Why I let myself go (and how I got myself back)

I was a fat kid who became a fatter adult. I was on diets before I knew what a diet was, and I got the message early that I was more lovable when I was smaller.

I thought if I just knew more, I'd change. I walked away from a full scholarship in Latin and Greek to study nutrition, then got a master's in it. My first job was creating healthy-habit programs for kids in schools. I weighed over 350 pounds at the time, and I felt like a fraud every time I stood in front of a room.

I didn't stop caring. I hated how I looked and I stressed about food every single day.

I was depressed, and I pulled away from friends because I didn't want to be seen. When my mom asked me what made me happy, I couldn't think of one thing.

I picture it like a dashboard of buttons in your head. When you're stressed, you press one. When you're tired, lonely, overwhelmed or celebrating, you press one. Some people have a whole row of them: a walk, a call to a friend, a bath, a workout.

I had one button, and it was food. Every feeling sent me to the same place. A pint of salted caramel ice cream in an empty apartment, and for a few minutes nothing else existed. That's why every diet felt like someone taking away the only tool I had.

And still, every Sunday I'd decide Monday was the day. A new diet, a new plan, a new start date. I'd do well for a couple of weeks, and then I wouldn't.

At work I could do anything. I came in early, worked weekends, and did whatever the job needed. I never once said "I don't feel like it today" about my job.

If I'd treated my job the way I treated food, I would have been fired.

It was the same with money. I paid off $130,000 of debt. Not a single week went according to plan, and I still did it. When something knocked me off track, I didn't decide I'd blown it. I just got back to it.

Then it hit me. The way I thought about decisions at work and with money was almost the exact opposite of the way I thought about food and exercise. At work, every choice counted. With food I'd tell myself, "This one won't hurt. It doesn't matter. I'll start tomorrow."

I didn't need another plan or another fresh Monday. I needed to start thinking about food the way I already thought about the things I was good at.

It started with breakfast. Every morning I went to Chick-fil-A and ordered a chicken biscuit, a side of chicken minis, hash browns and a Diet Coke.

I didn't tell myself I couldn't have fast food for breakfast anymore. I kept the hash browns and the Diet Coke. I just ordered the chicken biscuit or the chicken minis.

Not both.

It sounds too small to matter. It was the pivot that changed everything, because for the first time I made a food decision the way I made decisions at work.

One small decision led to the next. Slowly, food stopped being the only button I had. Over the next couple of years I lost over 150 pounds, long before GLP-1s were a thing.

Looking back, I'd spent my whole life on offense. The next plan, the next diet, the next round of rules, the next Monday. Offense feels productive, and it works while it's working. Then a hard day comes and you're right back where you started. I was good until I wasn't good, over and over, for decades.

What I'd never done was play defense. The things that knocked me off track weren't surprises. It was the same few situations every time: a stressful day, a lonely night, being exhausted. And each time, my reason for giving in was true. I really was tired. Life really was hard. It was still the same play, and I let it beat me every time.

They don't sneak up on you unless you let them.

Once I stopped chasing the next plan and started protecting what I wanted from the moments I knew were coming, hard days stopped sending me back to the beginning. Each one showed me where I needed a little more protection.

That's the work I do now. I help women follow through when they have a convincing reason not to.