Anyone who knows me will tell you I’m a highly self-aware and emotional person. I love fiercely, trust blindly and consequently open my heart up to a world of pain. I feel every feeling there is in great magnitude and though some have told me it’s a great gift - it often feels like a curse.
“Benedica” they would say as they watched me eat her leftovers, my second, sometimes third, portion. God bless you.
O’s first year of life is an important one in my journey. It’s where I hit rock bottom. It’s where I got back up and fought. Fought to live.
267.9 pounds. F*ck. I had to dust off my scale to take that picture - a clear indication of the denial I’ve been living in.
When deciding to launch this blog and then delaying it for months I couldn’t help but wonder what purpose it would serve. Writing has always been therapeutic so it was a given that it would help me with the important emotional component that goes into such a big transformation. But accountability was also a factor. If people were watching, then they’d be holding me accountable to change. They’d be expecting results.
The truth is that despite all the happiness my life brings me, I am not happy with myself. I would go so far as to say I never have been. I think that’s the first time I’ve said or rather written that word. Never. How does one live a third of their life without being happy in their own skin?