Doing jumping jacks in the restroom is all well and good, until someone catches you and people begin to question why you aren’t at your desk when they need you.
I became a personal trainer to help other people build healthier relationships with their bodies, but in the process, I was undoing everything I had done to help myself.
I huddled in my bathrobe on a towel and tried not to look at the trail of blood I’d left around the living room.
My average-chested friends couldn’t understand why I would want to downsize.
By the time things were bad enough to pipsqueak, “Mom, I think something is wrong with me, I think I need to see a doctor,” things were very bad indeed.