Why I'm not stepping on the scale

I promised myself when I restarted my Weight Watchers journey in earnest that I would not let myself make excuses not to weigh in. After all, that’s how I started regaining weight in the first place. As it turns out, I really need that accountability.

I’ve stuck to that—since the beginning of February. I’ve weighed in every week, whether I knew I’d be up or down. I accepted the triumph of consequence of the scale, no matter what.

But there’s a fine line between being accountable and allowing your entire mood to depend upon those glowing numbers on that little box. And today I’ve chosen my mental health over that scale.

I’ve made no secret that I suffer with depression and anxiety. I do a lot to combat that every day. But there are just some times that those little demons are overpowering me—and that’s where I’ve been the past two weeks.

My food has been terrible. I’ve been bingeing. Hiding food wrappers. Staying up late to eat in secret. Waking up early to continue. All things I did when I was young. Though I can’t pinpoint exactly why I’ve been feeling like this, I’m working to fix it. I’m spending time in prayer and in meditation each day. I’m going to therapy. I have a support group. And above all, I’m talking about it—to you, to my husband and even to myself. I’m not just putting my head in the sand and letting this take over me.

But I need to give myself a break and realize that the scale should be the least of my concerns right now. I weighed at home. I know what it says (it’s not as bad as I’d feared, thankfully)—I’m just not going to let it define me today.

So today I’m breaking my “no no weigh-ins” rule. And I’m OK with it. 

Because sometimes we have to realize that when it comes to our health, getting our heads right is just as important—if not more important—as getting our bodies right.

It's too late to apologize

I am a grudge holder. Like, big time. It’s not something that makes me proud. For instance, I don’t like that my husband is usually the first person to apologize if we have an argument just because of my own stubbornness. If you do something to hurt one of my friends or family members? I’ll more than likely dislike you forever.

It also turns out that I’m super great at holding a grudge against myself, too.

This morning I had a little breakdown. My husband told me that he’s noticed my self-criticism has increased lately. I didn’t even know that was possible. But he’s right.

I’m down nearly 20 pounds. I’m glad I’m finally back on track after years of wandering somewhere near those tracks. But I’m not doing so well with forgiving myself for those years of wanderlust. Yes, what’s important is that I’m moving forward. Yes, I’m proud that I have stuck to it for a couple of months. Yes, I feel a little better about myself. I think. Sometimes I’m not sure.

I’m finding that I have to forgive myself every single day. I have to push aside that voice that says “Well, what if you’d continued and THEN lost 20 more pounds? You’d be almost to your goal.” I see a picture from my social media memories that reminds me of how far I’d gotten—and how far I’ve fallen. Some days that’s harder than others. This week has been that way.

The mirror. Photos. They are my worst enemies. I feel good about myself at the gym. I feel good that I’ve stuck to my points. Then I see a picture or catch a glimpse of myself in that God-forsaken studio mirror at the Y. And I’m back to beating myself up.

I know in my heart that what matters is now. But I’d be lying if I said that the “what ifs?” don’t creep in every day in some way. So if you ask me if I feel good about where I am—well, compared to two months ago? Sure. Compared to three years ago? Nope.

Pride and self-loathing—it’s a constant battle in my life. And some days the wrong one wins.

But I don't want to be insignificant

It’s been a long time. A long time for everything. Since I wrote an entry. Since I started this blog. Since I started this journey. Since I felt focused. Motivated.

I’ve made a lot of excuses. I started dating. I ate. I felt vulnerable. I ate. My dad died. I ate. I got married. I ate. I couldn’t get pregnant. I ate.

And ate.

And ate.

At my lowest, I lost 130 pounds. Now I’m hovering around 55 pounds lost. But let’s be real. That’s about 75 pounds gained.

I’ve not blogged in a long time. Part of it was depression. But a bigger part of it was shame. Failure is a tough thing when you’ve been called an inspiration. I was always uncomfortable with that word—but I can admit that I was flattered by it, too. So it hurt to face you guys. It has hurt to face a lot of people. I still meet people who say “Oh, you used to write a blog!” Yes, I used to. Yes, I sort of still do. Yes, I used to be that girl.

But in my heart, I know “that girl” is still me—somewhere deep inside. And I think I’ve finally started to uncover her once again.

I had a moment about a month ago. I was in a workout class (yep, I still actually do those) and had, what seems, a million overwhelming feelings. I felt worthless. Useless. Insignificant. Unhealthy. Do I matter at work? Do I matter in this world that feels like it’s falling apart? Do I matter if I can’t have a baby and can’t be a mother (please note: this is my personal feeling about my own life—not a judgment at ALL about women who choose not to have children)? Do I matter when I’m back to being that obese girl staring back at me in the gym mirror?

And then I felt it—an epiphany.

What is the one thing I could control--of all those things that were figuratively (and literally) weighing on me?

My health.

So I have. I started that next morning. I’ve gone back to Weight Watchers in a near-obsessive fashion. I’m tracking my points like a boss. I’m clinging to that feeling of control that I’d lost for so long. I’m more focused than I’ve been maybe since the early days of my blog. I’m down 10 pounds and I have no intention of stopping.

I know it may be hard for y’all to trust that—to trust me. I’ve claimed new beginnings a hundred times. But in my heart of hearts, I feel like this is my last chance. And I just can’t squander that again.

I’m working to create some more content for this site, and I hope you’ll come with me. After all, we need each other, right? 

Much love to you, always. And remember—you are worthy. And so am I.

P.S. Thanks to Counting Crows for this blog's title. 

Here I am now

An update.

I don’t know where to begin, so I thought I’d give you an update in bulleted form. Here goes: 

• I’m doing OK. Life is moving along just fine. And I even got to go on vacation.

  

  Sunset on the beach. Yay vacation!

• My new role at work is really busy. I love being in the hospital every day and feeling like I’m making a difference.

• My food has been---eh. I’m trying. I haven’t given up (you know that will never happen). But I’ve let a lot of other life things get in the way. I’m not happy with that, so I’m actively working to fix it.

• I am not pregnant—but I hope to be. Without going into detail, that has meant some medications and testing that has messed with my hormones, and that’s also affected my food and exercise.

• Even if I get pregnant tomorrow, I am still committed to working toward the healthiest me I can. The definition of what that means may change for a few months.

•  I am actively pursuing my new role as a LaCroix drinker. This is BIG NEWS, friends. Many of you will remember my tawdry, dysfunctionalrelationship with Diet Coke, yes? I haven't had one in years. But unfortunately, real Coke became a terrible substitute for a time. So I’m trying to like LaCroix. It’s happening slowly, but hopefully surely.

• My newest hobby is growing and developing the perfect seasoning on my cast iron skillet.

• My husband has started going to the gym with me. He runs on the track while I’m in class. I love that even though we’re not doing the same thing we’re still there together.

I’ll probably elaborate on a few of those things in the next couple of weeks. I’ve got a long list of new favorites to share, so look for that next Friday.

Thank you for never giving up on me!

Purple Tears

Today is Friday. On Fridays I talk about my favorites.

And Prince was one of my very favorites.

When I heard the news yesterday, I first was in total disbelief. Then I couldn’t stop crying. Isn’t it strange to have such a strong reaction to someone you didn’t know? But my connection to his music, like for many, was an emotional one. And his death has hit me hard.

Just one week ago, I sat in the second row from the back of the Fox Theater for Prince’s Piano and a Microphone show. It was the show I’d waited my entire life to see. My absolute, No. 1, tip-top of my bucket list concert experience. He came out—a silhouetted poof of hair and heels. He sat down at the piano and started to play. And I started to cry.

I was 7 years old when I first heard about Prince. I had a babysitter named Michelle. I wanted to be just like her. She played the flute. She wore shiny lip gloss. And she brought over her 1999 tape. I was instantly transfixed by it—and by “Little Red Corvette,” especially. I had no idea what the words meant (probably for the best as an impressionable kid), but that music—that voice, made me feel things. There was power and magic and wonder in it—and I felt them all.

So last Thursday, Prince came out. He sat down at the piano, tinkled the keys and began to play:

“I guess I should have known, by the way you parked your car sideways that it wouldn’t last…”

I burst into tears. Those tears lasted the entire show. I held my friend LaTonia’s hand. I sang. I danced. I thanked my lucky stars that I was there. It felt like a beautiful gift. I didn’t know how much of a gift it truly was.

LaTonia and me before the show started. 

From that 7-year-old girl singing Prince into her hairbrush, to the college student who dreamed of one day finding someone who felt about me like Prince sang in “The Most Beautiful Girl in the World,” to the 41-year-old who sat mesmerized through his show just last week, Prince has provided the soundtrack of my life. And it’s obvious I’m not alone.

I miss him. I miss my childhood. I miss my parents. I think this loss is hitting me on a deeper level because of others I've experienced. But Prince was a person with a God-given gift. He sang from his soul. He shared his heart--and we all felt it. I’m so grateful that I grew up with his weird, purple, incomparable, beautiful influence. The world will much less...less without him.

It's been so lonely without you here

Like a bird without a song

Nothing can stop these lonely tears from falling

It's over there. No, over THERE.

Look at the sky! It’s a bird! It’s a plane. It’s…my motivation?

Hi. I know it’s been a couple of weeks. Do I need to start every blog post with an apology? No, you know what? I don’t. I deal with enough regret about things as it is. And clearly it’s not helping anything.

So I’m here. Hi.

I have been in the tiniest of funks the past month. I’m not completely off track, but there’s one wonky wheel that keeps getting stuck or wiggling right off. So, as I like to say, my motivation isn’t completely gone. It’ s just over yonder, as we say in the South. I can see it. I just can’t quite reach it. 

I mean, I COULD reach it. If I got off my booty.

So that’s what I’m working on now. Tuesday I weighed in—even that is a good indicator—I went for months and months without weighing in—and I was up a little more than 2 pounds. So I’m still down 11. And I’m trying to see a loss next week to really get me back on track.

So why am I in a funk? I’m not totally sure. My dad’s anniversary is coming up—and that weighs heavily on my mind. My family and I have chosen to celebrate that day in memory of both of my parents with a big party, just like they would have liked it. 

And there are a few other things that are nagging me that I’ll talk about in a future entry. I mean, I’m nothing if not an oversharer, right? 

I have started writing down ideas for future entries, which will help me when I think I have nothing to discuss. Truly, that’s why I’m absent sometimes—I don’t think I have anything you’d want to read. At any rate, ideas I’ve written down include: jealousy, need for support, FOMO (yeah, I’m a cool kid), fear of aging and depression. And of course, a healthy dose of some Friday Favorites, mixed with the triumphant return of Phriday Photos. 

Thank you for sticking with me and reminding me of the good in my life.

Sometimes the hurdles are good

I don’t want to be super click-baity, so I’ll tell you first that this week, I lost…4.2 pounds. Boom. Now you don’t have to keep reading if you just wanted the end result. Because now I’m going to tell you how I did it.

Not easily.

And here’s what I learned about that.

As you remember from my last entry, I kind of had a free-for-all with my friends, but I was determined not to let that derail me. It was important to let that weekend go, and start fresh with good choices. But it was hard. I felt tempted at every turn.

I worked at the Ronald McDonald House this weekend and unlike my February weekend, I felt restless and hungry. During my February weekend, I hardly thought about eating the goodies. This past weekend, I felt like I was constantly punching the throat of the devil on my shoulder who told me to eat.

But what I learned is that this isn’t really a bad thing. This is LIFE—and we all know life's not always easy. Sometimes our journeys are going to be difficult. Maybe it’s one day, or one week or one month, or even longer that just seems more challenging. But I think that those harder times when I feel most tempted are the times when I learn how strong I am. Hell, if it was always easy, we’d all be at our happiest and healthiest weights without even trying. And for most of us, that's just not the case.

So this weekend I gave in a little. I had a brownie. I had a cookie. But I didn’t let it stop me from making healthy choices 85 percent of the time—and the scale was nice to me as a result.

Challenges aren’t always bad things. In fact, in most cases, the opposite is true. Seeing that 4-pound loss today, and knowing I plowed through some real temptations, made that victory even sweeter.

Tuesday bonus photo

After Weight Watchers, I decided to go to Willy’s for lunch. For those not in the metro Atlanta area, Willy’s is similar to a Moe’s or Chipotle. I got a bowl with a little rice, some steak, a pinch of cheese and a few other things. I was very mindful of what I chose, despite having a good weigh-in.

They also give you chips with your meal. Uh-oh. That’s what gets me into trouble. But I know this—and knowledge is power. So I dutifully counted out 10 chips (10 big ones, duh) and crumbled up the rest. Except you know what else I've learned? I’d still grab that bag out of the garbage and eat those pieces. I learned that lesson a long time ago. So I squirted some lotion in the bag, crumbled it again and threw it away. Maybe I need to tell Gold Bond about a new way to advertise their product?

No regrets. But a big reminder.

So I’ve been trudging along with my weight loss, which is, quite frankly, going slower than I’d like. I think I can chalk that up to a couple of reasons. I’m older than I was last time around—even a few years might make a difference. I’m also not weight training like I was the first time around—something I hope to amend that soon.

But last week, it’s no surprise why loss didn’t happen.

I ate all the things.

I had friends come into town this weekend. The first thing we did was grab breakfast after I picked them up from the airport. I did great! Omelet. Small side of grits. I was off to a fantastic start.

But it started declining quickly. We went to the World of Coke. I let myself try a few of the Cokes in the tasting room (um, despite giving up soda for Lent), and I swear, I haven’t had that much sugar in a month or so. I felt gross.

And then it kept going. Dinner—let’s get an appetizer AND dessert (this was me saying this, by the way). And the next day—same thing.

Here’s a little something I’ve learned about indulgence along the way. It’s perfectly OK sometimes. Sure, have dessert every once in a while. Don’t deny yourself a piece of cake on your birthday. Live a little.

But be prepared when it comes back to smack you in the booty. I felt horrible this week, physically, anyway. Mentally, I told myself it was OK that I had a little bit of a crazy food weekend—as long as it didn't turn into more than that. I gained 1.8, which isn’t devastating, and I’m hard core back on track this week.

It’s strange. Even though I gained a little this week, I still feel like the way I handled it was a small victory for my emotions. I didn't beat myself up. I don't have tremendous regrets about the weekend. I moved on. But I moved on with a great reminder of how much better I feel when I'm taking care of myself, food-wise.

This weekend? I’m back at The Ronald. And I intend to crush it. 

Friday Favorites Finally

It’s back! The triumphant return of Friday Favorites! Are you excited? Can you FEEL the electricity?

OK, maybe not. But maybe I’ll give you some cool ideas, nonetheless. So without further ado, here are a few things I’m loving lately:

Egg roll/wonton wrappers

I love snacks. If I had my way, I’d just snack constantly and never eat a real meal. Also? I’ll choose appetizers over dessert every single time. Give me all the dips and rolls and chips and potato skins and mozzarella sticks and…OK, I need to stop. You get the picture. But life isn’t made on appetizers alone. So I’ve found a solution that marries a meal and a snack—and it makes my heart happy. Enter Nasoya wraps. Low in points (or calories, or whatever you may be counting) and full of endless possibilities, these things are bringing me such joy. They bake up crispy and soft, and I’m having a blast stuffing them with whatever I can imagine. My favorite is a Pizza Log (from a recipe created by the fabulous Emily Bites), but I’ve also made ham and cheese roll-ups and buffalo chicken roll-ups. And because I’m a good Catholic girl who can’t eat meat on Fridays right now, I’m contemplating a healthier version of Crab Rangoon very soon. These wraps are usually found in the produce section of your local grocery store.

Perfectly poached eggs  

I love eggs for breakfast. I find it necessary to start my day with protein. I especially love a good runny egg. But because I’m nothing if not a fan of the snooze button, I don’t usually have the time to make them. However, I’ve learned a trick that is truly life changing. Are you ready? You can cook perfectly poached eggs in a minute in your microwave. Take a regular coffee mug, fill it with water (I don't measure but usually fill it up about 1/2 to 3/4 of the way), break an egg into it, cover it with a plate and cook it for 60 seconds. Remove with a slotted spoon, and voila--a perfect egg. The trick is to make sure you take it out of the water right away, or it will continue to cook (which means a harder yolk, if you prefer it that way. You can call me over for the ones you "undercook."). Naturally, my favorite way to eat said eggs is on a piece of avocado toast.  Delish!

 

Old-school lunch

When I was a kid--even all throughout high school--my mom made my lunch (maybe I was a little spoiled?). That lunch was basically the same every day: sandwich, chips and some sort of Little Debbie snack cake. What? It was the '80s and '90s (Total side note, apropos of nothing: I recently was watching a YouTube makeup guru who was talking about a product I had just bought. She said she'd tried other similar products, but she felt like it looked really '80s, like middle school Then she said "By the way, I was NOT in middle school in the '80s." I turned her right off, the little brat. For the record, I WAS in middle school in the '80s. And it was glorious. I bet I can still fold a note in a cooler way than you, whippersnapper. Sorry. Tangent.) Anyway, this was perhaps where my love for Swiss Cake Rolls (and binge eating) began. Still, I grew up with a brown paper bag and milk money. So I'm trying to rekindle this, minus the Little Debbies.

 

I've recently started a new job where I'm in the hospital most days. And those days, I don't have access to a fridge. Brown bags just won't do the trick. So I found a lunchbag that helps. You put the PackIt lunchbag in the freezer overnight, pack your lunch goodies in it and your stuff will stay cold most of the day. I find it so satisfying to bring and eat my lunch. Though I don't do it every day, I'm trying very hard to make it the norm. This cute li'l black and white polka dot bag helps with that a lot.

 

Babybel cheese

My husband and I recently got a Costco membership. We wanted to try it for a year and see if we use it enough to justify it. But the cost of these glorious little wax-covered rounds of cheese may just be the only thing I need to buy a membership every year. I find that in the grocery store, they're just too expensive for too few. But Costco has a huge bag for less than $12. They make a perfect snack for this cheese-loving girl. Nothing better.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Smartfood Snack Bags

 

I love popcorn. I love cheese. Therefore, I love Smartfood. But I can't control myself around a big bag. I'll eat the whole freaking thing. Seriously. Enter the Smartfood Go Sack. There are 12 (!) small bags of Smartfood popcorn in this sack. It's perfect for lunches or snacks. And best of all? It's only 3 Smartpoints per bag. Eating my popcorn is one of the highlights of my day. Really.

 

Tracking

Full disclosure: I've never been a very good Weight Watcher tracker. Even when I was in my weight-loss prime, I was never that diligent with tracking my food--I tried to keep up with it in my head, but I think I used my WW meetings more for accountability. I'd make smart choices and weigh in, but it was rare that I knew how many points I'd consumed in a day. Hmm. Perhaps this is why my success...stalled. This time it's different. I'm actually enjoying tracking. I love the challenge of fitting healthy foods into my day. I don't always love the disappointment of discovering something is a lot higher than I thought it might be--but now I'm not surprised, because I check ahead of time. And I guess it's working, because I've lost 9.8 pounds (7.8 last week; 2 more this week) in two weeks. You know what they say--the program works if you work the program.

 

Thanks for your patience with this entry--I saved a few for next time, but will make sure to keep this a weekly thing like it used to be.

 

As always, I'm curious to know what you're loving! Share in the comments below so others might find some new faves.

 

Have a great weekend, friends!

 

 

Who wants a cupcake, anyway?

Y'all.

I have had a heck of a week. And I mean that in a good way. I have been laser-focused on my plan. I have been rock solid. I have tracked. I have exercised. I have consumed what seems like a million gallons of water.

For the first time in ages, I have been in control. And it had varying levels of difficulty--especially this weekend.

I was at The Ronald. For those of you who don't know, I'm a weekend manager at our local Ronald McDonald House. Once a month, I get there early on a Saturday morning and do not leave the property until super early Monday morning.

The Ronald has proven to be a minefield of temptation--and I've not always come out unscathed. In fact, when I first started my journey years ago, I had to take a six-month leave of absence. I couldn't handle the sweets and casseroles that people so generously brought to the house. After I went back, it became the championship game. I would practice and prepare for it all month, and then go in determined to beat my opponent.

As I've fallen off my plan in later years, I've usually gone in to my weekends just not caring either way.

But right now, I'm trying SO hard. So going in Saturday, I was both nervous and determined. Not only was it a regular weekend there, but it was Valentine's weekend. I knew that meant an abundance of sweets and goodies.

I brought my own food and stuck to that for the most part. I avoided the (literally) hundreds of cupcakes generously donated by Gigi's Cupcakes (we're not talking so-so store-bought cupcakes) and skipped the excess chips and other less-healthy topping options on taco night.

I felt so good to be back on track. I wish I could explain how much I needed to feel like I'd accomplished something.

And it turns out that all that cupcake avoiding, steps I walked around the House and healthy choices I made paid off. Today was my weigh-in. Ready for the total?

No, really. Are you SURE you're ready?

7.8 pounds down.

Seven point eight.

In a week.

I thought my sweet WW leader was going to cry. Actually, she might have. She's seen me faithfully attend meetings--usually without weighing in--for quite some time. And she's been supportive and encouraging of me no matter what. But I needed to jump back in the game--and fast.

So I did. And I won this battle.

Now--on to the next.

*jumps on horse*

P.S. I'm thinking it's about time for a new Friday Favorites. Sound good?

A selfish Lenten commitment

It’s Fat Tuesday.

I’m trying not to make the joke that every day that ends in a Y is a fat day for me. But oh, I just did.

It’s an annual tradition for me to post about my Lenten goals. There was the time I gave up Diet Coke. Then I made a commitment to bring my lunch every day during Lent. That was hard.

But this year, I’m feeling the need to be selfish during Lent.

I realize that’s not really the point, but I think in this instance, it makes the most sense. I’m going to spend the next 40 days focusing on myself.

This means I will devote myself to taking care of myself physically, emotionally and spiritually. I’m hoping for a major reset with a higher power helping me along the way.

Physically

Taking care of myself physically means there is less reason to hate my body and more time to appreciate the things it was created to do. So I will focus on being kind to it. Feeding it healthfully. Exercising it regularly. I will throw in one sacrifice that I should be making anyway—giving up soda. For good. Because now that I’ve gotten rid of Diet Coke (it’s been more than two YEARS, y’all), I have rediscovered a love for regular Coke. Bad, bad.

I’ve already been tracking my WW points and staying on plan as well as possible. This is Day Two. Long road ahead.

Monastery of the Holy Spirit, Conyers,Ga.

Emotionally and spiritually

These kind of go hand in hand for me. But it boils down to this—giving thanks and being kind to myself. Two things I’ve been severely lacking in doing. I need to pray. I need to meditate. I need to journal. I need to be self-affirming. I’ve not done a single one of these things lately. But Lent is the time to refocus.

For those of you who participate in Lent, what are you giving up? Or more importantly, what are you doing for yourself and for others? I think so often we focus on giving up sweets or fast food or soda that we forget what this season is really about. I hope you’ll join me in honoring the unique and beautiful person you were created to be.

I mean, that’s why we’re all here, right?

The age factor

I grew up with a mother who never, ever, under any circumstances, discussed her age.

I’m not quite like that. I am usually OK with discussing my age. I think part of it is because I don’t feel my age. 41. Is that right? Sometimes I still have to count backward. So 41 must be the new 21. Or 31. Or whatever. It’s something younger than I feel, that’s for sure.

I’ve become this person who rolls her eyes at Millennials with their perfectly timed and planned Instagram posts, their uber-catchy phrases and their ignorance of the pop culture influences of my own youth. Get off my lawn, dammit.

But I’m pretty sure it’s not bitterness that plagues me, when I really start searching my soul about it. It’s jealousy. They have something that I don’t.

Time.

Sure, those of you older than I might think I’m young. I get it. I remember dreading turning 28. I was SO old. The 41-year-old me would like to punch that girl, by the way.

I’m plagued with regret about the time I’ve wasted beating myself up, being uncomfortable with my body and planning for a “thin future.” The time I’ve spent thinking of all this seriously would add up to decades.

But now I have a new regret about my wasted time—and I’m even more aware of my age. Because I very much hope one day to be a mother.

I’m not sure how much of this journey I’ll share with you, but considering I lean pretty heavily toward the overshare side, I’m sure you’ll hear more.

For now, I’ll tell this. This week I saw a doctor to talk about my options and how I could increase my chances of being a mother at this later age.

We talked about my age. My past issues with all my…parts. And my family history.

And then we talked about my weight.

The truth is that I knew it was coming. I wasn’t surprised. She was so gentle and kind about it. So lovely. We want to increase every chance of you getting pregnant and then having a successful pregnancy, she said. And then she referred me to a nutritionist.

I mean, look, I have gained some weight back. And even if not, I never got less than 50 pounds away from my goal weight anyway.  So yeah, I expected it. But man, it hurts.

To think that my weight isn’t just holding me back from my life, but it’s possibly holding me back from birth. The question remains—is this enough to compel me to change? Damn, I sure hope so.

Because now, I’m not the only part of this equation. 

I was never good at math, but I’m pretty sure that makes it a hell of a lot more important.

Starting from scratch and a half

Happy 2016, y'all.

Last year was supposed to be the best year ever. The year I got back on track—when I was in the best shape of my life and felt fabulous and healthy on my wedding day.

OK, so none of those things really happened. Except the wedding day.

If you read my last post about six months ago or so, my year didn’t go at all as I planned. And because of that, I really wasn’t able to focus on my health.

This year I’m hoping it will be different—starting with this blog.

I struggle with this a bit. Do you really want to read stuff you already read from me? Because in a lot of ways, I feel like I’m starting from scratch. I have a new name, I’m in a new decade of life, I’m a different person. But a lot of my issues are the same. So at the risk of repeating some of the things I said in 2011 or 2012, I’m going to start again. And I hope you’ll join me.

It’s risky. If you enjoy my posts, you might be afraid to connect with me again, for fear I’ll quit—once again. The truth is that I can’t make any promises. What I can tell you is that I haven’t really quit. I mean, not totally. I fall down most days, but somehow I still get up and try again. I still believe that my ultimate goal is possible.

I hope you guys will join me once again and share your own journeys.I don't want to overpromise, but for now, I'll start with an entry a week. That's do-able. 

I’ll leave you with this: I'm not where I want to be--not by a long shot. I'm not where I was a couple of years ago. But I'm not where I started. And that has to count for something, right?

2010

2015

The worst best year

I have a dress in my closet that I’ll never wear again. I really loved that dress. I liked how it looked on me. I liked the lace. I bought it for a wedding. I celebrated with friends. But now it’s hanging there in my closet, reminding me of the last time I wore it—the reason I can never wear it again.

Obviously I have been fairly absent this year. I’m sorry for that. To be honest, 2015 has been a doozy. And it was supposed to be the best year ever—the one I’d waited for my entire life. The year I, at age 40, finally married the love of my life. 

That’s still happening. But it’s taken some twists and turns to get there. Let’s recap:

In April, I put my 17-year-old cat to sleep. If you’d told me 20 years ago that I’d be so attached to a cat, I’d have told you you were crazy. But I loved my little Timber, who I found just a few months before my mom died in 2000. She was there for every sad and lonely moment from then on. It was heartbreaking to say goodbye to her.

In May, my fiancé spent a week in the hospital. He had a series of mini-strokes that, fortunately, haven’t seemed to cause too much residual damage. But it was a scary, exhausting week.

I also had some other personal issues at the beginning of the year that seemed to suck the life out of me.

In mid-May, I said to my fiancé: “You know, 2015 has really sucked. But I have high hopes for the rest of the year.”

The rest of the year. I’d be getting married. Everything would be fine. All would be well.

But the very next day, my life changed forever with one phone call. My brother called me while I was at work. I knew something was wrong. I didn’t know how wrong. 

My father had died suddenly of a perforated ulcer he didn’t even know he had. 

Nothing was fine. Nothing was well. 

The next few weeks, heck, the next two months or so since then have been a blur. Planning another parent’s funeral. Trying to grasp the idea that neither of my parents would be at my wedding. Wearing that lovely navy lace dress I will never wear again to give the eulogy at my father’s funeral. Holding my baby niece who will now never know either of her paternal grandparents. Making sure others felt comfortable by not crying too much in front of them. Nodding with a weary smile as well-meaning friends told me, “You know your parents will be at your wedding.”

Sure they will. I believe that. That’s what my faith teaches me. But my selfish heart wants to scream at the unfairness of it all. And sometimes, I have to admit, I actually, literally do scream.

How am I doing today? Still a little numb. Still a little incredulous. But also incredibly grateful for the support of the family and friends who have truly held me afloat through all of this.

I’m taking baby steps forward. The wedding, after all, is planned. It’s just around the corner. Last weekend, I had a beautiful bridal shower hosted by the best bridesmaids a girl could ever have. The love in the room was palpable. But I missed my mom. I missed knowing my fiancé and brother could probably be bonding with my dad during those hours the girls oohed and ahhed over my lovely gifts.

Last week, someone told me she was glad that I was doing so well. I guess that’s all relative. Because sometimes I feel like I’m barely holding it together. Still, I’m determined to be as real as possible during this grief process—with myself and with others. I wasn’t when my mom died. And that’s what set me into this whole tailspin. I’ve tried to take this sadness out at the gym. It’s helped some to be active and focus on that, instead of focusing on the fact that there will now be two very empty chairs on the biggest day of my life.

Again, I apologize for my absence. Many of you are real-life friends who know my situation, but I know there are many readers who may have been worried about me. 

I’m doing OK. Some days I’m doing pretty well. Other days I’m still a disaster. But I’m here and I’m inching ahead. It’s sort of all I can do.

My life, as told by T. Swift

Monday was one of those days. Nothing went right. I mean, nothing. And it was kind of my fault.

I have this theory about bad days. A lot of times they start as soon as we wake up. We stub our toe getting out of bed. Our dog jumps on our head while we’re sound asleep (just me?). Our alarms don’t go off. We rip a hole in our tights. It happens. But it’s how we choose to face the rest of the day that make a difference. I think we have the ability to turn them around.

And Monday, I didn’t choose to do that. I just wallowed in my grumpalupagus state. The thing that set me off was not my dog, or my tights, or my alarm or stubbing my toe.

It was the scale.

It’s just not moving. I have counted my points. Watched my carbs. And worked my butt off at the gym. I know my body. It’s just not reacting like it normally does—and I’m frustrated. I know, it’s not all about the scale. I’m trying to focus on other successes, but I’m having a little trouble seeing them.

The day started with the scale. Then I realized, as I was driving to work, that my dress was on backward. Little things like that continued to plague me all day. I was grateful to head to my local Y for my favorite Monday class after work.

Except I couldn’t find a parking space. Not one single parking space in the entire gym parking lot. And people by the dozen were driving around waiting for spaces. I finally gave up. I ended up going to another Y for a later class (but almost left when I realized class was a half hour later than I thought).

But Zumba made it a little better. A little. Because I got some insight from a guitar-playing, golden-haired angel named Taylor.

I’m not going to lie. I have developed a new love for sweet little Taylor Swift. So when I walked into class, I thought, this has been the crappiest day. I hope we do the routine to “Shake it Off.”

And we did.

As I shook it off—or at least tried to—I realized that Taylor was singing to me. Ah, the magic of T. Swift. She sings our happiness and our pain. Right? Or something.

But hear me out. You all know the song. Even if you hate it. Even if you try to hate it, but can’t. It gets stuck in your head like a happy little earworm.

'Cause the players gonna play, play, play, play, play

And the haters gonna hate, hate, hate, hate, hate

Baby, I'm just gonna shake, shake, shake, shake, shake

Shake it off, I shake it off

Heartbreakers gonna break, break, break, break, break

And the fakers gonna fake, fake, fake, fake, fake

Baby, I'm just gonna shake, shake, shake, shake, shake

Shake it off, I shake it off

OMG, you guys! Taylor just, like, totally gave me an epiphany. *I* am the player. *I* am the hater.  *I* am the faker. *I* am the heartbreaker. Coo coo ca choo.

But seriously. I am destroying myself with hating and breaking my heart with my own choices. Because when the scale was mean to me, you know what I did? I sabotaged. Ate a bunch of crap. Who does that hurt? Me.

So. I’m just gonna shake, shake, shake. Shake it off.

Because, seriously self, why you gotta be so mean?

Thanks, Tay-Tay.

P.S. Old weight? We are never ever ever getting back together.

Colonial child? Or rapper up in herre?

Nelly/Nellie. It’s what I call her. She’s more a mean girl to my Laura Ingalls than a Band-Aid-wearing rapper from the early 2000s, but she’s there all the time. It’s my fervent wish to rid myself of her for good this year. It’s my top goal. My absolute priority. Be gone, Negative Nelly.

Today Nelly has been relentless. She’s beating me up for not losing enough weight this week. I worked my booty off last week. My food was on plan, I worked out pretty hard several days a week and took my dog for a walk on the days I didn’t. And I let myself have a little indulgence at my best friend’s birthday dinner on Saturday, but only after I went to my hardest workout class that morning. 

And I lost 4 pounds.

Um, yo Nelly (sorry, maybe she is, in fact, the rapper?), shut up—4 pounds is pretty acceptable. More than acceptable, even. It’s kind of awesome.

So why isn’t Nelly letting me believe that?

Instead, she’s reminding me that I changed into workout clothes for this week’s weigh-in, but not last week’s. Those clothes from last week could have added more, so maybe I didn't lose all 4 of those pounds. She’s telling me that 4 pounds are nothing compared to how far I have to go. Oh, and by the way, don’t forget you’re getting married in less than a year, she says. She likes to add a #fatbride hashtag, too. After pulling my pigtails.

I am doing everything I can to combat Nelly. I’m going to therapy. I’m talking it out with friends. I’m reading a new devotional about confidence. I hate that this is even an issue—that I can’t seem to shake her.

Honesty. It’s what I always strive for with this blog. So I have to be honest about my negative voice, while knowing that I can’t let it control me or even this site. I’ve let that happen far too long.

Do you guys have a way to beat your inner critic? I’m thinking duel to the death. Or maybe a dance off.