Over the years, the following award-winning musician has gone through a remarkable transformation, which has sparked conversations online. Take a look at her journey, as she reflects on how the media once perceived her, especially concerning body image.
A well-known singer from the 2000s continues to amaze fans, not just with her powerful vocals but also with her stunning physical appearance. Her latest performances have ignited a wave of online discussions, with opinions varying widely about her current look.
The Hollywood star, considered one of the most successful Canadian artists, first captured the public’s attention with her trip-hop-inspired debut album, “Whoa, Nelly!” (2000).
This album achieved both critical and commercial success, producing two singles that soared into the top 10 on the Billboard Hot 100: “I’m Like a Bird” and “Turn Off the Light.” The success of “I’m Like a Bird” even won her the Grammy Award for Best Female Pop Vocal Performance.
However, along with her success came a series of difficult experiences. In a recent interview, the songwriter opened up about her early years in the music industry, shedding light on the struggles she faced during that time.
One of the most striking memories she shared from that era was extensive airbrushing. “I have olive skin, and they’d kind of lighten my skin a lot in photos, and kind of take my hips down all the time — they would always cut off in editorials,” the celebrity candidly revealed.
The experience became the inspiration for her song “Powerless,” featured on her 2003 sophomore album, “Folklore.” In the song, the artist sings about the alterations made to her image, expressing lines like, “Paint my face in your magazines / Make it look whiter than it seems / Paint me over with your dreams / Shove away my ethnicity.”
Of Portuguese descent, the songwriter, who has recently unveiled her seventh album, “7,” admitted, “By my second album, I guess I was kind of angry about it.”
Despite the challenges she faced, she looks back on her early fame with gratitude, feeling fortunate to have been shielded from the darker side of the entertainment industry that affected some of her peers.
The singer credits her strong, matriarchal family and the solid support of her team for providing her with a sense of assertiveness and guidance, which helped her navigate the music business successfully.
At one point, Nelly Furtado once stepped away from the limelight to focus on raising her children. She is now a mother of three: two daughters, including 21-year-old Nevis Gahunia, and a son.
After the birth of her two younger children, just 14 months apart, Furtado discovered she was living with attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder (ADHD).
While caring for her daughter, now 6, and son, 5, she recognized the symptoms in herself and was officially diagnosed. Furtado shares her two younger children, whose names remain private, with her ex, rapper Jerry (Gerard Damien Long).
The mother of three had lived with ADHD her entire life. However, it was the “chaos” of raising two young children close in age that ultimately led to her diagnosis.
She disclosed, “When I was attending college, [I was like] ‘Boing, boing, boing, boing.’ I’ve had it my whole life. But when I had my two youngest in close proximity, it made me very aware of my ADHD.”
Since her diagnosis, Furtado has become more mindful, often reflecting on how to stay grounded amidst daily distractions. Exercise, especially dancing, has been key to her routine. She finds that time in the dance studio helps keep her ADHD in check and brings her focus.
With the release of her new album, her first in seven years, the doting mom has returned to the spotlight. Her recent live performances have sparked conversations about her appearance, with some praising her beauty while others focused on her physique.
Meanwhile, one person defended Furtado’s physical appearance, expressing, “So, she gained some weight. So, what! She still looks gorgeous. This obsession with weight is ridiculous.” “She looks better with the curves,” echoed another individual. More users from X (formerly known as Twitter) compared Furtado’s look from back in the day.
Nelly Furtado’s reemergence into the limelight has ignited conversations around her music and appearance, reflecting the multifaceted nature of fame. Despite the chatter, she remains focused on her journey, inspiring many with her resilience and growth as an artist.
I Found Photos of Me with a Newborn, but I Don’t Remember Ever Being Pregnant
I opened a box of forgotten photos while cleaning the attic and found pictures of me holding a tiny newborn, my eyes brimming with love. But I’d never been pregnant, let alone given birth. I decided to investigate, unaware I must face a truth that would shatter me to the core.
A few weeks ago, I was cleaning the attic when I pulled an old box from the shelf. It was labeled “Photos – Keep” in my handwriting, though I had no memory of marking it. Dust motes danced in the bright light as I nervously opened the box.
An old box on the floor | Source: Midjourney
Inside, memories spilled out in glossy 4×6 prints: my college graduation with Mom and Dad beaming beside me, our wedding day with Daniel spinning me around the dance floor, and countless summer barbecues at the lake house.
Then, everything STOPPED.
There I was, in a hospital bed, cradling a newborn baby. My hair was plastered to my forehead with sweat, dark circles under my eyes, but my expression… I was gazing at that tiny bundle with such raw, pure love that it took my breath away.
A person holding a newborn baby | Source: Unsplash
More photos followed — me holding the baby against my chest, touching its impossibly small fingers, crying as I looked into its face. In another, I was feeding the baby, my finger trapped in its tiny fist.
But that was impossible. I’d never had a baby. Never been pregnant. NEVER. Then how was this possible?
I sank to the attic floor, surrounded by the scattered photos. My hands shook as I examined each one closely, searching for signs of manipulation or editing.
But they were real… the paper was aged and the corners slightly worn.
A shocked woman | Source: Midjourney
In one picture, a distinctive mustard-yellow chair sat in the corner of the hospital room, and the curtains had an odd geometric pattern I recognized.
It was St. Mary’s Hospital, the same hospital where we’d visited my aunt after her hip surgery last year.
Daniel was at work, and I was grateful for the solitude as I tried to make sense of what I was seeing. These photos showed a moment that should have been the most significant part of my life.
But I remembered nothing. Not a single second.
A mustard-yellow chair in a room | Source: Midjourney
My hands wouldn’t stop shaking as I gathered the photos and grabbed my car keys as soon as Daniel left for work the following morning.
I didn’t ask him anything as I wanted to find out about this mysterious baby on my own.
The hospital parking lot was nearly empty at 11 a.m. on that pleasant Tuesday. I sat in my car for five minutes, clutching the photos to my chest and trying to gather the courage to go inside.
A young mother walked past pushing a stroller, and my chest tightened with an emotion I couldn’t name.
A woman pushing a baby stroller | Source: Pexels
The reception area smelled of antiseptic and floor cleaner. A young woman with bright blue scrubs and a butterfly-shaped name tag looked up as I approached.
“Hi,” I said. “I need to access some old records of mine.”
“Look at this,” I then added, showing her the pictures. “Whose baby is this? Why am I holding it? I don’t remember anything. What’s happening?”
Without answering, she typed something on her phone and then frowned at her screen. Her fingers paused over the keypad.
“One moment, please!” she said, disappearing into a back office, whispering urgently to someone.
A hospital staff in scrubs | Source: Pexels
An older nurse emerged, her hair pulled back in a neat bun, her name tag reading “Nancy, Head Nurse.” Her eyes held a mix of concern and recognition that made my stomach twist.
“Miss, we do have records for you here, but we’ll need to contact your husband before we can discuss them.”
My stomach dropped. “What? Why?”
“Hospital policy, in cases like this. Please, let me call him now.”
A hospital staff holding documents | Source: Pexels
“No, these are my medical records. I have a right to know—”
But Nancy was already picking up the phone, her eyes never leaving my face. She dialed, and I heard the ring through the receiver.
“Sir? This is Nancy from St. Mary’s Hospital. Yes… your wife Angela is here requesting access to some medical records. Yes… I see… Could you come down right away? Yes, it’s about that… Thank you.”
A nurse holding a smartphone | Source: Pexels
My hands clenched into fists. “You know my husband? You have his number?”
“He’ll be here in 20 minutes. Would you like some water while you wait?”
“No. I want answers.”
I sank into a plastic chair, the photos clutched to my chest.
Every minute that ticked by on the waiting room clock felt like an eternity. When Daniel finally arrived, still in his work clothes, his face was ashen. He’d clearly driven here at full speed.
“Angela??”
A startled man in a hospital | Source: Midjourney
“What’s going on, Dan? Why do they have your number? Why won’t they talk to me without you?”
He turned to Nancy. “Is Dr. Peters available?”
The doctor’s office was small, with certificates covering one wall and a small window overlooking the parking lot. Dr. Peters was a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and worry lines around her mouth. She folded her hands on her desk as we sat down.
“Tell her,” Dr. Peters said. “Your wife deserves to know everything.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. “Know what? What’s going on?”
A doctor in her office | Source: Pexels
Daniel leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Six years ago, my sister Fiona came to us with a request. Do you remember how long she and Jack had been trying to have a baby?”
“Your sister? What does she have to do with this?”
“The fertility treatments weren’t working. The IVF failed three times,” he swallowed hard. “She asked if you would consider being her surrogate. And you said… yes.”
The world tilted sideways. “No. That’s not… I would remember that. A pregnancy? Being a surrogate? No, I wouldn’t—”
A shocked woman looking up | Source: Midjourney
“You were so determined to help her, Angel. You said it was the greatest gift you could give your sister-in-law. The pregnancy went perfectly. You were glowing and so happy to be helping them. But when the baby was was born—”
Dr. Peters spoke up. “You experienced a severe psychological break after delivery, Angela. The maternal hormones and bonding process were stronger than anyone anticipated. You refused to let go of the baby. When they tried to take him to Fiona, you became hysterical.”
I pressed my hands against my temples. “Stop. Please stop.”
Grayscale shot of a newborn baby | Source: Unsplash
“Your mind protected itself,” Dr. Peters explained gently. “It’s called dissociative amnesia. Your psyche built a wall around the memories to shield you from the trauma of the separation. In cases of severe emotional distress, the mind can—”
“You’re telling me I forgot an entire pregnancy? A whole baby? That’s not possible! I would know. My body would know. My heart would know.”
“Angel,” Daniel reached for my hand. But I jerked away so violently my chair scraped against the floor.
Portrait of a distressed man | Source: Midjourney
“Don’t touch me! You knew? All this time, you knew? Every time we talked about maybe having kids someday, every time we walked past a baby store… you knew I had carried a child? Given birth? And given him away like he was some freaking toy?”
“Where is he?” I demanded, my throat raw and eyes red-rimmed from crying.
“Fiona moved to the countryside shortly after. The doctors thought the distance would help you recover.”
A teary-eyed woman | Source: Unsplash
“So everyone just decided?” I laughed. “Everyone just chose to let me forget my own—” I couldn’t say the word. Couldn’t acknowledge what I’d lost. “Six years? Six birthdays, first steps, first words?”
“We thought we were protecting you.”
“By lying? By watching me live in ignorance? Did you all get together and plan this? Have meetings about how to keep me in the dark?”
“By letting you heal,” Dr. Peters interjected softly. “The mind can only handle so much pain, Angela. Your psyche chose this path for a reason.”
A frustrated woman | Source: Pexels
I dashed out of the hospital as fast as my legs could carry me. Daniel caught up, ushering me into the car. I was a total mess. My fragile heart was shattered beyond repair.
That night, I slept in our guest room, surrounded by the photos.
I studied each one until my eyes burned, trying to force my mind to remember. The way I touched his tiny face. The tears on my cheeks. The love in my eyes.
I pressed my hand against my stomach, trying to imagine him there, growing, moving, being part of me. But nothing came back. Nothing.
A sad woman sitting on the bed | Source: Pexels
“Can we see him?” I asked Daniel the next day.
“We should probably ask Fiona first,” he said, his voice uncertain. “But if you’re sure, I think she’ll be okay with it.”
It took a week to convince Fiona to let us visit. Seven days of negotiations through Daniel, because I couldn’t bear to speak to her directly. Not yet.
How do you talk to someone who has your child? Who took your child?
After countless phone calls and messages, Fiona finally agreed.
A man talking on the phone | Source: Pexels
The drive to the countryside was endless. I watched the landscape change through the window, each mile bringing me closer to a truth I wasn’t sure I could face.
Fields gave way to forests, forests to suburbs. All the while, my mind spun with questions.
Would he look like me? Would some part of him recognize me? Would I feel anything at all? Would he come running to me?
Aerial view of a car on the road | Source: Unsplash
Fiona’s house was everything I’d imagined during those sleepless nights. Perfect lawn, flowers in window boxes, a red bicycle leaning against the porch, and a tire swing. Wind chimes tinkled softly and the delicious smell of something cooking wafted in the air.
My legs shook so badly I could barely walk to the door.
Fiona stood there, just as I remembered her from the family pictures. But her eyes were cautious, teary, and guarded, like a watchful mother’s.
“Angela,” she said softly. “Come in.”
A teary-eyed woman looking at someone | Source: Pexels
My gaze swept across the room, searching for the little one who held the key to my forgotten past.
And there he was, peeking around the corner. Dark curls like mine and those familiar eyes. My heart squeezed so tight I couldn’t breathe.
My son! My baby! I longed to scream, to run to him, to hold him tight. But I stood rooted to the spot, numb with heartache.
“Tommy,” Fiona called, “come meet your Aunt Angela.”
A little boy wearing a hat | Source: Unsplash
He approached shyly, a toy dinosaur clutched in one hand. “Hello, Aunt Angela.”
“Hello, Tommy!” I said, his name feeling like a prayer on my tongue.
He studied me with those big, brown eyes, head tilted slightly. “Want to see my room? I have a bunk bed! And a T-Rex that roars when you push its belly.”
“I’d love that, sweetie.”
A woman with her eyes downcast | Source: Midjourney
As he led me upstairs, chattering about his dinosaur collection and his best friend Jake and how he could ride his bike without training wheels now, I felt it.
Not a memory exactly, but an echo. A ghost of what we might have been. Of all the moments I should have had.
Later that night, in our hotel room, I took out the photos one last time. The woman in them wasn’t a stranger anymore. I understood her joy, her pain, and her sacrifice even if I couldn’t remember feeling them myself.
A woman holding a newborn baby | Source: Unsplash
I touched the image of the baby, my finger tracing his tiny photostatic features.
“You okay?” Daniel asked from the doorway.
“No. But I think I will be.”
I slipped the photos back into an envelope. Some memories might stay lost and buried under years of protective fog. But now I had something more precious than memories: I had truth. And somehow, in that truth, I found the peace I didn’t know I’d been missing.
It would take time to fully come to terms with my truth, but this was a step in the right direction.
A woman holding an envelope | Source: Pexels
This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
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