My story

As part of my new pacing endeavor, I was asked to write my story so it can be shared with others to inspire them.


To tell my story, I have to talk about all the things that got me to 320 pounds by the age of 30.
It isn’t easy to do, because in the act of overcoming, a whole lot of effort goes into leaving behind the bad stuff; the stuff that got me to 320 pounds to begin with.
But, I know that I have been blessed to be a blessing to those of you out there that are just starting your journey, and I am so grateful to be in a place in my life that I have a story like this to tell, so that is what I will do.
I grew up in a family of serious dysfunction. My mom was an alcoholic, and the disease killed her by the time I was 23. The emotional, verbal, and mental abuse was intense growing up. Being the baby in the family meant that when my brothers grew old enough to move out and get away, they did just that. That left me the prime target for her outbursts and attacks.
I didn’t know what ‘normal’ was growing up. I knew that our family had secrets, and I knew that when I spoke to school counselors and my mom would find out about it, the ridicule would ensue. What was wrong with me that I needed to talk to anyone about my problems or about our family? How dare I do such a selfish thing!
It was during these years that I began to turn to food for comfort. It was the one thing I could always count on. It was the one thing I was always given, the one consistent thing provided to me by my mother.
I was taught food was love, and boy did I embrace it!
When I was 21 I married a different kind of addict; a gambling addict. We were young, foolish, and soon found ourselves with a honeymoon baby on the way. I found out I was pregnant the same weekend he had left to have an affair with a person I had once called my best friend.
I thought it was my responsibility to “fix” my mother and I also thought it was my job to “fix” my husband.
As a matter of fact, they agreed that it was my job.
I failed miserably, of course, and the shame piled on in the form of overeating.
After my mom died, I went through about a 4 or 5 year stretch of depression that included eating a full box of Little Debbie brownies in a day. It also included a whole lot of medication that numbed me from feeling much of anything. I was turning to anything I could find to take the pain away.
Food, of course, was still my number one drug of choice.
Right after my 30th birthday, I decided to go see the doctor because I was feeling terrible.
The doctor did not mix her words. She told me that I was obese, and that I was also pre-diabetic.
I knew I was uncomfortable, but I didn’t realize how out of control my life had gotten. Nor did I realize how much I was hurting inside.
That very day I decided that changes had to be made.
First, I stopped drinking soda. Then, I bought a calorie-counting book and began learning about nutrition. Then, I began walking the dog. The exercise videos came soon after.
As I began to take back my life, I began seeing my marriage fall apart as a result. Change is a very threatening thing to people and this situation showcased that.
I began to believe that I deserved to feel better; that my daughter and I deserved to have electricity ALL days of the year and not just when my husband decided to pay the bill. I began seeing that maybe life didn't have to be this way;  maybe I WAS worthy of a good life.
Maybe losing weight had a whole lot more to do with taking a stand for myself and taking control of my life than it just had to do with counting calories.
I was empowered. I was terrified.
After a few more years of trying to break free, the day came that I took a stand for my daughter and myself.
I had no plan in place, but I was determined to not ever have to hear another lie again.
By the grace of God, we found our way and got on our feet. I was 152 pounds lighter by this time.
We began healing and started moving forward in a new direction. One that was void of drama, deception, and addiction.
During that time, I would walk in circles around our apartment complex after putting Madi to bed for the night.
I had so much stress, worry, anger, and hurt inside that I still hadn’t dealt with that there were many nights that I would stay out there for an hour or more, working through whatever I was feeling.
As the anger came out, I began to run for very short distances- the car 10 parking spaces up, for instance. Or to the corner. Or to the half way point around the building. I began running through the pain of the past. It was awful and it was exhilarating at the same time.
And then I measured the distance one day. It was a half mile loop. Then I began seeing how many laps I could do. The night I made it 7 laps around I cried. It took me months to get there, but I did it.
Then one day, the manager at my gym suggested that I run a 5k race.
My response was “Oh no, I am not fast. I could never”
And he explained that races were not about running to beat others, that they were social and fun and that everyone was in it together.
I didn’t believe him. And, I still wasn’t good enough to run one.
But, I looked up the race he had suggested anyway.
 And then, I signed up for it.
Shaking, utterly terrified, worried that I looked fat, that I was one big giant faker that DID NOT BELONG and the world knew it and would see it on my face when I showed up.
But, I showed up.
I showed up and I ran. And I panted, and I walked part of it, and I thought I might be dying. And about half way through, a woman next to me said “Hey is this your first race?” (Uh, can you tell by my red face and fact that I’m gasping for air that it may be my first?!) When I confirmed that it was, she said “It is mine too, let’s finish this together”
I was floored.
It was true- we were in this together and I belonged.
That race changed my life.
I really did barely make it across the finish line alive that day. I couldn’t wait to do another. I began running races every single weekend after that. As I ran, I learned that I am capable. I am worthy. I am able. I am blessed. Along the way, I learned what love really is. I married my best friend and fellow runner this past fall. We wore running shoes with our attire.
I learned that I feel more joy when I am moving than at any other time. I learned that I am my highest functioning self when I am running. I learned that I have been given a gift, to share with others and to be a living example that you can overcome if you’re willing to hear the truth about who you are instead of listening to who you aren’t any longer; and if you’re willing to show up despite your fears.
When I ran my first marathon, I learned that I am so much stronger than I give myself credit for. I learned that I really can do all things through God. I learned that there are runners right alongside me in any given race that have more amazing stories than I will ever have- and we are all on our way to the same goal; to make it through and to be better off as a result.
It all starts with showing up for yourself.