I did it. But ‘it’ wasn’t even a goal. Just this past weekend I dropped below 200lbs for the first time since I was a freshman in college. And it wasn’t a goal. Let me explain.
When I finally said enough is enough and began to choose life, began to choose health, began to choose freedom, I set an incredibly fantastic goal. Last January I was inspired to clearly define my goals for the year and put something measurable to them as a way to keep track. I laughed to (perhaps at?) myself when I wrote down for my commitment to working out “Get to 215lbs.” That was outrageous. It was early January and I was 265, and I was saying lose 50lbs. Really, 215 just sounded nice at the time. It sounded manageable, something I could live with being at.
The picture of me at the end of February last year is someone who had something to smile about. I had already lost 25lbs since writing down my goal! A major confidence boost for sure. Those were new jeans and a new shirt because baggy jeans are not a thing anymore I guess. I was about to head to Florida and be the best man in my friend’s wedding. Things were looking good.
But here is the thing. When I got to 215 later on in the year, it was hitting a goal, but it was now cemented as a lifestyle. I found myself pressing on further. I found myself pressing on when things were going wrong all around me. I pressed on when a lot of other things have changed in my life. I kept going.
I was pretty happy last February. I realized I could change and start moving towards being unstuck. But the lesson is clear: keep moving, and keep moving after that. Goals are not only meant to be broken but smashed. You have to take your small victories and celebrate them when they happen and then wake up the next morning onward towards the next challenge.
I really never thought I would see a “1” in the hundreds column again on the scale. I actually panicked a second because I saw the “99” and thought I was at 299 somehow.
I’m pressing on, “‘cause my feet have the scars to show.”