This morning I woke up with pain sharper than it’s been in weeks. For a moment, I panicked—was I slipping backward again? The thought drained me. All the hope and motivation I’ve been clinging to since my diagnosis seemed to vanish in that instant. I couldn’t help but ask myself: What’s the point of all the pills, the careful eating, the effort—if I’m not getting better?

I never imagined that “being normal” would become something I yearn for. I hate the limp. I hate the fear of falling. I hate rushing to a chair every ten minutes because standing any longer feels impossible. And being obese makes the weight of it all heavier—not just physically, but emotionally. I worry people look at me and think, She’s fat, of course she has health problems.

Part of me knows these thoughts live mostly in my head. I know not everyone will understand my situation, and I can’t expect them to. But even so, the fear of judgment lingers, and it weighs me down.

That’s why I’m writing this today. Putting my emotions into words helps me release them instead of bottling them up. It’s my way of lightening the load. Maybe tomorrow I’ll wake up still in pain—but hopefully I’ll also wake up with a little more hope, a little more strength, and a reminder that even on the hard days, I’m still moving forward.