It’s the end of Week 20, and I’m writing this blog far later than I have Mondays prior.

But at least I’m getting to it.

That’s sort of been the mantra this week. At least I’m getting to it.

Week 20 proved futile in means of any real weight loss progress. Oh, I noticed some awesome achievements (see exhibit A:)

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A post shared by Care ☆ (@carefulchatting)

(This dress would look good on anyone, any size. It’s so flattering.)

I made a killer Shepherd’s Pie:

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But something else had been brewing. And had been stirring up for more than a couple of weeks.

It was a juggling act I was failing.

In an attempt to rigorously do it all, it was time to realize that everything was falling apart. I can’t even say that I “alluded” to it in former blogs. It was so unforgivingly obvious that I wasn’t going to maintain at the speed I was running.

I became more agitated with my children. My relationship was starting to wane and buckle under the stress. I was getting less sleep. I was feeling sicker faster. I wasn’t eating correctly. I was shrinking, but properly? I took less interest in the things I loved. I have rarely baked, much less coloured a picture, or watched a favourite movie, or picked up my knitting needles. My piano isn’t played anymore. And I barely helped with Christmas decorating. I haven’t given the basement renos a single mind outside of picking paint chips with Jan, as he begged me to show interest.

The path that I was skating wasn’t feasible. I’d wake up in the morning at 6:30am, and start work. On Daisy entertainment, my social creation content company. Then I’d make lunch, shower and leave for work between 7 and 7:30am. And I wouldn’t be home till typically around 8:00pm, where I’d continue working on Daisy, answering emails, trying to cook dinner and crashing by 9:30. I’d lay wake in bed scheduling posts for Care. And on the scheduled days off, I’d find myself still clumsily working on this or that, or those spreadsheets or returning those emails.

Somewhere along the way, Jan and I started a life of parallel direction. Instead of intermingling our lives, we had to jointly separate them because they were tangled with work. We would stress ourselves out reliving the day, and it would carry into our dreams. Less we were snuggling in our sleep, we were flailing our arms in dog paddle motion to keep from drowning under the pressure that threatened to destroy what we’d so precariously worked on building all year – us.

And it’s still a work in progress. He’s much better at communicating a strong force field front, where as I am balls deep in hanging the truth out to dry. But the fact is, we knew that something drastic was going to have to happen before something drastic happened without our consent.

And so, after a mere two months of starting, I have resigned from my post at the furniture store. I have left in good faith, and with good notice, and have started to try and regain my relationship with not just my partner, but my kids, my family and mainly myself.

I knew that this week was going to mean having to let something fall wayside in favour of finding my footing. EWYN understood. Jan understood. My body understood. I didn’t gain a pound. Barely an inch. In fact, I took off a half an inch from my waist, anyway. Despite the stress. Despite the carbs. Despite the Doritos I unashamedly enjoyed.

And now, with a new gig starting Monday, my partner’s hand in mine, a new lease on 2020, I can go a little more confident into Week 21. Part of a physical weight loss journey is minding your mental health just as well.

You can if you want to.

— c ☆