Dedication
For everyone who is still becoming.
Author’s Note
This book began as a collection of journal entries—a record of one woman’s decision to stop surviving and start becoming. Each reflection here was written during my first year of transformation, when healing demanded honesty more than perfection. These pages are both a mirror and a map, proof that growth rarely looks graceful but always leads us somewhere true.
Preface
When I began Growth Beyond Obstacles, I didn’t set out to write a book. I just needed a place to tell the truth. What started as a quiet journal entry became a year-long record of transformation—of learning to rebuild myself from the inside out.
This project was born in a season of uncertainty, when I was balancing recovery, career changes, and the rawness of healing. Somewhere between those moments, I discovered that sharing our stories—honestly, imperfectly, and without filters—creates connection stronger than distance and deeper than fear.
Each entry, each reflection, each race I ran taught me that growth doesn’t wait for ideal circumstances. It happens in motion, in the messy middle, in the willingness to begin again. This first year of Growth Beyond Obstacles taught me that healing is not linear; it’s cyclical. We return to the same lessons, each time softer, stronger, and more self-aware.
This book is a reflection of that rhythm—a collection of stories about resilience, health, and becoming. My hope is that it reminds you that transformation is not a single moment of victory but a continuous unfolding. You do not have to have it all figured out to begin. You just have to be willing to keep growing—beyond the obstacles.
— Kaylee A. Van Horn
Table of Contents
- The Beginning — When Rock Bottom Became the Foundation
- Breaking Open — Healing, Surgery, and the Courage to Start Over
- The Climb — Learning to Love the Process
- The Middle Mile — Running, Mindset, and Momentum
- The Reach — When the Words Found the World
- Becoming — Transformation Beyond the Mirror
- A Letter to You (and to the Woman I Once Was)
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
The Beginning — When Rock Bottom Became the Foundation
There are moments in life that split time in two — the before and the after.
Before the breaking.
Before the healing.
Before you realize that standing in the ruins of who you were is sometimes the only way to discover who you’re meant to become.
A year ago, I stood at that threshold — not gracefully, but shaking. Everything around me felt fragile, like a tower I’d built on a foundation I didn’t trust anymore. My body was exhausted. My mind was loud. My heart was carrying too much — memories that stung, promises that fell apart, dreams that had gone quiet.
From the outside, maybe it didn’t look like I had hit rock bottom. But on the inside, I was falling — into burnout, into disappointment, into the realization that survival wasn’t the same as living.
It wasn’t a single moment that broke me. It was the accumulation of many — small betrayals of my body, my spirit, my joy. It was years of pouring into everyone else and leaving nothing for myself. It was living behind a mask of strength when what I needed most was softness.
“Rock bottom wasn’t the end. It was the moment I stopped digging.”
For years, I had carried weight — not just the physical kind that showed up on a scale, but the kind that pressed against my ribs and whispered that I wasn’t enough. The kind that made me apologize for taking up space. The kind that told me if I just worked harder, loved harder, tried harder, I’d finally be okay.
But somewhere deep down, I knew I couldn’t keep living like that. I was tired of shrinking to make others comfortable. Tired of my body being a battlefield. Tired of showing up for everyone but myself.
Something inside me whispered, this isn’t living.
That whisper became a pulse. That pulse became a spark.
And that spark — quiet, trembling, and defiant — became the beginning of Growth Beyond Obstacles.
The Fall Before the Rising
It started as small realizations that came like waves. I’d wake up and feel the ache in my chest before I even got out of bed. I’d walk past the mirror and see someone who looked familiar but didn’t feel known.
I had mastered the art of pretending. I could hold it together in public, smile at the right moments, say “I’m fine” like it was rehearsed — because it was. But at night, the truth came rushing in. I wasn’t fine. I was unraveling.
The exhaustion wasn’t just from work, or health, or school — it was from disconnecting from myself. I’d spent so long being what others needed that I forgot who I was when everything went quiet.
“Sometimes collapse is the only way the truth can stand up again.”
When I finally allowed myself to see how far I’d drifted, I felt grief — not for what I lost, but for how long I ignored my own needs. I grieved the woman who gave everything away and called it strength.
And in that grief, I made a promise: I would no longer abandon myself for the comfort of others.
The Decision
The night before my VSG surgery, I sat in silence and stared at the blank screen of my laptop. I didn’t know what to say, but I knew I needed to write something. I wanted to document not just the surgery itself, but what it represented — a declaration that I was choosing myself, fully and unapologetically.
I didn’t know if anyone would ever read those words. But it didn’t matter. That moment was between me and the woman in the mirror — the one who had spent years trying to be invisible.
That’s how Growth Beyond Obstacles began — not as a polished brand or a curated platform, but as a journal entry. A safe place to tell the truth.
The truth that I was terrified but ready.
That I was grateful but grieving.
That I wanted to heal not just my body, but everything that lived inside it.
“Healing began when I stopped chasing who I used to be and started embracing who I was becoming.”
That night, I wrote about my fears, my hope, and my promise to keep showing up — even when it got messy. Especially when it gets messy.
When I hit “publish” on that first post, I didn’t feel brave. I felt exposed. Vulnerability has a strange way of feeling both freedom and fear at once. But in that fear, there was something sacred — the knowing that honesty was the doorway to healing.
The Aftermath
The days following surgery were harder than I expected. Physically, I was weak. My body was adjusting, my energy was low. But emotionally, I felt something I hadn’t in years — clarity.
For the first time, I could see the patterns I’d been repeating: overworking, the over-giving, the self-neglect disguised as loyalty. I realized that weight loss wasn’t the real transformation I was after — it was reconnection.
Every sip of broth, every slow walk around the room, every small victory reminded me: healing doesn’t happen overnight. It happens in breaths, in stillness, in the quiet decision to keep going.
I wasn’t chasing thinness. I was chasing freedom.
“My healing was never about becoming smaller. It was about becoming lighter — in body, in heart, in spirit.”
I remember the first morning I woke up and felt something different. Not ease, exactly — but possibility. A gentle hum beneath the exhaustion that whispered, you’re coming back to yourself.
Finding My Voice Again
Writing became a form of therapy. Each post was a mirror — reflecting where I’d been and showing me glimpses of where I was going.
At first, I wrote just for me. Then messages started coming in. People saying, “I feel this too.” People who had never met me but somehow understood me. That connection changed everything.
I wasn’t alone anymore. And neither were they.
“Maybe growth is just remembering you were never broken — only buried.”
As the months passed, I began to see patterns in my writing — themes of resilience, transformation, self-trust. Growth Beyond Obstacles evolved from a personal outlet into a living chronicle of becoming. It wasn’t about perfection; it was about presence. About showing up in the process, even when it wasn’t pretty.
Each entry was a milestone.
Each reflection, a breadcrumb back to myself.
I began to see how every painful season had been preparing me for this one. Every setback, every “no,” every breakdown — all of it was building the foundation I needed to rise.
Rock bottom didn’t destroy me.
It became the ground I finally learned to stand on.
The Birth of Growth Beyond Obstacles
I didn’t set out to create a brand or movement — I just wanted to tell the truth. But somehow, through those words, something larger began to take shape.
The blog became a space not just for my story, but for anyone who had ever felt unseen, unheard, or unfinished. It became a collection of small resurrections — proof that we can rebuild even after everything falls apart.
“Growth isn’t about reaching the mountaintop. It’s about learning to breathe again in the climb.”
When people started reading from other countries, I felt awe. How could something that started as my quiet therapy find its way across oceans? How could my words, typed late at night in Ohio, reach someone in another language, another life, another story?
It humbled me. It reminded me that pain is universal but so is healing. That our stories are bridges, not walls.
Reclaiming the Foundation
Looking back now, I see that rock bottom wasn’t the end of my story — it was the foundation for everything that followed.
It taught me to listen — not to the noise around me, but to the stillness within.
It taught me to pause before rushing to fix.
It taught me that I am allowed to take up space, to start over, to rebuild as many times as it takes.
And most importantly, it taught me that growth doesn’t begin when life gets easier — it begins when we decide we’re worth the effort, even when life is hard.
“Maybe the goal isn’t to find the light at the end of the tunnel. Maybe it’s to become it.”
That was the lesson I carried forward — into healing, into running, into learning, into living.
Breaking Open — Healing, Surgery, and the Courage to Start Over
Healing doesn’t begin when the pain ends. It begins when we stop running from it.
The weeks after my surgery were a lesson in that truth. Every moment felt unfamiliar — the rhythm of my days, the way I moved, the way I nourished myself. I was healing, but it didn’t feel graceful. It felt like starting over in a body I was just learning to understand.
Recovery came with both relief and reckoning. There were days my reflection looked new and strange — as though my body was rewriting its story faster than my mind could keep up. There were mornings I woke up proud, and nights I went to bed overwhelmed.
But underneath it all, there was a quiet knowing: this was the part I had prayed for — the part where healing wasn’t just an idea, but a reality being shaped by my own hands.
“Healing isn’t linear — it’s loops of surrender and courage.”
Each sip of water, each slow walk around the living room, each careful meal was a practice in patience. My world had slowed down, and for once, I couldn’t hide behind busyness. There was nothing left to distract me from myself.
I realized that the hardest part of transformation isn’t the change itself — it’s facing what you used to numb. The fears. The stories. The shame. The voice that whispers, Who are you without the weight?
For the first time, I had to sit with those questions instead of running from them.
The Reintroduction
Recovery forced me to meet myself again — slowly, intentionally, without pretense.
I was reintroducing myself to my body, learning what it needed instead of what I thought it should endure. I learned how to listen — not just to my hunger cues, but to my emotions, my limits, my intuition.
There’s something profoundly spiritual about that kind of awareness. It’s quiet, almost sacred. You start to realize that your body has been speaking to you all along; you just forgot how to listen.
“My body wasn’t the enemy. It was the messenger.”
That message came in many forms — the tension in my shoulders when I was overworking, the fatigue that settled in when I ignored rest, the heaviness in my chest when I stayed somewhere my spirit had already left.
Healing wasn’t just physical recovery; it was a conversation with myself — one I had been avoiding for years.
I learned that silence could be medicine. That slowing down wasn’t laziness. That rest was revolutionary.
The Emotional Detox
As my body adjusted, my emotions followed — like waves that had been waiting their turn to crash.
There were tears that came without warning. There were memories that surfaced out of nowhere — the harsh words, the times I felt invisible, the moments I convinced myself that love had to be earned.
In the stillness of recovery, I couldn’t push them away anymore. Instead, I had to face them with compassion.
“Sometimes, healing means finally listening to the parts of yourself you used to silence.”
I began journaling every morning — not for perfection, but for release. Some days it was one sentence. Other days, pages poured out of me like confessions to the universe.
I wrote about loss, about fear, about the exhaustion of always trying to be “strong.” I wrote about what I wanted to become.
Slowly, the pages began to feel like wings. Every word I wrote carried a piece of the old weight away.
The Courage to Be Seen
The first time I posted a photo after surgery, I hesitated. Not because I was ashamed, but because I didn’t know how to exist in a world that equated worth with appearance.
I had always been the girl behind the camera, never in front of it. But something in me had shifted — I didn’t want to hide anymore.
So, I took a deep breath, shared the photo, and wrote from my heart.
I didn’t talk about the pounds lost or the numbers changed. I talked about the peace I was learning to feel, the self-respect that came from saying no, the power in taking care of myself without guilt.
The response was overwhelming — not because people commented on how I looked, but because they saw how I felt.
“When I stopped shrinking for approval, I finally started expanding into purpose.”
People reached out, not to congratulate me on weight loss, but to thank me for being real. That became my mission — to show that transformation isn’t just physical. It’s mental. Emotional. Spiritual.
That moment of being seen was terrifying — but it was also the beginning of freedom.
Learning to Rebuild
As the weeks passed, I learned that healing is less about what you remove and more about what you rebuild.
My meals changed. My energy changed. My routines changed. But the biggest change was my relationship with myself.
I began celebrating small wins — drinking enough water, taking a walk, resting when I needed to. I started to honor my capacity instead of shaming it.
It was uncomfortable at first. I had lived my whole life trying to earn rest. But now, rest was survival.
“You don’t heal by doing more. You heal by allowing more.”
I allowed stillness.
I allowed joy.
I allowed the possibility that I was worthy of love and care, even when I wasn’t achieving.
And slowly, I began to feel something I hadn’t in years — peace.
Not the performative kind that comes from pretending everything’s fine. But the grounded kind that lives quietly inside you when you finally stop fighting yourself.
Breaking the Rules I Outgrew
Healing also meant unlearning the rules I had been taught to live by. Rules like:
- You have to earn your rest.
- Your worth is tied to productivity.
- You’re only as good as your performance.
Those beliefs had built the cage I was living in. But now, I was walking out — one step at a time.
I realized that boundaries weren’t walls. They were bridges to better peace. Saying “no” wasn’t selfish; it was sacred. Choosing myself wasn’t betrayal; it was alignment.
“The moment I stopped seeking permission, I started finding freedom.”
I began to ask different questions. Instead of “What do I need to do?” I asked, “What do I need to feel?”
Instead of “How do I make everyone happy?” I asked, “What makes me whole?”
Those questions changed everything.
The Mirror Moment
I’ll never forget the first time I looked in the mirror after surgery and saw more than a changing body — I saw a returning soul.
My scars had healed, but what moved me most wasn’t the physical change. It was the quiet strength in my eyes. For the first time in years, I recognized the woman staring back.
She wasn’t perfect. She wasn’t finished. But she was becoming.
“I am not who I was, and I’m still not who I will be — and that’s a beautiful place to live.”
That mirror moment wasn’t about appearance. It was about presence — showing up for myself fully, with grace and honesty.
It was about realizing that healing doesn’t erase who you were; it integrates her into who you’re becoming.
Every scar told a story of survival. Every change reflected a choice to live with intention.
I wasn’t hiding anymore. I was here — alive, evolving, and unafraid to start again.
The Courage to Begin Again
As I transitioned from recovery to rediscovery, I started to feel like I was finally building a life that felt like mine. Not one shaped by expectations or fears, but one rooted in authenticity.
I didn’t have all the answers, and I still don’t. But I had something better — the courage to begin again.
That courage became the foundation of everything that followed — the runs, the 5Ks, the reflections, the blog posts that connected with people around the world.
But before all that came this: the season of breaking open. The season of confronting everything I had avoided and choosing to rebuild from the inside out.
“Breaking open wasn’t destruction. It was evolution.”
That’s the truth no one tells you about healing — it’s not clean. It’s not quick. It’s not always pretty. But it’s real. And it’s worth every tear, every scar, every trembling step.
The Climb — Learning to Love the Process
The thing about climbing is that it doesn’t always look like progress. Some days it’s two steps forward, one step back. Other days, it’s standing still and realizing that standing — not falling — is its own kind of victory.
That’s what the months after recovery felt like: a climb. Not a sprint, not a race, not a perfectly planned ascent. Just one deliberate step after another.
It was in this season that I learned something I wish I had known sooner — that the process is the transformation.
“Growth isn’t glamorous. It’s showing up for yourself long before the results appear.”
In those early mornings when the world was still quiet, I’d lace up my shoes and step outside. The air was cool, the ground familiar, but something about the moment always felt brand new. My body was still adjusting, still fragile in some ways, but every step felt like an act of defiance — a promise to myself that I wouldn’t go back to who I was before.
I wasn’t chasing perfection anymore. I was chasing peace.
The Early Miles
When I first started walking again, it wasn’t about fitness. It was about freedom. Each step reminded me that my body could do more than I gave it credit for. I’d count my steps like small prayers — proof that I was still moving, still breathing, still alive.
At first, my pace was slow. My legs ached. My lungs protested. There were days I questioned why I was even doing it — why I kept pushing when it hurt, why I kept trying when no one was watching. But something deeper than motivation kept me going.
It was discipline, yes. But it was also devotion — not to an outcome, but to myself.
“Discipline is the bridge between who I was and who I am becoming.”
Those early walks taught me to listen. To my body, to my breath, to the rhythm of my heart. I began to understand that movement was a language — and for the first time, I was fluent in my own.
With every walk, every quiet morning spent in motion, I started to fall in love with the process itself. I wasn’t waiting to feel strong — I was becoming strong.
Relearning Progress
There’s something humbling about realizing that progress doesn’t always show up in the mirror. Sometimes it shows up in your patience. In your breath. In your ability to keep going when everything in you wants to quit.
I used to measure success by numbers — the scale, the miles, the calories. But I learned that those things were just echoes of something deeper. True success was waking up and choosing to try again.
“Progress isn’t measured in perfection. It’s measured in presence.”
The days that felt the hardest — the ones where motivation was gone and exhaustion took over — were the days that mattered most. Because that’s where endurance was built.
I began to understand that self-discipline and self-compassion weren’t opposites; they were partners. Some days I pushed harder. Other days I rested. Both were acts of love.
That balance became the foundation of my climb — the middle ground between doing and being.
Mindset Shifts
Around this time, my mindset began to shift in ways I didn’t expect.
I stopped seeing my journey as a series of restarts and started seeing it as evolution. Every setback, every slow day, every obstacle — it all had purpose.
There was no “before” and “after” anymore. There was only becoming.
“The process isn’t punishment. It’s preparation.”
I began writing about this shift on Growth Beyond Obstacles. I shared openly about the mental work behind the physical journey — about grace, about boundaries, about trusting slow growth. And the messages that came in surprised me.
People weren’t inspired by the results. They were inspired by the honesty.
They wrote things like, “I feel less alone,” and “You helped me start over.” That’s when I realized something powerful: the process was never just mine. Every lesson I was learning was part of something much bigger — a conversation about resilience, self-worth, and rediscovery.
That realization gave my climb purpose. It wasn’t just about me anymore. It was about building something that would help others find their way, too.
The Wall
Every climb has a wall — that point where everything feels too hard, too heavy, too far.
For me, that wall came somewhere between exhaustion and doubt. I was balancing my MBA coursework, a full-time job, part-time shifts, and this growing commitment to my health.
The weight of it all sometimes pressed against my chest like gravity. There were days I wanted to stop — not just from fatigue, but from fear that I’d never reach what I was climbing toward.
But here’s what I learned: the wall isn’t there to stop you. It’s there to teach you how to rest without quitting.
“When you hit the wall, remember — it’s not the end. It’s the test.”
So, I rested. I adjusted. I leaned into slower movement, deeper reflection, and softer expectations. I learned to let “enough” be enough.
And then, I kept going.
Because the climb doesn’t require perfection. It only requires persistence.
Learning to Love the Process
Somewhere along the way, something shifted — I stopped waiting to feel proud.
The small things became sacred again: finishing a workout, prepping my meals, logging into class after a long day, watching the sun rise after a 6AM walk.
None of it was flashy. None of it went viral. But it was mine.
“Consistency is quiet magic — the kind that changes you before you even notice.”
I started to find joy in the rituals: writing in my journal, stretching before bed, tracking my steps, documenting my thoughts. It wasn’t about self-improvement anymore. It was about self-connection.
That’s the thing about loving the process — once you stop rushing the outcome, you realize that the climb itself is the reward.
Movement as Meditation
Over time, my walks became longer. They turned into jogs. And those jogs became the beginnings of something new — a quiet ambition that scared and excited me: to run my first 5K.
When I set that goal, I didn’t know if I could do it. But I wanted to try.
I trained in small increments — a few extra minutes each week, a slightly faster pace, a little more courage every time. I tracked my steps, my progress, my heartbeats. Every milestone felt monumental because it came from effort, not ease.
“What once felt impossible now feels inevitable.”
Running became my meditation — a moving prayer, a space where I could clear my head and listen to my heart. Some days the miles flew by; other days, every step felt like a question. But in both, I found peace.
I wasn’t running away from anything anymore. I was running toward myself.
Lessons from the Climb
By the time the season began to change, I had learned more from the process than I ever could have from perfection.
I learned that motivation fades, but commitment endures.
I learned that progress whispers — it doesn’t shout.
I learned that healing happens in the spaces between effort and grace.
And most importantly, I learned that self-trust is built one promise kept at a time.
“The climb isn’t about reaching the top. It’s about becoming someone who never stops trying.”
When I look back on that chapter now, I see a version of myself who didn’t have all the answers — but she showed up anyway. And that, more than anything, changed everything.
The Turning Point
There’s always a moment — a quiet, almost invisible one — when you realize you’re not the same anymore.
For me, it wasn’t a big achievement or a dramatic breakthrough. It was a morning like any other. I was walking before sunrise, music in my ears, air cool against my skin. And then it hit me — this peace, this knowing.
I wasn’t fighting anymore. I was flowing.
All the effort, all the frustration, all the tears — they had turned into something softer, steadier, more alive.
The climb was no longer a battle. It had become a rhythm.
That’s when I knew — I was ready for more.
The Middle Mile — Running, Mindset, and Momentum
Every journey has a middle—the space between who you were and who you’re becoming. It’s the part no one photographs, because it’s not as shiny as the start and not as triumphant as the finish. But it’s where everything happens.
For me, the middle mile began when walking wasn’t enough anymore. My body, still tender from healing, wanted to move differently. I didn’t know it yet, but the middle mile would teach me more about strength, resilience, and surrender than any destination ever could.
“The middle mile is where belief is built.”
The Decision to Run
It started on a random weekday morning, somewhere between exhaustion and curiosity. I had been walking every day, tracking my steps, finding peace in the rhythm. One day, I felt a pull—a quiet dare whispered from within: try running.
So I did. For maybe thirty seconds. My lungs protested, my legs burned, and my heart raced. I slowed down, laughed at myself, and tried again the next day.
It wasn’t about performance; it was about trust. Trusting that I could do something I once thought impossible.
“It’s never about how fast you go—it’s about the courage to begin again, one step at a time.”
Those thirty-second jogs turned into minutes. Those minutes turned into miles. I started to crave the stillness that came after movement—the mental quiet that only arrived once I’d pushed through the noise of doubt.
Running became a form of meditation. Each stride stripped away the static in my mind. The rhythm of my breath reminded me: I’m still here. I’m still capable.
Training for the Bubble Run
The idea to sign up for a 5K felt ridiculous at first. Me? Running 3.1 miles? The same person who used to avoid gym class, who once felt trapped in her own body? But the thought wouldn’t leave me.
I didn’t want to prove anything to anyone else. I wanted to prove to myself that I could finish something I started purely out of self-belief.
I printed out a beginner’s training plan and taped it to my mirror. Every check mark felt like a small victory. There were days I wanted to quit—especially the mornings I woke up sore, or when my schedule felt impossible between work, MBA classes, and life. But I kept going.
Each run became a lesson in patience. I learned to pace myself—not just in running, but in life.
“The finish line doesn’t matter if you lose yourself in the race.”
The First Race
Race day arrived before I felt ready. The Bubble Run—bright colors, music, people laughing and covered in foam—was the perfect mix of chaos and celebration.
As I lined up at the start, surrounded by strangers who all had their own reasons for being there, I felt my heart swell. A year ago, I couldn’t walk without pain. Now, I was here—running for joy, for healing, for proof that transformation was possible.
The first mile was exhilarating. The second was hard. The third tested every ounce of willpower I had left. My legs were heavy, my breath uneven, but I refused to stop.
When I crossed that finish line, I didn’t burst into tears like I expected. Instead, I laughed—a deep, uncontrollable laugh that came from disbelief and gratitude all at once.
“I didn’t run away from my past. I ran toward my future.”
That finish line wasn’t just a goal met; it was a declaration. I was no longer surviving—I was living.
The Highs and Lows of Momentum
After the Bubble Run, I thought everything would feel easier. But maintaining momentum is its own mountain.
There were stretches where running felt effortless—days where my body felt light, where every stride matched the rhythm of my music and the beat of my heart. And then there were days when my legs felt like lead and doubt crept back in.
Momentum isn’t a constant. It ebbs and flows.
I learned that consistency wasn’t about never slowing down—it was about never giving up. I started to see parallels everywhere: between running and studying, between movement and emotional growth.
When I struggled with assignments or long workdays, I thought about the middle miles—the ones where quitting felt easiest, but finishing felt best.
“The middle is where resilience is forged.”
It became clear that the lessons from running weren’t about fitness—they were about life.
The Second Race
The next challenge came faster than expected—the Star-Spangled Squirt Gun Run on July 4th. I was sleep-deprived, dehydrated, and honestly, not at my best. The heat was brutal. But I showed up anyway.
This time, I didn’t care about my pace or performance. I cared about presence. I wanted to feel every moment—the laughter, the exhaustion, the sun on my skin, the rhythm of the crowd.
I power-walked most of it. Fifty-one minutes later, I crossed the finish line again—this time not out of adrenaline, but acceptance.
“Sometimes victory looks like finishing slower—but stronger.”
Afterward, I sat on the grass, sweaty and tired, but peaceful. People around me celebrated, and I smiled quietly to myself. It hit me then: I wasn’t competing anymore. I was connecting—with my body, with the experience, with the world around me.
It wasn’t about proving I could run. It was about proving I could keep showing up.
Reflections from the Road
Every mile taught me something new.
Mile 1: You are capable of more than you think.
Mile 2: You don’t have to be perfect to keep going.
Mile 3: Peace comes when you stop chasing and start becoming.
“The middle mile taught me that growth doesn’t happen in leaps—it happens in strides.”
Running mirrored my transformation in ways I couldn’t ignore. Some days were effortless. Others were grueling. But every single one mattered.
I started writing about these runs—documenting how the rhythm of my footsteps matched the rhythm of my healing. People messaged from different time zones, saying they were walking too, running too, trying too. That connection across distance reminded me: movement is universal. Healing is, too.
Mind Over Motion
Running also challenged the stories I told myself.
I used to believe that quitting was failure. Now, I understood that rest was strategy. I used to believe my worth was tied to output. Now, I knew it was tied to intention.
On the hard days, when my legs felt heavy or my thoughts turned cruel, I practiced gentleness. I whispered affirmations between breaths:
“You’ve done harder things.”
“You are stronger than this moment.”
“Keep going—just one more step.”
Those whispers became my mantra—not just on the track, but in every part of my life.
“Endurance isn’t physical. It’s emotional.”
I carried that truth into my work, my relationships, and my studies. I stopped measuring my worth by what I finished and started honoring what I was learning along the way.
The Ripple Effect
The races became metaphors. They represented every chapter of my growth—slow starts, steady climbs, difficult middles, triumphant finishes.
They reminded me that transformation isn’t one grand event. It’s a series of quiet, consistent choices that add up over time.
When readers began sharing their own milestones with me—photos from walks, updates on their health, reflections on their mindset—I realized Growth Beyond Obstacles had become more than my story. It was ours.
“When you share your climb, you give others permission to start theirs.”
Those messages reminded me that the middle mile isn’t meant to be walked alone. We’re all somewhere in the in-between—tired, hopeful, becoming.
And in that shared space, something sacred happens: we start to believe that healing is contagious.
The Quiet Victory
The most powerful moments didn’t happen at finish lines. They happened in the quiet—on early morning walks when the world was still asleep, on drives where I reflected on how far I’d come, on days I felt peace in my own skin.
That peace used to feel impossible. Now, it felt like home.
“Momentum isn’t speed. It’s trust.”
Trust that you’ll find your rhythm again. Trust that rest doesn’t erase progress. Trust that the climb and the middle are where strength is born.
By the end of that summer, I understood something I hadn’t before: I wasn’t running to transform. I was running to remember—who I was, what I was capable of, and how it felt to be fully alive.
The Reach — When the Words Found the World
When I started writing, I thought my words would live quietly on the page—read by a few friends, maybe a handful of people who happened to stumble across them. I never imagined they would travel. I never imagined that stories typed in the dim light of my apartment could cross oceans. But they did.
One afternoon, months into my journey, I opened the analytics page for Growth Beyond Obstacles out of curiosity. My breath caught when I saw it—dots on a map. Visitors from places I’d only seen in movies: Canada, Brazil, France, South Africa, the Philippines, Australia. The numbers were small, but the impact was enormous.
“Somewhere across the world, someone read my story—and saw a reflection of their own.”
I sat there for a long time, staring at that screen, realizing that my life—the messy, imperfect, still-healing parts of it—had reached someone I would never meet. And somehow, in that invisible exchange, we weren’t strangers anymore.
When Connection Replaced Comparison
For years, I measured my worth through comparison—grades, titles, likes, and approvals. But seeing those global footprints shifted something in me. It reminded me that connection is what we crave most, and it never begins with perfection.
People weren’t showing up for polished essays. They were showing up for truth. For the raw honesty of someone saying, me too.
The comments and messages trickled in slowly at first. A woman in Germany wrote that my words helped her finally schedule her first therapy appointment. A college student in the Philippines said she printed out one of my quotes and taped it to her wall:
“You are allowed to start over as many times as it takes.”
A man in Canada shared that he’d lost 80 pounds after reading about my VSG journey—not because of a diet, but because he finally believed he could change.
Each message felt like a miracle. Proof that vulnerability ripples outward.
The Art of Showing Up
I had spent years chasing visibility in all the wrong ways—trying to be noticed, trying to be enough. But now, I learned that the most powerful kind of visibility is authenticity.
When I wrote about my setbacks—the days I struggled with hydration, the plateaus, the loneliness of balancing work and school—those were the posts that resonated most.
“People don’t connect with perfection. They connect with presence.”
That realization changed how I approached everything. I stopped curating my life. I started documenting it. The messy mornings, the late nights of studying for my MBA, the tears in the car after a long shift, the quiet pride in finishing another 5K.
It wasn’t about being inspirational—it was about being real. And somehow, real was enough.
Building a Global Village
Over time, Growth Beyond Obstacles evolved into a living community. People began emailing me not just to thank me, but to share their stories—their own surgeries, heartbreaks, recoveries, and small triumphs.
We built a quiet kind of village across continents. I’d post something before bed in Ohio, and by morning, someone in New Zealand had replied. We celebrated birthdays, milestones, even setbacks together.
I started recognizing names in my inbox, in comments, on social media. These strangers became companions—proof that connection doesn’t need proximity.
“Community isn’t built by noise. It’s built by truth whispered across distance.”
I realized then that Growth Beyond Obstacles wasn’t mine alone. It belonged to everyone who saw themselves in its reflection.
Writing Through the Hard Days
There were still moments I wanted to disappear. Weeks when my energy ran low, when my posts went quiet, when life felt too heavy to translate into words.
But even then, I wrote. Sometimes it was just a sentence in my notes app, or a quote that carried me through the day.
I remember one post I almost didn’t publish—a vulnerable reflection on body image after weight loss. I worried it was too raw, too personal. But I shared it anyway. Within hours, messages poured in: “Thank you for saying what I couldn’t.” “I needed this today.” “You put into words what I’ve been feeling for years.”
“Honesty is the language of healing.”
That day, I understood that every time I hesitated to speak, someone else was waiting for the words I was afraid to say.
So I kept speaking.
The Balance Between Growth and Grace
As my audience continues to grow, so does the pressure I put on myself. I wanted every post to be meaningful, every word to resonate. But the truth is, not every season is meant to produce. Some are meant to restore.
There were months when life outside the blog demanded more of me—work deadlines, MBA courses, family needs, health checkups. During those times, I learned the art of gentle consistency: writing when I could, resting when I needed, never forcing creation out of exhaustion.
“Grace is the oxygen of growth.”
I reminded myself that my readers didn’t need perfection; they needed presence. They weren’t looking for endless motivation; they were looking for honesty about the days when motivation ran dry.
And that authenticity became my rhythm.
When Words Became Mirrors
The more I wrote, the more I noticed something: my blog wasn’t just documenting change, it was causing it.
Each reflection peeled back another layer. I started to see patterns I hadn’t before, how every struggle had shaped my strength, how every obstacle had carried a lesson.
Readers would comment things like, “It feels like you wrote this for me.” And I’d think, maybe I did. Because when you write from truth, it’s never just your story, it’s everyone’s story told through your lens.
“When one person speaks their truth, it becomes permission for others to do the same.”
That realization softened me. It reminded me that vulnerability isn’t weakness—it’s connection in motion.
The Global Echo
Months later, I checked my site analytics again. The map had changed. The dots were multiplying.
Now there were readers in places I couldn’t even pronounce properly. The thought that someone halfway across the world was sipping coffee and reading about my life still felt surreal.
Sometimes I’d imagine them—the woman in Spain reading during her morning commute, the man in India scrolling before bed, the teenager in Australia highlighting a quote for her journal.
We were all connected through one thing: the desire to grow beyond our obstacles.
“Stories travel farther than we ever will—and that’s their power.”
That global echo filled me with gratitude and humility. My journey had become a conversation stretching across continents, proof that healing transcends geography.
What the Reach Taught Me
The reach wasn’t about numbers. It wasn’t about followers or views. It was about impact.
It taught me that vulnerability travels. That when you write with honesty, your words find their way to the people who need them most.
It taught me that the world is smaller than it feels. That we are far more alike than we are different.
And it taught me that when you share your story, you invite others to share theirs—and that invitation can change lives.
“Every time one person heals out loud, the world becomes a little softer.”
When I look back at that map now, I don’t see countries. I see connections. I see courage mirrored back to me. I see the collective heartbeat of people trying, healing, beginning again.
A Quiet Thank You
Sometimes I still scroll through old messages—tiny fragments of humanity preserved in pixels. Notes of gratitude, stories of triumph, confessions of struggle.
I think about how small gestures can have enormous ripples. How a few honest paragraphs written late at night could comfort someone oceans away.
That realization changed not just how I write, but how I live.
Because the reach isn’t about expanding outward, it’s about expanding inward. It’s about stretching our capacity for empathy, for understanding, for shared humanity.
And that’s what Growth Beyond Obstacles has always been: not a destination, but a shared journey toward wholeness.
“We don’t find each other through perfection. We find each other through truth.”
Becoming — Transformation Beyond the Mirror
Transformation is quieter than people think.
It doesn’t always look like fireworks or fanfare. Most of the time, it feels like peace and stillness that arrives one morning, long after the storm has passed, and you realize you’re no longer fighting the same battles you once were.
That’s how it felt the first time I looked in the mirror and saw not what I’d lost, but what I’d found.
“I used to chase change. Now, I live inside it.”
The New Reflection
There’s a moment in every journey when the physical transformation begins to slow, and the emotional one takes center stage. For me, that moment came months after surgery, long after my body had adjusted, when I started seeing myself differently—not as a project to fix, but as a person to know.
The mirror no longer felt like an enemy. It became a storyteller, one that reflected both my evolution and my endurance.
At first, it was strange—seeing cheekbones emerge where softness used to be, watching old clothes hang differently, noticing that my energy carried a new kind of light. But it wasn’t the image that mattered. It was awareness.
I began to see how every physical change was mirrored by something deeper—a softening of judgment, a strengthening of boundaries, a grace that lived in the space where shame once did.
“My reflection stopped being about size and started being about strength.”
I realized I didn’t owe anyone an explanation for my transformation. I didn’t have to justify my choices, my pace, or my process. This was between me and the woman who once prayed for the strength to start.
And now, she was here—living, breathing, thriving.
Redefining Success
Before this journey, success had always been something I chased—a goal just beyond reach, defined by achievement and applause. But now, success looked different.
It looked like hydration goals met. Like meal prep on Sunday nights. Like leaving work on time without guilt. Like mornings spent journaling instead of rushing. Like running a 5K without fear of being last.
It looked like balance.
“Success isn’t measured in milestones. It’s measured in peace.”
Peace became my currency.
And the more I valued peace, the less I craved validation. I stopped apologizing for choosing myself—whether that meant saying no, logging off, or prioritizing health over hustle.
It took years to realize that rest doesn’t mean weakness. That slowing down doesn’t mean failure. That self-care isn’t selfish—it’s sacred.
The Weight That Wasn’t Physical
The irony of weight loss is that the heaviest burdens are never physical. They’re emotional—the expectations, the self-criticism, the fear of disappointing others.
I carried those far longer than I ever carried the pounds.
It wasn’t until I started releasing the internal weight—unrealistic standards, guilt, old versions of myself—that I felt truly light.
“The hardest weight to lose is the one made of expectations.”
I began letting go—of people who didn’t meet me with the same effort, of obligations that drained me, of habits that no longer aligned. Each release made space for something better: clarity, calm, and connection.
That was the real transformation—the quiet confidence that came from knowing I didn’t have to prove my worth anymore.
The Shift in Identity
There’s something disorienting about becoming someone you once only imagined.
For months, people who hadn’t seen me in a while would say things like, “You look so different!” or “You’re unrecognizable!” They meant it kindly, but sometimes it made me pause. Because yes, I was different—but I wasn’t unrecognizable to me.
If anything, I felt more like myself than I had in years.
“I didn’t become someone new. I became who I was always meant to be.”
It took time to adjust to that identity—to own it fully, to walk into rooms with confidence instead of apology, to stop waiting for the world to grant me permission to exist freely.
Now, when I walk, I carry both versions of me—the one who struggled and the one who survived. They coexist, honoring the same truth: both were worthy all along.
Healing in Layers
Healing doesn’t happen all at once. It happens in layers—like peeling back old beliefs and finding pieces of yourself you forgot existed.
Some layers hurt to shed. Others feel like homecoming.
There were moments I still felt lost—days when body dysmorphia whispered lies, when old habits tried to creep back in, when I felt disconnected from the person I was becoming. But instead of spiraling, I learned to stay curious.
To ask, What is this feeling teaching me?
“Healing isn’t a destination. It’s a conversation.”
I learned that discomfort wasn’t regression—it was integration. Each challenge was an opportunity to practice grace in real time.
And over time, I noticed something beautiful: the lows didn’t last as long anymore. The self-criticism quieted faster. The bounce-back came quicker.
That’s when I knew the healing had taken root.
Living in Alignment
As I rebuilt my routines, I started designing my life intentionally.
I structured my days to reflect my values—movement, mindfulness, growth, connection. I said yes to things that expanded me and no to things that drained me.
This wasn’t about control—it was about alignment. About making sure that my choices matched the person I was becoming.
I stopped living reactively. I started living consciously.
“Alignment feels like peace that doesn’t need proof.”
When I was in school, buried in MBA assignments, working multiple jobs, and training for another race, I learned to anchor myself in daily rituals that kept me centered. Morning journaling, midday walks, nightly gratitude lists—they weren’t just routines; they were reminders.
Reminders that healing isn’t found in grand gestures, but in quiet consistency.
Transformation Beyond the Mirror
Transformation isn’t a finish line. It’s a state of being.
Yes, my body changed. My health improved. My energy multiplied. But the real transformation lived in the unseen—the way I spoke to myself, the boundaries I upheld, the peace I carried into each day.
The girl who once hid behind layers of fear now stood in front of the mirror and smiled. Not because she was perfect, but because she was present.
“The reflection changed because the love behind it did.”
I learned that transformation doesn’t demand you to erase who you were. It invites you to honor her—to thank her for surviving long enough to get you here.
Every scar, every struggle, every setback—they weren’t flaws. They were fingerprints of resilience.
And as I stood in front of that mirror, I whispered the truth I had been waiting years to believe: I am enough.
The Ongoing Becoming
Becoming isn’t something you finish. It’s something you practice.
Some days, I still stumble. I still question. I still fall into old habits of overworking or overthinking. But now, I catch myself sooner. I breathe deeper. I return faster.
Because growth doesn’t mean you never fall again—it means you no longer fear the fall.
“Becoming isn’t about arriving. It’s about remembering.”
Remembering that I am not defined by what I used to be or limited by what I haven’t yet achieved. Remembering that life is cyclical, that we are allowed to evolve endlessly.
The woman who began Growth Beyond Obstacles wouldn’t recognize the peace I hold now. And yet, she planted every seed of it.
She is why I can stand here today and say, with certainty:
I’m still growing, still learning, still becoming.
And maybe that’s the most beautiful part of all—there’s no finish line to becoming yourself. There’s only the ongoing rhythm of rising, rebuilding, and remembering.
“The journey never ends. It only deepens.”
A Letter to You (and to the Woman I Once Was)
Dear You,
If you’re reading this, maybe you’re standing where I once stood—somewhere between exhaustion and awakening, trying to remember what hope feels like. Maybe you’re in your own season of change, or maybe you’re still gathering the courage to take the first step. Either way, I want you to know this: you are not alone.
A year ago, I didn’t know what this would become. Growth Beyond Obstacles started as a whisper in the dark—a quiet need to tell my story, not because I was brave, but because I was breaking. I had no roadmap, no plan, no idea how to rebuild myself. I just knew I couldn’t stay the same.
And now, somehow, a year later, here we are.
“Sometimes, the story you write to survive becomes the story that helps others heal.”
When I look back on the woman I was then—scared, tired, hopeful in a way that hurt—I want to hold her. I want to thank her for showing up anyway. For trusting that there was more to life than survival.
She didn’t know that the pain she was walking through was the soil that would grow everything she ever prayed for.
To the Woman I Once Was
You did it. You made it through the nights that felt endless. You survived the doubt, the fatigue, the fear. You found your footing again—not all at once, but slowly, like dawn breaking over a long, dark horizon.
I know you didn’t think you were strong enough. I know you questioned everything. But I also know that every tear, every ache, every quiet moment of resilience brought you here—to peace, to purpose, to presence.
“You didn’t lose yourself. You found her buried beneath the noise.”
If I could tell you one thing, it would be this: nothing was wasted. Every setback built the strength you needed. Every ending cleared the space for new beginnings.
You weren’t too late. You weren’t too broken. You were simply becoming.
And I promise—she, the woman you’re growing into—she’s everything you hoped she’d be.
To the Reader
You—wherever you are in the world—thank you.
Thank you for reading, for listening, for walking this road with me. Whether you’ve been here since the beginning or you just arrived, your presence has meant more than I can ever say.
This space, this story, became ours the moment you saw yourself in it. Because this isn’t just my journey—it’s a mirror for every person learning to grow through what they’ve endured.
“Healing becomes real when it’s shared.”
To the person who’s at their beginning—keep going. It doesn’t matter how small your steps feel. Progress is still progressing.
To the person in the middle—don’t rush the process. The middle mile builds you in ways the finish line never can.
And to the person nearing their transformation—breathe it in. You’ve earned your peace. Let it be yours.
What I’ve Learned
Over this past year, Growth Beyond Obstacles has taught me that healing isn’t a single moment of triumph—it’s a lifelong practice of returning to yourself.
It’s not glamorous. It’s messy, repetitive, sacred work. It’s unlearning, relearning, forgiving, and showing up, even when you’re not sure who you’re becoming next.
I’ve learned that growth doesn’t ask for perfection—it asks for presence. It asks you to be gentle when you relapse, to be proud when you progress, and to remember that transformation is never linear.
“Some seasons teach you how to climb. Others teach you how to rest.”
If I’ve learned anything, it’s that self-love is not a destination—it’s a dialogue. It’s speaking softly to yourself when old wounds resurface, celebrating small victories that no one else sees, and remembering that every chapter, even the hard ones, has meaning.
The healing I once begged for didn’t arrive all at once—it unfolded slowly, quietly, beautifully, through patience, consistency, and courage.
Gratitude
To every reader who shared a comment, a message, or a piece of your heart—thank you. You turned my vulnerability into belonging.
To my family and friends who supported me through the changes, thank you for holding space for the person I was while cheering for the one I was becoming.
To my community, near and far, who joined me for the Bubble Run, the 5Ks, the quiet reflections, and the victories no one saw—thank you for witnessing.
And to the people across oceans who somehow found my words—thank you for reminding me that healing speaks every language.
In Closing
If this year has taught me anything, it’s that growth doesn’t happen beyond the obstacles—it happens through them. It’s forged in the fire, shaped by the climb, softened by grace, and strengthened by time.
There’s still so much to learn, still so much to become—but that’s the beauty of it. Life isn’t a race to the finish. It’s a rhythm—a cycle of falling apart and coming back together, again and again, until peace feels like home.
So wherever you are in your journey, I hope you remember this:
“You are not behind. You are right on time for your becoming.”
Thank you for one incredible year. Thank you for walking with me, believing in me, and becoming alongside me.
Here’s to another year of growth—of courage, compassion, and grace.
With love and light,
Kaylee A. Van Horn 🌿
Acknowledgments
To my family—thank you for loving me through every version of myself. To my fiancé, Robbie, whose patience, laughter, and unwavering faith in my journey made even the hardest days lighter—thank you for being my anchor and my home. To my dear friends Freddy Ritenauer and Dylan Thacker, and to the incredible community at Desire To Inspire (DTI)—your friendship and belief in me helped shape this season of growth more than words can say. You’ve each been part of the foundation that made Growth Beyond Obstacles possible, reminding me that true healing happens in community. I am endlessly grateful for your support, your encouragement, and your presence on this path of becoming.
About the Author
Kaylee A. Van Horn is a writer, wellness advocate, and MBA student whose work explores the intersection of healing, transformation, and authentic leadership. After years of personal health challenges—including her VSG journey—Kaylee turned her recovery into a mission to inspire others to grow beyond their own obstacles. She currently works within the medical field, balancing her studies and professional career with a commitment to self-care, movement, and community. Through her online platform and her Growth Beyond Obstacles blog, she shares reflections on mindset, resilience, and becoming. Kaylee believes that growth is not about perfection but presence, and that every person has the power to rewrite their story one choice at a time.
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