Finally Choosing Me

There was a point when I had to get real with myself.

I’m 5’4”, and I weighed 240 pounds.

Everything hurt.

My joints hurt. I was tired. And somewhere along the way, sweets and fried food had become very dependable friends.

Unfortunately, they were the kind of friends who always showed up and never brought anything good to the relationship.

I knew I needed to make a change.

The problem was, knowing you need to change something and actually changing it are two very different things.

This Wasn’t My First Attempt

I had tried Noom before.

Apparently, downloading an app and occasionally looking at it does not actually cause weight loss.

Who knew?

So when I decided to try again, I made myself a deal:

If I was going to do this, I was actually going to do it.

Not sort of.

Not Monday through Thursday.

Not until somebody brought donuts to work.

I bought a food scale.

I got very familiar with my Instant Pot.

I planned my meals, snacks, and everything in between.

And I tracked every single bite that went into my mouth.

That’s when I learned one of life’s great injustices:

Apparently, calories still count when you eat something while standing in the kitchen.

Rude.

Then There Was the Candy Drawer

Working 12-hour night shifts presents some unique nutritional challenges.

For example, at work we had what I lovingly referred to as the mental health candy drawer.

And honestly, some nights that drawer felt like it had a better understanding of psychiatric nursing than most people.

But I knew myself.

Walking into the break room hungry and hoping I’d make a good decision was not a plan.

So I brought my food.

All of it.

Meals. Snacks. Everything.

I stopped relying on willpower and started making it easier to make the choice I’d already decided I wanted to make.

I Didn’t Give Up Everything I Loved

One thing I refused to do was create a giant list of foods I could never eat again.

I knew exactly how that story would end.

I’d spend three days thinking about the forbidden food and then eventually eat enough of it to feed a small village.

So nothing was forbidden.

I learned portions.

I learned what an actual serving looked like—which was occasionally offensive.

I learned that I could eat something because I wanted it without turning that decision into an entire weekend.

And slowly, things started changing.

The Scale Started Moving

I weighed myself every day.

I tracked.

I planned.

I kept going.

Not for two weeks.

Not for 30 days.

For more than a year.

And the weight came off.

But eventually, I got stuck.

Really stuck.

And that’s where another part of my story begins.

And Yes, I Needed Help

Here’s something about my weight-loss story that I’m not going to hide.

I didn’t lose all 100 pounds through meal prep, portion control, determination, and sheer willpower.

I lost roughly the first 50 pounds that way.

And then I hit a point where what I had been doing just wasn’t enough anymore.

I tried to keep doing all the things that had worked before.

Eventually, I had to admit something I didn’t particularly want to admit:

My willpower wasn’t enough to get me where I wanted to go.

So I got help.

I used medication to help me lose the final 50 pounds.

And I’m not ashamed of that.

For some reason, we’re sometimes willing to celebrate someone for struggling their way through something alone, but the minute they say, “I needed help,” we act as though the accomplishment somehow counts less.

I don’t believe that anymore.

The medication helped me do something I was struggling to do on my own.

It didn’t plan my meals for me.

It didn’t make every food decision for me.

And it certainly didn’t do the work of maintaining the weight after I lost it.

It was a tool. And I needed the tool.

I’m not embarrassed by that.

Actually, admitting I needed help may have been another form of choosing myself.

Because choosing me doesn’t mean proving I can do everything the hardest possible way.

Sometimes it means saying:

“What I’m doing isn’t working anymore. I need help.”

And accepting it.

Eventually, I had lost around 100 pounds.

Typing that still feels a little surreal.

Because 100 pounds sounds like the whole story.

It wasn’t.

Then I Had a Completely Different Problem

Suddenly, I was wearing a size small.

Which sounds fantastic until you realize you have absolutely no idea how to dress the person who now lives inside your clothes.

For years, getting dressed had mostly been about hiding things.

Then I started PMHNP clinicals and needed business-casual clothes.

I discovered I actually liked them.

I discovered summer dresses.

Yoga pants became a significant part of my personality.

I bought shoes.

And purses.

Possibly too many shoes and purses, but we’re not here to judge personal growth.

I even wore a two-piece swimsuit.

Me.

The woman who had spent years trying to make her body less noticeable willingly walked around in public with her stomach showing.

That was bigger than anything the scale could tell me.

My Body Changed Faster Than My Brain Did

Because here’s the part no medication, food scale, meal plan, or number on the scale could fix.

My brain didn’t lose 100 pounds when my body did.

I can look in the mirror and immediately find the fat.

The rolls.

The loose skin.

The belly pouch.

All the parts that aren’t shaped the way I think they should be.

Sometimes the woman I see staring back at me looks a whole lot more like the woman who weighed 240 pounds than the woman everyone else sees standing in front of them.

That’s been one of the strangest parts of this entire journey.

I’ve had to learn that I can’t always trust the way I see myself in the mirror.

Other people aren’t necessarily examining my body through the same magnifying glass I’ve been using for years.

They’re not standing there analyzing the roll I’m staring at.

They’re seeing me.

And sometimes I have to work really hard to believe that.

I spent so many years seeing myself as the fat woman that losing the weight didn’t automatically erase that identity.

Some days I look at myself and see how far I’ve come.

Some days I don’t.

And My Inner Fat Kid Is Still Here

Oh, she’s definitely still here.

Apparently, losing 100 pounds did not result in her packing her bags and moving out.

She would very much like to believe that we’ve finished this little project and can now go back to eating whatever we want, whenever we want, without consequences.

She and I disagree on this.

Frequently.

Because losing the weight was one challenge.

Keeping it off is another one.

I still have to pay attention.

I still have to make choices.

I still have days when I have to remind myself why I started.

And sometimes I have to fight that inner fat kid pretty damn hard.

Maybe maintaining this weight isn’t only about what I eat or what the scale says.

Maybe part of maintenance is teaching my brain to catch up with my body.

To stop looking for everything that’s still wrong.

To believe the size on the tag.

To believe the pictures.

To believe the compliments instead of immediately explaining them away.

And to recognize the woman standing in front of the mirror as she actually is—not just as I remember her being.

I’m still working on that one.

I Was Taking Care of Someone I Had Neglected for Years

Me.

For once, the planning wasn’t for my children.

The meal prep wasn’t for someone else.

The time, money, effort, and attention weren’t being poured into another person while I got whatever was left.

I was worth the effort.

That may have been the most important thing I learned.

Because life continued being life.

I’ve needed help along the way.

I still struggle.

And I don’t look at that woman at 240 pounds and hate her.

She wasn’t lazy.

She wasn’t a failure.

She was tired.

She had spent a very long time taking care of everybody else.

And eventually, she decided she deserved some of that care too.

Losing 100 pounds changed my body.

Choosing to take care of myself changed my life.

And maybe that’s what this whole journey has been about.

Not becoming smaller.

Not becoming prettier.

Not becoming somebody else.

Just finally deciding that:

I belong on the list of people I take care of.

And I’m not putting myself at the bottom anymore.

Still me. Just finally taking care of her, too.