My Battle With Loss, My Victory in Life If you had met me a few years ago, you would have seen a woman who looked “fine.” I showed up. I smiled when needed. I handled responsibilities. But inside, I felt like I was constantly at war — with my body, with my expectations, with my reality. Loss didn’t hit me all at once. It came in chapters. The first chapter began in 2015 when I was told I had infertility issues. The word itself felt heavy. Clinical. Final. I didn’t cry immediately. I went into problem-solving mode. “Okay,” I thought, “we’ll do treatments.” I treated it like a challenge to overcome. That mindset carried me into years of IVF. My life became structured around medication schedules and appointment reminders. I learned medical terms I never wanted to know. I became familiar with waiting — waiting for results, waiting for calls, waiting for hope to either grow or collapse. The strange thing about infertility is that it’s invisible. People don’t see injections. They don’t see hormone crashes. They don’t see the silent tears after a failed cycle. You carry it quietly. When I became pregnant in 2019, it felt surreal. I remember being cautious, afraid to celebrate too much. Still, when I was told I was having a girl, something softened in me. I let myself believe again. Nine weeks later, that belief shattered. The ultrasound room was still. Too still. No heartbeat. In that moment, everything slowed down. I walked out of that building physically the same — but internally changed forever. After that loss, something inside me hardened. I continued treatments, but my joy was gone. It felt mechanical. Like I was going through motions because I didn’t know who I would be if I stopped. At the same time, I was carrying another grief — losing my mother in 2017. Her absence was loud during my hardest days. I wanted her advice. I wanted her comfort. I wanted her to tell me everything would be okay. Instead, I learned how quiet the world can feel without the person who grounded you. Over time, I stopped fighting only infertility. I started fighting myself. I didn’t like who I was becoming. I was constantly irritated. Always tired. Emotionally reactive. My health declined slowly — weight gain, inflammation, low energy. My body felt heavy, and so did my thoughts. The breaking point wasn’t dramatic. It came in the emergency room after a severe allergic reaction to hormone medication. Lying there, I didn’t feel strong. I felt worn out. And for the first time, I asked myself a different question. “What if winning doesn’t look like what I thought?” For seven years, I defined victory as becoming a mother. Anything less felt like failure. But in that ER room, I realized I was measuring my entire worth by one outcome. That realization hurt. But it also opened a door. On November 27, 2022, I didn’t make a big announcement. I didn’t post anything. I just made a private decision: I would stop living like my life was on hold. I shifted my focus to my health — not out of vanity, but survival. I worked with a dietitian to repair my relationship with food and stress. I learned how deeply chronic grief had impacted my body. I committed to change, even when it felt uncomfortable. Joining the gym in January 2023 was humbling. I wasn’t strong. I wasn’t confident. I didn’t recognize the woman in the mirror. But I showed up anyway. That became my quiet rebellion against defeat — showing up. Training sessions weren’t glamorous. They were sweaty, frustrating, sometimes discouraging. But every completed workout was proof that I was still capable. Then I found Aquabike. The water felt different. It didn’t judge. It didn’t pressure. It supported. I began attending classes consistently, and something shifted. I wasn’t just working out — I was rebuilding trust with my body. Ninety days later, my clothes fit differently. My energy was steadier. My sleep improved. But more importantly, my self-talk changed. I stopped calling myself broken. I stopped saying, “My body failed me.” Instead, I started thinking, “My body survived.” Months later, I became certified to teach Aquabike. That part still surprises me. Not because I didn’t work hard — but because I never imagined myself as someone who could lead from a place of strength. On November 27, 2022, I weighed 195 pounds. Three years later, I weighed 125. But the number isn’t the real victory. The real victory is this: I no longer see my life as a list of losses. Yes, I lost the dream of motherhood as I imagined it. Yes, I lost my mother far too soon. Yes, I lost years in waiting rooms and recovery beds. But I gained something powerful. I gained resilience. I gained discipline. I gained self-respect. I gained a version of myself that refuses to stay down. My battle with loss didn’t end with getting everything I wanted. It ended with me realizing that survival is not the same as living — and choosing to truly live again. Victory, for me, is waking up with peace. Victory is leading a class and seeing others feel strong. Victory is looking in the mirror and recognizing the woman staring back. Loss shaped me. But it does not define me. And that is my victory.