Witch, its been rough

Hello, my lovely little coven.

Well… apparently I disappeared again. I know. I promised I’d keep up with this blog, and then I did what I do best, vanished into the woods like a suspicious forest witch who only reappears when she has emotional damage and unsolicited life updates.

Honestly, I wish I had some dramatic excuse. I’d love to tell you I was off battling demons or searching for ancient magical relics, but the truth is far less exciting. I was just out here trying to survive adulthood and whatever fresh circle of hell the universe decided to spin the Wheel of Misfortune to each week. Character development really is the universe’s favorite hobby, and I’d like to respectfully unsubscribe.

So… what did you miss?

Well, surprisingly, quite a bit.

The biggest news is that I’m officially six pounds away from losing 100 pounds. Read that again because I still do every once in a while just to make sure my eyes aren’t playing tricks on me. One hundred pounds. If you told the version of me from a few years ago that I’d be saying those words, she would’ve laughed, cried, and asked what kind of dark magic was involved.

The funny thing is, though, losing the weight hasn’t been the biggest transformation.

My relationship with the scale has.

That tiny little plastic rectangle used to have way too much power over me. I’d step on it like it was some all-knowing witch’s oracle.

“Speak, magical rectangle. Tell me if I’m worthy today.”

For months I’ve been lifting heavier weights, building muscle, and burning fat at the same time. My clothes fit differently. My shoulders are starting to look like they belong to someone who occasionally lifts things heavier than a family-sized bag of chips. My legs are getting stronger. Somewhere beneath this protective emotional support layer of body fat, my abs are patiently waiting for their dramatic reveal.

The scale? She acts like absolutely none of that exists.

Honestly, she’s toxic, and we’re no longer taking relationship advice from her.

Don’t get me wrong, I still have a goal weight. I’d love to hit it. But if I don’t? I genuinely don’t think it’ll break my heart anymore. I care so much more about being healthy, feeling strong, and walking into a room feeling confident than I do about chasing one specific number. That’s a mindset I never thought I’d have, and honestly, it’s probably one of the biggest victories of this entire journey.

Back in April, I started a fitness program that completely changed my life. Which is saying something because I’ve tried enough programs to qualify for a loyalty card.

Some wanted you to pay extra for every workout.

Some made you feel like you were stranded on an island with a dumbbell and your own bad decisions.

Some were exciting for about twelve minutes before I got bored and wandered off like an easily distracted crow.

This one was different.

I found a community that actually feels like a community. Workouts that challenge me instead of punish me. Nutrition that doesn’t make me want to fight someone in the grocery store. People who celebrate every victory, whether it’s five pounds, fifty pounds, or finally drinking enough water without feeling personally victimized.

Somewhere along the way I fell so in love with the program that I became a certified coach.

Which still feels weird to say out loud.

The best part is I’m not coaching from some imaginary mountaintop pretending I’ve got life all figured out.

I’m still climbing.

Still sweating.

Still getting sore.

Still questioning my existence halfway through metabolic finishers.

Still celebrating when I pick up heavier dumbbells and immediately wondering if I’ve made a terrible mistake.

I’m right there beside the people I coach, and honestly, I think that’s exactly where I’m supposed to be.

Of course, because the universe hates letting me enjoy a peaceful chapter for too long, life reminded me that healing isn’t something you finish.

When I last wrote, someone close to me had received difficult news. Since then, another member of my family has started their own battle.

Living in another state makes things like this hard in ways I don’t always know how to explain.

Sometimes I feel forgotten. Not because anyone actually forgets me, but because distance has a funny way of making you feel like you’ve wandered just far enough away that you don’t quite know where you fit anymore. I know everyone knows how hard I work. I know they don’t want to worry me or reopen old wounds.

But grief doesn’t exactly wait for an invitation.

She’s like that one ghost that lives in the attic. Most days she’s content making creepy little noises in the background. Then one random Tuesday she decides to throw every piece of emotional furniture across the room.

The older I get, the more I realize there will always be a part of me that’s twenty-three years old, sitting beside my mom’s bed, realizing life is about to split into two chapters: before her… and after her.

People always tell you time heals everything.

I don’t know if I believe that.

I think time teaches you how to carry the weight without dropping it every five minutes.

Some days it’s light.

Some days it feels impossible.

Most days I hide it behind sarcasm and a dark sense of humor because that’s always been my favorite coping mechanism. If I’m making jokes about setting things on fire, everyone assumes I’m okay.

For legal reasons… the fires are metaphorical.

Usually.

The truth is, though, I am okay.

Actually… I’m better than okay.

I’ve spent the last few years doing a lot of healing. The kind nobody really sees. Moving away from New Jersey forced me to become someone I never would’ve met if I’d stayed. Someone stronger. Someone more compassionate. Someone who’s finally learning that surviving isn’t the same thing as living.

I’ve been through things I wouldn’t wish on anyone, but somehow I’ve come out the other side with more gratitude than bitterness. I still believe in magic. Not the movie kind. Not the wand-waving, potion-brewing kind. Although if anyone has a spell that folds laundry or makes autoimmune diseases politely leave, my inbox is open.

I mean the everyday kind.

The magic of waking up healthier than you were a year ago.

The magic of finding people who become family.

The magic of realizing you’re stronger than the thing that tried to break you.

The magic of laughing when life expects you to cry.

So yes, I may disappear from this blog from time to time. Consider it my mysterious witch phase. Every coven needs one member who vanishes into the forest, communes with the crows, collects emotional baggage like it’s a hobby, and eventually returns with stories, sarcasm, and probably another PR in the gym.

Until next time, my little coven…

May your coffee be strong, your candles burn clean, your crystals stay charged, your scale remember it’s nothing more than an overconfident calculator, and may anyone who says “everything happens for a reason” immediately get their sleeve caught on a doorknob.

Blessed be. 🖤