Before you settle in to read this, I just need you to know that it’s gonna be a long one. A testimonial rant that may jump around and make no sense at times, but it’s necessary for me to get it all out. Still interested? Alright, buckle up cuz here we go!
In February 2024, I lost my mom. Watching her go home to Jesus absolutely devastated me. No matter what it may look like or what I may tell you, I am not alright. Living without her isn’t getting any easier. Some days I think it’s getting harder truthfully. I’m doing the best I can to go on living because that’s what she’d expect me to do. That’s what she did when she lost her mom. I thought I understood the pain she felt, but now I know I didn’t. I couldn’t have possibly understood. Now I know.
I’ve struggled with my mental health for at least three decades. The early years were rough, mostly because mental health wasn’t talked about or understood the way it is now. If we’re being honest, the stigma and conversation surrounding mental health still has a long way to go. But I digress, as my sister often does. In my teenage years, I dealt with it by creating a fantasy world that just didn’t exist. I lied to my mom when she asked how I was. I told her stories about my “friends.” I made excuses for not doing things as if it were my choice. I said things like “Prom is so stupid. I’m not gonna spend all that money to go dance in some hotel ballroom for two hours.” The truth was no one was gonna ask my ugly fat ass to go, and it killed me to admit that to my mom or anyone else. Instead I just changed the narrative. I made it my choice. It’s a defense mechanism that’s served me over the years, and one I’m still using to this day if we’re being honest.
I’ve struggled with my weight since the summer I finished kindergarten. Up to that point, I was slim. My mom had a hard time finding pants for me because I was so slim. By the time first grade started, that was no longer the case. I’ve been fat ever since. I blame school. For the first six years of my life, I went hard. I moved more than I sat. I burned more calories than I consumed. Then school started. They made me sit still all day. And if that wasn’t enough, somewhere along the way, they decided that sitting still all day wasn’t enough and they sent me home with homework so I would have to sit still some more! School killed my active lifestyle.
Ok, so school probably wasn’t the only reason I got fat, but it was definitely a catalyst. Now I’m about to do something I’ve never really done before. Let’s talk numbers. Weight, actually. My weight. I graduated high school at 177 pounds. I’ll never forget that number. So gross. I maintained that until I got married when I was 20. For the first couple years, I fluctuated between 180-203. When I was 23, I got pregnant with twins. At my heaviest, just before I went in for my c-section, my babies and I tipped the scale at 263 pounds. I didn’t flinch at that number because I was pregnant. I thought it was completely acceptable given the situation. Nevermind the fact that I couldn’t tie my own shoes and I looked like a Christmas tree when I sat down! I had two healthy, full-size babies, so it was worth it.
The morning after my c-section, a nurse came in and got me up on the scale. 236. Almost 30 pounds lighter than the day before. In that moment, I told myself that as long as I never topped 263, I’d be doing just fine. After losing MOST of my baby weight, I hovered around 215 most years. There were a couple attempts at losing weight that got me almost back to Onederland (IYKYK), but they were short-lived. Admittedly, food is a source of comfort for me. Every stressful event in my life resulted in more weight gain. Divorce, the death of my grandparents, losing friends. In 2015, my dad told me I should join a dating site to meet someone. You know, a reputable one….not Tinder. His words. 😂.
Heeding his advice, I joined Plenty of Fish. I went on a few first dates, but nothing worth talking about. Apparently I wasn’t worth a second date. Then along came my husband. We matched on his birthday in 2015. We talked for a week or two before our schedules finally allowed us to meet. I was 205 pounds the first time he saw me. Turns out, he didn’t really care about my weight. He liked me for me. He’s a hiker, so it didn’t take long for him to get me out on the trail with him. That first hike damn near killed me, but I loved it! There is something incredibly freeing about strapping on a pack full of what you think you need to survive and walking off into the wilderness.
We hiked pretty regularly for the first two years. I spent way more than I probably should have at REI, but the experiences were worth every penny spent on gear. Trekking through the mountains on a regular basis probably would’ve helped me lose weight had I not been stressing over everything else going on in my life. Remember I said food is my source of comfort? I ate too much. I still do. I don’t eat to satisfy my hunger, I eat to hide my pain. It’s a problem I’ve always had. I’m working on it, but being Greek, Italian, and Presbyterian doesn’t help. Man do we love to eat!!
In 2018, a month and a half before our wedding, my husband went to rehab. For 28 days, I was left alone with the house and kids. That was a rough month, but I’m built tough. I think I was 230 pounds when we said “I do.” We didn’t hike much after that. Life changes, things happen. And then came the pandemic. God help us. Everything got canceled in 2020. All the things that brought me joy and got me moving came to a crashing halt. I had nothing to do but stay home. And what do I do at home? I bake! You see where this is going?
Stress can lead to weight gain. Not really the stress itself, but the coping mechanisms. Life got really stressful. I got really depressed. I stopped doing things. I spent more time just laying around watching tv or mindlessly scrolling social media. And I ate more. A lot more. I’d tell myself things like, “Nobody cares what I look like anyway,” and “I don’t have to impress anyone.” Then I’d get all empowered and say things like, “fuck what anyone says, I love me just the way I am,” which of course was a lie I told myself every time I wanted to eat something I knew I didn’t need. So anyway, fast forward to January 1, 2025. I stepped on the scale, looked down, and cried. There was no one else around, and nobody would know unless I told them, but I was embarrassed. Ashamed that I’d let it get so out of hand. Heartbroken that I’d done it to myself. Scared that I couldn’t reverse what I’d done. I started this year at 278.2 pounds. 🫢
One of my best character traits, in my opinion anyway, is that I always try my absolute best to be there for anyone who needs me. You need a shoulder to cry on? I’m there. You want someone to go grocery shopping with you? Sign me up. You need something to make you laugh and take your mind off something that’s bothering you? I’m on it! The problem is that I never bothered to spend any time taking care of myself the way I care for everyone else. Self-care is important, but I never really made it a priority. I stopped going to therapy because I couldn’t justify the expense. I gave up on the little things that made me feel like me. I stopped dyeing my hair. I quit going to get my eyebrows waxed. I stopped going to the club and socializing. It’s August. I haven’t been to a Wild Things game yet this year. While I realize these may all seem like trivial things, they were important to me. Alright, now I’m rambling on and making no sense. Are you still reading this? God bless you.
My husband gets on these kicks from time to time where he feels the need to tell me that I have got to lose weight. It’s not because he doesn’t like the way I look, it’s because he’s absolutely terrified that I’m going to die and leave him to fend for himself. That sounds worse than it really is. I know that he genuinely cares about me and wants me to be healthy. Anyway, about a month ago, we had one of those conversations. He finally said something to me that actually made sense and made me feel some kind of way. He said, “if you put as much effort into trying to lose a little weight as you do into everything else, you’d absolutely crush it.” I heard that. I felt that. It made complete sense. He reminded me that when I set my mind to something, I make it happen. I don’t settle for anything less, and I definitely don’t take no for an answer. So that night I signed back into My Fitness Pal, updated my weight and my goals, and started tracking what I was eating every day.
I’ve been weighing myself every Thursday morning since the beginning of the year. There’s a note in my phone with my weight from every week. I’ll just give you the Cliff’s Notes. February 6 – 269. March 6 – 267. April 3 – 265. May 1 – 265. June 5 -266. July 3 – 263. On July 22, I saw my PCP. I’d had bloodwork done, and we were discussing the results. Almost all of my numbers looked great actually. Cholesterol was good, vitamins good, liver function good, thyroid good…but then he got to my sugar. Elevated. A1C, elevated. Well shit. He talked to me about making healthier choices when eating and getting as much activity in as I could. Then he told me that he thought I’d be a good candidate for gastric sleeve surgery. Not bypass, just the sleeve. To be absolutely clear, I love my PCP. I chose him based on the fact that he was my mom’s doctor and he seemed to genuinely care about her. He never treated her as just a chart he pulled before walking into the exam room. He saw her through surgeries and cancer treatments, and he did his best to keep her alive and kicking through some tough times. But I digress yet again, as apparently I often do.
Hearing that I’d be a good candidate for surgery didn’t sit well with me. Surgery should be a last resort. It scared me to think that there could come a point where it became medically necessary for me to have the gastric sleeve surgery. I don’t want to be that person, so we talked about other options. My doctor and I agreed that I would start Mounjaro. July 27th, I had my first injection. August 7th, when I stepped on the scale, I was 255 pounds.
For the last 28 days, I’ve logged everything I’ve eaten. Sometimes I’m over my calorie goal for the day, and sometimes I’m under. I’m giving myself the grace of not having to be perfect. I’m eating out less, and cooking more at home. I’ve swapped out some of my usual foods for healthier options, but I refuse to deny myself the foods I want. Moderation is key. Social media is inspiring me. Nothing anyone could say will convince me that our phones aren’t listening to us. My feeds are suddenly full of meal-preppers, doctors, and people sharing their weight loss journeys online. It got me thinking. Maybe I’d be more inclined to keep going if I felt like someone else out there was cheering me on. Even better, what if sharing my story inspired someone else to take better care of themself? If just one person is encouraged by my being open about my struggles, then it’s all worth it. Please understand, I’m not saying or doing any of this as an attempt to become some viral sensation. But the truth is, I recognize that there is strength in numbers. I myself feel inspired when I see someone like Ethan Benard or Dr. Tommy Martin. Selfishly, if I share this shit on a regular basis, it gives me a sense of accountability and then sets me up for success.
Ok, now the most important thing happening in my life…summed up by two words courtesy of Brandon Lake…But God. God is at work in my life in ways that I cannot possibly know, and I believe wholeheartedly in His plans for me. Mentally, I am in a better place when I let my spirituality take a front seat. Physically, that Christian music that’s dominating my playlist makes me want to Get Up🖤💛 and get moving. Emotionally, knowing He is in control makes it easier for me to keep going. “Pulled me out of that grave, Broke me out of those chains…Nobody but God!”
Whew! Told ya it was gonna be a long one. I appreciate you sticking with me and taking the time to read this. Now I’d like to ask a favor. Please share this. Not because I think what I’m saying matters, but because the more people who see it, the more accountability I’ll perceive. I’m asking you to help set me up for success, because I can’t afford to fail at this. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.
Confessions of a Forty Year Old Nobody 