The Weight I Carried: My Journey to Healing, Wholeness, and the Next Chapter

I spent years carrying more than just weight. I carried heartbreak, grief, trauma, and survival—all layered on top of each other, weighing me down in ways I didn’t fully understand until much later.

At my heaviest, I was over 300 pounds. My blood pressure peaked at a dangerous 196/150, and my blood sugar was wildly out of control—I was a full-blown type 2 diabetic. On paper, I was a walking time bomb. In real life, I was someone just trying to make it through each day.

What people didn’t see was that I was living in a toxic marriage, trapped in cycles of emotional pain, and mourning the deepest losses—a series of miscarriages and eventually, the passing of both my parents. All of that broke me in places I didn’t know could break. And yet, somehow, I still moved through life.

But I wasn’t really living.

For four years, I sat with the weight—physically and emotionally. I didn’t see it as a problem. I thought I was beautiful, and truthfully, I was. But I also avoided mirrors. I took pictures from the chest up. I hyped myself up, but deep down I wasn’t fully present in my own skin.

The shift came in New York City. I had always dreamed of walking those streets, exploring every corner, taking in every moment—but my body wouldn’t let me. I couldn’t fully enjoy it. That’s when I realized that the life I wanted and the body I was living in were at odds. I needed to choose me.

On May 26, 2021, I committed to myself and underwent gastric sleeve surgery. I’ve never looked back.

Since then, I’ve lost over 146 pounds.

I’ve gained so much: confidence, energy, freedom. But let me be real it’s not perfect. I still struggle like everyone else. Sometimes, I just want to eat what I want, but my body has limits now. I live with an autoimmune disease, diagnosed back in 2016. I fight battles people can’t see. And I’m far from flawless some days I make the wrong choices, but I always try again the next day.

Now, I’m preparing for the next step: a panniculectomy and muscle repair.

And for the first time in a long time I’m nervous.

Not because I’m unsure of the decision. I know I’ve put in the work. I know I’ve earned this. But with everything happening in the world, sometimes it feels almost selfish to focus on myself.

Still, I remind myself: This is not selfish. This is self-care.

I’ve come too far to stop now.

Even when my body fights against me, I fight harder to push through.

The surgery, the recovery, the way my body will change yes, it scares me.

But I also know I’ve survived so much already.

I think what people don’t always talk about is the mental adjustment.

It’s not just your body that changes it’s your mind, your habits, your entire way of moving through the world. And as much as people celebrate the weight loss, they rarely sit with the grief that comes with it. Because yes you grieve your old self.

There’s a strange comfort in the person you’ve always been, even when that person wasn’t healthy. I spent years hiding behind my weight. It was my shield, my excuse, my comfort zone. Letting that go hasn’t been easy. I had to learn how to show up in smaller spaces, how to see myself in full-length mirrors, how to stop running from my reflection.

And now, I’m about to go through it all over again.

On September 4, 2025, I’m scheduled for my panniculectomy and muscle repair.

I’m terrified.

Not because I don’t want the results I do. I want to feel good in my skin. I want to wear the things I’ve always dreamed of wearing. I want to experience comfort without the physical reminders of my past life hanging on me, quite literally.

But I also know this surgery is not just about aesthetics. It’s going to hurt. Bad.

It’s going to challenge me in ways I haven’t been challenged yet.

I know I’m going to wake up in pain. I know I’m going to wake up feeling different—physically, emotionally, spiritually. I’ve heard people talk about the post-op crash, where you question everything, and I know I might have those moments too.

I know there’s a real chance I might regret it—temporarily.

Because when the pain hits, when the swelling sets in, when I can’t move the way I’m used to, when I look in the mirror and don’t fully recognize the body staring back at me—that’s when it’s going to get real.

But I’ve also done hard things before.

I’ve survived things that nearly broke me.

I’ve lost my parents. I’ve navigated divorce. I’ve rebuilt myself brick by brick after every miscarriage. I’ve carried grief and still found the courage to smile, to travel, to love, to show up.

And even on the days when my autoimmune disease flares up and my anxiety gets loud, I keep going.

This surgery is just another mountain.

I’m not naive about it. I know the recovery will be long. I know I’ll need help. I know I’ll probably feel helpless at times. But I also know this:

I am not that woman who settled.

I am not that woman who hid from life.

I am not that woman who stayed stuck.

I’ve done too much work to stop climbing now.

Even if I have moments of doubt, even if the pain tries to talk me out of it—I’m doing this for me.

Because I deserve to feel whole.

Because I deserve to live without the physical weight of the past.

Because I deserve to take up space confidently, fully, joyfully.

And if you’re reading this, maybe you’re carrying something too. Maybe it’s not weight. Maybe it’s grief. Maybe it’s fear. Maybe it’s shame.

Let this be your sign: you don’t have to carry it forever.

You can put it down.

You can choose you.

And you can be afraid while still moving forward.

I’m scared. But I’m still going.

September 4—I’m ready.

And I’ll take you along for the ride.