Growing up, I was always the biggest kid in the room. I was never considered “little,” and people never hesitated to comment on my size. Over time, I became used to it. I was always the slowest runner in gym class, the flag football belts never fit, and my team swimsuit had to be special ordered. Every one of those moments felt embarrassing and isolating, even when I pretended they didn’t hurt.
I always enjoyed food, but college is when the weight truly began to pile on. Late nights studying turned into poor choices and emotional eating. Looking back, I realize I never had a healthy relationship with food. Binge eating became my comfort. A pack of Oreos here, half a pizza there, maybe half a box of pasta for good measure. I ate anything because it soothed something deeper inside me. It’s painful to admit that I needed comfort from my own weight. I constantly heard things like, “You’re really pretty for a big girl,” or, “You have such a pretty face, you’d be even prettier if you lost a few pounds.” Those words stuck with me more than anyone knew.
As I got older, I realized I had fully accepted the role of “the big girl,” hiding behind humor as a shield. I tried so hard to mask the insecurities that came with that label. I had little self-confidence, so I leaned into my personality, hoping people would focus on my humor instead of my body. I convinced myself that if I was funny enough, I could somehow fade into the background. Shopping for clothes became increasingly painful as sizes kept going up and everything felt tighter. I’ll never forget one date when a guy said, “I wouldn’t have taken you out if I’d known how big you were.” There was no second date. I cried the entire drive home and numbed the pain the only way I knew how that night.
I work as a nurse, and one day it hit me—I spend my career giving people the tools and encouragement to improve their lives, so why wasn’t I doing the same for myself? I was deeply depressed. I avoided going out with friends, avoided dating, and wanted nothing more than to hide—from others and from myself. I felt completely lost. I had tried every diet, every exercise plan, and every diet pill available. Nothing worked. I knew if I didn’t make a major change, I was slowly killing myself one bite at a time. I had exhausted every option short of an eating disorder and felt hopeless. My parents stood by me through it all, wanting only what every parent wants—for their child to be healthy and truly happy.
Through my job, I started looking into a weight loss center. I remember talking with two close friends about even making the appointment. I was terrified of judgment and afraid of what people would say. One friend looked at me and said, “What does it matter what they think? It’s not their body—it’s yours. Make the call.” The other agreed, telling me I deserved happiness. I walked away knowing they were right, crying as I picked up the phone and finally made the appointment.
When I went to the weight loss center, I felt overwhelmed. There were surgical options and physician-supervised plans. How was I supposed to choose? Which path was right for me? After months of research and soul-searching, I made my decision: gastric sleeve surgery. The procedure would remove about 75% of my stomach. I kept my decision mostly private, telling only a few close friends and immediate family. Thankfully, they were all incredibly supportive. The process leading up to surgery was intense—clearances from my primary doctor, cardiologist, psychologist, dietitian, lab work, EKGs, and more. As my surgery date approached, doubt crept in. I wondered if I was making the biggest mistake of my life.
Before surgery, I had to follow a two-week pre-op diet of protein shakes and yogurt. It felt unbearable at times, like I was starving. Then March 28th arrived. The surgery itself went smoothly. I woke up in recovery in pain, which I expected. I stayed in the hospital one night before being sent home. The first few days were incredibly difficult—severe pain, constant nausea, and nothing but clear liquids. Slowly, things improved. Drinking became easier, the pain lessened, and the nausea faded. I started walking daily, knowing it was crucial for healing. With nowhere flat to walk, I went to Walmart every day, pushing a cart through the aisles. Eventually, I graduated to outdoor walks. For six weeks, my life revolved around walking and protein drinks. A post-op allergic reaction left me covered in a painful, itchy rash and filled with regret, but steroids cleared it up, and those dark thoughts soon faded.
Returning to work after six weeks was nerve-wracking. Nursing is a female-dominated field, and people notice everything. I tried to keep my absence quiet, but comments quickly followed. Some were supportive, others painful. The words “You took the easy way out” cut deeply and still sting to this day. Surgery was not easy. It was a life-altering decision. Talking with my friend Nicole—one of the most confident people I know—helped me shift my mindset. She reminded me that I didn’t do this for anyone else. I did it for me.
From that point on, I focused on myself. Surgery was only a tool; the work was still mine. I meal-prepped, weighed my food, tracked every bite, walked five miles a day, and drank a gallon of water daily. The changes were drastic for someone who once lived on the couch. Slowly, the weight began to fall off. I stopped hiding my surgery and started sharing my journey online. What began as personal documentation turned into messages from people thanking me for my honesty.
When coworkers commented on how different I looked, I smiled. I was still me—but also someone new. At my heaviest, I weighed 283 pounds at 5’1”, wearing 20/22 pants and 3x scrubs. Today, I’ve lost 97 pounds and counting. I wear size 12/14 jeans, medium scrubs, and clothes I never imagined fitting into. I hit milestones that once felt impossible—wrapping a standard towel around my body, buying smaller jewelry, seeing my collarbones and cheekbones emerge.
This surgery didn’t just change my body—it changed my life. I gained confidence, peace, and freedom from caring what others think. People see me now, not my weight. I finally became the person I always wanted to be but never knew how to become. For the first time in my life, I truly love myself. Change is hard, and not everyone will agree with your choices—but this journey is about you and your health. If I can do it, so can you.
