Why it Feels so Hard to Let Go of the Scales - And Why it’s Not a Sign You’re Failing

Years ago, in a moment of fierce clarity, I smashed my scales. I had just finished a Podcast episode on reclaiming bodies, where they spoke of finding liberation through smashing scales. And boy, was I desperate for liberation.

So, I took a hammer, my scales, and went downstairs to the garden to smash them to smithereens. With every rise and fall of the hammer, righteous rage surged through me. As I looked around at the shards of plastic, I told myself I was done with that chapter forever.

A couple of weeks later, I found myself clicking ‘Complete Order’ on a new pair of scales. A more expensive pair I wouldn’t be tempted to destroy - the kind of scales that looked sleek and impressive, like they belonged to a more “put-together” version of me.

I haven’t actually stepped on that second pair of scales in over 5 years. But I also haven’t thrown them away.

I think about them from time to time, wondering if the resistance I feel to throw them away means I’m not as free as I think I am. But the more I sit with the part that wants to keep them stashed in the bathroom cupboard - just in case - the more I see this not as a failing, but as something simply human.

Because for this part of me, the scales were never just scales. They were advent calendars.

The Christmas of My Childhood

When I think about the way I used to use my scales, I’m taken back to childhood - to Christmas, specifically. Not the commercial version, but the way it lived in my nervous system.

I loved Christmas, no - I was obsessed. I prepared for it with a level of devotion that in hindsight made perfect sense for a little girl searching for something to look forward to. Not because of the presents (we didn’t grow up with mountains of them), but because Christmas promised something nothing else did: a guaranteed moment of joy.

A day where everyone was kind. Where the house shimmered with a particular kind of peace; delicious foods that never appeared at any other time of year suddenly filled the table; conflict softened, and the whole world felt bathed in a warm, steady glow.

I lived for that day.

I created rituals to stretch the joy as far as possible - counting down from Halloween, or sometimes from the start of October when my longing became too loud. I even made myself a small cardboard Christmas tree one year to sit on my dresser so I could stash the gifts I bought for friends and family beneath it. A daily, visual promise: the perfect day is coming.

And the week before Christmas? I would clean the house with a frenetic intensity. If I didn’t have enough time, I would spiral into emotional turbulence, trying to hold together the fantasy of a flawless day by controlling what I could.

Looking back, I can see that little girl wasn’t just preparing for Christmas. She was preparing for relief. For a day when everything would feel safe. Perfect.

And this is the quiet thread that later tethered itself to my bathroom scales - the belief that a perfect day was coming, if only I could count down to it.

The Ritual of Countdown

As a child, the countdown to Christmas was regulation. It gave my system something to move toward when the present felt uncertain or overwhelming; a way to bypass the ache of “now” by orienting toward “soon.”

And perfectionism, even then, was part of the strategy. If I could make everything just right - the clean house, the peacemaking, the controlled environment (I even remember one year bossing around my 5 siblings with an intensity absolutely becoming of an oldest daughter - bullying them into performing a nativity play for my parents) - then maybe the perfect day would stay perfect. Maybe joy would be guaranteed.

It’s only with hindsight that I can see how these early rituals were less about Christmas and more about organising chaos into something predictable - a day where nothing hurt, nothing wobbled, nothing disappointed.

It makes sense that scales would later slip into that old, familiar role - a marker of hope.

Diet Culture’s Promise: The Perfect Day

And diet culture promises its very own version of the perfect day. It tells us that once we lose the weight - once we shrink enough, discipline enough, disappear enough - everything will fall into place.

Happiness. Belonging. Confidence. Peace. An end to conflict - both internal and external.

It whispers that there is a version of life waiting for us on the other side of “after.” A life where we wake up, step on the scales, see the number we’ve been chasing, and feel an immediate, everlasting exhale as we witness all the jagged edges softening.

It is the same promise Christmas once held for me - the fantasy of a moment that will make everything okay.

And the scales become the countdown to that imagined relief.
Not because the number has power in itself, but because diet culture sells the idea that the number means something about our character, our desirability, our success, our place in the world. And so, when we step on the scales, we’re not really measuring our bodies. We’re measuring how close we are to the life we’ve been promised.

We’re measuring whether today might be the perfect day - the day where everything clicks, and nothing hurts.

But of course, that day never arrives. And even when the number is lower - especially when the number is lower - the fantasy dissolves, and we’re left with the truth that joy was never inside the scales to begin with… and so we create a lower number.

The Truth: The Perfect Day Never Arrives

Here is the part we don’t often speak aloud - the part that sits underneath so many years of stepping on and off the scales with hope in our throats: the perfect day never comes.

Not once. Not even when the number drops. Not even when we hit the goal we thought would save us.

There is a fleeting moment - a second, maybe two - where the nervous system quiets just enough for us to think, maybe this is it. And then the familiar hum returns:

It’s not low enough. You could lose more. Don’t get comfortable. Don’t lose control. And the finish line shifts again. The advent calendar resets to day one, and instead of joy, we’re left with shame that we don’t feel what we were promised. This is not a personal failing - this is by design. It is why the diet & wellness industry is a $64+ billion industry.

Diet culture builds its power on an ever-moving target. If the destination is unreachable, we stay in the chase forever.

The truth is simple, and gentle, and utterly heartbreaking:

The scales cannot give us the thing we’re looking for.
Not safety.
Not certainty.
Not peace.
Not belonging.
Not joy.

These live in the present moment. And yet, it makes sense that we tried. It makes sense that we believed. It makes sense that the longing hooked onto something that looked like hope.

Because all any of us wanted, all we’ve ever wanted, is to feel okay.

Smashing the Scale Isn’t Simple

This is why the cultural narrative of smashing the scales - while powerful for some - isn’t universally liberating.

For others, it can feel like someone snatching away the only lifeline they’ve ever had to a future that felt even slightly hopeful. And so the scales become complicated. They are symbols of pain, yes, but also of longing. Of strategies that once kept us afloat. Of parts that tried, in their own imperfect ways, to shield us from despair.

It’s why recovery cannot be reduced to a single act. It’s why smashing the scales cannot be the measure of healing. And it’s why keeping them - hidden in a cupboard, covered in dust - isn’t a failure.

It’s simply a sign that there are parts of us still holding on, still hoping, still trying to protect us the only way they know how.

And those parts deserve tenderness, not shame.

Why I Still Haven’t Thrown Mine Away

Five years after the last time I stepped on them, my scales are still tucked quietly in my bathroom cupboard. Sometimes I think about throwing them away, and I feel a flicker of resistance - a tightening, a hesitation. It used to worry me. But the more I sit with that part - the one who tucks the scales away “just in case”, the one who holds onto this relic of a strategy that helped her survive the unbearable - the more I understand her. And when she whispers, maybe we should check, I don’t shame her anymore. I don’t panic. I don’t spiral.

I get curious.

I ask what feels too heavy in the present moment. I ask what she needs right now, right here, in this breath, in this body.

And that, to me, is healing. Not the perfect day, but the knowing that joy is no longer something I have to earn, chase, count down to, or control. Joy can exist in ordinary moments now. In the unpolished, imperfect present. In the parts of me that once clung to fantasy but are learning, slowly, that safety can be found in real time.

So no - I haven’t thrown my scales away. And maybe one day I will, in a quiet moment that feels true. But it won’t be an act of rebellion. It will be a small gesture that simply reflects what is already true:

I no longer need an advent calendar to joy. I can find it here, now, in the life I’m already living.