By Katie Jay, MSW; Certified Life & Wellness Coach I was about two years out from bariatric surgery when I “came to” in my bedroom closet—rooting around in my underwear drawer, searching for the candy bar I had hidden where no one else would look. I felt guilty and ashamed, but that didn’t stop me. I ate it right there in the closet, in less than a minute. My urgency scared me. I remember thinking, “If this is what it’s going to be like, I’m in trouble.” So, how did I get there? And more importantly, how did I find the strength to reboot my bariatric lifestyle and regain my sense of control? From Triumph to Trauma The first 20 months after surgery were incredible. I went from 331 pounds to 160 and was thrilled with my progress. I was even preparing for plastic surgery. What I wasn’t prepared for was a horrible bowel obstruction that changed everything. The obstruction was complicated. I spent seven hours in surgery, endured two cardiopulmonary resuscitations, and stayed nearly three weeks in the hospital. When I was finally discharged, I left in shock—traumatized and devastated. That’s when I turned to comfort eating. I began hiding chocolate and sneaking it, just like I had as a child. Food as Comfort: A Familiar Pattern Growing up, I was the kid who was always hungry—and my mother hid all the candy from me. I needed to know my chocolate would be there when I needed it. That childhood need reawakened during my recovery. Even though I had spent the first two years post-op following all the guidelines—tracking everything, going to therapy, attending support groups, taking supplements, exercising—my emotional eating took off after the obstruction. I regained 40 pounds. The Turning Point (and the Dog) After my obstruction surgery, my emotional eating took off. I have a memory of my husband holding me as I sobbed. After a while, he moved back a little and held my face between his warm hands. He leaned in, and we touched foreheads for a moment. As I continued to sob, I found myself saying: “I want a dog.” (He had refused to adopt a dog for the first 20 years of our marriage). He pulled back and smiled. “Okay,” he said. “Get a damn dog.” It was the first time I had laughed since my hospital stay. I adopted a dog the next day. Healing With Help—and a Lot of Walks I tell this story now, because it’s been 18 years, and I still thank my husband nearly every day for agreeing to adopt a dog. Our first dog, Ruby, passed away in 2017, after nearly a decade of companionship—and who knows how many miles of walking. She was the friendly, happy being who didn’t let me sit on the couch and feel sorry for myself, who walked me for miles, and gave back to me my strength and a healthier weight. I’d love to say that’s the end of the story, but much to my disappointment, I had a second, serious illness in 2017, right after Ruby passed away. After I sat in my recliner crying and snacking for a few weeks, my husband declared, “You need a dog!” Biscuit and I have walked more miles than I can count. Building Resilience My medical challenges have continued, but I have become resilient. I know what works for me and much to my delight, I trust myself to find my way back when I struggle. It’s become almost automatic. The minute I realize I’ve fallen, I get up. Sometimes we arrive at the other side of bariatric surgery and still believe we have to be perfect. We have to be a certain size. When perfection doesn’t happen, we can slip into shame, and even self-loathing. But we are not helpless or hopeless. My Go-to Strategies for Rebooting Here are some of my strategies to find the strength to get back up when I fall: I talk it out. I talk to my husband, my therapist, my bariatric friends—whoever has the bandwidth to help me sort out what’s going on. I walk my dog. I have this sweet dog I have to walk two or three times a day. Being sedentary isn’t an option, no matter how much I don’t want to walk. I take small steps. I make progress slowly, with attention to what I am willing to do and what I dread. After my obstruction, I started by walking to the end of the hall and back. I added a little each day. After a couple of months, I was walking miles. I take action. I found that doing anything is better than doing nothing. The more action I took, the more motivated I became. I practice self-awareness. I can’t be strong enough to handle difficult things if I am not aware of my feelings, don’t know (deep down) what I really need, and don’t know how to—or won’t—ask for help. I work on self-compassion. I learned how to view myself with compassion. This didn’t come easily. I had to learn how to do it from others who had done it. I have my own back. I developed a kind relationship with myself, acknowledge when I’m suffering, and know I can count on myself to have my own back. I step out of my comfort zone. I practiced getting out of my comfort zone as a way to become stronger and more confident. It’s both scary and amazing! I experimented with everything. Even my chocolate! I happily taste-tested to find a chocolate that was good enough to check the box, and dark enough I wouldn’t want to overeat it. (I had a great time doing this experiment)! I let go of perfectionism. Every day, I encourage myself to let go of my perfectionism and black-and-white thinking. It’s a practice of letting go over and over again. I believe in progress, not perfection. I came to believe, down to my bones, I don’t have to be perfect to make progress. Final Thoughts Over the years, I have sought out people, places, and practices that strengthen my resolve and support my well-being. I enjoy a group of nonjudgmental, supportive, imperfect friends who help me when I need it; a dog who smiles at me when she wants to walk (I can’t resist that); and my practices around self-awareness, self-compassion, and self-care. I’ve developed the strength to get up when I fall and take care of myself. I trust myself to do that no matter what—without judgment.