Jeff
Down 110 pounds, two-thirds of the meds, moving like I mean it.
The fat piece of shit I saw in the mirror is 110 pounds lighter. I’m down to two-thirds of what I was taking, and I’m still trimming the number. I move better now than I did carrying an extra person’s worth of weight, which is a low bar, but I clear it every morning.
What the scale can’t show matters more. I’m insulin sensitive again, and the fatty liver I was hauling around has healed. The body works like advertised now — I can spend energy and burn my own fat for it instead of begging for sugar every couple hours. The food noise is gone, my head is clear, and my thinking is sharper than I’d honestly forgotten it could be. A body that runs on its own fat runs a better brain.
That’s the update. No protocol, no supplement stack to sell you, no big reveal. I ate the animal, lifted the heavy thing, slept, and did it again until the scale gave up. Effie’s ledger is the longer story — I’m just the guy who had to fix himself first before I had any business opening doors for her.