Week 1-2:
The belt arrived in this surprisingly nice box. Inside was this wide belt covered in what looked like tiny red beads—150 of them, each containing multiple LED lights.
The instructions were simple: Wrap it around your midsection. Turn it on. Relax for 20 minutes.
That's it? No sweating? No crunches? Just... sitting there?
The first time I used it, I felt warmth. Not hot, just... warm. Like sunshine on your skin.
I used it while watching Netflix. Twenty minutes later, I was done.
It honestly didn't feel like much. No immediate results. No magical transformation.
I figured I'd been scammed again.
Week 3:
I wasn't even doing The Check that morning. I was just getting dressed for work when I caught my reflection.
Something looked... different.
Not dramatically different. But my stomach looked less puffy.
Tighter, maybe?
I did The Check. Still soft, but there was something else.
A firmness underneath that wasn't there before.
My husband noticed too. "Your posture looks better," he said. "You're not doing that thing where you constantly adjust your shirt."
He was right. I hadn't realized I'd stopped pulling my shirt down every time I stood up.
Week 6:
Week 6 was when I cried. Good tears this time.
I was getting ready for date night and grabbed this bodycon dress I'd bought during my "goal weight shopping spree."
You know, the clothes you buy for your "future body."
It had been hanging in my closet with the tags on. Mocking me.
I put it on expecting to do my usual routine—shapewear, strategic posing, ultimately changing into something flowier.
But I looked... normal.
Not Instagram model perfect. Not magically transformed.
Just... normal.
Like my stomach finally matched the rest of me.
I wore the dress. No shapewear. Ate pasta at dinner.
Didn't once adjust or smooth it down.
My husband said "You didn't ask me if you looked bloated even once tonight."
Month 3:
Three months later, there was another pool party. Labor Day weekend.
I went back to Nordstrom Rack.
But this time, I grabbed a different kind of suit.
A two-piece. Not a bikini exactly—one of those cute high-waisted bottoms with a supportive top.
The kind that shows your midsection.
In that same horrible three-way mirror, under those same fluorescent lights, I saw a completely different person.
Same weight: 118 pounds.
Same size: XS.
Completely different body.
My stomach was flat. Not just "flat for me" or "flat if I suck in."
Actually flat. With a hint of definition on the sides.
I wore that string bikini to the party.
No cover-up. No strategic positioning. No pillow clutching on the lounge chairs.
Just me, confident, in a bikini, eating chips and guacamole like a normal person.