Five Months Post-Op – A Milestone I Can Barely Believe
Today marks five months post-op from my vertical sleeve gastrectomy (VSG) surgery—and as of this morning, I am officially 70 pounds down since December. Seventy. Pounds. That number doesn’t even feel real when I say it out loud, let alone when I see it typed. And yet, here I am. Living in the reality that five months of dedication, healing, and perseverance has made possible.
When I had this surgery, I knew it would change my life. But I don’t think I realized just how drastically. I didn’t anticipate how quickly my body would transform—or how slowly my mind would try to catch up.
Every morning I look in the mirror and see a body that’s rapidly shifting. But the voice in my head? Sometimes she’s still stuck in the past. I struggle with body dysmorphia—a term I now fully understand from both lived experience and through conversations with my psychiatrist. People constantly tell me how good I look, how far I’ve come, but the dissonance between what I hear and what I see is real. It’s deep. It’s confusing.
During my recent appointment, we talked about how quickly my brain is trying to catch up with my body. I take monthly progress pictures—something I’ve done since before surgery—but we decided maybe it’s time to increase that to every other week. To let my brain catch more glimpses of what’s actually happening. To prove to myself that I’m not imagining this progress.
The Challenge of Seeing Myself Clearly
One of the most profound moments recently was trying on a pair of jeans before my trip to Virginia. I reached for size 20s, thinking that was my size. My mom gently challenged me—“Try the 18s. I bet they’ll fit.” I rolled my eyes but humored her.
The size 18 jeans slid on. No unzipping. No unbuttoning. Just on.
And then it hit me. I hadn’t worn a size 18 since high school. Probably junior or senior year. My mouth dropped open and I just stood there, silent. For a moment, I saw myself not as I thought I was, but as I am becoming. And I didn’t know what to do with that. Because body dysmorphia isn’t just about mirrors—it’s about memories, too.
Clothes are a constant reminder. I’m going through them faster than I can count. And I’ve started doing something my psychiatrist recommended—actually going into stores and trying things on instead of just ordering online and defaulting to larger sizes. Because what I’ve realized is: I’m shrinking in size, but growing in courage. And that growth takes work.
I don’t talk about this enough, but body dysmorphia weaves itself into everything: how I shop, how I think, how I interact with others. It partners with my anxiety, it dances with my depression, and it often collides with my PTSD. Some days, all I want is for my body and my brain to meet in the middle—to agree that we are okay. That we’re not who we used to be. That healing is happening.
Healing the Mind While Transforming the Body
The transformation hasn’t just been external. Internally, I’m still catching up.
Body dysmorphia doesn’t magically disappear after you lose weight. In fact, it can often intensify. I still see the “before” version of me in the mirror, and even though the tags on my clothes say otherwise, my mind sometimes doesn’t believe it.
That’s why I’ve started taking bi-weekly progress photos, not just monthly. I’m learning how to help my brain see what my body is becoming. I’m practicing going into stores and trying on clothes—not just ordering the bigger size out of fear. I’m leaning into the discomfort of dressing a body that is healing faster than my self-image can process.
It’s a mental workout just as much as the physical ones. And I’m in the thick of it.
But I’m also finally recognizing that healing from anxiety, depression, PTSD, and trauma is not a one-size-fits-all process. My psychiatrist reminded me that it’s okay to have moments where I doubt, where I feel lost, where I question who I see in the mirror. The key is not getting stuck there. To take the next step, even when it’s small.
Training for the Bubble Run – 29 Days to Go
As of today, May 16, 2025, we are 29 days away from the Bubble Run. I’ve been training since the beginning of this year, but I’d be lying if I said it’s been smooth sailing. There have been days I’ve had to rest due to illness or battle dehydration, which is a common side effect after VSG surgery. Even though I drink water consistently throughout the day, it’s just one of those things that sneaks up on you and demands rest.
But despite setbacks, I keep going.
I’ve been shifting my training focus lately from treadmill workouts to more outdoor walking and jogging. I need to get used to the rhythm of real pavement under my feet, the unpredictability of hills and turns, and the feel of fresh air in my lungs. And you know what? It’s been refreshing. Challenging, yes—but deeply rewarding.
What makes it even more exciting is that I recently found out two of my closest friends are doing the Bubble Run, too. On top of that, a few amazing people I met through TikTok—people who’ve been following my journey—are also signed up. It’s turning into more than just a run. It’s becoming a community celebration. A day to celebrate growth, strength, and everything in between.
More Than a Race
In 29 days, I’ll step up to the starting line of the Bubble Run with friends, followers, and fellow fighters by my side. It’ll be colorful, chaotic, and filled with bubbles, laughter, sweat, and maybe even some tears. But I’ll be there. In my size 18 leggings. In a body that’s survived and risen. In a spirit that’s still fighting.
But more than that—I’ll be showing up as the version of myself I used to dream about becoming.
And if that girl from 2017—sad, lost, unsure if she’d ever make it—could see me now? She’d be so proud. She’d be overwhelmed. And she’d whisper, “Thank you for not giving up.”
Virginia, Busted Bumpers, and an Unforgettable Proposal
A few days before we were supposed to leave for Virginia, I decided to get up at 3:30 in the morning to go to the gym with my partner. I was feeling motivated. It was supposed to be a good start to what was meant to be my graduation weekend—even though the ceremony had been canceled, I was determined to still take photos and celebrate.
But as life would have it, things didn’t go as planned.
While backing out of my garage, I took the corner wrong trying to avoid a car parked in our shared driveway. I cut it too close—and tore the entire bumper off my car.
I screamed. I cried. I broke.
In that moment, everything felt ruined. The Airbnb was booked. My graduation outfit was ready. I had plans, dreams, expectations. And in one second, it all seemed to fall apart. My partner’s car was already in the shop, so both of our cars were out of commission. I genuinely didn’t know if we were going to make it.
But sometimes life hands you grace in unexpected forms.
My dad came through and found a place to get my bumper temporarily stabilized just enough so we could safely make the 7.5-hour drive from Ohio to Roanoke. So on Wednesday afternoon, a couple of days later than planned, we packed up the car and hit the road—determined not to let a busted bumper keep us from a weekend full of joy, memories, and healing.
Cookout, Mountains, and First Times
We pulled into our mountain Airbnb—and I mean mountain. We were about five miles uphill, winding through gorgeous views and steep inclines until we arrived at the cabin surrounded by nothing but trees, fresh air, and the silence I didn’t know my soul was craving.
That first night, we headed back down to one of my favorite places in the South—Cookout.
I’d hyped it up for years to my partner: the burgers, the shakes, the hush puppies—it’s just Southern comfort food at its best. He finally understood the hype after his first bite. I couldn’t eat much—just a few bites of protein—but watching him enjoy it was worth it. We grabbed groceries for breakfast and stocked up the Airbnb before heading back up the mountain to rest for the next day.
Thursday was our Roanoke adventure day. We went to the Pinball Museum and Retro Arcade, where we were transported back in time. Vintage pinball machines, original PlayStations, old-school Nintendo games—all free to play and all full of nostalgia. We spent hours there, laughing and competing, letting ourselves enjoy a carefree kind of joy that’s hard to come by when life is constantly demanding healing and growth.
Afterward, we stopped at one of my favorite Mexican restaurants with a salsa bar (yes, you read that right) and then went up to the Roanoke Star, the iconic mountain-top overlook where you can see the valley stretch out endlessly below. My partner stood beside me and just took it all in—the beauty, the quiet, the life I once had in Virginia. It was surreal introducing him to the places that once held so much of my story.
Later that evening, we had dinner with MamaNisha—my “work mom” from back when I lived in Virginia. Seeing her embrace my partner, getting to introduce him to someone who’d been such a rock during a challenging chapter of my life, meant more than I could say.
That night, as we sat on the porch of our Airbnb under a sky full of stars, I felt something I hadn’t in a long time—wholeness. And I had no idea what the next day was about to bring.
Graduation Photos, Trying on Clothes, and a Life-Changing Yes
Friday was supposed to be my graduation. But with the ceremony canceled, we had other plans. Photos on campus, lunch with a friend, and maybe a little closure.
That morning, I met up with Michael, a dear friend from my TJ Maxx days who later became a hairstylist. He did my hair for my photo shoot, and we went to Macado’s in Christiansburg for lunch. We laughed for hours—catching up, reminiscing, and being reminded that distance never erases true friendship.
We visited Radford and Blacksburg afterward—walking through Virginia Tech’s campus, stopping by my old study spots and secret hideaways. We even grabbed a slice (just toppings for me!) at Benny’s, home of the infamous pizza that takes two plates to hold.
Before the photoshoot, I did something that felt simple, but was deeply emotional—I tried on clothes in a store. Following my psychiatrist’s advice, I wanted to see what size I truly was. And for the first time in a long time, I saw myself through a lens of progress rather than doubt.
We headed back to Life Pacific University’s campus to take graduation photos. As we sat for a few couples photos together, something unexpected happened.
I stood up. Robbie stayed on the ground.
When I looked down, he was on one knee.
I laughed. I cried. I could barely breathe.
There it was—the moment I didn’t know was coming just yet, the promise I’d dreamed of but had no clue would arrive that day. After everything we’d been through together—surgeries, sickness, grief, growth, school, distance, struggle—he chose that mountain, that moment, to ask me to marry him.
And without hesitation, I said yes.
A Relationship That Holds Space for Healing
Robbie and I aren’t perfect. We fight. We disagree. We’ve been through a lot. But we also grow. We learn. We apologize. We hold space for each other.
Relationships aren’t 50/50. Sometimes they’re 80/20. Or 60/40. Sometimes I can give more, and sometimes he does. During my hardest seasons—two surgeries, recovery, working two jobs, going back to school—he carried more. When he’s exhausted from working both of his jobs, I carry more. We’ve learned to share the load in ways that matter.
He didn’t just propose because it was a sweet photo opportunity. He proposed because he sees every version of me—the broken, the healing, the strong, the scared—and he chose all of them.
And I chose him.
Sunrise Hikes, Second Families, and Heart-to-Heart Healing
Saturday morning started early. And I mean early. We were up well before dawn, lacing up our hiking shoes and heading out the door for a sunrise hike with my best friend Sam and a few of his friends.
This was no ordinary hike—it was a straight incline, about a half mile of steep, unforgiving terrain that took us close to 40 minutes to climb. My legs burned, my breath was short, and my post-op body was definitely asking, “Are we sure we want to do this?”
But once we reached the top, everything stopped.
I looked out and saw all of Christiansburg, Blacksburg, and Radford stretched before me. The sun rising over the valley, bathing the mountaintops in gold, and I just stood there in awe. These were the towns where I lived, where I loved, where I cried, and where I rebuilt myself.
And there I was now—engaged, healing, strong, and standing at the summit of it all. A full-circle moment if there ever was one.
That view gave me time to reflect: on everything I survived, on the eight years I spent down in Virginia, and on how I once took these mountains for granted. I wished I had done more hikes, soaked in more nature, and paused more often to just breathe. But in that moment, I finally did.
Coming down the mountain was a different challenge (and yes, I fell—twice—because the steep incline was no joke). But we laughed it off and kept going, because that’s what you do when you’re surrounded by people who love you through your stumbles.
Family That Isn’t Blood – And the Ones Who Show Up
After the hike, we headed to see the Meyer family, a second family to me. Their daughter had a soccer game, and even though I was sore and dehydrated from the hike, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.
Being with them was like coming home. They’ve always embraced me like one of their own, and introducing Robbie to them felt important. It meant something to let him see these pieces of my life—people who shaped me, supported me, and stayed when others didn’t.
We went for tacos afterward and sat around catching up on life, love, goals, and growth. I spent time talking with Hollie, my “spiritual mom.” Our conversation was one of those deep, grounding talks—the kind you don’t realize you’ve needed until you’re in the middle of it.
From there, we went to see my best friend Courtney, my “work wife” from when we both lived in the same town. Seeing her, her husband, and her kiddos again brought back so many memories. And of course, she cooked—ranch burgers so good they melted in your mouth (yes, I picked around the bread, but I wasn’t missing that flavor for anything!).
Watching Robbie and Travis connect and realizing how similar their experiences were made everything click. There’s something healing about being seen and understood—not just by your partner, but by your partner’s people, too.
Sunday at theBridge – Back Where It All Began
Sunday came with one last important stop before the long drive home: church at theBridge.
This was the place I interned. The place I grew. The place that broke me a little but also helped shape me into who I am now. Going back there was emotional—but bringing Robbie with me was powerful.
He got to meet Pastors Will and Juniece, Josh and Maggie, and several others who deeply impacted my life in the years I lived in Virginia. He got to sit beside me and experience a part of my spiritual journey that shaped so much of who I am. That service reminded me that healing isn’t linear, but it’s real. And being in that familiar sanctuary—sitting in the same seats Sam and I always used to sit in—brought back so many waves of comfort, nostalgia, and peace.
The love and welcome we felt that morning weren’t just about seeing old friends—it was about being reminded of the community that helped build me.
It was also about sharing that community with the person I now plan to spend forever with.
Lessons From the Mountains – Brining It All Together.
As we loaded the car and began the drive back home, I sat quietly for a while, replaying the trip in my mind.
The laughter.
The healing.
The proposal.
The hikes.
The food I couldn’t eat but enjoyed watching others enjoy.
The clothes that finally fit.
The bumper that almost kept us from all of it.
The friends who became family.
And the boy from Tinder who became my fiancé.
That weekend was more than a vacation. It was a milestone, a marker on the journey I’m still walking.
Final Reflections – The Girl Who Didn’t Quit
I didn’t quit when it got hard.
I didn’t quit when the weight wouldn’t budge.
I didn’t quit when the mirror lied.
I didn’t quit when trauma resurfaced.
I didn’t quit when the bumper fell off.
I didn’t quit when the surgery scared me.
I didn’t quit when love felt too far.
I didn’t quit—I grew.
I healed.
I overcame.
Five months post-op. Seventy pounds down. One ring on my finger. And a race ahead of me that I’m ready to run—not because I’m fast, but because I’ve already come so far.
This is just the beginning.
Thank you for being part of my journey. Thank you for walking beside me. And thank you for believing in growth beyond obstacles.
Until Next time,
Kaylee Ann
Growth Beyond Obstacles 
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