The Oatmeal Was Never Just Oatmeal

This past weekend, I ate a bowl of oatmeal.

I know. Big news.

But I had not eaten oatmeal in years. Not because I did not like it. I love oatmeal—especially with walnuts, brown sugar, a dabble of milk, and a sprinkle of cinnamon.

My absolute favorite way.

I had stopped eating it because somewhere along the way, I decided oatmeal was bad. Carbs were bad. Bread was bad.

And apparently, oatmeal with brown sugar was really bad.

But this weekend, I ordered it anyway. I paired it with eggs, took the first bite, and just smiled. It was warm and sweet and delicious. Almost a week later, I still smile when I think about that first taste.

The oatmeal was whimsically wonderful.

But I think what I loved most was enjoying it without immediately feeling guilty.

When Food Became Good or Bad

For years, I have labeled food.

Good food. Bad food. Food I was allowed to eat and food I needed to avoid. Food that meant I was doing well and food that somehow proved I lacked discipline.

I have gained a significant amount of weight since going through surgical menopause fifteen years ago. At the time, I had no idea what surgical menopause could do to my body. No one talked to me about hormone replacement or explained the changes I might experience.

I only knew the weight was coming on.

And I blamed myself.

I have tried so many diets over the years that I could not begin to list them all. With each new attempt, I believed this would finally be the one. I would try harder. Be more disciplined. Follow the rules more closely.

And when it did not work—or when I could not maintain it—I assumed I was the problem.

There was an added layer of shame too.

I had kicked cancer’s butt, so to speak. I had survived treatment, surgeries, complications, and more than a few difficult days.

Yet here I was, approximately seventy pounds overweight.

How could I survive all of that but not get control of my weight?

The more I learn, the more I realize it is not that simple.

My choices certainly matter. But so do surgical menopause, changing hormones, chronic health conditions (like lymphedema), stress, poor sleep, medications, pain, mobility, and a body that has been through a lot.

Maybe all of this weight was not simply proof that I had neglected myself.

Maybe my body was not the enemy.

I Was Sick of Myself

A few weeks ago, I had it.

Honestly, I was sick of myself.

Sick of starting over. Sick of thinking about what I should and should not eat. Sick of telling myself that tomorrow—or Monday, because apparently Mondays hold special powers—I would finally get it together.

So I asked myself a simple question:

What is one thing I could try that would be a win?

Not a complete life overhaul.

Not a new diet, an exercise challenge, a list of supplements, and a promise to become an entirely different woman by next Tuesday.

One thing.

I decided to stop drinking alcohol.

I am now almost three weeks alcohol-free, and I am learning so much about how alcohol was affecting my body. I am watching my sleep, stress, heart rate, and HRV. I am using the numbers to help me check in with myself—not to give myself another grade.

Before I do something physical, I pause. And I ask myself…

Do I have the capacity for this today? Will this help my body or add more stress?

That may sound like common sense, but it is very different from how I used to live.

My Do-and-Die Cycle

Before, when I felt good, I tried to do everything.

I would swim, take a thirty-minute walk, clean the house, work, garden, run errands, and squeeze in whatever else I could.

Then I would crash.

One good day was often followed by three days of recovery.

I call it my do-and-die cycle.

I would do all the things, use every ounce of energy I had, and then wonder why my body could not keep up.

Then I would feel guilty because I needed to rest.

I am beginning to understand that my body may not have felt safe. Every time it gave me a little more energy, I used all of it—and then some. I kept borrowing from tomorrow, just to get through today.

Now I am trying something different.

One intentional physical thing a day.

That does not mean I answer one email and declare the day complete. It means I do not automatically stack swimming, walking, cleaning, gardening, and everything else on top of one another simply because I woke up feeling decent.

Sometimes I swim. Sometimes I walk. Sometimes I work in the garden.

And sometimes I recognize that the best choice is to rest before I completely run out of energy.

What surprises me is that by doing less, my body seems to be giving me more.

A Weekend That Should Have Wiped Me Out

This past weekend was not quiet or restful.

We drove three hours each way for our granddaughter’s hockey tournament. We had our grandchildren with us and were responsible for getting everyone to the right games at the right times.

I was also working.

Then my husband became very sick, and we ended up making an unexpected late-night trip to the emergency room.

I was driving through an unfamiliar city at night in an unfamiliar vehicle. I was already about ten hours short on sleep for the week.

It was chaos.

And yet, during the weekend, I swam twice. Not because I forced myself to complete a workout. I swam because it felt good.

My stress scores rose during the emergency, as they should have, but they also came back down. My body handled the weekend better than I expected.

I was tired. The sleep deprivation was real.

But I did not completely crash.

And I keep thinking about why.

The circumstances were stressful, but I was listening to myself. I was not using every little bit of energy and then demanding more. I was checking in. I was responding instead of fighting.

Maybe my body felt a little safer.

The Oatmeal Was Never Just Oatmeal

That is why the oatmeal mattered so much.

It was not because oatmeal is the answer. I am not suggesting everyone needs to go eat a bowl of it tomorrow morning.

It was because I ate something I had labeled bad and discovered that nothing bad happened.

I paired it with eggs. I enjoyed the walnuts, the brown sugar, the dabble of milk, and the cinnamon.

I did not spend the rest of the day trying to make up for it. I did not promise myself I would eat less later. I just enjoyed my breakfast. And almost a week later, the memory still makes me smile.

It is amazing how much more room there is for joy and creativity when you are not spending all your mental energy feeling guilty about food.

I am early in this journey, and I do not have it all figured out. I am not a health coach. I am not offering anyone a diet plan or telling another woman what she should eat, drink, or do with her body.

I only want women to know that perhaps the answer is not always another outside rule.

Maybe part of the answer is learning to listen to ourselves.
Maybe our bodies have been trying to speak, but the guilt, shame, and noise have been louder.
Maybe healing does not begin with another promise to try harder.
Maybe it begins with one question:

What does my body need from me today?

This is not really a weight-loss journey.

It is a journey toward ending the war with my body.

And this weekend, peace looked like a warm bowl of oatmeal—with walnuts, brown sugar, a dabble of milk, and just the right amount of cinnamon.