At this time, I was finding that there were several things I could no longer do—or was too embarrassed to do—because of my size. I really wanted, for instance, to kayak around the shores of Lake Superior and Madeline Island and see the beautiful and mysterious sea caves, but I was secretly afraid that my rear end would become lodged in the kayak seat, evoking a scene out of the film What’s Eating Gilbert Grape, in which Johnny Depp’s obese mother draws a crowd when she goes to town.

The short-term pleasure of overeating (baked goods are my special weakness) was destroying me. Although those little rewards of sugar and fat that lifted my spirits seemed benign, they were killing me. I was 90 pounds overweight and taking medication twice daily for type 2 diabetes. I felt awful. Walking my son the two blocks to his school was exhausting and each visit to the doctor was filled with helpless fear as I watched my glucose, cholesterol and blood pressure numbers inch upward. It was the physical pain that finally got me to take action. I found that I could no longer stand for extended periods nor could I run around carrying camera equipment on photo assignments without experiencing crushing exhaustion and pain. I realized I was sick.

I was presented with a seemingly impossible choice: either take care of my body and closely monitor what I eat or eat what I want and be confined to a motorized wheelchair, forever abandoning my dream of kayaking the sea caves. Diabetes, with its accompanying illness and immobility, was staring me in the face. I couldn’t ignore it any longer.