The Road to Me - A Journey of Humour, Health, and Hope

  How Bureaucracy Broke Me and Pastry Put Me Back Together Somewhere between the fourth government office and the fiftieth sigh of frustration, I realized I was losing the battle. Not just against the unholy inefficiency of bureaucracy, or the slow, soul-sucking agony of standing in yet another line—but against my own damn sanity. It was supposed to be simple. Mission: Renew driver’s license. Estimated time: Maybe an hour. Expectation: A productive, responsible adult moment. Reality: A downward spiral that ended with me stress-eating cheesecake like it was a life raft in the middle of an emotional shipwreck. Government Offices: The Ninth Circle of Hell The day started with hope. A foolish, reckless kind of hope. I had my paperwork. I had my ID. I had brushed my hair, which should count as a sign of extreme optimism. But the moment I walked into the licensing department, I knew I had made a grave mistake. The line wrapped around the building like a snake, coile...

  ➕ Week 1 - Stats Ozempic Dosage:  0.25ml Start Weight:  116.3kg (256.4 lbs.) End Weight:  114.3kg (251.98 lbs.) Total Weight Loss:  2.0kg (4.41 lbs.) Exercise:  I tried but my body failed Energy Level:  Low but optimistic Mood:  Nervous optimism with bursts of laughter Sleep Quality:  Surprisingly restful after emotional exhaustion Mental Focus:  Sporadic; overly fixated on syringes and thoughts of a tropical island Social Engagement:  Minimal; avoided eye contact with cake on counter Self-Care:  Coffee instead of wine; considered yoga but got distracted by Netflix Side Effects of Ozempic:  exaggerated paranoia around syringes Time spent staring at syringe like it owed me money:  18 minutes, 34 seconds Number of times I considered quitting:  12 (including 1 serious contemplation involving a croissant) Total battle scars...

  From Isolation to Connection: A Reluctant (and Slightly Bitter) Journey I have spent an alarming amount of time in my own company. And honestly? I preferred it that way. If avoiding people were an Olympic sport, I’d have more gold medals than Michael Phelps.  Wrapped in a blanket cape, clutching my coffee like a trophy, I was a champion of solitude. For years, I convinced myself that isolation was just me being an introvert—except it wasn’t just that. It was self-preservation. Because, let’s be real, people disappoint.  They lie They leave They take They rarely give back what they borrow—whether it’s trust, kindness, or tangible things (still not over it, Janet, that was my favorite book). So I withdrew. I built walls so high they could qualify as medieval fortifications. I stopped reaching out, stopped answering texts, stopped expecting people to be anything but disappointing. And for a while, it felt... safe. Until it didn’t. Why We Retreat The descent int...

  The Fog That Stole My Brain It started as a simple mission: walk into the kitchen, grab my keys, and leave like a functional adult. Five minutes later, I was standing in front of the fridge, holding a block of cheese like it held the secrets of the universe, with zero recollection of how I got there. This is my life now—a never-ending game of “Why Did I Just Open This App?” except the app is my brain, and it runs at the speed of a 2003 flip phone. The world is a high-speed fiber-optic network, and I’m just here, buffering on dial-up. Some people call it brain fog. I call it living in a constant loading screen. Words disappear mid-sentence. Thoughts escape before they fully form. And just when I think I’ve regained control, food noise crashes the party like an uninvited guest who won’t take a hint. The Science Behind Brain Fog & Screen Time: A Comedy of Errors Why does my brain feel like a browser with 47 tabs open, all playing different YouTube videos at once? ...

  Like all Doomed Love Stories, it started with Delusion Every toxic love story starts with a lie. Mine? I met AquaShawn just last week, and I truly believed— this time, it would be different. . I had been hurt before. Abandoned half-full bottles, forgotten hydration promises, the occasional late-night fling with a disposable cup—but AquaShawn? He was special. He was tall, sleek, expensive, and promised me things I had long given up on. Glowing skin. Increased energy. A body that wasn’t operating solely on caffeine and stubbornness. "It’s you and me, Shawn," I whispered in the car on the way home. "We’re gonna drink two liters a day. We’re gonna hydrate like responsible adults. We’re gonna be unstoppable." I meant it! For the first 48 hours, our relationship was blissful. I carried AquaShawn everywhere—the kitchen, the living room, the car. I lovingly refilled him first thing in the morning, like a devoted partner making coffee for their significant other. I ignore...

  The (Ill-Fated) Decision to Exercise I have always had a complicated relationship with exercise.  And by “complicated,” I mean nonexistent. It’s not that I didn’t understand the benefits of movement. I knew exercise was supposed to be good for the heart, the body, the soul, blah blah blah. But let’s be honest, if sweating was so wonderful, why does it feel like a punishment? Still, after surviving The Great Pharmacy Quest (and my near-death experience with a toddler in a doctor’s office), I figured it was time to take this whole health thing seriously. The problem? My body wasn’t exactly on board. I wasn’t some fresh-faced 22-year-old bouncing into the gym with boundless energy. No, I was 58 years old, creaky, and possessed the flexibility of an overcooked lasagna noodle. And worst of all? I. Hate. Sweating. I’m sorry, but the moment moisture starts dripping down my back, my soul leaves my body. My ancestors did not survive plagues, wars, and the invention of Crocs just for ...

Alright, let’s get one thing straight—I have spent way too much time at rock bottom, basically treating it like an all-inclusive resort for bad decisions and self-pity. If rock bottom had a loyalty program, I’d have enough points for a free stay. Climbing out isn’t some cinematic moment where I suddenly glow up into my best self with a montage and a motivational soundtrack.   Nope. It’s a series of tiny, painfully unglamorous choices. It’s trading self-sabotage for self-respect, learning to sit with discomfort instead of sprinting toward distraction, and—most importantly—sticking to the damn thing, even when my brain is throwing a tantrum and demanding I crawl back under a blanket fort with a family-sized bag of chocolate. So, in the name of radical accountability (and because the threat of public shame works wonders on my motivation), I’m introducing my  Comeback Code – A no-BS guide to rebuilding myself, one non-negotiable at a time.—aka my SLA (Self-Love Agreement) with m...