Fifteen days after my 39th birthday, a number flashed on my bathroom scale, the likes of which I hadn’t seen since a third trimester of pregnancy.
It confirmed what a family picture from that morning had told me already: I was the largest I’d ever been—obese by body fat standards—and that one go-to outfit I wore to try to hide the excess? I was only fooling myself.
Forget that I couldn’t climb stairs without feeling winded. Or that I’d become so self-conscious that I was turning down social invitations. Something had to give.