LAST SUMMER I received a call from the producers of The Oprah Winfrey Show, asking if I’d be interested in appearing with several other former The Biggest Loser contestants, as well as with Jillian and Bob, to show America that it really is possible not only to lose weight but also to keep it off.
I didn’t need much time to formulate a reply. “Heck, yeah, I’ll be on Oprah! When’s the taping?”
After arriving in Chicago and being escorted to Harpo Studios, my friends and I were led through a rehearsal of the show. At some point during that run-through I remember taking note of the stage, the lights, the cameras and the intimate studio and thinking, “Holy guacamole. I’m going to be on the Oprah show. You gotta be kidding me!”
For years I have tuned in at four o’clock in the afternoon to watch Oprah interview world leaders and superstars, athletes and stay-at-home moms with incredible tales to tell. And now I was going to sit on that same stage? It was almost incomprehensible to me, given the fact that a mere twelve months prior I was embarrassed to be seen in public, let alone by millions on national TV.
I didn’t get to meet Oprah before the show started. Evidently that’s a practice of hers, so that her on-stage reaction to people will be genuine and fresh.
Halfway through the show, after I heard her interview several other former contestants from my seat backstage, including Season 5’s winner Ali Vincent and my The Biggest Loser all-time favorite Suzy Preston from Season 2, I heard Oprah in her classic announcer’s voice say, “Come on out, Juuulie Haddddden!” I waited for the screen to part that I had been standing behind and then walked to my center-stage mark as audience members cheered and hollered and clapped. Talk about surreal!
The other The Biggest Loser contestants and I had to be ushered out quite quickly after our show so that Celine Dion could set up for her appearance on the second show that was to be taped that day. Imagine my surprise when they didn’t ask me to stick around and sing back-up for her!
I approached Oprah to hug her neck and then hugged Jillian and Bob before I took my seat by their side. As the applause died down, Oprah began asking questions about what it was like to be on The Biggest Loser, especially given that it had meant being away from Mike and Noah for four months straight. “Who took care of your son that whole time?” Oprah asked.
“My amazing husband,” I replied. “But what was funny was that everybody in town thought that I’d left him. While I was gone, nobody was allowed to know where I was or what I was doing. People in the community would come up to Mike—who by all appearances had become a single dad—and say in a pitying tone, ‘We’re praying for you, hon.’”
I told Oprah that when I came back from being on the show, those same people were like, “Mm-hmm, cute little blonde thang went and got all skinny to try to get back with her man! We see how it is.”
“Oh yeah,” Oprah said with a laugh, “everyone has to be in everyone else’s business, right?”
“Exactly!” I replied. “I wanted to say to those people, ‘Hey, cut me some slack! My absence was legit! Really!’ But you know, people think what they want to think.”
While I was on stage people from the audience kept waving at me. I thought they were being so sweet, and so I waved right back. It wasn’t until later that I realized they were trying to get my attention to tell me that I’d left the price stickers on the soles of my shoes.
Just then producers had us cut away for a commercial break, and by the time the show resumed I had taken my seat on the front row of the audience, along with other The Biggest Loser contestants. Oprah was interviewing Jillian about her training philosophy, basically asking what it takes for a fat person to endure such grueling workouts.
I scanned the audience and for the first time that morning realized that I was sitting in a room full of me. Row by row I saw hundreds of thirty-something moms who were doing the best that they could. They looked pretty and polished and wore coordinated clothes, but underneath the facade I knew what life was really like.
As Jillian continued to talk about how contestants have to decide for themselves whether or not they’re going to submit to the process of transformation, my mind chased other thoughts. “These women surrounding me are leading busy lives,” I said to myself. “They spend all day, every day, giving themselves to everyone else and are convinced as they listen to all of us share diet and exercise tips that they will never be able to change. They don’t have the luxury of leaving their lives for months on end. And even if they could do so, they probably wouldn’t do so. They just don’t see their own worth.”
They were just like the old me, filled to the brim with “why me’s” instead of “why not me’s.” It had probably taken a series of logistical gymnastics for them to get to the TV show that day; how would they ever be able to orchestrate their schedules to accommodate a four-month TV appearance?
I thought about how well I could relate to their plight, about how mere months prior I had been in their shoes. And suddenly something inside of me snapped. I had to say something. I had to say something now. I had to say something right now, and when I couldn’t contain it any longer, I did the unthinkable: I interrupted Oprah.
“First, you have to believe that you are worthy,” I said from my seat in a voice that was wobbly and weak.
The woman who has hosted kings and queens and dignitaries and even Brad Pitt threw her gaze my way and with more than a hint of shock in her eyes said, “Please stand up.”
Oh lawdy, what have I done?
I stood to my feet.
“You were saying?” said the most powerful woman on the planet.
“Oh … sorry,” I whimpered in my southern little-ol’-me tone. I ex-haled nervously and then kept going; what else could I do, given what I’d already done?
“All of these moms give of themselves day after day after day,” I said, feeling stronger on my own two legs by now, “and at the end of it all, there is nothing left for them.” I glanced at the women in the room and then continued, this time through heartfelt tears. “And I believe that if you believe that you are worth it … you know, I thought that my child needed more things to play with. He needed a mom to play with. I thought that my husband needed a wife to take care of him. He needed a wife who would take care of herself, so I can be there with him forever. So that’s why I want to say to women—especially women—you won’t start to change until you start believing that you are worth it.”
After the show, Oprah stopped me in the hallway and said, “I just want to tell you that I really love what you said out there. It is all about worthiness.” And then she walked away as I floated back to my dressing room, thinking, “I just had a one-on-one conversation with Oprah Winfrey!”
I took my seat once more as the heart inside of me swelled. I wanted so badly for the women all around me to catch the truth of what I was saying. I wanted them to know that they had to appear on their own priority list before a single thing would change. Diet and exercise are the easy part; it’s belief that is hardest to nail.
“The bottom line,” Oprah said as my thoughts swirled, “is that it’s about worthiness.”
“Exactly,” I murmured to myself. “I couldn’t agree with you more.”
People always ask me what is the most significant takeaway or the greatest “aha” from my time spent on The Biggest Loser campus. And I think my answer surprises them every time. My response has nothing to do with the nuances of protein, push-ups or how to play the game. “The most important thing I learned,” I instead explain, “is that you and I are worthy of living the life of our dreams.”
I knew it the day I was on Oprah’s show, and I know it still today.
In my view, you determine something’s worth by looking to the person or thing that finds it worthy. My grandmother—Great MaMa, my family calls her—is in her eighties and on more than one occasion has asked me what I want of hers “if something ever happens” to her. I hate that question, because who in her right mind wants to think about losing a precious member of the family? But still, she persists. And my answer’s the same every time.
I don’t want the china that’s in her cabinet or the jewelry that’s in her dresser drawer. The only thing I want is something the world would place far less value on than expensive dishes and diamonds—all I want is her Bible.
Great MaMa has read that Bible nearly every day of her adult life and has underlined and made notes beside her favorite passages. That Bible to me represents the heart of who she is, and I know that once she’s gone, it’s the one material possession that would make her still seem near. It would only bring in a few bucks at a garage sale, but its value to me is worth more than gold. You determine something’s worth by looking to the person who finds it worthy.
As God’s children, then, our worth must be off the charts, because the value he placed on our lives warranted the ultimate sacrifice. God says in his Word that he loves us so much that at a specific point in history he sent his only Son to die for us and set us free from our sin and wrongdoing. Sure, we have value because of the contributions we make in our lives, but our intrinsic worth exists only because of God. He designed us, he formed us before we entered our mother’s womb and he purposed us for great things before the world even began.
You and I are so much more than piles of lucky mud. We are intentional and intricate creations of the God of the universe, the God who gave everything so that we could live this thing called life.
I’m sure I learned as a kid in Sunday school that because Jesus Christ came to earth to serve as a divine Bridge, I could have a personal and intimate relationship with God. But it wasn’t until my body began to be transformed that I embraced the idea that I’m really and truly the “dwelling place” of God. It bends my brain to think about it, but it doesn’t make it any less true. The one who paints every sunset, who determined the position of every star, who raised up every mountain and who has the power to calm every storm—that One, he makes his home inside me. With every breath I breathe and every day I live, I can know his presence, his strength, his love and his grace.
I don’t have to talk to God in cryptic thee-and-thou prayers. I can chat with him like I’m sitting across from a friend—in reality, he’s even closer than that! I don’t have to wait until I’m sitting inside a church building on a Sunday morning to tell him what I need. I can call out to him any hour of any day, whether I’m in a church, a café or a mall. Anywhere I find myself can become a sacred spot, which was news to me—a girl who treated her body more like a fairground than holy ground most every day of her life.
If you’ve ever been to a state fair, then you know exactly what I mean. Fair-going conjures up images of people who throw on a stained tank top, cutoffs, and flip-flops and charitably call that an outfit. They shuffle around like sunburned zombies, eating as many on-a-stick food items as they can find and then wash it all down with guzzler-sized sodas and beer. It’s not exactly the picture of intentionality and reverence that comes to mind when you think about all things holy. “You’re not a fairground,” God would reveal to me. “You’re holy ground because I dwell here. Now all that’s left is for you to actually live like you believe that too!”
I remember seeing deep-fried Twinkies for sale at the Jacksonville Agricultural Fair one time. Surely the apocalypse is near.
One of the things that knitted my heart to the heart of Margie Marshall—the superfit diva of a trainer who has worked with me ever since I got home from the show—is that she gets this dwelling-place idea better than most people I know. Margie’s history is interesting to me because, while we find ourselves in a similar situation healthwise today, we started at opposite ends of the spectrum. I was the slothful, excuse-filled woman who couldn’t seem to stop downing chocolate cake, and she was the overtrained, obsessive workout freak who almost lost everything in the name of being fit.
“God had given me a passion for nutrition and exercise,” Margie told me one time, “but I took what had been given to me as a gracious gift and let it completely consume me.” Margie used to prize her workouts so much that she would gladly let other responsibilities slide if it meant she could spend one more hour at the gym. Her husband and her children paid a steep price for the lesson she had to learn the hard way, but she’ll tell you today that she would walk that path all over again if it meant gaining the intimacy with Christ she now knows.
When I returned from The Biggest Loser and asked Margie to be my personal trainer, I had no idea what my request would mean to her. “While you were on the show, I prayed one prayer on one occasion to God,” she later told me. “I felt foolish for asking him this, but in that prayer I pleaded with him to let me be your trainer once you were home. Through tears I told him that I desperately wanted another chance, that I promised I wouldn’t abuse his gracious gift this time around, if only he’d let me work with you.”
Obviously, God answered her prayers. In her words, “It’s like God said, ‘Margie, I’m going to give you back these seeds that I gave you before, but this time, I want you to plant your garden my way.’”
Looking back, it’s interesting to see that God knew Margie needed me in order to live out her second chance, and I needed her in order to live out mine.
Nearly everyone I know can relate to Margie’s sentiment, because at one time or another we’ve all misused the stuff that God has given us to steward. Whether it’s a talent for singing, a gift for organizing and planning, the capacity to write great books, star in great plays, lead great businesses—whatever “it” is, if we’re not careful we’re all prone to make the “it” about us. Which would be fine, except that God then gets elbowed right out of our lives. And you try living in a house where nobody ever acknowledges your presence. The greatest Resident our souls could ever know deserves far better than that.
Earlier this year I had the opportunity to write an article for Guideposts magazine for a cover story they were doing on the secrets of making personal change stick. When I received the edited version of my story back from their publishing team, one of the writers had included a powerful title to accompany it. “Worth the Weight,” it read. Instantly I thought, Dang! Why didn’t I think of that?
The title perfectly summed up my thoughts on making big changes stick, because when you understand your inherent worth, you treat yourself and those around you in an altogether different way. You tend to say yes to the things that will honor your body and no to the things that won’t. You tend to endure a little pain, knowing that the gain will be that much better. You tend to soak up every last, lovely drop of life because you understand that each one is a gift from your God. And you help others to do the same.
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.
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 children 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.