This morning, I took Kodi to the groomer to have her nails done.

That sounds simple enough, except this is Kodi we are talking about. Kodi is my Shiba Inu, which means she is adorable, fluffy, dramatic, opinionated, and fully convinced that basic grooming is a violation of her constitutional rights.

The groomer is inside our local Petsmart — the same Petsmart where I took Kodi for puppy training years ago. I got there, parked the car, checked the time, and realized I had made a mistake.

I was an entire hour early.

Not five minutes early. Not “great, I have time to check in” early. A full hour.

In the past, this would have felt like a disaster. This morning, it was just mildly annoying. So I got Kodi out of the car and we spent the next hour wandering around Petsmart.

Kodi sniffed treats, inspected toys, terrorized the poor caged kittens up for adoption, and selected a few stuffed animals that she apparently believed were necessary for her emotional well-being.

And honestly? I enjoyed it.

After six weeks of being mostly homebound while recovering from knee surgery, it felt good just to be out of the house. It felt good to move around. It felt good to not be sitting in a recliner, staring at the same four walls, wondering if my most exciting activity of the day would be refilling my water bottle.

But about halfway through our little Petsmart adventure, something hit me. This would not have always been easy for me. In fact, there was a time when walking around that exact same store for an hour would have been impossible.

The First Petsmart Walk

Years ago, when Kodi was a puppy, I took her to training classes at that same Petsmart. On the fourth week of class, the assignment was to walk around the store for about 20 minutes practicing leash skills.

Simple, right?

Walk the dog around Petsmart.

That was it.

Except back then, I was at my highest weight. This was years before I started my weight loss journey, and what sounded like an easy training exercise felt almost impossible.

I remember walking around the store for maybe five minutes before the pain in my back became excruciating. I was embarrassed. I didn’t want to admit I couldn’t do it. I didn’t want the instructor to notice. I didn’t want the other people in the class to see me struggling with something that everyone else seemed to be doing without a second thought.

I made my way to the back of the store where the giant bags of dog food were stacked, and I sat down on one of them like it was a perfectly normal place for a grown woman to take a break. Nothing to see here. Just a woman casually lounging on a 40-pound bag of kibble, hoping no one from dog training came around the corner.

The whole time, I was watching and worrying that someone would find me sitting there — not because Kodi was misbehaving, not because I had forgotten the training exercise, but because I physically could not keep walking. That kind of embarrassment sticks with you.

The Class I Mysteriously Couldn’t Attend

Because Kodi is a Shiba Inu, one round of training was not quite enough.

Shiba Inus are smart, stubborn, independent little creatures who seem to view obedience as more of a suggestion than a lifestyle. So about a year later, I decided we needed a refresher course.

This time, I knew what was coming. I knew about week four. I knew there would be another walk around the store. And on the morning of that class, I was suddenly “too sick” to go.

At the time, I don’t even think I fully realized what I was doing. I probably convinced myself I really didn’t feel well.

But looking back now, I know the truth.

I was avoiding it.

That class was one of many, many things I avoided because of my weight.

And that is one of the hardest parts to explain to someone who has never lived in a body that makes ordinary activities feel impossible. It isn’t always the big things that hurt the most. Sometimes it is the small things.

Those little moments can become quiet reminders of all the things your body is no longer letting you do.

What Would Have Happened Back Then

This morning, when I realized I was an hour early, I walked around Petsmart with Kodi.

At my highest weight, I would not have done that.

It was too hot to sit in the car, so I probably would have driven home. Then, when the groomer called to ask why I missed the appointment, I would have made up some excuse.

Car trouble. Mixed-up appointment. Not feeling well. Anything other than the truth, which would have been:

“I couldn’t face walking around the store for an hour, and I was too embarrassed to admit it.”

That is a hard truth. But it is also an important one.

Because this morning, I didn’t leave. I didn’t hide. I didn’t sit on a bag of dog food pretending everything was fine.

I just walked around the store with my dog.

And that felt like a very small thing and a very big thing all at the same time.

Sixteen Months Later

It has been 16 months since my bariatric surgery.

I am now 160 pounds lighter than my highest weight.

And the difference it has made in my life is hard to fully describe.

Yes, there are the obvious things. Smaller clothes. Better mobility. Less strain on my body. Better health. Less fear about what my heart was having to work through every day.

But there are also the smaller things.

The things that don’t always show up on a before-and-after chart.

Those things matter.

Actually, they matter a lot.

The Point of the Story

I guess that brings me to the real point of this story.

If you are just starting your weight loss journey — or even if you are still standing at the edge of it, thinking about starting — I want you to know that change is possible.

For me, bariatric surgery was the right answer.

For you, it may be something different. It might be GLP-1 medication. It might be a medically supervised weight loss program. It might be nutrition changes, movement, therapy, support, or some combination of all of the above.

There is no one perfect path for everyone.

But whatever path you think might help you, try it.

And if it doesn’t work, try again.

And if that doesn’t work, try something else.

But please do not give up on yourself.

It is not just about the number on the scale.

It is about getting pieces of your life back.

Sometimes those pieces look big. Sometimes they look like walking three miles, climbing stairs, traveling more comfortably, or improving your health.

And sometimes they look like wandering around Petsmart with a stubborn Shiba Inu who thinks stuffed animals are a basic need.

Either way, it is life-changing.

And yes, Kodi got her toys.

Obviously.