It’s hard to pinpoint an exact beginning but here goes:
I had battled endometriosis since my early twenties resulting in 10 pregnancies and 8 of those resulting in the loss of very wanted babies. I am so blessed to have had my 3 boys (twins and a singleton). The pain, the agony and the stress carrying that diagnosis put on my body resulted in me making the decision to have a hysterectomy at the age of 40. I know how lucky I am to have been able to go through what I went through and still be able to be a mother and then to hang onto that part of my womanhood for as long as I did, and I do not discount how truly fortunate I am despite those struggles.
My hysterectomy was a god send at first. No more sleepless nights in pain or being unable to get up off the floor or stray too far from the bathroom during my menses. Then it felt as though my body began to betray me as my hormones and one remaining ovary struggled to keep up with its duty of regulating my hormones. I watched as my body changed exponentially and too quickly for me to grasp what was happening. The number on the scale began to climb every day. I doubled down on working out ensuring that I completed 20 minutes of exercise every day, no matter how tired I was. The best results were days when the scale didn’t move at all. It wasn’t a vain attempt to look like I thought I should look, or how I thought society thought I should look (although I admit that is a mental health struggle as well). I just wanted to feel comfortable in my own body. Putting on weight so quickly my arms felt foreign as they rested again my sides, I felt clumsier than usual, more tired and grew ever more out of breath, I couldn’t sit in the ways that I had always sat comfortably because my body doesn’t fit together like it used to. I haven’t been able to wear my wedding ring for 9 months, which makes me cry every time I think about it, and my only new goal is to be able to wear it again.
Late last year, despite my best efforts, every morning I woke up to the scale showing larger and larger numbers. I added a size to all my clothing, and then another, and then another. Finally, I broke down and went to see my doctor. I asked for all the tests, Thyroid, liver and kidney numbers, inflammation markers, you name it. All normal, blessed again. No rhyme or reason for the weight gain. My stomach bloated painfully every time I ate. My doctor and I decided to try HRT in the form of estrogen to possibly assist in putting out the fire. At first it seemed to work. The scale stopped going up every day, the hot flashes dissipated, and I resumed some yoga to assist me. It worked until it didn’t. The estrogen worked until it didn’t. I ended up in the emergency with blood high blood pressure, chest pains, full blown panic attack and swollen eyes, twice. My heart checked out fine and I was released the first time and then as they were about to discharge me the second time, I did an internet search about my symptoms and found that every single symptom was a “potential side effect” of estrogen. I told the ED doctor about what I had found, and they nonchalantly told me to stop taking the estrogen. Back to the doctor, more tests, a trip to the gastroenterologist, nothing significant found and still the weight continued. More tests, no gluten or food allergies noted. I began to change my diet, eliminating things that may be causing the bloating, inflammation, and weight gain. I got a walking treadmill and placed it under my desk to walk during virtual sessions with clients who don’t mind.
I tried running, P90x, interval training exercise and my body got even more inflamed. I would get injured which would lead to longer periods of decreased activity. I grew ever more frustrated. Surgery is an option, but I struggle with determining whether it would solve the problem or if I would be cheating myself out of the opportunity to learn about this “new” body that I’m in. I know surgery would help with losing weight, but I also I know it would not solve any underlying mental health issues that may be contributing the weight gain and the potential for it causing more problems (with my track record) eliminates it as an option that would be in my best interest.
For now, I’m walking and doing yoga. I eat smaller portions. I’m addressing the struggles I have with food. I’ve realized that historically I have used food as comfort. I eat sweets, treats, and desserts sometimes because of fear or missing out. It’s hard to watch other people enjoy ice cream after dinner or on a hot summer day and resisting the urge to want to enjoy it too. My brain says “just one won’t hurt” but when I realized how many times I had been making that excuse for myself, I realized I was indulging much more than I should have. I’m learning to change the voices of people in my childhood who told me “Waste not want not” and guilted me into clearing my plate regardless of whether I was full or not.
My body is amazing. The things this body has been through and survived are astonishing to me when I sit and look at the roadmap of scars from surgeries, stretchmarks from my pregnancies, and how she carries me through every day and every journey I’ve ever asked her to. I won’t give up on her and I’m sending her love and gratitude every single day, no matter what the number on the scale says. This is what “love at any size” means, I love her. I trust her and I’m surrendering to partner with her as she teaches me about who she is because that feels more sustainable than any diet or intervention. This body is healthy and this body and mine, I will no longer despise her for not being the image of what anyone else thinks she should be, especially mine.
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