The Easiest 50 Pounds I Ever Lost

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

At the time I was imagining it, my life was sliding right off the rails. There was way too much going on and not nearly enough control over it.

Setting a personal challenge to lose 50 pounds by 50 was my way to take back one thing, something just for me.

But to do it right (this time), I had to start by rebuilding the foundation. Because the truth is, I never had a fair shot at seeing myself clearly.

As a child, my father referred to me as "Jelly Belly", or "J.B.", when he was in a hurry. He was the kind of broken and sick who got off on being cruel.

And I wasn’t fat, not even a little bit. I had just won our state beauty pageant and was headed to nationals. I got good grades, read well above my grade level, and collected trophies for spelling bees, music, and dance competitions...by every outside measure, I was killing it.

But his voice was bigger than my accomplishments, and I was forever chasing the moment I might finally be enough.
Until he couldn't find something else wrong with me, nothing else mattered.

That nickname stuck, burrowing into my subconscious and becoming the voice in my head. “You’re not enough. Not pretty enough. Not lovable enough.”

That was my origin story: the start of a decades-long body war, scripted by someone who fed on control and left damage I still won't talk about.

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

I wasn’t broken or weak. I was a kid surviving what no kid should have to. I didn’t gain weight until after I survived him. Maybe my body was trying to protect me, building a barrier between me and everything that had hurt me.

Lord knows the culture didn’t help. I came of age in the 90s, when heroin chic was the goal and hollow cheeks, visible ribs, and hip bones were accessories.

I already hated my reflection, and there was the world telling me starvation was sexy.

Through my teens and twenties, I gained steadily. God, I envied those willowy girls with glossy hair and perfect bodies, always so effortlessly unfazed.

I always felt like my body was a problem to solve.
Like if I could just fix it, maybe I could finally fix myself.

At 22, I was a fat bride. At 25, I crossed the 200-pound mark during pregnancy. It wasn’t until my daughter was a toddler that something finally clicked in my brain.

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 checked all the boxes, and the pounds melted away.
But over time, I also lost a lot more of myself than just weight.

☕ Losing 50 pounds at 50 took grit. Writing about it takes coffee.
Fuel the next essay here.

At first, it felt like a win because I  finally looked ‘normal’. But I wasn’t eating real food. I was living on low-point frozen meals and sugar-free, fat-free everything.

I repeatedly turned down my grandmother’s delicious homemade meals for artificial crap. I'll never forgive myself for that; I'm still heartsick over it.

Back then, I was convinced it was worth it, that it was the only way I could stay “healthy” (aka thin). It became my safeguard against ever sliding back into that awkward version of myself that I hated.

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 virtuous power, and I thought, finally, I was safe.

But I wasn’t. And one night, at a friends party, that illusion was shattered.

I was staying the night, going to sleep alone in a spare room, thinking I was surrounded by friends. I woke up to find a man I barely knew in bed with me, naked, pressing himself against me.

I could feel everything.

I fended him off in time, but the damage was still done. To this day, the memory turns my stomach. I blamed myself for being there at all, for going out, letting my guard down and just wanting to feel free for a night.

My grandmother had just passed away, two days before Christmas. I'd been helping to care for as her medical proxy while family egos made everything harder than it had to be.

Losing her had gutted me and that night, I just wanted to forget for a while, to be the person I had been before, someone not tasked with a thousand decisions I never wanted to make.

Instead someone saw my lowest point as his opportunity.

After that night, it felt like my life was shedding, for lack of a better word. My grandmother was already gone and my grandfather was terminal.

After that assault, all the emotions I’d been repressing finally surfaced, and I didn’t know what to do with them. So I binged. Hard.

Cereal bowls full of peanut butter. Eating until I cried because I was terrified and I just. couldn’t. stop.

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 was hell, but I didn’t stay there.
I found a great counselor, did the work, and pulled myself out of it one step at a time.

It was then that I med my husband and I felt for the first time in a long time, things would begin to level out.

They didn't.

Grandpa passed away soon after, and ten days after we buried him, my stepdad suddenly died of a heart attack.

I'd missed seeing him for his birthday the week prior because I was back to work taking care of my family, and studying for midterms.

I did call him, of course. He and Mom were going out, I think, and I wanted to be sure he knew I hadn't forgotten him.
I had no reason to believe it would be the last time I’d ever talk to him.

I can’t even remember what we said.

For a while, things finally started to look up. I was engaged, finishing my degree, and beginning to believe in good things again.

But if I felt happy, I immediate felt guilty as well. My mother was newly widowed and struggling, and her grief-fueled actions changed everything between us.

What should’ve been an easy, joyful season became strained and unpredictable.

I wasn’t fully comfortable in my body yet, but I was getting there. And I married a man who saw me exactly as I was, and loved me anyway.

After the wedding, I stayed active. Not because I loved running (I didn’t), but because I loved what it felt like after I'd done it.

My husband, a former hotshot D.C. chef, cooks ridiculously good food. I’m not blaming him at all (honestly, bless him), but going from point-counting to fine dining was a bigger adjustment than I'd expected.

The truth was, I never learned how to eat like a normal person. I either obsessed about every calorie or avoided eating altogether; there was no happy medium.

For the first time, I was sitting at eight-course dinners, tasting menus, and wine pairings - not just from my husband, but from his friends too. Many of the are/were chefs scattered across the country and around the world, eager to share their best work with us.

It was overwhelming in the best possible way, this constant cycle of generosity, flavors, and freaking celebration, at long last.

It delighted me and terrified me. I loved every bit and hated myself for it.

And I let life creep back in like it always does. Stress, grief, surgeries, and then early menopause came in like a wrecking ball. (Cue Miley).

I quit running. I was burned out, fat again, and called it "getting older".

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

Before we traded our cabin-in-the-woods life for suburbia, I started walking every road around. Just me, the cows, the trees, and the thoughts in my head.

It wasn’t entirely about fitness at first, but about clearing my head. Active meditation, if you will.

And it was during one of these 'meditative moments' when the phrase 50 by 50 popped in my head.

To me it was catchy and sounded almost...exciting: challenge myself to lose 50 pounds by my 50th birthday.

No shots, no diet food, no bullshit. And in this crazy 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 needed to trust myself to eat well most of the time and enjoy the rest without guilt.
I needed to trust in consistency and sustainability, not punishment.

I needed to trust trusted that real food, simple movement, and showing up even on the crap days would be enough.
And it was, eventually.

But the first think I learned was that my brain was a lying little bitch.

"You have no self-control anymore.”
“You’re too old for this crap again.”
“Your genetics screwed you. Just accept it."

It took decades to finally realize that voice wasn't really me talking.

I didn’t do a massive overhaul of all my habits; that never worked. Instead, 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 like I had to. I just didn’t want to break my streak.

And I've never had one since.

Then I focused on whole foods. I slowed down and ate mindfully when I was hungry. Stopped when I wasn’t. Cut out the processed crap.

Groundbreaking stuff, right? But if you know, you know.

And the weight started to drop. Slowly and steadily.

I moved more. A short walk, even 15 minutes on the treadmill, counted.
I told myself it all counted, because it does.

If I ate more than usual or had something even slightly indulgent, I didn’t write off the day and eat all the things. I just started over at the next meal, not the next day or week.

And for the first time in my life, I wasn’t punishing my body, I was partnering with it.

Before my 50th birthday arrived, I'd already surpassed my goal without 'dieting'.

I chose myself...and it worked.

And while I am proud of the number, I’m more proud of how I got there. By finally building that trust with my body, my choices, and myself.

Now, I lift. I run. I show up for myself every day because I finally understand what living with intention is supposed to be like.

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

My relationship with food is healthy, and 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 frankly, I’m also kinda pissed.

First, for whatever reason, my cholesterol is still way high. I don’t drink, I don’t smoke, and I eat clean as hell but my cholesterol 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's my poetic attempt at saying I have some loose skin. It's a mindfuck for me because I also have a thigh gap and visible definition. Make it make sense.

But what pisses me off most is knowing this life could've been mine all along.

If I’d spent more time trusting myself and less time 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. I didn’t come this far to only come this far.

So if someone like me, an overthinker with anxiety and impostor syndrome, can do this?

 So. Can. You.

The fact is, real, sustainable change doesn’t come from a product, a subscription, or any other system that profits off our ignorance and insecurity.

It comes by trusting the basics: real food, movement, rest, and patience. That's it.

I'm living proof that it works.

Losing 50 pounds was the easy part. Keeping sane through everything is...still a work in progress. Subscribe for more stories that make starting over feel possible and a little less ridiculous.

More Reads

• The sequel is The Weight I Still Carry, which is what happens after the weight comes off.
• The everyday version lives in I’m Not Starting a Food Cult, I Swear.
• The healing thread runs back to Beautiful Lies.

Heather P. is an essayist and longtime ghostwriter publishing darkly funny, brutally honest stories about trauma, resilience, and healing.

Her platform, Unfinished Business, has been read in over 30 countries for its dark humor, emotional precision, and raw essays on reinvention, grief, and the absurdity of real life.

Heather writes personal essays about trauma, resilience, and reinvention—stories that explore emotional survival, healing, and humor in everyday life.