This Body Is Scaring Me, But I’m Not Done Fighting

There’s a particular kind of fear that comes when your own body starts slipping out from under you. Not the dramatic kind, just the slow, creeping kind that shows up in hospital monitors, new diagnoses, and the way your breath catches wrong or your heart decides to improvise without permission. It’s the kind that makes you realize you’re not invincible, not even close.

I’ve been living in that fear lately...

A‑fib. COPD. Colitis. Diabetes. The whole alphabet soup of “your body is tired, and we’re not sure how much more it can take.” And even when the doctors say the risks are low, even when the procedures are “routine,” nothing feels routine when it’s *your* heart misfiring. Nothing feels routine when you’re the one lying in a hospital bed trying to pretend you’re not terrified.

It feels like standing on a hill made of sand, trying to keep your footing while the ground shifts under you.

But here’s the thing: I’m not just going to stand here and sink.

I’ve made a decision - a big, scary, life‑altering one. I’m going to have bariatric surgery. Not because it’s easy. Not because it’s some magic fix. But because I want my life back. I want to breathe without fighting for it. I want my heart to calm down. I want to walk into the future instead of being dragged toward it by a body that’s been through too much for too long.

And yes, I’m scared. I’m scared of the surgery. I’m scared of the recovery. I’m scared of the unknowns. But I’m more scared of staying exactly where I am, trapped in a body that’s slowly closing the walls in around me. Scared of sitting in my bedroom, dying by inches.

Fear isn’t the enemy here. Fear is the proof that I still care about living.

What keeps me moving is the people around me. The ones who cheer, who nudge, who remind me that I’m not doing this alone. Community doesn’t fix the body, but it strengthens the spirit. And right now, I need that strength. I need the people who say, “We’ve got you,” even when I’m shaking. I need the ones who remind me that reclaiming my life isn’t selfish, it’s survival.

So this is me, planting a flag.

I’m scared. I’m determined. I’m tired. I’m hopeful. I’m doing this.

And if you’re in my corner - cheering, supporting, holding space - then you’re part of the reason I believe I can.

This body may be going downhill, but I’m not. Not today. Not yet. Not ever.