Growth Beyond Obstacles

“Look at you.”

That phrase used to sting. Back then, it felt like judgment — silent or spoken. It meant being evaluated, picked apart, misunderstood, underestimated. I heard it too many times, and not once did it feel like empowerment.

Until one day, it did.

I remember the exact moment everything began to shift — and no, it wasn’t the day I got weight loss surgery. That would come later. The real beginning was quieter, but it hit deeper.

It started with a heartbeat.

My sister was pregnant. I was going to be an aunt.

It’s strange how a tiny, unborn person can become your reason to fight. But the second I found out, everything in me stirred awake. I looked at my life — my habits, my mindset, my health, my future — and I realized I couldn’t keep living like this. I couldn’t be the aunt who sat on the sidelines. I couldn’t be the woman too winded to play tag or the one who needed help just to get off the floor. I didn’t want to be remembered as tired, unavailable, or disconnected.

I wanted to be there. I wanted to be vibrant and engaged. I wanted to run, laugh, roll on the carpet, and chase her around a park without my joints screaming in pain or needing to fake a smile to cover my discomfort.

But more than that — I wanted her to grow up seeing what strength really looked like. I wanted to model confidence, health, and wholeness. I wanted her to grow up and see me. The real me. Not the one I buried under layers of sadness and shame.

Because the truth is, I wasn’t okay.

I had spent years hiding my depression. Smiling through pain. Performing normalcy like it was a routine. When people asked if I was okay, I’d lie — “I’m fine.” Every time. I was the queen of masking. I knew how to show up. I knew how to be strong for everyone else. But behind closed doors? I was unraveling.

And I was so tired of pretending.

That moment — finding out I would be someone’s aunt — was the crack in the armor. It was the first time I asked myself if I deserved more than survival. And quietly, gently… I realized I did.

That realization didn’t fix everything overnight. It didn’t erase the pain or make the journey easy. But it gave me something I hadn’t had in a long time: hope.

I began to make small changes. Tiny shifts. I walked a little more. I cried a little less. I started journaling again. I let myself dream of a different future — one where I wasn’t ruled by the weight of my body or my mind. I stopped asking, “What do people need from me?” and started asking, “What does she need from me — the little girl who’s coming into the world, who might one day look up to me?”

And in turn, I began to ask: “What do I need from me?”

That question changed everything.

That’s when I reached out to Freddy.

It took everything in me to send that message. I had known Freddy in high school, and I’ll be honest — I felt embarrassed. I remember writing to him and saying, “I feel weird even reaching out. I don’t know how to explain this. It’s been so long. You knew me way back when… and I’m not proud of where I am right now.”

But I also knew I needed help. And when I saw the Desire to Inspire (DTI) program, something in me said, This could be the place where I rebuild. I was scared. Vulnerable. But I was also ready.

Freddy didn’t make me feel small. He didn’t ask why I hadn’t reached out sooner. He welcomed me. He saw me. And through DTI, I found a community that wasn’t focused on perfection, but progress. A place where healing was celebrated and real transformation was embraced. That moment of reaching out — of finally saying, “I can’t do this alone” — became one of the strongest things I’ve ever done.

That community held space for me when I couldn’t hold it for myself. And through DTI, I began to reintroduce myself to me.

People often ask when my transformation began. And truthfully, it started with small things — quiet moments that stirred something deeper. One of those early sparks was finding out I was going to be an aunt. It made me want to become healthier, more active, and more present for the little girl who would one day look up to me. But it wasn’t until everything nearly fell apart — until I almost lost my life — that I finally understood the cost of not fully showing up for myself.

I had been taking diabetic medications for years — Metformin, Ozempic, and Jardiance. At the time, I was desperate to manage my weight and blood sugar. I was also working with Freddy and Dylan through Desire to Inspire (DTI), trying to find a path to healing. But the truth? I was only halfway in. I was showing up, but not for me. I was doing the bare minimum — enough to look like I was trying, but not enough to change my life.

Then everything changed.

One night, my body gave out. I had unknowingly overdosed my system by taking high levels of all three medications at once. I became disoriented. My blood pressure dropped. I could barely breathe. My oxygen levels were in the 80s. My skin was pale. My fiancé — then boyfriend — looked at me and didn’t see the strong woman he knew. He saw someone slipping away.

He rushed me to the emergency room.

I remember lying there, confused, scared, struggling to inhale. The fluorescent lights above me blurred as the monitors beeped. Nurses moved quickly. My chest tightened not just from lack of oxygen, but from fear — real, gut-wrenching fear that I might not make it.

And in that moment, the truth was loud and undeniable:

I didn’t want to die.

I wanted to live.

I didn’t just want to be thinner or healthier. I wanted to be alive in every sense of the word — present, joyful, whole. I didn’t want to survive anymore. I wanted to fight for my life. I wanted to create a long, meaningful, and healthy life. For myself. For the people I love. For the niece who sparked that first little fire. For the man who never left my side. And most importantly — for the woman I was always meant to become.

That ER visit and hospital admission was my wake-up call.

No more halfway. No more waiting for permission. No more playing small.

That was the night I decided to fully show up.

It was a long time before I found myself in a bariatric program. A long time before doctors, liquid diets, vitamin charts, and food stages. But the decision to change — that happened the day I realized my life wasn’t just mine anymore — it would ripple into the lives of those I loved, especially the little ones coming after me.

The surgery was hard. The process stripped me down in ways I didn’t expect. Food had been a comfort, a friend, a numbing tool. Without it, I had to feel. I had to heal. I had to learn how to sit with pain instead of stuffing it down. I had to stop lying and saying “I’m fine” when I wasn’t.

Recovery was physical, yes — but it was also emotional, spiritual, mental. I had to rebuild trust with my body. I had to rewire my mind. I had to face years of grief, shame, and disappointment. I had to look in the mirror and stop seeing a project — and start seeing a person.

And that person?

She is powerful.

Not because she’s perfect. But because she kept going.

She kept walking when her legs ached. She drank protein shakes through tears. She faced loose skin, plateaus, and public vulnerability. She burped at dinner tables post-surgery and laughed anyway. She wore swimsuits with new scars and stretch marks and said, “This is me.”

She is not the woman others tried to create.

She is the woman she chose to become.

And when I look back now, I don’t just see a journey of weight loss. I see a journey of weight release — the release of lies, expectations, guilt, silence, fear.

I see a woman who no longer hides behind “I’m fine.”

I see a woman who says, “I’m healing.”

I see a woman who built her own identity from the ground up. Who didn’t let others define her career, her body, or her worth. Who dared to believe that she was made to influence, not just survive.

Because that’s the truth at the heart of all of this: I’m not just doing this for me anymore. I’m doing this for you, too.

For the woman reading this who feels stuck. Who’s overwhelmed. Who’s tired of living a life that doesn’t feel like hers. Who’s buried under other people’s dreams, too scared to ask what she really wants.

This is your permission.

To break the mold.

To rewrite the rules.

To say no.

To say yes.

To start over.

To keep going.

You are not too far gone.

You are not too broken.

You are not behind.

You are becoming.

Every step counts. Every rep matters. Every tear you cry in silence is sacred. You are not weak for needing help. You are strong for admitting it.

To the woman I was when I first began this journey: Thank you.

To the woman I am now: I’m proud of you.

To the woman I’m still becoming: Let’s keep going.

And to the niece who sparked it all — I love you more than words. You changed my life before you even took your first breath.

You gave me a reason to become me.

And now, I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure that version of me continues to rise — for you, for me, and for everyone who needs proof that change is possible.

Until next time

Kaylee Ann.