Fat Chance Page 7

  Hebrews 12:1 says, “Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us.” I had read that verse a dozen times before, but I’d never noticed how relevant it is to the process of losing weight.

  What finally enabled me to start visualizing the “me I would be” was the practice of thinking about contestants from The Biggest Loser seasons previous to mine. I’d think about the players who had gone before me and who had endeared themselves to me by their hard work and their determination to honor their goals. And I’d think about the dramatic transformation they’d known as a result of refusing to quit. It was yet one more example of my being accidentally biblical in my approach to life. Without intending to, I’d crafted my own “cloud of witnesses” that could inspire me and push me and see me through to the end.

  For once, I could see the Julie that God intended me to be, the less-burdened woman who had been hiding within. For once, I felt my body changing and those extra weights melting away. For once, I was doing it—I was actually finishing what I had started.

  For once.

  My newfound appreciation for that verse in Hebrews has caused me now to believe that everyone can throw off the extraneous things weighing her down. The writer of that verse didn’t approach the idea timidly. It’s not like he said, “You know, give it a little thought, and if it seems like a good idea to you, then maybe get rid of your weight.”

  Far from it. It’s more like, “Get the weight gone, girl. Get it gone!” Remember the great cloud of witnesses. And throw off what hinders and entangles you. Think about who’s gone before you, and choose now to lay down your weight.

  I originally wanted to be on The Biggest Loser because I thought it was going to be fun. I wanted to be the cute, peppy, happy-go-lucky girl who made everything cheery and everyone laugh. But I got there and realized that the joke was on me. You see yourself differently when you are forced to acknowledge your weight, and ultimately to lay it all down. I felt crippled in every way while I was on campus: At various points along the journey, it seemed I’d been stripped of every form of support—emotional, physical, spiritual and more. But it would take being broken in every possible way before I’d agree to get my weight gone.

  And so it is with that verse in Hebrews 12. The instructions found there only work when you stumble upon a crossroads and dare to take the riskier path. For me, that crossroads was the intersection of streets named Big Change and Big Forever. Would I embark on “big change” or would I settle for being “big forever”? Which path would I choose?

  My self-talk went something like this: “Decide today that you want this change badly enough to pursue the person you deserve to be, or say to yourself right now that you’re going to be content with being fat every day for the rest of your life.”

  I was thirty-five years old and facing a do-or-die situation. Which path should I choose?

  Years ago when Mike and I were potty-training our son Noah, we noticed that Noah would always go crouch in the corner when he had to poop. We’d say, “Noah, we can see you hiding over there. Do you need to go potty?” To which he’d reply, “No!” just before producing poopy pants.

  He was old enough not to poop in his pants. He had been trained not to poop in his pants. And he hated the sensation of walking around in that awful poop-in-the-pants state. So why did he stick to his crouching routine? Because he wasn’t ready to make the effort to stop.

  Finally Mike and I decided that Noah would be banned from wearing his favorite Thomas the Train “big boy” underpants until he proved to us that he would go to the bathroom in the bathroom instead of hiding in the corner and lying his way through another poop. From there, things shifted.

  There’s a point in our lives when we are supposed to be babies. We’re supposed to be fragile and dependent and needy and weak. We’re supposed to poop in our pants. But then comes the point of awareness that it’s time to put aside childish things and live in the fullness and richness and “adultness” of who God has created us to be.

  At some point we must quit hiding, rise from our crouched position and decide in our hearts to grow up. That is the crossroads I was standing at. I had been hiding in a corner, trying to mask the stench of my obesity and its requisite weights. I knew that it stunk. Everyone around me knew that it stunk. But only I could make the decision to clean up the mess that I’d made. Maya Angelou says that, “When we know better, we do better.”3 And although it took me more than three decades to get there, at last I would prove I knew better.

  There is a third aspect to the verse in Hebrews 12 that inspires me every time I read it. “Let us run with perseverance,” it says, “the race marked out for us.” Now, you tell me: Is it even possible to run—let alone to run with perseverance—when you’re fat and unhappy and an emotional wreck? I dare you to say yes.

  At the end of our season on the show, the remaining contestants and I had to complete a challenge that involved dragging a giant forty-pound scale behind us as well as the equivalent of whatever weight we had lost to that point in the game. The weight was added to our scales a little at a time, and as the challenge went on it became increasingly difficult to race back and forth. It was such a clear picture to me of how tough it is to soar when you’re dragging dead weight.

  I came across a quote one time that says, “Perseverance is the hard work you do after you get tired of doing the hard work you already did.” That about sums it up.

  Back then I had no idea what race God had marked out for me. Still don’t, as a matter of fact. But this much I do know: However the road winds and wherever it leads, it will be vastly easier to run in a sloughed-off-weight state. And I’ve got the proof to support it.

  When my teammate Isabeau auditioned for The Biggest Loser, part of her driving motivation was that she wanted to fit in with her family—her brother, her mom and her dad—all of whom were “normal” size. Sure, she wanted other things, too, like pursuing a songwriting career, becoming a bona fide rock star and wearing off-the-rack jackets from Urban Outfitters. But underneath all of that were those “deeper waters”—the emotional weight of feeling ostracized from her own family.

  Every year Isabeau’s family ran a 5K race together, which she had never been able to run. It would bring her to tears to talk about how every summer she’d sit on the curb, waiting the half-hour for them to return. “It was inconceivable to them that I’d ever participate in that run,” she told me one day. “We all had just accepted the fact that this was ‘their thing’ that I didn’t do.”

  The first time I ran a road race, I cried the entire first mile of the nine-mile total. I couldn’t believe I was actually achieving something I had yearned to do for thirty-five years.

  Between Isabeau’s time on campus and our season finale, she ran that race with her family, all 3.1 miles of it. She wasn’t rail-thin when she ran, but she was definitely carrying less weight—physically, emotionally, in every regard—and on that day Isabeau soared.

  After the Season 4 finale, my husband and I had my goal-shirt encased in glass and hung it in our den. To this day it serves as a reminder of the lifelong commitment I made.

  I think about her achievement now and remember every drop of sweat that got her to that race. I remember every hour in the gym. Every wind sprint we were forced to run. Every doughnut we refused to eat. Every everything that brought the new “us” into being. And still today I know she’d agree that it was worth every ounce of that work. To feel light on your feet on a God-ordained path—is there a better reward than that?

  People ask me whether I kept that goal-shirt, and my answer’s always the same: Of course I kept that shirt! It’s the motto that I changed and now can leave behind. I already “finished what I started, for once.” And now I’m determined “to continue what I started, forever.”

  MY BEST ADVICE

  Move More and Eat Less
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  The most frequently asked question I get from people who are trying to lose weight is this one: “How did you do it?” They approach me in grocery stores, in restaurants, at my son’s soccer games, everywhere I go, it seems, and want to know exactly what I did to drop my weight.

  What they expect in reply is some complicated formula that I followed to the letter. I can see it in their eyes. Which is why I know that my actual response is always something of a disappointment.

  “If you want to lose weight,” I explain, “you have to move more. And eat less.”

  They stare back at me as if to say, “No, really. Tell me what you did.”

  But that is, in fact, what I did. It’s what every fat person who lost weight did, unless they went the surgical route.

  The Biggest Loser taught me many nuances of diet and exercise that I never knew existed—how to balance carb intake, how to structure a workout regimen so that you remain injury-free, how to overcome negative self-talk when you think you just can’t go on—but when it was all said and done, my big takeaway was this: The only way to lose weight is to burn more calories than you consume. You have to move more, and you have to eat less. Period.

  When I was overweight, I would circle the mall parking lot for forty-five minutes straight, looking for a parking spot that was inches from the door. I could have entered the mall, done all of my shopping, and returned to my car five times in the time it took me to hunt down a fat-person’s spot. These days I pull in, I park and I walk.

  I move. I move more.

  Likewise, prior to losing weight, a typical weeknight dinner involved swinging through the drive-thru at McDonald’s after Noah’s soccer games and ordering a double cheeseburger, a large order of fries and a large Coke. I’d put down a full day’s calories in one meal flat, and often follow that up later with a fresh batch of cookies at home. Lord, have mercy.

  I’m not a purist when it comes to fast food now, but I’ve definitely reined in my routine. I eat, but I eat less. And I eat far less fast food.

  Those same people who ask how I lost weight probably go home, look in the mirror, find a terribly obese person standing there and feel utterly overwhelmed. I mean, where do you start when you need to lose one hundred pounds? With my advice fresh on their minds, all they can think about is that it’s hard to “move more” when you can barely move, and it’s hard to “eat less” when food seems to be your only friend.

  That’s certainly how I used to feel.

  But here’s what I’d tell them if I had the chance: “Your excess weight didn’t appear in one day, and it won’t go away that fast either. I don’t care where you start, but start somewhere. Move a little bit more, or eat a little bit less, but do one of those two things right now.”

  Walk to the mailbox. Walk to the grocery store if it’s around the corner. Heck, walk even if it’s a mile away. Ditch your fast-food habit, if only for one day. (If you’re in the drive-thru lane while you’re reading this book, put the book down, throw your car in reverse and go home! You’ll thank me in the morning.) Replace soda with water for even a week, and see what kind of benefits you feel. Do five laps around your living room during commercial breaks, I don’t care. Just move! Move more. And eat—you guessed it—less.

  Part Two

  Jell-O Bones and a Bucket of Tears:

  My Surreal Existence on Reality TV

  CHAPTER 4

  The Terrifying, Tumultuous Trip toward Thin

  IN THE 1991 movie What About Bob? Bill Murray plays the hilarious character Bob Wiley, an insecure, neurotic and quirky recluse who self-admittedly has a few “problems.” One day he is referred to a psychiatrist, played by Richard Dreyfuss, and in an early scene sheds light on the exact nature of his dilemma.

  “Here’s the simplest way to put it,” Bob says. “I worry about diseases, so I have trouble touching things. In public places it’s almost impossible. I have a real big problem moving.”

  “Talk about … moving,” says Dreyfuss’ character, Dr. Leo Marvin.

  “As long as I’m in my apartment, I’m okay,” Bob explains, “but when I want to go out, I get … weird.”

  “Talk about weird,” comes the advice.

  “Talk about weird. Well, I get dizzy spells,” Bob says. “Nausea. Cold sweats. Hot sweats. Fever blisters. Difficulty breathing. Difficulty swallowing. Blurred vision. Involuntary trembling. Dead hands. Numb lips. Fingernail sensitivity. Pelvic discomfort …”

  If you never saw What About Bob? and your life seems strangely incomplete, now you know why. Put it in your Netflix queue today. Few movies are funnier than this one.

  You get the feeling Bob could go on this way for hours, delineating the symptoms faced by an irrational hermit, symptoms that sound strangely like those also faced by obese people trying to work out for the very first time. Thankfully, Bob’s litany is interrupted.

  “Bob,” says Dr. Marvin as he scans his bookshelves, “a groundbreaking book has just come out that might help you.” He pulls the book from the shelf and hands the copy to Bob.

  “Baby Steps?” Bob asks as he takes in the title.

  “Baby Steps,” confirms Dr. Marvin. “It means setting small, reasonable goals for yourself, one day at a time, one tiny step at a time. For instance, when you leave this office, don’t think about everything you have to do to get out of the building. Just think of what you must do to get out of this room, and when you get to the hall, deal with that hall, and so forth. You see? Baby steps.”

  “Baby steps!” Bob cheers as he rises to leave and takes small shuffles toward the door. “Oh boy!”

  Several months after I’d been on the show and had made the transition from the madness known as “Jillian Michaels’ workouts” to the madness known as Margie’s, I’d see the baby-steps approach play out in living color.

  A new girl named Sharon showed up to be trained one day, and immediately Margie pulled me aside. “Julie,” she asked, “can you please help me look after her? She’s never really worked out.” It was an assessment that would be proven true during our very first hour together.

  Partway through the seventy minutes of sprints, races and drills, I looked over to find my newfound, overweight friend barfing for all she was worth. She was exhausted, miserable and obviously physically sick. “Sharon,” I said as I approached her, “you simply cannot quit. I know this is hard, but you have to keep going, just one step at a time.” She nodded as she stood up from her keeled-over position and attempted to pull herself together.

  Months ago I posted Sharon’s story on my MySpace page and was in awe over the reception it received. My favorite reply came from a young woman in Mississippi, who wrote,

  “I know exactly how Sharon feels. I’d let myself gain so much weight over the last nine years that I was no longer happy in my own skin. I recently started exercising, and six hours after my first cardio workout I could not move. Muscles were hurting that I didn’t even know were there, but three days later, I went at it again. I’m finally sticking to a schedule now, and for the first time in my life, instead of saying, ‘I’m going to do it,’ I’m actually doing it!”

  Amazingly, she persevered through the rest of that workout and despite being sore for the entire week following that debut actually showed up for round two of the torture two days later.

  During our second seventy-minute training session together, I checked in on Sharon between drills to make sure she was still alive. As I approached her I noticed that tears were streaming down her cheeks. “What is it?” I asked as gently as possible.

  “I don’t know,” she whispered through choked-back tears. “I really don’t know why I’m crying.”

  I cupped her hand in my hands, looked her straight in the eyes and said, “I do. I know exactly why you’re tearing up.” She met my gaze in anticipation of what I would say. “You’re crying for three reasons,” I continued. “First, you’re crying because you are completely embarrassed about letting yourself get to this point. You can’t believ
e that you of all people are this horribly and uncomfortably fat.

  “The second reason you are crying is that this is the hardest thing you have ever done, and physically, it just plain hurts.

  “And third, those tears are tears of pride. You’re proud that you’re actually doing this.”

  Sharon nodded so rapidly that I thought her head might wobble right off her shoulders. “How do you know all of that?” she finally asked.

  I told her that on so many occasions on campus, I had shed those very same tears. I too had followed the baby-step progression, from embarrassment to pain to pride, and while I wouldn’t trade the end result for all the money in the world, I vastly underestimated what it would take to walk that path.

  “MUST I REMIND YOU I’M FAT?”

  Ididn’t fully know how much weight I carried all of my adult life until I tried to run it up a hill. The first time Jillian asked me to jog for five minutes straight—no stopping allowed—I thought I’d literally burst into tears. Sure, she had first prepared my fragile knees by working to build up the muscles that surround them, but when I heard her demand that multiminute run I knew I was a goner for sure. I was writing my obituary in my mind’s eye as I pulled on my socks and shoes. “Julie Hadden—loving wife, mom and friend. Sadly enough, that twenty-foot jog just did her in!” What a pitiful way to go.

  Halfway through the run that I was sure I would not survive, I looked at Jillian and wanted to scream, “I’m a fat person! Do I really need to remind you of that? I’m fat, and fat people like couches and French fries and drinks that have fizz, not death-wish jogs in the blazing sun!”

  “Welcome to your new world, Jules!” Jillian sneered as if hearing my thoughts. She had been running backward faster than I was running forward, and as she did a one-eighty and raced off into the distance, I heard her cheer, “Keep going! It doesn’t get better than this!”