Nine years ago, time stopped. Little by little, day by day, my world became less active, less social, and less fulfilling. Like a balloon with a slow air leak, I found myself deflating.
I was childless, husbandless, and miserable in my fixer-upper home that I had no means to fix up. I was the heaviest I'd ever been in my life, and food had become my addiction — a numbing, comforting distraction from my problems.
I'd allowed my story of brokenness and isolation to overshadow everything good in my life, and I found myself spiraling into a sort of high-functioning depression. Sometimes, I'd find myself crying in my driveway for an hour or more before I could work up the strength to go into my house — a place I dreaded entering.