"God, I wish somebody would've told me when I was younger,That all bodies aren't the same"

Two Lindt-like truffle chocolates. I add their calories to the online counter. I didn’t account for them the night before when I planned out my meals. Nor, did I account for the stale Ferrero Roche chocolates. Or, the chocolates filled with Brandy liqueur.  

I watch the numbers on the screen rise in a negative fashion: -484; -516. It’s too much. I cancel out of the screen, admit defeat, and ignore those figures. I can’t do this.

Physically can’t and psychologically unable. It’s not a lack of accountability. What I put into my body will show on the outside of it. I know that. But it hasn’t been that simple in recent years.

I stick to a routine. I exercise following instructions of a personal trainer and strength/cardio classes, but my weight hasn’t been as stagnant as it should, theoretically speaking. In recent years, the scale adds numbers. Reminiscent of my first year at college, the numbers attack the scale like prey pouncing on an easy target. Twenty pounds. Forty pounds.

Yet, this is post pandemic. I’ve been down this road, literally and figuratively.

Caloric deficits, nutrition science, numbers game, and macros are not foreign terms. I have a system that used to work. I worked hard and played harder. Six days a week my eating had been sparkling clean, with one balls-to-the-wall cheating-day mayhem. This lifestyle empowered me to walk eight miles a day in the summer of 2023 and experience brutally demanding day hike at Mount Kilimanjaro; and most recently a community exercise challenge last November.

What happened?

These days, I moan and groan as I get up from the couch and as I strategically position myself in ridiculous yoga poses. (Rolling panda, really?) The weight stays, despite rigorous exercises.

Frustrating, yes. Infuriating, undoubtedly.

Looking back on recent years, I wonder aloud. “What changed?”

Oh. Yes. The answer is clear and beyond my control. Like the shock of seeing the number on the scale, it hit. Bluntly. Menopause.

And now, post-menopause.

A new, and my last, stage of womanhood.

Begrudgingly, I reach out to a local nutrition coach and ask how to manipulate my macro and caloric numbers. As we talk, she glides on a treadmill while miraculously writing notes. She offers guidance that extends far deeper than manipulating numbers. I hear the logic, and it clicks, but I can’t just jump onboard. My joints crack and I feel a sting as though I’m betraying my former nutrition coach.

I agree to give her method a shot and attempt to form a healthy relationship with food on my own. No more designated cheat days. Instead, incorporate fun foods into my everyday eating, after ingesting a meal with protein and color, and water. Don't view those foods as "cheat" and take accountability for them in my counter.

Sounds easy enough, until.

Until.

Until, I see the numbers on the calorie counter. With a deep sigh, I study it. Anxiety overcomes me. I sweat, twitch, and shake. I am overwhelmed by the numbers on the screen. I unwrap another chocolate and input the item. The negativity rises again. It's too much. I close the screen.

Finally, I say the words aloud. "I have an eating disorder."

I ask to sign up for coaching.