Get Back To You

I don't remember exactly when I stopped being myself.

Maybe it was college.

I had always been athletic growing up. I played softball, ran track, went to the gym, and cared way too much about being thin. I was actually anorexic in high school and probably weighed around 105 pounds. I thought skinny meant happy. I thought if I could just control my body enough, everything else would fall into place.

Then college happened.

I started partying, eating whatever I wanted, and stopped moving the way I used to. I gained weight. After graduation I lost some of it, then gained it back. Then lost some again. Then gained it back.

The cycle became my life.

And honestly? The worst part wasn't the weight.

The worst part was that I stopped recognizing myself.

I remember wearing sweatshirts in the summer because I thought they hid my body. They didn't. They just made me sweat and feel miserable.

I remember signing up for a 10K because I used to love running and then skipping it because I was too embarrassed to show up.

Too embarrassed.

I wasn't embarrassed of other people.

I was embarrassed of me.

I had convinced myself that fitness belonged to some other version of myself. The skinny version. The confident version. The girl I used to be.

And I missed her.

Then my marriage ended.

I got divorced and one day I looked at myself in the mirror.

I weighed 210 pounds.

And I remember thinking: What happened to me?

Not in a cruel way. Not because I hated myself. Because I genuinely missed myself.

I missed feeling strong.

I missed moving my body because it was fun.

I missed feeling proud of myself.

I missed believing I could do hard things.

And that day I decided something.

I didn't want to become skinny.

I didn't want revenge.

I didn't want to punish myself.

I wanted to get back to me.

So I started. Not perfectly. Not dramatically.

I started going to the gym. I started running again.

At first it sucked. I was slow. I was uncomfortable. I was embarrassed. Some days I walked more than I ran.

But I kept showing up.

And then something funny happened.

The scale moved, sure.

But more importantly, I changed.

I stopped making promises to myself that I immediately broke. I stopped waiting to feel motivated. I stopped believing that one bad meal ruined everything.

I started trusting myself.

I cleaned up my diet. I learned to enjoy movement again. I started weightlifting with friends and coworkers.

I signed up for races. I actually showed up to them this time.

I trained for half marathons. Then a marathon.

I did a ridiculous challenge where I spent 65 minutes on the Stairmaster for 80 straight days without missing a single day because apparently I enjoy suffering.

And slowly, over time, my body changed.

But so did my identity.

I became a runner. I became someone who lifts weights. I became someone who takes care of herself. I became someone who shows up.

Today I weigh around 125 to 130 pounds.

I can run long distances.

I have visible abs. Not as visible as I'd like, because apparently body dysmorphia doesn't magically disappear, but they're there.

I have strong legs. Strong arms. A healthy relationship with movement.

And honestly?

I still have bad days.

I still sometimes want to be 110 pounds.

I still compare myself to women who are younger, faster, leaner.

I still look in the mirror some days and see the flaws before I see the progress.

I'm human.

But I know something now that I didn't know at 210 pounds.

I know how to commit to myself.

I know how to show up for myself.

I know that motivation is overrated and consistency is everything.

I know that health isn't punishment.

I know that fitness isn't reserved for people who already have six packs.

And I know there are women reading this who feel exactly the way I felt.

Maybe you're a mom. Maybe you went through a divorce. Maybe you've spent years putting everyone else first.

Maybe you don't recognize yourself anymore. Maybe you don't even know where to start.

I do. Because I was you.

And that's why I'm creating Get Back To You.

Not because I have all the answers. Not because I became perfect.

But because I know what it's like to feel lost.

And I know what it's like to slowly, painfully, beautifully find yourself again.