August 11, 2013— Journal entry:

“I am not sure how to do all that I need. I am scared. I feel alone. My foot hurts so bad. I am scared I am going to die.”

My foot hurt because my diabetes was out of control. I could barely feel my toes anymore. By this time, I had broken that same foot twice before – once requiring surgery. My body was slowly deteriorating.

This kind of journal entry was common. So was crying in the shower and packing around a constant feeling of disappointment. Excuses were endless. The victim mentality was strong, and those that tried to help me just did not understand – well, that is what I told them and myself, anyway. I felt defeated and believed things would never change.

I was wrong. They did.

Most days, I showed up to my obligations with a smile on my face and determined to mask my anxiety, pain and sadness from everyone. I worked – hard – to be the happy fat girl with tons of energy. I don’t think I really fooled anyone really, not even myself.

I spent my weekends recovering on the couch, eating take out, sleeping and keeping the guilt at bay by getting up every couple of hours to run a load of laundry or do the dishes. I remember feeling accomplished at the end of a weekend if I had gotten the routine chores done to assure I could get up Monday morning and do it all again. Arguments and bickering about going out to do fun things versus staying home (because, you know, chores were important) served as the background soundtrack to this sad, steady cycle. Exhaustion, shame and disappointment won damn-near every time, which means nobody really won at all.

During the last six years, one thing remained constant: hope. At times, it faded to the smallest spark in my eye or feeling in my heart, but it never left.

My job was a blessing for many reasons, but one of the greatest gifts was the exposure to good people and endless stories of others who were dealing with challenges far exceeding anything I could even imagine. My motivation came from them, my daughter and my family. I kept going believing something would change. I just did not know what. I always believed that my life was meant to be more; it turns out I was right.

One would think I would be sitting here surrounded by piles of regret as I share this. I am not going to lie – there most certainly is a little stack that lingers. However, if I had not lived the life I did I would not be here today sharing my journey and ready to help others.

And I know there are others who feel this way. I see you. I see it in your walk. I see it in your exhaustion. I hear it when you are talking to your children. I want to help you.

August 11, 2019 – Journal entry:

I did it! I never gave up hope. This last weekend was filled with new experiences and friends. I didn’t get any chores done this weekend. I am living.

Tip: “For what it’s worth it’s never too late to be whoever you want to be. I hope you live a life you’re proud of, and if you find that you’re not, I hope you have the strength to start over.” – The Curious Case of Benjamin Button