Every year, for as long as I can remember, I would resolve to lose weight.
125 pounds it said on my driver's license, even though it wasn't accurate at the time I wrote it down.
It was my goal, every year, to get there by my birthday, which is in mid-December. And every year, I would fail, berate myself and then vow to lose the weight in the New Year.
Was I fat?
No, that's the worst of it.
My poor mother had a lifelong eating disorder — she never got above 105, she even bought a kitchen table with four oversized chairs for a family of five, so she wouldn't be tempted to sit down and eat with us.
Food was temptation and punishment.
You couldn't be too thin. I fell for it all.
To this day, I don't really know what I look like.
Body dysmorphia, they call it.
It had nothing to do with health.
Until my second pregnancy, that is, when I really did get fat.
It was the first time in my life that I ate whatever I wanted.
I worked, but I didn't exercise.
I ate for two or more.
When it came time to tell the labor nurses how much I weighed, I insisted on writing it on a piece of paper so my husband wouldn't hear.
170-what?
I was 40 years old with a baby and a toddler.
I finally got serious.
I cut out the carbs.
I ate protein, vegetables and fruit.
I learned to look at menus the same way I shop, excluding things and stores, I can't afford as a mere distraction.
I rode a stationary bicycle for 45 minutes, five days a week.
I read the Victoria's Secret catalogues (for the clothes, not the underwear) and every month, I would go down a size.
Fridays were my day for ordering.
At some point, it occurred to me that all I had to do was keep doing what I'd been doing and I would get to the magic 125.
Then I wrote a book about it. It was the O.J. Simpson trial.
I was working for NBC. I had put aside the book I was working on — about how politics was destroying the criminal justice system — until the trial was over, and the question people kept asking me was how I lost the weight, not whether I thought he was guilty.
So I answered that question.
The name of the book was "Making the Case for Yourself: A Diet Book for Smart Women." The thesis of the book was simple.
We, women of the 90s, were out there juggling work and family and careers and community without missing a beat and yet we stopped for the dry Danish on the way out. We were taking care of everyone but ourselves.
Why not do for ourselves what we do for everyone else?
Besides, with a book out there, I would be too embarrassed to gain all the weight back.
But books only stay in print so long.
The weight crept back, slowly but steadily, never to the point of being obese, but certainly to the point that it's time for a New Year's resolution.
So I lost 30 pounds. I got to 125 and kept going for another ten.
And here's my point. This time it was easy. I'm not embarrassed by that.
Why shouldn't it be easy? Why should I feel guilty for getting help when I needed it?
My sister was prescribed Ozempic because she has congestive heart failure.
The weight dropped off.
The lifelong conversations in her head about what to eat every day stopped. I was prescribed Ozempic because I went online for ten minutes, filled out a form and fixed a lifetime problem. I have never lost weight so easily.
It wasn't a matter of willpower.
The desire was gone and so was the craziness.
I know women and men who are embarrassed to reach out for medicine when they feel they should be strong enough to do it themselves.
Hogwash.
Let this be my New Year's gift to you. Getting help is not a weakness. Medicine works, but only if you take it. This is about health, mental and physical. Wishing you a happy — and especially healthy — new year.
Susan Estrich is a politician, professor, lawyer and writer. She has appeared on the pages of The New York Times, the Los Angeles Times, and The Washington Post. Ms. Estrich has also served as as an on-air contributor, on CNN, Fox News, NBC, ABC, CBS, and NBC. Her focus is on legal matters, women's concerns, national politics, and social issues. Read Susan Estrich's Reports — More Here.