JABatha Christie & The Mystery of the Missing Metabolism...

 

A woman, a jab, and a wardrobe full of hope (and trousers that once fit on a Tuesday). 

 

Let’s be clear: I didn’t start this journey because I wanted to be skinny. I started because I was exhausted. 

Not just physically, but mentally, emotionally, hormonally - cosmically, really. I was eating healthy - or at least giving it a solid go.

 

Protein bowls, leafy greens, grilled everything. I even gave up white bread and the white lies. I cut down on booze (okay, I flirted with the idea).

I even considered fasting.

 

But my body?

It was having none of it. 

The fat clung on like a drama queen in denial. The bloat refused to leave the group chat.And the scale? Sat there like it had diplomatic immunity. 

 

And before anyone dares suggest I “just try a juice cleanse” - Oh, darling. I did. I went full Goop™️. I booked a juicy retreat: seven days of cucumber water, colon-stirring yoga, and whispered arguments over nut milk.

I left lighter in the wallet and mildly traumatised. A few pounds lost. A. FEW! Just an expensive lesson in the limits ofcelery.​

 

Meanwhile, life kept happening.

Perimenopause crashed in like an uninvited guest who drinks your wine, clogs the toilet, and still expects a lift home.

The bloating, fatigue, mood dips, foggy brain…My body felt less like a temple and more like an abandoned storage unit with dodgy plumbing. 

 

And then there was the wine. What started as a little treat here and there became a routine. A glass to unwind. A glass to celebrate. A glass because the cat looked at me funny.

But it wasn’t serving me anymore. It was fuelling the fog, the bloat, the sleep issues.

 

I want to feel things - not sip them away. I want clarity. Control. I want to choose joy - not pour it. 

 

Let’s not even talk about holidays. I’ve packed bikinis with the optimism of a Love Island contestant, only to wearfloaty kaftans like I’m about to conduct a séance.

Photos? Cropped. Confidence? MIA. 

 

And the clothes.Oh, the clothes. Gorgeous pieces I once wore with ease now live in storage like they’re waiting for a comeback tour.I refuse to give them away. Not because I’m delusional - but because I’m not done.​

 

Then came the whisper of Mounjaro. I didn’t leap. I researched. I spiralled. This wasn’t about chasing a quick fix. This was about reclaiming myself. And not just the number on the scale. But my energy. My mood. My confidence. My life. 

 

I also knew I had habits to face. Like the speed at which I inhale food - I eat like a Dyson on a deadline. Barely chewing. Barely noticing. It’s time to slow down, savour, and stop treating every meal like it’s going to runaway. 

 

And of course, there’s my family history. Strokes. Heart attacks. Cholesterol so high it could probably vote.

I’m not waiting around for a warning shot. 

 

So I took the jab. Not because I gave up. But because I finally decided to back myself with something different. 

This is about showing up for the woman underneath it all.

The one who deserves to feel strong, sexy, sharp, and alive again. 

 

This is the case of Me vs. My Metabolism.

And JABatha Christie is officially on it. 

 

With Love,

JABatha Christie