What's your PR?

A "PR" in the wellness world means "Personal Record."

Last Sunday was my half marathon. Since I have never run a half marathon, I certainly set a PR. But as my friend Kirke most eloquently put it the morning of the race, this PR was "Personal Reason."

What was my PR?

I had intended to run this race alone. I have been training since October with that in mind. 95% of my training runs for the past 5 months have been alone. I was used to that, I found success in that, I became accustomed to that.

About a week before the race, my partner Julie said "I think we should run the half together." I immediately did the whole "thanks but no thanks" thing because, to be honest, I have always done things alone. I was used to that, I found success in that, I became accustomed to that.

You see, she is much faster than me. She has done half marathons before. LOTS of them. And full marathons before. She is a hare. I am a tortoise. So when we talked about it again, I still wasn't convinced.

Here is my PR: sure, I lost 125 pounds while training to run those 13 miles. But that's not it. I have faced the biggest beast that has made my world increasingly smaller. But that's not it. I had the courage to finally come out and tell my story to a world of peers that think being gay AND christian isn't a thing. But that's not it either.

My PR is that I don't have to run this race alone. Not this one, not the next one, not the metaphorical one, none of them.

I have had some amazing conversations with people since coming out. I have had friends that love Jesus tell me that their God doesn't accept my lifestyle, and I have had friends that love Jesus tell me how proud they are of me. I have had people tell me that watching me come out has given them courage to be more loving to the gay Christian community. I have had people tell me that we, as a society, are on a slippery slope where everything has become permissible and it has to stop.

Each conversation has been amazing because I have loved each one of those conversations individually. My friends are wrestling with what God truly believes about being a gay christian. And my story will be the only "arguing" I will ever have with them. My job is not to convince anyone of anything. My job is to try to love like

Jesus. And I can't do that alone.

So Julie and I ran those 13 miles. And it was hard. But the journey allowed me to reflect, be thankful, be emotional, and be ready for what's next. Together. Not alone. I cried when we started, and I cried when we finished. I can't believe we did it. I am so glad I checked my pride and accepted Julie's offer to run with me. She was smiling the entire time, so happy to be next to me. And to be honest, it looked effortless for her! But it was profound and meaningful, and as we crossed the finish, I knew it was just the beginning. For both of us.

Together. Not alone.

"I lost 125 pounds training for this race."

Race day t-shirt has been ordered! Shout out
to Custom Ink!

So, the half marathon I signed up for is this weekend. March 17th. I signed up back in September. And back in September, March felt like forever away. Back in September, I wasn't running at all. I was walking a lot, biking some, and that's about it. My body was two months out of surgery, but I felt ready to train for a 13 mile run that would happen in 6 months.

I started running. I am blessed to be surrounded by the accountability that you HAVE to have to make this happen. I mean when you work at the YMCA, and your job has a full gym downstairs from your office, and in fact encourages you to take time off during the day to work out, you sort of lose all excuses...

I just looked back at my training plan and over the course of those six months, I have run 137 miles. That's a lot of thinking time. And a lot of dreaming time. And a lot of thankful time.

I decided to make a funny t-shirt for the race on Sunday. Since it's St. Patrick's Day, I am having a green t-shirt made that says "I lost 125 pounds training for this race." I stared at that design on my computer today and thought about every pound. I tried to remember 318 pound me. I tried to remember what it felt like to run that first mile. I tried to remember all of it, because I never want to lose how thankful I am for the past six months.

The funny t-shirt design will serve its purpose and then some. I ran 5 miles today after being sick all last week. 125 pounds ago I could never imagine running 5 miles. Every one of the 137 miles I have run has meant the world to me. To watch my life completely change in the past six months is nothing short of miraculous. The weight loss surgery was the catalyst to me finally letting go of the fear of letting others in fully. I lost my "protective shell," but that shell kept out the bad AND the good. It never let people hug me, console me, be beside me, or even get to be near me.

5 miles today on my "short" run. Six months
ago, I would never believe this to be
something I could do!

The sermon at church this past weekend was about thankfulness. And how our thankfulness and joy should be loud. And public. And exciting. My partner and I are still going to church weekly, and we love it. We feel love there. Our experience has spurred on conversations greater and deeper than either of us imagined, and we feel that it is our purpose on this earth. To hold on to each other and let others know they are never alone.

On Sunday, my thankfulness will be loud. And public. And exciting. What a milestone and what a step in the biggest year of my life. And hey, if you are near the Tobacco Trail on Sunday around 9:30 am with nothing to do, I'll see you at the finish line. I'll be the one hobbling across it in a green t-shirt that says "I lost 125 pounds training for this race."

And I'll also be the one giving you a HUGE hug.

&

I ran 10 miles today. My brain was full,
and the time passed quickly. Side benefit
of overthinking everything in life?

I am 42 years old. For as long as I can remember, I have been told that being gay is a sin and I would have to choose my relationship with God, or my true identity. So for my whole adult life, I hid who I really was and never pursued a partnership with anyone. I chose God and denied my desire to share my life with someone.

When I had weight loss surgery in July of last year, I finally dealt with the one thing that had separated me from the rest of the world around me. I finally addressed the life long challenge that felt impossible to conquer. I realized I had no reason to hide anymore, that it would be terrifying to come out for all the reasons I remained hidden my whole life. What would my church friends say? What would my old Young Life friends say? What would my YMCA co-workers say?

I am a gay christian. I am gay, and I am a christian. And. Not or. I am wrestling with what the Old Testament says about me. I am wrestling with what the New Testament says about me. However, I am not wrestling with what Jesus says about me.

When I started telling my friends in July that I was gay, I was embraced with open arms. I got the classic responses of "DUH" and "what took you so long?" and "how long have you known?" to which I always answer "how long have you known you're straight?"

I had a wonderful coming out experience. Last week at the church I attend, the pastor gave a sermon on how same sex marriage is wrong, and if anyone in the congregation is struggling with a same sex relationship, they offer counseling to help people with that. I was at church with my partner, and the pastor's sermon only made me hold her hand tighter.

That church sermon was the only time I felt shamed since coming out. Therapy wouldn't turn me straight just like therapy wouldn't change my skin color or my gender. It is not a choice to be gay. No one would choose this life. It is lonely, and difficult, and heart breaking to think I have to be alone in order to honor God's call on my life. I hid for 42 years. I chose to hide for 42 years because I had well-meaning christian leaders that I trusted preach the same message I heard last week.

My partner and I are staying at this church. After the sermon this week, we had strangers come up to us and hug us, saying they were sorry for the message and that it doesn't represent the congregation. My partner talked to the pastor afterwards and let him know how offended and judged we felt, and that we didn't think he represented the views of the congregation. The pastor was kind, but had nothing to say.

This week at church, we walked in together holding hands. And we are staying at this church rather than choosing to run away because of the people in the congregation. The teenagers that might be struggling with their own sexuality, the older couple with a gay son or daughter wondering how to love them like Jesus does, the interracial couples that fear being judged themselves. We are staying because we love the people, love the message, and love the challenge.

I am a Christian. And I am gay. And I don't want to be ashamed of either of these parts of my life anymore. It's amazing what a little courage can do. And a lot of support.

And. Not or.

ONE-DER-LAND!

The stalls are real! It might have taken me three weeks
to lose that last pound to hit the 100's but we did it!

This has been a week. A challenging week. A week in which I lost the joy in what I am accomplishing with my weight loss and my health.

Has that ever happened to you? You are cruising along and staying on track and feeling great but something else hits you from the side that you weren't expecting. For me, that was several things this week. Whether it's work, family, finances, whatever causes the stress - something seemingly small can derail us.

And I was derailed this week. But I can't turn to food like I used to my whole life. However, I did have to fight the desire to crawl into a hole. I fought the urge to stop responding to texts and phone calls, close the blinds, call in sick, and pull the covers over my head. Instead, I am learning how to fight through pain instead of hide from it. I am learning how to let people in instead of locking them out. I am learning to let myself be taken care of as much as I have taken care of others.

God gave me a gift this week. He allowed me to hit that Onederland mark. I didn't do anything spectacular this week. I am eating like I am supposed to, trying to get 100 grams of protein a day, and working out 5 days a week. The half marathon I am training for is in 3 weeks. I am running. A lot. But the weight loss stalls are real, and when I asked my nutritionist if I was done losing weight she quickly, emphatically said "NO! You will lose for the next 8-10 months."

When was the last time I saw a "1" at the beginning of my weight? When was the last time I weighed one hundred something pounds? Was it middle school? If so, I don't remember because my brain blocked the traumatizing days of getting physicals as a 12 year old. And every year after that. The social anxiety and embarrassment of having to go to a doctor once a year and pretend that I wasn't overweight crushed me. The end of the summer was always nerve racking because I knew that any day, my mom would take me for my yearly physical.

We have to let go of one thing to hold on to another. I have to let go of my past to hold on to my future. One summer in high school, I was getting out of a boat to step on to the dock and I hesitated. I hesitated too long with one foot in the boat and one foot on the dock. The boat split from the dock and I fell into the water, flailing with windmill arms the whole way down. I should have let go of the boat and trusted the dock. With both feet. All in.

We are all moving forward. Onederland is not the end. But today, I am resting in this accomplishment and reflecting on how I got here. I am overwhelmed and grateful. I am hopeful and happy. I am proud and humbled. And I am letting go of the boat and trusting the dock.

With both feet.

All in.

This elusive place called Onederland

If you have read my blogs before, I think I know what you're thinking. She did it! She made it to Onederland! What an accomplishment?

Nope.

It's been three weeks and my weight has just...stalled. My doctor said eat more carbs. My nutritionist said eat more often. My nurse said eat more protein. My body is changing but the scale just...isn't.

I share this for one big reason: this weight loss thing is a battle for my heart and my soul. And I don't want to only share the victories. The real truth is that I am wildly frustrated. And I am wondering when I will get to see a "1" at the beginning of my weight on the scale. I thought I would have crushed that milestone by now. A three week stall when I am training for a half marathon and running 15-18 miles a week?

Come on.

The thing that I hate about social media is we don't really post what's truly going on. We post the best stuff. The stuff we are proud of. The moments that we want to remember. Because why would we post about the struggles? The stuff we are ashamed of? The moments we want to forget?

Amidst this frustration of a perceived "lack of progress" I am reminded daily of how far I have come. And God gives me three words every day when I want to quit.

Stay. The. Course.

Stay the course. Remain and be present in the process. Embrace the discomfort. Do the work. Share all of it. All of it. Because our collective story will never just be the "facebook moments." Our story is the highs and lows and all points in between. 

We will make it to Onederland. When it's time. And until then, we will stay the course. Today I ran 9 miles, because that's what is on my training plan. Tomorrow will reveal itself to me. 

When it's time.

This magical place called "Onederland"

When I first started my bariatric surgery journey, I was 318 pounds. But that was not my heaviest.

Have you ever noticed the maximum weight on almost every doctor's scale? In case you didn't know, it's 350 pounds. And I remember a time, in my 20s, when I tipped that scale. I remember it because it was one of the most humiliating experiences I've ever had. But that didn't wake me up when it should have. Instead, it made me crawl back into the overeating hole I was used to. Food for comfort, making me more uncomfortable than ever.

March 2018 was my first appointment towards bariatric surgery. That was my initial 318 pound weigh-in. I had lost and gained and lost and gained many times before. But admitting I needed help was my biggest struggle. After two back surgeries in the past 5 years, my lowest adult weight of 239 crept right back to 318. What I had worked so hard to lose seemed to come back so easily. Isn't that always the way?

The bariatric surgery community always talked about something called "Onederland." It's when you finally see a "1" as the first number on the scale. I can't explain how intangible and out of reach that felt to me at 318 pounds. When was the last time I saw a 1 as the first number on the scale? I have racked my brain and truly can't remember.

As a kid, one of the most terrifying sentences I heard every year from my mom was this one:

"It's time for your yearly physical."

Back to school meant getting a physical. Getting a physical meant getting weighed. Getting weighed meant humiliation and shame for me as a middle school girl. As a kid, doctors don't really know how to address your weight. Parents don't know either. My mom and dad did the best they could do, but unless I wanted to change, there was no changing. And so it went for me for years. College was no better, and as an adult, I found other ways to compensate socially. I was always outgoing, always funny, always the life of the party.

"Onederland" is not just about a number on a scale. It's a victory that I have never thought was meant for me. It's a dream. It's a myth. It's a magical place with leprechauns riding unicorns and jumping over rainbows. But it was never made for me.

Through my surgery preparation between March and July, I went to a lot of support groups and therapy appointments and listened. A lot. And I realized that sometimes, we believe a lie for so long that we start to live up to it. I never thought I would get to Onederland, because I believed the lie that I didn't deserve it.

So here I am, at 204 pounds. Onederland is coming. And when it does, it will be the biggest victory yet. The victory I thought I couldn't grab, the goal I thought I would never reach, the life I thought I could never live. I don't know when it will happen, but that doesn't really matter, because I know it is coming.

What is your Onederland? Whatever it is, you deserve it. We all do.

Take me out to the ball game

Tiny seats. Tiny sweatshirt. Massive dimples.

For most of my adult life, a simple social question created complex social anxiety in my heart:

"Want to go to the game this weekend?"

That question would bring up a slew of follow up questions in my mind: Where is the game? Is it at PNC Arena? What are the seats like? How big are they? Am I going to fit? Are there arms on the chairs? How will I fit past people on the aisles? Will anyone be sitting next to me? Because if so, they are probably going to be squished sitting next to me.

If you've never been overweight, you might think this sounds neurotic and dramatic. I assure you, it is  the series of questions that always went through my head when anyone asked me to a game. Or a concert. Or a restaurant. Or a trip. Or a movie. When you get to be a certain size, your world also gets to be a certain size. I got bigger and my world got smaller.

Last week I was shopping in Kohl's with a friend and her kids. I mentioned needing a new hoodie and  instead of going to the "big and tall" men's section, we went to the women's Nike hoodies. I found a grey XL sweatshirt and held it up when my friend promptly told me "that is WAY too big for you." She handed me a large purple sweatshirt instead and told me to try it on. I panicked for a second, thinking "there is no way this is going to fit, and I am going to be in the middle of Kohl's wearing an impossibly tight sweatshirt looking like a dummy."

But the women's large sweatshirt fit. When 6 months ago I would wear a men's 2xl. I got in line to buy the sweatshirt and I was just staring at the tag. When was the last time I wore a large? When was the last time I wore a women's Nike large? I was fighting back my tears in the checkout line. It was such a victory for me to finally buy something that wasn't the largest something in the store. Even my friend's kind son leaned up against me, looked at me and said "This a lot to take in, huh?" Smart kid.

So I went to the ball game. In my Nike women's large sweatshirt. And I sat in those tiny seats at PNC Arena. And I sat in that moment with thankfulness for every single one of the 108 pounds I have lost so far. What a victory it is for me to fit in anywhere I want now. Any game. Any concert. Any movie. Any airplane. Any Nike sweatshirt.

And as usual, without my friends there, I would have bought that too big grey sweatshirt. And I wouldn't have gone to PNC Arena for fear of not fitting in. And I would not have realized the weight of the moment. (see what I did there?)

Let your friends be your mirror.