This Year Will Be Different (And Maybe That's Okay)
AI-generated fridge. But the different intentions are all me.
I’m sitting at my dining room table staring at what’s left of Christmas: a few cookies, an almost-empty candy bowl, and dinner plans that involve mozzarella sticks and pizza rolls. The remnants of a week spent eating garbage. I do this every year—overindulge now and swear I’ll fix it later.
Most years, I’m honest enough to admit how this ends. As I look around, I can already hear the familiar voice warming up in my head, right on schedule: This year will be different. I’ll try, I’ll slip, I’ll beat myself up, and I’ll be right back here in 363 days to do it all over again.
But this year might actually be different, and that’s a strange thing to admit. Not because I’ve suddenly discovered discipline or grit, but because I have a secret weapon sitting on the top shelf of my refrigerator: a GLP-1 called Zepbound.
It’s the same thing I swore less than a year ago I’d never need. Because I should be able to do this on my own. I’m an adult and I act like it (most of the time). I should be able to have a slice of cake and not eat…the cake.
I’ll be starting Zepbound this week. I’ve read the instructions. I’ve watched a handful of YouTube videos about how to stick myself in the gut, what side effects to expect, what foods to eat, and what it means if the scale doesn’t move fast enough.
Even after reading story after story from people who swear this stuff changed their lives, I’ve already rehearsed failure. Failure and weight management have been long-time companions for me, so that mindset comes naturally.
The difference this time is that there is a little hope mixed in with some trepidation and even a little dread. That hope comes with an uncomfortable realization: if this works, it means I didn’t fail before year after year because I was lazy or weak. It means I failed because willpower alone wasn’t enough and I finally stopped pretending it should be.
I’d be lying to you if I didn’t admit that I wrestled with that part all year—the idea that needing help somehow cheapens the potential win—that relying on a shot means I didn’t really earn it. That struggle ended after I met my grandson earlier this year.
For years, my reasons for wanting to be healthier were obvious: my family, my kids, walking up stairs without getting winded, etc. My kids are adults now, and they’ve never known a dad who wasn’t fatter than most other dads. This year, my oldest had a kid of his own, and suddenly the stakes feel different. I want the little dude who shows up once a week to know a grandpa who can get down on the floor to play and not struggle to get back up.
I want my kids to see me finally follow through on a promise I made to them but never said it out loud.
This year, the resolution isn’t about losing X pounds. It’s about redefining what success actually looks like after all this time. It won’t be a number on a scale, a smaller pant size, or even less lower-back pain. This time, I hope to measure success by how much I enjoy finally living the life I told myself I’d get around to living someday.
-GD
