Never Too Late To Lose Weight: A Letter to Me 8 Years Ago (And to You, Right Now)

Hey you. Yes, you. The one who could hold a world record for covert rearview mirror booger checks at red lights.

I see you.

Can I tell you something?

Eight years ago, I avoided mirrors.

I’d walk past them quickly, eyes down, pretending I didn’t see the woman looking back at me.

150 pounds heavier than I wanted to be. Exhausted. Scared. Wondering if I’d waited too long.

I didn’t write about the fear that kept me up at night: What if I’m too far gone? What if I’m too old? What if I’ve damaged my body too much? What if I’ve wasted too much time?

I didn’t write about Nathan.

Let me tell you about Nathan.

My third baby. My unplanned miracle. My statistically-impossible gift from a universe that apparently has a sense of humor.

You see, I’d taken fertility meds to conceive my second daughter. Nathan? Nathan just… showed up. Like he knew something I didn’t.

The pregnancy nearly killed me. Hyperemesis so severe I was hospitalized multiple times. But Na—even then, even in utero—had this gravitational pull. This way of bending reality in his favor.

My doctor volunteered to deliver him on his day off because his own grandson was being born that day.

Who does that?

Nathan does that.

But the universe doesn’t give you miracles without also handing you the hardest assignment of your life.

Two months after Nathan was born, I was dying.

Complicated pneumonia. Collapsed lung. Pneumothorax. Empyema. The ICU. The whole nightmare.

And somewhere between the breathing tubes and the fever dreams, I had a moment of crystal clarity:

If I want to see my children grow up, I have to change. Now.

I didn’t know Nathan had autism yet.

I didn’t know I was training for the hardest marathon of my life—special needs mom.

I certainly didn’t know I’d be doing it alone.

But I knew I had to start.

Even when I didn’t know how.

Even when I felt too broken, too heavy, too tired, too old.

Even when the finish line felt a million miles away.

I had to start.

So I did.

And eight years later, here I am.

150 pounds lighter.

Divorced and moved and starting over.

Raising three kids, one of whom defies every statistic and challenges me daily to be stronger, smarter, fiercer than I ever thought I could be.

And you know what the crazy part is?

I didn’t know I was paving the way for future me.

When I was choking down egg muffins and crying through workouts and saying no to the donuts in the teacher’s lounge, I wasn’t thinking about 2024-me.

I was just trying to survive 2016-me.

But future me?

She’s grateful.

She’s so damn grateful past me didn’t give up.

Here’s what I wish I could tell the woman I was eight years ago:

You’re not too old.

You’re not too broken.

You don’t have too far to go.

You just have to start.

And starting doesn’t mean perfect. It doesn’t mean fast. It doesn’t mean you have it all figured out.

Starting means one choice. Today. Right now.

The choice to stop believing the lie that it’s too late.

Because here’s the truth nobody tells you:

Every single day you wait is another day you don’t get back.

Not because you’re running out of time.

But because the woman you become on the other side of this decision is waiting for you.

And she’s incredible.

She’s strong. She’s clear-headed. She recognizes manipulation patterns everywhere—diet industry, relationships, beauty standards—and she doesn’t fall for them anymore.

She cooks real food. She moves her body because it feels good, not because she’s punishing herself. She looks at her kids and knows she’ll be there for their graduations, their weddings, their babies.

She made it.

And you know how she got there?

She started.

Even when it was hard.

Even when she didn’t believe in herself.

Even when the scale didn’t move and the Instagram algorithm wasn’t algorithming and the world kept throwing punches.

She. Kept. Going.

So let me ask you something:

What if eight years from now, you look back at today and think:

“Thank God I started.”

Not “Thank God I was perfect.”

Not “Thank God it was easy.”

Just: “Thank God I didn’t give up on myself.”

That’s why I’m here.

That’s why I write these recipes and make these cookbooks and show up in your inbox every week.

Not because I have it all figured out.

But because I was you.

And if I can do it—exhausted, broken, starting over at 30-something with three kids and a mountain to climb—

So can you.

When you see my opt-ins, my cookbooks, my offers?

You’re not just seeing free PDFs and recipe collections.

You’re seeing proof.

Proof that women like us—the ones who’ve been told we’re too far gone, too old, too busy, too broken—

We don’t stay stuck.

We learn. We adapt. We recognize the patterns. We break the cycles.

We become the women we needed when we were drowning.

So here’s my invitation:

Download the cookbooks.

Try the recipes.

Join the email list.

Not because you need another thing on your to-do list.

But because you deserve to feel like yourself again.

You deserve to wake up without dread.

You deserve to look in the mirror and recognize the woman staring back.

You deserve to build a life where food is fuel and joy—not punishment and shame.

You deserve to start.

Eight years ago, I didn’t know what I was capable of.

I just knew I had to try.

And today?

I’m so damn glad I did.

With you in the arena,
Heather

P.S. — Nathan is 8 now. Thriving. Defying odds. Still bending the universe in his favor. And every single day, I’m grateful I chose to stick around for this.

That’s the gift you give yourself when you start: the chance to see how the story ends.

Don’t miss it. 💕

Let’s start today. Together.