Learning to Ask for HelpMy Weight Loss JourneyBy Guest Contributor, Jenn Caruso
When you’re a caregiver, it becomes second nature to pour everything you have into your loved one: sleepless nights, the never-ending medical appointments, medications, meals, ADLs, and an array of financials. You quietly carry the load to ease their burden, but over time, that kind of love can empty you out. I’m learning that caring for myself isn’t selfish or optional; it’s part of the job.
Last summer, I finally went in for a routine physical—the appointment I rescheduled again and again because I knew what was waiting for me: the scale! I tried to bargain with it in the smallest ways—shoes off, sweater off, one long breath held like it could change the outcome. Then I stepped on, and it felt like I didn’t just step onto a scale—I stepped into the truth. The number flashed, and with it, my denial disappeared. I hopped off so fast you would’ve thought it bit me, but it was too late. That number—higher than I’d ever seen in my entire life—burned itself into my mind. My throat tightened, my eyes filled, and I fought hard to keep the tears from spilling. OBESE—me? How did I let this happen? That label attached to me hit like a punch to the gut —equal parts shock, shame, and a quiet fear I couldn’t ignore.
The people who know me best tried to soothe me with the kindest intentions: “It’s okay—you look beautiful. You’ve had a hard few years. You’re exhausted. You’ve taken on so much.” And they weren’t wrong. But the deeper truth is harder to say out loud: somewhere along the way, I stopped caring for myself. I let my own needs fall to the bottom of the list—until neglect started to feel normal.
Long‑distance running has always been my happy place. But between sleep deprivation and the emotional fatigue of being a caregiver, I lost all desire to run. I couldn’t even muster the energy to walk.
Now at rock bottom, I knew I had to do something. I decided it was more attainable to start with my caloric intake instead of exercise. As a stress eater, that felt like a monumental commitment. Over the past several years, I had slipped into the habit of comfort eating. How was I supposed to give up the sweet treats, the fries, the cheesy baked potatoes?
I tried everything to manage my hunger—more protein, more fiber, less sugar, all the usual advice. Nothing worked. I felt “starving” all the time and ended up in tears because I kept turning back to my comfort foods. I needed help climbing out of this pit. I had to ask for help. So, I started with my doctor.
One of her recommendations was a GLP‑1 medication called Tirzepatide. I had heard of it before but resisted the idea. Cost aside, I’d spent my whole life hearing, “There’s no magic pill.” I now respectfully disagree. The food noise has stopped, and that feels like a minor miracle. I actually have to remind myself to eat, because I don’t get hungry until dinner. ME, not hungry? It’s amazing!
No, the stress isn’t gone, and I still have emotional work to do. But without hunger constantly shouting at me, I can finally redirect my energy—toward work, reading, and even going for a walk. Since late summer, I’ve lost almost 30 pounds simply by eating less and walking a few days a week. I finally have enough energy to start running again. I still have a long way to go, but I’m adding a few miles each week. And the best part? I’ve signed up for a fall marathon—my first in more than three years!
Medication isn’t a failure. It’s a tool, just like any other. Give yourself permission to do whatever you need to care for your body and feel strong again. Only then can you truly show up for the people who depend on you.
Jenn (in pink) at the London Marathon in 2023
(From Priscilla, -- Jenn – Your life journey has been one incredible challenge after another. You’ve come through it with grace and such a positive attitude. You’re an inspiration to us all and I thank you so much for this wonderful contribution to our journey.)