I am amazed to report that I’ve now lost 161 pounds. In the last couple of weeks, my loss shifted into high gear. While I’m more than happy to ride this particular wave for as long as it lasts, this shift back toward changing my body has brought up some interesting issues.

I wouldn’t say I was necessarily comfortable sitting at my last plateau, and I’m certainly glad it’s in my rearview mirror, but since shifting gears once again, I realize I had fallen into a certain mental stagnation. When my body is not changing, there is a part of me that wondered if this is all I will be able to lose. While I have trained myself to appreciate the moment I’m in, I stopped thinking about what’s down the road, including how I will adapt as my body changes.

We be stylin’!

There’s part of my brain that simply can’t believe that this is who I am, now. It’s not body dysmorphia; when I look in the mirror, I see my accurate size, and I’m well grounded in where I am at this moment.

That part of my brain — maybe it’s that old inner Walt coming back for a visit — insists that this isn’t real. That it’s not permanent. That I’m not deserving, and I dare not think in terms of finally reaching a point where I am in optimal health and can focus more on maintaining.

It’s the same part of my brain that scolds me when I see an increase on the scale — as if to jab at me and say see? Told you so. It’s the taskmaster who torments my mind if I have the nerve to take a vacation and relax my eating plan for a few days, as if I’ll gain back 161 pounds in a week.

It’s fear of failure. Even after 4.5 years of making positive changes, it lurks in the dark corners of my mind. Although 4.5 years is certainly a long time, I spent more than 30 years as a morbidly obese woman, and I freely admit that living as that person was certainly far easier than the life I now lead.

People expect more of me, now. I expect more of me, now. I never, ever want to be that woman, again, and perhaps it’s good that my inner fear is there to remind me that the possibility of returning there will always exist.

If I occasionally feel like an imposter — or like a child playing dress-up and that this isn’t who I really am — I suppose I can learn to quiet that voice, as long as it serves to remind me to never go back down the path that led me here. It’s certainly a different kind of self-awareness that often leaves me feeling unsure and exposed as I find my way to a new normal.