I’m going to turn 32 this year.
Before the birth, I had mentally charted a reasonable weight loss goal for my birthday. When I lost weight before, 1 pound per week was reasonable. So I thought 145 pounds was a reasonable goal to reach by November 24th.
Despite five days a week of cardio and weightlifting and sticking to about 1500 calories per day, I haven’t lost one pound since September. Not one. I’m still 159 pounds. I take my measurements, and happily, I see that I’ve dropped .5” in my waist and hips, but I keep staring at the number on the scale. I hate that I’m obsessing about this. It makes me feel vain and whiny. Part of me screams, Who cares? You have a beautiful, healthy baby! She sleeps through the night! Another part of me screams back, Why the hell haven’t I been losing more!
I get it now—the feeling of Oh whatever. I’m a mom now. I’ve got better things to do now. Like get some sleep.
But I don’t stop working out. I keep going. The pounds aren’t coming off, but damn it, I feel better after a workout. I feel like it helps me empty all that emotional turmoil that builds in my brain. I feel happier to take care of Felicity after I’ve taken care of myself. I intended to portion my meals and work out as a permanent lifestyle before I got pregnant. It makes me feel better in general.
So I stick with it.