There is a special kind of character development that happens when you are doing everything “right” and the scale responds with the enthusiasm of a brick wall. For three months, I lived in what I now refer to as the 213 holding cell.

211 again.

Back to 213, like it paid taxes there.

Wegovy helped at first. It really did. But my IBS staged a protest that included bloating, nausea, exhaustion that felt like gravity had increased, and hair shedding that made me side-eye my shower drain. I was technically losing weight, but I was also losing peace. And when you already juggle autoimmune disease, neurodivergence, hormone fluctuations, and biologics, “just push through it” is not an option. It is a recipe for collapse.

So I advocated.

Again.

I switched back to tirzepatide. Not Zepbound this time, but Mounjaro. And let me tell you, she is doing about 90 percent of what Zepbound did for me. That 10 percent difference? I can live with that. Especially if my stomach is not trying to overthrow the government.

At my appointment, my GP casually asked, “What was your starting weight?”
I said, “256.”

She paused.

“To clarify,” I added, “when I started GLP-1s, I was 246. But 256 was after starting Tremfya. My joints felt better, I could move more, inflammation calmed, and my body decided to store that comfort like a winter squirrel.”

And then Tremfya slowly stopped working the way it had. My body built up resistance. The magic dimmed. The scale climbed.

She stopped typing.

Looked at me.

“OH. WOW. I didn’t realize it was that much. I was going to say I didn’t see much progression based on the numbers we had.”

Context matters.

Zoom out.

256 to 203.

That is not stagnation. That is transformation.
And since switching back to tirzepatide? The 213 prison door finally swung open.

203 this morning.

Ten pounds gone after months of metabolic purgatory. My energy is coming back online like someone finally flipped the breaker. My IBS has settled into something manageable instead of chaotic. My body feels less like an adversary and more like a reluctant ally willing to negotiate.

But medication is only one piece.

I have increased my protein intake intentionally. I am prioritizing electrolytes daily. I’ve added beet supplements for circulation support and collagen and peptides to support connective tissue, hair, and joints. I am doing everything I can to make sure my body has the raw materials it needs while we are still negotiating some sense of normalcy and calm within the autoimmune storms that circle me.

This is not vanity weight.
Every single pound lost makes it easier to breathe.
Easier to move.
Less pressure on fragile bones.
Less strain on a spine that has carried more than its share. [which has a cage, rods, and screws—and yet still is trying to hang in there despite the ongoing issues]

When inflammation lives in your joints and your immune system sometimes forgets it is on your team, even five pounds feels like someone removed a weighted vest you didn’t realize you were wearing.

Now listen. I am still human. Gluten and fried food are not my friends. Greasy foods are traitors. But occasionally cheese sticks or chicken nuggets whisper my name like nostalgic poetry. I do not eat that way often, but sometimes I answer. Because this is about sustainability, not sainthood.

I keep saying this because it is true: This journey is not linear.
It is not tidy.
It is not aesthetic.
It is data.
It is advocacy.
It is protein shakes and salt packets.
It is switching injection sites.
It is asking for a medication change when something stalls.
It is fueling a body that is fighting more than most people ever see.

If you are in your own version of 213 right now, hear me clearly.
A plateau is not a verdict. It is a pause. And pauses end.
Zoom out. Look at the whole arc. Not just the chapter that feels stuck.

Forward movement is still forward. And sometimes forward means nourishing your body fiercely while it learns how to calm the storm.

Much love,
Mrs. B 💛