When the scale hit 236 pounds, I realized something needed to change.
Living in Montana means there’s an adventure around every bend but at 236, I was stuck indoors, watching everyone else enjoy it.
Just like that day at Big Sky: my whole family swishing down the slopes while I stood in the lodge, pretending somebody had to “keep an eye on our gear.”
Every winter, I rattled off excuses—"My knees aren’t great anymore,” or “I’ll hold onto the bags”.
All to hide the fact I couldn’t squeeze into my old ski pants.
Truth was I couldn’t squeeze into my old ski pants.
Meanwhile, three generations—my husband, kids, and grandkids—were out there creating treasured memories, and I was left behind, just watching.
Each time I missed out, I felt a new wave of regret about who I had let myself become.
I was desperate. I tried every diet fad under the sun:
Juicing made me feel weak and dizzy.
Keto brought on splitting headaches.
That carnivore craze? My body rejected every bite of bacon.
With each failed attempt, my hope faded…
