I’ve spent the last year of my life trying to lose weight, dealing with ramped up anxiety and panic attacks, feeling nauseous on a day-to-day basis, worrying about womb health considering my female processes went out of whack right when I decided I wanted a baby, dieting all kinds of different ways, visiting doctors once a month, adjusting medication, trying to find a job, trying to find time for the job I have, balancing the budget with a partner who’s job is only temporary …
If reading that paragraph exhausted you, try living it.
I didn’t unload all of this on the blog because a lot of it was shrouded in negativity and fear, and I just didn’t want to create some kind of space for that. Dedicating post after post to my problems seemed somehow counterproductive to solving them.
But I’m human and I have issues and sometimes I need to vent those issues. Besides, how can I really celebrate my successes if I can’t look at what I’ve overcome to achieve them.
I turned 27 last week. 27’s not my favorite number, but it could be worse. I’m not going to sit here and write about how I’m not where I thought I’d be. At age 5, I thought I’d grow up to be some kind of modern day Picasso; I failed that mission awhile ago (I’m ok with it). So I thought my 27th birthday could be more cathartic. Sort of a farewell to the shitty 26.
It was also my second week without gluten, so I had to substitute the real joy of a cupcake with a gluten free one worth double my weight in calories—I ate it with no shame and no stomach ache after, win win!
I ate the fattening fake cupcake with its pound of icing; I accepted that I’m not 21 anymore and this whole weight loss thing is going to take a lot more work this go; I realized that in the grand scheme of my anxiety, I’m managing the best I have in the past four years; I’m doing the best I can with what I’ve got.
And this year is already starting with a win, because finally, after a year and a half, I’ve lost 6 pounds in the past week.
Here’s to being 27 and things actually changing.