Getting Over My First Mental Hurdle

Last night was hard.

Really hard.

As much as I want this blog to be fun and upbeat (and believe me, I have so much fun posting here), this weight loss journey was never expected to be easy or fun 24/7.

It’s usually easy for people to share the things they are going through when the road is smooth, but it’s usually a whole different story when things get tough and their weaknesses become glaringly apparent. Regardless of what I’m going through in all of this, I want whatever I say about it to be 100% real. Not filtered. Not edited. Not coated in sugar or rose-tinted.

If I ever sound happy and enthusiastic in my posts, it’s because I genuinely feel happy in that moment. However, that optimism doesn’t just show up automatically; it presents itself because I want and need it to.

I search for reasons to laugh at this process not only for my own sake, but also for the benefit of those who are in need of encouragement along their own journeys—whatever those may entail.

Rarely have I been able to articulate the true nature of my distress over my weight, despite how much of an impairment it has been for the majority of my adult life. Though I’ve always understood the shame and self-loathing that’s been silently endured over the years, it would have been impossible to survive had I constantly acknowledged it. I still may not have felt free to actually thrive, but I survived the very best way I knew how until I could.

Now here we are.

The excerpt below documents my first genuine acknowledgment of the pain I’ve harbored all of these years. I wrote it as I was going through it in order to catch some of the fears that were going through my mind.

And although what I wrote leaves me feeling deeply disappointed about my past and apprehensive about the things I may face moving forward, I do feel free.

Free to let go. Free to move forward. Free to heal. Free to change.

Perhaps this will help set someone else free too. 


“It is only the third night and I am lying in my bed, in the dark, crying.

I am suddenly so beside myself that I feel ill. It is uncertain where this deep sorrow has come from, but it is all too clear to me that these are the tears from wasted years.

The regret I feel in this moment is… almost unbearable. I cannot contain it nor can I push it aside to ignore it. It may not be shoved back inside myself because it burns my insides. Fiery and scarring, these uncloaked revelations are making me shut down in a way that I cannot explain. 

I’m crying because I’m hungry. I’m crying because I have found myself in a situation that warrants the dismissal of this fact. But above all, I weep for everything I’ve lost, everything I have missed out on. These are the tears of wasted years.

It is as though I was blindfolded, but can now finally see. It is so clear—almost painfully so. And though I am ever so grateful for the miracle of sight, my stomach churns, for I am repulsed by what lies before my eyes. 

Over and over, I can hear myself scream in my mind, “Oh, God, look at what I’ve done!” But deep within, I know… I know this was not entirely my fault.

It seems so nonsensical, so ridiculous to say that I had no control, that I didn’t know this would happen. I swear I didn’t. I swear on my life that I never wanted this to happen, but yet it did.

As I look ahead to truly see the terrible mess I’ve made… I feel so overwhelmed. So very alone.

If it only takes a year–or even two!– to clear the rubble and rebuild what’s been damaged, it will never be the same. One or two years is nothing in comparison to a decade and some change, but I’ll still never get back what I’ve lost. So now I cry the tears of wasted years.

I love to sing. I wanted so badly to be a singer… I still do. For so many years I never bothered to do anything about this desire of my heart because I knew how the music industry worked. Thin has always been in, but thin I was no longer. I kept saying that I would change things “one day”. I never could. And now, even as I suspect that “one day” has finally come, I find myself perhaps too old to do that which I always dreamed of doing.

I love fashion. I always wished I could be a model… I still do. Many things have changed in the world of fashion since I was a kid. There are more forms of modeling with just as many different types of models. So many times I have wondered whether or not I would have had a shot at it if I had never gotten so overweight and only been short. Perhaps I am too old for this as well. It will do me no good now to ponder such things, so I no longer wonder.

Oh, the tears of wasted years!

My eyes have mostly dried now, with only a lonesome droplet clinging to my lashes as I continue to cry inside, “Will there really be anything left for me once I shed this burden?”

Will reclaiming the physique I once took for granted truly be worth the coldness of all this regret? What if I remain imprisoned by the mere memory of having been unwanted and overlooked for so long? What shall I do then? Just what will become of me if I reach the end only to still feel inadequate?

There are so many more days left. More days than I can count. 

When will it finally happen? Day 300? 400? 500?

I wish someone could tell me. 

Maybe then I could believe that the day will eventually come.

Maybe then I could fully dry my eyes and no longer cry the tears of wasted years.”

That was Day 3, but today was Day 4.

Good things come to those who believe and keep going. 🙏🏽💫❤️


Hey you, I have a personal blog too!
Want to start up a convo? 🙋‍♀️🙋‍♂️ Just comment below!

And as always, sharing is caring.

Please feel free to share this post with someone you think could benefit.

Featured Photo Credit: Nicole Law via Pexels

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