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.
