Living in Florida, I used to love the beach. But at 225, the thought of wearing a swimsuit made me anxious.
Like that summer trip to Clearwater, where I sat under an umbrella while my family played in the waves without me.
Every vacation, I made excuses. "I'll watch our things." "I just want to relax and read."
The truth? I couldn’t stand the thought of struggling into a swimsuit or feeling out of breath just walking in the sand.
Watching my husband, kids, and even my grandkids running along the shore—while I sat there, missing it all—broke my heart.
I tried everything to fix it.
Strict fasting left me lightheaded. Low-carb made me miserable.
That trendy intermittent fasting plan? My energy crashed by noon.
Every failed attempt just deepened my frustration.