So, I’m ashamed.
I’m ashamed of my weight gain. I’m ashamed of my addiction to food. I’m ashamed of my regression.
My 29th year of life was awesome. I lost so many pounds, but more importantly, I was moving toward health.
My 30th year is the opposite. I’ve gained most the pounds back and I am actively sabotaging my health. I feel like the rug was pulled from under me in December and I can’t get up.
Today I was mistaken for a pregnant woman on the train. Sure, I got a seat, but my pride and shame weighed heavy on me (pun intended) as I drifted to work.
The hard part about having your vice being food is that it’s obvious. Many people have tried to encourage me, “So, you still going to the gym?” Some have asked me, “Should you eat that?” I know they’re trying to help, but it still hurts.
It’s one of the few problems in our society that people think they have a right to comment on, for better or for worse.
So, what is this blog post about? It’s not a ra-ra-I did it. I found a way through this. No, it’s a confession. It’s just being honest with myself and with you. I am not happy with my weight. I am not happy with who I have become.
It’s a start.