by Derek Hough
Fuel your body.
Think about your environment as an ecosystem. If there’s pollution, you’ll feel the toxic side effects; if you’re in the fresh air of the mountains, you’ll feel alive. You’d be surprised at how many of the foods that we eat actually sap our body of fuel. Just look at three quick examples: soda, potato chips, and hamburgers. I’m not a hard-liner who says that you should never consume these things, but this kind of steady diet will make it harder for your body to help you. Instead, look at the foods that are going to give you energy. Choose food that’s water soluble and easier for your body to break down, which gives you maximum nutrition with minimal effort. Look at a cucumber: it’s practically water and it takes no energy to consume, but it’s packed with nutrients. Green for me is the key.
We overeat and undernourish ourselves way too much. When you eat bad food, your body will feel bad and then you will feel bad. It’s all connected. I drink green juice every day and eat huge salads. I am also a big believer in lean protein to feed and fuel the muscles—I might even have a chicken breast for breakfast.
Growing up, because I danced every single day, I would basically eat anything I wanted and I wouldn’t gain any weight. I would eat anything and everything trying to put on a few pounds, but it never worked—and my skin was terrible as a result of it. We’d blame it on the sweat from the dancing, but I never connected it to what I ate. As I got older, I started to educate myself more about food. I learned that I need to alkalize my body. It’s never about how I look. Instead, I go by how I feel. I notice immediately how good, clean food boosts my energy while junk makes me feel lethargic. I’m also a huge believer in hydrating. Forget about eight glasses of water a day; I drink eight glasses before noon!
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AN ALKALINE DIET
The pH level measures how acid or alkaline something is. Your blood is slightly alkaline, with a pH between 7.35 and 7.45, and your stomach is very acidic, with a pH of 3.5 or below, so it can break down food. Most of the foods we eat release either an acid or an alkaline base into the blood. Acidified body cells become weak, which can lead to unhealthy conditions and diseases. They are robbed of the oxygen and energy needed to support a strong and healthy immune system.
I incorporate alkaline foods into my diet every day, and I feel like my energy is soaring. Food literally acts like a battery for the body. Every living thing on this planet is made up of energy, and this includes your food. This energy can be measured in megahertz. Chocolate cake only provides 1 to 3 MHz of energy, while raw almonds have 40 to 50 MHz and green vegetables have 70 to 90 MHz. So if you need 70 MHz of energy on a daily basis to function and you live off junk food and soda, you are creating an energy-deficit crisis in your body.
People say it’s expensive to eat healthily. Here’s how I see it: you’re going to pay either way. Either you’re going to pay now for the good foods and feel alive and have a clear mind. Or you’ll save some money now and pay for medicine and hospital bills later. I used to make excuses: I’m getting older, that’s why I feel so tired all the time. But now I know it doesn’t have to be that way. You have to make the conscious decision to nourish your body. Value yourself enough to eat well.
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HIGH-ALKALINE FOODS
Vegetables
Beets, Broccoli, Cauliflower, Celery, Cucumbers, Kale, Lettuce, Mushrooms, Onions, Peas, Peppers, Pumpkin, Spinach, Sprouts, Wheatgrass
Fruits
Apples, Apricots, Avocados, Bananas, Blueberries, Cantaloupe, Cherries (sour), Grapes, Melon, Lemon, Oranges, Peaches, Pears, Pineapple, Raspberries, Strawberries, Watermelon
Protein
Almonds, Chestnuts, Whey Protein Powder, Tofu
Spices
Cinnamon, Curry, Ginger, Mustard, Sea Salt
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LEADING LESSONS
Excuses hold you back.
Excuses keep you from doing what needs to be done and from living your truth. When I was making all those lame excuses for why my performance was going to suck, I was refusing to own it. And when you don’t commit wholeheartedly to a situation, you’re always somewhere floating in the middle, never really operating at your full potential. We tend to make excuses when things don’t go according to our original plans. Or we blame something or someone else for our mistakes. You can also make excuses for the things you don’t do—why you haven’t left a job you hate, followed your dream, or taken a risk. In the end, all those excuses add up to the same thing: a smoke screen. When you make an excuse, you’re rejecting the truth and trying to buffer yourself from the consequences of your actions. Leaders own what they do. This was something I had to learn through experience. I saw how pawning off responsibility (like blaming a bad back for a bad performance) was not helping me improve or grow. People who constantly make excuses are often afraid they’re not good enough or can’t live up to others’ expectations. Maybe in the beginning it makes you feel better: “If I just explain it this way, I won’t look so bad.” But the end result is always self-defeating. Excuses will always get in the way of a responsible life.
Everyone has an inner warrior.
It’s a silent voice—not a nagging in your head, but a warm, strong, gut feeling of perusing and persevering. It comes in the moments of stillness when you switch off your mind and let your instincts take over. In Amber’s case, her head was telling her that she couldn’t win DWTS with a wrecked knee. It made sense to her intellectually, but her passion overrode her brain. It led her to defy the odds, and prove—especially to herself and me—that she was fierce and fearless. Her win inspired me, and it inspired millions of people who watched her claim that Mirror Ball trophy. It’s simply a question of unleashing that warrior. If you can control your mind, you can control your life. So in moments when you’re feeling helpless, hopeless, overwhelmed (you fill in the blank here!), that’s when you have to let the warrior out. Inside each of us is an abundant reserve of strength, determination, and courage. All you have to do is let it loose.
Ask the right questions.
Julianne and I were recently at our first rehearsal for a new dance tour we’re putting together. The first part of the morning went great—we were having a blast, and we hadn’t danced together in years so it felt amazing to be working off each other. We were excited, just ripping through stuff. We sat down for lunch and I had an idea for a lift. We decided to try it. Jules was in sneakers, and I flipped her around and her foot stuck. I heard a pop and saw her face. Pain rippled across it. We both knew it was bad but resisted the urge to panic. Her first question was, “How can we get this fixed fast?” Not “Why me?” or “Why did this have to happen today?” There was no self-pity or “Woe is me.” The right questions put you in a positive place to deal and heal. Pain happens, but suffering is a choice. After Julianne asked me that, we got on the phone with our list of people who had great doctors and made the calls. She had X-rays and MRIs, and was given a boot to treat a torn tendon. But it got better every day thanks to laser and ultrasound treatments. Here’s the thing: powerful people never throw pity parties for themselves. You will never hear my little sister moaning, “Why me?” when something goes wrong.
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REFLECTING ON DEREK
“Thanks to Derek, I learned that I am stronger than I thought I was. Derek was a great teacher for me, because he made sure that whatever I did looked good on my body and felt natural. Instead of completely taking out a move I felt was too hard, he found a creative way to adjust it. The jazz number was my breakthrough moment. I had a new fire after getting such bad scores. Derek showed me that dance is just another form of expression, and anyone can do it!”
—AMBER RILEY
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14
STARING FEAR IN THE FACE
WHEN I WAS partnered in Season 13 with Ricki Lake, she came into the studio with amazing energy and excitement. But I noticed that she wore this khaki baseball hat low on her forehead, just cove
ring her eyes. That body language told me that something was up. As I started teaching her, I told her, “You need to look in the mirror so you can see that you’re out of alignment.”
Ricki took a deep breath. “I hate looking in the mirror,” she admitted. I knew a little bit of her history—she’d lost more than a hundred pounds since she was the star of Hairspray, and she wanted to tone up now after having her second child. “These,” she said, pointing to the backs of her arms. “We need to get rid of these right away.”
She spent a lot of the first lesson apologizing for “not being Nicole Scherzinger.” No matter how much I told her that it didn’t matter if she had a Pussycat Dolls body and that she should be proud of who she was, it didn’t seem to sink in.
“Check your posture in the mirror,” I instructed her. Once again, the hat got pulled down as low as it would go, and all she could manage was a quick glance. “Ugh, my hips look huge!” she groaned and looked away.
Lucky for us both, I knew this fear of the mirror firsthand. As a teenager, I had terrible acne—huge boils on my face—and I avoided mirrors like the plague. But in dance, you need the mirror to help make corrections—in that respect, it’s your best friend. I had learned that, and Ricki needed to, also. The studio was wall-to-wall mirrors from floor to ceiling, so there was no avoiding them. She had to get over this fear fast or we wouldn’t be able to work, much less win.
We struck a few poses for the Viennese waltz and I told her, “Look! Look at that! See how beautiful you look?” She glanced in the mirror and her eyes lit up: “Is that me?” Over the next few weeks, the hat came off, her posture started to change, and an air of confidence took hold. By week 2, for our jive, she was gyrating around onstage in a skimpy sequin costume. We danced to “Hey Ya!” by Outkast and, as the song says, she shook it “like a Polaroid picture.” It was an incredible transformation, both physical and mental. The confidence that she portrayed became genuine.
Ricki was a great reminder for me of how you should always tackle fear head-on. You have to put yourself in an environment or a situation where you have no choice but to overcome it—or it will overcome you. Growing up I was afraid of heights; if I looked down I got instantly queasy. So what did I decide to do a few years ago? Go skydiving with my sisters. I stood on the ground, waiting for my turn, watching them jump out of a small plane strapped to some dude’s back. All I could see were these tiny blond dots floating in the air. Then one of the instructors (thankfully he was on his own and not tied to a Hough!) lost control of his chute. It got twisted and he began to spiral toward the ground. Everyone watching below gasped; he was plunging to his death. At the very last second, he pulled his auxiliary chute and glided down to safety.
After landing, he walked right over to me. “Phew, that was a close one. Okay, Derek, you’re up next. You’re comin’ with me.”
I felt my stomach leap into my throat. Are you serious? You’re a dead man walking and you want me to go up with you? Then reason kicked in: What was the likelihood lightning would strike twice and his chute would fail again? And if it did, clearly the guy knew how to get out of trouble.
“Um, okay . . . I guess.” I read the disclaimer and signed it. In a nutshell, it said, “If you die, we’re not responsible.” Thanks a lot.
The plane climbed to twelve thousand feet and I stood on the edge of the open latch. The scary part is never the actual jump. It’s the moment right before it, when you’re counting down: “3, 2, 1 . . .” It’s the anticipation of taking the plunge. That’s the slap in the face. That’s the moment your eyes are wide open and nothing else matters but the here and now. As you fall through the sky, the cold air slices into your skin and you can hear it rushing past you, louder than a train on its tracks. The world below looks so small, so insignificant, and then the chute opens and you feel this incredible gratitude and relief. Your fall slows, and you’re floating effortlessly in the clouds. I think it’s a taste of what heaven must be like.
So I did it. There is a tremendous rush in defying your fears—staring them down and daring them to mess with you. These days, if something scares me, that’s reason enough for me to do it. I’m kind of a danger junkie. I love wakeboarding, skiing, scuba diving, jumping off cliffs. Many of my Instagrams show me jumping off stuff. My sisters are just as bad—Julianne especially. When we were kids, we’d go to Lake Powell, where there are these amazing red cliffs. I’d be peeking over the edge, trying to talk myself over the fear, and suddenly there would be this little body with blond hair flying through the air and breaking the water. My little sister always beat me to it and showed me up. People might call us reckless or careless, but I call it being alive. I understand now that nothing amazing is ever accomplished without fear. It’s a sign that you’re on the road to experiencing greatness.
But as a little boy, I didn’t see it that way. I was terrified of the water. It wasn’t that I couldn’t swim—I did all the water sports you can think of. It’s just that somewhere, in the back of my mind, was this fear that something lurking beneath the surface would suddenly drag me down. My uncle gets the credit for ingraining this fear in me. One time, on vacation at my grandparents’ houseboat, all the cousins were in the lake at night swimming, and I fell asleep in the hammock. He thought it would be hilarious to toss me into the lake and give me a wake-up call. So he scooped me up and hurled me into the deepest part of the lake. When I hit the water it was pitch black and icy cold. I remember screaming because I had no idea where I was or what was going on. My only thought was to kick as hard as I could and reach the surface. I scrambled to the dock, terrified and coughing up water. It was a memory that stuck with me for a long, long time.
Fast-forward about twenty years: I was in Bora Bora on vacation. I was scuba diving, and thirty or so lemon sharks started hovering around me in the water. My first thought was, Wow, this is a lot more terrifying up close and personal than it is on Discovery Channel Shark Week. My next thought was, What do I do? I know the name lemon shark sounds sweet, but look it up. They are the ugliest, most terrifying sharks, and they get up to about ten feet long. That’s big enough to take off your head in a single bite. I hadn’t signed up for a shark encounter. In fact, they didn’t tell us much about what to expect down there, and there was no training session. It was more like, “Are you certified? Okay, just jump in.” After several minutes of being stalked by this pack of predators, I was overcome by a calmness. I remember feeling the sharks brush past my head and knock into my back. I couldn’t keep my eye on all of them—they were everywhere—so I just let it be. They didn’t bother me, and I didn’t bother them. Instead, the thing that freaked me out on the dive was a harmless little suckerfish that decided to hang out in my face. Every time I turned around, he was there, stalking me.
Sometimes the anticipation of something is scarier than the actual happening. I remember being in a cab in New York City with a friend when I was young and competing. We were playing this game: I’d look out the window and he’d slap my thigh as hard as he could. The pain wasn’t so bad, but the anticipation was unbearable. That’s fear for me most of the time. I picture the worst-case scenario unfolding and I wait for that slap to come. Why do I do it? Maybe to protect myself. It’s like when you cross your fingers to ward off a jinx. If I think of the worst that could happen, it won’t happen. It’s some warped insurance policy.
As I grow older, I realize that as adults, our fears are often self-inflicted. If you ask me what scares me today, it’s something far less tangible than a hungry shark or a failed parachute. It’s the idea that the best is already behind me. That I’ve peaked, plateaued, and I have nothing to look forward to, nothing to excite or challenge me. It’s a variation on an old fear: that I’ve never been good enough, and I never will be. I know these fears aren’t real—the things that scare us seldom are. They exist only in our undirected imagination, and they express things we love and cherish and can’t bear to lose. But we also have to remind ourselves that fear is an emotion, and
emotions can be controlled. Kellie Pickler admitted to me that she was her own worst enemy. She had a laundry list of things she was worried about, among them failing, falling, and just in general making a fool out of herself. I said, “‘Let’s step back and name this nervous person—because she’s not the real you. We’ll call her Anxious Annie. You’re Kellie and she’s Annie.’ ” Once Kellie named Anxious Annie and called her out, she could separate from her. The next day—and I mean the very next day—Kellie had a true transformation. She identified and broke up with her own worst enemy and was way better for it. We all have insecurities. The trick is to stop asking why and instead ask, What can I do about it?
I remember as a kid seeing all these people riding a towering, loop-de-loop roller coaster that I was terrified to try. I just stood there, watching it race around the track at a million miles an hour. I was in an emotional tug-of-war: part of me wanted so badly to just jump on and try it, but the other part of me was paralyzed by fear of the unknown. What if it made me sick? What if I was so terrified, I embarrassed myself? What if the seat belt gave way and I plummeted to my death? The list went on and on and got gradually longer in my overactive imagination. People would get on and get off—unscathed and exhilarated. So I reasoned with myself, I’m sure all those people are scared, too. But they’re not letting it keep them from going on the ride. Just like that, I got on. I screamed my head off, then went back for a second ride—this time, no hands.