I hit 130 pounds down this month, which still doesn't feel real when I type it. But the scale has been parked on the same number for five weeks now, and a year ago that would have sent me straight to the kitchen for comfort.
What's different: our youngest moved out in the spring, and instead of sitting in the quiet house I started walking the loop around our neighborhood every morning — 2.8 miles, same route, same nosy golden retriever at the corner. I've also been cooking actual meals again, the kind that take 40 minutes and dirty three pans, because I have the time now and nobody to rush for.
So the number isn't moving. But my jeans from last fall are baggy, my knees don't complain on the stairs anymore, and I slept seven straight hours last night. I'm calling that progress.
Anyone else find the plateaus easier to sit with once the rest of your life started shifting too?