Lighter, but carrying so much more…

For years, I battled with my weight, but in 2020, things escalated beyond my control. I gained an alarming amount of weight, and no matter what I tried, the scale seemed determined to move in the wrong direction.

And believe me, I tried EVERYTHING.

I enrolled in a medically supervised weight-loss program that consisted of one meal a day and two protein shakes. After a month of following the program, I stepped on the scale and discovered I’d gained seven pounds.

SEVEN.

Apparently, my metabolism hadn’t received the memo that we were supposed to be losing weight.

The endocrinologist encouraged me to try another one of their programs, but the cost was prohibitive. I simply couldn’t afford it.

Next up was Weight Watchers. Again.

I counted every point, practically lived off the zero-point food list, and spent an entire month hungry, miserable, and dreaming of food that actually tasted good. At the end of that month, I’d lost one glorious pound.

ONE.

Meanwhile, the other women in my group were celebrating losses of five pounds or more. I smiled, congratulated them, and quietly felt like an absolute failure.

Then came Nutrisystem. At the time, it was the only prepared-meal weight-loss program I could find with a vegetarian option. I spent hundreds of dollars on food that had the texture of cardboard and the flavor profile of wallpaper paste.

And I gained weight.

Again.

I was defeated and very sad.

I sought answers from my doctors.

My gynecologist blamed menopause. My endocrinologist pointed to my thyroid and hormones. My rheumatologist recommended a few books. My general practitioner listened to my laundry list of failed attempts, reviewed my blood work, and told me not to stress because my labs looked good.

He encouraged me to keep walking.

And I did. Unntil walking became so painful that I needed a cane.

Determined not to give up, I joined a pool. Swimming was supposed to be gentle on my joints. Unfortunately, the chlorine aggravated my skin disease, DSAP, leaving me so intensely itchy that being in the water became almost painful.

I was again, defeated and very sad.

Eventually, my endocrinologist prescribed the GLP-1, Wegovy. For the first time in a long time, I felt a flicker of hope.

Then insurance denied coverage, leaving me with a $1,500 out-of-pocket cost.

Hope, it seemed, came with a price tag I couldn’t afford.

So I gave up.

Not just on dieting, but on believing anything would ever change.

Stepping on a scale became emotionally devastating. Eventually, I stopped looking altogether. At doctor’s appointments, I’d turn my back and ask the nurses not to tell me the number.

I hated my body. Worse, I hated myself for allowing things to get to that point, even though I’d spent years desperately trying to change it.

The most painful part wasn’t simply being overweight. It was feeling completely powerless over my own body.

Then, in the immortal words of the Fresh Prince, my life got flipped, turned upside down.

I sold my home, moved, and decided that after years of putting everything and everyone else first, I was going to take some of that money and invest in myself.

I chose compounded tirzepatide. I’d been reading about the potential health benefits of tirzepatide, including its possible cardiovascular benefits, and decided it was worth exploring.

I wasn’t particularly optimistic. After so many disappointments, hope wasn’t something I handed out freely anymore.

But something remarkable happened.

The scale started moving.

In the RIGHT direction.

Slowly, steadily, the pounds began coming off.

I changed how I ate, became more mindful of my nutrition, and focused on improving my health rather than punishing myself for my weight.

And through it all, I had my biggest cheerleader.

My mom.

She celebrated every milestone, every pound, every little victory. She knew how hard I’d struggled and how much those numbers meant to me. She didn’t need me to explain why losing three pounds was exciting. She was already excited for me.

Interestingly, it wasn’t until I’d lost nearly 50 pounds that other people really began to notice.

Everyone wanted to know whether my joints felt better.

Unfortunately, not really.

Despite the weight loss, my autoimmune disease continued doing what it does best: making my life unnecessarily complicated.

The only significant medical improvement I noticed was a reduction in the acid reflux and vomiting associated with my hiatal hernia.

Then, around the time my mom died, I reached my 50-pound milestone.

I’d ordered myself a special purse to celebrate. A little reward for a very big accomplishment. After all, I firmly believe life’s milestones deserve a handbag.

But when that milestone arrived, the person I wanted to tell most wasn’t there.

My cheerleader was gone.

Instead of celebrating with a night out for me and my new bag, I wore it to mom’s funeral.

And suddenly, something I’d worked so hard to achieve felt painfully bittersweet.

When I reached 65 pounds, I confided to a friend that I’d cried when I saw the number on the scale.

The response was, “Why are you crying? You’ve been losing weight since you started taking the shot.”

And perhaps that’s how it looks from the outside.

Take a shot. Lose some weight. Celebrate. Repeat.

But that little injection doesn’t tell the whole story.

It doesn’t erase the years of failed diets, the money wasted, the hunger, the frustration, or the humiliation of feeling like the only person in the room who couldn’t lose weight.

It doesn’t capture the emotional toll of living in a body that seems determined to fight you at every turn.

And it certainly doesn’t fill the enormous hole left by the person who believed in you when you struggled to believe in yourself.

I know losing weight isn’t necessarily an award-worthy accomplishment to everyone. But to me, every pound represents something far greater than a number.

And I wanted my mom to be here to see it.

My weight-loss journey has become tangled in the complicated web of chronic illness and grief.

I want to celebrate my success. I really do.

But when you feel physically miserable 90% of the time and sadness is constantly lurking just beneath the surface, even happiness can feel exhausting.

Over the past few months, I’ve noticed myself slipping.

I stopped weighing myself regularly. I haven’t been consistent with my supplements. I’ve fallen back into some of the same patterns I experienced in 2020, when I was first diagnosed with complex grief after losing several family members during the pandemic.

Back then, the losses came so quickly that I barely had time to process one before another arrived. It felt like an avalanche, and I was slowly being buried beneath it.

Lately, some of those familiar feelings have returned.

And I recognize them.

But today, something happened.

Something small, ordinary, and probably completely insignificant to anyone else.

I tried on a pair of pajamas.

I’d purchased them without knowing whether they’d fit. They weren’t plus-size pajamas. They were regular-size pajamas, something I hadn’t been able to comfortably wear in years.

I slipped them on.

They fit.

Actually, they were a little roomy.

ROOMY!

I stood there looking at myself, realizing just how far I’ve come.

And then I thought about something else.

I’ve now lost 70 pounds.

SEVENTY.

And for the first time, I’m finally noticing a difference in my joints.

Don’t get too excited. My autoimmune disease hasn’t packed its bags and left the premises. My joints still hurt, and I still have plenty of days when walking feels like an Olympic event.

But the reduction in pressure on my joints is noticeable now. Walking feels a little easier.

After years of fighting for some kind of improvement, that matters more to me than any clothing size ever could.

I did get some validation when some of my inability to lose weight was related to the reason I got so sick a year ago. It wasn’t responsible for all my weight gain, but it definitely helped block attempts to lose it.

My original goal was to lose 75 pounds.

I’m just five pounds away.

But I’ve decided I’m not stopping there.

My new goal is 100 pounds.

One hundred pounds closer to the weight I was before menopause, before overwhelming grief, and before life got flipped, turned upside down.

I know losing another 30 pounds won’t fix my autoimmune disease. It won’t erase the grief, restore the life I had, or bring my mom back.

But maybe it will help me reclaim another little piece of myself.

And after everything these past several years have thrown at me, I think that’s worth celebrating.

I wish my mom were here to cheer me on. I can practically hear her telling me how proud she is, probably followed by a comment about how I don’t need another purse.

(She’d be wrong about the purse.)

For now, I’m trying to learn how to be my own cheerleader, even on the days when the grief is heavy and my body refuses to cooperate.

Seventy pounds down. Thirty more to go.

Still chronically ill. Still grieving. Still figuring things out.

But perhaps a little lighter in more ways than one.

Wish me luck.