We camped for most of this past week, which is why this blog is just being posted now. We love camping, and after nearly three months of only the most essential trips to the store or to care for my mother, we were both ready to get out and enjoy the outdoors. And what a great way it was to have a good time as well as retain social distance.

When we plan any trip at all, one of my own personal decisions is whether I’ll take a food holiday. I had planned several food vacations, of sorts, back before the pandemic canceled travel plans, including a big one that would have been this past ten days in Mexico. I’ve been working hard this spring to get my focus on getting back to my low weight; just a couple of pounds away, now, and finally working beyond it to my 210 pounds off. (Just a reminder that for me personally, that’s a measuring point for health markers before I determine whether it’s a stopping point for maintenance.)

So my decision for what I would eat and drink while camping was really an easier one to make: I usually take a little time off and, consequently, have a few pounds to re-lose after the campout, and I didn’t want that this time. I chose to only pack foods (for me — hubby has different goals) that are ones I usually eat, with a few exceptions that don’t challenge my weight. For instance, we made a low carb chicken pot pie in a Dutch oven that both of us enjoyed. The good news is that I only have a couple pounds to lose; I always gain, so a gain of 2.8 pounds was well within where I wanted to be.

This camping trip was different, though, in ways I didn’t really expect. While I have, in the past, actually brought scales with me on a campout, I no longer do that. I did that a couple years back when it was extremely important to monitor my weight before I had total knee replacement surgery, but we took those scales out of the camper. I’m used to not having that marker for however long we camp, so I have to pay more attention to what my body is telling me. And I usually know; I can feel those changes, now, especially after years of being mindful.

Both hubby and I have also been walking a ton; we both have FitBit watches and challenges we keep up with, but the first full day we camped was swamped with rainfall. We also ahem enjoyed a champagne breakfast that left both of us napping while listening to the rain, and… well… heavy rainfall pooled a bunch of water in our dining canopy and bent the frame. Hubby tried to get the water to drain, and while I was still half-asleep, I slid down the hill to the dining area on my butt. It didn’t hurt me, although it alarmed him; I haven’t fallen once since before my surgeries a couple of years back. I used to be scared to death of falling; well, now, I have a muddy butt slide to claim. It didn’t hurt, it wasn’t scary — just funny in retrospect.

So. Needless to say, neither of us got our normally long walks in on Monday. I had planned to take it easy with some lighter strolls during the week; my FitBit also reminds me to move at least 250 steps every hour. I have become used to that indicator of how I’m doing — for pulse, for sleep, for steps, for fitness goals. And then… it stopped working. Not suddenly, mind you, but more like an old wall clock that starts losing time because the battery is going bad. I finally had to stop fretting over why the silly thing wasn’t even keeping time correctly and set it aside; that’s a marker I’ve become very dependent on, and it’s been rather odd not having it.

A replacement is on its way, but it struck me that I’d become dependent on that marker in the same way I used to be dependent on the scale. Did I get the steps I wanted? Who knows! What about my blasted OCD sleep score? Got me. Imagine, just deciding whether or not you feel well-rested in the morning, or whether your body has told you it’s been moving enough. It was a return to listening to my body for those things instead of relying on an outside indicator of success.

Those outside indicators can lie. The scale doesn’t always show that guilty bag of pretzels or the hard work put in to drop a water weight gain, so remembering that it’s not the end-all, be-all is important. Fitness watches can lie, too; when my husband drives his truck, his FitBit accumulates flights of stairs and steps. These things happen and although I’m a bit ticked that my FitBit needed a warranty replacement (it was a Christmas gift), it was a solid reminder that the only true way I have of knowing my own successes is by listening to my body.

I made myself a promise, years ago, that I’m gonna break today.

That promise? That I would not post progress pics until I had lost all my weight. Admittedly, I have (as of today) another 18 pounds to go before reaching the point where I will evaluate my health markers and adjust if needed. I am not yet at the low I reached last fall, but I’m getting closer each day.

Don’t get me wrong: my reasons for going ahead and posting a progress pic are entirely self-serving. I realized, last night while talking to my husband, that not only had I not taken a comparison pic for over two years, but I hadn’t even looked at my beginning pics for that long, either. Before our morning walk, yesterday, I had him take a few photos. And yep, you see the full before and after photos below. That’s my walking gear I’ve got on, minus the flip flops. 😉 (And yes. It’s terrifying for me to have so many people — friends and strangers — scrutinizing my body. Look, I’m lumpy. Go easy on me.)

It’s been danged near 7 years since I took that first photo. I felt horrible and I was honestly scared for my life. I know I have some new readers today; I’ll tell you that I had absolutely no faith whatsoever that I’d be successful on this journey. I just went on faith, faked it until I made it. Heck, I have failed every single time I have tried to get my weight under control, and didn’t think this time would be any different. But I took it in small increments. I decided I had better do the head work I always knew was needed. Every single time I have failed a diet, I have come off of it by punishing myself with a blazing return to bad habits. And really, if we fail, that’s the worst possible thing we can do, because it changes nothing.

When I looked at that “before” photo, last night, I realized I had tucked that person away as a distant memory. I am still that person, but then, I’m not. Not really. It’s important on this mental journey I’m on to remind myself of where I’ve been, both as a cautionary tale and to understand the true magnitude of the gift I gave myself the day I decided to simply try one more time.

I know it’s hard for some to understand why I say I’m not proud of my weight loss. I am, on a small level, but I know the mental pitfalls of using weight loss as a personal identification; now, to me, identifying myself as a weight loss success story is no better than being the fattest person in the room. I had opted not to post progress pics for that simple reason: I am not defined by weight loss. I am so very much more than that. If that’s what you see, you don’t see me as a total person.

But at the same time, it’s a facet of the total diamond. Waging this war has made me stronger than I have ever been in my entire 58 years, so today, I’m choosing to post those danged photos, knowing full well that I will need to battle any mental fallout by doing so. Because it is a risk. There is judgment. But there’s also the lesson that both those photos are of me, and by golly, if there’s something to learn by putting myself out there, I intend to learn it so I can move on. I have shown such photos in relatively safe environments, but today, I’m putting it out there for the world. If you understand the work that went into getting my brain and body to this point, then you can start to understand a bit about me.

I’m not perfect. I’m not at the end of my journey. I will, by my own admission, thankfully never be at the end of this journey; only move through phases as I continue to learn more about myself and solve each challenge as it comes. I’m nearing the end of the weight loss phase and easing into the next as I adjust to those health markers. I now feel that I have the tools I need to face whatever comes, and I have never been able to say that, before.

That first photo was of the me that was desperate for change. I knew full well, from previous successes and failures, exactly how much hard work was ahead of me. I feared that and regretted all those previous failures. But the thing I regretted, most of all, was handicapping myself and becoming a burden to my loved ones, possibly even dying. That’s a hard conversation to have with yourself, and I did, usually at 3 am, feeling my heart pound too hard in my body, wishing I hadn’t done this to myself. Because I had done this to myself, and that’s a really hard thing to come to terms with. I took the photos with the tiniest hope that better photos would follow.

But with it also comes the necessity of decision: do you keep hurting yourself, or do you step forward, even an inch, with purpose? I knew that if I made even a little effort, I would feel better about myself, so that’s what I did. And never did I ever foresee the day when I would be here, in the midst of a pandemic and all the problems this country is facing that have pelted my brain, posting a before/after and claiming that I have learned so many lessons I fully needed to learn.

That’s why, friends. I’m not here for the praise that I know will inevitably come. Rather, I’m here to claim that part of myself that has made the rest possible. If I had not taken the mental journey, the physical one would have fallen flat. I ask you not to look at the photos for weight loss, although I know that’s hard. Instead, this is the side effect of proving to myself that I am worthy, capable, and willing to face a life that I have earned through incredibly hard work. That’s the true victory as I ease on down this road I’ve built for myself.

PS: I ask that these photos not be shared or used without my consent.

Today marks two years since I had my first knee replacement surgery.

Those of you who have been reading along for a while may recall how hard I had to fight to get to the point where they would even schedule surgery for me, thanks to weight stalls, BMI requirements, and more. And believe me, while I was in presurgical testing that morning, I feared something else would prevent or postpone the surgery, even though I was pretty anxious about having it done. Just because I had seen my husband through both of his knee replacement surgeries didn’t mean I had personal perspective.

I also feared that I would get my surgery done and then do something stupid, like turn around and gain all my weight back. That’s always a fear with me, since I’ve done exactly that before, although these days I feel more confident than ever that I can keep my head in the right place. I waver on occasion; heck, I am still working on getting off weight I gained last fall. And that’s a lesson, right there, in remembering that my body is set to gain much quicker than it loses.

I have absolutely no regrets at all regarding having both knees replaced. Now, with two years on one knee and about a year and a half on the other, the pain I endured before surgery seems a distant memory. My second knee was actually in worse condition than my first, despite not giving me more pain or structural complications; in all, I endured three offloader braces over the years, as well as numerous injections. Living with the pain and the limitations, though, was my normal.

Normal at this point in my life means easily walking a 5K while chatting with my husband. In fact, this blog entry is late because I took my mother to a doctor’s appointment (standard annual stuff) and walked the neighboring residential area while she was in the appointment. To my surprise, I overshot my 5K goal. And further, it’s my 4th 5K this week; my goal was to walk 3 to 4. Next week? 5K every day, and then I may see about extending it even more, because my body feels good doing this. My endurance is doing quite well.

Before, my knees held me back. Granted, the rest of me is still original equipment, but it’s a good feeling, knowing that my body is still capable of what I thought was lost to me. I got here, too, with incremental increases; I didn’t just decide I’d walk 3.1 miles. With the summer ahead of me, not knowing yet what it holds for any of us, I am happy and thankful to feel more fit than I have been in quite some time.

When I lost weight years ago (oh, here she goes, again!), I pushed myself physically. I walked 3-4 miles a day in addition to weight lifting. But I ended up hurting myself, so I had to back off of everything I was doing. I wasn’t smart about listening to my body, but I’m much smarter, now. I’m also much more pleased with my physical and mental progress.

Thank goodness I took this chance on myself, again; it’s my once in a lifetime shot, and I plan to make it matter.

Just yesterday, Google’s Doodle (the daily logo changes on the search engine’s main page that honors events, birthdays, and the like) was about Israel Kamakawiwo’ole, the “Voice of Hawaii”, who would have been 61 years old. He was a gifted musician whose life was cut short when he succumbed to respiratory failure at the age of 38.

I’ve heard his music played a lot on Radio Margaritaville, but never knew anything about him. It turns out that he had a brother who died at age 28, and almost all of his family died from complications of morbid obesity; he was approximately 700 pounds at the time of his death.

Quote: “I was scared when I lost my mother, my father, my brother, my sister,” Israel told de Mello. “I guess this is gonna sound kind of weird, but I’m not scared for myself for dying. Because I believe all these places are temporary. This is just one shell. Because we Hawaiians live in both worlds. It’s in our veins. When our time come, don’t cry for me. Don’t cry for me. Plant a tree in the middle … where they play soccer,” he laughs. “Kind of small, then I’ll grow big.” – Israel Kamakawiwo’ole, the “Voice of Hawaii”, National Public Radio

Such a short life seems tragic to me, although we never know how long our lives will be. Still, to know and accept with some certainty that your life will be a short one has to be devastating, despite his words. I admit, though, that one of the reasons I finally decided to give weight loss one more try is because I felt like I was shortening my own life. While I still don’t know what even today holds, I draw some comfort in the sense that I’ve done what I can to improve my health while I’m still on this earth.

When your brain doesn’t match your body, and your body continually works against you, that sense of your own impending doom is pervasive. At a little more than half his weight, my every move felt as if I wore a body suit of bowling balls. Walking felt like pushing through neck-deep water, but without the weightless feeling water provides. I limited pushing myself for fear that pushing my body too hard would land me in the hospital — or worse. I regretted the folly of my younger days; still grossly overweight, giving up hope on the thought of improving my health and fooling myself into believing I was fine and healthy. For a while, I was, but the years of increased weight on my joints took their toll and I have paid for it.

Giving up hope.

I cannot fathom how a 700 pound body must have felt; I know well the burdens my own caused. My burgeoning body greatly affected my mind, and yet his shone through. What an amazing lesson to still find that hope, to create, to enchant a world with your song despite whatever might have been going on physically. To accept a short life and to make it count. To push through regardless, and make a mark. That’s a lesson all of us can appreciate, regardless of the bodies where our brains reside.

He became the Voice of Hawaii, despite whatever physical challenges he faced. His light shined through. He sang of hope and love, regardless of whatever prison his body might have been. I doubt it was an easy path to his success; so many who become successful at what they set out to do must persevere though endless attempts before they finally get it right. Thomas Edison finally perfected the light bulb, but it took 10,000 attempts; ‘I have not failed. I have just found 9,999 ways that do not work’. I’ve certainly failed, myself, but I am eternally faithful I tried one more time.

Serve while we can. Be present for our loved ones while we can. Look forward with anticipation and love. Because there is hope; no matter how many times we try, the next one may be the most successful, despite the past.

While I’m getting closer to beating my low every day, that’s only one of a number of goals I have. I’ve learned that having a variety of health-related goals means that I struggle less, mentally. For decades, any time I went on a diet, I rarely used more than weight as an indicator of success. I became easily frustrated when the scale didn’t show what I hoped for, especially if I felt I had been working hard.

Even when I added in measuring, that often didn’t bear results; I was large enough that getting an accurate reading for measurements was difficult, so the only time I really saw success in measurements was when I lost enough to change them significantly.

But then, any time I focused on those two methods, I was on a diet. I may have been working hard, but it was the wrong kind of work, and the wrong focus on success indicators. It was far too easy for me to be overwhelmed and I would inevitably give up. It felt like a lot of work for very little payoff.

This week, though, I’ve been finding success in a different goal: endurance walking. I’ve written here, before, about my progress, but if you’re new to this blog — a quick recap.

I had to start walking in very small increments; because of carrying an immense amount of weight for decades, I damaged both knees and was barely able to walk. Seven years ago, I used a cane for small walks, like getting around the house and at the grocery store, and wore an offloader brace to keep one of my knees aligned. Anything over a brief trip had to be done in a travel wheelchair.

So for me to say that this week, I managed not one but two walks that were the equivalents of a 5K, it’s a huge thing. With nearly 200 pounds gone and two new knees, it’s been a LOT of incremental increases in the distances I could walk; at first, my short jaunts were around the back yard with a cane. Eventually, as I lost weight, I was able to walk without the cane. Before I had my knees replaced, I could walk 2 miles, but it was also excruciating and I paid for it. On Tuesday, I squashed my normal 10K daily step goal with a final step count of 17,527; just over 7 miles of walking, and I started that day off with a 5K. I fully expected to pay for it the next day, but no; I have had no muscle soreness at all, and repeated another 5K yesterday.

And now, because I can get in the majority of my steps in one walk, it frees up the rest of my day for different activities. I get the work done early, and anything else is just icing on the metaphorical cake. Do the cakewalk; get the prize! But in this case, I don’t win cake; I get the satisfaction of knowing I’m doing exactly what I set out to do.

One of my goals has been to increase my endurance to a point where, when we finally do get to return to traveling, camping, and other activities, I can walk for as much and as far as I want without concern. So while I may not be back to my low weight just yet, I’m getting closer all the time, and I’ve surpassed other goals while working on that one.

But then, I am long past considering this a diet. It’s simply how I live, now; and as I watch my health markers improve, I adjust. Honestly, it feels like a very adult thing to do.

As I lay in bed, last night, unable to sleep, I caught myself counting my ribs. I take stock of my body quite often, these days; even though I’ve been relatively close to a low weight for a while, now, my fingers will unconsciously drift to ribs, collar bones, the bones of my hips, muscles in my legs. Some of these things, like collar bones, are visible to others; some are still hidden under layers of saggy skin and fat. And while I don’t like seeing the saggy skin I’m left with, it’s still me, and still okay. None of you are going to see me naked any time soon, so it really makes little difference. (The obvious exception is my husband.)

It’s the evidence of the work I’ve put in, as well as the detritus of my former self. As I lay there, I thought about how much less room I take up in our bed, although my 18-pound dog has managed to take over any differences in space to her advantage. Dogs are uniquely skilled at stretching to fill whatever open space there is. As I rise from bed to walk to the bathroom, it’s an easy matter of simply placing my feet on the floor and standing; even as recently as two years ago, before my first of two knee replacement surgeries, that simple action might be so painful and lengthy that any midnight trips to the bathroom might wake me fully and leave me struggling to return to sleep.

These echoes of my former life remind me of times I often forget, now that I move with relative ease, and I still surprise myself, even now. It was roughly a week ago when I laid down on the ground next to our camper to pull down the stabilizing jacks; despite owning the camper for four years, it was the first time I had attempted to move them. I was able to get a couple of them down with some verbal instruction, and getting back up from the ground — while awkward — was a matter of a few seconds of weirdness instead of fearing I wouldn’t be able to get up under my own power.

My brain wants to still tell me that some things just aren’t possible. I haven’t worked up the courage to get on my bike, yet, for instance; despite having both of my new knees for over a year, ones that bend so much more easily (and pain-free!) than the original equipment, my mind argues that I’ll still struggle with it. In the middle of a pandemic, I’ve reasoned that if I do hurt myself, it’s a really lousy time to have to visit an emergency room. The truth is there’s probably never a really good time for that, and if I ever want to take bikes with us when camping, I have to get comfortable with the idea of getting on and off a bike that’s just a bit too tall for my 5’2” frame. (Ideally, a 24” bike would probably be better, but those seem to be a bit scarce in desirable options.)

As I mentally fuss over losing a few more pounds to get to my current low weight, it also occurs to me that I deal with much smaller increments these days, ones that don’t stress me out like they initially did when I started my journey. I purposely broke down my goals because the idea of having to lose 200 pounds was simply too overwhelming to consider; too hopeless in light of the endless stats about how diets fail, how many regain the weight they’ve lost. While I will always have to be vigilant about keeping my mind and body focused, I no longer worry about those stats like I once did. Today, I am exactly 15 pounds above my low, and once I get there (and I will get there, again), it’s a mere 10.2 pounds more to a weight where I will evaluate my health markers and see if I will continue to nudge my goals.

I’ve accepted that when my health markers are right, I may still need to occasionally adjust as I age. That’s life. It’s no longer about my physical size, and hasn’t been for quite some time.

Self-acceptance is such a major accomplishment; I hadn’t fully realized I had reached a place where beating myself up just didn’t seem necessary, anymore. Despite not being obese my entire life, I have always felt as if I’ve had to justify my existence, and apologize to others for my own perceived shortcomings, including judgments on how I look, how much I weigh, how I dress, how I present myself to the world. Mind you, I do care if I’m making a good impression, but the echoes of those particular mind games have been banished. I’ve stripped away those ideas of having to conform to anyone else’s ideas of how I should define myself.

This is me, in this moment, striving to be my best; sometimes I fail, and sometimes I do a lot better than I imagine I can. It’s my life as I know it in this moment, and it’s pretty good.

When I was 8 years old or so, my grandmother flew in from New York City for a visit. She wasn’t able to visit often, but I remember that visit most because I was old enough to have a little bit of freedom, and Grandma’s visit put a stop to it.

I grew up in a lakefront neighborhood in a small town. Most of the kids in my neighborhood were boys, so while I did have the occasional competitive Barbie war with girl neighbors, I tended to be more of a tomboy, even on into high school. I was raised with brothers. The few other girls in my neighborhood were much like me; when we hung out, we were at the lake, riding bikes, hiking, adventuring. And then Grandma showed up.

I’m sure the visit was only for a few days, but it seemed like a year. She wanted me to do girly things, like paint our nails; and while I would play dress-up with my friends on occasion, I resented feeling like I was grounded. The one horrible moment I remember was when she told me not to ride my bike because I might break my neck. So, I stayed home with her and we made pirogi and did girl stuff. And while my brothers and I always loved it when she would make pirogi, I resented the rest.

I didn’t like it because I wanted to be out hiking or biking with my friends, heading down local trails or finding cool stuff to do down on the lake. We would pack little lunches and head off into the woods on a local trail called the Boy Scout Trail, which was really an old railroad bed that ran about a mile to a subdivision in another area of town. As long as we didn’t do anything stupid, we were free to roam and explore.

That’s always been part of my nature. For obvious reasons, being homebound through a pandemic has squelched a lot of that ability to just get out and go. Plans, vacations, get-togethers have been canceled. Things I’ve truly looked forward to, especially now that I’ve got two new knees and a much greater ability to get out and do what I want to do. I know times will change, although we may never see the “normal” we once knew, but not being able to make the plans I want has been just a bit like Grandma’s visit. Okay, then, I’ll stay home, and I’ll do what’s needed, but that doesn’t mean I like it. No, what it means is that I’m willing to do what’s necessary for my own future health and for those I love.

Being willing to do what’s needed, even when I don’t like it, was a major turning point for me when I started this journey. Back then, just like now, I knew I needed to change things. Outside forces weren’t holding me back; it was my own mental pandemic and my fear that I wouldn’t succeed, no matter how much I wanted it. Remember, I had tried once before and made great progress, only to fail, to return to my own personal quarantine, feeling trapped.

The worst part for me was the realization of how much I’d given up by trapping myself in weight; I was more prone to illness, every move took a colossal effort, the pain of movement detracted from the enjoyment of simple things. I never thought I’d be able to easily travel, walk, hike, enjoy the outdoors, camp — so I pushed them away as if they had never been part of my life. And lately, now that I’ve given myself the gift of bringing all of those things back into my life, I have had to deal with having my wings clipped, again, by something I have very little control over. After all, I could — and did — lose weight. The only thing I can do during a pandemic is do my part to not make it worse, and that means accepting those clipped wings for the time being.

I’ve worked with plenty of restrictions before, and I think one of the biggest lessons I’ve learned from past mistakes is that I need to feed the part of me that needs autonomy, even if the scope is much smaller than I want. We’ve been getting outside whenever possible and walking for miles, sitting outside, grilling, enjoying the spring weather. We’ve planted a garden. I’ve potted flowers for the front of the house so I can enjoy their beauty when I’m sitting on the front porch. By necessity, we’ve made our own home vacation.

Good things can still happen, even during tough times. I may not have liked my grandmother basically grounding me, but we all loved the pirogi, and eventually, I got to ride my bike and see my friends, again. While we’ve had to push our plans down the road a bit, those times will come again. The feathers on my clipped wings will grow back. So will yours. We just need to do what’s needed and stand together.

It’s been well over a month since my husband came home to work, an absolutely challenging experience for a teacher with special education students. Over a month that I’ve had to explain to my aging mother that she can’t live life like she normally does because she’s at a much higher risk of catching COVID-19 and dying.

The days dragged on in slow motion, filled oddly with canceling appointments, trips, recreation. Doubt about the future. Insecurity. Fear.

I admit that I gave in, for a while, to emotional eating. I mostly stayed with foods that I normally eat, but I overate them. I gained a little bit of weight; thankfully, not much. But the weight wasn’t the issue; my mental attitude was entirely to blame. I felt myself starting to give in to the demons that plagued me years ago, deriving far too much comfort from a full stomach. After all, that’s a basic emotion, regardless of whether you’re a human, dog, or any other animal. We eat, we sleep. The world seems a little more manageable when we’re sated.

I came to the hard realization that I needed to clean up my act. When things do improve — and they will, even if we’re not exactly sure when — I want to be at my best. I want to be ready. Strong. Capable. And I am none of those things if I am not in control.

So, this week, I’ve been taking back that control. I’ve been getting my exercise in. I’ve been taking charge of what, how, when I choose to eat. Getting back in the groove is always a bit of a struggle, which is why it’s just plain easier to stay in control rather than work to regain it.

I’ve been setting goals. It’s an entire picture; setting achievable goals, whether they’re related to working, cleaning, self-care, are all important. Achieving them helps my mental health, which in turn reinforces my physical health, and my friends, there’s been no more important time than now to dedicate yourself to mental and physical health.

Sure, if you’ve been on social media, there are a ton of memes about eating and drinking our ways through the pandemic. I’ve also seen quite a few comments disparaging the idea of self-improvement through these tough times. While I get it — everyone has to find their own mojo in times like this — I also highly recommend giving time to not only grieve what we’ve lost, but to build ourselves. It’s time to admit that while I’ve been shaken by dealing with a changed world, I refuse to let it stir me into wallowing. I’ve been there. It’s not a place I wish to return.

Like most of you, we’ve been spending the last few weeks limiting our activities, canceling events, making the hard decisions in hopes that we’ll avert sickness in our loved ones and in ourselves.

And then there was Easter Sunday. We woke to rain; a couple inches, and while that’s hardly uncommon here, the ground has been saturated for months. It’s spring and the leaves are bursting forth on the trees; lots more leaves than a normal year because of the plentiful rain. After the rain, the day cleared off for a bit, and while I’ve been chomping at the bit for some sunshine, we knew that would cause issues. Daytime heat would amplify a storm system that was making its way rapidly across Arkansas.

At 8 pm, we kept up our howling appointment — in the face of a storm blowing in. Within just a few minutes, we lost electricity and spent the next slow-moving minutes listening to winds howl through the trees over our house. Strong winds dislodging branches, blowing our gas grill across our patio (with a full propane tank), knocking over heavy yard furniture. Thankfully, we had no real damage; only yard cleanup.

Others had it much worse; downed trees, snapped power poles, flattened homes, loss of life. Winds at 70 to 110 miles per hour mangled much in their paths, cutting a swath through south Arkansas, as well as much of the South. Tornadoes wreaked havoc in northern Louisiana, Mississippi, and points east. I’m thankful and grateful that wasn’t us, and grieve for those who must pick up the pieces, especially during these abnormal times.

The lasting effect of storms for us, though, is that we’ve been without electricity since last Easter Sunday night. We managed a borrowed generator a day later, but it’s not something we can run all the time, and it’s enough to keep us from losing all our stored food, especially since grocery shopping is now like running a Survivor challenge. And like many Southerners, we don’t just have a refrigerator; we have one in the kitchen, another in the garage, a small fridge hubby uses at work (and brought home), and a deep freezer. To lose all that stored food would have been rough. We moved everything out of the kitchen fridge and condensed things a bit, so we’re able to keep them running. Well, that, one solitary lamp in the middle of the dining room table, and a power strip for charging technology.

We’ve essentially been camping in our own house over the last few days. When I wake up, I get up and set water on the gas stove top to heat up for coffee as well as an indirect way to heat part of the house. Hubby walks Captain Camp Dog and fills/starts the generator. I juggle taking care of my mother’s needs throughout the day, as well as shifting/maintaining the house while hubby carries on with his remote teaching duties. Resources for getting online, where I work, are a bit thin, as is time, right now. But we’re getting by. Daytime, the windows let light in; nighttime is lit by candles and kerosene lanterns. (FYI, “Candles and Lanterns” is also the universal nickname for our electric company.)

I’ve had to adapt, yet again. I’ve been eating more than I normally would, but at least staying with foods that I normally eat and not using the challenges we’ve faced as a reason to decimate pretzels. (Luckily, there are none in the house. Pretzels are my weak point, y’all. Soft or hard, doesn’t matter.) I know I have gained weight, although I haven’t weighed over the past few days, choosing not to assault my brain with too much. I know what I face when the lights come on. The quarantine will still be there, I suspect, and I’m dedicated to getting back in control of both my eating and my physical activity.

While I long for a time when things are “normal”, whatever that new normal turns out to be, I have accepted that each weird thing that happens isn’t a permanent thing. It’s another reminder and lesson that choices are often simple: either deal with the challenge or succumb to it. It would do us no good to sit here and do nothing while waiting for the power to come back on; instead, we’ve changed our routines. We’ve accepted that for a bit, things have to change. And on my particular journey, I’ve accepted that there will always be fits and starts interspersed with the times of progress. In the long run, we are ahead of the game, and that’s a good place to be.

As for me, my weight fluctuations can be frustrating, but I am dedicated to following through. I am also intensely thankful for the skills and attitude that have carried us this far; while I am forced to live entirely in the moment and roll with the punches, I am confident that we’ll soon move on to better things.

I don’t know who came up with the idea of howling outside every night at 8 pm, but I started doing it a few days ago. Since I work from home, I don’t talk all that much, so the first couple of nights, I played my horn instead. I wanted something that would attract attention and make noise; my husband’s job was to just howl along. If you have no clue what I’m talking about, it’s just a way for those of us in the US to show a little solidarity and do something together — for just one minute — at 8 pm local time.

Mind you, when I’ve played my horn, I can’t hear if others are also howling because they’re at a distance. A couple of nights ago as we were sitting outside, we both just raised our voices; not only did some neighborhood dogs join in, but we heard neighbors a couple of blocks away start to howl. What an odd feeling it was; strangers, raising their voices along with us, all of us for our own reasons. But last night, no one howled with us and while I felt the connection the night before, I felt nearly foolish last night. And I have a Zoom meeting tonight at 8 — should I howl at the meeting? It’s an odd thing to do on a nightly basis, but there’s a quality to it that I really can’t explain.

It’s cathartic to let that howl out, and everyone has their own reasons to do it. Maybe you’ve lost someone important in your life, or fear that you will. Maybe you’re just frustrated because you’re an essential worker and these are trying times. Maybe you’re among the unemployed, rent is due, and you have no way to pay it. Maybe you’re just scared and need an outlet. Or maybe you do it for healthcare workers and others who have gone the extra mile and put their own lives on the line.

It doesn’t really matter if anyone else knows why we raise our voices in unison; for me, in the moment I heard my neighbors, it was the reminder that while we might be observing quarantine in our homes and living purposely small lives at the moment, the community still surrounds us and exists. We are not alone, and perhaps that’s what matters, most.

I’ve been doing a lot of things to make sure the pressure doesn’t build within me; my husband and I have taken walks every day. I’ve gardened, I’ve listened to the songs of birds, I’ve cleaned like crazy. My doorknobs and light switches have never been cleaner. I’ve made face masks. This has all been in addition to the normal bricks of my life, including work and family. But finding a connection with others in my community, even if they are nameless strangers blocks away, is a nice reminder that we’re all human and all in this together.