The Lost Years…

Week: 34
Pounds Lost: 50.8

Well, first things first — YAHOO! I lost 5.6 of the 5.8 pounds I gained on vacation! YES! I didn’t think I’d be able to do it, but I’m happy I did. Not as happy, of course, as I would have been had I not gained nearly 6 pounds in one week in the first place. All I could think was "what a waste"…a waste of a week that I could have used to good purpose…a week I could have used to make some progress inching towards my final goal, which is so unbelievably close now.

And then saying "what a waste of a week" got me thinking some more. Talking to my husband and a few women I know who’ve also lost a lot of weight, they agreed. The one thing we regret most is not doing THIS sooner. Having lost 50 pounds, I know how doable it is. How great I feel now. How free — because food (and the craving, planning, sneaking, & hiding of it) doesn’t rule my life anymore. See, I’ve given myself the best gift in my entire life: I’ve managed the switch from living to eat, to eating to live (most of the time). And I regret all the years, from high school onwards (yup, I weigh less now than I did for most of high school) in which I was owned by my food addiction.

But the thing that’s the most telling is that all the times I tried to lose weight, I did it because I wanted to look good. But now, the one time that I’ve succeeded, it’s because, in the end, I feel good. And that’s what keeps me going. For the first time in my life, I actually feel comfortable in my skin. And not because I look a lot better, but because I feel so much better. I have a spring in my step…all the time. I sleep well, which I never did before. I don’t have digestive problems anymore. I don’t get rashes under my bra strap or between my legs from the skin chafing anymore. Get it? I feel better. Yes, I look better, too, and it’s by no means an unimportant factor, but that comes further down on the list, for sure.

And in the end, there’s some sadness. Sadness for what I call "the lost years". Years in which I could have been living my life more happily, because I wasn’t comfortable with my body. Years in which I traded the false happiness of poor eating habits for the real happiness of positive body image. And now that I know the difference, I know what I missed. So I went back through some old photo albums today, and pulled out pictures of me over the years. Some heavier, some lighter, but each one of them at least 20 pounds more than I am today. And now I’ll share them with you, the photographic record of my lost years:

Me as a teenager (between 18-19). I’m in the middle, with the white striped blouse. Notice the round face and apple cheeks, that I always thought were characteristic of my look, but have disappeared along with the last 10 pounds.

And here’s me with my dad in my late 20s, before I had any kids. At the time I felt svelte and fit, yet I weighed 30 pounds more than I do now.

 
First baby was about 9 months old at this time. Still wearing the preggo bathing suit from Thyme. Nothing further to say.

Yes, that’s me in the doorway with the high-waisted, pleated dockers and the belly-roll. I can’t even contemplate.

This pic is pretty blurry, but you get a pretty good idea of my size at the time. Baby #2 was 2.

Well, that’s my pictorial record of the years from about 18 to 37. Nineteen years of being uncomfortable in my own body. The lost years. I’m going to keep these pictures close-by all the time now, so that I can pull them out when I’m craving an extra-large bag of Salt & Vinegar chips. So I can look at them and ask myself, "is it worth it?"

The answer is no.