Tag Archives: fears

Let’s Get Real

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I sort of can’t believe I’m actually writing (with the intent to publish) this post.

Deep breath.

Throughout this whole life-making journey of mine, I’ve been told over and over again how brave I am. How my honesty with the process is so refreshing and appreciated. And I guess I haven’t really seen it that way just because this is me being me. Anyone who knows me will tell you that I don’t have much of a filter. I have an opinion about everything. I over share constantly.

The one aspect of my life where I’ve typically exercised a great deal of discretion, though, is when anything in relation to my weight is brought to light. Before the last year or so, I never would have felt comfortable dressing the way I do now (hello, tank tops!) or sharing the size of my clothes (XL tops and dresses, size 18-20 pants). And I especially would never, ever, ever times infinity disclose the actual amount I weigh. That not-so-little number has remained sacred between my doctor(s) and me.

I mean, when you can watch contestants on The Biggest Loser bemoan their numbers and you think, “Uh, that’s not even that bad,” you know you have a serious problem.

The significance I have given to that number is staggering. And now that I’m finally just starting to feel like I almost fit into other normal standards of society (shopping at “normal” stores, fitting into chairs, getting side-long glances from cute boys), this number is suffocating me.

It remains my biggest unflinching demon.

It hasn’t gone down in months.

It consumes my thoughts, if I let it.

It mocks me right in the middle of every new accomplishment. You can run a mile, but you can’t lose that number. Ha.

It defines me.

But no more.

My hope is that by putting this number out there in the public realm, by allowing this number to say its peace and have its moment..maybe then it will finally lose its hold on me. Maybe then I can move past. And maybe then I can get that number to shrink.

(I literally just had to stop and take two deep breaths. My heart is racing. Holy shit, I’m doing this..)

On January 17, 2012, the day I began this journey, I weighed 380 pounds.

Let that really sink in for a moment…

Today I weigh 317 pounds. Some days a few pounds less, some days a few pounds more.

My goal is to lose half my body weight, and then reevaluate from there. So, 190 is my goal weight.

Am I still embarrassed by those numbers? Absolutely! I’m mortified to share them with you now, and there’s not a day where I don’t feel some twinge of shame at how badly I let myself go. And why? How? I don’t know how I was living at that weight–that’s like scary, have to weigh you on the freight scale, nearing having to cut your out of your house living. Though, I mean, I know I wasn’t living living. I was alive–blood plumping, lungs breathing. But not LIVING! exclamation point, you know? Thank God I’m 5’11″…

Anyway, I know that in the grand scheme of things, my number is just a number. It doesn’t actually define me or encompass my self-worth. I want to lose weight for my health, for my looks, for my future, for my everything. But a large part of me also wants to lose it to distance myself as physically far as possible from that number of 380 and all it represents in my past.

I know I’ll never see that 380 pound girl again. I know she’s gone for good and thank God for that. I appreciate all she taught me, the strength she gave me that I’m just now discovering…but good effing riddance!

And so, dramatics and large integers aside, it comes down to this: own who you are—past, present and future.

Be You, Do You, Love You

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Hey, how’s your weight loss going?

The question, as of late, has made me extremely anxious. It has induced stress and anxiety. I wish I could pause time Saved by the Bell style so I could eventually un-pause and provide a better answer to it.

I long to share that I’ve lost another couple pounds. And then another few. And a couple more. I can’t wait to post those amazing photos where you stand in a pair of you old pants and hold the waist out away from you at arm’s length because they are now that big on you. I can’t wait to shout to the world that I’ve lost 100 pounds…and I’m still going!

Internally, my response is that I am still here. Still stuck at 60 pounds. I still can’t run more than a mile even though I’ve been trying for over a year. I still shop mostly in the plus-sizes, I still make poor food choices and don’t always work out consistently. I am still very, very overweight. I feel guilty when people tell me how good I’m looking because at some point, that will all stop if my weight loss doesn’t start back up.

Externally, though, I reply that despite being very, very stuck right now, it’s all going pretty well, actually. I mean, I know I’ve got to figure out how to get unstuck. And I know my journey is far from over. In fact, we’ve probably got ourselves a lifelong thang here, me and the weight loss.

But, as my frustration with that question and the stagnant scale has reached a boiling point over the past few six months, I’ve slowly begun to notice myself becoming more and more accepting of what’s going on with my body.

Is quitting an option? No, never. Not once on this journey have I even contemplated throwing in the towel. It just doesn’t cross my mind. Sure, I cry about the pounds not coming off. I go on weeks-long binge benders where I revert to old comfortable habits. I stress myself out worrying that I’m running out of time, that I’ll never get this right, that I’ll never really succeed at making my life, that I’ll  have to face that damn question for the rest of my life.

Eventually, though, my brain clears and I get back on track. I reclaim the small pieces of confidence I’m slowly accumulating. And these past few weeks have felt even more different.

I actually feel good. Some days great, even. I am confident more often than not. I feel mostly worthy of other people’s time and attention. I am aware and conscious of my moods, my cravings, and my triggers and I know I can choose how to acknowledge them. I’m getting more fit—certain moves are easier in my group fitness classes, and I no longer getting winded walking up a flight of stairs. And my body does look different, even though it weighs the same—I see my collarbone, I feel muscle and definition in my arms and torso, my calves are much leaner, more muscular. Hell, I’ve even looked in the mirror a few times recently and thought my butt looked cute. My butt, of all things!

I’m making peace with my here and now. I’m making peace with my body, with myself, as is. Flaws and all. And that is the first step to welcoming future change and love into your life. It brings with it a deep sense of calm, too. Like, no matter what does or doesn’t happen on the scale, at work, with that cute boy… it’s okay because you know it will eventually work itself out. And in the meantime, it’s all good.

So, ask me again. Ask me how my weight loss is going. Because it’s going great. I’m losing pounds and pounds of mental baggage.

It’s a beautifully freeing thing, this self-acceptance.

Sick

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It’s been awhile since I’ve posted–I’ve been seriously slacking. I’ve been trying to find balance in this life–how I maintain this weight loss goal/journey/etc while not becoming obsessive and spending time and energy on other people and projects. I’ve also been extremely discouraged about the whole weight loss thing. It’s been well documented on this blog and elsewhere in my overly connected, social media filled world that I’ve been struggling with my weight loss for awhile now. I’ve been stuck in so many ways. It’s all I ever talk about and really all I think about.

I received a comment from a “friend” recently that pushed me a bit too far and I snapped.

I realized that I’m so sick of all this. Of everything.

I’m sick of people commenting and offering unsolicited well-meaning opinions and advice on a topic they’ve never had to deal with.

I’m sick of having to deal with all of this.

I’m sick of worrying whether I’m too late, of whether this will all actually eventually work out.

I’m sick of not making any progress on the scale.

I’m sick of the mood swings, hives, and tummy problems that come with my new medication for PCOS.

I’m sick of my body not responding. To anything, to everything.

I’m sick of having to try something new every day to see how it will or will not effect my body.

I’m sick of not being happy.

I’m sick of being in between clothes sizes.

I’m sick of being fat and out of shape.

I’m sick of having to try so damn hard.

I’m sick of half-assing everything in life.

I’m sick of this weather.

I’m sick of my routine…day after day after day after…

I’m sick of binging in response to a lack of progress.

I’m sick of sharing my failures and struggles with the world.

I’m sick of feeling accountable.

I’m sick of letting everyone down.

I’m sick of letting me down.

I’m sick of still being exactly where I was over six months ago—literally and figuratively.

I’m so sick of it all.

Again, I’m so appreciative for this blog and the response it receives—I’m so glad to be an inspiration to so many people. But these days, I’m not feeling like much of an inspiration to myself. This all feels so cumbersome, so discouraging. I need to refocus on me and why I’m truly doing this. I’m not here to build a website where I receive free stuff and make an income. I’m not here to gain new Twitter followers or up my unique pageviews. I’m not here to feel bad about myself as I scroll through my Twitter and Instagram feeds, catching snapshots of other people’s constant progress.

No. I’m here to make my life. I’m here to put myself first. I’m here to build a future for myself. I’m here to break out of this small little box I’ve packed myself into. I’m here to fix me.

And I need to remember that, above all else.

So while I am eternally grateful for all the support and advice I’ve been receiving especially lately, I’m going to be paying less attention to all the white noise around me, put my head down and focus. Work on me. Do what I need to do for me. I’ll still be blogging regularly and on social media as I can tolerate it, but…it’s a distraction. And I’m in the business of eliminating distraction from me life. I need to get back to meal prep and planning, two-a-day workouts, spending time not thinking just doing, being with friends, finding balance in it all…and if the Minnesota weather cooperates, spending copious amounts of time soaking in the sunshine, vitamin D and happiness.

This Year > Last Year

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It’s amazing the difference twelve short months can make. Just 365 little days…
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Last May, I was about 40 pounds heavier and a bunch of inches thicker. I was four pant sizes and two-three (depending on the store) shirt sizes bigger. I couldn’t dream of shopping in “normal” stores, save for the maternity section or the occasional tunic or dress that I fashioned into a form-fitting shirt (Yes, really. I did both).
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Last May I was uncomfortable wearing t-shirts and wouldn’t dream of wearing tank tops. No one wants to see all that flab flapping around. When I did finally start to wear tank tops, it was the biggest deal. I remember calling my mom as I stood at the big box hardware store wearing a sleeveless dress. I was nearly in tears I was so proud…and so terrifyingly self-conscious.
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Last May I didn’t leave the house without my hair and make up done, my outfit acceptably perfect. Why give the world another reason to judge me? I may be The Fat Girl but I would never dream of being The Ugly Fat Girl.

Last May I struggled to run for 30 seconds. I stuck mostly to the elliptical at the gym, because I was afraid of how unattractive and out of shape I’d look trying something new. I didn’t make eye contact and I stayed in the back row of my darkened spin class—the only group class I would attempt.
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But now?

This May, I’m still stuck in a seemingly never-ending weight loss plateau, but I’ve lost over 60 pounds in about a year, I’ve tightened and toned my body to the point where I sometimes like what I see in the mirror. I haven’t given up. I regularly shop at normal stores in mostly normal sizes. Sometimes, I even need to grab a smaller size.
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This May, I cry in dressing rooms because I can’t believe I fit in the size 14 shirt not because I have to grab the 3X.

This May, I’ve run a 5K race, with a goal of doing five more this year (three are on the calendar!). I’ve gotten my heavy body up on a paddleboard…while wearing a swimsuit. I’ve taken (and love!) a boot camp and a weights class—where I’m constantly uncomfortable and pushed to my physical and self-esteem limits.
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This May, I rarely wear makeup when I’m not at work or going out socially. I’ve stopped caring what I look like in the best possible way: I still want to look cute, obviously, but I no longer spend an hour getting ready to go to Target on a Saturday afternoon.
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This May, I wear t-shirts. And tank tops. And dresses that show off (most) of my legs.
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This May, I explore the world around me. I try new things. I put myself out there socially (something, I admit, I’m just starting to feel out). I’m less afraid of others, less afraid of myself.
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This May, I’ve mostly made peace with myself. As is, right now. Fat and all. The scale doesn’t define me, your opinion of me, and what fat girls should and should not do, doesn’t define me. I define me. And I like me. I’m proud of me.

This May, I can’t wait to see who I am next May.

I Make My Own Sunshine

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Today was exactly what I needed.

My behavior over the past month and a half has mirrored this Minnesota spring: gray, bleak, not a lot positive going on. On a rare day, we get glimpses of sunshine and warm air and I have a day where I workout, eat right, and feel like progress is being made. Every few weeks, like today, we get yet another snowstorm. The ice falls in sheets, the snow is whipped into a frenzy by cutting winds, and I sit inside, unmoving, feeling sorry myself, making countless poor choices.
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I need sunshine and green, I need fresh, warm air…and I need to stop making excuses, get off my butt, and get back on track. But all of that seems impossible as I stare out my window at the frozen muddy ground blanketed again in thick white.
Photo 18There’s been a fair amount of drama and change at my work lately that I’m—thankfully—not directly involved with. Now, I truly love my job, mostly because it provides me with the flexibility to focus on my weight loss (you know, when I actually used to do that on a consistent basis).

But if there’s one thing I hate, it’s workplace politics, drama, and all that other nonsense that leaves the average American bemoaning their career choice daily on social media outlets. I’ve been in that position before and it’s the most miserable, scary, self-defeating place to be. No, thank you. I’ve come way too far to go back to there.
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So as I was working from home this morning, avoiding the mid-April thundersnow as the locals were calling it (seriously, snow coupled with lightning and thunder), more drama filtered into my inbox. I immediately felt that same pit in my stomach that I’ve felt in the past. It infuriated me like you wouldn’t believe.

I don’t want to deal with the bullshit. I don’t want to live to work, as the saying goes, I want to work to live. I want to create, run, see, touch, feel. I want to travel. I want to be a stay at home momma or finally open my own little bakery/café. I want to be happy. I want a big, full life that doesn’t necessarily begin and end in a cubicle, or a life so big that it makes dealing with the cubicle walls a non-issue…

And that chain of thought was like the Universe kicking me in the butt, saying, “Duh! That’s what this whole journey is about!”

My life is not tied to career aspirations. Worrying over promotions with 2% pay raises, passive-aggressively whispering about co-workers behind their back. Ugh, NO. I used to subscribe to all of that, but now I don’t see a point in any of it. Life’s too short and I have too much I want to do and be.
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I want my life tied to family, friends, and living on my own terms. That’s what making a life is all about to me. And that all happens (fingers crossed) when I lose this weight, find my confidence, and get healthy—body, mind, and soul.

And now I’m ready again. I’m ready to make some of my own sunshine–this grey Minnesota weather be dammed.

Stop Starting

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I’m guilty of making excuses, over and over…

The weather is bad.

I don’t want to deal with rush hour traffic.

I’m too tired—rest is important, too!

I can start fresh tomorrow.

I’m too busy.

I need to clean my house—I can’t deal with anything else until that is straightened out.

Etcetera.

Etcetera.

Working out consistently has been a constant struggle for me on this journey. But I’ve learned a few things throughout this struggle. Perhaps the most importnat thing I’ve learned? Don’t pay attention to what anyone else is doing. Fit your workout to you.

For example, I know that if I don’t get up for  a morning workout, I’m going to struggle to work out after work. I’ll make one of the above excuses and have little problem convincing myself it’s valid. And then one day of skipping turns into an entire week. And then I start making bad food choices. And then the guilt sets in. And then I’m screwed. It’s a vicious cycle and a very real problem, friends. One I’ve been stuck in for quite some time.
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But if I drag my behind to the gym at the crack of dawn, even if it’s for a super quick, half-assed workout, that small action sets the tone for my entire day: I make healthier choices across the board, I’m happy, have more energy, and I’m even more prone/inspired to knock out a second workout after work. And the pride I feel in that successful day makes it that much easier to roll it all into the next day, and then the next day…

So, my point is do what works for you, but do something. We think that we have to be perfect, or perform in a certain way to be successful. We have to follow this person’s example, workout for this many minutes because Betty Bootcamp did. But, no, you don’t.
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Just get up and move. Try new, fun things. Fail at them and try something else. If you can’t stand the treadmill, as most of us can’t, screw up the courage to hit a group class at your gym. Or, weather permitting, get outside. Put your headphones, sunglasses, and hat on and you can pretend the world doesn’t exist (not to mention the vitamin D and overall mental health boost you’ll get from all that sunshine soaked, chirping bird beauty). If you aren’t feeling the work out you’ve got scheduled, switch it up to something that does seem fun—even if you’re going to burn less calories or exert yourself less. Just move more and do what fits with your mood, your day, your schedule.

Make the most with what you have where you are. 

Facing Fears

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url-1If there’s something you’re afraid of, feel the fear and do it anyway.

This is the mantra I’ve been trying to live by more and more lately in both big and small ways. My self-esteem has long been MIA. As I’m starting to inadvertently recognize myself in moments of change and growth, I’m pushing myself to purposely push myself—put myself out there, try new and scary things.

To wit, last week, a friend convinced me to try a boot camp class at our gym. My understanding of what boot camp would entail boiled down to this: a ridiculously challenging hour of moving my body in new and uncomfortable ways in front of people I don’t know who would judge and stare. AKA one of my least favorite ideas ever.

For the most part, this class was exactly that. It was crazy hard—burpee after burpee after burpee (side note: at one point, my friend turned to me and said, “Lord, I hate burpees.” To which I replied, “Me, too. But you know what I hate more? Being fat.” Amen!) Also, I’m a sweater (as in, I sweat a lot. I’m not a warm shirt made of wool), and that was embarrassingly obvious during the course of this class. There also happened to be a fair number of men in this class. Thankfully they weren’t all that attractive, but they were men nonetheless. And the lights were on in this class, and the walls are lined in mirrors, and I’m not one who easily blends in with the popsicle stick gym girls. I felt incredibly on display and incredibly uncomfortable.

For about five minutes.

Everyone was there to work hard. They weren’t there to look good, to flirt, or to stare at one another. We were all there to sweat and challenge our bodies. And that we did.

While I definitely struggled with a few of the moves, so did everyone else. But, unexpected bonus, I had moments of feeling proud when I noticed myself running faster than skinnier girls and  picking up heavier weights than some of the guys.
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As I was walking out after class, a girl stopped me and informed me that she had been admiring my body during the class. Okay… She started talking about how all the women in her family are shaped like me, with the big butt and hips. She continued on for a few moments, making me feel more and more uncomfortable. Then, she stopped and said, “Basically what I’m saying is that once you reach your goal, you are going to have the most bangin’ body. I know plenty of women who would kill for what you’ll have.”

My point in all of this is twofold: first, people don’t think about you nearly as much as you think they do. And if they are thinking about you, it’s not necessarily always negative. Maybe they’re just admiring your soon-to-be bangin’ bod.

Secondly, and on a related note, always, always do the things that scare you most. Whether it’s a boot class at the gym, tackling an overwhelming project at work, or finally being able to make eye contact with strangers (more on that later), simply taking some sort of action rather than continuing to worry and analyze always pays off. Always. 

Dr. Awesome

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What a day, what a day…

Yesterday started by hitting ‘publish’ on what was probably the most honest and challenging post I’ve written. I was nervous about the reaction but I was happily overwhelmed by all the love and positivity I received–emails, tweets, texts, and all your lovely comments here on the blog. Not going to lie, more than one brought me to tears :) I was feeling the love!

Then the morning turned…interesting. Is that the right word, “interesting”? I don’t know. I had a follow-up appointment with my doctor to discuss the results of the tests I had done last week. It’s been exhaustingly documented here and on my Twitter–I’ve been plateaued now for, what, like six months? More? Obnoxious. I’ve been (for the most part) busting my ass to lose this damn weight and…nothing. But doctor after doctor told me, “oh, just stick with it. It’ll happen when your body is ready.” I call bullshit.

Last week I finally got an appointment with a doctor I trust and knew would take action. Among other things, I shared with her my emotional meltdowns, anxiety attacks, random breakouts (a pimple on my knee? On my nipple? Overshare, but YEP!) that were all tied to my monthly friend/archenemy. I told her about the hypothyroidism that I’ve had since I was eight (a condition where your thyroid punks out, doesn’t work, puts you on meds for the rest of your life, and makes it a bitch to lose weight/function). And when I finished spewing all that on her, she didn’t tell me to buck up. She ordered a battery of blood work and told me we’d get this straightened out asap.

Finally! That’s what I want to hear!

Dr. Awesome mentioned that she thought it might be PCOS (polycystic ovary syndrome) and/or Hashimoto’s disease, both fairly common problems that, among other things, affect your hormone levels and–here’s the fun part–really eff with your weight.

No! That’s not what I want to hear!

The blood work confirmed it today: I’ve got PCOS and Hashimoto’s. I’ve started a new medication, I had more blood work done, and I’ve got a slew of  appointments: with my dietician to review my numbers, with Dr. Awesome to check-in on my progress, and twice daily dates with my BF, Gym. I’ve missed that hottie! :)

So I’ve finally got my answers–hopefully. It’s been an emotional day. I start to cry, like, every five minutes. I haven’t been able to focus. I’m happy to have a possible solution to this problem, but at the same time…I’m really, really scared. And really, really angry.

I’m angry that I waited this long to lose weight, waited this long to find a solution to why I’ve stopped, waited this long to fix my damn life. And I’m scared that all of it is going to be for nothing. That no matter how much work I put in, it’s not going to be enough. That my body is just not going to respond. That it’s too late.

But I’m not going to stop. Because, what’s the alternative? Continue to be miserable? No thanks. I’m used to having to struggle to be happy, confident, proud, loving towards myself. So I guess that’s what I’ll continue to do. Until I finally am and do.

That’s what making a life is all about, right? 

Fat Is…

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Being fat is alot of things.

It’s frustrating, infuriating embarrassing, a turn-off. A barrier, a burden. Isolating and ever-present. Uncomfortable.At the same time, it’s entirely too comfortable. You find comfort in the uncomfortable. Over and over, until the days melt into years and you find yourself looking back, wondering what in the hell happened.

100_0566When you’re fat you learn to deal. With a lot. You learn avoidance and coping mechanisms. You laugh at yourself before someone else can. You learn to shut down emotionally, as your body begins the agonizing process of shutting down physically. Easy becomes your middle name–and not in that way.

You crack jokes about getting your cardio in while shimmying into new jeans in the fitting room. True story.

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109_0726You sit at home, alone, surrounded by grease-stained packages and wrappers, empty plates and bowls, waiting for the stomach ache, and even more, the empty ache, to subside.

You mull over and over your own little mental scrapbook of moments. Mainly moments of full-on humiliation. Like the guy who texted his wife about how huge you were as he sat next to you on the airplane, breathing on you, taking more than his share of the armrest.
232323232fp53253>nu=9--;>-63>239>WSNRCG=34343553-232-nu0mrjDSC02494_editedOr the time you fell through the rickety wooden chair at a family wedding, the noise of the splintering wood reverberating loudly across the marble hall as all eyes turned to the fat girl sprawled and red faced on the floor.

You recall breaking your foot in 10th grade and allowing it to be the excuse that ends you tenure as a high school athlete–the only thing keeping the beast in check.

You live with the constant and soul-crushing disappointment you feel in not having the typical adolescent experience, in not giving your parents the experience of raising a typical adolescent. No prom, no breaking of curfew, no steady stream of boyfriends nervously ringing your doorbell.

That poor, poor horse...

That poor, poor horse…

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You can never fix that, can never go back. You can never give that back to them. Or yourself.

You worry that disappointment will extend to your future. You may never walk down the aisle with your dad. Never give your parents grandkids. Never get to raise your own typical adolescents.

When you’re fat you feel all this, you live all this, day in and day out.

232323232fp53246>nu=9--;>-63>239>WSNRCG=3434357-;932-nu0mrjYou. Alone.

And you become numb. You float along, achingly, miserably content in your non-existent existence. Comfortable.

But nothing changes if you’re comfortable…

Being fat is alot of things. But mostly, it’s easy in the worst possible way. Easy to continue on the same extra-wide path you’ve cleared for yourself. Easy to lie still, unmoving, afraid to breathe, think, or speak lest you stir up the pain.

Though, while life may be a lot of things, for a fat person, it’s never truly easy. Not in the ways you want.

So you’ve got to push. Extra hard. You’ve got to stir things up. Take the impassible, difficult roads. Make yourself consistently uncomfortable.
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Because change happens in that uncomfortable space. Your life is waiting in that uncomfortable space.