I know that my last couple of blogs have not been filled with hope, but I did say from the beginning that this journey would be a personal one, for my own accountability, working through the things I encounter as I move forward with my goal of regaining health.

On Wednesday, I saw my mother for the first time since an ambulance took her from her home to the hospital weeks ago. At that point, she could reach for and hold my hand, and she could say a few words. She knew me, and she trusted me to do what was right for her, although I’ve kicked myself a million times since then, feeling as if I didn’t act fast enough. She has been through hell, since then, including last Friday’s diagnosis of covid-related pneumonia and a warning that the next 72 hours could be treacherous.

She has survived so far, but as I stood at her window — the only way to see her, because of Covid precautions — I realized quickly that she wasn’t aware I was there. Her aide tried to get her to look at me, to hear me, but she only made eye contact for a second. I might as well have been a tree outside her window. I stood there for a bit, trying to get her to see me and hear me, in hopes that knowing she’s not alone will keep her fighting.

I know this is the biggest battle of her life, and one she may well lose, but I will be back when I can, regardless. I will try again, knowing that some cog in her brain has stopped turning, but there’s always the possibility she hears on some level.

She is not alone.

But this blog isn’t about my mother; it’s about me. When my oldest brother died in 2015, I knew long in advance it was coming. With Mom, I never really saw a time when she would have to enter a nursing home, despite watching her decline over recent years. I have been fighting feelings of failure while learning to live without her, and at the same time, continuing the actions of loving her: caring for her home and belongings, her cat, starting the long process of choosing what goes and what stays, fixing, organizing bills, notifying services.

People talk about love languages. I don’t profess to know much about it, except that for me, things like organization and taking care of things is a way I show love. It distresses me when things are out of order. When my environment is a mess, it’s a reflection of my own mental wellbeing. When my body is a mess, it’s a sure sign I’m not dealing with things well. I spend a lot of energy finding places for things and trying to put them right, and when I do, I feel right.

I’ve talked recently about stress eating. You would think that taking on my mother’s decisions, coordinating all of her arrangements, legal matters, home, utilities, car, and even her cat, that I’d be under a tremendous amount of stress. And I am. Getting her qualified for Medicaid felt like a doctoral thesis. I spent countless hours digging, ordering replacement items, scanning documents, cross-referencing checks, compiling PDF files with supporting documents, writing letters to her connections, making endless phone calls — all the while, doing my best to juggle my own home, my business, clean my mother’s house, care for her cat, and — well — make sure I don’t short circuit. (Thanks go to my husband for his support, as well.)

All of it is a recipe for emotional disaster. A past version of me, not so many years ago, just might have felt sorry for myself enough to wallow, ignore what needed to be done, and eat myself into oblivion. I would have shut down. Knowing that I’ve had recent episodes of stress eating, I opted through this process to be a little bit more gentle on myself; I’ve been able to lose stress weight before.

And yet, here I am, a mere matter of ounces above my lowest weight during this journey. I have not looked for solace in food. If anything, my interest in food has been pretty minimal, and as busy as I’ve been, it’s been rather easy to not give in to trying to comfort myself with food. In fact, although I’ve had my ups and downs emotionally, I have remained totally in charge of everything I have needed to accomplish. I’m as totally surprised by that as anyone can be.

While my heart aches for my mother and I wish I could do more for her, I’ve remained on top of things. Her care is beyond my control, but if there’s any part of her that can still comprehend, she knows I have taken care of everything I possibly can. I have — quite oddly — felt powerful. I’ve been able to step into this role for her and do what she entrusted me to do so many years ago. If I cannot show her in person — if she is now incapable of understanding what I’m doing for her — it makes no difference; this is how my love for her manifests itself, as well as showing what love I can at a distance.

While I would never wish this situation on anyone, it has served as a reminder to me that I am at my best when I have a purpose. Time is a gift I refuse to waste.

There’s hope in that.

I can’t attribute the phrase “if you fail to plan, you plan to fail”, but I’ve certainly understood it on a deeper level over the past couple of weeks.

While I rarely experience dietary challenges these days (unless I choose to take a food vacation), the saying is certainly true. Back in 2003 or so, I had my first go at the Atkins Diet and only knew how to read a label to see how many carbs were in an item. I learned a huge lesson early on; I was at a Walmart store with my daughter and some of her softball teammates while they were outside the store fundraising. I hadn’t brought food with me and didn’t know enough about what to buy, so I took a few minutes and raced inside and grabbed something to eat.

I grabbed a box of “low carb” chocolate candies. They were right in front of the store in the pharmacy area with other diet supplements, and I could read the label. And I was hungry.

Over the course of the next hour or so, I gradually ate the entire box, which was probably about 4-6 servings. Without being graphic about it, I assure you that, at least for me, sugar alcohols are the best tasting laxative made. I wish I could claim that it only took once to learn that lesson, but no.

I didn’t plan on being hungry. That lesson, I eventually learned, but not without some failures in there. There are also plenty of times when I’ve thought I had a good plan in place, only for the unimaginable to happen.

It has been a learning process over the years, and I’ve definitely had to learn to roll with the punches. I used to use failure as a reason to give up on my efforts rather than putting them in perspective. We can’t possibly control or avoid every challenge we face, after all, and life changing processes are definitely prone to such challenges. I firmly believe there’s something to learn by these experiences, and try to look for the lesson rather than self-destructing, like I used to. If an indulgence I willingly took ends up as a higher number on the scale or in my clothing size, I have no one to blame but myself — and I accept that responsibility.

This long trial-by-fire has helped me in dealing with my mother’s health issues. The rollercoaster is far from over; last week, while in rehab, she tested covid-positive. Luckily, she has remained asymptomatic, but symptoms could have so easily ended her fragile life earlier. The only downside has been that the rehab will keep her for an extra week, but that actually works in my favor as I continue to handle her affairs.

My father died when I was 8 months pregnant. He was remarried at the time, and he died of a massive heart attack. His widow handled his affairs, so I had nothing to do with it. But the lesson from that was that my mother and I made decisions and planned decades ago. I agreed that I would be the one to step in as she aged and started to fail. We had the right legal documents in place years ago. But the idea that she might eventually end up in a nursing home just didn’t really occur to either of us until it was really no longer a choice. We are in the final steps of that process.

Believe me, no responsible and caring adult child wants to send their elderly parent to a nursing home during a pandemic, but at this point, these decisions come down to odds-making and preparation. And we didn’t prepare for this possibility, so I’ve been learning some hard lessons since finding her collapsed on her bathroom floor.

My mother served as a volunteer with the Boy Scouts for decades, and eventually, worked for them as a paraprofessional, retiring from the organization just before moving closer to me. Her home is filled with the hallmarks of a dedicated life; she has innumerable achievements to her credit. A Silver Beaver (formerly a Silver Fawn, and then the name changed) recipient, Wood Badge, Order of the Arrow. If you know anything about BSA, you might understand the challenges she met, and willingly. Regardless of the tokens of her life, she lived her life — and taught us to live ours — by the same tenets set forth in Scouting.

She lived a second life after divorce, traveling across the country, earning an associate’s degree so she could qualify to work as a paraprofessional for the BSA, working on achievement after achievement. The photos I’ve found show the story of a life well-lived in service. Now, that life is focused down to a pinpoint — existence and survival as the sunset or her life approaches.

My job for her — perhaps one I’ve inadvertently been training for with my own personal journey over recent years — has been to let her life be about final dignity. But I wasn’t prepared. Not for the tough conversations, the paperwork, the need to be fierce at times and thoughtful at others, during a damned pandemic, no less, that has left me separated from her while she attempts to heal. A healing that may well be a final sunset rather than an eternal lonely afternoon. She deserves peace.

Have I done enough? Is there more I may yet be called to do? I don’t know — but my focus, now, is to be prepared.

I’ve written a lot over the past few years about how the changes I’ve made have improved my life.

I haven’t said much about something else important, though: how these changes have allowed me to move the focus away from myself (and just getting by) to being of service, which I think is equally important. We are all part of a safety net, and for so many years, I was the weak string in the net. Now, I’ve been called upon to be the strong one, and I am the first to admit that it’s not only pulling a lot of the resources in my emotional bucket, as well as my physical one.

Even just a year ago, I would not have written about my mother so freely in this blog, for fear she’d read it. Not that I’d ever intend to hurt her, mind you, but the woman I know has crept away, her mind and her body stolen by age, infirmity, dementia.

When I was weak, I could count on her to be the strong one. Of course, I know most people are close to their mothers, but Mom and I were survivors together, fighting and then recovering from the abuser she divorced. Early in my blog writings, I spoke about some of the trials he put me through personally, but I don’t know that I’ve ever written, here, about how the end of their marriage finally came about. It matters, now.

My mother was trapped in her marriage and should have divorced years before, but back in the 70’s, when it finally happened, it wasn’t easy to be a divorced mother, let alone earlier in her life. I was 18 when my father stole away while both Mom and I were at work. It came after he pulled me out of college without my consent (I was a minor at the time, having graduated from school at 17), attempted to steal the savings I had worked hard on accruing since I became a full time employee by necessity, and he refused to get a job, living off of my mother’s and my meager incomes.

I came home from work one day and told Mom I had figured out a way to move out; I was going to move into an apartment with friends. I just couldn’t take the verbal abuse, the stalking, the passive-aggressiveness anymore. Mom’s response was “you’re not leaving unless I can go with you”. And that was that. She filed for divorce, served him, and he skipped town. Ever since that day, Mom and I agreed to see each other as equals (not an easy task), and we embarked on recovery together. She has been there for me on some of my darkest days and my greatest triumphs. She is, perhaps, the only living person who truly knows the dark challenges we faced together. My emotional scars are not as deep because she was there to help me heal.

She went from having absolutely nothing (because he took everything he could on the way out the door — she didn’t even get alimony) to building a career she loved dearly, to owning her first house — and then her second, to earning an associate degree. Her fight and determination were always strong. She became my jeans-wearing, Willie Nelson loving, I’m-living-my-second-life mother. She became what she wanted to be.

And now it’s time for me to repay the comfort she gave me as her body and her mind fail. I found her, a few days ago, fallen on her bathroom floor; she took her first ride in an ambulance to a hospital that kept me from being with her because of Covid. Now, she’s in rehab, hoping to regain her strength, but ever since being in the hospital, she refuses to speak to anyone. My heart breaks, knowing she thinks I did this to her in some way because she no longer has the capacity to understand.

Over the days and weeks to come, it’s my turn to be the strong one; to protect her interests, clean and prepare her home, see her through the process of likely moving to longterm care. I knew the moment I held her hand as I called 911 that it could possibly be the last time I was ever able to do that. My hope is that soon, this raging pandemic will taper off enough where I can visit her, hold her, tell her I love her, remind her that she’s worthy.

These are the moments where my own personal rebuilding have mattered most. Where restoration of both my physical health and emotional wellbeing have given me the steel and courage to do what needs to be done. I’ve cried a lot of tears while dealing with these rollercoaster ups and downs, but so far, I’ve held it together, even when I’ve had to fight the overwhelming sense that I’ve somehow failed her by not being there earlier for her. It’s the long goodbye, and I know it.

Among all the other challenges I face, along with everyone else who must see themselves through this pandemic, this has been the toughest, but I’ve also been a tiny bit proud that I haven’t run to food to comfort me, or simply crawl into bed in a darkened room to hide from the assault of emotions. I know I’m strong enough to face this storm, and I’m thankful for the decisions I made to start this journey.

I am becoming more aware of my emotional eating triggers. This week, I faced fighting down the demons that urge me to believe that the best cure for dealing with anxiety is to eat.

I suppose that this is one of those instinctive fight-or-flight responses we have as humans. Our ancestors likely responded to stress cues about the upcoming winter or battles with other tribes by fortifying themselves with food in preparation. But then, much like wolves devolved into furniture-loving schnauzers, most of us have things a lot easier than our ancestors did, even a few decades back.

We don’t have to go out and kill a deer and drag it home.

We have Sonic.

That yearning to satisfy anxiety with food is still there, though. I don’t have to check the larder during the winter to see if there’s adequate food stored until spring. I have only to walk to the fridge in the kitchen. It’s not a necessity; it’s a choice.

Needless to say (but I’ll say it, anyway!), the nature of my anxieties are, for the most part, far removed from those of my great-great-grandmother. News travels at lightning speed, and since my career is online, it can be a tough matter to set aside the news of the day and go on with my business. I consider myself disciplined in this regard; I have the ability to step away from the melee before it invades my brain.

I consider myself a lover of history, so I allowed myself some time to watch history being made — namely, the Congressional counting of electoral votes. I knew before going in that it would be contentious. I had prepared myself for that — but not for the madness that interrupted it. Before I could look away, I knew it would be another day I would always remember, much like 9/11, or the Challenger explosion. I will forever know exactly what I was doing at the time. This time, the horror of watching events unfold ate at my thoughts like a mound of angry fire ants.

It’s times like these when I have to barricade my emotions and not let them get out of hand unless I want to end up in the fetal position in a dark room — or sitting on my butt and shoving anything resembling food into my face, making myself feel even worse. Giving in to such things begins or extends the spiral into depression, and I am acutely aware that it’s part of who I have been. I never want to return to that.

Merely remembering the lessons I’ve taught myself to avoid that spiral isn’t enough. I have to pull in and keep moving; keep to my goals, whether they’re work-related, family-related, or personal. I have to show up and do what’s necessary to keep improving my life, even if it’s the merest action of achieving my daily goals. At the end of the day, one of my biggest desires is to be satisfied with what I have done with my day, not dissolve into sleepless nights when my mind serves up every single thing I’ve ever done wrong.

This week, I find myself still 8 pounds above my low weight, but I’ve come a long way over the course of the week, and I am still pushing to hit my goals. In a teeter-totter world, these are the things that keep me balanced. There are certainly days — like Wednesday — where I can do no more than that, but certainly, doing no less helps immensely. Beating emotional eating, this time, has been a small victory that girds me for the next challenge.

“So if you’re looking to start changing yourself, start small. Take the first step and don’t worry about whether that first step will result in a marathon. Do that enough times, and you’ll look back to discover you’ve surpassed the marathon.” – Me

I wrote these as the closing words in a blog 5 years ago today; yes, I’m writing this in advance of New Year’s Day. I plan to welcome in 2021 with hope, but also peace, which means I may very well choose not to be online New Year’s Day.

The advice I gave, then, still holds true today. The pace is different because as time goes on, the things that seemed huge leaps years ago, are now more like baby steps. It’s a change in perspective, not a change in the process.

On New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day, I’ll feast. I’ll gain weight. And then, anything I think is too much of a temptation will be removed from the house. I’ll start the increments once more, much the same way I did in September, 2013, except getting back on track is much easier than it once was. What used to take me weeks to accomplish, now takes days, or less. What I considered a “marathon” years ago is more like a walk around the block.

It’s easier, mostly because I’ve already done so much of the work. I know what works for me, now, and that’s admittedly one of the biggest challenges of successful weight loss: finding out what works for me. In the long run, that’s the only challenge that matters; once you figure that out, the rest becomes easier.

My new year will be the one in which I accomplish my final objective: improving my health to a point where I’m able to shift into maintenance. That seemed impossible years ago.

What will it be for you?

If you’re starting a journey toward better health, please take the time to be honest with yourself about what has worked for you, before, and what hasn’t. What you’re willing to change. What you’re willing to do to become successful. And then — take the first step. Soon, the steps become easier, and the successes sweeter.

Happy New Year!

Change. Of any word in the English language, it’s likely near the top to instantly invoke anxiety.

I have always considered myself to be a flexible person, but in retrospect, that wasn’t necessarily so. I have gone through severe depression and been at points in my life where the need for change — or for just doing anything at all — was paralyzing. Rather than just make a dent in whatever needed to be done, I would simply freeze up. My mind would keep me up at night, worrying over any number of topics, suggesting the dire things that would happen if I didn’t take action. And my mind wasn’t wrong, either; dire things did happen because of my inaction.

I have, at times in the past, failed miserably to do even the most basic things to change. Rather than deny it, I’ve accepted that there are failures in my past for which I am totally responsible. My weight is one of those things, and I used to go through any number of mental contortions to justify exactly why I was morbidly obese.

Among the things I blamed: genetics, having unwisely dieted over the course of my life, having made bad decisions regarding what I put in my body, being unable to exercise. That’s just a few bullet points on a list that went on endlessly.

I’m not saying that some of these things weren’t a factor in keeping me morbidly obese. They do play a part, but they are not the entirety, and they are not unconquerable, which I believed for decades. What I really feared was simply accepting that I needed to change.

Change, when you’ve lived nearly the entirety of your adult life as morbidly obese, is an extreme challenge. Not only did I need to work through where I’d gone wrong in the past, but how I would move forward, both in finding methods that would work for me personally with my challenges, and mentally evolving to a point where I could accept myself. While there are any number of fine individuals who are able to embrace themselves regardless of excess weight, I was not one of them. Not ever. The more weight I gained, the more self-hatred brought me down.

One of my biggest challenges on this particular journey, in my early days, was simply accepting where I was at that moment. I despised any photos of me, and merely looking in the mirror would trigger disgust. I made the decision, early on, that any progress photos I would take, including my “before” photos, would be ones where I looked my best at that moment; so many before/after photos of those who have lost weight feature a “before” photo of someone in their darkest times, rather than someone in a good moment.

I have stayed true to that, although when I look at those early photos now, I know how unhappy I was, even if no one else sees it.

Overcoming failures and accepting my part in them has been a crucial step forward for me in every imaginable way. Now, the idea of change no longer freezes me in place; rather, I can see potential in change. It’s not just that, though: going through this mental process has also made me recognize when I have willingly born the responsibility of events that were not mine to bear — or bear alone. My own self-doubt induced the willingness to take on what was not mine. I have since released that part of myself and can more easily see when I should step back. That’s nearly as important.

My reflection in the mirror, these days, is not only happier, but I really am a more flexible person. Adaptation isn’t a reason for mental withdrawal and hibernation; it’s a reason to move forward. It’s part of the process, and I am meant to learn from every challenge I face.

This year, we’ve all had a lot of plans canceled — either because we canceled them ourselves or they were canceled for us. In the great scheme of things, whether or not an event happens is certainly secondary to a pandemic; if anything, the wise thing to do is to not gather together. Not that the wise thing is always the easy thing.

Like everyone else who canceled their Thanksgiving plans, I missed my family and friends. We had an invite to visit our daughter and her family; we haven’t seen them in nearly a year, and that’s a long time, considering our grandson just turned two years old. The day after Thanksgiving has always been our Friendsgiving, where we have gathered with a large group and enjoyed the day. Christmas and New Year’s, too, will be spent on a smaller scale with just my husband and I, as well as my mother.

Some might think we’re absolutely crazy for doing it, but we went ahead with plans to reserve next year’s summer vacation. We’ll be spending part of June in the Dominican Republic. While I don’t want to invite the possibility that it might be canceled, since so much has been canceled since last March, I know full well that it may happen. Or our circumstances personally, and/or because of the pandemic, may prevent going.

But this is about hope. It’s about finding something to look forward to. About dreaming, planning, and looking toward happier times, which we all need in our lives. Even if those plans are eventually canceled, I can spend cold winter days thinking about warm white sand beaches and turquoise water. The anticipation of ocean breezes, carefree walks on the sand, sultry nights spent in a tropical resort.

I would be disappointed if that doesn’t happen, but that disappointment doesn’t erase the hopes and lightness of being I feel in the interim.

In the same way, I choose to always look forward as I recreate myself from the ground up. Had I known years ago that I would still be on this journey over seven years later, I might never have started, but something within me had just the slightest bit of hope that just maybe things would work out. And so, every step I’ve taken, I’ve moved forward with the hope that I would eventually see the change I dreamed of for so long. My heart ached to be where I stand at this moment, and so I have good reason to believe that keeping hope alive helps me create the things I believe will happen.

I am an active participant, now, instead of merely dreaming of a day when I could move with ease, defy the odds, and yeah, occasionally wear the cute clothes. And I choose to be an active participant in keeping hope alive for the days to come; not just that each day will get better, or that this pandemic will finally become a footnote in our collective history, but that I am invested in everything that keeps me moving forward.

I am committed to never returning to the world I knew; it’s up to me to create a new one.

One of the newer things I have had to face up to during this journey is emotional eating, which I did around Thanksgiving. I had a lot weighing on my mind (pun?), and instead of confronting those issues and working them out, I resorted to comforting myself with food. Worse, food that I don’t normally have. My body is still sensitive enough that just overeating what I normally eat can often result in weight gain. So needless to say, things like apple pie and sweet potatoes might as well just be applied straight to my hips — because that’s where they’ll end up.

As a consequence, I’m up in weight and have a few pounds to lose before I’m back at my low weight. The damage wasn’t horrendous, but it still delays where I’d like to be. I know my body well enough to know exactly what happens when I mis-eat or overeat. So, this was no surprise, and I am back on the straight and narrow. That’s the good news, here is I don’t just flip out and keep damaging myself by eating things I know my body doesn’t need. That’s something I used to do quite a bit, years ago, and the biggest reason why I have fallen off many a “diet” wagon.

I rarely saw myself as an emotional eater before this journey. Yes, there were times I could binge eat like I was training for a world record. I would feel so deprived on whatever eating plan I had chosen, regretting and resenting that my body wasn’t doing what I wanted it to do (LOSE WEIGHT!!), that I’d show it who’s boss by eating everything in sight. I’d end up feeling gross and sorry for myself, with little time for actually savoring the foods I’d binged on. They were simply gone.

In retrospect, maybe I was eating my emotions when I just figured I was bingeing. Eating frustration perhaps goes down a bit better with sweets. It solved absolutely nothing and, instead, just amplified whatever I was feeling at the time, as well as my waistline. Any of the times I binged, I knew I wasn’t fixing anything at all. In fact, I knew I was punishing myself but wanting to get some gratification in the process.

For most of my adult years, I punished myself for being fat by making sure I remained fat. I know that sounds counterintuitive, but in the mindset I had until fairly recently in my adult life, I also never believed for a millisecond that I could not be fat. For a while, especially as a young (and obese) adult, I convinced myself that I was part of a minority of fat people who suffered no ill effects from my obesity; I didn’t feel like I was damaging myself at all, and that I was totally healthy. I ignored the many warning signs that I was not, in fact, healthy at all.

Yesterday was the 2 year anniversary of having my second knee replacement. I know, in retrospect, that I damaged my body with the weight I carried; I was quite young to have two total knee replacements. Decades of dieting and then piling the weight back on afterward have also made my current path much harder, and more crucial that I succeed. My health issues did not happen overnight, and the solutions to them certainly have taken a long time. If I had a Delorean, I’d shoot for my young adulthood and tell my young self to get control before ravaging my body, but I wonder if I would have even listened to myself.

I still am learning about my brain and my body, and recognizing when I am doing things that don’t serve me is part of the process. I accepted before the holidays that my weight would be a bit of a rollercoaster, though my goal was to make sure I remained in control. I didn’t factor in that 2020 has been its own trial and how it would contribute to my mindset around the holidays. I let myself lose focus rather than remaining accountable. What I saw when I stepped back on the scale was entirely my doing.

I am continually working on strategies that will help me stay the course while occasionally enjoying food holidays as I slowly move into maintaining my health. My whole journey has been a recognition that none of these achievements come easily, and that learning never stops.

This past week, I came to the realization that despite everything that’s going on in the world, including pandemics and political upheaval, I really like the groove I’m in.

That doesn’t mean everything in my world is ideal, but I’m happy with the things I’m doing. It’s habit, now, to walk between three and six miles on my morning walks, and I don’t feel quite complete until I’ve done it. I’m learning Spanish while I walk, too; I’m still a beginner, but I’m enjoying rattling off Spanish phrases while I walk, even if my neighbors probably think I’m talking to myself and I’ve lost my mind. I’m doing well with my business as the world continues to change. I’m in a great place with my way of eating, too, which has helped me achieve new lows.

As of today, I am 7.6 pounds away from the weight at which I’ll not only be below a BMI of 30 (to make those insurance people happy). Once I’ve reviewed my health markers with my doctor and possibly drop another medication, I may well be at the point where I will transition into maintenance and correction. Single digits away! That, right there, is more than I ever dreamed possible — especially at a BMI starting point of 67. Anything over a BMI of 40 is considered Class 3 Obesity. I’m merely in the very low part of Class 1, right now. Classy, yes? 😉 (If you’re new to the blog, please get used to my sarcastic view of the BMI, which I think is a joke.)

I’m also back to playing my horn. I have dearly missed it, and orchestra will not start up just yet because of the pandemic situation in my area, but making music is a part of me and I have needed it back. Much like starting on a health journey, though, the early stages are tough. I have to go through the initial challenges of getting my chops back, and that comes with time, practice, intent, and patience. That’s much like the difference between easing into and committing to lifestyle changes. It’s not instant. And it’s not very gratifying at all when I’m stumbling around in the early parts of regaining my abilities, but I know I’ll get there.

Like this journey, patience and persistence will pay off and become a joy to do. Something I will look forward to and attack more challenges as I hone my abilities. Getting to that place is the gratifying goal for both my journey and my music; it’s not just about improving my health. It’s the feeling of knowing I am in control of a body when I have seldom had control before. It’s the ability to adapt, to pivot when necessary, to even try new things with the knowledge that I can safely return to what I know works for me.

With Thanksgiving less than a week away, I know what I’ll be eating that day. It’ll be out of the norm for me. I’ll enjoy every blissful bite. And then I will clean up the effects of having eaten differently and reset. I used to struggle with food holidays because I feared that once I tasted foods I had removed from my normal life, I wouldn’t want to go back. That’s not the case, now; one of the biggest reasons I no longer fear the work is because I know without a doubt that the only thing holding me back… is me.

No, my life isn’t perfect. I’m not where I want to be, just yet. There are other changes I’d like to see in my world. But being satisfied with the knowledge that as long as I keep making the effort, I will reach those goals, is worth every bit of struggle. I am convinced that I would not be as strong as I am, today, if I had not struggled at all. Muscles get stronger when you challenge them. Playing my horn becomes easier when I gain control of my breathing, my embouchure (lips against the mouthpiece), my own skills brushing up on control and musicality.

The more I challenge my body, the better it becomes, and the easier it is for me to push forward through each challenge. The more in tune I am with my life, the more exciting everything I accomplish becomes.

I’m the first one to admit that I know my body is, shall we say, less than perfection. I’m 59. I’ve lost over 200 pounds. I have enough excess skin to build an extra person, if I had a mind to be Dr. Frankenstein. (That’s Fronkensteen, thanks.)

While I tend to believe in comfort first, and I’ll wear shorts and sleeveless shirts without caring much what others think, I draw the line at streaking. Uh… I mean, getting naked. Or nearly there, anyway. So I admit I was just a tiny bit surprised when my husband bought me a massage for my birthday.

I’ve had massages, before, but usually with massage therapists that I knew I would never see, again. This massage was scheduled with a friend of mine, though, who has been there and supported me through nearly all of the seven years I’ve been working on my physical and mental self. I am glad it was her, in particular; she’s skilled, and she also is aware of the issues excess skin can bring. She has other clients with similar issues. I understand why, now, they choose to go back to her.

All that aside, it was surreal to lay on a table in (nearly) in my birthday suit. (It was for my birthday, after all!) Even odder to receive a full body massage. Best of all, judgment-free. We all know that such professionals should be free of judgment; after all, few of us are perfect. But I know from experience that reality is often different than expectations. I was pleased that it met my expectations.

Years ago, hubby and I went to a local tourist town for historic hot baths; it was part of our 10th wedding anniversary package with a favorite hotel, but that bath experience was like no other. For one thing, while we were thankfully separated by gender, we all had to sit and wait until we were called, dressed in nothing but a sheet wrapped around us toga style. I wasn’t my heaviest at the time, but likely still over the 300 mark. And then? Totally naked, in a large ancient metal tub, surprised by a bath attendant with a loofah sponge, who simply grabbed each of my arms and legs and started to scrub.

Shocked? A bit mortified? You bet! The attendant simply went about her work, but I still felt as if I was being judged on some level. It might have only been in my own mind, but for me, that’s what matters most.

Today, I’m happy in my own skin, even if it doesn’t fit quite right. Even if it’s not quite normal. It’s mine, and I’m happy with where I am. I might even have to get another massage!