The Easiest 50 Pounds I Ever Lost

It wasn't about the weight. And it definitely wasn't just 50 pounds.

Two years ago, I had this picture in my head.
Me, turning 50.
50 pounds lighter, stronger, clearer.

 At the time, my life felt like it was sliding off the rails. There was too much chaos and not enough control. Setting a personal challenge was my way of pushing back—not to fix everything but to take back one thing, something just for me.

But to do it right, I had to start at the roots. Because the truth is, I never had a fair shot at seeing myself clearly.

Where the Lie Began

 My biological father (and I use that term loosely) gave me a nickname meant to humiliate, not tease.  He was the kind of broken who weaponized cruelty. And I wasn’t even heavy. I had just won our state beauty pageant and was headed to nationals, for Christ's sake. By every outside measure, I was killing it.

But his voice was bigger than any title I earned.
If he could find something wrong with me, then nothing else mattered. That nickname stuck, wormed its way into my subconscious, and became the voice in my head.

“You’re not enough. Not small enough. Not pretty enough. Not lovable enough.”

That was my origin story. The start of a decades-long body image war, written by someone who thrived on control and left damage I’ll never speak about.

The worst part was that I believed him for years.
He spoke it like gospel, and I absorbed it like truth.

I wasn’t broken or weak. I was just a kid surviving something no kid should ever have to. I didn’t gain weight until after I survived him. Maybe deep down, my body was trying to protect me by keeping me shielded.

 The culture didn’t help. I came of age in the 90s, when heroin chic ruled. Hollow cheeks, visible ribs, and hip bones as a fashion statement.  I already hated my reflection, and there was the world telling me starvation was sexy.

I gained steadily through my teens and twenties. God, I envied those willowy girls with great hair and easy laughs, always so effortlessly unfazed. Meanwhile, I was over here feeling like my body was a problem to solve.

It wasn’t until my daughter was a toddler that something clicked. I didn’t want her to grow up thinking the way I looked and felt was normal.
So I joined a weight loss program. I followed the rules and lost the weight.
But I also lost the plot.

Shrinking to Stay Seen

At first, it felt like a win. I  finally looked ‘normal’, but I wasn’t eating real food. I was eating low-point frozen meals, sugar-free, fat-free everything. I turned down my grandmother’s wonderful homemade meals (something I will always regret) for frozen diet crap. At the time, I was convinced it was worth it, that it was the only way I could stay “healthy.”

It wasn’t. It was control disguised as progress.

Years later, newly divorced and emotionally gutted, I lost even more weight. Fast. Like it was a contest.

The thinner I got, the more compliments poured in. People noticed me. Men tripped over themselves. After years of being invisible and stuck in an emotionally abusive marriage, my God, it was intoxicating. It felt like power. Like I had finally earned value. Like I was safe.  
But I wasn’t.

One night, I was assaulted at a party. It was stopped in time, but the damage was done, and everything unraveled after that.

My grandmother passed not long before that. I’d helped care for her in her final days while power plays and egos made everything harder than it had to be. I still carry that.
Then came the hits: my grandfather. Then my stepfather. One loss after another, until the ground dropped out.

When all the emotions I’d been starving finally surfaced, I didn’t know what to do with them. So I binged. Hard. I’m talking cereal bowls full of peanut butter. My hunger cues were so wrecked from ignoring them that I swung from rigid control to full-on gorging, my body demanding everything I’d denied it.
It wasn’t freedom. It was hell.

But I didn’t stay there. I pulled myself out. 
I found a great counselor, and I did the work. One hard, honest step at a time.
And I rebuilt on my terms.

Reset, Rebuild, Repeat

Life finally leveled out. I was engaged to someone who really saw me. I wasn’t entirely at home in my body yet, but I was close enough to try something different: a small, pre-wedding reset so I could show up for me.

Then I walked down the marble steps of Palazzo Avino in Amalfi to marry the man who never once asked me to be less. Not who I used to be, or the version I was trying to become. Just…me.

After the wedding, I stayed active. Not because I loved running (I didn’t), but because I loved who I felt like when I finished.

But life crept back in like it always does. Stress, grief, surgeries, and early menopause came in like a wrecking ball. (Cue Miley).
I quit running. I was burned out and heavier again.

My husband, a former hotshot D.C. chef, cooks ridiculously good food. I’m not blaming him. Honestly, bless him. But going from point-counting to fine dining was…let’s just say an adjustment. The truth was, I still hadn’t learned how to eat like a normal person. I either obsessed or avoided; there was no middle.

Eventually, I told myself that this was just midlife. This was aging. My husband loved me at any size. That should’ve been enough, right?
Except it wasn’t, because deep down, I knew I was still outsourcing my peace to someone else’s acceptance.

Then life threw us another curveball: guardianship of two high-energy, wildly athletic kids. And I realized: I have to keep up.

But not everything that shaped me was visible on the scale. Some of it came from years of swallowing things that should’ve been said out loud. The Silence Was a Choice walks through that part.

The Walk That Started It All

Before we traded our cabin-in-the-woods life for suburbia, I started walking every road around. Just me, the trees, and the noise in my head. It wasn’t entirely about fitness at first, but about keeping my head above water.

But the noise didn’t settle until my husband, blunt and loving as ever, said: “You have to take care of yourself first. No one else can do this for you. Figure out how to channel what you’re feeling.”
He was right.

So I got serious and recommitted to my goal: lose 50 pounds by my 50th birthday. No shots. No subscriptions. No bullshit.
Just me.

The first thing I had to deal with?
My brain.
That lying little bitch.

"You have no self-control.”
“You’re too old to bounce back again.”
“Your genetics screwed you. Just accept it."

But I couldn’t. So, in this experiment aimed at retraining my brain, I committed myself to the craziest idea I’d ever thought of:
Trust yourself.
It was the one thing I’d never tried before.

That’s it. That was the whole plan.

I trusted myself to eat well most of the time and enjoy the rest without guilt.
I trusted that I didn’t need punishment, just consistency.
I trusted that real food, simple movement, and showing up even on the crap days would be enough.
And it was.

The Trust Experiment

I didn’t do a massive overhaul of all my habits.  I started small and gave my body what it needed, one decision at a time.

First was diet soda. I’d been practically married to it for years, but I kicked it in a week. Not because I felt forced to. I just didn’t want to break my streak. (Gamifying works. Pretty, effective, dopamine-fueled magic. Don’t knock it.)

Then came whole foods. I slowed down. Ate when I was hungry. Stopped when I wasn’t. Groundbreaking stuff, right? But if you know, you know.

And the weight started to drop. Slowly and steadily.

I moved more. I didn’t wait for motivation; I just showed up. A short walk, even 15 minutes on the treadmill, counted. It all counted.

If I ate more than usual or had something outside the norm, I didn’t write off the day and spiral. I just reset at the next meal, not the next day. There was no drama, no punishment, just a decision to keep going.

And for the first time in my life, I wasn’t punishing my body; I was partnering with it. I chose movement over mindless eating. I chose peace over perfection.

I chose myself...and it worked.

I surpassed my goal before my birthday. And while I am proud of the number, I’m more proud of how I got there. It wasn’t about willpower or earning praise. It was about finally building trust with my body, with my choices, and with myself.

The Complicated Peace

Now, I lift. I run. I show up for myself every day. Not because I have to, but because I want to.
Because I finally understand what living with intention feels like.

The other day, I pulled my wedding dress out for the first time in a decade. And it’s too big for me now. And I love that.

My relationship with food is healthy. My head is clear.
I’m proud of the jeans I slip into now, sure. But what matters more is the part you can’t see: the peace I earned.

But I’d be lying if I said it was perfect. ‘Cause I’m also kinda pissed.

First, for whatever reason, my cholesterol is still way high. I don’t drink. I don’t smoke. I eat clean as hell. And yet my cholesterol still sucks. God has a sense of humor I don’t always appreciate.

Second, major weight loss (twice over) changes your body permanently. I can slide into size 4s with ease now, but I’m still tethered to the physical remnants of a woman who no longer exists.

That disconnect is a mindf*ck at times.  I have loose skin, but I also have a thigh gap and visible definition. Make it make sense. There’s surgery in my future, not for vanity but for preservation.

But the thing I’m pissed off the most about is the fact that this life could have been mine all along.
If I’d been taught to trust myself instead of hating my reflection.
If I hadn’t spent decades stuck in cycles that someone else profited from.

But then again, I wouldn’t be the person I am now without that fight.
And I’m not done, either; I will always keep showing up.

 I didn’t come this far to only come this far.

And if someone like me, an overthinker, impostor syndrome survivor, can do this?

 So. Can. You.

You’re not too old. You’re not too broken. You’re not behind.
You’ve just been told the wrong story.
So here’s a better one: You are worth the effort.
You can do the hard things, and it’s not too late, not by a long shot.
Start believing it. I’ll be right here, cheering you on

Final Word: Choose Yourself Anyway

I didn’t write this to prove anything. I wrote it because someone out there needs to know it’s possible. Real change doesn’t come from a product, a subscription, or a system that profits off our insecurity. It doesn’t come from shame.

It comes by choosing yourself over, and over, and over again, even on the hard days. And if I can do it, so can you.
And if your version of that starts with therapy? That’s not weakness, that’s power.

This wasn’t the start of my healing. This was the final brick in a foundation I’d been building for years.

I live with discipline, clarity, gratitude, and intention. I’ve done the work, and I’ve faced the hard things. And I’m still evolving, but this time, from solid ground.

 I wrote this because I am proof that living with intention works.

 Drop a comment. Send a message. Or just let it sit with you.
Thanks for reading, seriously.