by Julie Haddon
Like all worthwhile pursuits in life, weight loss happens one simple step at a time. Looking too far ahead discourages even the sturdiest warrior I know, so I find it helpful to focus on what’s right before me, each and every day.
CHAPTER 10
When I Pray, I Pray for You
I NEVER WANTED to be the poster girl for weight loss. First of all, you can’t be the poster girl for weight loss unless at one time you have been obese—or morbidly obese, as they preferred to call us in The Biggest Loser land. In normal, everyday life, people who are obese are referred to as heavyset or big-boned or, you know, the lady with the short bob and tortoiseshell glasses. But this was not the case on the show. Lest there be any lingering doubt among players and viewers alike, producers wanted to make sure we all knew that the “stars” of this particular show were fat.
Obese.
Morbidly obese, even—perhaps a mere hair’s breadth away from death.
These are words that rarely connote happy, positive things. When you think of obese, you don’t think of adjectives like disciplined and productive and fit as much as you think of ones like overindulgent and lazy and gross. And those descriptors weren’t ones I wanted to be known for. I wanted to be known for something strong, not something weak. Yes, if I’d had the opportunity to dictate the course of my life, I would have picked a far different path for sure. Like the one walked by Miss America.
As I mentioned earlier in this book, I did pageants in my twenties and thought that if I could just overcome my “little weight issue,” I would join the ranks of those who got to saunter down runways wearing a gown and a crown and pretending they were Barbie in real life. But that was before I actually met one.
My husband Mike used to judge beauty pageants, and when he migrated from that field into his current pursuits of PR and graphic arts, people got wind of his new role. In no time he had a Web site design business, which in the early days consisted largely of pageant winners. I’ve had the opportunity over the years to meet many of them, and I remember like it was last night the first time I actually got to enjoy dinner with a current Miss America. As expected, she was stunningly beautiful and perfectly poised and had motivation to spare. But surprisingly, when we entered the restaurant, there was no trumpet fanfare sounding, no men in tuxes awaiting our arrival with bundled roses in hand, no gown, no crown and no pizzazz at all. It was just … her. In jeans and a boring shirt. That was the night when I realized that for Miss America, the glamour ends the night she is crowned. Still, I was enthralled. Jeans and a boring shirt beat morbidly obese any day of the week.
Another of the Miss America winners I met along the way happened to be married to a congressman. And once I made it on to The Biggest Loser, he called and asked if I would address our national representatives after my season ended. He was a fan of the show and explained that many officials had been working on legislation to solve the insurance crisis that had been created by the soaring rate of obesity in this country over the past several years. “I can’t believe what you all are able to do in such a short amount of time, and without any surgery or drugs!” he said during that call. “How is it possible that nobody from the show has come to Washington to help Congress understand the power of diet and exercise so that thinking can be incorporated into the bills that are put forth?”
The last time I had been to Washington, DC, was on a choir trip during my senior year of high school. Thankfully, I wouldn’t be standing on risers in front of the White House wearing a pink wrinkle-free polyester dress and gigantic bangs this time around.
I was asked to come share my story and to explain exactly what it takes to see massive life-change as a thirty-something stay-at-home mom. Julie Hadden on Capitol Hill—it was a frightening thought for all who know me well.
WHAT MOTIVATES ME MOST
Jaxon was born exactly three days before Mike and I were to head to Washington, DC, and the thought of leaving my brand-new son was more than I could bear. There was a time when missing an opportunity like that would have crushed my spirit, but as I looked into my sweet baby’s eyes, all I could think about was how this opportunity trumped everything else.
Unexpectedly, several months later Mike and I would be able to visit our nation’s capital, and the experience was every bit as amazing as I imagine it would have been immediately on the heels of finale week.
Because of my presence on the show, we were afforded an insider’s “red jacket” tour. I never saw a single red jacket, but I saw lots of other fun things. Like the inside of Dick Cheney’s office. I was asked to wait in there while my DC contact momentarily ran to her office. Although she assured me that the vice president was out of town, the entire time I sat there, all I could think about was what on earth I would say to the man if he suddenly returned.
Mike and I joined a small group of VIPs who were also being given the special tour, and as each of them went around our circle and explained who they were and what they did for a living, I felt a wave of panicky heat surge through my bones. What am I supposed to say about myself? I thought. These people were all CEOs of this or ambassadors of that, and then there was me, Ellie Mae Clampett and her down-home husband Jethro. I looked over my shoulder at Mike and whispered with a fair amount of intensity, “Whatever you do, keep your mouth shut!”
Thankfully, he complied.
We walked majestic halls and retraced steps that dozens of presidents had taken. From the windows of the West Wing offices we saw the vice president’s helicopter land on the south lawn. I met several of President Bush’s staff and would even stay in touch with one woman whom I’d felt a connection with that day.
Truly, the opportunities and introductions I’ve known because of my experience on The Biggest Loser have been humbling and invigorating and utterly surreal. I got to meet Oprah, of course, and Larry King and Mario Lopez at dinner one night. I met actresses Vanessa Marcil and Kristen Alphonso, and consider Bob Harper and Alison Sweeney and Jillian Michaels my friends. But while it has been amazing to speak with the “rich and famous” of the world—some of whom I’d looked up to for years and years—the people who have inspired me most since the show are the ones living everyday lives. They are fighting for their families, fighting to keep jobs in a tough economy and fighting to live by selfless, God-honoring values in a world that tells them it’s all about them. They are fighting for weight loss without the help of nutritionists, trainers and four focused months away from home, which is utterly remarkable to me.
They do what I could never seem to do—they get up early, they stay up late, they sacrifice their comfort and they lay it on the line—all for the sake of pursuing that one audacious goal.
WHEN I PRAY, I PRAY FOR YOU
As a wife and a mom of two boys, I rarely have any time alone. So when it comes to setting aside time for practices that feed my “inner me,” the task can feel pretty tough. Take prayer, for example. While it would be nice to sit down at the kitchen table with a journal and a pen in one hand and a cup of steaming-hot coffee in the other so that I could log my prayers for the day, in forty seconds flat that journal would be covered in Crayola wax, my coffee cup would be upended and my pen would be chewed up. Welcome to the world of having a one-year-old.
Somewhere along the way I established a pattern for prayer that actually works for my life, a pattern that seems to involve two parts.
On many nights I’m so wired that when I go to bed, I just can’t fall asleep. It used to frustrate me terribly, but I have come to realize that there’s an upside to bouts of insomnia, and for me it involves time for prayer. Now I simply say, “What is it you want me to know, God? What is it that I need to hear?” I lie there, perfectly still, just waiting for some semblance of insight from the One who is obviously keeping me up. And while I wait, I pray.
I pray prayers of thanksgiving—for Mike, for Noah, for Jaxon, for my other family members and for my friends. I thank God for the fact that I have a soft bed to (not) sleep in, especially in this worl
d where so many people are found lying on cold streets or in humid huts or atop mattresses made of soil.
Prayers of thanksgiving gently rock me to sleep, and by the time the sun rises, I’m refreshed and renewed once more.
I’ve noticed that, in addition to my evening prayer ritual, there’s a morning-time habit I pursue. I may awaken refreshed and renewed, but as soon as I remember all of the to-dos I need to tackle and all the monsters I need to slay, my spirit wilts. My morning prayers go something like this: “Oh, God, give me strength.” (Or patience. Or wisdom. Or a supernatural infusion of about six extra hours in this day.)
“Help me be the person I need to be today,” I ask him. “Bring to mind the thoughts you want me to think. Show me the steps you want me to take. Remind me of the people who can inspire me to be the best ‘me’ all day long.”
Depending on the day, God brings to mind different people in my life. But there are a handful of people whose lives seem to inspire me more than any others these days. I want to introduce them to you, not only so that you will be inspired by their stories, too, but also so that you will consider—perhaps for the first time in your life—that your story can serve as the perfect dose of inspiration others might need in order to catalyze big changes in their lives.
“GIVE ME MELISSA’S UNWAVERING FAITH”
Melissa and I have been friends since junior high, and in the years since then, we’ve been through it all. Together, we got caught for drinking wine coolers when we were fifteen, we walked across the stage at our high school graduation, we saw each other get married and start families, and today we watch our kids make “together” memories of their own.
Melissa was the girl in school who was always on the most attractive list and always got good grades. Her life seemed so easy, so effortless, so free. But there came a day when the peace that she had known would be shattered and her faith would be pressured to prevail.
Four years ago Melissa was getting her two kids ready for bed, when she sensed something of a pop and then felt a stream of water running down her legs. She was pregnant with her husband’s and her third child, but surely her water wasn’t breaking this early; she was only twenty-three weeks along.
She looked down to see what was happening and realized that it wasn’t water at all; it was blood. She rushed to the bathroom and climbed into the tub while Chuck hurriedly ushered the children to another room. Melissa sat in a puddle of her own blood, believing that certainly her baby was dead.
When Melissa arrived at the hospital, the nurse confirmed the worst fear of all: No heartbeat could be found. Melissa lay in a hospital bed, grieving for what seemed like hours as she waited for the on-call obstetrician’s arrival.
The doctor finally arrived and explained that he needed to do an ultrasound to confirm the death of the baby. As he slowly moved the wand across Melissa’s belly, he said—to her surprise and his—“This baby has a heartbeat. Your child is still alive!”
Melissa came undone. Chuck says that in that split second all he could think about was the verse from the Bible story about the prodigal son: “This son of mine was dead and is alive again!”26
In a strange mix of relief and terror, Melissa weighed the words she’d just heard. Was the doctor’s comment good or bad news? Her son still had a heartbeat, but would he ever know a normal life, given the trauma he’d just been through?
The doctor wheeled Melissa into surgery and delivered the baby, who had spent less than six months in her womb. She was so drugged up that I wasn’t able to see her until the next morning, when she was finally coherent. I sat down beside her hospital bed and took her hand in mine as she wailed the most guttural sobs I’ve ever heard. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I looked upon the friend I’d walked home from school with and spent countless nights with and curled my hair with and worn neon clothes with. We had shared so much of life together, and yet we’d never shared anything like this. “Oh, God, please care for my friend,” I prayed. “Please hold her and remind her you’re here.…”
When Ethan was born, he was so tiny that when Chuck slid his wedding band over the baby’s fragile hand, it fit all the way up to his shoulder. Ethan was so unformed and translucent that he resembled a see-through squirrel. Through his onionskin flesh, I could see veins and organs and bone. And yet he was alive. This son of Melissa’s was dead and was alive again! Or that’s how we saw the situation anyway. Doctors had a different take on things. Rather than offering up hope, they offered dire predictions and a recommendation to end Ethan’s life support.
My friend was appalled. “I don’t want to unplug his life support! Can’t we give him a chance to live?” she pleaded. “Please keep working on him… keep doing whatever you can do.”
And indeed they did, keeping their monumental doubts at bay.
Melissa eventually was released from the hospital, but Ethan had to stay behind. I don’t know how many months passed during their separation—four, maybe?—but each and every day Melissa and Chuck sorted out child care for their two other children and made their way to Ethan’s side. Sometimes they went to the hospital early in the morning and sometimes it was late at night, but not a single day passed when they didn’t root on their little fighter, imploring him to live, to breathe, to work, to overcome. Melissa insisted on believing the best—about Ethan and about God. Not once did I hear her question God; not once did I hear her complain. She was exhausted and overwhelmed and perplexed by how life felt, but still she kept on fighting. Still she kept the faith.
On Christmas Eve that year, Ethan came home from the hospital at last. But despite the fact that he’d beaten the odds, doctors were skeptical still. “Sure, he was able to go home,” they’d say, “but he may not enjoy a normal life. He’ll likely grow up with severe limitations. You’ll have to wait and see.”
Melissa brushed their qualms aside and got busy living life.
When it was time for me to return to LA for the Season 4 finale, I knew that I wanted Melissa there with me. She was the one who was responsible for my auditioning for the show in the first place, and I desperately wanted her to see the whole experience come full circle. Melissa had never struggled with her weight, but over the years she’d helped me struggle with mine. She’d been my friend through my gains, my losses and every plateau in between. “I knew that your weight bothered you,” she would tell me later, “but I never knew you were very big.” And she didn’t, largely because Melissa saw the inside of me all those years, not just the weight.
After I’d finished my time on campus and came home to work out for four months before the finale, Melissa was my constant cheerleader. “I’m so proud of you,” she’d say, and mean it. She’d call her family and say, “You guys have to go see Julie! You won’t believe how she looks!” She didn’t need to work out as hard as I did, but still she’d subject herself to the rigors of Margie’s class, the same Margie to whom Melissa introduced me, because she is just that good of a friend.
Melissa had been my teacher in so many aspects of life, modeling for me how to live with steadiness and wisdom and, most of all, with faith, and something in me wanted to show her a student who could actually lead for a change.
I remember walking onstage after I broke through the paper screen at the finale and seeing Melissa and Margie in the audience, jumping wildly up and down. They resembled overly enthusiastic parents at their kid’s dance recital, oohing and aahing and weeping tears of joy. I don’t recall much of that chaotic finale moment, but I’ll keep that image of those two dear friends forever emblazoned on my mind.
Back on that day when Melissa sat despondently in her bathtub, she prayed a prayer to God. “I promise you that I will love you and follow you regardless of what happens to this child,” she said through tears. “I will not turn my back on you and I will not allow this situation to come between us. The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.”
I think about the unimaginable pain that she was in when she whimpered o
ut those words and I marvel at my friend’s unyielding strength. On days when I think I can’t go on, all I have to do is think about the framed photo hanging from the wall of a children’s hospital, the one that boasts Ethan, today a happy, healthy four-year-old who wasn’t supposed to live. I think about Melissa’s faithfulness to God and her faithfulness to Ethan. I think about her faithfulness to our friendship that has spanned three decades and counting. “Give me Melissa’s unwavering faith,” I ask of God, “so that I can be that faithful too.”
“GIVE ME SHIRLEY’S ACCEPTING SPIRIT”
Producers of The Biggest Loser made a big deal out of the fact that for the five years leading up to my experience on the show, I avoided Mike’s office at all costs. I didn’t attend company dinners, company picnics or company Christmas parties, all because I was terrified of what people would think. If I couldn’t accept myself, how could I expect his colleagues to accept me? I steered clear so I’d never have to find out.
A woman named Shirley is one of those colleagues I avoided. After I returned from campus, I decided it was time to break the relational drought I had caused, and so I went to Mike’s office one day.
Because Shirley had watched every episode of my season, she knew that my absence from the office had been intentional. But instead of giving me the cold shoulder or remaining courteous but distant, as soon as I stepped foot through the door, she came right up to me, grabbed me, hugged me, and said, “I’m so sorry you felt the way you did.” She turned toward her co-workers who were looking on and said something to the effect of, “Let’s get this girl in here and show her we’re different than she thought!”