Category: weight-loss

A Bowl of Pasta is just a Bowl of Pasta again.

I have such an emotional connection to pasta.

You’re probably like WTF is she even talking about, but hear me out here.

It’s the vessel that held some of my deepest secrets, darkest seasons, and periods of extreme loss and longing.

Most of us have a go-to comfort meal. For some it’s a #5 at your favorite drive-thru, or a family size bag of chips and dip, something sweet, or carby cheesy fried goodness – something that you consume in need of comforting as your own personal demons consume you.

Spaghetti. Linguine. Lasagna. Bow-Tie. Elbow.

Toss it. Top it. Layer it. Fill it. Twirl it. Swirl it.

It’s a form of immediate, but short-term relief like any other thing – spending money, alcohol, drugs, gambling, whatever vice you can think of, but once the high or the haze of it all wears off, you’re there – ashamed, with pain that is angry and raw and ready to be addressed.

And you beat it away for the moment – to be addressed at some later time, as it grows and grows and grows – sometimes into a monster that can be all-consuming.

I was miserable about how I looked because I was fat, but I was fat because I spent money, drank soda, and ate extremely unhealthy foods because I didn’t love myself.

When can I get off this roller-coaster that I’ve been on for two decades now?

And then I did.

Not slowly, not gradually, but all at once.

I ripped that safety harness off and tumbled down into the pit of my despair.

What’s the color that comes after the deepest darkest black?

That was the color of my pain, my shame, my guilt, my self-loathing, my lack of self-unforgiveness, my fury, my rage, my anger.

That is where I ran into myself – the person I had been running from all along – and I had to face myself.

If these points, steps, ounces, pounds, were going to mean anything, if they were going to stick this time – I had to face every demon I had along the way.

I journal my way through it. I action my way through it. I self reflect my way through it. I learn my way through it. I teach my way through it. I fail my way through it. I surprise my way through it.

When I took my own hand several years ago, I knew I was finally ready to do all of the work necessary.

I had arrived.

I knew the weight wouldn’t come off and stay off if I didn’t take my heart, soul, spirit, emotions, and mentality on this wellness journey with me.

There are many pounds to go, but I’m light on my feet.

I wake up with joy in my heart.

I look ahead now and get to be curious about what’s coming on the horizon for me.

Something I paralyzed myself from doing before.

I say all this to say, that a bowl of pasta is just a bowl of pasta again.

I can taste the marriage of the sauce with the veggies and the seasonings. That complex, yet somehow subtle build-up and layering of flavors.

It’s no longer sprinkled and tossed with my sadness and my pain.

Bon Appetit. ❤

–S.

Running.

I don’t really remember running.

I’m sure I did as a child, and was forced to during the annual fitness test, and for certain gym class activities.

But you know your brain can block out traumatic experiences, so I’m sure that’s what happened.

I always saw it as something only ‘skinny’ people could do, so why bother?

I walk at least an hour every day now and it never fails that I see at least one person running.

For a second, those old feelings hit me:

You can’t run.
You’ll never be able to run.
You’ll never have a runner’s body.
On and on they go.

Lies that I tell myself that I’ve collected over the years – I don’t even think half of the statements are true.

So, I called bullshit today.

I’ve known since last night that I was going to attempt to run today, so I stalled all day.

Around 5p, I was hitting the – yeah, I’m tired of working out every day, mood, y’know – good old self-sabotage.

Then I walked half a mile to the Elementary School behind my house – skinny women in sports bras, flat stomachs showing, everywhere on the track.

The Universe must hate me.

And then my feet hit the pavement, and something happened.

I ran.

I really believed that I couldn’t – wholeheartedly.

Like I really thought I’d make it about 5 steps and pass out. Roast in the Texas sun like a glazed honey ham – only to be found in the morning by a bird taking a shit.

I ran a total of .75 of a mile.

Something big happened.

Something shifted in me.

I thought of every time that I said NO to something because of my weight without even trying, but today I said YES to a future of trying.

I’m not a runner. Nor am I skinny. Nor do I have a runner’s body, whatever the fuck that is, but I ran today and felt alive.

–S.

Stretching in the Direction of Wholeness.

I’m grateful for how my body grew to accommodate me; more specifically, stretchmarks.

I know you’re probably rolling your eyes, but hear me out.

They showed up, I don’t know, pre-teens, I think. I say this like they just walked into the building unannounced, but they kind of did. Didn’t they?

I was always the chubbiest kid in any group. They showed up early. It seems like one day I didn’t have them, and then I did.

At first, it’s so…final. So…permanent. So…there.

I want to barter with the universe. I’ll give you back ALL the late night pepperoni hot pockets and beef ramen cups, if you take them back?

The Universe doesn’t respond.

I’ll cry! You hate to see me cry, don’t you?

The Universe doesn’t respond.

I mourn.

The Universe doesn’t respond.

And then they are so…angry. So red.
Or maybe I’m angry, so I’m projecting that onto them.

But we’ve been together over 15 years now, and it went how it usually does.

Breasts.
Arms.
Thighs.
Knees.
Love Handles.

And I promise myself…I’ll do the work. I will get it right. I won’t get ANY more.

But I got bigger. And there were more.

So, there I was. And there they were.

And….here we are now.

I hated them for a long long long time.

A deep sadness ran in me for something that couldn’t be undone.

Like their appearance diminished everything good about me. Like I was no longer a daughter, a sister, a cousin, a best friend, a friend, a college graduate, the list goes on and on.

And if someone saw them – it’d be social suicide.

But as time went on – I saw them on other people, and they just didn’t look ugly to me ON THEM, just on me.

The angry colors faded and so did my hate.

It turned into acceptance.

And eventually it was like a mole or a freckle or a battle scar.

I used to think it made my body…not soft. Not worthy of being touched.

But sometimes, late at night, right before I drift off, I run my hands over my stomach.

It made me softer.
And dare I say, more interesting.

I lived through something.
I’m still fighting it today.

But now I see fireworks, lightning, thunder striking the earth, shooting stars, hidden paths on a map.

I’m STILL me.

And if someone EVER tried to talk down to me about my stretchmarks, they’d get ghosted like the Universe ghosted me when I was trying to trade them out for something better.

One of my favorite Cheryl Strayed quotes is –
“How wild it was, to let it be.”
And honestly, it really IS wild.

I spent so much time thinking self-hate and negativity would get me somewhere GOOD.
It never did.
So, I’m trying this self-love, self-acceptance, and positivity thing…and I’m growing.

I’m watering the dirt. Flowers are blooming.

I hope that right before you drift off to sleep tonight, you take a moment and just touch your stretchmarks.

Literally touch yourself.

How soft. How magical.

How there.

How YOU.

–S.

I Was Wrong.

As a child, my parents would say hurtful things about my weight. They never flat-out said that I wasn’t beautiful or that I wasn’t worthy of love, but I took the words they did say and basically felt as if I heard them say I wasn’t beautiful and that I wasn’t worthy of love because of my size.

This became part of my identity at a very early age.

My entire identity wrapped itself around these false statements that I gave power to.

I imagine growing around these false statements like your body tissue forms and grows around a breast implant, or a bullet fragment, or a donated organ, or an injury.

They became a living, breathing, part of me.

They became true for me.

But, I was wrong.

So fucking wrong.

They were, and are, false statements.

There is no way that I am worth less than the person standing to my left and to my right anywhere on this earth. There is no way that I am not beautiful.

Today, I choose to give different statements power as I unwrap my identity around these false ideas I have carried about myself for over two decades.

I imagine the tissues dying off as their blood source is taken away.

Today, I made myself breakfast.

I packed my lunch for work. I did an entire skin-care routine.

I made my bed. I am going to go workout after a closing shift.

All this time I thought that I didn’t love myself, but I did.

I was just showing it with unhealthy coping mechanisms that didn’t look too much like love, but I think they did look like someone who was desperately trying to move forward while believing that they were less than.

It looked like a losing fight.

I did these things today as a healthy form of self-care and self-love.

I’m only able to do these things because I actively love myself and want to care for myself.

I am reinventing myself. I am leveling up.

Like a 2.0 version of myself.

I’m taking apart all of the false ideas and negative thoughts that I had about myself to find out who I really am.

I’m coming for all of the energies taken from me.

I’m focusing on turning all of the losses I took into wins.

I’m coming for all of the love I wasn’t given and giving it to myself.

As for weight-loss – I’m going with what feels good.

The idea of an ideal weight, I’m scrapping it.

When I was 16, 170 pounds was my happy space.

I have no fucking idea what my happy space is at 28.

I snatched my weight-loss board off of my closet door.

I ripped up the reward system that I wrote out for every 7.5 pounds down.

I’ll know my happy weight when I fucking get there.

I’m not rewarding myself for weight lost because I’m not going to tell myself that that’s the only reason I deserve to be rewarded.

I gave so much power to so many things that were so wrong.

I was so wrong about everything.

I realize that it is totally okay for an idea you had about yourself to not be true. It is okay for you to realize that it was total and utter bullshit. It’s okay to say you were wrong.

I feel

naked,

afraid,

nervous,

excited.

I’m having to step into who I really am now and it’s terrifying and it’s beautiful.

I could never truly be me because I was always carrying around the dead weight of the dead tissue with me. It weighed me down.

So much of me was wrapped up in lies.

Today, I am more me, than I ever was before.

Like – WILL THE REAL S PLEASE STAND UP?

I don’t know why the hardest person to forgive is yourself. Probably because you’re the only physical – living and breathing – entity on this earth who knows who you really are – you’re the only person who knows who you are at your core. You know every nook and cranny of your mind, heart, and spirit.

So, when you’ve let yourself down, it is like a million hearts breaking.

But the first step to get to the point of forgiving yourself – is to acknowledge the wrongdoing.

Cheryl Strayed wrote in the book Wild –

“What if I forgave myself? I thought. What if I forgave myself even though I’d done something I shouldn’t have? What if I was a liar and a cheat and there was no excuse for what I’d done other than because it was what I wanted and needed to do? What if I was sorry, but if I could go back in time I wouldn’t do anything differently than I had done? What if I’d actually wanted to fuck every one of those men? What if heroin taught me something? What if yes was the right answer instead of no? What if what made me do all those things everyone thought I shouldn’t have done was what also had got me here? What if I was never redeemed? What if I already was?”

This quote always stuck with me and I finally figured out why.

Because I was so very fucking wrong, but I could still be forgiven.

I did what I did out of survival.

Emotionally eating. Being hyper-critical of myself. The men I dated. The friends I kept. The money I spent.

I did what I did because it was the only thing I knew.

But I can still be forgiven.

So, I forgive myself today.

Because I didn’t know better than, but I do now.

I always loved myself, just not in the way that was best for me.

But it was the only way I knew how to love then.

Today, I know better.

Today, I am forgiven.

I imagine that flowers are now growing in the places where the tissue died off.

–S.