I've spent 12 weeks trying to tackle this weight thing. 12 weeks of showing up, sweating everywhere, pushing and pulling myself into something better. 12 weeks of nearly perfect attendance. And I've signed up for 6 more weeks.

These days, I run after the kids. Today I chased bicycles, ran in circles, tossed a ball around. Yesterday, I missed a phone call because we couldn't hear the ring over the ruckus we were raising, stomping our feet and spinning around, doing our wild crazy dance. The other night, I took all three kids out bicycling by myself. I'm almost new. I dance with a new freedom of being, knowing joy found in setting some goals and achieving them.

My freedom is fragile. I'm still enslaved to my addiction. I still stuff my feelings under helpings of cake. I justify my fast food stop. I'm drowning in my own skin.

Yesterday (after the dancing incident) I overhear my mother in law talking about this exercise thing I've been doing. She was almost bragging on me, talking about the strenuous work I've been doing. I felt like such a fraud. Today, I put on a pair of pants that fit two weeks ago... and could barely button them. Tomorrow, I'm supposed to spend the afternoon in a swimsuit, surrounded by thin and fit people, and canoe down a river.

I packed a pair of shorts and a tshirt to wear, because I'm not sure I can brave the suit all afternoon. Out of the water. I tried to bow out of this adventure last week, but my convenient excuse was solved for me and I was too chicken to admit the real problem.

I don't feel joyful. I just want to cry. And eat. I feel like such a failure. And I don't know how to say it outloud to the people who care, can help, will support. So I dug back into this space, because it feels like the whispered in the dark admission.