I’ve always been very open about my weight. Even at my heaviest I would share my weight with whomever wanted to know. It was what it was, so I never lied about the numbers or cared if you, your mother, and your dog knew.
But I dwelled on my actual weight for many, many moons. That number between my toes each & every morning meant everything to me. It defined me. It dictated a good day from a bad day. And I was obsessed!
I started this blog at 190 pounds (but my heaviest was 202), and when I typed in my shiny new blog’s name, “One Twenty Five,” on that fateful day, I wholeheartedly was aiming for 125 pounds. I had a dream, and I was setting it in concrete, or, for us twenty first century kids, declaring it to the public. And I had decided to try.
And then I, through twists and turns, and trying this and that, and a half marathon (or 5), and two full marathons later… lost 50 pounds. Giddy-up! Life was good. And straight up? Life was a lot better than when I was fat.
And then I travelled. And I ate and drank and ate some more. And really didn’t think that much about my weight. Hell, I went months without a scale or any real indication of what my weight was (athankyouverymuch stretchy pants).
When I arrived in Australia to live for a year I weighed in at 176 pounds. 30 pounds higher than my lowest weight. I repeat, I had managed to gain 30 pounds in 6 months from travelling *insert slow clap*.
And then suddenly, and for the first time in my life, I viewed sharing my weight as an embarrassment. I was SO ashamed of how I mindlessly ate my way back to the 170s, and how, in the blink of an eye, I had ballooned.
I had also just started to date Matt and would shudder at the thought of me being heavier than him (I was). It was so (so!) un-lady like for the girl to weigh more than the guy… and so I was mortified at the thought of him knowing my weight and retreated into a world of never posting my weight and keeping my actual weight, my dirty little secret.
But I had a plan! I would swim. I would run (again) and I’d join this thing they call CrossFit. And, of course, I’d watch what I ate - because I knew and know “You Can Not Out Exercise A Bad Diet.” So surely, I’d lose those 30 pounds quickly then… right?
I’d done it before, so I can do it again. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.
And I was smarter this time around. I knew my weight was just the number on the scale, I knew it didn’t define me, I knew there was more to me than my size, but still, I *really* wanted to get back to where I was. If anything, to get my wardrobe (and all the clothes I had brought across the world with me to Australia) back.
But.
But now here I sit, 13 months after officially declaring I want to lose weight (again). 13 whole months later. And? and I’m a mere 7 pounds down.
Highest Weight: 202 (Feb 09)
Lowest Weight: 147 (Oct 11)
Australia Weight: 176 (Jan 12)
Today: 169 (Mar 13)
So, the big question is what do I think when I see these numbers?
Well, I’d be lying if I didn’t say “failure,” because I absolutely do see a girl with a sh*tty relationship with food who can’t figure things out. But another part of me thinks, “well… at least I’m trying.”
At least I never gave up. True, I’ve failed 1,001 times, but I’ve gotten up 1,002. And I’m not walking into McDonald’s, KFC, or Burger King, or ordering popcorn and treats when I go to movies OR binge eating like I used to (yay!!!!!!).
Each and every day I try to do my best given my circumstances, whether it’s eating Paleo (no sugar, processed foods, dairy) at home, ordering a salad when I’m out, or monitoring my treats. Every day I try. And no, it’s not perfect, but weight loss is hard, and I am trying my best.
And I know, I know, I know I have a long ways to go, but when I think back to how I originally lost my first 50 pounds, it was through running, and eating healthy most of the time. There was no diet, no extremes, no rules. It was simply through smaller portions & healthier food, and trying… again, and again, and again.
And so on this Monday night, as I drift off to sleep, I’ll choose to be happy that I never gave up. I won’t dwell on a 7 pound loss in a year, but rather choose to be proud of myself for joining CrossFit, running the Melbourne Half Marathon, and trying out paleo eating (which I really do like).
Because I know I’m not perfect (ha! far from it), but one thing I do know is this: I’ll only consider my story a failure the moment I stop trying, and so far, that’s not yet.
