d already saved $20,000, enough to cover a year of college and then some. It felt like winning.

My parents didn’t know. They were back home, training for their first half-marathon, their own transformation a stark contrast to mine.

They’d been obese once—Mom over 250 pounds, Dad pushing 300—but they’d fought their way to 125 and 150 pounds, respectively, by their 50s. They were all about discipline, kale smoothies, and gym selfies, while I was sneaking midnight pizzas to fuel my next shoot. I told myself I was fine. I wasn’t like them; I didn’t need to shrink to be happy. I was building a career, my way.

Then I met Ethan at a local fan meet-up. He was 20, lanky, with a shy smile and a beat-up hoodie. He wasn’t like the other fans who leered or sent creepy messages. He was sweet, nervous, telling me how my confidence inspired him. “You’re unstoppable,” he said, his eyes bright. We started texting, then calling, then meeting up.

Ethan was broke, bouncing between odd jobs—delivery apps, warehouse gigs—his dreams of stability always just out of reach. He saw my modeling as a goldmine. “You’re sitting on a fortune,” he’d say, scrolling through my fan page stats. “Keep going, and we could both be set.”

I liked the “we.” Ethan made me feel seen, not just as a body but as a person. He’d bring me burgers, watch me film, cheer every new subscriber.

He wasn’t pushy, but his excitement was contagious. “The fans love you bigger,” he’d say, showing me posts begging for more weight gain content. I listened. It was easy to eat another slice, order another dessert, knowing each pound meant more money, more likes, more of Ethan’s pride. I didn’t notice how my mobility was slipping—how stairs left me winded, how I needed wider chairs, how my clothes stopped fitting. I ignored the aches in my knees, the way my breath caught after a short walk. I was 18, invincible, and the money kept coming.

My parents called sometimes, asking about school, hinting at their worry. “You’re eating okay, right?” Mom would say, her voice tight. I’d laugh it off, change the subject. They didn’t get it. They’d fought their weight like it was a war, but I was making peace with mine. I was up to $30,000 saved, dreaming of a car, a better apartment, maybe even dropping out of college to model full-time.

Ethan was all in, talking about “our” future, how my career could lift us both. I didn’t see the red flags—his empty wallet, his growing reliance on my income, my own body’s quiet warnings.

At 460 pounds, I thought I’d found the easy way to pay for my life. I was a star, a cash cow, a girl who’d outsmarted the grind. But late at night, when Ethan was asleep and the fan comments stopped, I’d feel a flicker of doubt. My reflection in the mirror was changing—my face rounder, my movements slower. I’d push it down, order another late-night snack, and tell myself I was in control.

This was my choice, my empire, my lazy shortcut to success. I didn’t know how heavy that choice would become.