A Journey Worth Walking

This journey was not a failure. It was a teacher.

I have about 100 pounds to lose.

That number feels big—like standing at the base of a mountain, staring up at something that will take every ounce of patience, endurance, and heart I have. When I try to grasp the whole climb at once, it feels overwhelming. But when I break it down—one to two pounds a week, slow and steady, over the course of a year—it becomes something else entirely.

Something I can face.

Something I can walk toward.

Still, it’s not just the size of the task that makes it heavy. It’s the emotional weight I’ve carried along with it. Some of it, I didn’t choose—genetics, medications, biological reactions to stress. But then there’s the part that came from how I coped. From numbing. From food as comfort when life felt too raw to feel.

And that’s where the shame likes to whisper.

“You should be stronger than this.”

“You should have known better.”

“You let yourself go.”

But I’m learning to meet that voice with a deeper one. A wiser one. One that doesn’t scold, but asks honest questions:

What if the weight isn’t just a problem to fix?

What if it’s a message?

What if this mountain isn’t a punishment—but a sacred path?

Because as I’ve started this journey, I’ve discovered something: this is more than just physical. It’s spiritual. Not in the sense of bypassing or pretending everything’s fine—but in the gritty, real work of facing myself. Of sitting with the parts of me that used food to soothe or disappear. Of listening without judgment.

This isn’t about winning a war with my body. It’s about making peace with it. It’s about understanding that this weight—every pound of it—has something to say. And when I stop shaming it and start listening, I begin to hear what it’s been trying to teach me all along.

This is where the shadow work begins.

Meeting the Shadow with Compassion, Not Shame

As I began to untangle my relationship with food and my body, I found myself in a deeper kind of terrain than I expected. This wasn’t just about calories or macros. This was about my soul.

I’d entered the realm of shadow work—what Carl Jung described as the process of integrating the hidden, disowned parts of ourselves.

These are the voices we usually silence. The beliefs we don’t want to admit we carry. They’re not always dark—they’re just unacknowledged. And they shape us, often without our consent.

So instead of battling my cravings, I got quiet. I took a breath. And I asked:

What are you really hungry for?

That’s when my shadow spoke.

Not the polished voice of self-help slogans, but the raw, vulnerable part of me that still hurts:

“I feel gross.”

“People let me down, so I let myself down.”

“I eat because it gives me something nothing else does—relief, even if it’s fleeting.”

“I don’t believe I’m strong enough to change.”

“I’m afraid I’ll always feel empty.”

These weren’t rational thoughts. But they were honest. And instead of arguing with them or trying to shove them back into the dark, I got curious. I let them speak.

And I said: “I hear you. You’re allowed to feel this way. You’ve carried a lot.”

That shift—away from control and toward compassion—was a turning point. I wasn’t trying to fix myself anymore. I was learning to hold space for myself. And in that space, something powerful started to happen: my relationship with food began to soften. The cycles of sabotage lost some of their grip. Not because I was stricter—but because I was more seen.

As Dr. Kristin Neff writes,

“Shame corrodes the very part of us that believes we are capable of change.”

And psychologist Carl Rogers once said,

“The curious paradox is that when I accept myself just as I am, then I can change.”

That’s been my experience.

The more I listen to my hunger—not just physical, but emotional, spiritual, relational—the more I discover what I truly need. Often, it’s not food at all. It’s safety. Stillness. Presence. Comfort. Human warmth.

And none of those things are found in a drive-thru window. But they’re not found in self-hatred either. They’re found in quiet, patient attention.

In telling the truth.

In loving what’s real, so we can grow toward what’s possible.

The Shape of Worth

Let me say this clearly:

I want to lose weight.

Not to win approval. Not to erase shame. Not to become more acceptable in the eyes of a culture that profits off our insecurity.

I want to lose weight because I love this body—and I want to take better care of it.
Because it’s sacred, not broken.

This body has carried me through trauma and joy, anxiety and ecstasy. It’s held grief in its bones and loved ones in its arms. It’s given me breath, even when I didn’t know how to ask for it.

And now, it’s asking me for something:

More room. More movement. More lightness. More life.

This isn’t about becoming smaller to be better. It’s about becoming whole.

I know there’s tension here—between fat shaming on one side and body positivity on the other. One says, “Change or you’re not enough.” The other says, “If you change, you’ve betrayed yourself.”

But I don’t buy either story anymore.

Because I can love myself and still want to grow. I can tell the truth about what’s needed without abandoning compassion. I can want health, vitality, and strength—not to impress anyone—but because I matter.

Not everyone’s path looks like mine. But if you’re reading this, maybe some part of you is ready for change too. Not because you hate yourself. But because you're ready to come home to yourself.

Becoming Light

This journey has brought me to a strange and tender crossroads—one where two truths live side by side.

On one side is the reality of fat shaming—the subtle and not-so-subtle ways society devalues people in larger bodies. It’s real. It’s wrong. And it wounds deeply.

On the other side is a different pressure—this idea that wanting to lose weight means you're surrendering to the machine, betraying your dignity, selling out your self-love.

I’ve felt that tension in my bones. But I’ve learned something:

You don’t have to pick a side.

You don’t have to choose between love and truth. You don’t have to pretend you’re okay if you’re not. You don’t have to abandon compassion to seek change.

You can tell the truth about your body with love. You can seek health without shame.
You can want something different without hating where you are.

I have a hundred pounds to lose. That’s not self-rejection—it’s a statement of care. My joints will thank me. My sleep will deepen. My heart will work less hard. My breath, my walk, my daily experience of being alive—all of it improves as I honor what my body is asking for.

And still, I love this body now. Not just the future version. This one. Because this is where the journey begins.

Yes, I want to lose weight. But not to become more lovable. I already am. Not to prove anything. But to embody what’s already growing inside me.

This isn’t about becoming skinny.

It’s about becoming light.

In spirit.

In body.

In life.

More movement. More joy. More vitality. More of me.

And if you’re on your own path—whether you’re reducing, healing, strengthening, or simply learning to befriend yourself—know this:

You’re not alone.

You’re not broken.

You’re not betraying yourself by wanting to feel better.

You’re a soul, coming home to your body.

And that, my friend, is a sacred journey worth walking.

Up 0.5 pounds.