Estimated reading time: 4 minutes

Lately, weight loss has felt like a tough negotiation. Not dramatic—just slow. Sometimes a pound a week.

Before anyone rushes in to say, “But that’s amazing!”—I know. Technically, it’s not bad. It’s consistent. Sustainable. Healthy. All the right things. And as a coach—someone who’s literally built a life around helping others move, shift, and transform—I completely understand what this means. I’ve walked side by side with others through their weight loss journeys. I’ve cheered for their single-pound victories. So yes, I know this is how it works. But when it’s your body? Your timeline? Your fight? That understanding feels a lot more complicated.

Emotionally, though? It can feel like dragging a boulder uphill… with no end in sight.

Inside the system: law, order, and everything in between

My days revolve around serving the people of the great State of Minnesota—deep in the heart of the justice system, where every hallway echoes with history and every decision carries weight. When I’m not in the gym, coaching, or on a seminar floor, my work gives me a front-row seat to law and order in hushed tones, cloaked in tradition and authority. I work alongside those who interpret the law, enforce it, and challenge it. These are the people who move within statutes and stare down the chaos of society with nothing but reason and a robe.

Let’s just say—the work I do isn’t about chasing chaos—it’s about preventing it. My world runs on precision, structure, and plans that don’t fail. And if they do? You better believe I already have three contingency routes lined up, labeled, and laminated.

That’s the headspace I live in. That’s how I’m wired.

So when I look at this journey—this deeply personal, achingly human thing called weight loss—and I see no road signs, no clear ETA, no button to press when the results show up at the speed of a turtle… it short-circuits my system a bit.

When goals don’t work the way they used to

I like goals. Milestones. TIMELINES. I build them for breakfast. I get a weird little thrill from checking things off a to-do list. (If it’s not written down, did it even happen?) I track things. I analyze everything to death.

When someone says, “Help,” or tosses a task out into the universe like a flare, something in me activates. It’s not just about being useful—it’s about being driven to step in. My ears don’t just perk up; my brain starts blueprinting. I’ve spent a lifetime stepping into gaps, solving the unsolvable, anticipating the ask before it’s even formed. It’s not about control—it’s about contribution. About knowing I can ease the weight someone else is carrying, even for a moment. That’s not just what I do—it’s hardwired into who I am.

But this? My body? My health?

She doesn’t care about deadlines. She’s not swayed by urgency or productivity. She’s on her own time zone. And that’s maddening.

Because I want to out-strategize this. I want to fix it, format it, and file it neatly away with a goal achieved sticker and a satisfied sigh.

But I can’t.

Making peace with the pace of weight loss…. again.

And maybe that’s the lesson. Maybe this season is more about losing control. Or at least the illusion of it.

Because as I inch closer to my initial goal (and I say initial because let’s be honest—I don’t know where it will end up), it’s getting harder. Not just physically, but emotionally. The weight gets heavier in ways I didn’t expect.

And so I have to keep doing something I don’t love: making peace with the pace.

Again and again and again.

Because in a world where I’m built to fix and plan and execute, this is the one area where I can only show up, stay consistent, and trust the process. There’s nothing else I can do. Even when the process is silent, slow, and even when it doesn’t care that I’ve got contingency plans that would make the Pentagon jealous.