The first time I saw 142 on the scale, I started crying before the nurse could even say a word.
Minutes later, I was sitting on the paper-covered exam table, being told my bloodwork was "mostly normal."
I should say, most of it was within range. But my body was telling a very different story.
The weight had come on rapidly, and it felt different than any weight I had gained before. My face was swollen, almost unrecognizable to me. When I smiled, it felt like my cheeks pushed up so much that my eyes nearly shut. I didn't look like myself, and I didn't feel like myself either.
I'm 5'2", and since having my boys, my weight had always hovered between 123 and 129 pounds. Seeing 142 felt like crossing into unfamiliar territory—not just physically, but emotionally.
At that appointment, my blood pressure was high for the first time in my life.
Before I even sat down with my doctor, I had already done my bloodwork. I didn't want to waste time—I wanted answers.
My fasting glucose, A1C, and cholesterol were elevated. Not dangerously high, but high enough to be labeled a "red flag." Still, I was told it was something I should be able to manage on my own.
The recommendation was simple: try a Keto diet and come back in three months.
So I did.
I started that same day. I tracked everything I ate, everything I drank, everything I cooked. My mornings were spent weight training with my husband—six days a week. He helped keep me accountable because he knew how much this mattered to me.
After three months, I had lost 10 pounds.
But my bloodwork hadn't changed much.
My blood pressure was still high. My A1C, fasting glucose, and cholesterol had barely improved. I felt slightly better—but my body wasn't responding the way I thought it would.
My doctor told me I just needed more time.
I left that appointment feeling depleted. Not unmotivated exactly—but worn down. Still, I didn't feel like I had a choice. I kept going.
Another three months passed.
My weight dropped back down to 125 pounds. I was still following a strict Keto diet. Still working out six days a week.
And my bloodwork? Almost exactly the same. And my blood pressure is slightly higher.
I was doing everything I was told to do—and my body still wasn't responding.
And slowly, without really noticing it at first, eating stopped feeling normal.
Every meal came with a calculation. Every ingredient felt like a decision that could either help or hurt me. I wasn't just thinking about what I was eating—I was thinking about what it might do to me afterward.
Would this spike my glucose? Would this undo the progress I thought I was making? Would I wake up the next morning feeling worse?
Food, which had always been something neutral—sometimes even enjoyable—started to feel loaded. Risky.
There was a constant, low-level anxiety that followed me throughout the day. Not dramatic, not obvious—but persistent. The kind that makes you second-guess even the simplest choices.
Even when I was doing everything "right," it never felt like enough.
If you've ever tried to lose weight, you've probably heard some version of this:
- Keto is bad, your body needs carbs
- You must be under-eating
- It's your cortisol—you need more sleep
- Maybe you're working out too much
- It's stress—try meditating
- Just eat less
- Have you checked your thyroid?
And on and on it goes.
After six months of carefully tracking, restricting, and adjusting, I went back to my doctor and asked about Metformin. I wanted help regulating my glucose and A1C—something to support what I was already doing.
After some convincing, he agreed. I started on 1000 mg a day.
At the time, it felt like the next logical step.
But looking back, it was also the beginning of a different kind of question.
Not, "How am I going to control this?"
But, "Why isn't my body responding in the first place? Is this my new normal?"
If this resonates, I'd love to hear from you. Reply to this post or find me on Substack.
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