In the years before my dad died, he discovered the Atkins Diet.
He was so fucking stoked, you guys.
He was losing weight eating meat, eggs, cheese, meat, and meat.
I was dubious.
“How are you losing weight eating all of that fat?” It was a leading question coming from me, his trendily vegan daughter who was healthier and more conscious than everyone else because I ate salads and French fries and tofu. How far did that tofu travel to get to me? No matter. I’m vegan.
He explained some of the principles. I was skeptical, but couldn’t argue with what I was looking at: a dude who’d lost a considerable amount of his I-enjoy-the-hell-out-of-food belly.
After he died, I drank a whole lot of Captain Morgan’s and chased it with root beer. I have no idea what I ate, but I know I drank my way up the scale. After the grief broke its spell over me, I looked down and was displeased with what I saw.
I knew someone who’d had success with Weight Watchers and decided to give it a go. It was the first time I’d actively tried to lose weight. I got the books and joined the chat rooms and easily dropped pound after pound. Seeing the scale move was exhilarating. Needing to buy new pants was bliss-inducing.
My boyfriend of five years proposed in the woods. Soon after the honeymoon, two pink lines showed up and my body wasn’t fully mine again, it turns out, for almost seven years.
My kids are 6.5 and 4.5, and just this morning I stepped on the scale and saw the lowest number I’ve seen since Mr. 4.5 was born: 163.6.
I’m a little bit high on that number right now, thankyouverymuch.
Because here’s what: I’m doing this new thing where I’m eating food that feels good in my body I’m not measuring it. I’m not counting it. It tastes fucking great.
And I’m looking how I want to look.
Okay, so here’s what happened.
At the beginning of the year I noticed that my pants were getting tight. Walking around the restaurant on a busy Friday or Saturday night, I could feel my body in a way I didn’t like. I could feel mounds of girth forming on my back under my bra. A little bit of this is par for the course for most of us, but this was new territory. I hated how it felt.
Begrudgingly, I admitted that I was the only person who could do anything about this situation and I jumped back onto Weight Watchers. This time, I wasn’t vegan and I was a mama and so my food landscape was quite different than it’d been during my first go round; my kids would only tolerate so many quesadillas.
But I started doing it anyway. I cooked for them and I cooked for me. I ate a lot of carrots. I snacked on Wasa Crisps slathered with Laughing Cow wedges.
I lost weight, but I thought about food constantly; because I need my brain space available for things other than Points-obsession, I started poking around on the interwebs for a new way.
And then I listened to this podcast and I was like HOLD THE DAMN PHONE.
Disclaimer: the woman responsible for this flawlessly-executed podcast happens to be my step-sister, but this ain’t no family-promoting-family-’cause-we’re-family situation. Betsy (I’m sorry Bets, I just can’t call you Elizabeth) knows her shit. Trust me on this, guys. I wouldn’t make you suffer through a boring, preachy podcast – promise.
I listened to her episode about what happens inside our bodies when we start the day with carbs. Nutshell: our bodies are in prime fat-burning mode when we wake up. If we avoid carbs in the morning, we burn more fat and stuff, and – just listen to the podcast for the real, intellectual, fun explanation. SHE’S THE EXPERT, OKAY? But it made very clear sense to me. I could understand what she was talking about.
I started drinking BulletProof coffee. You guys, it’s fucking delicious. You just blend a tablespoon of grass-fed butter and a tablespoon of high-quality coconut oil into your coffee and WOWZA. I don’t even miss putting sugar in my morning espresso and I used to be a super-sweet-coffee drinker.
Some people can drink BulletProof and it fills them right up for hours. Because I so often want to be like everyone else, I tried this.
No way.
I need food in the morning. Period.
At first, I thought this meant I was “doing it wrong”, “it” being following the rules properly. (I like rules only because it allows me to eventually hate them; sometimes I need a non-human thing to be mad at.) I became frustrated by all of the seemingly contrary health and wellness and nutrition information in the world today. I wrote this blog post, “Is This The Hardest Time In History To Be Healthy?”.
And then I got this comment:
