For the longest time—what felt like forever, but was really about ten years—I was stuck at the same weight. More or less. It was frustrating to watch the pounds slowly add up despite regular exercise and what I thought was a reasonably healthy diet.

Perimenopause. Then menopause. A career that became more desk-centric and more sedentary. There were plenty of reasons why—and plenty of excuses to explain it—but I still wasn’t at peace with my body, especially my belly.

I tried so many different approaches. Whole30. The Clean Program. Giving up gluten. Giving up dairy. Clearing the pantry of snacks. Even eliminating ice cream for long stretches. Still…178 pounds, more or less.

I even stopped drinking alcohol, convinced the weight would simply fall off. It didn’t.

And there I was.

Then something shifted.

I realized I needed to stop. Stop with the excuses. Stop telling myself that a little ice cream here or chips there didn’t matter. Stop pretending I was really trying to lose weight when, if I was honest, I wasn’t fully committed.

It also bothered me that, according to every ridiculous BMI calculator on Google, I was considered obese. I know BMI isn’t the whole story, but seeing that word attached to my height and weight stung.

With two of my sons getting married this year—and growing more frustrated every time I tried on a dress—I decided it was time to get serious.

I walked every day.

Forget running. Forget cycling. Forget trying to squeeze in yoga or a fitness class at the Y. I downloaded an app that held me accountable, gave me a walking plan, and assigned different distances each day. I walked for 28 consecutive days and simply made the time.

At the same time, I stopped eating gluten, sugar, dairy, and red meat. I ate a lot of fruit. A lot of chicken. Every morning I had a smoothie for breakfast. If I needed a snack, it was a handful of almonds or cashews. I meal-planned instead of grabbing whatever was easiest.

Perhaps the biggest change was keeping a twelve-hour window between dinner and breakfast the next morning. I learned about something called “digestive rest”—giving your body enough time to process what you’d eaten before asking it to do it all over again. I really liked that break. If I wanted something after dinner, I’d make hot water with lemon or a cup of chamomile tea.

Then something happened that I wasn’t expecting.

It felt like my body finally switched gears and started burning fat.

In the past, whenever I tried to lose weight, I never seemed to get to that point. Looking back, I wonder if my body was always filled with stress and cortisol, hanging on to every ounce because it thought it was living through another period of deprivation.

This time felt different.

Yes, I was hungry sometimes—especially between my morning smoothie and lunch—but the hunger changed. It softened. I wasn’t constantly thinking about food anymore.

It’s been two months.

I’ve lost thirteen pounds.

I’ve relaxed some of my rules. I still love a really good sandwich now and then, and I certainly enjoy a piece of cheese. But I’ve kept my morning smoothies. I’ve continued avoiding nighttime snacking. And I’ve kept walking.

Most importantly, I feel good.

I feel strong.

I feel healthy.

My dresses fit better. I like the way I look in a bathing suit again. One of my sons got married recently, and instead of dreading every photograph, I found myself looking at the pictures and thinking, “These are actually pretty good.”

No—not pretty good.

They’re more than okay.

Of course, it’s not perfect. Parts of my legs still jiggle, and there is definitely something suspicious happening to the underside of my upper arms. Menopause has a sense of humor, apparently.

But overall, I feel relieved.

I’m sharing this partly for accountability, but mostly because I remember how discouraged I felt. Helpless, in some ways. Like nothing would ever change.

What I’ve learned is that sometimes the biggest change isn’t a new diet or a new workout.

It’s a different mindset.

For me, it wasn’t about punishing myself. It was about finally making a promise to myself—and keeping it.

And once I did, everything else became possible.