I stared at the number longer than I expected to.

273.9.

Pretending the number doesn’t exist has never made it go away. If anything, silence is how it grew. What makes this number sting is how close it is to another one I know by heart.

My highest weight was 289.9. I have carried a lot of shame about allowing myself to get anywhere near that number again. Shame for knowing better. Shame for having done this before. Shame for letting my body change in ways I didn’t feel in control of. I told myself I should have stopped it sooner, fought harder, noticed earlier. None of that helped. It just kept me quiet. This number tells the truth: I regained weight I once fought hard to lose, weight I carried with pride when it was gone and with shame when it crept back. Posting again after more than two years feels vulnerable in a way I didn’t anticipate, but if this journal is going to mean anything, it has to start with honesty.

The last time I wrote here was June 2023. Back then, I was already tired—physically, emotionally, existentially tired—of fighting my own body. What I didn’t yet understand was how loud that fight had become inside my head.

A little over a week ago, I started a GLP-1 medication. I hesitated for a long time before making that decision. I wrestled with the stories we tell about willpower, morality, shortcuts, and what it supposedly means to do it the right way. I layered that with my own history, my own judgment, and a whole lot of internalized bullshit. What I wasn’t prepared for was how quiet my mind would become once I started.

In the first week, I lost 16.7 pounds. I know the science. I know about inflammation and water weight and early drops that don’t define the long arc. I also know what it feels like to wake up without dread humming under my skin. Both things can be true at once.

This isn’t a simple, guaranteed path. My prescription for Zepbound has already been denied by my health insurance. There is an appeal in motion, and my doctor may be able to challenge the decision based on the results of a sleep study I’m doing at the end of the month to determine whether I have obstructive sleep apnea. It’s frustrating and absurd and very on brand for American healthcare. I’m trying to hold this moment lightly, grateful for what is working right now without pretending the road ahead is fully paved.

The most profound change hasn’t been the scale. It’s the silence. The food noise is off. Not turned down. Not negotiated with. Off. For the first time in years, food isn’t running a constant background program in my brain. I’m not mentally planning meals while eating one. I’m not bargaining, resisting, rebelling, or white-knuckling my way through the day.

Instead, I’m thinking about food differently. About 95% of the time, I see it as a tool: protein, nourishment, stability, fuel. The other 5%? That’s for living. For holiday meals, shared tables, traditions, and joy—within reason, without spiraling. That balance feels… sane. Revolutionary, even.

Along with this shift, I made a decision I never thought I’d revisit. I started eating meat again. After many years as a vegetarian/vegan, I realized I couldn’t meet my doctor’s prescribed nutritional requirements without expanding my options. The protein targets are high, and the carbohydrate limits are extremely low. Trying to do both without meat felt like setting myself up to fail and then blaming myself when I did. This wasn’t an ideological failure. It was a practical choice rooted in taking care of the body I actually have right now, not the body I had at 35 or the one I keep imagining I should still have.

I’ve also joined the YMCA. Walking into that space felt strangely emotional. For the first time since I left Downtown Fitness in New Orleans, I feel at home in a gym again. Not judged. Not on display. Just present.

This matters more than it might sound, because my body is not the same body it was when I lost the weight the first time. I’ve had a hysterectomy. I’m menopausal. Hormones have shifted, muscle has changed, recovery feels different, and the old rules do not apply the way they used to. Pretending otherwise has only ever led me back to shame. Moving my body now has to be about respect and consistency, not punishment or nostalgia.

What surprises me most is the optimism. I don’t say that lightly. I feel more hopeful than I have in years. Not manic. Not naïve. Not chasing a finish line that keeps moving every time I get close. This feels steadier. Quieter. Like I’ve stopped fighting a wildfire with a squirt gun and finally been handed a hose, and for once I’m not being told it’s cheating to use it.

This post isn’t a victory lap. It’s a marker. A re-entry. A moment of naming where I am without flinching.

273.9 is not a failure.

It’s a starting point.

And for the first time in a long time, I believe that where I’m starting from might actually be sustainable. Even with a changing body. Even with menopause. Even with a history that includes 289.9 and all the shame that number still carries. I’m not erasing that story. I’m just finally done letting it run the whole damn show.