On weight lost, weight gained, and learning to live in the in-between
It’s been almost five years since I first started my weight loss journey.
Five years.
That number feels wild to me—because that decision was the catalyst for so many things. It was the turning point. The day everything changed.
Back in January 2012, I weighed 270 pounds. I was unhealthy, uncomfortable, and deeply unhappy. I had always struggled with my body image, but during college, things spiraled. The number on the scale kept going up, and with it, my shame and self-loathing. I was tired of crying in front of mirrors. Tired of starting and quitting. Tired of pretending I didn’t care while secretly hating myself in photos. My jeans crept further into the plus-size section, and I didn’t recognize the body I was in. It didn’t feel like mine.
So I made the decision: to change my weight, my health, my life. And everything else followed.
I started tracking my food daily. I began working out, almost obsessively. I took up running—and somehow, I fell in love with it. I trained for and ran a half-marathon. I lost nearly 120 pounds. I shopped in “regular” clothing stores. Doctors praised me. I felt beautiful for the first time in my life. My body still didn’t quite feel like mine, but it felt good. I was proud.
And then?
I got pregnant.
I gained back 70 pounds.
My body—once again—didn’t feel like mine. This time, it belonged to my baby.
After giving birth, I tried to get back on track. I made some progress, lost some weight, but then stalled. For the last year, I’ve been hovering—still down about 70 pounds from my heaviest, but up 45 from my lowest. Stuck in the middle. Frustrated. Exhausted.
The truth is, I lost my momentum. My drive. My energy. Healthy living is hard. It requires time, intention, and sacrifice. And I’ve been spread too thin for too long—motherhood, full-time work, sleep-deprivation, solo parenting nights. The effort it takes to plan meals, prep food, log everything, work out? It often feels impossible. Most days I’m too tired to even care. So I fall back into convenience, into survival mode. Into old habits.
But lately, the feelings are creeping back in. That familiar discomfort. The tugging at clothes. The dread of seeing myself in photos. The urge to hide.
And maybe—if I still have the energy to resent how I feel—maybe I can find the energy to do something about it.
I don’t have the fire I had five years ago.
But maybe I still have a spark.
I once gave it my all.
Can’t I at least give it my some?
I don’t know if my body will ever fully feel like mine again.
But I need to try.
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