Like right now, I sit in a salon listening to the bigot talk by another client.


So here is the poem that started this blog.


I shared it with a group of bad asses that are beasting through their journey while they are facing defeat by the damn scales. I wrote this the day I chucked my scale out the window into the world because I was so fucking done — 6 months post-op from VSG. I don’t consider myself a writer, but they loved it and said they would love to see more.


My journals are a hot mess, so I don’t know about that. Like right now, I sit in a salon listening to the bigot talk by another client. I smell the freshly washed hair, the hair drying, clanking on a brush. Wondering what the hell I am doing writing a blog and putting my business out there.


I mean who the eff cares about this lady in TN that can’t even slow down long enough to collect her thoughts without having sensory overload.


So anyway.


Here’s the poem:




“Progress, Not Permission”

by Me, because I lived it


The scale’s a bitch…

Cold, smug, and silent,

Acting like it knows

The war I’ve waged

With sweat, hunger, and heavy breath.


It never saw

The 5 a.m. alarms,

The sore knees,

The trembling arms that kept going

When my mind said stop.


It never felt

My jeans falling loose,

Or how my heart beat different

When I climbed stairs

And didn’t have to lie about catching my breath.


It didn’t count

The nights I chose water

Over whiskey,

Protein over pizza,

Discipline over dopamine.


The scale?

It’s a snapshot.

A still frame in a damn action film.

It doesn’t get to measure

My rage, my grind,

My relentless evolution.


So yeah,

The scale’s a bitch.

But me?

I’m a masterpiece in motion.

And progress?

She rides shotgun

While I burn this whole old version of me to ash.


June 2022

Author: Beth B.  Blissful 




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