Fluctuating weight has been an issue for me over the past ten-plus years. If you know me and see me often, you might think this is an April Fool’s joke as I write this on April 1st, 2025. I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t look overweight. In fact, I never thought I was—until my doctor told me otherwise several years ago. I was floored. At 180 pounds, I didn’t consider myself overweight, but he informed me that, based on my height and age, anything over 170 pounds put me in that category. Ideally, I should be below 170. You wouldn’t think I carried extra weight when I’m fully dressed, but let’s just say I’m a little less confident if I were at the pool. My belly would make you question how comfortably I fit into my jeans.
Since those earlier talks with my doctor, I’ve taken steps to prevent the pounds from creeping up. I started small—eliminating honey buns from my grocery runs. Then, week to week, month by month, year by year, I cut out more habitual indulgences: weekly candy bars and cookies, monthly donuts, even those unnecessary birthday sheet cakes when there was no birthday in sight.
At one point, I tried a low-carb diet for two weeks. Fourteen straight days of salads and protein—no bread, no desserts, no pasta. Just vegetables, fruits, nuts, and lean meats. The result? I lost nearly seven or eight pounds. My gut slimmed down. I felt lighter. I felt better. But I was constantly hungry. After those two weeks, carbs found their way back into my diet, though I remained mindful of my sugar intake. My weight continued to fluctuate between 170 and 180 pounds. A couple of years later, I revisited the low-carb diet, armed with a more strategic food list. The result? My weight dropped below 170.
Clearly, losing weight wasn’t impossible. And yet, here I am, ten years later, sitting at 176 pounds and contemplating another round of low-carb living. For me, it’s not just about appearance—it’s about being in the best health possible. I know there’s more I could and should do, like incorporating more consistent exercise, which I manage two to three times a week.
Still, when I catch a glimpse of my belly—my love handle, my lingering pouch—I can’t help but feel frustrated. I hide it well under my clothes, but I know it’s there. I remind myself constantly that I need to do something about it. Ironically, unlike the adage, I often tell my students they should judge books by their covers—publishers invest time and money to ensure a great cover captures the story inside. But when it comes to people, judgment shouldn’t be skin-deep. We should evaluate character, not appearance.
So when you see me, don’t assume my weight is what it appears to be. It’s not always as simple as it looks. The scale tells one story, the mirror tells another, and my health—well, that’s the story I’m still writing. Maybe this time, I’ll turn the page with more discipline. Maybe this time, the weight will stay off. Or maybe, just maybe, I’ll learn to find peace with the version of myself that isn’t defined by a number on the scale.
And even more, I hope this motivates and encourages anyone who may be struggling with similar situations.