One year ago, on December 19, 2024, I stepped into an operating room carrying far more than a hospital bag.
I carried years of frustration. Years of quiet hope that I rarely said out loud. Fear that I had learned to live with. Faith that flickered but never fully went out. And a determination that felt different than all the times before — not loud, not dramatic, just steady.
This time, I was choosing myself.
I remember lying there before surgery, staring up at the ceiling, thinking about how long it had taken me to reach that moment. How many times I had said one day. How many times I had promised myself I would change when life slowed down, when circumstances were easier, when I felt more ready.
But the truth was, I didn’t feel ready at all.
I just felt done.
Done living in a body that felt like it was constantly working against me. Done watching my energy, confidence, and health slip further away. Done waiting for the “perfect” time to take care of myself.
That surgery wasn’t the end of my old life.
It was the beginning of learning how to live differently.
Looking back now — a full year post-VSG — I can see clearly that the biggest transformation didn’t happen in the operating room. It happened quietly, slowly, in ordinary moments. In daily choices. In how I showed up for myself on the days that were uncomfortable, inconvenient, or hard.
Learning a New Body
The early months after surgery felt surreal. My body was changing faster than my mind could process. Hunger felt unfamiliar. Fullness arrived quickly and firmly. Even my emotions felt sharper without food acting as a buffer.
There were moments of joy that felt almost unreal — stepping on the scale and seeing numbers I hadn’t seen in years. Walking longer without stopping. Realizing my body could move with less resistance. Trying on clothes that fit differently and catching my reflection in passing.
Those moments felt like small miracles.
But no one really prepares you for the grief.
Grief for the comfort food once brought you. Grief for the version of yourself who used eating as survival. Grief for the familiarity of old routines, even when they weren’t healthy. I wasn’t just losing weight — I was unlearning patterns that had carried me through hard seasons of my life.
And even when change is good, unlearning can feel heavy.
I wasn’t just shrinking physically. I was shedding identities. Coping mechanisms. Armor I didn’t realize I had been wearing.
Finding a Rhythm Instead of Rules
As months passed, I stopped thinking in terms of restriction and started thinking in terms of intention. Movement slowly became something I reached for — not as punishment, but as gratitude.
Walking became my anchor. A place to process emotions. A way to reconnect with my body instead of fighting it. A reminder that movement didn’t have to be extreme to be meaningful.
I learned how to fuel myself rather than deprive myself. How to listen instead of control. How nourishment wasn’t just about protein goals or water intake, but about respecting my body enough to meet its needs consistently.
Some days felt empowering. Other days felt exhausting.
But I kept showing up.
And looking back, that might be one of the most important things I did — showing up even when motivation faded, even when progress felt slow, even when no one else could see the effort.
When Progress Stopped Feeling Linear
Then, quietly, things shifted.
The weight loss slowed. Then fluctuated. Then, in certain seasons, crept back up. And with it came old fears that felt far too familiar: Am I messing this up? Am I failing? What if this doesn’t last?
At the same time, my body presented another challenge. My hip began locking — changing my routine almost overnight. Walking, which had become my safe place, suddenly felt painful and unpredictable. My outlet disappeared, and I had to confront how deeply movement had been tied to my sense of control and mental health.
It was frustrating. Humbling. And at times, heartbreaking.
There were days I felt like I was moving backward — physically and emotionally. Days when the scale felt louder than all the progress I had made. Days when I questioned whether I was strong enough to navigate yet another setback.
But this is where something important shifted inside me.
I learned — slowly and imperfectly — that weight fluctuations do not erase transformation.
My body wasn’t failing me. It was healing. Adjusting. Asking for patience instead of pressure.
And instead of spiraling the way I once would have, I slowed down. I listened. I adapted. I focused on what I could do instead of mourning what I couldn’t.
That alone was growth.
When I Realized This Was Never Just About the Weight
Somewhere in that season — without a dramatic moment or clear turning point — I realized something that changed everything:
This journey was never just about weight loss.
At the beginning, I would have told you it was. I believed shrinking my body would make life easier, quieter, more acceptable. And in some ways, it did. Movement became easier. Physical limitations softened. Everyday tasks required less effort.
But the deeper work — the work that actually changed me — had nothing to do with the scale.
What I hadn’t realized was how much non-physical weight I had been carrying. Years of emotional survival. Years of pushing through instead of healing. Years of putting myself last because it felt easier than asking for space or care.
Food had been my comfort. My coping mechanism. My pause button.
And when that was taken away, I was left face-to-face with myself.
That’s where the real journey began.
Learning to Sit With Myself
After surgery, food no longer worked the way it used to. I couldn’t eat through stress or sadness. I couldn’t numb out when life felt overwhelming. And at first, that was terrifying.
Because when you remove the coping mechanism, you expose the wound.
I had to learn how to sit with discomfort — emotional and mental — without immediately trying to escape it. I had to learn how to ask myself what I was actually feeling instead of silencing it. I had to pause instead of react.
Some days that work was exhausting. But it was also freeing.
I learned that feelings pass even when you don’t eat them away. That boredom doesn’t need to be filled. That sadness doesn’t need to be avoided. That rest doesn’t need to be earned.
Those lessons had nothing to do with calories or macros — and everything to do with healing.
Redefining What Success Looks Like
For a long time, I measured success by visible change. Lower numbers. Smaller sizes. Compliments. Progress photos. And while those things felt validating, they were fragile.
Because when the scale fluctuated, it felt like success disappeared with it.
The weight gain and plateaus forced me to confront a hard truth: if my sense of success depended solely on weight loss, I would always feel at risk of failure.
So I redefined progress.
Progress became choosing nourishment even when motivation was low.
Progress became continuing movement after injury — even if it looked different.
Progress became stopping a spiral before it took hold.
Progress became responding to setbacks with compassion instead of control.
It became quieter. Less visible. But far more sustainable.
And in that shift, I found peace.
A Body I’m Learning to Respect
This journey also transformed how I see my body.
Before surgery, my body felt like something I was constantly battling — something that betrayed me, something that refused to cooperate. I pushed it when it was exhausted, then punished it when it didn’t respond.
Post-VSG, especially through injury and recovery, I began seeing my body differently.
I saw a body that had survived.
A body that adapted.
A body that asked for care instead of criticism.
When my hip locked up, I had to unlearn the idea that my worth was tied to productivity. Rest became necessary. Healing became priority. Listening replaced forcing.
And in honoring that, I began building trust with my body instead of resentment.
That trust is something I never want to lose.
Who I’m Becoming Beyond the Mirror
One of the most unexpected changes this year was how my identity shifted.
For so long, I was “the one who was trying.” The one always working on her body. The one whose progress was measured in pounds lost or gained.
As my body changed, I realized I didn’t want it to be the most interesting thing about me anymore.
I wanted to be known for my resilience. My growth. My consistency. My heart.
The surgery didn’t give me those things — it gave me the space to reclaim them.
Still Becoming
One year later, I no longer chase weight loss as proof that I’m doing well. I chase alignment. Sustainability. A life that feels healthy not just in appearance, but in experience.
I still care about my health.
I still care about my body.
I still have goals.
But now I know this journey is about living — not shrinking.
It’s about building a life that supports me long after the scale stops changing. A life where I feel grounded, capable, and at peace with the pace of my growth.
I’m not finished.
I’m not perfect.
I’m not behind.
I’m still here.
Still learning.
Still choosing myself.
And sometimes, the biggest victory is simply staying in the story.
Growth Beyond Obstacles 
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