Five months ago I was 193 pounds. Bagels every morning — sometimes two. French fries whenever I could. A bag of Doritos and a Coke watching football on Sunday, which isn't even food when you actually think about it. Tired by 2pm every day. I told myself it was the travel. I told myself it was stress. I told myself it was just what getting older felt like.
I was wrong on all three counts.
My doctor gave me a number. Not a dramatic diagnosis — just a marker I'd been ignoring for two years. I sat in my car in that parking lot and made a decision. No Ozempic. No trainer I'd see twice and quit. No program I'd pay $300 for and abandon by week three.
Just honesty. About what I was putting in my body every day. And what I was letting into my head.
167 pounds today. More energy in my 50s than I had at 40. I still travel constantly. I still have moments where the rules go out the window. I'm not a monk — I'm a person who made six decisions and stuck with them most of the time. That was enough.