Lately, I’ve been really intentional about stepping away from weight loss as a goal. Not because I don’t want to lose weight eventually… but because I finally understand something huge:
If I don’t rewire my brain first, any weight I lose will just come right back.
My brain has been wired since childhood to use food for comfort. Full stop. End of story. And until I address that, I can diet all I want, but nothing will change long-term.
So right now, I’m focusing on two things:
Consistency and Mindful eating.
These are the two areas I’ve struggled with the most—especially when life gets chaotic.
Thanksgiving Was the Test… and My Brain Wanted Comfort Food SO Badly
Thanksgiving break last week was rough in all the ways that usually send me spiraling:
Family gatherings
Cooking and planning
Hosting friends
Kids home all day
Sensory overload
Stress
Noise
Emotional tension
And, of course, a big one: my husband and I weren’t getting along.
In the past, any one of these things would have been enough to push me straight into a binge.
But this year, I made myself a promise:
No matter what happens, stay consistent with mindful eating. Not perfect. Not restrictive. Just consistent.
Because here’s the truth: Food doesn’t solve any of those problems. Not the stress. Not the overwhelm. Not the noise. Not the fighting. Not the exhaustion.
If anything, it makes everything worse because afterward comes the anxiety, the guilt, the bloating, and the crash.
So This Year, I Did Something Different
Even through all the chaos, I slowed down.
I listened to my body.
I ate when I was hungry.
I stopped when I was satisfied — not stuffed.
I even did that at the Thanksgiving meal. No seconds. No rushing. And yes, I had pie.
But I actually enjoyed the pie. I savored it without guilt, without fear, without using it as a shield to block out my feelings.
And the most shocking part?
I didn’t binge even once.
I truly don’t think that has ever happened to me on a holiday. Maybe not since I was little.
Rewiring My Brain, One Thought at a Time
The real work wasn’t the eating — it was the thinking.
There were moments where my thoughts said:
“Just eat the leftover pie. It’s in the fridge.”
Old me would’ve either fought the thought using willpower (and lost)… or obeyed it instantly.
But this time, I watched it.
I didn’t argue with it. I didn’t shame it. I didn’t cling to it. I just observed:
Do I actually want pie right now?
And the answer was an immediate, solid no.
So I had a coconut bar instead — something that tastes amazing to me, satisfies me, and doesn’t make my blood sugar crash or leave me bloated like pie does.
It wasn’t about choosing the “healthy” option. It was about choosing what I actually wanted.
I’m Not Focusing on What I Eat — I’m Focusing on How and Why
This is the foundation I never built before.
This — the slowing down, the emotional awareness, the consistency, the self-trust — is the work that prevents binges.
This is the work that heals.
This is the work that allows the weight to release naturally later, without forcing it, without punishing myself, and without white-knuckling through cravings.
Right now, I’m not counting calories. I’m not restricting. I’m not trying to be perfect. I’m not chasing a number on a scale.
I’m fixing the fundamentals I’ve ignored for years.
Because when my why is in the wrong place, my how will always follow.
And that’s exactly why the binges happen.
So this season of my life is about:
✨ Choosing consistency over perfection ✨ Eating mindfully, not mindlessly ✨ Listening to my body, not my stress ✨ Rewiring my brain with patience rather than force ✨ Being gentle but firm with myself ✨ Building trust again, one meal at a time
And honestly? It feels like the first time I’m truly making progress.
It’s been a while since I’ve written here—life pulled me in a hundred directions, and in the middle of it, I lost touch with my rhythm. I’ve been busy with work, I’ve been struggling with daily nausea, and I’ve fallen away from mindful eating. If I’m honest, I’ve found myself binging again, too.
That part is hard to admit, but it’s the truth. For me, food freedom and mindful eating aren’t just practices—they’re lifelines. When I drift from them, I feel it. I feel disconnected from myself.
And yet, here I am, writing again. That’s the point I keep coming back to: the important thing is not that I never slip, but that I never give up.
Healing Isn’t Linear
I used to think once I figured out mindful eating, I’d be set forever. But healing doesn’t work like that. It’s messy. It loops back on itself. There are good weeks, and then there are weeks where old patterns sneak back in. That doesn’t erase progress—it just means I’m human.
I’ve been reminded lately that challenges with my health, stress, and life in general will sometimes knock me off track. And when that happens, I have a choice: I can label myself as a failure, or I can see it as part of the journey and gently step back onto the path.
Why I’m Not Giving Up
Every time I return to mindful eating, I feel more grounded. Every time I choose to pause before a meal, even for a breath, I remember that I’m capable of showing up for myself. Every time I share here—even after weeks away—I remind myself that honesty and persistence matter more than perfection.
Not giving up doesn’t mean forcing myself to “do better.” It means allowing myself to begin again, no matter how many times it takes.
If You’re Struggling Too
Maybe you’ve been feeling off track lately. Maybe you’ve slipped back into old patterns or feel like your body is working against you. If that’s you, I want you to hear this: you’re not alone, and you haven’t failed.
The most important thing you can do is not give up. Take one small step today—pause before your next meal, sip water slowly, breathe, or even just notice what you’re feeling without judgment. These tiny choices add up.
One Bite, One Moment at a Time
I’m reminding myself that food freedom doesn’t come from doing everything perfectly—it comes from the decision to keep showing up, one bite and one moment at a time.
So here’s to beginning again, as many times as we need to.
There was a time when I didn’t even realize how often I was reaching for sugar just to soothe myself through the chaos. A moment of frustration, a tired afternoon, a noisy room full of tiny voices calling “Mom!” on repeat — and suddenly I’d be halfway through a pack of chocolate chips, barely remembering how they got into my hand.
But lately, I’ve been practicing something different.
I’m learning to come back to the moment — especially with my kids. Not the perfect, Instagram-worthy moment, but the messy, beautiful, in-between ones: when my son is telling me a long story about his latest Minecraft creation, or when my daughter wants to show me the same jump for the tenth time. Those are the moments I used to try to escape with sugar. Now, I’m trying to be in them instead.
One thing I’ve noticed: the more I resist the present moment, the more I try to control everything around me — especially my kids. I tighten up. I start snapping, micromanaging, needing everything to be just so. But when I soften into what’s actually happening, even if it’s inconvenient or chaotic, I’m a lot more grounded. The urge to control fades. The need for sugar fades too.
The other day I was outside with the kids, and I felt that familiar surge of overwhelm as my mental to-do list started spiraling: I should be working, I should be cleaning, I should be catching up. I could feel the pressure in my chest building, thoughts racing. But instead of getting swept up in it, I noticed the chaos in my head. I deepened my breath. And I looked at my kids.
They were just… playing. Laughing. Being kids.
So I stayed. I chose to watch them, to really see them — and suddenly, everything softened. I felt so grateful for that moment: my kids playing together, the sunshine on my skin, the stillness that was waiting for me underneath all that mental noise. That presence was everything. And it was so much sweeter than anything I could have found in the pantry.
This isn’t about guilt or being the perfect parent. It’s about choosing presence over autopilot. Choosing connection over comfort food. Choosing to feel what’s happening instead of numbing it away.
And honestly? It’s not always easy. Sometimes I still get the urge to disappear into a bag of trail mix or sneak a handful of something sweet while no one’s looking. But I’m getting better at pausing. Breathing. Noticing.
And when I do that — when I stop resisting and just let the moment be what it is — I often realize the thing I was running from isn’t as scary or overwhelming as it felt. Sometimes I even find joy in it.
So now, when I feel that pull to run to the pantry, I try to ask myself:
What if the sweetness I’m craving is already right here?
Because one day, the toys won’t be scattered everywhere. The interruptions will quiet. And I know I’ll miss it — all of it. These days are fleeting, and I want to live them, not numb my way through them.
✨ Try This: A Simple Presence Practice
Next time you feel yourself spiraling with stress or reaching for sugar out of habit, try this tiny reset:
Pause.
Put one hand on your heart or belly.
Take three slow, deep breaths.
Name one thing you can see, one thing you can hear, and one thing you can feel.
Whisper to yourself: “I’m safe to be here now.”
It might seem small, but this shift can help you return to your body — and to the life that’s happening around you.
🌱 Presence Reminders for Daily Life
Here are some gentle cues I’ve used to reconnect when I feel myself slipping into control or autopilot:
– Every time I sip my water, I take a breath and come back to my body. – When my child says “Mom!” for the tenth time, I use that as a grounding moment instead of a trigger. – I leave my phone in another room while spending time with my kids, even just for 10 minutes. – I keep a sticky note nearby that says “This is the moment.”
🧡 One Moment is Enough
If you’re reading this and feeling like it’s hard to be present — you’re not alone. But maybe today, you can choose one moment to slow down and stay. One moment to soften instead of control. One moment to breathe and look around you, just like I did outside with my kids. That one moment is enough. And it’s a start.
I used to think that cravings were my enemy. That if I could just try harder—be more disciplined, more focused, more in control—I wouldn’t end up elbow-deep in the pantry, eating something I didn’t even want.
But the more I tried to force my way out of sugar cravings, the stronger they seemed to become. And honestly? It made me feel broken. Like I was failing at something that should be simple. “Just don’t eat it,” right?
But I wasn’t reaching for sugar because I wanted a treat. I was reaching for sugar because something inside of me was screaming for relief. For escape. For safety.
And sugar, for a long time, felt like the fastest way to quiet the noise.
The Turning Point
It took me a while to see that my sugar binges weren’t really about food. They were about regulation. Every time I felt overwhelmed—by the kids, by my own thoughts, by the pressure to do and be everything—I would find myself in the kitchen. Not because I was hungry, but because I didn’t know how else to soothe myself.
There’s this moment that sticks with me. It was mid-afternoon, both kids were having meltdowns, the house was a mess, and I was running on three hours of sleep. I was standing in front of the pantry, just staring. My heart was pounding. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. And I remember thinking, If I eat something, maybe I’ll feel better.
And that’s when it clicked. I wasn’t reaching for sugar. I was reaching for peace.
Enter: Breathwork
I heard about breathwork years ago, but it always felt too simple. Too slow. I thought it was something people did when they had extra time and soft music playing in the background. Not something you use when your brain is spiraling and your body is begging for comfort.
But I was wrong.
I started practicing breathwork during moments that would usually lead to a binge. And not in some elaborate, Instagram-worthy way. I didn’t light candles or sit cross-legged on a meditation pillow. I just… paused.
I’d put one hand on my chest and one on my belly—so I could actually feel the breath moving through me—and I’d inhale slowly through my nose for four counts. Then I’d exhale through my mouth for six. Sometimes I’d count. Sometimes I wouldn’t. Sometimes I’d cry while I breathed. Sometimes I was just trying not to lose it.
And honestly? It helped.
It didn’t make the hard feelings go away. But it gave me a pocket of stillness. A moment to choose what came next, instead of being dragged by an automatic response I didn’t even understand.
Creating a New Pattern
The hardest part wasn’t learning how to breathe—it was remembering to breathe.
Because when you’ve spent years reacting automatically—grabbing food the moment things get hard—your brain is wired for that shortcut. So I had to retrain it. Gently. Repetitively. Without shame.
And that looked like:
Breathing before opening the pantry.
Breathing before responding to a stressful text.
Breathing when I wanted to escape my own skin.
Breathing when my kids were melting down and I could feel myself about to lose it.
Not always perfectly. Not every time. But enough that it started to feel natural.
What Breathwork Gave Me
Breathwork hasn’t made my cravings disappear. But it has changed my relationship with them. Now, when I feel that old pull—the tightness in my chest, the buzzing in my brain, the tunnel vision toward food—I pause. I breathe. I ask myself, What’s really going on here?
Sometimes the answer is: I’m tired. Sometimes it’s: I’m touched out. Sometimes it’s: I feel unseen.
And sometimes, yeah, I still eat the thing. But now it’s not from a place of panic. It’s a conscious decision. That alone is a win.
Final Thoughts: You Don’t Have to Escape
If you’re anything like me, sugar may have been your refuge. Your way to soften the world. And I want you to know: You’re not weak. You were doing the best you could with the tools you had. I was too.
Breathwork gave me a new tool. A way to come back to my body instead of running from it. A way to ride the waves of discomfort instead of drowning in them.
And it starts with something as small—and as powerful—as one breath.
On Saturday night, we had friends over to play Pandemic. I had bought a bunch of junk food for everyone to enjoy — chips, candy, cakes, you name it. I also picked up some fruit for myself, thinking I’d stick to that while everyone else snacked.
But after dinner, I found myself slipping into that familiar binge mode. The pub mix we had was insanely good, and I kept going back for more. Usually, this is where everything unravels for me. I hit a point where I just stop caring and start eating whatever’s around — sugar, candy, cakes — and it turns into a full-blown binge spiral.
But this time was different.
Instead of punishing myself or saying “screw it,” I forgave myself. I noticed the behavior, but I didn’t shame myself for it. I reminded myself that it was okay. I didn’t need to spiral. I had the rice cakes and fruit I originally planned on, and I didn’t even end up eating any sugar.
That was new.
Then Sunday hit, and I was exhausted. I stayed up late the night before, and Ashlyn (my daughter) woke up three times during the night. I was running on fumes, and early in the day my body started crying out for comfort food.
I listened. I ate when I was hungry and made nourishing choices — not perfect, but mindful.
After lunch, the tiredness deepened, and so did the cravings. I found myself back on the couch with the pub mix, snacking again. But then — again — I hit a familiar mental fork in the road. That voice whispered, “You might as well eat the cakes. You already blew it.”
But I didn’t fall for it.
I paused. I asked myself, “Do I actually want to feel like crap the rest of the day?” And honestly, I didn’t. I wanted to feel good. I wanted to break the cycle.
So I did. I forgave myself again. I reminded myself it was okay to have eaten more than I planned. It didn’t mean I had to throw away the rest of the day. I stayed connected to myself. I ate mindfully. I didn’t touch the sugar. And for me, that was a big win.
This is What It Looks Like to Collapse the Old Timeline
Lately, I’ve been shifting into a timeline where I have a healthy relationship with food — where I trust myself, nourish my body, and live at a natural, healthy weight.
I’m not bingeing like I used to. I’m not weighing myself because I know that stepping on that scale pulls me right back into control mode. It makes me want to restrict, and restricting leads me right back to bingeing.
I don’t want that anymore.
So I’m choosing something different. Every day. Every moment.
I’m choosing to trust the process.
I’m choosing to eat based on how I feel, not how much I want to weigh.
I’m choosing to lean into healthier food because it makes me feel more alive — not because I’m trying to punish myself.
And yes, sometimes I eat snacks that aren’t “ideal.” But the difference now is this:
I forgive myself immediately. I don’t spiral. I don’t abandon myself.
That’s not weakness. That’s growth. That’s power.
For Anyone Struggling With the Same Pattern:
Here’s what I’m learning — and what might help you too:
It’s not about being perfect. It’s about showing up for yourself again and again.
Binge urges are not moral failings. They’re often signals that your nervous system is overloaded, your body is undernourished, or your heart is craving relief.
You can overeat and still choose to return to yourself. You don’t have to throw the day away.
Self-forgiveness is the antidote to the binge cycle.
Presence is power. Even when it’s messy. Especially when it’s messy.
You are allowed to make a different choice at any point. Even after the handful of chips. Even after the second round. Even after the cake.
Every moment is a doorway back to yourself.
And when you walk through that doorway, again and again, you start to collapse the old timeline.
And you begin to live in the one where you are free.
I’m not perfect, but I’m present. And that’s everything.
There was a time when I didn’t even realize I had eaten until I saw the empty wrapper on the counter.
I’d be standing in the kitchen — heart racing, mind spinning, kids yelling in the background — and suddenly I’d find myself halfway through a bag of something sweet or salty, not even remembering how it started. I wasn’t hungry. I was overwhelmed. I was touched-out. I was craving quiet and couldn’t find it. I just wanted to feel better for a second.
That was my normal for a long time.
It felt like food was the only thing that didn’t ask anything of me. It didn’t need me to be patient or regulated or productive or strong. It just let me escape — for a few minutes.
But afterward? I felt worse. Sluggish. Guilty. Distant from my own body. And that’s when I realized: I didn’t want food to be my only safe place. I wanted me to be my safe place.
Mindful eating became my slow return back to myself. Not as a diet. Not as a punishment. But as a way to reconnect. To pause. To listen. To be with myself, instead of running away from everything I was feeling.
What Is Mindful Eating, Really?
Mindful eating is the practice of bringing your full awareness to the act of eating — from the first craving to the last bite. It’s about noticing, choosing, and experiencing your food with intention.
It’s not about eating perfectly, or only eating kale, or giving up sugar forever. It’s not about counting every macro or chewing each bite 47 times.
It’s about breaking the cycle of numbing out, speeding through, and self-shaming. It’s about slowing down long enough to feel safe in your body again.
My Old Patterns: Automatic and Invisible
There were so many triggers I didn’t see clearly until I started paying attention. — When I was alone, especially at night — food filled the silence. — When I was sick or tired, I craved sugar and salt like a lifeline. — When I felt anxious, I needed the crunch or the chew or the sweetness. — When I was overstimulated (hello, toddler meltdowns), it gave me something to control.
It was so automatic, I didn’t even notice it happening. Until I was already knee-deep in brownie batter, or licking the inside of the peanut butter jar, or hiding the wrapper because I didn’t want to admit how out of control I felt.
But mindful eating isn’t about willpower. It’s about awareness.
The goal isn’t to never emotionally eat again. The goal is to notice the why — and then gently decide, “What do I really need right now?”
Sometimes the answer is still food. But other times, it’s a nap. A breath. A moment alone. Or just permission to cry.
What Mindful Eating Looks Like in My Life Now
I’m not perfect at this. I still slip. But I’ve created some habits that help me reconnect before, during, and after I eat.
Before I Eat:
I take a breath — even just one — before I grab something. It gives me a chance to ask: What am I feeling? What do I really need?
I pause and name my hunger. Is this physical hunger or emotional hunger? Both are valid. But they need different care.
I remind myself I’m allowed to enjoy food. This helps take away the guilt, so I can actually feel satisfied — instead of stuck in a shame loop.
While I Eat:
I sit down (when I can). Even if it’s just on the floor with my toddler. I try not to eat standing up like I’m rushing through life.
I put the food on a plate instead of eating from the package. It makes the act feel more intentional.
I check in halfway through. Am I still hungry? Am I full but still wanting more for emotional reasons? Just asking the question helps.
After I Eat:
I take a moment to notice how I feel. Did that food satisfy me? Or am I still needing something deeper — connection, rest, stillness?
I give myself grace. There is no “perfect” here. Some days I eat mindfully. Some days I eat emotionally. Both are human. I’m still healing.
Mindful Eating Is Not About Control. It’s About Curiosity.
For years, I thought healing my relationship with food meant I had to control it. Track it. Conquer it. But it turns out, control was never the answer. Compassion was.
Now, instead of saying, “Why did I eat that?” I ask: “What was I needing?” And that question alone softens everything.
Because at the end of the day, mindful eating isn’t about food. It’s about presence. Awareness. And the courage to stay with yourself — even in the messiest moments.
I’m not here to eat perfectly. I’m here to feel whole.
And every time I eat with intention, every time I choose connection over control, I come home to myself a little more.
If You’re Just Starting This Journey
Here’s what I’d say to you, mama — if you’re where I was:
Start small. Just one breath before eating is enough.
Get curious, not judgmental. Every moment is feedback, not failure.
You don’t need a plan, or rules, or a perfect kitchen. You just need a willingness to come back to yourself.
The goal isn’t to never eat emotionally. It’s to understand what your emotions are asking for.
You’re not broken. You’re just tired. And maybe food was the only one listening for a while. But now… you are.
Sugar has been my constant companion for as long as I can remember. What started as an innocent treat quickly spiraled into a full-blown addiction, consuming my life, my health, and my happiness. But through years of struggle, heartache, and healing, I’ve found my way out—and I want to share everything I’ve learned with you. Here’s the quick version of my story.
When I was around 17 or 18, still living with my parents, I was obsessed with Twizzlers. They weren’t just candy to me; they were nostalgia—memories of movie nights and camping trips. They gave me comfort, routine, and familiarity during a time of transition between adolescence and adulthood. I would sneak them into my room or nibble on them late at night while watching TV. But one day, something bizarre happened that shifted everything.
I was in the shower when I noticed something red coming from my belly button. Panic set in. I thought I was bleeding. I threw on my bathrobe, ran to my mom, and started freaking out. But then, I dug around and pulled out a red, slimy piece. I sniffed it, and that’s when I laughed—it was a piece of Twizzlers! How it got there? I had no clue. I hadn’t even eaten any for five days. After that, my obsession with Twizzlers lost its appeal a little bit. The absurdity of the moment cracked something open in me: maybe this love affair with candy wasn’t so harmless after all.
When I moved into an apartment with my soon-to-be husband, my sugar addiction evolved into something more secretive—and more destructive. Sour Punch Bites became my new obsession. I would walk into Target and somehow always find myself in the candy aisle, pretending I was just grabbing a few things. I remember the thrill of ripping open that bag in the car and stuffing handfuls into my mouth. I wasn’t eating for taste—I was eating to escape.
It was a double life. I would buy huge bags, demolish them before my fiancé got home, and then pretend I wasn’t hungry for dinner. I would throw away the evidence and act like everything was fine. Sometimes, I paired it with Chinese takeout, scarfing it all down in a frenzy of emotional eating. The shame would hit hard afterward, but not hard enough to stop me. I was stuck in a vicious loop—eating because I felt depressed, and then feeling more depressed because I was eating and gaining weight.
I began hiding not just the candy, but myself. I avoided mirrors, avoided intimacy, avoided the truth. I knew I was spiraling. At my worst, I weighed 250 lbs, and I didn’t recognize myself anymore. I was afraid of my own reflection—and of what my addiction might eventually cost me.
My health started to scare me. I went to the doctor for bloodwork, fearing diabetes, which ran in my family. I was borderline pre-diabetic. That terrified me. I tried the Paleo diet, and to my shock, it worked. I lost 80 lbs in a year. I thought I had beaten my sugar addiction. But I hadn’t.
By 2017, I was sugar-free for seven months. That was a huge deal for me—seven months without giving in to cravings, without bingeing, without using sugar to numb my feelings. I felt proud, empowered even. So when my sister’s wedding rolled around, I thought I could handle a single indulgence. One brownie. Just one. A reward for how far I had come.
The moment I took a bite, I felt the flood of emotion and nostalgia rush in. The sweetness hit me like a wave—overwhelming and all too familiar. I hadn’t tasted anything that rich in so long, it was like my taste buds lit up and my brain screamed, “MORE!” I didn’t even finish the whole thing, but it was enough to trigger something deep in me. It awakened the addict part of my brain that I thought I had silenced.
Over the next few days, the cravings grew louder. I tried to resist. I reminded myself how good it felt to be free from sugar. But the memory of that brownie lingered like a siren call. I gave in. Then I gave in again. And before long, I was bingeing like I used to—hiding wrappers, sneaking bites, spiraling into shame. That one brownie felt like it undid months of hard work, and I was devastated.
In 2018, I went on a Hawaii cruise, already feeling guilty for regaining weight. I overindulged the entire trip, convincing myself that it was a once-in-a-lifetime experience and I should just enjoy it. But deep down, I was ashamed. I was already disappointed in my body, in my lack of control, and in the role sugar was still playing in my life. Shortly after that trip, I found out I was pregnant with my first child.
At first, I was ecstatic. I wanted to be the best mom, and I imagined having a glowing, healthy pregnancy. But that vision was quickly overtaken by intense cravings and fatigue. Pregnancy amplified everything—my need for comfort, my anxiety, my hormones. I ballooned to 255 lbs. It felt like I had no willpower. I was eating to soothe myself through every emotion: fear, joy, stress, overwhelm.
My dream of a peaceful home birth was shattered when I developed high blood pressure near the end of my pregnancy. I felt like I had failed before I even started. And motherhood? It hit me like a freight train. I tried to breastfeed, work, and survive on almost no sleep. I felt like I was drowning. Sugar became my anchor—even though it was dragging me down. I stashed candy in drawers, snacked during every feeding, and constantly felt like I was just barely holding it together.
I remember crying because I felt like I was missing out on precious moments with my baby. Everything felt like a blur. Instead of soaking in the early days of motherhood, I was lost in a fog of cravings, exhaustion, and guilt. I wanted to be present. I wanted to remember it all. But sugar had such a grip on me that I could barely catch my breath.
Liam was a whirlwind of energy, always moving, never sitting still. Even as a toddler, he was unlike other kids I saw around us—he was climbing furniture, running in circles, and flipping himself into somersaults when others were calmly walking. It wasn’t until we started taking him to social events or out in public that the contrast became painfully clear. While other kids followed instructions or stayed close to their parents, Liam would dart off, touch everything, and completely ignore me when I called his name. I felt judged. I felt like I was doing something wrong as a mom.
The turning point came in 2024 when Liam was diagnosed with severe ADHD. Hearing the words gave me a mix of relief and grief. Relief because finally, there was an explanation. I wasn’t crazy. I wasn’t just a “bad parent.” And grief because I realized just how much Liam had been struggling—how often his needs went misunderstood, even by me.
What made it even more complex was his perfectionism. He wouldn’t try things unless he thought he could master them. He delayed talking, reading, even walking, not because he couldn’t—but because he didn’t want to do it wrong. And then when he did start? He soared. It was like watching a light switch flip on. He went from speaking a few words to full sentences overnight, and later, from not knowing his letter sounds to reading simple books by the end of kindergarten.
Still, the emotional toll was heavy. His unpredictable energy, the defiance, the meltdowns—it drained me. And when I felt drained, I reached for sugar. That became my coping mechanism, my escape, my fuel when I was running on empty. But the guilt was overwhelming. I wanted to be fully present for Liam. I wanted to understand and guide him, not just survive him. But surviving is exactly what I was doing, one day at a time, using food to numb the chaos I didn’t know how to manage.
After everything I went through with my first pregnancy and early motherhood, I knew I wanted things to be different the second time around. I was determined not to fall into the same patterns. I had learned so much—about myself, my triggers, my body, and my emotional limits—and I made a conscious decision to do better for myself and my growing baby.
This time, I stayed active. I stuck to a workout routine, even if it meant just stretching, dancing, or doing a short Barre workout while my toddler played nearby. I still had cravings—because let’s be real, pregnancy does that—but I didn’t let them take over. I was more aware. More intentional. I didn’t want to lose myself again.
My second child, Ashlyn, was born after a much healthier pregnancy. I felt stronger. And while the newborn stage still came with its own chaos, I didn’t spiral into binge eating the way I had before. I held onto the habits I had formed. I gave myself grace but also structure. And that mindset shift made all the difference. I wasn’t perfect, but I was grounded—and that was new for me.—
I decided to take a stand for my health. It wasn’t a single moment of inspiration—it was more like a quiet resolve that built up over time. The chaos of two young kids, work demands, and the constant cycle of sugar highs and crashes had taken their toll. But when Liam started kindergarten, something shifted. With him at school during the day and Ashlyn being more mellow and manageable, I finally had some breathing room.
For the first time in what felt like years, I had space to think. To notice how exhausted and disconnected I felt. I wasn’t just physically tired—I was emotionally drained. My body hurt, my clothes didn’t fit, and my mind was constantly racing with guilt, shame, and the pressure to do better. I realized I had been in survival mode for far too long.
So I started slow. I went for walks. I made meals that didn’t come in wrappers. I danced again. I remembered how it felt to enjoy movement, not use it as punishment. I didn’t overhaul everything overnight, but I began making one mindful choice at a time. I stopped waiting for motivation and just started taking small, loving actions for myself.
Since then, I’ve lost 25 lbs. But more importantly, I’ve found myself again. I’m still on my journey, still learning how to care for my body and mind, but I finally believe I’m worth the effort. That, for me, was the real turning point.
Mindful Presence: I remind myself to be present, especially with my kids. Instead of turning to sugar for comfort, I focus on cherishing those fleeting moments with them.
Awareness of Triggers: I’ve learned to recognize my triggers—stress, exhaustion, loneliness—and I’m better at catching them before they lead to bingeing.
Healthier Substitutes: I’ve replaced sugary snacks with healthier options I genuinely enjoy, like fresh fruit, yogurt, or nuts.
Self-Compassion: When I slip up, I remind myself that I’m human. I don’t spiral into guilt anymore.
If you’re struggling with sugar addiction, please know you’re not alone. It’s not just about willpower—it’s about understanding yourself, your triggers, and finding healthy ways to cope.
Last night, I had one of those moments—the kind that used to completely unravel me. I was tired. I’d eaten more than I wanted to that day. My body felt uncomfortable and full of that familiar guilt I know too well. But it wasn’t just about food—I’d been carrying a lot emotionally too. I’d uncovered deep truths about myself, about my past, about patterns I’ve lived in for years. It was heavy.
And in the middle of all that, the thought showed up: fruit snacks. That quiet, almost automatic whisper—“Just eat them. You already messed up today anyway.”
And for years, I’ve listened to that voice. I’ve turned to food when things felt too big. Not because I was hungry, but because I didn’t know how else to self-soothe. Not because I didn’t care, but because it felt like the only comfort I had. And I hated that. I hated how fast I could go from tired and overwhelmed to numbing myself with sugar. It always felt like a betrayal—to my body, to my goals, to the version of me that I’m trying to become.
The Pattern I’m Breaking
Usually, the story in my head goes something like this:
“You’ve already messed up today.” “You’re uncomfortable anyway, what’s one more thing?” “Just eat the fruit snacks. You’ll feel better.”
And maybe I would—for about three minutes. But then came the spiral: regret, shame, more guilt, more discomfort. The food was never the problem. It was the way I was using it to disconnect from myself.
What I’m learning is that the urge to eat like that—fast, disconnected, reactive—isn’t about weakness. It’s a trauma response. It’s survival-mode. It’s my body trying to rescue me from emotional overwhelm the only way it knew how.
Last Night Was Different
But something shifted in me last night.
I noticed the thought. I paused. I breathed. And I said, “No. Not this time.”
Not out of punishment. Not out of willpower. But because I finally felt strong enough to sit in the discomfort. To stay connected to myself instead of abandoning her again.
I reminded myself that I was safe, even in the mess. That I could feel full and emotionally raw and still not need to numb it. I let the craving rise and fall. I told the voice in my head, “I hear you. But I’m choosing me instead.”
And it passed.
It Wasn’t About the Fruit Snacks
It was about the story behind them.
It was about the part of me that always believed comfort only comes in a package. The part of me that thought I had to numb my feelings to survive. The part of me that was trained to self-abandon the moment things got hard.
But that part of me isn’t running the show anymore. Last night wasn’t just about saying no to fruit snacks. It was about saying yes to me.
To the woman who is learning to stay. To the woman who no longer needs to prove anything through perfection. To the woman who can feel big feelings without reaching for something to quiet them. To the woman who is healing.
And that small win? It was huge. Because it reminded me that I am not powerless. I am not broken. I am not owned by my cravings or my past.
I am learning to love myself not just when I get it all right, but especially when I don’t. And that, right there, is where real transformation begins.
Yesterday, I had a really healthy day with food. I felt proud of myself. Then, later that night, I was in bed eating some fruit when I accidentally knocked my phone onto the floor. I leaned over to grab it, and that’s when I saw them—an opened bag of crackers I had binged on back on Easter. I had completely forgotten about them until that moment.
And just like that, everything shifted.
I got back into bed, but suddenly I felt hungry—almost uncomfortably so. The excuses started rushing in, like a familiar chorus: You already messed up before, just finish the bag. It’s just this once. You’re probably actually hungry. I didn’t fight them for long. I gave in. And afterward, I felt that deep, heavy guilt. I even woke up in the middle of the night, just kicking myself.
But somewhere between shame and exhaustion, I had a realization: I’ve been doing a good job holding boundaries with others, but I haven’t been holding any with myself.
That moment wasn’t just about crackers—it was about self-trust. It showed me how quickly my brain can fall back into old patterns when I don’t have clear, compassionate boundaries to support me. Not rules. Not restrictions. Just loving guardrails that help me feel safe.
So I’ve decided to start small, with two gentle boundaries that feel right for me right now:
1. No Eating After 8 PM Evenings are when I tend to feel the most vulnerable. I’m tired, emotionally worn, and more likely to confuse other needs—like comfort, rest, or distraction—for hunger. My boundary: I stop eating after 8 p.m. If an urge comes up, I check in with myself: What am I really needing right now?
2. Anchor Phrase for Urges When those sneaky justifications start whispering in my ear, I need a way to interrupt the script. My boundary: When I feel an urge, I pause and say: “This isn’t about hunger—it’s about something else. Let me check in.”
These boundaries aren’t meant to trap me—they’re meant to hold me.
If you’re on a healing journey too, maybe ask yourself: What boundaries am I holding for others that I haven’t yet learned to hold for myself? And what would it look like to offer yourself the same structure and care?
We deserve that kind of self-respect. We really do.
Growing up, I struggled a lot with my weight. After puberty, I started to gain and was thrown headfirst into diet culture. I still remember being barely thirteen and already obsessed with losing fat—desperate to get back to a body I didn’t even realize I was supposed to miss. That’s when binge eating began.
The beginning of my obsession with food didn’t start with a craving—it started with shame.
Feeling constantly deprived, I’d start hiding food in my closet like a squirrel storing nuts for winter. Frozen Cool Whip, melted ice cream, candy—anything I could stash. It was like my body said, “You’ve starved me long enough. Let me take over.” And I let it. Over time, the binges weren’t a choice—they became automatic. I’d lose control, binge, gain weight, feel ashamed, then restrict again. Over and over. I thought about food nonstop—how to avoid it, how to control it, or how to reward myself with it.
I wasn’t just hiding snacks—I was hiding pain, shame, and the feeling that I’d lost control.
By 17, I was regularly binging on entire bags of Cheetos, family-sized Twizzlers, and trays of cheesecake. I felt helpless. My weight fluctuated all through high school, peaking at 190 lbs. I had always imagined being at a healthy weight by graduation, and instead, I was more uncomfortable in my skin than ever.
By 2012, I’d lost some weight and was down to 160 lbs. That’s when I met my husband. We moved into my sister’s basement for a while, which didn’t have a kitchen, so we ate out constantly—usually greasy, comforting fast food. It became our routine: work, dinner, TV. Even after we got our own place, we kept up the habit.
Planning our wedding should’ve been one of the happiest times of my life, but I was deeply depressed. I had gained nearly 100 lbs in two years, topping out at 250 lbs. I felt ashamed and stuck. But I moved forward and got married at that weight—miserable inside. I had horrible reflux, intense anxiety, and this overwhelming sense that I’d let everything get out of control.
I got married at 250 lbs. I wore the dress, said the vows, and carried the shame. But I also showed up—and that matters too.
Everything shifted in 2016 when my doctor warned I was on the verge of prediabetes. That scared me. With diabetes in my family history, I knew I had to change. I started walking daily, eating more intentionally, and discovered intermittent fasting. The 16:8 method worked wonders for me—I lost weight, felt amazing, and by 2017, I was down to 170 lbs when we bought our first home.
She’s been through a lot—but she keeps walking.
But my old habits weren’t gone. I’d still slip into binge patterns when life got stressful, but fasting helped me get back on track. For a while, I maintained. Then, after a cruise in late 2018 (where I gained 10 lbs), I found out I was pregnant.
I was excited—and scared. I hadn’t reached my goal weight, but the timing felt right. I dreamed of a natural birth and started working with a birth center. Things went well until month eight, when my blood pressure climbed. No matter what I tried, it stayed high—likely from my weight, which had crept back up to 255 lbs. When my midwife told me I could no longer birth at the center, I broke down in tears. Once again, my weight felt like it had stolen something from me.
But on August 24, 2019, my son Liam was born. I didn’t lose 50 lbs overnight like I hoped, but nothing else mattered in that moment—I just wanted to be healthy for him.
Exhausted. Overwhelmed. In love. Nursing Liam for the first time and feeling everything all at once.
The months that followed were some of the hardest of my life.
Liam hated sleep. He only calmed while nursing. He had constant gas and cried endlessly. I was working full-time from home and had to return to work the very next day. I was recovering from birth, glued to the couch with a fussy newborn on my boob, answering emails and phone calls—and I was unraveling. Food became my only comfort. I snacked constantly—candy, chocolate, anything to survive the fog. I struggled with baby blues and felt completely trapped.
Sleep training Liam was pure hell. It took forever for him to learn how to fall asleep on his own. But eventually, he did—and with sleep came a sliver of normalcy. My hormones balanced out (finally), and by the time he was about a year and a half, I felt ready to focus on my health again.
I restarted intermittent fasting and began dancing—something I hadn’t done in years. I fell in love with dance workouts and even tried Barre. I got down to 170 lbs in 8 months and felt great.
Zoo day with Liam at 170 lbs. Strong. Happy. Grateful.
And that’s when I got pregnant with baby #2.
This time, I was thrilled to find out it was a girl. I was determined to take better care of myself during this pregnancy—and I did. I exercised, did prenatal Barre, and ate well (with the occasional binge, of course). I worked with a different midwife and avoided the emotional rollercoaster of trying to birth outside the hospital system. Things went much smoother.
Pregnant with baby #2 and hopeful to do things differently this time.
On April 1, 2022, Ashlyn was born. She was perfect—and the complete opposite of Liam. She slept like an angel (so much that I was worried at first!), and I didn’t even have to sleep train her. One night, I just laid her down, and she fell asleep. It felt like a miracle.
But even though Ashlyn was an easier baby, my hormones were still all over the place. I started snacking constantly again, using the excuse that I’d eaten so well during pregnancy. I went on a massive sugar binge right after labor—just me and Ashlyn in the hospital, no food in hours, and a whole bag of candy. That binge was hard to come back from. I wasn’t working out much either—life with two kids and a full-time job was a lot.
This photo holds everything—my weight, my weariness, and my why.
By early 2024, I was back up to 230 lbs. Hitting that number again felt crushing. I had worked so hard after both pregnancies, and here I was—right back where I swore I’d never be. I felt miserable in my body, and the heaviness wasn’t just physical—it weighed on my spirit too. I spiraled into another wave of depression, frustrated that no matter how hard I tried, a healthy weight seemed to keep slipping through my fingers. I wanted it so badly. I dreamed of feeling light, strong, and free in my body—but that dream felt just out of reach, like it always had.
Eventually, I lost a bit of that weight, getting down to 218 by the end of the year, but emotionally, I was still clawing my way out of a fog.
And that brings us to now.
I’m back into intermittent fasting. I’m walking more—aiming for at least 7,000 steps a day—and listening to my body. Some days I exceed that. Some days I rest. I’m working on intuitive eating, letting go of shame, and focusing on nourishment over numbers.
I’m down to 205 as of this writing. It’s slower than I’d like, but I’m learning to trust the process. More importantly, I’m finally addressing the root of it all: the binge eating.
205 today. Stronger than yesterday.
And there’s one more piece of this journey that’s changed everything…
Liam was diagnosed with ADHD. Suddenly, those early struggles—the sleepless nights, nonstop movement, the intense emotions—they all made sense. Parenting a child with ADHD has stretched me in ways I didn’t know were possible. It’s exhausting, beautiful, overwhelming, and sacred all at once.
Stylish. Spirited. Strong-willed. That’s Liam.
There are days I’m overstimulated, touched out, and on the edge—and that’s when the binge urges come back strongest. But now, I’m starting to recognize that what I need isn’t food. It’s a pause. A breath. A moment of self-compassion.
Liam has taught me more about resilience than any diet ever could. And in many ways, this healing journey? It’s not just mine—it’s ours.
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