Growing Through the Hard Stuff
If you had told fifteen-year-old me—the girl running a dance studio out of her parents’ garage, living on candy for lunch, and never gaining a single pound—that one day I’d be fighting exhaustion, extra weight, and stress from every direction…well, I probably would’ve laughed, done a high kick, and grabbed another Snickers.
Back then, life felt light. I was constantly moving, dancing, creating—and eating whatever I wanted without a second thought.
But then I became a mom at 25.
And just like that, everything changed. I swapped dance recitals for diaper bags, traded late-night rehearsals for late-night feedings, and found myself fifty pounds heavier, overwhelmed, and exhausted. Vegetables? Not for me. My main food groups were Dairy Queen chicken strips and Blizzards. (I mean…they are delicious.)
Then came two more kids, more weight, and more stress. Life started piling on from all angles—financial strain, job frustration, family tension, caregiving responsibilities, and the emotional heaviness that comes when you’re doing your best but feel stretched paper-thin.
Fast forward 27 years of marriage, more than 100 pounds gained, and the heaviest I had ever been—and I hit a breaking point I didn’t see coming.
My husband walked through the door after a doctor’s appointment and said,
“I’m going to have bariatric surgery…and I think you should too.”
EXCUSE ME?
I was shocked. Offended. A little angry. Okay…very angry.
Sure, he had struggled with weight most of his life, but I hadn’t—at least not until the kids, chaos, and constant caregiving came along. I had been to gyms. I had hired trainers. I knew how to eat right. I knew what to do. But life always got in the way—every single time.
Plus… I really, really loved food. Especially sweets. Grazing was basically my full-time hobby.
Then one day, my feet and lower legs started to swell.
I knew that sign.
When my mom’s feet started swelling, doctors told us it was her heart…and she passed away six months later.
That terrified me.
I joined a CrossFit gym, but I struggled. Squats felt like torture. My knees screamed. The doctor diagnosed tendonitis. Then my elbows started hurting—hello, tennis elbow. My body was falling apart. I was 52 but felt more like 82.
Finally, I faced the truth I didn’t want to admit:
Maybe bariatric surgery was the answer.
So my husband and I started the journey together. Appointments, paperwork, insurance approvals, psychologists, nutritionists, surgeons—the process took about a year before we got to surgery day.
And here’s the truth no one tells you:
“Healing began the moment I stopped surviving for everyone else and started choosing life for myself.”
— D.M.
Bariatric surgery is not a quick fix.
It’s a tool. A powerful tool—but still just a tool.
Growth doesn’t come from the surgery itself.
Growth comes from the courage to change your habits…
from choosing yourself even when you feel guilty…
from pushing through the workouts even when you’re sore…
and from recognizing that your health matters—your life matters.
This journey has tested me, stretched me, humbled me, and strengthened me.
And I’m still growing. Still learning. Still becoming the healthiest version of myself—inside and out.
If my story does anything, I hope it reminds you of this:
You are never too old, too tired, too overwhelmed, or too far gone to rewrite your story.
Growth is possible—even in the messiness of real life.
And I’m living proof.