Being overweight already makes me a target, but being overweight and on benefits? People think they’ve got me all figured out.
I live in a small flat with my daughter, Lyra. She’s seven and full of questions I don’t always have the answers to. Like why we don’t have apples in the fridge, or why we never order pizza like her friends’ families do.
The truth is, I don’t want to feed her instant noodles or discount frozen nuggets every day. But fresh fruit? Lean meat? Even those little tubs of Greek yogurt? Way out of budget. I’ve done the math more times than I care to admit. I can feed us for a week on £20—if I stick to the processed stuff and whatever’s on yellow sticker clearance.
Last month at the shop, some woman looked in my trolley, saw my size, and made this loud “tsk” sound. Didn’t say a word—just judged me right there like I was invisible. Lyra noticed. Asked me later if we’re bad for eating crisps.
I applied for every job I could manage, even cleaning shifts at night while Lyra sleeps. Nothing. I’ve had to choose between topping up the gas meter or getting a packet of chicken breasts. You know which one wins when it’s freezing and your kid’s coughing.
Then the school sent a note home. Said Lyra’s lunchbox needed “nutritional balance.” As if I didn’t already know. I cried in the bathroom with the tap running so she wouldn’t hear.
But last week, I found something in the community center that might help. Something I didn’t expect. And now I’m wondering if it could change everything for us—or just make things worse.
I was at the community center to pick up a secondhand coat from the donation rack for Lyra. She’s outgrowing her old one, and there was this lovely red jacket that looked like it might still have a season or two of wear left in it. While I was there, I saw a poster: “Community Cooking Workshop—Learn to Cook Balanced Meals on a Budget.” It mentioned something about a local program that partners with nearby farms and grocery stores to provide discounted produce. The workshops were free, childcare was included, and you even got a box of fresh ingredients at the end.
I stared at that poster for a good minute, debating. I felt a swirl of emotions—excitement, worry, maybe a flicker of hope. But a darker thought crept in: Would the people there judge me like everyone else seems to? Would they look at me and assume I’m lazy or clueless about nutrition?
I almost walked away. But then I felt Lyra tug on my sleeve, pointing at the coat I’d just picked up. “We can try that cooking thing, Mum,” she said quietly. “I like learning new stuff.” My girl is always seeing the possibilities I overlook. Her curiosity outweighs any fear, and it reminded me that I needed to be brave for both of us.
So I wrote down the time of the next session—Wednesday at 6 p.m. That night, after Lyra was asleep, I rummaged through the kitchen cupboards. I have tins of beans, some pasta, a half-finished jar of sauce, and a couple of stale crackers. It was depressing to look at, but I also thought maybe this class could teach me better ways to stretch what I’ve got.
Wednesday came quicker than I expected. I helped Lyra with her homework right after school and then we hurried over to the community center. There were about ten people there, ranging from college students to pensioners. I instantly felt self-conscious, but I reminded myself that everyone was there for the same reason—to learn. A tall woman with a friendly smile introduced herself as Colette, the instructor. She welcomed me warmly, gave Lyra a high-five, and then ushered us into the kitchen area.
Over the next hour and a half, Colette taught us how to make a simple vegetable soup with fresh carrots, potatoes, onions, and a few spices. Then we learned how to bake healthy fish cakes using canned fish mixed with breadcrumbs and chopped veggies. She didn’t make any comments about weight or budgets—she just focused on the recipes, the smells, the flavors. It felt good to be in a space where nobody cared about my background or my body. We were just cooking and learning together.
They even had a kids’ corner, where Lyra and a few other children decorated little paper chef hats and giggled with the volunteers. When the session ended, Colette handed each of us a box of produce—enough carrots, onions, and potatoes to recreate the soup at home, plus a few extra goodies. She told us there’d be more next time. I thanked her probably a dozen times.
Walking home, I felt lighter than I had in a while. Lyra clutched her little box of carrots like they were precious jewels. “We can make soup tomorrow, right, Mum?” she said, skipping along. “Maybe even put it in my lunchbox for school!” The note from the school about her lunches still stung, but now I saw a way forward.
The next morning, I woke up early and tried the soup recipe again. It smelled wonderful—like comfort and possibility in a pot. I filled a small thermos for Lyra’s lunch. Tucked in some wholemeal bread from the reduced rack I’d found the night before. It wasn’t a grand feast, but it was homemade and full of veggies.
I went to pick Lyra up from school that afternoon, half-expecting another note or some disapproving looks. Instead, her teacher, Ms. Francis, smiled at me. “Lyra told me you two cooked together. The soup looked delicious. She was proud to show everyone.” I felt tears prick my eyes. It was such a small thing, but it made my heart swell to know Lyra could feel proud of her lunch.
Buoyed by that feeling, I decided to keep attending the cooking workshop every week. Colette taught us how to make a vegetable stir-fry with brown rice (which is cheaper than you’d think if you buy in bulk), hearty lentil casseroles, and ways to flavor plain yogurt with honey and fruit instead of buying sugary snack pots. She showed us how to maximize those yellow-sticker deals, how to dice and freeze vegetables before they went off, and how to turn leftover bits into decent meals. There were no miracles—my budget was still tight, and I still had to juggle the gas meter and the grocery list—but it felt more doable.
During one session, another attendee named Marisol mentioned she knew a corner shop owner who sometimes offered day-old bread for free. She introduced me to him—a gentle older man named Hassan. He greeted me kindly, saying he hated throwing away loaves just because they’d passed the “sell-by” mark when they were still perfectly good. He even threw in a bag of bruised apples that hadn’t sold. “Just cut off the brown parts,” he said with a wink. “Makes a nice apple crumble.”
That night, I made an apple crumble. It was probably the first dessert Lyra and I had baked together. It wasn’t fancy, but it smelled divine. We both laughed over how messy our kitchen got with flour all over the counter. And for the first time in a long while, I felt like maybe, just maybe, we could turn a corner.
But life doesn’t suddenly turn perfect. A week later, I was back at the supermarket, loading up on the usual discount groceries. That same woman who’d tutted at me before spotted me again. This time, my trolley had a bag of apples, carrots, brown rice, and even a small pack of chicken thighs. She still gave me a long once-over and muttered, “Trying to look healthy now, are we?”—like it was some kind of performance.
I felt my chest tighten, and I was about to let her comment pass. But then I remembered Lyra, and how she’d once asked if we were “bad” for eating crisps, how I’d been too ashamed to say anything to that woman last time. I looked her in the eye and said, “I’m just doing the best I can for my daughter. Same as anyone.” Then I turned around and went on my way.
I don’t know if that changed her mind, but it changed something in me. I realized I couldn’t keep letting strangers’ opinions define my worth. Yes, I’m on benefits. Yes, I’m overweight. And yes, I buy cheap groceries. But none of those things make me less of a person—or a less loving parent—than anyone else.
The following week, Colette announced that the community center was looking for a part-time assistant for the cooking workshops—someone to help set up, tidy afterwards, and support new attendees. She asked if any of us were interested. I hesitated. I needed work, badly, but I was afraid I wasn’t qualified. Colette saw my uncertainty and pulled me aside. “You’ve been here every week, helping others figure out the recipes, encouraging them to try new things,” she said. “I think you’d be perfect.”
Despite my reservations, I applied. Two weeks later, I got the position. It was only a few hours a week, but it came with a small stipend and gave me something I hadn’t felt in a while—pride. I had the chance to directly help people who felt judged the same way I did, all while learning more about cooking on a budget.
It wasn’t a magic wand. I still had bills piling up, and there were nights I worried if I’d have enough to cover everything. But now, instead of feeling paralyzed by shame, I had a bit more strength to keep trying. Little by little, I saved money on my grocery bill by using the tips I’d learned—swapping expensive meat for lentils or beans some nights, turning leftover veggies into soups, freezing meals in batches for busier days.
I also started seeing changes in Lyra. She’d ask to help in the kitchen instead of just watching TV. She’d beam whenever we made a recipe from the workshop, proud to carry a lunchbox with something homemade and healthy. When her teacher gave a little nod of approval at pickup, that meant the world to both of us.
One day after class, Colette caught me wiping down tables and said, “You’ve got a gift for this. Have you ever considered more training or certification in nutrition?” I nearly laughed at the absurdity of it. Me? On benefits? Overweight? “I’m serious,” she said. “You’re relatable. You know the real struggles people face when money is tight. That perspective is valuable.” That was the first time it occurred to me that my struggles could become something positive—something that could help others.
A month later, I decided to see if local charities offered any short courses. Turns out, there was a bursary for a basic nutrition course right there at the community center if I volunteered enough hours. I signed up. Why not? I had nothing to lose. Every time I wondered if I was aiming too high, I thought of Lyra’s face when she tried our first apple crumble. I thought of the moment I stood up to that judgmental woman in the supermarket. And I reminded myself that I deserved a chance to grow, too.
Some people still stare at my trolley. Some will never understand why someone in my situation doesn’t just magically “eat better” without factoring in the cost. But I’ve learned that there’s more to my life than those glances. My daughter is healthy and happy. We cook together. We laugh over our mistakes. I’m teaching her that no matter what life throws at us, we can adapt. We can learn new skills. We can find community and acceptance in unexpected places.
I’ll never forget what it was like before I discovered that workshop. The hopelessness I felt, like we were stuck in a cycle of cheap, processed meals and disapproving stares. Now, I have a part-time role that gives me a little extra income, a growing skill set in budget cooking, and a renewed sense of self-worth. Most importantly, Lyra has a mother who is no longer too defeated to try.
Life can still be tough, but every day, I feel like I have one more reason to believe in tomorrow. My message to anyone else in my shoes is this: Don’t give up on yourself. Resources do exist, and good people want to help. Sometimes it just takes a bit of courage to walk into that community center—or wherever your help might be waiting—and say, “I need this.”
If you’ve ever felt judged or stuck, remember that you are more than your circumstances. You are more than the sum of your grocery receipts or the size of your body. We’re all just trying to do right by ourselves and the people we love. And that’s all that really matters.
Thank you for reading our story. If it spoke to your heart or reminded you of someone who might need a little encouragement, please share it. And if you believe more people need to hear about small victories like ours, give this post a like. Your support might just help someone else find hope where they least expect it.
