To Hill and Back

This is the story of how I am winning my weight loss battle. And the truth is, a big part of it comes down to moving to Spain. What matters most about that is that it has happened in spite of everything else going on in my life.

I moved to Spain for a lot of reasons: adventure, change, space to grieve, but one of the reasons I don’t always talk about, though it’s just as important, was my physical health. And I know without question that, at least in that regard, I made the right choice.

My life in the U.S. was complicated, stressful, expensive, and constantly under the shadow of gun violence, and slowly I grew into a person who weighed over 300 pounds. Most of the weight came on through bad behavior born of emotional pain. The heaviest stretch of all came right after my mom passed away, when food became both comfort and punishment, and the pounds stacked on quickly. Think grief-eating, but make it an Olympic sport.

So by the time I got to Spain, I was already over 300 pounds. I didn’t even realize at first that I was losing weight, it just started happening. Once I noticed how quickly the pounds were coming off, I began to make more of an effort. And while I don’t want to say it’s solely because I moved here, I know that had I not, I wouldn’t be where I am today.

One of the first things that changed was what I ate. I began eating more seafood, partly because that’s what’s mostly available in my town, but also because I love it. That wasn’t a hardship. My nutrition improved not because I was on a diet, but because the culture around food here is completely different.

In Spain, mealtimes are an event. People don’t eat big breakfasts. Lunch is the main event, dinner is lighter, and no matter when you sit down, it takes time. And if you make a reservation, the table is yours for the night. Nobody’s side-eyeing you while polishing silverware, hoping you leave. It’s food as connection, not food as “fuel up and flee.”

That shift alone, from inhaling meals in between the classes I used to teach to actually sitting down and enjoying them, changed my relationship with food.

The next change came from daily life. In the U.S., I let convenience swallow me whole. Groceries delivered, meals delivered, everything delivered, all that was missing was a drone to carry me to the couch. My knees were wrecked, walking was painful, so I did it less and less. The less I moved, the worse I ate. The worse I ate, the more weight I gained. It was the human version of a hamster wheel, except without the cardio.

Spain broke that cycle.

Here, if I want groceries, I walk. If I want dinner, I cook. Everything means parking and walking, and everybody walks in Spain. It sounds small, but it isn’t. Inconvenience forced me back into motion.

Yesterday reminded me of how far I’ve come. There’s a hill near my apartment that used to stop me cold. The first several times I forced myself up, I looked like I’d lost a fight with a StairMaster. Eyes on the ground, gasping, willing myself not to collapse, it felt like one of those movie shots where the camera zooms in on the person while the background swirls into a vortex. But yesterday, I wasn’t straining or gasping. I just walked up. And irony of ironies, I was doing it in the same flip-flops that tripped me up earlier this month.

That’s how it works here. Change creeps until it suddenly leaps. One day you realize the person puffing up the hill months ago is not the same one strolling up it now.

Another big change? Clothes. I hate dressing frumpy. As someone who struggled with self-esteem, frumpy was what I got, but it was never my style. I’m a bit more hippie, a bit more bohemian, and pretty elegant when the voice in my head, my mom’s voice, forces me to swap my jeans with holes in them for my jeans without holes. I just couldn’t be myself. A couple of months after I arrived, I walked into a shop and the first thing the saleswoman told me was, “I don’t think we have anything in your size.” Out of pure rebellious reflex, I grabbed a shirt, bought the biggest size, and took it home. When I tried it on, it felt like I’d split the seams if I flexed, but I kept it. And now? It fits.

That might sound small, but it isn’t. It’s freedom. It’s proof. It’s my “revenge jeans” moment — not Versace, but the American Eagle size 12 low-rise bootcut jeans I loved and somehow lost.

We all know physical health and mental health go hand in hand, even if we don’t want to admit it. As my body grew stronger, I began resisting the old urges, the ones that made me hand over my power so easily. Little by little, I’ve taken it back.

Through better food, better portions, and a culture that gives meals time and space, my nutrition has improved. My body has improved. My health has improved. And while I was navigating everything else life threw at me, this quiet transformation was happening underneath it all.

I’m not at my goal weight yet. I’m still working. But I’ve lost more than half of what I set out to lose, and I’m proud of that. Even if it’s buried deep, even if it took me a long time to see it, I am proud.

And maybe now, it’s fair to say: the rest is downhill from here.