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

  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...

  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...