by Julie Haddon
Those three simple words—worth the weight—eloquently capture the theme of my life thus far. “God doesn’t think I’m a failure,” I wrote in that cover story—a revelation I’d had back on The Biggest Loser campus. “He wants the best for me, and so I’ll keep working toward it.”22 As I read those sentences now, I realize that even as I nearly caved under the pressure of Jillian’s unforgiving workouts, my soul was surely getting stronger. I was finally beginning to grasp that the God who lived inside of me wasn’t interested in being a silent travel companion as I trudged my way through life. He wanted to inhabit my thoughts, embody my actions and serve as the sole Lifter of my head. I had heard once that King David in the Bible referred to God as the “lifter of his head,” but I’d never really known what that meant. At least not in a firsthand sort of way.
I remember hearing Oprah talk one time about how she visits young girls in Africa and constantly tells them to keep their heads up. “I never want to see your head fall sheepishly to your chest,” she says to them, emphasizing her point by physically lifting little chins until young eyes meet her gaze. Similarly, God had placed his mighty index finger under my chin, causing me finally to crane my neck too. “Look up,” I imagined him saying, “and see what I see when I look at you.”
When I looked down, I saw only big thighs, but as I looked up the only “big” thing I found was my potential, reflected in God’s eyes. “I find you significant,” I sensed him saying, “and lovely and smart and strong. You have every reason to keep your head held high, and if you stay close, I’ll help you do just that.”
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.
Margie 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.”
It was surreal for me to be back at MOPS—a group that serves moth-ers of preschoolers. I had to keep reminding myself that, thanks to Jaxon, I’m actually one of those again!
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.
THE TOUGHEST TRUTH TO ADMIT
Patty 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.
Bob still teaches a spin class called “The Ride” every Saturday morning at Crunch gym in LA. It remains a personal goal of mine to spin there someday!
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.
Patty 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?
Patty wound up being voted off the very week that she spoke the words of worthiness. I hated to see her go, but I loved that before she left, she had come to believe the truth of who she is.
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?’
I’m sure Bob had no idea that his words would affect not just Patty but also millions of people who were watching Patty soar. I know, because I was one of those people.
“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 ch
ildren 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.
So, 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.
“Believe me,” I said quietly, “I know what those tears are about. But I’m not letting you off the hook. Tell me you’re worth all this effort.”
We went through several cycles of this—my insisting to hear those words, her getting choked up and finding herself utterly incapable of saying them—before a breakthrough finally came.
“I’m worth it,” she looked at me and said. “I’m worth it.”
“Yes, you are,” I said. “Now, let’s get started.”
I believe in the coming days that more and more people will be talking about this issue of worthiness, and, in my view, that’s a very good thing. If you and I refuse to believe that we are worth the time and effort it takes to implement necessary change in our lives, then we’ll never get our lazy butts off the couch—(oops … would that be considered negative self-talk?)—throw away the empty bag of chips we’ve just devoured and make a good choice for a change. We just won’t. We’ll never accomplish more than we think we’re capable of accomplishing, and we’ll never realize that capacity until we first realize that we’re worthy of those accomplishments. I believe that principle like I believe in gravity. You can try to deny it, but as soon as you find yourself falling from the top of a building, you’ll see that it’s still remarkably true.
There are kids who crave our care, spouses who crave our companionship, colleagues who crave our contribution and communities that crave our service. But more importantly, there is a God who craves our hearts. He created you and me for a specific purpose, and nothing brings him more delight than when we desire to know him and love him and find out what that purpose is. “It’s in Christ,” Ephesians 1:11–12 says, “that we find out who we are and what we are living for. Long before we first heard of Christ and got our hopes up, he had his eye on us, had designs on us for glorious living, part of the overall purpose he is working out in everything and everyone.”25
You are precious to God. You are purposed for good. And you are worthy of the life of your dreams.
MY BEST ADVICE
Don’t Look at the Big Picture
Recently I ran a 5K with my friend Stacey. Like me, Stacey had never been an athlete, and I knew that her first road race would bring with it a fair amount of fear and uncertainty. Actually, she’d be a nervous wreck, but I chose not to tell her that.
She kept babbling something about how there was “no way” she could run 3.1 miles without stopping, and despite the fact that I blew off her doubt, I knew exactly how she felt. I’d pitched my tent in the no-way camp once too.
I saw Stacey a few days before our race and tried to prepare her for what was to come. “Listen,” I said, “here’s exactly how it will all go down. When we start the race, there will be a big band playing loud music that will rev you up and make your heart pump fast. Your adrenaline will be soaring so high that when the starting-gun sounds, you won’t even notice the first mile. You’ll be totally consumed with weaving your way through the crowd, noticing the too-short shorts on the girl in front of you and trying to figure out how the woman pushing a stroller with triplets who also has her six-year-old by her side could possibly have just passed you.
“The second mile—now, that’s the toughest. It will seem like it takes forever to run because your adrenaline level will have settled down, the streets will be wide open and your mind will close in on the fact that this is the farthest you have ever run. During that mile, focus on your breathing and absolutely nothing else. Keep putting one foot in front of the other, and remind yourself frequently that in twelve short minutes or less you’ll be done. Whatever you do, remember that you will not die during mile two! I’ll be right by your side, and I promise you, we’ll pull through.
“The third mile is by far the most exciting mile of all. Mile three represents every dream you’ve dreamed that you believed would never come true. Your mind will
race as you consider the fact that you are about to accomplish a very impressive goal, and that you are officially a runner! You’ll feel like you’re flying as you near the finish line, not only because you’ll have caught your stride by then, but also because you’ll notice that the super-fast six-year-old is now standing on the curb with his shoelaces untied whining about how he can’t take another step while his do-it-all-and-do-it-well mom tries desperately to figure out how to fit him on the back of the stroller so that they, too, can complete the race. You’ll hear the crowd cheering as you stretch out those final strides, and as you catch sight of your husband, who is hopping up and down like a crazy person, you’ll feel that same sense of elation over what you’ve just done.
“That, my friend, is a 5K. It’s going to be the best day of your life.”
When I was on campus I followed this same approach to life. Rather than focusing on the big, scary picture, I focused on each individual frame. When I stepped onto the treadmill, I’d remind myself, “It’s only an hour, Julie. Do the best that you can.” When I did my dishes after a meal, I’d think, “Just scrub your little heart out. Don’t worry about what everyone else is eating that smells so incredibly good right now.” When it was time for bed, I’d say to myself, “Don’t worry about how difficult or challenging tomorrow will be. Your job for these next seven hours is to rest, and rest well.”
Even now I work to break down my day into chunks. “For this hour,” I said just this morning, “my only goal is to get Noah to school on time.” After I did that successfully, I focused on calling back the doctor. Then I focused only on bathing our dog Flower. Then I turned all of my attention to completing chapter ten of this book. One simple step at a time, I got through all of my plans and had a satisfying day in the end.