My eyes are glitching, and it’s breaking my brain.

In a casual conversation with a coworker last week, I mentioned in an offhand way that I’m “still a big girl”. When she began her reply to that part of the conversation, she opened with, “First of all, no one sees you as a big girl. You know that, right?” It blew my entire mind hearing that.

No one sees me as a big girl.

…Except me.

I do double and triple takes in store windows and mirrors when I catch my reflection unexpectedly. It doesn’t compute that I’m the person I’m seeing in there. But at the same time, when I look at myself deliberately, all I can see are the parts that I’m still not happy with — or I’m newly unhappy with.

Stomach still big.
Fingers still chubby.
Upper arms and inner thighs carrying loose skin.
Ass shapeless.
Chest saggy.

Maybe lifelong fatties are destined to never be satisfied with how they look. Yet somehow, I’m still thrilled with the results from a data standpoint.

The night I came home from work after that conversation with my coworker, I realized that I’d lost more than 35 pounds in the time my coworkers have known me. This means that not only have they never known me not in transition, but they never knew me as THE big girl.

I further realized that no one who meets me from this point forward will be meeting an obese person.

Now that it’s full-on summer, I find myself without comfortable sleepwear that fits. In one of my periodic wardrobe culls yesterday, I found some old t-shirts and tank tops that I have had forever and never been able to wear… except that they’re loose in the upper torso. That’s when it hit me that I hardly ever wear anything other than sports bras nowadays, and it hit me that actually, I haven’t been filling out my regular bras lately.

This prompted a bra shopping trip where I tried on exactly a dozen bras, just trying to identify my size now. I was truly shocked to discover I’ve lost another cup size and TWO more band sizes. All told, I’ve dropped from a 44DD to a 36C. What. I have some bras in that size lying around at home from when I was in high school. HIGH SCHOOL. Between those and the two I bought on clearance yesterday, I should be covered for a while. I don’t want to invest in a whole new suite of bras until my body is done recomposing itself — and that’s still a good 30+ pounds away. But I am not at all processing the itty bitty titty sitty situation.

Then this morning, for my weekly weigh-in, I clocked a new lowest-ever (adult) weight: 172.0 lbs.
I’m not only on the 160 side of 175; I’m on the 150 side of 175: I’m closer to 160 than to 180, and closer to 150 than to 200.

Losing 100 pounds and getting below 200 were huge milestones, but this? This has me shook in a way neither of those numbers did. Not because I didn’t think it was possible, but because for so long it wasn’t — and now it is.

One hundred and twenty-nine pounds down, and within spitting distance of the 160s. Within sight of The Finish Line beyond that. After all the running, the lifting, the self-coaching, the right choices, the meal prepping, the showing up when no one was watching and I didn’t feel like it… I’m here. And as they say, I didn’t come this far to come this far.

In a way, I’m glad I’m not seeing myself clearly right now, whatever that even means. There’s work to do, and nobody but me is gonna do it. Eventually, my eyes will probably catch up with reality, and maybe even with the eyes of others. Until then — and even after then — it’s go time.