Sarah Nigbor

There is one topic that I hate talking about, or even thinking about, and that is my weight. I don’t think any woman likes thinking about her weight, but I really, really hate it. So why write about it in a column? Well, because I know I’m not alone and many of you can relate. I also want to take away its power; it’s something people can be cruel about. Society puts so much pressure on women to be stick-thin and perfect, but not everyone is blessed with that kind of body type or metabolism.

God rest her soul, and I loved her very much, but my grandma was always picking at me about my weight from a young age. I later learned that her parents had hounded her about her weight when she was growing up, so I’m guessing that’s where it came from. I forgave her long ago, but it really hurt me. I look back at pictures of me when she was on my case and I want to cry. I wasn’t fat or even overweight once I shed the baby fat after adolescence. In eighth grade, I was so sick of her talking about it and sick of being teased in school, that I starved myself and rode exercise bike every day to the point of exhaustion. I lost over 50 pounds when I didn’t have 50 pounds to lose. I remember my Grandpa being worried sick and trying to get me to eat more at dinner, but I refused. On the opposite side of the spectrum, Grandma was pleased and watched every little thing I put into my mouth. I never dared having a second helping of anything.

No eighth-grade girl, or any girl (or boy) for that matter, should be shamed into losing weight. I’m not saying children shouldn’t eat healthily and exercise; absolutely they should. Did I need to exercise more back then? Yes, I did. I preferred to read books all day to physical activity. Once I started exercising in a healthy way, it was great. I continued it well into my 30s and I was always in good shape but never stick thin. I come from sturdy Scandinavian stock I guess.

My whole life I have struggled with feeling good about my weight/appearance. I vowed my daughter wouldn’t go through that experience. But I can’t save her from the world.

Before I became sick a few years ago, I was an avid walker. I would walk almost every day, sometimes 5 miles a day. My vacations with my best friend involved hiking anywhere we could. But in 2022, my body began to turn on me. I felt ragged, exhausted, broken. For three years no doctor could find a reason until I was diagnosed with an autoimmune disease called Ankylosing Spondylitis in 2025. Most days I felt like I’d been hit by a truck. My joints, abdomen and legs swelled, my spine ached. I went through a merry-go-round of having pneumonia, shingles, iritis … it never stopped. I became depressed. I didn’t walk anymore. To be honest, I didn’t feel like doing anything anymore. My job at the Journal and my family really helped me hang on when I felt like there was no end in sight.

I remember going on a camping trip and crying in the tent when everyone was asleep because I was in so much pain. I used to be the fun mom, the one who would go flying down the hill on a sled, go over jumps, play volleyball, go swimming, ride rollercoasters. I even went skydiving for crying out loud. But slowly, that person disappeared, replaced with a sick lump who wanted to sleep. That’s what I felt like. My weight ballooned, which made me feel even worse. I felt too crappy to do anything about it. I gave up. My doctor said a lot of it is due to the inflammation, but that didn’t make me feel better about it.

However, this past year solidified my belief in miracles. After a lot of trial and error, my rheumatologist thinks we’re on the right track with treatment. I have to give myself shots of an anti-inflammatory drug, but the medication in those syringes has been life changing. For the first time in a long while, I am starting to feel like me again.

I have even started walking again with the goal to get back into shape and lose some weight (in a healthy way). My goal first and foremost is to feel better. My health is what matters, not the scale. The last couple of weeks I’ve been walking almost every day, and I’m up to two miles at a crack. That might not be much to some, but to me it’s everything. One foot in front of the other!