The sound of children jokingly whining ‘it’s glandular’ in a nasal American accent was commonplace in my childhood.

It was generally used to suggest laziness on the part of a peer who was perhaps heftier than the average kid, or thrown about if the classmate on top of the pyramid was proving a little heavier than the crowd beneath expected.

It was said in jest, with little to no comprehension of its meaning.

And then the chorus changed.

As teenagers, we took up where Ross Geller left off by joking that we were ‘still carrying a little holiday weight’ in a self-deprecating response typical of awkward adolescents.

Christ, we were only gas.

It wasn’t until my early-twenties, following the diagnosis of an underactive thyroid, that I hesitantly revisited the glandular jibe – vaguely recalling the jeer, ever popular with kids in the 90s.

I realised that the diagnosis was not a million miles away from the glandular joke thrown around back in the day, because in addition to fine hair, brittle nails, sparse eyebrows, dry eyes, chillblains, and lethargy; the GP advised me I could expect weight gain, and this was in addition to the lbs I had already piled on in the months leading up to the diagnosis.

As I have a tendency to gain weight if I even so much as pass a bakery, this was perhaps one of the more jarring revelations. And given the fact, I often do more than just pass it, I felt a strange sensation settle in the pit of my stomach.

As women, we are programmed to feel pride when we take up less space; when less of our body exists in the space that surrounds us.

‘At 6 foot, I can’t afford to get any bigger,’ I thought to myself in a panic. What I meant was, I can’t take up any more space. I can’t become even more visible.

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Researching the condition, I learned that there existed hyperthyroidism and hypothyroidism; weight loss was a feature of the former while weight gain, as I had already learned, is a feature of the latter.

Like many young women exposed to years of unrealistic beauty ideals peddled by countless industries, I, unsurprisingly, found myself wishing I had been diagnosed with the former.

And at my most disheartened, I didn’t just wish I hadn’t been diagnosed at all, I actually longed for the one where weight loss was a side-effect.

If your thyroid is functioning correctly, you likely give it little to no thought. It’s kind of like your appendix, you don’t think about it until it stops playing ball.

In fact, if you don’t have a thyroid condition, this may be the longest you’ve ever considered the small butterfly-shaped gland in the neck which helps to regulate and control your metabolism.

I, however, became mildly obsessed with it, and while I celebrated the effect daily medication had on my energy levels and overall health, I resented the weight-related symptoms most of all.

With my mind placed firmly on the implications of that long-running glandular jibe, I swung between assuming that no one was going to believe me – ‘glandular’ was an excuse, right? – and rejoicing on some level that I, at least, had an excuse.

Seven years ago at 23, I felt that weight gain was something that had to be justified. Decades of being fed photoshopped images and diet-focussed content meant any failing in this regard required an excuse.

The older I get, the more this mentality dissipates, thankfully.

I’ve been warned that symptoms may become more pronounced as I get older, and my increasing dosage of medication suggests there could be something in that prediction.

Admittedly, weight gain is probably the least impactful symptom in my case, as lethargy and permanent coldness tend to take centre-stage, but it’s still a significant side-effect.

Think 6lbs in one weekend, and you’ll get me.

Managing the condition requires a constant internal tug of war because in addition to taking daily medication, I feel obliged to employ the lifestyle approach favoured by wellness experts.

And as a ‘feast or famine’ person, this doesn’t always work for me.

I really try to watch my diet, and yet I was solely responsible for the lack of bread on the shelves during the Beast from the East.

I need to maintain a regular exercise routine, and yet I’m either in the gym five days a week or I make a detour so I don’t have to pass the front of it and feel guilty about my lack of attendance.

I try to maintain my overall health, get enough sleep and shell out as much money as I can fooling people into thinking I have the ability to grow my own eyebrows.

And yet, for good or for ill, when it comes to the weight issue, a childish voice attempting an American accent is always at the forefront.

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