I can’t believe I’m writing this, but here goes.

Growing up, I was always at least 20 lbs heavier than everyone else. Not fat—just a little plump, as my mom would say. Teenage Kellie? Acne, glasses, buck teeth, and a horrendous perm. I was awkward, self-conscious, and desperately wanted to find love… lol.

Fast forward to my early 20s: contacts, the gym, aerobics classes, weights. I transformed. I was turning heads, feeling amazing… then I met my now ex.

We lived by the “pleasure principle”—eat, drink, be merry, every single night. Slowly, the weight crept back. He didn’t want me at the gym. He didn’t want anyone looking at me. If we walked, he turned it into a marathon: “Hustle! Carry weights! Faster!” All that did was piss me off and whittle away at what love I had left for him.

Then came the comments: “You’re getting manly,” “Look at this!”—he’d snap awful photos of me and say, “See, this is what I have to sleep with.” Did I cry? Yeah, a lot. All the comments did nothing but anger me. I’m oppositional defiant. The more you tell me what to do, the louder my inner FUCK YOU gets.

I tried every diet over 20 years: Atkins, Weight Watchers, Nutrisystem, Jenny Craig, no-carb—you name it. Nothing worked… until I found low-carb, my way. I wanted it easy. I wanted it tasty. I wanted it with alcohol. Life is short—I’m not giving up my wine.

Divorce, cancer, menopause… life hit me like a dump truck. I gained 40 lbs practically overnight. What the actual fuck happened? I can’t reach my ass to wipe it, I can’t put on my socks ’cause I can’t reach my feet, shit, I almost blacked out bending over—what are those pretty lights… lol.

Every part of every day hurt or was hard. A walk across the store would result in me busting out in an uncontrollable sweat. Nothing fits and… the worst part… people treat you very differently. Men do not hold doors, no one makes eye contact with you, let alone “checks you out.” Going up steps, I could feel my legs buckling under the pressure. I could barely fit in the booths at a restaurant or movie theater seats.

I cracked my damn toilet trying to wipe my own ass. It’s ok, you can laugh—I am too! LOL.

Every day after work I would head straight to my bed and go to sleep for hours, get up for a few, and go back to bed. I was 47 years old, not 87. This was NOT what I wanted.

At my heaviest I was 259 lbs, and I’m 5’2”. I could not believe it. I didn’t want to die yet, and that was exactly what I was headed for. I was now not only on depression meds, I was on water pills and blood pressure meds. I looked in the mirror and did not know who I was looking at, but now I couldn’t even make eye contact with myself. I knew I was still in there, and I wanted my happy ending.

One afternoon, while trying to nap under a mountain of blankets, my thoughts went to my Aunt Sherri. She was 39 when she died and easily over 400 lbs—she could no longer weigh herself. I remember wondering why she always slept, why she was always in pain, why she never left the house, and it hit me like a ton of fucking bricks. HOLY SHIT, if I do not do something, I’m going to end up like she did. If that was the purpose of her short life, to save mine… she did it.

January 1, 2025, I drew a line in the sand: no more unhealthy carbs in my house. Focus on under 20g carbs a day, low sodium. Once I hit ketosis I was dropping 2–3 lbs a week.

Three months in, I added in the good stuff: strawberries, blueberries… holy crap, flavor explosion. My cravings and taste buds flipped. Cake was way too sweet, and I preferred… an APPLE?

This isn’t a diet. It’s a lifestyle.

A year later, I’m 67 lbs lighter, feeling unstoppable. I can enjoy Thanksgiving, weekend fries, cocktails… and not gain. I still have 40–50 lbs to go, and I’m taking you along for the ride.

If you’re still reading, congrats—you’re officially awesome. My story is just getting started. Stay tuned for my book, “To FAT & BACK”, where I spill the full, unfiltered journey: the laughs, the swears, the tears, and how I made it happen.

This is more than weight loss.
This is taking your life back—one kick-ass step at a time.