Last weekend, my daughter and her family visited, and we got to hunting something from her childhood that I thought was in a cedar chest with other family treasures. I admit that I haven’t opened the chest in a few years, and forgot about some of the things tucked safely there.

That included several pieces of clothing; a Gunne Sax dress from my glorious days in the early 80’s, her Christening gown, a baby dress I wore, pieces from my Ukrainian heritage. And then — two pieces I had forgotten about; a jacket in size 4X and a pair of jeans in size 32W.

If you think these were the clothes I kept that were from my largest size, you’d actually only be partly right. I have another set of clothes from my very largest; I wore them for my “before” photos in September 2013. I have a 3X tee shirt (stretchy!) and a 4X pair of stretchy shorts from then. The jeans and jacket were actually from 2003, the first time I lost a lot of weight, but I wasn’t at my largest.

While I’ve tried on any number of clothes for fit, I haven’t really put on clothes that I knew were from my “before” days, unless you count my wedding dress a few months back. Holding them up, I was honestly surprised how large they appeared, and when I slipped the jacket on, it felt as if I was trying on something from a time I barely remember, now. My body memory doesn’t really remember what it felt like, anymore, to be that size.

While I hope I never fully forget those days, it really did feel like a step back in time. My husband immediately said I needed to have my photo taken in those clothes, but I declined.

I know there’s any number of photos where people have lost drastic amounts of weight and they will take the standard “look how huge these are!”-type poses. Both legs in the same leg of the old pants; a shirt or jacket wrapped around them a couple of times. I might, at some point, do the same thing, but not now.

I’m not done, yet. I don’t want to be done, just yet — both physically and mentally, although I believe I’m closer than I have ever been in my 57 years. My time for settling into what I’m happy with is near, but I really couldn’t put that into words at that moment.

While I believe I’ll be a work in progress until the moment I no longer draw breath, this phase of my life and growth — this mental and physical becoming what I’ve always been all along — will be moving toward a transition into the next part of my life; the part where I live with this new body, outlook, brain. The skin I’m in may be 57 years old and galloping toward 58, but this recognition of me is still incredibly young and needs a bit more time to nurture.

I’ll know when it’s time to say goodbye, though, to the body I’ve worked hard to leave behind.