Fit2Fat2Fit (19 page)

I've always approached weekends with the acceptance that dietary splurges will likely occur and workout routines may be missed. And when they are missed, I move on. That's the key: moving on.

When we're on a diet or fitness plan that offers no flexibility or detours, every “wrong” choice feels like a loss. And the more we feel like failures, the less committed we are to trying to stay the course. When we take that diet or plan one step farther and actually change our lifestyle, we accept the fact that detours will happen, and a change for the better will come into effect at the very next meal or scheduled workout.

If I end up going out to a restaurant with friends and succumbing to a less-than-healthy dinner, I have a choice: to beat myself up about ordering a delicious hamburger and french fries, or to realize that it's now doubly important to eat the right meal the next morning. If an opportunity to spend the day with the family takes away a scheduled workout, I can feel guilty about skipping an important routine, or enjoy the family time, knowing that my schedule will allow the workout to happen the next day.

If a life is made up of making choices, the operative approach is to realize that “wrong” choices are a fact of life. Sustainable change occurs when we make many more “right” choices than “wrong” ones. When we give ourselves the freedom to roll with what life gives us, we also take away the adrenaline rush found in rebelling. We don't crave the need to give ourselves treats because we've been tortured without something for so long.

And what happens next is one of life's miracles. Once we give ourselves freedom and flexibility, our choices start to become easier. Soon we find ourselves choosing the healthy option for dinner even when we go out–and realizing that it tastes great and makes us feel better than ever. Number crunching starts to disappear, and more and more right choices are made almost unconsciously. When we take away the restrictive diet plan or fitness routine, our choices become less about weight or pants size and more about looking and feeling great–that is, about a healthy lifestyle.

As I finished talking with my fellow parent, Sarah, the one whose parents had been so strict, I asked her how she was going to be a different parent when her kids got to the teenage years. Her answer was simple. “I'll let them act like teenagers.”

In the fight to be healthy, maybe it's time we let ourselves act like human beings.

T
he alarm on my phone wakes me up, the first step of my new daily routine. I roll over and see that my wife is still deeply asleep. It looks as if she hasn't moved all night, and I doubt she will for the next hour as I start my day. I glance over at the clock, realizing that I have another 30 minutes before the house is filled with waking children.

I quickly brush my teeth, shower, shave, and begin the surprisingly difficult process of finding something to wear. I dig through my old clothes, first trying pants. The ones I've been used to over the last year are all now dangerously close to falling to my ankles, but I find a workable pair and belt them firmly on. I sit on the corner of the bed and quickly tie my shoes, the days of being out of breath long gone.

I move to the mirror to check my ensemble. If I hadn't lived it myself, I would never know I'd gained and lost 75 pounds over the last year. My reflection in the mirror is the same as when I started this personal journey, and yet I'm so clearly different.

When I've had personal struggles—events in the past that have shaken me to the core—I've internalized them. Unconsciously, I've tried to hide the turmoil and the resulting changes from others.

I lived through the loss of a job, for example, and still clearly remember the feelings of inadequacy. That experience has happened to many people, of course, and I discovered, when I joined the club of those who've lost their ability to provide for their families, that I'm forever bonded to those who have lived through it as well.

A friend of mine, in what clearly must have been a moment of weakness (we guys don't talk about this stuff), related to me his own experience at being let go from a job. He talked about the difficulty of portraying a calm public face while everything that he knew crumbled around him.

Mike's loss of a job hadn't been expected. He was happily employed and seemed to be thriving at work. One Monday morning he was told, out of the blue, that his services were no longer required. As Mike started the drive home, fear engulfed him. How would he make sure that his child had enough to eat? What would he say to break the news to his unassuming wife?

Mike allowed himself one breakdown; he wept as he told his life partner what had happened. Then he stiffened his resolve to find a better job. He would turn this into an opportunity, he decided. He applied for jobs in droves, convinced that he would rebound immediately.

That was Mike's outward face. As time dragged on and no opportunities presented themselves, his inward view started to shift. He found himself lying on his bedroom floor, staring into oblivion as hours passed by. It took every last bit of strength and perseverance within him to keep applying for jobs, as every rejection made the experience more hopeless.

Yet as the search for employment became more unbearable, Mike found light and meaning elsewhere. His extra time at home created a greater bond with his child. He started helping around the house. He couldn't believe the level of unwavering support his wife provided.

These happy moments were subtle, but potent. Mike soon found himself more focused in the job hunt and interview process. He had found a new base of strength and support, and that changed the way he viewed potential work situations.

After long months, an opportunity did present itself. The new position was a better fit for the man he was becoming, as Mike started to let go of his guilt at “failing” his family in the first place. Before long, he found himself back in the routine of a new job, seeing his family only in the evenings.

And yet something had changed. The checks were again coming in, but Mike wasn't the same person. The experience had changed him for the better, even if it seemed at the time that nothing good could have come from it.

Months after I'd decided to gain weight for the experience of losing it again, I found myself in a strange state of hopelessness. I wondered what I had done to my family, my life, and myself. Privately, I questioned whether I would really be able to make my way back.

At first what plagued me most was the fear of not truly knowing what I was getting into and how I was going to make it to the other side. Then the shock followed—the shock to my confidence and sense of self as the experience changed my relationship to the outside world.

But beyond the fear on one side and the confidence on the other, a bigger shift was taking place. I no longer saw the world in black and white. Finally, I understood that I had been wrong about why we make the choices we do (or don't) as related to our health. That understanding enriched me both as a person and as a personal trainer.

This change in perception would never have happened had I not realized and acknowledged who I was in the three stages of this experience—fit, then fat, then fit again—and how every stage impacted the man who rolled out of bed in the mornings.

Before the journey, I saw health as a physical state of being, one that could be reached and maintained with what I then described in simplified motivational sound bites like “determination,” “choice,” and “devotion.”

If you'd asked my wife or close friends to describe my approach in those days, they'd have mentioned physical products—weights, spinach, treadmills.

Months before my journey began, Lynn and I had gone to dinner at a friend's house. After a delicious meal with wonderful conversation, we all settled down to watch movies and relax. While the others in the group started to salivate over typical late-night movie snacks, I sat in the corner and gave my attention to the TV screen. The smell of popcorn couldn't tempt me.

My friend, however, had another idea. Carrots. She brought me a whole bowl of them. If nothing else, it was a thoughtful gesture which illustrated that my friends and family understood my devotion to proper nutrition.

Back then, however, I was overly focused on avoiding foods that were “high-carb.” I tended to avoid root vegetables such as carrots because of their high starch content.

So instead of taking the carrots and appreciating the gesture, I answered with a matter-of-fact, “Thanks, but carrots are too high-carb for me.” My friend couldn't decide if I was being humorous or just plain rude.

She walked away deflated. My friends and my wife proceeded to mock me for the rest of the evening. Back then, with every joke at my expense, I felt more justified in my stance—more self-righteous, if you will. Now, I can laugh at myself.

In my personal training work, I tried to impart the wisdom that I felt so strongly about to the people who were overweight. Instead of easing them into small changes, I walked them through a whole encyclopedia of good and bad fruits, rich and poor vegetables. In my own mind, this approach to fitness seemed reasonable. And I pushed exercise. I wasn't going to make one of my clients keel over, of course, so we'd start with the basics, like push-ups and planks. I was sure that sore muscles would directly result in stronger commitment.

Everything I stood for and all my actions were based on the belief that people were in their current state (whether fit or not) because they chose to be so. If someone was struggling with his or her own health and fitness, that person simply needed to choose change. My meal plans and fitness routines would do the rest.

My successes in personal training—and there were some significant ones—galvanized my militant approach. Any failures were excused due to my clients' lack of conviction. They obviously weren't trying hard enough.

I simply couldn't understand why people made decisions that negatively affected their health. Healthy living requires healthy choices. My reaction to a friendly bowl of carrot sticks was more telling of who I was as a person than of the kind of trainer I tried to be (even if I didn't really see it at the time). I was so blinded by my own views on health that I couldn't understand anything on the “other side” of the argument. And that's exactly what needed to change; the bodily changes were secondary. Because I was healthy, fit, militant … but woefully ignorant.

It happened just weeks before the fit portion of the journey was to begin. Lynn had waited until the kids were asleep and we were sitting alone at the dining room table. It was unlike her to corner me when I was least expecting it. But I sensed that something was coming—a message I was afraid to hear.

My thoughts leading up to the confrontation kept taking me back to a moment of clarity at the grocery store months before. My visits each week had become routine. I had expertly charted a course through the aisles that took me past my favorite foods. I spent extra time in the soda aisle, which was conveniently placed near my weekly ration of Zingers. A few paces away, I'd find my Cinnamon Toast Crunch. I was well beyond the days of forcing myself to enjoy processed foods; I had already begun to fear the time when they wouldn't be allowed in my grocery cart.

As I started unloading my cart at the checkout line, three women stood behind me. Was I imagining their stares as I pulled all my “necessities” out of the cart? I was sure I could feel their eyes moving from my bulging waistline to the conveyor belt. I could sense their silent judgment, thoughts like
No wonder he's fat
and
How many liters of Mountain Dew does one person need?

I had already started hating any trips out of the house, because I felt self-conscious about everything from my gait to the size of my hips and buttocks. I felt like less of a person the bigger I got, as if I'd lost a bit of what made me … well, me. As I walked away from the store that day, I realized that being overweight wasn't all about the waistline. It was about self-worth, and the reality that the world looked down on you without even knowing your story. That was a lot harder to deal with than a couple of bench presses had ever been.

Less than a month later, another realization hit. This one was closer to home. While I don't think I ever underestimated the energy level of my two-year-old daughter, Kale'a, I'm quite sure that it had increased at the same rate that my energy level had plummeted.

It was such a simple game for her: she would run through the house and Daddy would try to catch her. Yet a few laps in that day, the chafing started. The tightening of my lungs and loss of breath took whatever fight I had left. I sat down exhausted and told my daughter that the three minutes of playtime were all she was going to get. She looked directly into my eyes as tears filled hers. As the tears spilled over, she searched for her mother for consolation. She'd have to find a better playmate.

How had a dietary experiment led to me disappointing my daughter? This was not the father I wanted to be. My previous assumptions had been totally shattered. There was a sense of entrapment in the added weight, now pulling down both my body and my attitude. It seemed that a decision to eat what I wanted and avoid exercise in favor of a more sedentary lifestyle had resulted in bad choices now being stronger than I was. And the effects went beyond me: there were other casualties in the war I had waged on my health.