I don’t usually talk about my weight. But today I’m going to.
After my son was born in December 2022, I hit rock bottom.
He was a week overdue. By that point I was so sick and miserable I could barely walk. I remember going to the hospital for the induction and feeling like my body was giving out on me. Nothing about this birth was like my girls. With them, I was younger, in better health.
With my son, one complication rolled into another. His heart rate kept dropping. He wasn’t positioned right, so he wasn’t coming down the canal. I had already been in the hospital close to 24 hours when I finally opted for a c-section.
That’s when things really got bad.
I started bleeding heavily. My iron dropped dangerously low. I needed a blood transfusion. I was passing blood clots the size of my hand in the bathroom, panicked and scared, and felt like nobody at the hospital was really listening. Thank God my mom and my sister are both nurses - they were the ones who pushed for me to get the transfusion.
And I had to ask myself: how do I want to remember this season of my life? How do I want my kids to remember me?
That moment in the hospital was the wake-up call that started a two-and-a-half year journey of losing 100 pounds. But this isn’t really a story about weight. It’s about identity. It’s about psychology. And it’s about what it means to rise when you feel stuck.
