#thisishealing

hey sorry ive not been super active just because ive been taking time to deal with stuff lol!

i’m ok, dealing with a lot of grief, some kinda fresh trauma stuff too and it’s rough. like just this past weekend i opened up to my bf about something that happened and it was ahhhhh and now its all coming back.

i learned a lot inpatient though about radical acceptance and grief. it was really helpful. I’m trying to use other DBT skills too. I might join an LGBTQ group therapy / support class type thing.

school is so stressful and missing 3 weeks worth of college classes is a lottt to make up. i’m slowly getting through it though, just taking a break right from homework right now to hop on here.

On Sunday, we visited my mom for Easter. After dinner, the whole family was lounging around the house, casually chatting, full of food and warmth.

At some point, my 14-year-old son wandered into one of the bedrooms and found a scale. From across the hall, we heard him shout—rejoicing—that he weighed over 150 lbs! He was genuinely thrilled, proud even.

(And in that moment, all I could think was... what I would give to weigh that. Scratch that—what I would give to feel excited about gaining weight instead of defeated by it.)

Then it was my husband’s turn. Then my mom’s. One by one, they all stepped on that little machine like it was nothing.

Me? I quietly slipped away and hid in the front room, praying no one would notice.

There was no way in hell I was stepping on that scale. Not in front of everyone. And definitely not in front of my mom.

I’ve always been a little afraid of scales.

Not because they hurt. But because they hold power—a kind of power I’ve given them for far too long. I’m scared of the number, scared it won’t match the version of me I’m trying so hard to love. Scared it’ll confirm my worst thoughts instead of challenge them.

I don’t really talk about my weight. Not because I don’t care, but because no matter where it’s landed, it’s never felt “right.” Not in the eyes of society, not in the eyes of family. Not even in my own.

But something’s shifting.

Lately, I’ve started dressing the body I have—not the one I’m chasing. I’ve started looking in the mirror and seeing someone beautiful. Someone real. Someone with hips and laughter and stories etched into her skin.

And today, I stepped on a scale.

197 lbs. The highest number I’ve ever seen attached to my body.

It was hard to see, I won’t lie. But weirdly? It didn’t break me. I still felt good. I still saw that beautiful, smiling woman in the mirror.

Maybe the scale doesn’t get to have the final say anymore. Maybe it’s just a tool—one of many—and not the one that defines my worth, my health, or my beauty.