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.
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.
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 world 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.
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 out 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.”
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!”
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.
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.”
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.
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.
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.