Authors: Julie Haddon
Fat Chance (17 page)
So many things tried to squash my belief, but tenacity just kept plugging along. When I’d been passed over instead of placed on a team, my belief took a pretty big hit. When I finally got to campus and realized nobody wanted me there, again, my belief took a hit. When I was losing two pounds to everyone else’s fifteen, my belief suffered quite a blow. When I was achy and fearful and just plain overtrained, my belief nearly bottomed out.
“You will see things you’ll never forget,” I’d sing to myself, “if you’ll just believe.”
Before I left to be on the show, a friend sent me a care package with a bracelet inside. Hanging from the thin cord were tiny baby blocks that spelled out the word
believe
. At the time, I thought it was nothing more than a sweet gesture, but as the show went on that bracelet became a precious symbol of the tenacious spirit God was forging in me.
How badly I wanted to see those memorable things—the pride in the eyes of my husband rooting for me from home; the delight on the face of a son who craved an active mom; the satisfaction in my sigh after I’d fit into a size-six dress.
Each time I heard that song, my belief was renewed that as long as I kept going, I might just conquer the whole wide world.
Belief was necessary at every turn, it seemed—belief that we were inspiring an entire nation to greater healthfulness, wholeness and strength; belief that we were inspiring each other to reach the goals each one of us had set; belief that with even mustard-seed-size faith,
nothing
was impossible for us.
7
I
f there was a third part of being rescued from my emotional tailspin, it was the divine reminder that real change takes real time to accomplish.
For me, weight came off slowly—at least slowly by
The Biggest Loser
standards. They say that on average a dieting person should lose two pounds a week, but when your competitors are putting up numbers like thirty-one and thirty-three, your three pounds seem pitiable at best.
My first three weeks on the show saw me drop a whopping eight pounds, but it was better than having gained it. “A gradual ascent before you soar,” Jillian assured me as I stepped down dejected from the scale one time. How I hoped she’d be proven right.
Week four showed up, and I was the last member of the black team to be weighed in. I stepped on the scale and stared at the floor as Alison Sweeney announced my previous weight of 210 pounds. “Julie,” she then said, “your current weight is …”
The numbers rolled up and down and all around like a Las Vegas slot machine as I prayed and swayed and waited for them to stop. “Your current weight,” Alison continued, “is 203. You lost seven pounds this week.”
To say I freaked out would be an understatement. I tried to take in what Alison had just said but believing that surely I had heard her wrong, I swiveled around and looked at the giant display board behind me to check my current weight for myself. Sure enough, a glowing “203” was posted there, in all its marvelous, miraculous glory.
“Shut
UP
!” I screamed from the scale, which is another way of saying, “I am so excited by this news that I could just pee in my pants”—which I almost did, actually.
The giant
The Biggest Loser
scale is bogus. In reality, we were weighed in at a doctor’s office the morning before TV-time weigh-in. Sorry to burst your bubble. (If it’s any consolation, we really didn’t know our individual totals until they were revealed at the fake weigh-in.)
Seven pounds, gone forever from my body!
Seven
pounds. It was the biggest loss I’d ever known, and I was elated and ecstatic and full of joy. I screamed some more and then did a little dance just me, myself and I, before I agreed to come down from the platform where I’d seen my hard work paid off. Maybe, just maybe, I would one day reach my goal. Maybe it would just take a little time.
P
artway through the show, Alison informed us that we’d be flying to Jamaica for the week. Warm sunshine, beautiful weather, stunning surroundings—what more could we ask for? Truly, aside from a reprisal of Jillian’s madness-in-the-desert workouts, the getaway felt relaxing and replenishing and fun.
When it was time for all three teams to compete in our challenge, we were told to change into bathing suits and then to meet out at the beach. Fifty yards from shore were three platforms floating in the ocean and a raft tied to the front of each one. Alison explained that the first team to get all of their members from the platform to the shore would win an afternoon of pampering, including a deep-tissue massage. Oh, how I wanted that massage. I
always
want a massage. I’d take a massage
now if someone offered one. “We
have
to win this,” I declared to my team as we swam out to our designated platform.
It didn’t always happen this way, but for some reason, during this particular challenge, the black team just killed the competition. I’m not bragging here; you can watch the footage for yourself. Sure, we had a few early spills as Bill got used to the pulley system, but soon enough he found his sea legs and garnered a healthy lead.
With Jamaica’s humidity and without the show’s stylists in tow, Jillian’s hair grew larger with each minute we were there. She didn’t care much about her ever-expanding ‘do until the rest of my black-team friends and I began to tease her mercilessly and call her “Monica” from the TV show
Friends
. The episode we were referring to involved Monica and the gang visiting Barbados, where the humidity was so bad that she decided to get cornrows. We would have suggested the coif-controlling idea to Jillian except that things didn’t work out so well for Monica: A few days after she sported her bead-and-shell-adorned rows, she got them caught in the shower curtain and almost injured herself permanently.
While Bill made his way to shore, the rest of us hung out on the platform, laughing ourselves silly over the fact that former-football-player Phil could not stay balanced on his red-team’s raft. He’d pull himself up to a standing position and get four feet across the water before overturning himself into the ocean. A ten-foot-high splash would drench his teammates before he’d sputter and splash his way back to his raft.
After Bill got to shore it was my turn to go. I steadied myself on the too-small raft, crouched down as I coiled the rope around my wrist, and held on for all I was worth. Fortunately, smooth-as-silk Bill coasted me all the way in to shore, where I high-fived him and geared up for Jim.
Bill and I would pull Jim atop the water just as smoothly, and then the three of us would work to bring Jez across. Jez was our fourth and final player to get to shore, and as he stood up on the platform and readied himself for his ride, he noticed that the red and blue teams hadn’t pulled even one person in. It was a slaughtering, I tell you. A
slaughtering
!
Jez stood up proudly on his raft, his big butt high in the sky, and coasted toward his three teammates, who were cheering hysterically from the beach. It wouldn’t be until later that we’d hear how Jez had
mooned the other two teams his entire trip to shore. Ah, victory is sweet.
L
ater, during that long and lovely beachfront massage, I considered how far I’d come. For the first time in a long time I was perfectly relaxed, I was completely content and I sensed strength rising from within. “You’re
doing
it, Julie!” I said to myself. “You’re stronger, both body and soul.”
The new me was finally emerging, the “me” God was shaping me to be. And as I caught sight of her for the first time,
those
tears were tears of joy.
Maybe it’s Jennifer Lopez’s curvy derriere, or Beyoncé’s lean torso or Kelly Ripa’s fresh and pretty face. Perhaps it’s Eva Mendez’s flawless skin, or Eva Longoria’s perfectly petite frame. Whatever it is you desire, when you’re vying for transformation, it’s critical to keep an image of victory in mind.
The on-campus gym where my teammates and I worked out was home to a well-stocked display of
The Biggest Loser
memorabilia from previous seasons, and because I was particularly inspired by Season 2’s Suzy Preston, I gravitated toward her “stuff.” I’d try on her trademark horn-rimmed glasses and hold up the weigh-in tank top she wore to her grand finale and picture myself in her slimmed-down state.
Eventually I would shrink to the size that meant I could have worn the top, which both astounded and delighted me.
Additionally, I kept an old pageant dress and the size 34B long-line bra that I wore at my wedding beside my bed while I was on campus. They both represented eras of my life when I was smaller than my norm, and as I looked at them longingly each night I’d envision myself fitting into them once again. Not squeezing myself into them with gritted teeth, mind you—but wearing them comfortably, and preferably with room to spare.
In the end, that pageant dress wound up being far too big for my post-
The Biggest Loser
size. You should have seen my smile.
On those days when my weight-loss goal seemed utterly unattainable, images of healthy celebrities and of me at a smaller size kept me going strong. I’d look in the mirror and see myself becoming more of the “me” God had created, a version of myself that truly I’d never known.
Whether it’s an old photo of yourself, a piece of clothing you one day hope to wear or a celebrity who embodies the fit appearance to which you aspire, keep an inspiring image close by and focus on it each and every day. Remind yourself that with God’s help, you possess the power to become precisely who you and he envision you to be.
T
HE FIRST FEW WEEKS of my
The Biggest Loser
experience were tumultuous to say the least. My body was stunned. My emotions were erratic. And my spiritual condition? Well, let’s just say it left much to be desired. I had all the book-knowledge a girl could want about things like mercy and grace and love, but a very limited understanding of who God was. It was the equivalent of reading forty-five cookbooks cover to cover but never once setting foot inside a kitchen. I had learned much about God along the way—and at some level I even knew him. But would I ever really lean on him and live out that knowledge?
How I hoped the answer was yes.
I got “saved,” as we say in Southern Baptist circles, when I was thirteen years old. At the time, I’m not sure what I thought I was being saved from: I had heard so many dramatic stories at church about people being rescued from drug addiction or habitual shoplifting, but as a pimply adolescent with a squeaky clean record, my biggest concern was how to avoid getting caught for couple-skating at the roller rink on Friday night. Would I even have a testimony worth telling? I certainly had my doubts.
I still love to roller-skate. I can’t quite figure out the whole rollerblading thing, but a girl can’t be good at
everything
.
“Everyone has fallen short of God’s perfect standard,” our pastor said consistently. “Everyone needs a way to bridge the gap that our
shortcomings create, and the only Bridge that can do it is the person of Jesus Christ.” Originally I professed my faith primarily because it was simply the “thing to do.” But over time I’d realize the truth of the matter, that despite my tame testimony, my pastor would be proven right.
How superficial was it that a primary reason I wanted to get “saved” was so that I could walk down the red-carpeted aisle, stand at the front of the church and have my name announced, get a free Bible and enjoy a swim in the giant baptism tank a few weeks later!
For a while after accepting Christ into my life, I tried to get by riding the coattails of my mother’s strong beliefs. I knew that God existed, I knew that he was bigger than I was and I knew that when I died one day, I was definitely heaven-bound. But I was thirteen and a little perplexed about how to really live out the Christian life. To think that a deity wanted a personal relationship with me was more than my prepubescent brain could grasp.
In my mind God was something of a wise but distant dictator who existed only in the fictional realm. Sort of a cross between Santa Claus and Obi-Wan Kenobi with an attitude. Whenever I wanted something—a new outfit, an A on a test, a boyfriend—I’d send my wish list to the “ultimate” North Pole, crossing my fingers that I had been good enough to see my wish come true. The times when I was left longing, I’d up the ante on my allegiance to the dos and don’ts I’d been taught. In the Baptist church of my youth, at least, good things came to “good” Christians—those who did not drink, did not dance and did not miss a single church service. I felt certain that extra credit was issued for Wednesday-night attendance, because I seemed to find myself there whenever midweek rolled around.