Fat Chance

by Julie Haddon

  The thing that gets me about Shirley is that she doesn’t let anything get her down. She has been deaf most of her life but doesn’t use that as an excuse for self-pity. She is old enough to retire but keeps working hard. And she was overweight—at least in her own estimation—but she refused to stay that way.

  Because of Shirley’s hearing impairment, she engages in conversation very intentionally—and at very close range. After I chatted with several of Mike’s colleagues the day that I visited his office, Shirley approached me, positioned her face within two inches of mine and began to speak slowly and with great passion. She told me that she had been so inspired by what she saw me accomplish on the show that she herself had decided to change. She faithfully watched every episode of the show by closed-captioning and told me that she had been so inspired by what she saw me accomplish that she herself decided to change. She started working out and eating properly, and in the end, she dropped a significant amount of weight. In the midst of working through her own transformation, she also prayed for me every day. “You are so beautiful,” she said carefully and with teary eyes. “Because of you, I will be able to see my grandchildren grow up. I have been given a new lease on life.”

  Before I went on The Biggest Loser, it was all about me. I didn’t show my face at that office because I was afraid, I was insecure and I was unhappy with how I looked. After I returned from campus, it was all about them. It was all about people like Shirley who are mature enough to accept themselves, which enables them to graciously accept others. Shirley told me I am the one who was an inspiration, but I know the truth about who plays that role.

  “GIVE ME THE PERSISTENCE OF THE MAN IN THE PARK”

  Sometimes I know the stories behind the people who are living inspiring lives, and sometimes I do not. But whenever I see them in my day-to-day life, my reaction is always the same. “You go!” I want to shout at the top of my lungs. “You’re doing great, and you’ll reach your goal in no time if you just see this moment through!” It’s not the people with perfect figures and nary a care in the world who push me to be better myself; it’s the everyman overcoming an obvious struggle who motivates me most. Which brings me to the man in the park.

  For nearly two years I have trained with Margie Marshall. This means that for nearly two years I’ve spent five days a week at our local park. It also means that for nearly two years I have seen the same man running the same trail, wearing the very same attire.

  If you’re old enough to remember Olivia Newton-John’s video for her song “Let’s Get Physical,” then you have a decent understanding of how this guy dresses. He wears a circa 1970 sweatband around his head, a baggy sleeveless shirt and polyester running shorts that are far too short for a man his age. Actually they’re far too short for a man of any age, but that’s a topic for another book.

  Okay, true-confession time: Before I was married, my friends and I used to go to a karaoke club on Saturday nights, and while they opted for songs you can really rock out, like Steppenwolf’s “Born to be Wild” or The B-52s’ “Love Shack,” I always chose the overly dramatic “Hopelessly Devoted to You.” I’m so cool.

  The man in the park has no idea who I am, mostly because whenever I try to make eye contact with him, he intently looks the other way. “I’m not a stalker, I swear,” I always want to clarify. “I was just hoping to cheer you on.”

  He is significantly overweight and yet every day I’m there, it seems, this guy is running as hard as he can. Whether it’s raining or sunny, whether it’s unusually cool or ninety-eight blazing degrees, there he is, running twice around the 1.75-mile loop, sweating buckets and panting out his breath, working harder than most athletes I know.

  Last week I snuck in behind him and trailed him for a mile or so, just to be downwind of his never-give-up ways. “God, give me this guy’s persistence,” I prayed. “May I never give up, just like him.”

  “GIVE ME MARGIE’S SELFLESS STYLE”

  Margie is another source of inspiration for me because of the selflessness she exudes. She relates to me with graciousness and she relates to women half a world away with generosity that would make you weep.

  Margie Marshall has a fantastic physique, but it wasn’t born in a gene pool. Rail-thin fitness models who seemingly do nothing to maintain their perfection is one thing, but real inspiration comes from women like Margie, who has to work her tail off to achieve results. She has earned every curve she now enjoys, and she compels me to do the same. On more than a few occasions during a tough workout, Margie will look at me grimacing and wheezing my way along and say, “I know this kills. I did it yesterday.” It’s always just the dose of empathy that I need to stay the course.

  When I first came home from campus, Margie wasn’t sure how much I could handle, on the exercise front. She showed up at our first session with a laundry list of exercises that I was supposed to endure, and I remember starting at the top of that list and not stopping until we’d reached the very end. Margie didn’t have much use for water breaks at the time, and so sixty minutes of working out translated into sixty actual minutes of working out. If I reached down to tie my shoe, for instance, she’d stop the clock so that we didn’t lose even ten seconds of our agreed-upon time.

  I have banished from my mind most of the memories of that first workout, but I do recall that as a way to end our time together, Margie asked me to do plyometric side-kicks all the way down the football field and then all the way back to where she was standing, stopwatch in her hand and cruel smile on her face. The next day, she called me and said, “Um, Julie? Are you okay?”

  “Sure, if you consider it okay that I still can’t sit down to pee,” I replied.

  “Yeah,” Margie said. “About yesterday. I reviewed all the things that I made you do, and I think it may have been a bit too much—”

  “Ya think?” I interrupted.

  Thankfully, we never did that particular routine again.

  Margie and I laugh about those early days now, but what I still take seriously is her “teachability” and grace. It’s a tough thing to admit when you’re wrong, but in the admission trust is forged. She is more concerned with helping me reach my goals than she is with always appearing right, and that is a real gift to me.

  Despite countless hours of training input, Margie has never charged me a dime. I’ve often insisted on paying her, but it’s always a wrestling match to get her to take it. She reminds me that part of her “God-given role” is to help women however she can and frankly, I couldn’t agree with her more. I hear her tell me each and every day how strong I am, I see her refuse to let me quit, I sense her commitment to my journey and I know in my heart that any woman in Margie’s care is a privileged woman indeed.

  Margie has such a passion for helping women reach their goals that she now donates half of her personal-training revenue—received from clients she will take a dime from—to organizations that help women who have been sold into slavery. The idea came to her during her afternoon run one day, which is where she gets most of her epiphanies in life. She wanted to do something significant to help those women trapped in tough lives, when suddenly the thought came to mind that she could audition for the reality TV show The Amazing Race. She figured she’d coerce me to be on her team and that after we won, we’d donate 70 percent of our earnings to charity. “No way!” I said when she called to sell me the scheme. “I’ve already done the reality-show gig!”

  Margie went running again two days later and sensed another prompting—this time, she believes, from God. “What are you doing right now?” he seemed to ask.

  “I’m running,” she said out loud.

  The prompting continued. “Exactly! You don’t need The Amazing Race. You don’t need anything, except what I’ve already given you.”

  That’s so true! Margie thought. I can make a difference through running—something that’s already part of my life.

  It was the small seed that would bear great fruit.

  Margie got home and
got busy hatching her plan. Every forty-seven seconds, another girl or woman is sold into slavery somewhere in the world. And so in conjunction with Celebration Church of Jacksonville and an effort called the A21 Campaign27—so-named because of their vision to abolish injustice in the twenty-first century—Margie would establish a 4.7-mile race called “Be Her Freedom.”

  The inaugural run happens this fall, and proceeds will go toward the medical, legal and psychological treatment costs that are associated with rescuing, restoring and rebuilding the lives of women who have been enslaved.

  A magnetic passion, a selfless spirit and an enormous drive to win—who knows what God will choose to do through a woman with Margie’s heart.

  “GIVE ME NOAH’S SHEER BELIEF”

  Melissa’s faith, Shirley’s spirit of acceptance, the persistence of the man in the park, selflessness like Margie’s—these are the things I ask God for, but of course I don’t stop there! If there is one request I make most of God, it is for Noah’s sheer belief.

  Out of all of the people in life, it was my son Noah who never doubted that I would get picked for the show. It was Noah who never doubted that the black team would dominate. It was Noah who never doubted that I would come back much thinner than when I’d left. It was Noah who never doubted that I’d contend for the championship title.

  The entire time I trained between my on-campus experience and the finale, he believed so firmly that I’d win it all that I found myself wanting to say, “You got it, Noah, whatever you say. The way that you’re imagining it is exactly how it will be.”

  I sensed Noah’s belief in me from the beginning and worked as hard as I could so that I wouldn’t let him down. To this day he believes that I’m the strongest mom on the planet and that I’m the fastest runner to boot. He’ll come home from playing at a friend’s house and say that so-and-so’s mother has started working out. “But she can’t hold a candle to you,” Noah always adds.

  Ah, the unbiased perspective of a momma’s boy. You’ve got to love it!

  I was instructed to bring cupcakes to a recent class party of Noah’s, and partway through the event I decided to taste one. In front of children and parents and my son’s stunned teacher, Noah immediately stood up and yelled, “Attention, everyone! My mother just ate a cupcake!”

  “Shut up, child!” I whispered under my breath, wondering who on earth raised such a tattletale.

  “Well, you know you aren’t supposed to be eating cupcakes!” he said in a scolding tone as he took his seat once more.

  How I hate it when he’s right.

  When we watch The Biggest Loser these days, Noah still tells me that I’m the best contestant they ever had. He helps me work out. He monitors every morsel of food I eat. And he encourages me to keep reaching for the stars, each day that I’m alive.

  Everybody needs a Noah—that person who believes in you without hesitation, without wavering, without doubt. He doesn’t even bat an eye when he talks about me to his friends. “My momma did this” or “my momma did that.” He is so proud of me that it makes me want to be proud of myself.

  THE REAL INSPIRATION IS YOU

  In addition to the people in my town and in my own house who inspire me every day, I’m also moved to action by the moms and dads and kids whom I hear from online. People from America and New Zealand and Great Britain and Singapore tell me how they print pictures of me from the show’s site and post them on their bathroom mirror or on the fridge, and how those pictures keep them motivated to lose the next twenty pounds. They talk about how tough it is to find time to exercise—I know!—and how much tougher it is than that to believe that they’re worth that time.

  Evidently, the US version of The Biggest Loser now airs in ninety countries and the show is actually produced locally in thirty. The funniest one to me was The Biggest Loser Hungary. I was like, “For real? You’re going to have The Biggest Loser … ‘hungry’?”

  There are posts about polycystic ovary syndrome and about blood-sugar issues and about the challenge of hitting a plateau, and with every entry, I find myself in awe that readers are sharing these things with me. Seriously, the stories that appear there just blow me away. They ask for dieting tips, they ask for a workout companion and, interestingly, they ask for prayer.

  They are daughters of fathers with prostate cancer, wives of husbands who have recently been laid off, mothers of housefuls of children, sisters of workaholics and friends of those in chronic pain. And almost without exception, they’re people who, just like me, are desperately “battling the bulge.”

  “I thank God for you!” a woman named Becki recently typed. “You have given me such inspiration!” The truth, Becki, is that you’re the inspiration, the one who convinces me not to quit. Heather, Lisa, Theresa, Sarah, Chris, Trenda, Paula, Mary, Amy, Hannah, Kristin, Jerry and Rich—people like you keep people like me going. You make it fun to chase dreams.

  When I started my journey toward weight loss, I just wanted to lose a few pounds. Really—that was it. I remember looking toward heaven and begging God to help me. “I’m in a ditch here and have to lose this weight,” I’d pray. “I have no idea how to regain the control I’ve so obviously and terrifyingly lost.” I wasn’t thinking about serving as an inspiration to anyone during those days. I just wanted to get out of my ditch.

  Similarly, when I watched my friend Melissa bawl her eyes out because she feared that her baby would not live even one more hour, I’m sure her top-of-mind thought was not how that set of circumstances would one day minister to other people. She wasn’t thinking about how her life would speak to the lady who had just birthed a baby who was dangerously premature. She was just trying to get through the night.

  But interestingly, sometimes it’s the thing you struggle with most that God chooses to use for good. I never thought that God would use my greatest challenges in life to serve as my platform to change other people’s lives, but that is precisely what he has done. My weight always held me back and yet it is my weight that now sets me free.

  Change isn’t always fun, but when you realize that the thing you most wish you could change about your life could one day revolutionize not just your world but the worlds of countless others, somehow that change is much easier to bear. Now that I’m on the other side, I realize that real change is possible, it is powerful and, most importantly, it is worth every ounce of pain.

  Have eyes to see the inspiration all around you. What’s more, choose to be the inspiration you seek. I speak from experience when I say with great joy that you never know who will be watching.

  AFTERWORD

  Noah’s Favorite Villain of All

  FOR AS LONG as I can remember, my son Noah’s heroes have always been villains. Sure, he’s had Spiderman phases and Batman phases and Superman phases too. But regardless of what he was watching, he was never more captivated than when the villain appeared on the screen. The Joker, Scarecrow, the Penguin, the Green Goblin, Venom—you name the villain, I guarantee Noah loves him. Or her, as in the cases of Ursula and Harley Quinn.

  I asked him recently why he loved the bad guys so much, and he said that it was because they could always find a way out. Try though their opposition did, they just couldn’t seem to be kept down. In the know-it-all tone only an eight-year-old can nail, he reminded me that the Joker even put a microchip into the character of Robin before he was killed so that he could return as Robin and then reinvent himself from there. Who knew kids got the strategy of it all?

  Now that he’s old enough to weigh in on such decisions, Mike and I agreed that in the new house we just moved into, Noah should be able to decorate his room the way that he wanted. Not that there was anything wrong with his old room: It was done in the cutest fire-truck theme, complete with a bright red wall and furniture that was painted stark white. Adorable! And, evidently, “babyish,” as I’ve recently been informed.

  Since Noah has always loved monkeys, I found bedding and furnishings in an animal-lover theme that I just knew he’
d like. “Nope,” he said when he saw it. “Keep looking.” After also being told that the themes of soccer and music just weren’t “cool enough,” I suddenly remembered why I’ve always said this particular kid could make a mute person scream.

  I returned from an out-of-town speaking engagement a few days ago to find that Noah had taken the room-decor task into his own hands. His latest phase, it seems, is Jillian Michaels—in her own right, a villain who also can’t be kept down.

  Stepping into Noah’s room I saw a giant—and I mean giant—framed poster of my former trainer, complete with the slogan “Back in Black,” and was told immediately that there’s a The Biggest Loser banner to come.

  “Why Jillian?” I asked my son.

  “Duh!” came the response. (Every mom’s favorite word, right?) “She’s, like, won every season, Mom,” Noah elaborated. “Also, she was allowed to kick your butt!” That one elicited a laugh from us both.

  “And she knows Tae Kwon Do. And she rides a motorcycle. And she bosses everyone around. And we both like the color black.”

  I had the distinct feeling Noah could have kept going this way, enumerating every last awe-inspiring characteristic of the undeniably unparalleled Jillian, but I didn’t stick around to find out. As I walked back into the living room a smile came upon my lips. Despite all of Noah’s explanations, I knew the real reason he wanted Jillian on his wall. The woman who had ridden up on her bike and shocked an entire viewing audience had also ridden her way into my son’s heart.

  For Noah’s seventh birthday Mike and I took him to LA. We thought it would be fun to celebrate his special day in the city that I’d called home for four months straight. Plus, instead of toys or games, the one gift he asked for was to meet Jillian.