More than a Before and After

What the Pictures Don’t Show

I couldn’t stop staring at the pictures.

I’ve pulled them up on my phone more times than I can count, just trying to convince myself they’re real.

The first time I saw that “before” picture, I was completely flabbergasted. I knew I was overweight, but I had no idea it looked like that. We didn’t even have a full-length mirror in the house at the time, so I never really saw the full picture.

But seeing them side by side?

It stopped me.

More than a year apart, and it feels like I’m looking at two completely different lives.

Back then, my day-to-day life was the best I could make of it while living with crippling depression and constant pain. My knees were so bad that just getting to the restroom meant using a walker. Some days, even the smallest tasks felt overwhelming.

I knew I was struggling. I knew my quality of life had changed drastically. But the pain was so intense that I could only focus on getting through a couple things each day. Even something as simple as going downstairs felt impossible on my own.

The hardest part wasn’t just the weight.

It was the pain. It was the instability. It was falling. It was needing a walker just to get around, and a wheelchair to leave the house for four years.

That was my reality.

And mentally… I was a mess.

From the outside, I tried to make it seem like I was doing okay. I showed up the best I could. I smiled when I needed to. I said I was “fine.”

But inside, the depression was heavy. It sat with me every day. And when I let myself really think about what my life had become—how much it had changed—it was overwhelming.

So a lot of the time, I didn’t let myself think about it too deeply.

I just focused on getting through the day.

One small thing at a time.

And somehow… even like that, I kept going.

But things weren’t getting better.

My knees kept getting worse and worse. I hadn’t left the house except for doctor’s appointments in about four years. And even that was an ordeal. Getting down the stairs was horrific, and having to use a wheelchair felt humiliating.

Every doctor I saw told me the same thing—I needed to lose weight before they would even consider replacing my knees.

I tried. I really did.

I started to lose a little weight, but not nearly enough to make a difference in their eyes.

And I felt stuck.

Like no matter what I did, I wasn’t going to get out of this.

Until someone stepped in and changed everything.

A friend recommended a doctor who was willing to do the surgery despite my weight.

And that decision changed my life completely.

Each of the three surgeries brought their own kind of pain, and I struggled through all of them.

But somewhere in that process, something shifted.

I learned that I can do hard things.

I started to build a kind of confidence in myself that I didn’t have before. I began standing up for myself more. Things that used to get to me don’t even bother me now, because I know there are more important things to focus on.

Everything feels different.

Sometimes I look in the mirror and it still catches me off guard. It feels like I’m looking at someone else.

But in the best way.

I’m just starting to get back into life again.

And I don’t take that lightly.

“Still going” means something different to me now.

It means continuing to learn.
Keeping faith in the process.
And doing something—anything—each day until those small things turn into bigger ones.

It means not giving up on myself.

And it also means recognizing the people who stood by me through it all.

My husband has been through so much taking care of me over the last couple of years. And a big part of this journey, for me, is finding my way back—not just to myself, but to the wife he once knew.

I’m not finished.

But I’m here.

And I’m still going.