As much as I’ve been clamoring for travel, you’d think I’d be more excited — I mean, a trip!

But alas, no.

While I’m fully capable these days of walking for miles each day, I’m apparently incapable of making it out my back door without stumbling over my own feet. Fortunately, while it was a hard fall, I feel fortunate to have gotten off the hook with a few bruises, abrasions, and a dislocated finger.

Yeah. That kind of trip. Not the fun kind.

A couple of decades ago, I fell in a hotel parking lot after snagging my toe on broken concrete. When I fell, I dislocated the pinky finger on my left hand. Hubby promptly covered it (so I wouldn’t freak out, seeing my finger bent in a direction it wasn’t designed for), made me quit screaming obscenities, and stuck my hand in a hotel ice bucket. We’d been on our way to a nearby restaurant for a breakfast buffet, and yes, I’m gonna bust him out on my blog for asking me back then if I wanted to eat at the buffet before heading to the emergency room.

This trip to the emergency room was a bit less attended but more dramatic; I was home alone when I fell, and the nearest emergency room is about 25 miles away. The breakfast buffet wasn’t an option, but the ice was, so I grabbed an ice bag, my ego, stopped screaming obscenities in my own back yard, and drove myself to the ER.

Luckily, it wasn’t a long wait. I was already waiting on x-rays when hubby showed up, and at least the doctor was a bit kinder when he yanked the dislocated finger back into place. I now have a splint that won’t come off until sometime next week, and then the work to bend the finger and get it back into shape begins.

I’ve done it, before. I’ll do it, again. (And yes, this blog is laboriously long to write, working around one finger sticking out straight and surrounded by metal.)

I know what it was like to fall and dislocate a finger back when I was quite heavy (albeit, much younger than what I am, now). I also know that if I was still at my original weight, it would have been nearly impossible for me to get up off my concrete patio with one undamaged hand. And that’s assuming the damage would be the same; the force of an additional 200 pounds on my falling hand likely would have shattered my wrist or arm. As it is, it’s sore and has lots of psychedelic colors, but it’s not broken.

I suppose that I could have also looked at it the other way, too; if I still weighed 371 pounds, the chances of me trying to haul a plastic drawer unit to the back yard probably would be a lot less likely; back in those days, I was lucky to get around with a cane, let alone lift even the lightest of items.

While I’m not happy about injuring myself, I also know that it’s one of those things that can happen at any given moment, and I’m quite fortunate to have been in good shape when it happened. I’ll heal, although my neighbors’ ears may not!

I experienced a great Non-Scale Victory (NSV) the other day. Just this past Sunday, our orchestra was finally able to meet in person and start rehearsals, again, for the first time since March, 2020. What a great day that was; and as a friend commented, it was like coming home.

I was surprised, though, when I showed up early and directed people into our relocated rehearsal location by holding the door open so people would know where to enter. Several commented that I sure had lost weight since the last time they saw me. I thanked them and just sort of saw it as a long-time-no-see sort of greeting. But then it kept happening; one person even said “you must have spent the pandemic losing weight while everyone else gained!”

Honestly, there were enough comments — from different people at different times — that it made me look up how much I weighed just over a year ago. The difference? Fifteen pounds. And in my own experience, while fifteen pounds matter, they usually don’t result in people giving weight loss compliments quite that often.

While I never allow myself to take such comments too seriously — I just thank them and move on — I truly think that the difference is in the amount of exercise I’ve been getting, not so much the difference in weight. I’ve been determined to walk my way through the pandemic, working specifically on endurance. I know I wear a smaller size than I did a year ago.

It’s yet another reminder that this journey isn’t solely about weight loss. Compliments are nice, but obviously, my body continues to change quite a bit as I continue onward, even with relatively small changes in actual weight. It’ll continue to morph as I start working on toning muscles and make small decisions that will have big outcomes in the long run; the habits I am developing, now, are the ones that will keep my body moving forward, despite being on the cusp of 60 years old.

The commitment to change is always possible, as is the ability to follow through. Eight years ago, I sold myself short, believing that the place I’m in today was far beyond my reach. Now, I wonder what else is possible.

I admit I’ve been playing head games with myself, and this blog is gonna be some self-talk.

I have a relative that will be nearby, soon, and we’ll visit. We aren’t on the best of terms to start with, but I’ll also add that I haven’t seen this particular relative in person since I weighed close to 300 pounds; I was a couple years into my journey, then. Although we certainly have lots of other more important reasons for meeting up, there’s a proud part of me that wants to get my weight down a bit more.

Plainly put, I know the relative has been pretty judgmental in the past about obese people. The relative has asked for advice about how to approach another obese relative, for instance, in a desire to see her lose weight. He praises me for my loss. But my angst about my own weight is an echo of the eternal not good enough feeling I grew up with, thanks to my father. I already had a sense of not good enough from this relative. I’m still considered obese. I wonder if, in his mind, he’ll see me and still think not good enough.

On the flip side of that, while I’m very proud of what I’ve accomplished, I am also fiercely protective of it. I’ve said this, before: I don’t want to be known as that woman who lost over 200 pounds any more than I did when I was the biggest person in the room. I don’t like physical identifiers. Even more than that, I dislike slotting people’s character and worthiness based on a scale number or perceived health.

I’ve dealt with innumerable comments of “I bet you feel better!”, etc., and while I appreciate them — and try to take them at face value — I’m also acutely aware of the underlying sentiment. Honestly, “I’m happy for you” is much more appropriate, at least from my viewpoint. Heck, I’m happy for me, too! But any time a label comes into play that can infer that the previous version of myself was somehow substandard, I will get defensive.

After all, I firmly believe that the work I’ve done on my mental processes and emotions is a much larger body of work than my physical appearance. I am essentially the same person, and to behave as if I’m somehow a better version of myself because I wear a smaller size just completely misses the point. I’m aware, though, that the value judgments others hold, particularly those who haven’t experienced this sort of journey, have been brainwashed by a society that puts far too much value on what we look like. Not to mention, we shy away from discussing matters of mental health.

My mental processes have gone through a much larger evolution than my body. So much so that about the only time I now really delve into the mechanics of my mental processes is when an event like this is on the horizon; after nearly eight years of working on this, it’s extremely rare to encounter someone who still has an old imprint of me on their brain. Anyone I’ve truly cared about has been well aware of my journey.

Once again, I find that there are little signs that mean I need to examine my psyche and see what’s up. Considering that I am still working through grieving the loss of my mother as well as the emotional process of disposing of what’s left of her life, I had thought that the symptoms were more about that. And perhaps it’s part of it, but the underlying self-judgment of not good enough and allowing myself some deviations that prove it have to stop. I have let myself gain a few pounds; not much, but understanding that there’s a difference between an occasional treat and eating in a way that’s contradictory to my regimen because I have mental work to do.

This is, indeed, a lifelong process. Knowing the underlying issues helps me solve them so the symptoms of that mental pressure can be solved, as well. I don’t need anyone else to kick me; I do best when I kick myself back into the right head space.

Once upon a pandemic, we were early on in orchestra rehearsals for our spring season, 2020. And then the rest of the season was called off. As was the fall season.

Many of you experienced something similar, whether it was school, work, or activity you treasure doing with others. For me, as a horn player who just several years ago returned to actively playing, that meant a return to the routine I knew before ever joining an orchestra: play alone.

It was, unfortunately, easy to get caught up in so many other necessary things — caring for my elderly mother, making sure we had enough toilet paper, juggling new work situations. My horn ended up sitting in a corner. Every few months, I’d tell myself that I shouldn’t have just set her down and I would promptly make the time to sit down, play slurs and scales, record what I’d done with every intention of getting back in the swing of things… and then I would allow life to get in the way. I knew we couldn’t meet for orchestra, but I don’t play my instrument just for that; I play it because I honestly love playing.

A month or so ago, I picked up my horn, again, and pushed myself to play those slurs and scales, but in the early days of getting back into playing, that’s what you must do. That, long tones, exercises. Really, laying off an instrument and picking it up, again, is a lot like not exercising for a long time and then dragging yourself into the gym. You have to start slowly and build up those muscles, again, before you can reach a point where you’re really benefiting from the work.

Well — you guessed it — best intentions and all that. Then, since my husband and I were able to make plans to visit our daughter and her family (thanks to being fully vaccinated), I had the opportunity to visit a horn specialty store where I could be custom fitted for a mouthpiece. I’ve wanted to do this for quite some time, but in order to be fit properly, I had to have some practice under my belt. I mean, you don’t go get fit for a running shoe if you haven’t been running. You have to know what it is that feels right and meets your needs. So I had to suck it up, sit down, and hit those slurs, scales, and long tones.

Those early days are always a trial; your lips get sore, you can’t play much, and what you can play sounds like a rabid cow.

Not totally unlike the early days of deciding to change your eating, as well as starting exercise after a long time off. I remember the early days of my journey; I would by habit grab something to eat that I wasn’t supposed to eat, and then realize it halfway through eating. That meant having to be more conscious of what I was doing; every bite, every action. Any of us who have started such an endeavor know what a pain it can be. Maybe you forgot what you were supposed to eat. Or you make the decision to watch what you eat and the next thing you know, you’re at a party, hungry, and nothing there suits what you had planned.

It’s a struggle, as if you’re restarting your efforts over and over until you get the hang of it and don’t feel so strung out.

There’s good news, though: putting in the effort in those early days helps build muscle — your brain muscle, if nothing else. Repetition and effort create habit, and eventually, not only does the process become easier, but the payoffs are sweeter. Clothes start fitting better. You can walk farther than you could, before. You can carry your groceries with less effort. You start realizing that the drudgery of early efforts smooths out and creates a payoff that perhaps you didn’t really expect.

And occasionally, you can take a few days off or enjoy a treat without backsliding and having to go through the same level of effort; it’s easier, because it’s habit. That’s how life has become for me; I’ve been taking a few days of vacation and not putting in the same effort I usually do, but while I know the scale has registered a few extra pounds, it’s nothing that will stress me out, because I’ve already put in enough work to know I’ll drop into my habits with little effort.

The same has been true for picking up my horn, again. I was able to be fitted for my mouthpiece, take it home, and yesterday, instead of the slurs, scales, and long tones, I played melodies and absolutely enjoyed myself while playing. Soon, orchestra will start again, and I’ll find where I fit, but if I don’t put in the effort now, the first time I sit down with my fellow musicians, I’ll feel obligated to apologize for not keeping up. It’s entirely up to me, though, to keep up the practice and keep moving forward; not for them as much as more myself.

Practice makes perfect, friends. If you don’t put in the practice, you never get the payoff. So practice until the impossible seems easy.

I know that I haven’t been talking about weight loss much, lately. Those of you that know how many times I’ve failed, in the past, might think I’ve strayed a bit.

Who could blame me, really? I’ve been dealing with a lot over recent months. Emotions need ice cream, after all, am I right?

But if you thought this… you would be wrong. As I write this, I’m 1 pound above my low weight, and quite honestly, I’ve been feeling in the groove, despite everything that would have normally dislodged me from my goals in the past. I’ve been there, after all. I know that road, well; the one where I lose my way, turn around, and go right back where I came from. The one where I lose control and gain all my weight back, plus some.

My mistake back then was that I saw the different aspects of my life as different roads. It allowed me to separate what I put in my mouth from the rest of me. I saw that “diet” road as temporary, leading to a specific point, and then I’d magically be able to do all the things I’ve wanted to do. Including, in that diet fantasy, the ability to eat without penalty. It’s no surprise, with that kind of thinking, that my “diet” roads have always been cul de sacs.

I said when I started this little project of mine that I’d explore the mental aspects of what I go through when losing weight, because I knew there was a lot I needed to work on in order to figure all this out. But the me from seven years ago might also sheepishly admit that she knew she was doomed to fail and taking out each tangle and untangling it was a lot of head work. In a way, I created my own excuse for failure; I could tidily discard it as too much of a challenge to face.

I soon realized that I didn’t have to do all of the head work at once, and that I had things in the wrong order, anyway. I thought that if I could buckle down and lose the weight, my brain would untangle itself.

It’s the exact opposite: the weight loss has been the after effect of working on my head.

Not to mention, thinking of each aspect of my life as somehow separated from the rest, as if they are multiple roads to travel — and different challenges to face — was wrong, too. Allowing all parts of me to coalesce into one road has given me the ability to meet my own challenges and realize how they intersect. The part of me that chooses how to nourish myself isn’t separate at all from the part of me that needs the occasional moral support or another part of me that is focused on a work-related project.

Seeing those aspects as independent of each other has always allowed me to toss away what I fail at or want to ignore. It’s why I’ve been able to push away failed weight loss efforts as “diets” and therefore not really part of me. Not to mention, a failure to understand that how we nourish ourselves is permanent, not some temporary choice with no consequences.

While there will always be a small part of me that fears failure, the process of untangling my challenges has allowed me to take each of those independent paths and interweave them into something whole, something stronger, and someone who understands that the whole is much stronger as one road instead of many. In my mind, weight loss has become just a side effect of my effort to strengthen myself in all ways. Doing so has made it far easier to understand when I occasionally end up in the wrong lane; I can adjust and get back on the right road.

Once upon a time, I didn’t really care much for getting regular exercise. Up until my mother fell and started her decline in January, I had been fighting for being able to meet my walking goals each day; between cold and bad weather, it was a struggle. Missing it for roughly six weeks, though, was a stark reminder that walking is more than exercise for me.

It’s my selfish, self-care time. It’s my time to think, lose myself in Spanish lessons, and work out physical stress. I usually walk my neighborhood, which is a perfect area for such things; on any given day, I can see the Japanese Magnolia tree blooming in a neighbor’s yard, walk by the county museum grounds and see their small village, stop by the donkeys and scritch their noses (and avoid their teeth). The cows appreciate a friendly pat on the nose, too; I hear they like fig newtons.

In the other direction, I can visit my favorite oak tree, which I did just yesterday. It’s a bit early yet for it to bloom and leaf out, but it’s magnificent even when dormant. It’s one of my seasonal goalposts, and a reminder that while the new things among us (like this year’s blooming daffodils) are beautiful in the moment, anything worth building takes time. I have no idea how old that tree is, but I know my own life is a mere fraction of it. The immensity of that tree is the result of many seasons of growth, and it has survived countless storms, high winds, cold temperatures, droughts.

My moods are closely tied to the seasons, and Spring is my favorite; a time for renewal, new growth, a world that’s being colored in daily like a giant coloring book. While it also brings the challenges of bad weather and pollen, I see this time of year as a revival, both in nature and in myself. There’s a hopefulness I can’t quite describe when taking in the beauty of blooming daffodils, the nearly hourly differences in the blooms on Bradford Pear trees, not to mention, gardening plans and my own plants I’ve overwintered get the chance to move outside for sunshine and fresh air.

But like that oak tree, my own journey is the result of many seasons. I’ve endured the high winds and storms in order to bloom, again. I’m learning how to live and adapt without someone who was extremely important to me. The tree has lost branches over time, the scars of where it has healed are evident in the trunk — but the loss doesn’t diminish the tree. It keeps going, and so do I.

This journey has never been one solitary path; it’s been a constant rekindling and growth of spirit. When I walk, when I see the changes around me this time of year, I automatically think of the future — of the good things I want for myself, for my family and friends. Of how far I have come to this point, and what I can choose for myself as I move forward. I’ve lost a few branches in my time, but I’ve gained so much more from those experiences than I have ever lost. So as I tend this year’s garden, I’ll be healing and growing right along with it.

Continuing to push hard toward my goals is part of the legacy and the promise I have made to those I love, even if I haven’t given it words; I know well that I could have been the one to leave others with grief, and that by my choices, I have endured and continue my own springtime. It’s not the storms I look for; it’s the blue skies.

I’m a firm believer in the idea that people come into (and leave) our lives for a reason. We are constantly learning lessons, and maybe teaching a few ourselves by our own presence in someone else’s life.

I don’t know exactly where I fit or what purpose I serve in anyone else’s life, and I admit I don’t often analyze the roles someone else plays in mine unless there’s some reason to mull it over. As I’ve been going through the remaining pieces of my mother’s life, deciding what to keep and what to part with, remembering and also learning a bit, I’ve realized that she had been fearful and perhaps ready to leave this life for longer than I thought. But her place in mine is indelible.

I don’t think she necessarily started out life as a strong woman. Neither did I, really. But we’re forged not only by what we survive, but the choices we make to better our lives. That’s what I choose to take from her life, and her place in mine; she inevitably lived the life she wanted, did great things, traveled, loved, served.

That’s pretty much what I want out of life, as well, generally speaking. I’ve grown stronger with each challenge I face; some I most definitely lost but took the lessons in stride. Others, like losing weight, have taken the majority of my adult life to get right. But I figure for as long as I’m still learning, still open to the challenges I face, and still choosing to enjoy life, then I’m making the lessons count.

Sure, I wish I had opted to work on myself a bit harder — quite a bit earlier, too. But I have the choice to wallow in regret or move forward the best way I know how. With the fresh reminder that life is a precious commodity, I carry the lessons I’ve learned with me, as well as those who have been in my life and helped me learn those lessons.

As I keep working toward my goals, I’m happy and just a bit proud that “normal”, for me, has changed from the dark places I hid years ago to a daily routine that benefits my health as well as my mental wellbeing. While I’ve been doing important work these past couple months and have had to pivot to a different emphasis, I look forward to a time when I can go hiking, camping, travel, enjoy my backyard on a sunny Saturday, hug my daughter like I’m not ever gonna let go. These things matter.

The lessons I’ve learned and the strength-building I’ve done have been an investment in myself that has buoyed me during a time when I could easily choose to find solace in food, give up the lessons I’ve learned, slide backward into depression, regain my weight. But doing so would mean throwing away the lessons and the people who were (and are) in my life to teach me, and it would also mean disappointing those I’m meant to teach.

There’s only one way to get it done, now. No choice than to just do it, and do it for the rest of my life. <3

Those of you that know me, personally, know that my mother passed away this last Monday. As I grieve and move on, it only seems right to speak about this now — while I created this blog initially about weight loss, it has by necessity been about my mental journey in regards to how I handle everything in my life. Because, for me, these changes and reflections have been instrumental in solving the reasons why I grew into morbid obesity in the first place.

Working through these things has been the key to my long journey to rebuilding myself in ways I never expected. My relationship with my parents has been a big part of that. And while I know that this blog entry, in particular, is extremely emotional and some may leave without reading further, that’s okay. I write for me; I invite you in of your own choice, and for some, these recent entries may be too painful.

Understanding my toxic relationship with my father, and how I allowed it to alter my views about myself, was an early theme in this journey. I fought hard for too many years to please a man whose personality would never be satisfied. I craved his attention and approval, and more often than not, the result was the overwhelming feeling that I could never be good enough in his eyes. As a young adult forced into a quick switch to working full time and living with my mother instead of attending college, I had to learn quickly to insulate myself from him as an act of self-preservation, as well as limiting his desire to use me as a tool to still manipulate my mother at a distance. Emotional abuse still leaves scars; they just aren’t visible unless we choose to show them through our own actions. (And unfortunately, I’m well aware that the emotionally abused must choose to break that chain to prevent becoming that which harmed them and perpetuating the behavior.)

I learned, back then, that I do indeed have a shut-off valve. And when angered, I learned the ability to show I also possess the verbal equivalent of sharpened talons. For the first time in my life, I fought back and put up boundaries that dared not be crossed without consequence, and I was forced to repeatedly declare what my boundaries were. The good in this was that I was able to make peace with my father before his death, mostly because he was forced to either recognize and treat me as an adult or have no relationship with me at all. While that was the best possible result for our relationship, I had very little grief left for him when he died suddenly of a heart attack. He was 62 at the time — just a little older than I am, now.

I do recall some kindnesses during the 18 years he was in my life before divorce, but not many. I remember only one time that he uttered the words I had wanted to hear, and he finally said I love you the last time I saw him alive. But he never knew how to show love without words, and we all know there are a million ways to show love. Those many ways were not present. It was my mother that modeled that behavior.

On the other hand, without going through yet again what I’ve already stated here many times, my grief for the loss of my mother has been the exact opposite. Despite watching her decline over recent years, watching powerlessly as dementia stole small bits of her intelligence, her logic, her understanding of her world, and knowing I would eventually lose her, I was still unprepared. Some signs of dementia were a bit humorous; when I told her I’d finally lost 200 pounds (now 204.6), she had honestly forgotten that I’d ever been morbidly obese, despite having been through the entire process with me. I knew some of it was dementia, and some of it was a mother’s love that looks beyond the physical.

On the day my oldest brother finally died after a ten year battle with prostate cancer, we had both been expecting the news. I heard first and said I would tell Mom because I knew her best and felt I should be the one to tell her. At roughly 11 in the morning, I showed up on her doorstep with a bottle of wine, came in her house and grabbed two glasses, poured us each a full glass, and told her the news as she sat next to me on the couch. We both held each other and openly sobbed. No one should ever have to endure the pain of surviving their child. And yes, we emptied that bottle, talking it out.

She was really just starting her dementia back then, and she slowly became my child. When Covid struck, it was like having an 88-year-old teenager who didn’t understand why their life had to change; I shopped for her, we went constant rounds about planning food in advance so I wasn’t making grocery runs constantly, etc. I kept up with her doctor visits, her medications, took control of more and more parts of her life as her dementia turned a once strong and competent woman into more like a young teen. It happened in small increments, and then the recent acceleration brought on with her Covid diagnosis.

My grief is certainly for the loss of a parent that I was particularly close to; but as I write this, I realize that it feels like I’ve lost my child. Not one by birth; one by circumstance. I felt responsible for her in the same ways I felt responsible for my daughter’s wellbeing as she grew into adulthood. I felt the need to care for and protect Mom while trying to be careful not to treat her as a child, despite her decline. I have played what-if with any number of circumstances that could have been different, and I know that’s a fool’s game, but perhaps part of my journey to move beyond the immediate despair of grief. Talking it out has already made me realize some things I hadn’t, before, and that’s been good for my soul.

But the real point to this post is that over the past six weeks of enduring the circumstances that led to her eventual death, I have learned resoundingly what family really is — and so often, it has nothing at all to do with shared DNA. I have had calls, texts, messages from people who have stepped into the place of family, and I have known that every single person who has offered their help has absolutely meant it. We all know that in times of death, there are often hollow offers — we know them when we say them, we recognize them when they are said to us, and there are no ill feelings at all; merely the reflection that people feel they should say something in support. I’ve done it, too.

This has been different. Someone who I know reads this blog spent 6 1/2 hours on the phone with me. We laughed, we cried, we talked about everything and nothing at all, about our shared experiences of losing our mothers despite circumstances being different. The deep grief and loss at times like these are a direct reflection of exactly how much that person was treasured in our lives. When someone who has been through the grieving process offers to listen and even potentially open their own healing grief just a little because they offer to be there for you, I tell you it’s a gift of familial love to be willing to do that for someone else.

The people that have done this have also shown me that there’s hope down the road, that I will keep healing, and at some point, I’ll be able to pass on that incredible gift of just being willing to listen through someone else’s grief.

While I had closure with my mother and knew without a doubt that she left this world knowing by both word and deed exactly how much I loved her, and I have that closure, I know it will be a long time before I lose the habit of worrying about her. Knowing we can still be open to each other’s pain at a time when we can’t physically hug it out — that in itself is hope for a better time. We still have that within us when enduring a pandemic has made so many of us weary.

Inevitably, the way we cope in this world is about the relationships we build. Losing my father wasn’t traumatic for me, despite being 8 months pregnant and in my late 20’s at the time, because I had closed off and insulated myself from him. I grieved the loss of having a father when I came to terms that there would never be anyone that could fill that role for me, and that was many years before he breathed his last breath. But even through the grief I feel now, I have not one single regret about how much I loved — and still love — my mother. It’s a reflection of the ability to love deeply, to allow in the joy of knowing someone deeply even though at some point we all know that the pain will seem unbearable if we lose them, too.

That’s the true draw of the family we choose; I have sisters and brothers in this world that don’t share my DNA, and because of all of you who have chosen to be that family, this is my love letter to you. We are more alike than different. The only ones hurt by closing themselves off from feeling deeply about others, who cannot accept blame for making the choice to turn inward rather than to forgive and love, are the ones who will not allow those boundaries to be healed.

For me, healing has been the single most cathartic change I have seen in myself in this continuing journey, and the weight loss, while great, has simply been a side effect of the process when I originally thought of it as the entire goal. Yes, I’m in pain right now, but it’s the pain of having loved deeply, and I know the nature of it will grow and heal as well. My mother remains within me in so many ways; if I am a reflection of her in some way, I am honored by that privilege.

Here in my small town in Arkansas, we’ve just experienced record-breaking weather. And by “experienced”, I mean Southern Girl-tortured by the deepest snowfall in a century and bitterly cold temperatures.

We are fortunate, unlike our Texas friends and family, many who experienced everything from busted water lines to days without electricity. Most of them likely won’t have the time or ability to even read this blog when it’s published.

We have been in similar circumstances, having had back-to-back ice storms that left us without power for 15 days. My now-adult daughter will tell you that we ended up teaching her how to play poker with pony beads by the light of kerosene lamps. The moment-to-moment judgments you must make to survive such historic events shifts you into a different mindset, including what to do when the ice or snow thaws and you must deal with any damage.

That shift to constant resourceful thoughts and second-guessing is flat out exhausting. By necessity, your focus must hone down to what you do to get by, whether it’s day to day, or hour to hour, sometimes second to second. Sometimes, you know what needs to be done; sometimes, it’s a guessing game. You might find a new way to do things, or fail miserably.

But like tempering steel, these experiences change us just a bit. It makes us a bit stronger, a bit smarter about how to handle the next challenge. And even though, at times, it seems like we can’t take even a feather’s weight more of a burden, we somehow endure. We do better — because we know better.

Personally, as I alluded to last week, I dealt with my mother in a hospital 25 miles away and a pending snowstorm. We didn’t really expect it to be historic in nature, but there was a total of 16” of white stuff in our backyard when it was done. My area can skip entire years without any snow at all. I consider it a miracle that we’re slowly coming out of this relatively unscathed. And that includes my mother’s icy/snowy trip by ambulance back to the nursing home, where she is now receiving hospice care. We are all where we need to be, and sometimes, it’s the simplest of things that matter when times are challenging.

I have, at times, regretted failing at weight loss so many times in my life, amplifying my obesity with every attempt until now. How much better would my life had been, had I done this thirty years ago? Forty? Or, heaven forbid, never allowed my weight to get out of hand in the first place?

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve given myself a mental beating, especially in the dungeon of depression, when I least needed it — though my weight (and then-undetected health issues) were quite likely the cause of my depression in the first place. But the truth of it is, I needed tempering. I needed to be stronger and grow stronger. I needed to learn, to investigate, to question, and to accept my own culpability.

Without those things, arriving at yet another new low this week would not be possible. I had to work my way through all of those things to arrive where I am. Now that I know better, I do better. Just as the weather-related experiences taught both my husband and I how to prepare for the possibility of things that thankfully did not happen, we would not have been caught unaware if they had.

Life’s tough experiences are meant not only to temper us but to help us appreciate when we receive unexpected gifts. Electricity (and internet!) in a historic snowstorm. A hot shower, for many. Someone to check on you and ask how you’re doing. We’re all part of a net; sometimes we’re the ones who need to be held up, and sometimes we’re the strength needed.

Good news, friends — I am now closer to my weight-related goals. Despite the stress I have been under, I have remained in control of one thing: how I treat my body. And sometimes, in these strange days, that becomes the one thing that keeps me sane. I have now lost a total of 203.6 pounds; a mere 6.4 pounds away from a significant check-in point for my health.

My mother continues to do poorly, and without going into detail, I have not yet been told her prognosis as of this writing. I learn little pieces of information here and there. Not just because of this pandemic as it rages on, either — an ice storm has complicated things around here, and may very well be compounded by snow next week. (Not to mention, a federal holiday on Monday.)

This is The South; we don’t do cold and snow, let alone ice. We just don’t. It complicates everything, delays news, strands workers. I’ve been advised to be patient while I wait for news. It’s all that’s really within my power to do at this point.

I do not wait well. I am not a patient person. I want news. I want it now. I prefer to know what’s happening and what’s about to happen at all times. And I’m sure you can well imagine that’s an impossibility. Especially with a pandemic and an ice storm.

My current situation is one I have no power to change. I have done everything I can to prepare; not just for what’s happening with my mother, but for addressing what seems to be never-ending paperwork for her, and juggling two households. That has included rehoming my mother’s cat, who seems to be pretty happy in his new digs. I’ve also charged up technology, but since our electricity was at risk with an ice storm that thankfully was much milder than predicted, we fared well. My mother’s home has been prepped for abnormally low temperatures, as well as our own home. I’ve packed, I’ve cleaned, I’ve moved things.

Oh, yeah, and I have a business. Let’s not forget that as well.

The Serenity Prayer has reminded me that I need to worry less about things outside of my control and work on changing the things I can. In that light, a friend alerted me to an opportunity to volunteer my time this past Monday; in the middle of all of this, I will honestly say that volunteering was at the bottom of my list. I have been rather frantic about spending every possible moment available trying my best to juggle my life. Volunteer? NOW?!

But I took the jump. Sometimes, you just have to listen to your gut and go with it, and although I had some qualms, I fought them down and volunteered.

I spent several hours on Monday answering phones during a Covid vaccine clinic, and because of that, I was able to receive my first vaccine shot. I will volunteer again on the same day I receive the second shot; both are already planned. In the meantime, I remain committed to lowering my risk (and afterward, too).

In the middle of what often seems like infinite chaos and stress, I was challenged by this opportunity; my husband is an educator and receives his second shot tomorrow. For me, my day will come in another couple of weeks. We have battled to remain Covid-free, and while that fight continues, this is a big burden we can hopefully decrease. I only wish I’d been able to get the shot for my mother. Her body remains ravaged in Covid’s cruel aftermath. At least for myself, getting the vaccine was something I could actively work toward, and my sincerest thanks to the friend who urged me to volunteer as she did.

The absurd thing is that having gone through the effort of losing 203 pounds and regaining health resulted in putting me in a later vaccination class. Had I remained morbidly obese with complicating health issues, I would have been at much higher risk and therefore in a higher vaccine classification. I believe the same holds true for the person who introduced the volunteer opportunity to me. But I am truly thankful for getting the chance to volunteer, and I look forward to doing it, again — not just for the obvious opportunity to be vaccinated, but because it’s an area where volunteers can make a difference.

Making positive change during chaos has helped me fight off the pull toward downheartedness. Yes, I cry. Yes, my heart is heavy with fear for my mother as well as anger at circumstances over which I have no power. But when all else seems bleak, the effort I put in to giving has been returned to me exponentially.

Right after my volunteer slot, I was able to visit my mother in person, talk to her, tell her I love her face-to-face, even though my heart was breaking as she looked right through me. I’m doing what I can to change her situation, finding it difficult to accept what obviously cannot be changed.

Wisdom often comes when you don’t expect it.