A tender reflection on loss, the body, and learning how to care for myself again

It’s been a minute…………………………………..

I travelled to Panama recently and had to get on the boat but could not on my own, it took about 4 men to help me get in the boat. My body was tired, I was embarrassed, I felt alone all eyes were on me boom…… That is how grief often finds us: not always in the dramatic moments, but in the ordinary ones. In the kitchen. In the closet. In the mirror, on the boat. In the way our bodies begin to tell the truth before our mouths are ready. I have been learning that grieving and weight loss are not two separate journeys for me. They meet in the same tender place, where my body is asking to be heard and my heart is asking to be held.

Grief Shows Up in the Body

After loss, even the smallest routines can feel unfamiliar. Eating can become difficult, or it can become the easiest way to survive the day. Some mornings the body wants nothing. Some nights it wants everything that feels warm, familiar, sweet, heavy, or close enough to comfort.

And I do not think we talk about that enough. We talk about grief as tears, memories, sadness, and anniversaries. But grief can also live in skipped meals, late-night eating, exhaustion, cravings, inflammation, weight gain, weight loss, and a body that begins to feel like a stranger you are still responsible for loving.

This Is Not About Punishing the Body

For a while, I thought weight loss had to begin with control. Control the food. Control the portions. Control the cravings. Control the body. But grief has already taken so much from me, and I do not want healing to become another place where I disappear beneath demands.

So I am learning to call this realignment instead. Not punishment. Not pressure. Not a frantic attempt to return to the woman I was before loss arrived. Realignment feels slower than that. Kinder than that. It is the quiet practice of caring for the body that carried me when all I could do was breathe.

And somewhere along this road, quietly and almost unbelievably, I have lost over 100 pounds. Even writing that feels tender. It is a number that carries discipline, yes, but it also carries tears, prayers, pauses, restarts, courage, and the kind of hope that had to be rebuilt one choice at a time.

I am learning to celebrate that success without shrinking it down to make grief more comfortable. Losing over 100 pounds is not a small thing. It is a testimony written in steps, water bottles, quiet mornings, better choices, grace after setbacks, and the decision to keep showing up for myself even when my heart was heavy.

Food can Be Comfort, But It Cannot Be the Only Comfort

I understand why food becomes comfort. Food can feel like warmth when the world feels cold. It can feel like company when the silence is too loud. It can give the hands something to do when the heart has nowhere to place the pain.

But I am learning that my grief needs more than food. It needs language. It needs prayer. It needs movement. It needs tears without apology. It needs safe people. It needs rest. It needs permission to remember and permission to keep living in the same breath.

Learning to Celebrate the Wins

Celebration has not always come easily to me. Sometimes grief makes joy feel complicated, as if acknowledging progress means I am forgetting pain. But I am learning that celebration is not denial. It is remembrance of another kind. It is me remembering that I am still here. Still growing. Still becoming.

And still, there is a sadness that sits beside the celebration. Because one of the hardest parts of reaching a milestone like this is not being able to call my sister and tell her. Not being able to hear her voice on the other end of the phone. Not being able to share the joy, the disbelief, the laughter, the “Can you believe it?” moment with the person I wish could witness it with me.

There are victories that feel incomplete because grief leaves an empty chair at the table of celebration. I can be proud and still ache. I can be grateful and still miss her. I can look at how far I have come and still feel the sting of wanting to share it with the sister who should be here cheering, teasing, praying, and celebrating with me.

Every pound released has carried a lesson. Some taught me patience. Some taught me consistency. Some taught me that a setback is not the end of the story. And some reminded me that success can be holy ground too—a place where I can stand barefoot, grateful, and amazed at what God and grief and grace have walked me through.

Overcoming the Setbacks Along the Way

But this journey has not been a straight line. There have been weeks when the scale did not move, even though I was trying. There have been days when grief was so loud that the only victory was not giving up completely. There have been moments when one hard day turned into two, and I had to remind myself that a setback is not a sentence. It is only a place where I am invited to begin again.

Sometimes the setback looked like emotional eating after a painful memory surfaced. Sometimes it looked like skipping movement because my body felt heavy with sadness. Sometimes it looked like celebrating with food and then feeling guilty afterward. Other times, it looked like comparing my progress to someone else’s and forgetting that my body, my grief, and my healing all have their own rhythm.

What helped me most was learning to return without shame. If I missed a walk, I could take one the next day. If I ate past fullness, I could drink water, rest, and choose differently at the next meal. If I felt discouraged by a plateau, I could look beyond the number and notice the wins the scale could not measure: more endurance, better choices, looser clothes, deeper self-awareness, and the quiet strength of continuing.

I am learning that overcoming setbacks does not always look like a grand comeback. Sometimes it looks like forgiving myself before breakfast. Sometimes it looks like packing a meal after a difficult night. Sometimes it looks like walking slowly because slow is still movement. Sometimes it looks like choosing not to turn one imperfect choice into an entire abandoned week.

I Can Grieve and Still Care for Myself

That truth has taken time for me to hold. Some days, caring for myself feels like betrayal, as if any step forward means I am leaving love behind. But I am learning that love is not measured by how much of myself I abandon. Grief and care can live in the same body. Mourning and mercy can share the same breath.

Maybe realignment is not a dramatic transformation, even when the transformation is visible. Maybe it is the gentle work of returning to myself piece by piece. The weight I am losing is not only physical. Some of it is guilt. Some of it is survival. Some of it is the heaviness of forgetting that I am still allowed to live, heal, laugh, move, eat well, rest well, be well, and celebrate how far I have come.

So, I am choosing, softly and imperfectly, to come back to myself. Not all at once. Not with shame as my guide. But with one glass of water, one honest prayer, one walk beneath the open sky, one meal that says my body is still worthy of tenderness, and one celebration at a time. I am learning to loosen what grief made heavy and gather what love left behind. And when the joy feels unfinished because I cannot share it with my sister, I am learning to speak her name into the quiet and let love be present there too. Perhaps this is healing: not the absence of sorrow, but the slow blooming of care in the very place sorrow once took root, and the courage to call the bloom beautiful even when someone beloved is not here to see it. At the end of the day we are GRIEVING and LIVING.