For three years, give or take, I sat in church basements and event rooms and stood to say, “My name is Jaclynn, and I am an alcoholic.” Sometimes it came out like a mouse’s squeak. Sometimes it boomed like I owned the loudspeaker. Shame, pride, and every belief I held about myself met me there. And after enough time, three plus years or so, something in me that once stood wholeheartedly didn’t want to anymore. So I stopped going.
Being proud of my weight loss feels similar to standing up at AA.
When I look at my starting number from fourteen months ago—thirty-four pounds heavier—it feels like admitting I was arrested for drunk driving at three times the legal limit. Head down. Mirror unavoidable. That long, hard look at how far you’ve drifted from who you thought you were.
In AA, you share your courage, strength, and hope. My weight loss is a testament to what’s possible. Now, my physical health is non-negotiable. That it ever wasn’t boggles my mind—but I also get it. I didn’t care. I told myself that on repeat: It doesn’t matter. I’ll get to it. Don’t worry.
But I did worry. I did care. And it does matter.
So I’ve built safeguards. I can miss one day, but never two. If the scale creeps up, I reset with a longer fast. The structure saves me when the “I don’t want to” voice gets loud.
Too bad, I tell myself. You have to.
Just yesterday I told Dave about the ache in my hip and lower back—the predictable soreness of using muscles again. I’d rather feel the pain of pushing myself than the dull ache of being sedentary, watching time and my life tick by.
I will not go gently. I am capable. To not to is not an option. Not just today or tomorrow—but long term.
And yet I worry I’ve overshared. That this isn’t what I was meant to write. There’s a strange feeling when a piece clicks—like brushing up against purpose. Each page has one, and it’s my job to find it. Some days it taps me on the shoulder, and I simply transcribe. I love those days.
Today is a pickaxe day. Full overhead swings. Digging for one clear sentence at a time, then staring at it, unsure what it means or how it connects. It’s frustrating. It also makes the easy days sweeter.
I should probably bring my heart rate down. My average BPM lately is 166. The rule of thumb says 220 minus your age is the max, then train at 50–85% of that. I’m not sure if hovering high is actually risky or just my imagination spinning.
In my head, my heart is the Hoover Dam—water blasting through, clearing plaque with every thump.
In reality, it might just be working too hard.
Maybe it will settle as I run more. Perhaps my breathing and pulse will sync up, smooth out, and I’ll glide instead of grind.
That’s the hope.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 