One day, my husband came home from a doctor’s appointment and casually said:
“The doctor recommended bariatric surgery… and I think you should consider it too.”
Wait… what?
I blinked. I laughed. I may have even rolled my eyes.
Was he serious?
I had been thin most of my life—especially before kids. I was a dancer, active, flexible, and basically fueled by sugar and sheer stubbornness. Health? Pfft. I wasn’t fat, so clearly I was invincible. Right? Wrong. Turns out, being able to do a split doesn’t automatically protect you from life catching up to you.
Instead of saying, “Well, I’ll just sign up for surgery tomorrow,” I decided to try it the old-fashioned way first. I joined a strength and conditioning gym—think CrossFit with slightly less shouting (okay, maybe not). I needed structure, accountability, and someone to make me feel like I had to lift that extra weight, instead of just lifting a fork full of ice cream.
At my intro session, I met the gym owner. We did squats. I loved them. He complimented my flexibility. I puffed up with pride. For about… two hours.
The next day? My knees, calves, and feet revolted. Swollen and painful, they reminded me that I’m no spring chicken. I had cared for my mom and father-in-law, so I knew swollen legs weren’t something to ignore. I elevated, hydrated, and cut back on salt. Still, the doctor shook his head and said, “Hello, tendonitis. Welcome to your new reality.”
My workouts became more “creative choreography for the moderately injured,” mostly biking and modified moves. Frustrating? Yes. But my coaches reminded me: showing up is winning. Cardio counts. Movement counts. Even if it feels like you’re auditioning for a zombie movie.
Then life threw another plot twist: we moved to a new house… 12 miles from the gym. Not far, right? Except traffic made it feel like 12 miles through a lava field. Slowly, I stopped going. And then reality hit me like a ton of… well, me. I was winded walking to the bathroom. I couldn’t keep up with my daughter on walks. The beach? A distant memory.
And then I looked at my husband—over six feet tall, 300+ pounds—and myself: 5’2”, 234 pounds, mostly stomach and hips. And, for the first time, I admitted it… he was right. I needed help.
After some research, I discovered I was a candidate for bariatric surgery. And so began the journey—with my husband right beside me. Not just to lose weight, but to finally take our health seriously—for ourselves, our future, and maybe so we could survive chasing our grandkids one day.
