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

  Ozempic:  Harder to Find Than a Parking Spot at Christmas Time. If you’ve been following along, you know that my Ozempic journey has already been a saga: Mid-life crisis? ✅ Cake-related breakdown? ✅ A needle demo that left an orange traumatized? ✅ A pharmacy hunt straight out of an action movie? ✅ Now, the moment had arrived: Day 1. And let me tell you, nothing prepares you for stepping on the scale after years of avoiding it. My Scale and I Are No Longer on Speaking Terms There it was, staring back at me: 116.3 kilograms. My starting line. My Everest. My first reaction? BETRAYAL!!! My first reaction wasn’t exactly reflective or introspective—it was indignation. The scale became the villain of the moment. I picked it up, marched it to the corner of the bathroom, turned it to face the wall, and said, “You think about what you’ve done.” The scale didn’t flinch, cold and unapologetic in its honesty. After a moment of silent pouting, I realized it wasn’t the scale’s fault. It ha...

  Cake, Crisis, and a Needle Named Regret. Previously, I shared my mid-life chocolate cake epiphany—a moment that led me to Ozempic. What followed was a doctor’s appointment filled with pastry-related existential dread, a tragic orange-stabbing incident, and the realization that needles are, in fact, terrifying. Now came my first real challenge: actually getting Ozempic. Turns out, finding Ozempic is harder than finding a parking spot at Christmas time. Indiana Jones and the Pharmacy of Doom. You’d think picking up a prescription would be easy: 1️⃣ See a doctor. 2️⃣ Get a prescription. 3️⃣ Walk into a pharmacy. 4️⃣ Walk out with medication.  Right? WRONG. Because as it turns out, Ozempic is the Beyoncé of medications: everyone wants it, no one can get it, and there’s always a waiting list. My first stop was my local pharmacy, the kind of cheerful place that smells faintly of baby powder and optimism. I approached the counter with confidence, prescription in hand, ready to kick...

  A Cake, A Crisis, and A Mid-Life Meltdown Last time, I had a birthday epiphany involving a chocolate cake, an existential crisis, and an elastic waistband emergency. With that tropical island vision in my head, I made a decision: It was time to take control of my health. The hard part? Actually doing it. Pastries, Panic, and One Very Concerned Doctor Let me tell you, nothing screams “life transformation” quite like sitting in a waiting room flipping through a three-month-old copy of Better Homes & Gardens while someone’s toddler uses your leg as a jungle gym. I wasn’t sure if I should laugh, cry, or hand the kid a granola bar in hopes he’d redirect his energy elsewhere. Either way, there I was, surrounded by a symphony of coughing patients, outdated magazines, and the faint whiff of antiseptic, waiting for my big consultation. When I finally got called into my doctor’s office, I took a seat across from her desk, a mix of excitement and nerves swirling in my chest. This wasn’t...

  Happy Birthday! Here’s a Side of Existential Dread Let’s talk  about birthdays for a moment. For most people, they’re a celebration—a day filled with balloons, cake, and an over-the-top sense of entitlement to eat whatever the hell you want without judgment. For me? They’re like a personal annual performance review, except the only metric I seem to evaluate myself on is, “How much tighter do my jeans feel this year compared to last?” (Spoiler: It’s never good news.) Every year, I promise myself that next year will be different. That next year, I’ll be celebrating as the “after” version of myself. The one who magically figures it all out—the weight, the confidence, the effortless self-control around carbs.  But instead, there I was again—same cake, same sweatpants, same feeling of frustration gnawing at me. Cake: My Therapist, My Comfort, My Enabler My relationship with sweet indulgences is… complicated. They are my therapist, my party planner, and sometimes the best fri...