Reflections from the ObesityHelp Conference
Recently, Dr. Tro and I spoke at the ObesityHelp conference, an organization dedicated to bariatric patients. I’m always a bit nervous before I do any public speaking, and when I asked Tro what to expect before we headed to the conference, he said, “It’s basically a room full of Amys from 10 years ago.”
He was right, but it was also a room full of all of us: who we were, who we are, and who we’re still becoming.
The conference brought together hundreds of people at different points along their weight loss journey – some considering bariatric surgery, others just a few months out, and many who were years beyond their procedures but still very much “in it.” It was powerful to see so many people gathered in one space, united by a shared experience of struggle, hope, and healing.
For me, it was intensely emotional.
Walking into that room felt like stepping through a time machine. In my journey I ultimately decided surgery was not the right option for me, but at the conference I saw versions of myself everywhere… the fear, the determination, the exhaustion, the quiet hope that maybe, finally, things could be different.
From where I sit, there was also the silent resignation that even with all the tools, this is a lifelong battle that I know I will never “conquer,” but will continue to learn skills to manage, and that even when the weight is gone, even when health has returned, the emotional scars linger and there is always work to be done.
Never Over, Always Becoming
The conference was a living reminder that obesity recovery isn’t a finish line, it’s an ongoing relationship with yourself. The people I met weren’t failures for still being “on the journey,” they were proof of what it takes to keep showing up for yourself year after year.
I felt proud knowing how far I’ve come, but I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t also deeply triggering. Talking to everyone there, hearing stories that sounded so much like my own, familiar feelings rose to the surface: the memories of physical pain, emotional exhaustion, the constant shame that used to (still does?) cling to me like a second skin.
Even something as simple as sitting on the airplane reminded me of how different my life is now. For years, I avoided flying, partly because of a fear of flying, but also because of the fear of fitting. The seat belt, the looks, the pain of wedging myself into a seat, the silent calculations of people wondering if they’d be sitting next to me. Those memories don’t vanish, even when your body changes.
Grateful to Remember; Ready to Forget
There’s a part of me that hopes I never lose touch with the 400-pound version of myself. That person fought like hell to survive, and deserved compassion, not contempt. Staying connected to her reminds me of what’s possible, and of why I do the work I do now.
But there’s another part of me that longs to forget. The physical pain, the daily humiliations, the endless cycle of trying and failing. It’s hard to revisit those memories, even in celebration. For fifty years, I lived with and in that agony, and though my life looks dramatically different now, the echoes of it still move through me.
I know in a few weeks, the emotions will settle. But right now, I’m deep in my feelings: grateful, sad, humbled, and raw.
The Grifters Among Us
One thing that struck me, painfully, is that even within the so-called “health” space, there are still grifters ready to exploit our desperation. People selling shortcuts, false hope, and overpriced “miracle” solutions.
All of that makes me incredibly proud of the work that we do at Toward Health where I know every person on this team is so deeply committed to true health and guiding people towards the authentic life they were meant to live.
When you’ve survived through the kind of physical, emotional and social suffering that comes with obesity, you become a prime target for exploitation. That’s why spaces like the Toward Health community matter so much. In addition to kinship, honesty, and compassion, we have sane and like-minded people to gently remind us that we don’t need another gimmick, hack or “miracle.”
In Celebration and In Sorrow
There was also a lot of joy at the conference, and everyone I talked to shared their vulnerabilities in such a supportive way. Each person was open to celebrating both their own and others’ milestones, sharing photos, and cheer each other on.
There’s a special kind of magic when people who have been through hell find a reason to celebrate, but even in that joy, I saw the pain. It lives in the eyes of people who have spent decades fighting for basic dignity, in healthcare, in relationships, in their own minds. Seeing that pain reminded me of just how deep those scars run, and I don’t know that they ever fully heal.
The Blessing in the Pain
Maybe that’s not a bad thing? Those scars, even the ones I wish I could erase, are also what make me who I am today, and that is what keeps me grounded in empathy. It reminds me what it’s like to feel hopeless, to feel unseen, to feel broken, and it’s that memory that makes me a better health coach, advocate, and human being.
Still, on a personal level, it breaks me open and makes me cry…but that is the cost of transformation.
Gratitude for My Village
I couldn’t have made it here alone. I’m grateful for the village of people who walked with me – Dr. Tro, Taline, Rosette, Tory, and Brian – each of whom helped me nearly every step of the way. They’ve seen me at my most vulnerable and helped me find my way to the other side.
The ObesityHelp Conference wasn’t just an event, but a mirror that showed me who I was, who I am, and who I’m still becoming.
It reminded me of what is possible, that healing isn’t linear, that joy and pain can coexist, and that sometimes the most important thing we can do is simply stay connected to the journey, to the community, and to ourselves.
So yes, it was emotional. It was painful. But it was also beautiful. Because even when it hurts, I wouldn’t trade this perspective, the one that remembers what it took to get here, for anything.
