50lbs.

This evening, I put on clothing only to be worn in my house, and took a picture of myself in the mirror to examine my weight loss progress. Looking straight into the mirror I felt saddened by the folds of skin and fat still hanging around my 2 years postpartum belly. That will need surgery to fix, I thought, turning around to see if any other angle was more flattering.

There were a few good angles in there. A few moments when I thought maybe my body could be remotely acceptable again. Not exactly now, but I’m starting to see parts of my body come back. I can’t say I ever loved any part of myself—but as I lose weight I feel less embarrassed about what I had let myself become.

I’m still 19lbs overweight, and beyond that I think I’d be the best with another 20-30 removed. I said I wasn’t going to focus on a goal, but if I can sustain a long a week weightloss, I should be able to hit my goal in a year. If I can increase that to two pounds a week, which would be ideal, then it can be done in 6 months.

I imagine what I might look like then. November 2020. Right before my 37th birthday. For a moment feeling good about myself, if possible. For myself. I don’t want to do this for anyone else because that’s entirely useless. I’m tired of caring what other people think. This is for my health. It has to be achievable. I got to 140 before my wedding, so what is 30lbs more? Even 120 would be amazing. 125. Once I’m in that range I’ll feel better.

And even though it’s not ideal to obsess about anything I need something healthy to fixate on right now. Something that involves no one but me, myself, and I. A clear objective and path to get there. Alone. With the only reward being how I feel. Maybe I’ll learn what it’s like to have confidence. I don’t know. It seems like a fairly healthy obsession for the next year. A distraction. A much needed healthy distraction.