Growth Beyond Obstacles

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There’s a quote by Brené Brown that says:

“You either walk inside your story and own it or you stand outside your story and hustle for your worthiness.”

There comes a point in every journey when the path is no longer about where you’re going, but about who you’re becoming.

For most of my life, I lived in survival mode.
Not just emotionally, but physically, spiritually, and relationally. I was stuck in a cycle of pain—pain from chronic illness, pain from heartbreak, pain from not being chosen, seen, or heard. And I got so good at surviving that I forgot what it felt like to live.

If you’ve ever felt like you were constantly climbing out of something, constantly trying to prove you’re worthy, constantly pushing yourself just to make it through another day—then you know exactly what I mean.

Survival can become a comfort zone.
And at some point, I had to reckon with the fact that I wasn’t truly living.

I began to wake up to this realization during a season when my body felt like it was betraying me. My health was spiraling—PCOS, endometriosis, hormonal imbalances, fatigue, chronic inflammation. I tried diet after diet, medication after medication. I blamed myself. I punished my body. I looked in the mirror and barely recognized the person staring back at me.

I was alive, but I wasn’t living.

The emotional weight was just as heavy as the physical. I had internalized every rejection, every comment, every time I was told I was “too much,” or “not enough.” I carried shame like a second skin—shame about my body, my past, my voice, my worth. And I believed the story that I had to earn love by changing who I was.

But somewhere in the middle of the exhaustion, a shift began. A reckoning.

I remember sitting in the doctor’s office, hearing the words, “You need to consider surgery. Your health is declining. Your body is in distress.” It felt like failure. Like admitting defeat. But deep down, I knew it was the beginning of a deeper kind of healing.

I decided to have VSG—vertical sleeve gastrectomy—because I wanted a future. Not just a number on a scale. Not just a body that fit into smaller jeans. But a future that I could live in, thrive in, and show up fully for.

The days leading up to surgery were filled with fear and uncertainty. Would I still recognize myself? Would I lose more than weight—would I lose my identity?

What I didn’t expect was how much truth the process would bring to the surface.

In the months following surgery, I lost weight. But I also lost the lies I had believed about myself for years. I lost the belief that my worth was tied to my appearance. I lost the narrative that my body was the enemy. I lost the need to apologize for taking up space.

And in their place, I gained something powerful: truth.

The truth that healing is not linear.
That some days I would celebrate massive victories—and other days I would cry over how foreign my reflection felt.
That even with progress, there would still be grief.

There were days when I felt incredible—stronger, lighter, freer.
And there were days when body dysmorphia whispered cruel things in the mirror. When I couldn’t reconcile how much I had changed on the outside with how tender I still felt inside.
There were days when dehydration hit hard. When I pushed too far in training. When I had to stop and listen to my body for the first time in years.

That was part of the rumble.

The rumble is the messy middle. The part where you’ve left behind the old version of yourself, but you’re not quite sure who this new you is yet. It’s disorienting. It’s vulnerable. It’s powerful.

It was during the rumble that I learned to sit with myself.
To stop numbing and start feeling.
To get curious instead of critical.

I started asking questions I had never had the courage to ask before:

• What if I am lovable right now, not 50 pounds from now?
• What if my softness is strength?
• What if healing doesn’t mean becoming someone else—but finally coming home to myself?

The rumble taught me to stop hiding.
To stop shrinking.
To stop apologizing.

I remember looking at old photos of myself—photos where I was smiling on the outside but barely hanging on inside. I wanted to go back and hug her. To tell her, “You don’t have to keep proving you’re enough. You already are.”

And then came the revolution.

The revolution didn’t happen all at once. It came in waves.
It came in saying “yes” to myself when I used to say “maybe.”
It came in taking photos for my book cover and actually feeling beautiful.
It came in running on the treadmill and realizing, I can do hard things.
It came in showing up online with vulnerability, sharing the real parts of my story—not just the highlight reel.
It came in finally believing that my body is not my limitation—it’s my home.

The revolution was reclaiming every piece of me that I once thought I had to hide to be loved.

I began to live differently. To love differently. To choose differently.

I started training for my first 5K—a goal that once felt impossible. I began documenting the journey on TikTok, and people began resonating with the story—not because it was polished, but because it was real.

I trained through fatigue, dehydration, and setbacks. But I also trained with joy, purpose, and gratitude. Each step on the pavement reminded me that I am no longer running from my past—I am running toward my future.

And through it all, Robbie—my best friend, my fiancé—has been by my side. We started this journey together, both committed to healing, to becoming, to loving each other better. Together, we’ve lost over 270 pounds. But more importantly, we’ve gained so much more.

We’ve gained intimacy built on truth.
Support built on grace.
Love built on real, raw commitment.

There are moments when we look at each other and laugh—not because everything is perfect, but because we’ve made it through things that tried to break us. We dance in the kitchen to our song. We talk about our wedding. We dream about the future—not as a fantasy, but as a promise.

That, too, is part of the revolution.
Choosing joy.
Choosing love.
Choosing to rise again and again—even when it’s hard.

Today, I am still rising.

I am five months post-op. I’ve lost over 70 pounds. I am training for a race I never thought I could run. I am telling my story so others can find the courage to tell theirs.

But most importantly, I am living.

Not surviving. Not performing. Not hustling.

Living.

There are still hard days. Days when old voices try to creep back in. Days when I feel the weight of grief for the girl I used to be. Days when I question my reflection. Days when the world feels too loud.

But now, I don’t face those days alone.
I have tools. I have truth. I have a tribe.
And I have me.

To the girl reading this who feels stuck, tired, invisible, or afraid:

You are not broken.
You are not too far gone.
You are not too much.
You are not behind.

You are exactly where you need to be to begin your rise.

Let it be messy. Let it be slow. Let it be honest.

Because the rise is not about perfection—it’s about becoming.

And if you’re in your own reckoning, rumble, or revolution, know this:

You are not alone.
You are not weak for feeling.
You are not lost for starting over.
You are rising. And I’m rising with you.

Until Next Time,

Kaylee Ann

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