Chapter 3 — The Gain I Can’t Explain

In November, I was three pounds shy of my 135 goal weight. I was crushing it — proud of myself, feeling strong, feeling aligned. So when December rolled around and the scale nudged up to 139–141, it felt obvious. Holiday weight. No big deal. I even reminded myself that the average holiday gain is five pounds. And besides, I never stopped strength training. The cookies and hot chocolate were temporary.

That first pound — or five — made sense. The treats, the cozy drinks, the joy of the season… they can all tuck themselves neatly into the muscle crevices you spent all year building. So when January hit, I decided to tighten things up: more workouts, less sugar. I put in the hours — 28 active Peloton days, 26 hours and 54 minutes of movement. I wasn’t slowing down. So why wasn’t the scale slowing down either?

By February, I was 145 pounds. That’s almost ten pounds up from November. And the worst part? I’d been 145 before — back in June — but that 145 was different. That 145 was strong, tight, athletic. This February 145 was softer. Fluffier. A version of my body I didn’t recognize and definitely didn’t agree to.

Meanwhile, the stress in my life was stacking like bricks. I found out I was losing my job. Bryan and I decided to move 465 miles away to start over. We had to sell or rent out our house — a process that dragged on way longer than expected. The stress kept rising, and so did my weight.

By March, my active days dropped to 13, totaling 12 hours and 5 minutes. My home — and my home gym — were in boxes. I used whatever I could reach: the treadmill, outdoor runs, the Peloton bike, stray dumbbells. But I was stretched thin. No one had shown interest in our house, and we were preparing to move into another one anyway.

When we finally got to Florida, one of my top priorities — I’m not even kidding — was unpacking fast enough to set up my gym. I needed to get back to work. In April, I logged 15 active days, 18 hours and 31 minutes, and 23.28 running miles. That doesn’t sound bad, right? So why was I closing in on 150 pounds?

You might be wondering: Were you eating like a beast? And the answer is no. My habits slipped a little — slightly bigger portions, an extra dessert here or there — but nothing that explains a steady climb. It would make sense if I wasn’t losing weight. But gaining? That didn’t add up.

I was worried. I talked to my pal Zen Reboot, and he gave me solid advice. But the spread didn’t stop.

In May, I had 15 active days, 14 hours and 33 minutes. I tried to give my body grace. I tried to lower my stress. I leaned into yoga because I didn’t want movement to become punishment. I love working out — I don’t want it to turn into something I force myself to do because I “have” to.

And now here we are in June. The scale says 155 pounds. Eighteen days into the month, I’ve worked out 13 days, 11 hours and 52 minutes. And I’m in tears. Everything I worked so hard for — everything I’m still working hard for — feels like it’s evaporating. What the fuck.

The weight is coming on in ways that don’t match anything I’m doing. Not my food. Not my movement. Not my effort. It feels like my body switched languages overnight and I’m not fluent in wherever the flight landed.

There’s a particular kind of grief in that — not just because of the number, but because of the not knowing. The not understanding. The not being able to stop it. I keep thinking I must be missing something, doing something wrong, failing at something I’ve never failed at before.

And it’s hard to talk about this because people want to help. They want to fix. They want to offer a plan, a protocol, a “have you tried…?” But I don’t need a reiteration of everything I’ve already been doing. I need real professional advice. I also need the space to say: my body is changing, and I don’t know why, and it scares me.

So I’m saying it out loud here — for everyone to hear. Because I need the public to know that I know something is wrong. So you don’t whisper, “Wow, I just saw her a few months ago… what happened?” Because honestly? I don’t know what happened. I don’t know what’s happening.

My mind is swirling with thoughts and emotions, stress and anxiety, and a deep longing for everyone who sees me to know that I am trying.

This is where I am right now — in the middle, in the mess, in the part of the story where nothing makes sense yet. I’m scared, yes. But I’m also resilient. Naming it matters. Saying it out loud matters. I’ve lived through harder things than a confusing season with my body. I can hold fear in one hand and self‑compassion in the other. And if The Rut Diaries is about anything, it’s about telling the truth while you’re still living it. So here I am. Still trying. Still showing up. Still writing my way through.