The Year I Finally Took My Handbrake Off

This year started like a speedboat.

For the last five years, I felt like I was moving forward with my handbrake on. Trying. Working. Surviving. But stuck.

And now… things are happening.

It is amazing. And exhausting.

The year began with two surgeries at once — a gastric sleeve and gallbladder removal.

I’ve struggled with my weight for most of my adult life. Funny enough, I wasn’t an overweight child. I was tall, strong, always moving — bikes, trees, football, basketball. I stopped only when I slept.

But I was called “fat” anyway.

Not by children.

By family.

I remember my nutritionist asking me recently, “When did your weight struggles start?”

And the honest answer was — when I started hearing that I wasn’t slim enough, but it is really a double blade sword... I wasn't thin like most of the people in my family, I was normal.... according to WHO today I was a normal child...

One nan said, “Don’t plan to live long, you’ll die of a fatty heart anyway.” I was eighteen. I had a normal BMI. These things take time to heal, even now I can feel the pain...

Right, the nan (I understood later) had a really bad narcissistic disorder... but as a teenager, is a pain...

Another kept commenting on my body. My dad shamed me, like body shaming pretty often..

My mum bought sweets, left them in the house, then told me not to eat them. They were rarely home. I ate them. Then the shame came.

Now that I say that to my mum, she can see that it was a mistake, but she didn't know it back then... and the only thing we can do it, to work on it...

This isn’t written so anyone feels sorry for me. And it’s not written to shame my family.

It’s simply my story.

It’s the story of a child who internalised the message: you are not enough.

It took me years to realise that this wasn’t normal. That this was a cycle.

That’s why I chose surgery.

Not because I couldn’t diet. Not because I wanted an easy way out. But because I wanted to heal — physically and emotionally.

And the irony?

I am terrified of hospitals. I hate needles. I spent parts of my toddler years in and out of hospitals, being operated on, poked, restrained. I promised myself I would never willingly walk into that environment again.

And yet, on January 16th, I got on a plane alone.

I flew back to Transylvania. To a town I didn’t know. To a private hospital. Alone.

First time travelling alone since becoming a mum. First time leaving my child for ten days.

Tests. Needles. Forms. Waiting.

They said, “We can go ahead with the surgery.”

I had a small panic attack. I calmed myself down. I slept.

The next morning I was first in theatre. I remember the cold liquid in my veins. Then darkness.

Two hours later I woke up with a smaller stomach — and a little box holding my gallstone.

It wasn’t weakness.

It was courage.

The people who hurt me are no longer here. My nans have passed away. My dad has passed away.

And something shifted after he died.

Despite everything, I loved him deeply. I told him. He could never say it back. Not once. But I know in his own way he cared.

We had good memories. We laughed. We had one long, beautiful conversation just hours before he died — our last one.

But there was always pressure. Pressure to be enough. To perform. To compete.

Looking back, I think he didn’t know how to be a father. He was a competitive little boy until the end. And I was somehow the competition. When he pushed me down, he felt taller.

With his death, a circle closed.

And last year, I finally grew up.

Now I hold my own hand.

Now I speak to my inner child.

Now I am becoming the adult she needed.

After surgery, my mum came to stay with me. We have a better relationship now. More open. Softer. I love seeing how she loves my daughter. I’m grateful for the days we had together.

And look at this year already.

In one month, I lost 13 kilograms.

I signed up for college to become a counsellor — something I’ve wanted for twenty years.

For twenty years I also wanted a driving licence. But I was told, “You don’t need one. You won’t be good at it.” In our family, freedom was quietly discouraged.

After my dad died, something changed. I passed my theory with 98%.

Ninety-eight.

And I realised something important: my husband is not my father.

His love is not conditional.

He once told me he hopes one day I believe in myself as much as he already does.

He doesn’t need me to perform. He needs me to try.

If I fail a driving test, I haven’t failed him. It just means more practice.

That is encouragement. And I am slowly rewriting the old negative voice in my head.

So yes — this year I am reinventing myself.

And I am building LALO.

Because I believe there is a need for a community where we can say things out loud. Where we can admit that we are parenting our children while healing ourselves.

We are a generation trying to be better than what we were shown.

We are the generation with access to information — but also the responsibility to filter it.

We are tired.

Not because we are weak.

But because we are doing the work for three generations at once.

And maybe — just maybe — this is how change begins.