Fat Chance (29 page)

I think this is what the weight of worthiness feels like, a weight that surrounds you, that grounds you, that proves to you who you really are.

M
argie and I gave a speech to a local MOPS group a few months ago, and near the end of our time on stage, she shared the story of John Stephen Akhwari, a marathon runner the media calls “the greatest last-place finisher of all time.”

In 1968, Akhwari had been sent to
the Mexico City summer Olympics to run the marathon, which followed a beautiful course through town but then ended inside the Olympic Stadium. The winner of that race finished in two hours and twenty minutes; Akhwari finished in three and a half. Out of the fifty-seven men who completed the race, he finished fifty-seventh. Some feat, right?

Still, as Akhwari rounded the final bend, pain hobbling his steps and blood tracing its way down his bandaged leg, the small crowd that was still assembled went nuts. When the exhausted runner finally crossed the finish line, reporters descended on him, all with the same question on their lips: “Why did you keep running, when there was no way whatsoever that you could win?”

Akhwari seemed perplexed by the question. “My country did not send me to Mexico City to start the race,” Akhwari explained. “They sent me to finish.”
²³

On
The Biggest Loser
campus, God showed me who I was capable of becoming, and it was
that
girl I wanted to know.
That
girl would finish what she started, for once. And
that
girl would continue what she started forever. No longer would I need to keep tabs on all my imperfections; instead I could focus on the person my potential pointed to, the worthy woman whom God had knitted together before the foundation of the world. He wasn’t judging me but loving me, and so I could start loving me too—whether I finished first or I finished last. Holding in my arms the full weight of my worthiness helped me understand what it means to live a life that’s not just holy, but also whole. And nothing satisfies a searching soul more than that. If only everyone on the planet would choose to live this way! Just imagine all the good we could do.

P
atty Gonzalez was a blue-team member during my season on the show. Like me, she was in her thirties; also like me, she carried a
lot
of baggage. As the mom of young kids, she knew what it was like to put everyone else’s needs ahead of her own. She loved her children. She loved
life
. She just didn’t love how unlovely she felt to herself.

One afternoon Bob Harper took his team off-campus to a 24 Hour Fitness to do a spin class. Upon arriving, the entire remaining blue team—Neil and Nicole, Ryan and Kae and Patty—mounted stationary bikes that were positioned in a circle and started pedaling for what
would wind up being a grueling hour-long ride.

With flushed cheeks and sweat dripping from her brow, Patty in particular was determined to finish strong. During the last two minutes, Bob climbed down from his bike, crouched underneath the handlebars of Patty’s bike and said, “Let’s
go
, Patty. You are the mother of three! You are going to be a role model to many, many women out there. You know how busy it is, how hard it is to have three kids. You’re taking advantage of this time.

“How hard is it to be a mom? It got you to two hundred and eighty pounds, didn’t it? That’s how hard it was, right? You don’t want to do that anymore, do you? You don’t want any more excuses.
None
, right? You’re going to take advantage of every single second that we have together,
aren’t
you. You’re worth it,
aren’t
you!”

“Yes,” she huffed out through weary, panted breaths.

“Yes,” Bob said. “You are.
Tell
me that you’re worth it.”

She got to the word “I” and then fell apart in sobs.

“Tell me,” Bob said, as Patty continued to pedal furiously.

Still she couldn’t compose herself enough to speak.

“Tell me you’re
worth
it,” Bob repeated.

Again, Patty’s legs kept moving even as her mouth stayed put.

“Tell me you’re worth it,” Bob said once more with a gentle nod.

“I’m worth it,” Patty said, as though she’d never said those words before.

“You are,
aren’t
you?” Bob said. “Now tell me again.”

“I’m
worth
it,” Patty echoed, this time stronger.

“That’s
right
!” Bob cheered. “You
are
worth it! You’re going to go a long way, baby! You’re worth it.”

“I’m worth it.” Just a whisper this time fell from her lips.

“You’re worth it,” Bob whispered back.

P
atty would say later of the exchange that, “It was hard for me to say those things because it was hard for me to believe that I deserve to be good to my body. I’m just now learning to value who I am.”

How well I could relate to those words. In fact, as I watched that particular episode with my family, I had tears streaming down my face. Had I been the one on that bike, I would have struggled to utter those words too. To see someone like Patty, who is beautiful and amazing and strong, choke on the words of her worthiness was a powerful sight. Why would someone like her struggle to admit the truest truth in life? Why do
any
of us struggle to admit it?

The more people I meet these days, the more I am coming to understand that the toughest truth to admit is not that we have failed; it’s that we might just succeed if we try. “Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate,” author Marianne Williamson says. “Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, ‘Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?’

“Actually, who are you
not
to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”
²⁴

I am worthy of living the life of my dreams
—the moment someone finally says those words out loud and therefore agrees in her spirit that she is in fact worthy, things change.
Everything
changes! It was true for Patty. It was true for me. It will be true for you too.

S
o, back to that trip to Louisiana I was trying to make so that I could be part of the “New Year, New You” contest celebration. As it turns out, despite all of my airport fiascos, I did eventually get to Monroe, and
I did eventually get to meet Tammie, the winner of the big reward. And am I ever grateful for that! It was surreal to talk to someone who is in the exact same position that I was in two years ago and who is actually looking to
me
for advice. As I conveyed heartfelt words to her about what the weight-loss journey is like, I thought,
I can’t believe I’m saying these things! I feel more like you than I do me!

On day two of my stay, several of us—Tammie, as well as her new nutritionist, her new trainer, her new motivational coach and yours truly—gathered in the front yard to do a photo shoot for the magazine. After a few group shots, the photographer asked to capture Tammie by herself. I happened to walk by as they were setting up her shot, and I overheard Tammie say to the photographer, “You’re probably going to need a wide-angle lens to get
this
belly in the frame!”

I was stopped dead in my tracks.

Suddenly, everything that Jillian had ever told me about the power of negative self-talk came rushing to my mind. Back on campus I used to joke about the folding chairs that outfitted every room, it seemed. “This is an
obesity
show,” I’d say. “Do they really think my gargantuan butt is gonna fit on
that
?”

Unfortunately, one day Jillian overheard me. “You will not speak of yourself that way!” she fumed.

“It was just a joke!” I’d beg. But it was no use. Punishment was coming my way for sure.

It took precious few rounds of endless jumping jacks and push-ups-until-you-puke before my teammates and I learned to speak very kindly about ourselves.

When I heard Tammie’s comment, it was as though she’d scraped her nails slowly down a chalkboard. And in that moment I understood why Jillian had made self-esteem such a big deal. Later, during a private conversation, I looked at Tammie and said, “I heard the comment you made about your stomach out there.” Her eyes got big and round, like those of a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

“I know you said it as a joke,” I continued, “but I also know that you said it because in your mind you actually
believe
that it’s true.”

Overweight people are really good at beating everyone else to the punch so that they never have to hear words that could wound them.
I had been good at it, and Tammie was good at it too. But if she truly wanted to change, then that pattern was going to have to be broken.

“For this process to work,” I explained, “you simply cannot talk about yourself in a disparaging way. If you hear those things long enough, you will begin to believe they are true.”

I had turned into Jillian, right before my eyes—the one who had first uttered the words that I was now speaking.

After a long and meaningful conversation with Tammie, I looked her straight in the eyes and in essence said, “I want to hear you say out loud that you’re worthy.” She faces a year-long journey in full view of a massive online audience who will be eagerly cheering her on as she works toward her own weight-loss transformation, a journey that will be filled with ups and downs, victories and missteps, laughter and a bucketful of tears. I thought about the responsibilities that would be vying for her attention all along the way, including caring for her family, her circle of friends and her job as a sixth-grade teacher, and I knew that if she were to reach her goals she’d have to prioritize herself in there somewhere too.

“Tell me you’re
worthy
of the effort,” I said, to which she stumbled and stammered and cried.