The Weight You Don’t See

May 5

Living Without A Stomach

Last night, I cried myself to sleep.

Not because something went wrong.
Because, for once, something finally went right.

Each night, I step on the scale. It’s become a ritual. A quiet moment where I find out if I moved forward… or slipped backward again.

For a long time, I told myself I didn’t need to get back to the “old me.” That version is gone. I’ve made peace with that.

But I did set one goal.

Get back to the weight I was when my feeding tube was removed.

119 pounds.

There have been so many nights where I was sure I’d hit it… only to somehow lose weight instead. Despite doing everything to gain.

But this time, I hit it.
Exactly.

119.0

And the next night?

119.4

I didn’t lose it. I held it. I even gained a little.

That number might not mean much to anyone else. But to me, it represents 953 days of fighting my own body just to maintain something most people never have to think about.

I went into my first surgery at 150 pounds.

After everything that followed… ER visits, complications, missed time with family, missed a full summer of wildflower photography… I came out at 107 pounds.

I climbed back to 119 with a feeding tube.
Had it removed… and dropped right back to 107. Gross.

That’s where the real fight started.

What most people don’t see isn’t the number on the scale.

It’s everything behind it.

My entire day now revolves around food… and the consequences of it.

I eat five to six times a day.
Every meal must be drawn out and is followed by 30 minutes to an hour of recovery. Do the math.

Pain.
Bloating.
Gas.
Unpredictable reactions that can derail the rest of the day.

Just as I start to feel functional again… it’s time to eat again.

And the cycle repeats.

Energy isn’t a given anymore.

Simple tasks, things I used to do without thinking, now feel like major efforts. Errands, chores, and even staying on my feet for extended periods can leave me extremely drained.

I’ve lost strength. Stamina. Confidence in my own body.

Sleep doesn’t fix it. Most nights are broken by mental discomfort, which just feeds into the exhaustion the next day.

Speaking of the mental side.

My mind doesn’t slow down anymore.

It’s constantly planning…
What to eat
When to eat
What might go wrong
How I’ll recover

I start things and don’t finish them. Not because I don’t want to… but because focus slips, energy fades, or something physical interrupts the moment.

I live in a constant brain fog.

I rely on alarms, reminders, systems, things I never needed before, just to keep track of basic daily life.

That wears on you.

Emotionally, this has changed me more than anything else.

I’ve also had to wrestle with depression in ways I never really understood before this.

Some days, the physical side of all this is the easier part.

The harder part is trying to stay mentally present while carrying the constant weight of what was lost, what changed, and what still feels uncertain.

Not sadness. Not frustration.

I mean the kind of weight that quietly follows you through the day, even when nothing around you looks wrong.

Before all of this, I can count on one hand the number of times I cried as an adult.

Now?

It happens more than I’d like to admit.

Frustration builds faster. Patience runs thinner. Small things feel bigger than they should.

There’s a constant underlying weight, anxiety about what’s next, frustration about what’s been lost, and the quiet thought in the background…

Is this just how it is now?

Socially, things have shifted too.

Food used to be part of connection. Now it’s a source of stress.

Going out means planning. Worrying. Sometimes avoiding it altogether.

There are moments where I have to leave unexpectedly. Times where I just don’t go.

And then there’s the part no one talks about…

Explaining.

Why I look the way I do.
Why I eat the way I do.
Why I disappear from a table.

Or worse… not explaining, and knowing people are filling in the blanks themselves.

That gets exhausting.

Even photography, something that’s been a constant for me for so long, has changed.

I still teach when I can. I still show up when I’m able.

But I feel it.

On group walks, I’m often at the back.
Trailing behind people who, not long ago, I would’ve easily kept pace with.

It’s a quiet reminder of how much has changed.

And now, just as I feel like I’m starting to figure out how to live like this…

I’m going back into surgery.

Not laparoscopic.
Not simple.

They’re opening me up again.

There’s too much scar tissue. Too many complications.

I’ve been here before.

I’ve been on the table while doctors waited to see what would live… and what wouldn’t.
I’ve had the conversations about infection, sepsis, organ failure.
I’ve dealt with the aftermath… and I’m still dealing with parts of it today.

So yeah… this decision carries weight.

This blog has two purposes.

The first is for the people around me.

If I’ve seemed distant, reclusive, unpredictable, or just not myself… this is partly why. I’m not pulling away.

Maybe I am, but I’m not trying to.

I’m adapting to something that changes day by day.

The second is for anyone walking a similar path.

If you’ve lost your stomach, or might, you may already know this isn’t just a medical condition.

It’s a complete rewrite of daily life.

Food. Energy. Routine. Social life. Identity.

I’m going to start sharing what I’ve learned.

What works. What doesn’t.
The small adjustments that actually make a difference.