I have a small sign on my desk at work. Actually, it’s a magnet, but none of the magnetic surfaces on my desk are in my line of sight as I’m looking at my Mac. So, I have it propped up against my monitor.

It reads “Nothing tastes as good as thin & healthy feels.”

Across from me, in my peripheral view, are a Pepsi machine and a snack machine. Thanks to half a year of drinking almost purely water, the soda machine doesn’t bother me. My temptation lies within the chocolate-coated, cream-filled, cheesy triangular goodness next door. And I won’t even go into when some well-meaning co-worker delivers a box of freshly-baked, glazed-to-perfection circles of dough.

Is your mouth watering yet?

Anyway, lately, with the holiday season, I’ve been ignoring the sign altogether. Looking at it only makes me guilty as I fish out another quarter to feed my “sugar monkey” from the vending machine. It reminds me how I SHOULD be tracking what I eat. I SHOULD be training at the gym. I SHOULD be ignoring the Christmas cookies and candy that are accumulating everywhere I look. I SHOULD be packing healthy snacks to reach for instead of letting my emotions and sweet tooth control what I eat.

And yet, my sugar monkey squeals in delight as I tear open a bag of mini Oreos. The stress of the day melts away, for only a moment. But that stupid sign is still there.

This week, I somehow managed to renew my focus back to a healthy lifestyle. I’ve been to the gym the past three nights. I track every bite I eat. I munch on fruit and lean protein for snacks.

Today, as I was peeling an orange, my eyes were drawn to the sign…and I realized that what it says is true! My body feels so much better when I fuel it with good, healthy foods, and spend more time being active. In fact, I feel wonderful!  And that sweet, fragrant orange tasted great!

So why do I regress sometimes? Why do I choose to ignore the progress I’ve made, and lose my focus on attaining a healthy weight and a higher level of fitness? I don’t know. But I do know that it starts with only one little decision. I choose to skip the gym and binge-watch My 600 Pound Life (ironic, I know) while eating whatever’s lying around. I choose to take that peek into the donut box…and then a whiff…and then a bite…and then a whole donut. Or two. Or three.

Maybe that’s why it’s so vital to have a reason why you want to make a lifestyle change. Everyone’s reason is different, and you may even have more than one. Whatever that reason is, it has to be important enough that it keeps you from going too far astray. That cookie seems insignificant compared to completing a marathon, or avoiding a potential hereditary health problem, or fitting into a smaller size of jeans.

Maybe I need to reexamine my motivation when that sign starts to become invisible.

Ever since I was little, I’ve loved animals of all shapes and sizes. I especially liked drawing them. I loved to capture the grace of a galloping horse, the flight of an eagle, or the detail in a butterfly wing. Animals are still my favorite artistic subjects.

However, I am NOT a fan of spiders. Let me rephrase that. I HATE spiders.

Yes, I definitely consider myself an arachnophobe…probably without good reason. It’s true, most of them are harmless to us. And they do good things for the environment. But I ask God time and time again…”Why do they have to be so UGLY? Even scary-looking?” A big enough spider will send me screaming in the other direction until someone vanquishes the hairy beast. Deep inside, I know the thing isn’t going to hurt me, yet it LOOKS so menacing. Maybe it’s because they have too many legs. Then again, I don’t run screaming at the sight of the Rockettes in the Macy’s parade.

What if a spider looked more like a butterfly? Would they be more or less hideous? Granted, the thought of a flying spider sounds absolutely horrifying. But a pair of gossamer wings wouldn’t change what the spider is on the inside…a bloodthirsty predator.

The one positive attribute I can give to a spider is the astounding construction of its web. A web can be a beautiful tapestry, with dewdrops gleaming in the sunlight. I do like looking at webs…as long as their creator isn’t sitting there.

Most people can agree that spiders are ugly (no offense to the 3% of you who are spider-huggers). But when it comes to judging the perfection of the physical attributes of our own kind, we humans have far more complicated standards. Some of us, myself included, always feel like we can never measure up to our society’s standards of beauty.

Somehow, it doesn’t matter if you can spin a web, paint a masterpiece, write and sing a song, or perform a successful brain surgery. It doesn’t matter if you spend your life helping the poor, inspiring the weak, or tending to the sick. Our culture deems us unsatisfactory if we don’t look like they want us to.

This twisted thinking has not only dominated the secular worldview, but has also made its way into the church. How many gifted people with willing hearts get passed over because they aren’t models of physical beauty? How many kids get ostracized in their youth groups because they are perceived as “different”? And how many single women get turned down for dates because they aren’t “hot” like an actress or model?

But here’s the thing…regardless of what our society says, God doesn’t make junk! We are all human, and we ALL have flaws and imperfections. Even models have to be Photoshopped to attain their cover status. So what can we do? Well, we can’t change our culture’s attitude toward beauty, but we CAN embrace who we are and what we have to offer the world. We can keep trying to better ourselves–our health–both physical and spiritual, our relationships and our abilities. And we can remind people that inner beauty is what really counts, even if they don’t believe it’s true.

Maybe next time I see a spider, I’ll be more considerate. Maybe I’ll even pull out a sketchbook.

On August 8^th, 2015, I did the gutsiest thing I have ever attempted. With a crappy mountain bike, minimal knowhow, and a ton of determination, I entered my first sprint triathlon. Weighing over 200 pounds, I figured I’d be the heaviest woman there…and I was right. But, I was there to prove, among a sea of doubters-including my own doctor, that I could finish the race.

First, I wasn’t sure if I could swim 200 yards without my lungs caving in. Swimming even one length of the pool freestyle left me out of breath. Would fatigue get the best of me after the first leg of the race?

Second, I was pretty clueless about road racing on a bike. I had always dreamed of doing such a thing, ever since I pedaled my one-speed Huffy down the grass and tar-chipped roads of my youth. Now, I had a 16-speed Roadmaster mountain bike, which was great for navigating the River Walk, but terrible at climbing hills. Even the guy at the bike shop mocked me, but I told him I couldn’t afford a better bike.

The only thing I knew I COULD do was the third leg of the race…the run. After all, I had enough 5K race bibs to plaster a wall. Okay, maybe a dog house wall. For a Yorkshire terrier. Maybe a toy poodle.

The previous year, I was paddleboarding on Lake Chilisquaque with a group tour and Canoe Susquehanna. There was an older fellow there who was an Iron Man triathlete, and we struck up a conversation. I told him how much I’d dreamed of attempting a sprint tri, and he encouraged me to enter the Lewisburg race. I was only in the beginning stages of my weight loss journey at that point, but I began to consider entering the race the following year.  After all, training would definitely help me to lose more weight!

That evening, I returned home to find my bike had been stolen from my garage. Granted, it was old, and probably worthless, but I had ridden many miles on that bike, and I was devastated. Fortunately, I was able to get my new Roadmaster by the end of the summer, and I was back to training.

When race day arrived, I knew I had prepared the best I could. I had the support of my friends and family. My boss and another coworker friend had come out to cheer me on with a gigantic sign. They stood at the edge of the pool spurring me on as I made my way up and down the lanes. The swim wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be, although the water was cold, and I felt a little intimidated with these big guys passing me.

I started my bike ride in confidence that I COULD do this. Until I saw ahead of me a small hill, then a big hill, like the back of a sea serpent rising up from the pavement. Instantly, I felt demoralized. There was no way a woman of my size on a heavy-framed bike could make it up the little hill, let alone the big one! Especially in the hot August sun!

I remember dismounting and walking my bike up the larger of the two hills. Another woman pedaled up behind me, and we walked our bikes to the top together. She and I did the majority of the course together. There were a lot of hills, and I ended up walking my bike a lot. It was great having someone else there to push and encourage me.

As I finally made it back to town, I saw my family waiting on the sidelines. At that point, I knew I had to finish the race.

The run was harder than I thought it would be. I was already exhausted. My thighs kept cramping up every time I tried to pick up the pace. The sun was beating down on me. I had no music to keep me going. Not to mention that I had a feeling I was in last place.

But I finished. With my family by my side, and tears streaming down my face, I had done what others had deemed impossible!

After that, I knew I wanted to pursue this sport.

Fast-forward to 2016. With another year of training under my belt, an awesome bike, a 25-pound weight loss and experience in my favor, I decided to, well, tri again.

Training was going great, until mid-way through July, I started experiencing a lot of lightheadedness, and just feeling “off.” I took a break from training, hoping the feeling would subside. I wasn’t going to give up, though. Maybe it was just the hot, humid summer taking its toll.

The week before the tri, I garnered a PR at a 5K in hot, muggy conditions, so I knew I could handle whatever Mother Nature decided to throw at me.

Almost.

I spent the majority of my second triathlon wishing it were December. In Barrow, Alaska.

The swim was a piece of cake. The water was a little warm, but I thought it felt great. As I sped out of town on my Cannondale hybrid, I knew what I was in for on this course. Hill, after hill, after hill. The downhill sections were amazing, and I climbed all but three of the hills with ease. With the sun beating down, I felt like I was a roasting turkey in a greenhouse. I figured, in these conditions, there was no shame in taking a rest and walking a bit.

By the time I got to the run, this turkey was cooked. And nauseated. I carried my little handheld sprayer fan in one hand and my cooling towel in the other. Neither did much good. Even though my legs felt great, I knew running was out of the question. Breathing was a chore. Still, I knew I could race walk. After I was able to catch my breath, I did jog a little in intervals. I wanted to save my energy for a great finish, which I did! In fact, I finished a whole half hour quicker than last year!

There are many variables in this life that we have no control over. We can’t control the weather. We can’t govern the thoughts, actions or intentions of other people. There is no way to predict whether misfortune or bad circumstances will come our way. We can, however, choose to take those bad experiences and learn from them. We can choose to be positive, to believe in ourselves and others, and to find, and follow a passion.

As my favorite band would say…”Life is short…you gotta live it well.”

Hello, my name is Jackie, and I have depression. And a food addiction. Which is a bad combination, and, unfortunately, all too common.

I’m coming out and writing this with the hope of helping the many others who suffer from emotional eating.

Those who are around me on a daily basis know I’m usually a happy, bubbly creature. Very few get to see the other side of me, who sits on her bed, self-loathing and lonely, while stuffing my face with whatever junk food I can find. That pizza temporarily soothes the pain of being alone on a Friday night, with nobody on this planet who really understands me. And heck, it tastes so awesome. But the next day, I face the scale, and look at the fat bulges that won’t go away, and I feel even worse.

Yes, I have taken medication since my mid-twenties for my, uh, “chemical imbalance.” And it’s not my fault that my body naturally has serotonin issues. But the medicine isn’t perfect, and staying on top of my moods is a daily struggle.

Over the past two years, I have learned more control over my emotional eating, thanks to Weight Watchers and my newfound love of running and triathlon. Losing weight and finding a passion in training and competing has given me hope…and that hope is what makes me say “no” to an after-dinner ice cream binge.

However, that monster called Depression is always there, lurking in some dark corner like a hairy tarantula, waiting to pounce and sink its fangs into my soul.

Reminding me that I’m not good enough. Not pretty enough. Not capable of being loved by a man. Not worthy of being called a triathlete…or a musician…or even a normal human being. Telling me the world would be better without me.

And I know some of you have felt that way too…shrouded by a dark hopelessness that doesn’t seem to lift.

Sadly, there are many Christians like myself that suffer from depression, but the whole subject seems taboo in the church. I mean, hey, shouldn’t we be happy all the time? God loves us, Jesus died for our sins, and everything is great. Right? But sometimes we pray, and pray, and that fog just doesn’t lift. We can’t talk about it with anyone because we think others will think we’re weak, or overemotional, or not spiritual enough, or we think they just won’t understand. So we’re stuck…and for some, it’s too late.

Maybe what we need is a support group for those who suffer from both depression and food addiction. Maybe not even a formal meeting, but a way to check in with someone and ask if they’re okay. After all, it’s a daily struggle and nobody needs to walk alone.

I also believe more of us need to share our stories of triumph over these issues. We need to let others know that there is hope, and they’re not alone.  A lot of us have overcome obstacles, and a dark past…places that others may currently be in.

And we need to be aware that, yes, it is a daily struggle for some of us. Maybe there are solutions that work for us that may help someone else. Prayer, light to moderate exercise–even a nice walk in the sunshine, uplifting music, or just getting out with some friends, are just a few things that might help.  Sometimes, counseling is helpful to those who have gone through tragedy or a difficult childhood. If we can get to the root of why we seek food for comfort maybe we can stop self-medicating with it.

There it was. The most intimidating piece of equipment the YMCA had to offer. In my mind it was an ascending tower of quadriceps-burning misery. A torture device so sinister, it made the treadmill look like a trip to Disney.

They call it…The ClimbMill.

Rising above the elliptical machines like a staircase to another realm of pain and suffering, it stared me down. Its watchful gaze permeated my trembling thighs and glutes, like the Eye of Sauron looking for Frodo. Sometimes, I wasn’t sure if it was beckoning to me, inviting me to a challenge, or scaring me off to a treadmill in the corner. Every workout, I would contemplate climbing its dark moving steps to nowhere, but then my lower half would talk me out of it.

“Why not do the elliptical tonight?” Query my calves.

“How about some strength training?” Beg my biceps.

“You still haven’t beaten your Expresso course time,” my glutes implore.

So once again, I would run, or spin, or Zumba my heart out, and avoid the Stairs of Death altogether. After all, I had given myself the same old excuses. “My quads were damaged beyond repair when I was paralyzed.” Or “ I’m too heavy to last that long.” The one time I had tried plyometric box jumping, I thought I had permanently torn my thigh. Plus, over the years, I’ve adapted to running up flights of stairs instead of walking slowly to avoid the terrible burn.

But yet, I asked myself why I was so afraid of this mini escalator. After all, it was only a machine… a machine that could grab my shoelace and inhale my foot in a heartbeat. Or I could lose my balance and fall off, only to be humiliated in front of the cute guy on the treadmill behind me. So, yeah, maybe my fears were valid. Or maybe I was just being a big wuss.

We all have fears, and I’m sure you’ve all read a thousand other books, blogs and calendar quotes that tell you why and how you should face them. Therefore, you probably don’t need my advice on the topic. However, I can attest that facing and conquering your fears is a great feeling. I had to get over my fear of deep water in order to swim laps and prepare for a triathlon. Now I look back, and I don’t know why I was so afraid before.

Last night, I decided it was time to put on my big girl spandex and attempt just 5 minutes on the ClimbMill. I figured, if I could do 5 minutes, I’d work up from there. Maybe my body was more capable than I thought. Maybe the notion of defeat was all in my head. Maybe my thighs wouldn’t burn like sizzling sirloins on a charcoal grill.

I climbed aboard and looked over the controls. It seemed innocent enough, with some of the same buttons as the other machines. But I wasn’t fooled. This was a trickier beast that wasn’t going down without a fight. I punched in my level, weight, and time, then braced myself as I pressed the start button. Slowly, the stairs started to move. Once I got adjusted, I started increasing speed. This wasn’t so bad. My fear melted away, and I completed the whole 5 minutes without pain, falling, or getting caught in the stairs. In fact, my legs felt fine!

Next time, I’ll shoot for 10 minutes.

Last night, I sat watching a new show on TLC called Skin Tight. It’s a reality show that tells the stories of people who have lost a lot of weight, and are stuck with extra skin because of the weight loss. The man and woman they featured were both so ashamed of their bodies that it affected their relationships with their spouses, kids, and even strangers. It broke my heart.  These people thought they were constantly being judged by the outside world, so they didn’t live life to the fullest. Instead, they hid themselves, living in depression. They had worked so hard to lose a hundred (or even hundreds) of pounds, only to be disappointed-even ashamed-of their new bodies.

As someone who gained a lot of weight rapidly through Prednisone during my battle with CIDP, I am well aware that I may eventually be in their shoes. I have stretch marks EVERYWHERE. Over the years, I’ve learned to accept them as my “battle scars.” And as someone who is in the process of losing weight (hopefully about 115 pounds total by the time I’m at goal), I don’t know what my skin is going to do.

I have struggled for years with my upper arms.  At one point, I made peace with them, and decided that I didn’t care what other people thought. I even wear tank tops to the gym on a regular basis. Nobody has ever commented about my arms. If they ever did, I’d be more than happy to share my journey with CIDP and weight loss.

We live in a society where even models are uncomfortable in their own skin. Our culture is obsessed with outer beauty, while internally our souls are dying. We search for the next quick fix to look younger, slimmer or prettier, while we’re still unfulfilled and unhappy people. Does a woman with a less-than-perfect body have less of a right to feel good about herself than a supermodel, or even the size-two teenager on the treadmill next to her? Who makes the rules, and why do we follow them so blindly?

I, for one, believe we have the right to bare arms. So what if my arms are flabby? Look past the negative! Maybe the girl with the saggy skin has bright eyes, a nice smile, and more importantly, a beautiful soul. Girls, we can’t let our culture dictate what our worth is, and what beauty is. I know you know in your hearts where true beauty can be found.

This morning, I had the pleasure of running my very first Turkey Trot. It was a lovely 30 degrees as I made my way to South Williamsport to run a 5K on the river walk. I was hoping to reach the finish in under 38 minutes. As I reached the straight stretch between Maynard Street bridge and Market Street bridge, I noticed a curly-haired older woman in jeans who was keeping pace with me. She would pass me, then take a walk break, and I would pass her. This continued until we climbed the final hill back to the start/finish line. I said to her “Wow, you’re really fit,” knowing that she was no spring chicken. She said “No, I’m really not” as we made our way to the last downhill. I picked up the pace into my final kick heading into the finish at a disappointing 39:41. When I looked at the leaderboard, I noticed that this woman had somehow also finished in 39:41, but I didn’t see her in the chute beside me.

“How’d ya do?” she said as we met after the race. “Not the time I wanted,” I said. I was amazed to find out this woman, named Karen, was 61 years old.  She almost beat me to the finish. And she walked away with a third place medal in her age group.

One thing I’ve noticed this year as I’ve done all sorts of races, is the number of senior citizens there are. I am always inspired by their presence. After all, I’ve been surrounded my whole life with older folks who have just given up on being physically active. Whether it’s due to arthritis, back pain, extra weight, or just lack of motivation, age can take its toll. There are others who say “I’m too old for this,” even though they are physically capable.

You know what? It’s never too late to start! You don’t have to be a runner, either. Walking does so many good things for your body, from easing depression to increasing your energy. All you have to do is put one foot in front of the other. Find it boring? Try a new location or get an MP3 player or an audio book.

One thing I’ve learned from being paralyzed at a young age is to never, EVER take my mobility for granted. If I can get up and walk (or run) without a wheelchair, there shouldn’t be anything stopping me from being active. I hope one day to be as fit as Karen when I am in my sixties. I hope to still be a triathlete in my seventies. And I hope to always be a testimony of what God’s healing power, and a little human willpower, can do.

Senior athletes…I salute you! And Karen…I know I’ll see you in another race somewhere. Maybe someday, I’ll beat you.

While sorting laundry this morning, I noticed that my sock drawer was in utter chaos. With a heavy sigh, I decided that today would be a good day to clean out and sort my socks. After all, last night was frigid, and it was time to put my sandals into hibernation until next year. It would be an arduous task, and one that I never look forward to doing.

I riffle through the sea of misfit loners, grabbing whatever pairs managed to be there, and separated them. The pairs stayed in the drawer, while the singles got plucked and sorted by whites and darks, by ankle height, and whether they’re dress, casual or athletic. Being a runner and a gym rat, I have a lot of those colorful, dry-wicking polyester athletic socks. Most of those somehow manage to stay together, probably because they’re bright, and it’s hard to lose neon pink and green things in the wash.

Meanwhile, the ordinary “business casual” socks seem to be the ones that lose their partner to an untimely demise.  Whether it be eaten by the dryer, kidnapped by a cat, or stuck at the bottom of the one laundry basket that never gets emptied, their mates always seem to be lost. Sometimes, partners get separated into two different loads, then get thrown by themselves into the drawer. If they’re lucky, they’ll be reunited later, to face the outside world…or at least the inside of my shoes. Actually, I wouldn’t say they’re that lucky. After all, they’re socks. They’re forced to endure my less-than-pleasant-smelling feet on a regular basis.

As I was sorting the misfits, I had an epiphany, and took a break to write this all down. We humans are a lot like socks. We come in many different colors, shapes and sizes. Some of us are athletic, some are frilly and feminine, while others are bright and colorful. Some are soft and smooth, while others have a little extra padding. And like socks, we are always looking for our match…that one other missing piece to make us a pair. Some of us are lucky, and find our match early on in life. Others, like myself, are going through the sock drawer of life, yet to find that missing person. If I were a sock, I’d probably be a bright, comfortable athletic one with a little extra padding.

No matter if you’ve found your match or not, I’ve learned that you can’t change who you are inside. An athletic sock can’t become a fancy boot sock or a knee-high stocking. Of course, unlike socks, people can change their appearance, but appearance is secondary to the sole…I mean soul. Do the footprints you leave here on earth reflect who you are? What you believe? We’re always looking for something better. Always searching for why we’re here, and hoping we don’t end up in the trash with the other socks who either didn’t find their match, or have been stretched and careworn.

Fortunately, we humans are not actually socks, and all of our lives are priceless and valuable. So whether you’re happily single, or are in a pair with little booties of your own, know this: your story matters. Go do what you were born to do! And I am going to get back to cleaning out my socks.

Jingle, jingle, jingle, jingle, jingle…

My dog tag necklace jingles as I run, adding some percussion to the cadence of my footsteps. It’s nothing fancy-just a plain silver cross with a dog tag engraved with Philippians 4:13 (I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me). I wear it to every race. Some runners have a good luck charm that they carry with them. For me, it’s not about luck. It’s more like a reminder of how far I’ve come, and why I’m doing this…and where my real strength comes from.

Today is my first 10-K race in probably five years. Since I lost weight, then regained it, then lost some of it again, I’ve been pushing myself harder and harder. I’ve done quite a few 5-Ks this year, and my first triathlon. Most people look somewhat surprised when I tell them I’m doing the longer race. After all, most distance runners are lathe-thin and aren’t carrying an extra 70-some-odd pounds with them. I laugh it off, because I know I’m not fast, but I am capable.

At the starting line, I notice that lots of runners are bundled up. This morning happens to be the coldest this fall, at a reasonable 40 degrees. I show up in a poly t-shirt and shorts, in a sea of puffer vests and hoodies. The sun is shining brightly through the beautiful autumn foliage, and I know it’ll warm up-and so will I. One advantage to being overweight is having extra insulation. This makes fall runs much more pleasant than mid-summer 80 degree races.

At 9am we’re off and running. Part of me is focused on what I have to do. The rest of me wishes I were back in bed, like a normal, sane person. I had positioned myself at the back of the pack with the walkers, to make sure I didn’t start too fast. Starting at a fast pace when you’re not ready for it can be tough for a 5-K, but can be a catastrophe for a 10-K. It’s easy to start out too fast in a race, because of the excitement. I start at a comfortable jog and keep the pace for over a mile.

My mind wanders off, and I reminisce about the time I purchased this dog tag. Back in 2002, I had just graduated from college, and I had won two full-event passes to Creation. My friend Jeanette and I took her family’s 8-man tent and headed out to Mount Union for the event. One of the vendors there had these dog tags. You could choose a Bible verse to engrave. Sadly, they didn’t have any Isaiah 40:31 available (my favorite verse), so I chose my second favorite. That week at Creation, I remember Jeanette going for runs around the festival. I had no interest in running, and actually kind of thought she was nuts. Now I’m one of those running nuts…and I love it.

I don’t remember when I started to wear the dog tag to races, since I’ve been racing for ten years now. Today is the first time I have noticed that it jingles when I run…and stops when I walk. As I push past my third mile, I keep thinking to myself, “Just keep jingling”. At my weight, walk breaks are vital to conserve precious energy, and give my legs and sore ankles a rest. But if I want to make my 1:15 finish, I need to keep jogging…and jingling. I decide to run from one tree or post to another, then take a quick walk break. This strategy actually works pretty well for the remainder of the race. I finish five minutes later than I was shooting for, but I finished strong, and felt amazing.

I once heard it said that life isn’t a sprint…it’s a marathon. This can also be true of weight loss. Most of the time, our dreams and goals don’t happen overnight. It takes time, hard work, and determination to make our desires come to fruition. Whether you run a 5-minute mile or a 13-minute mile like me, a mile is still 5,280 feet. It doesn’t matter how fast you get there. Even if you walk the whole three miles, you’re still lapping the old you, who would have still been in bed. Are you waiting for the right time to take action on your goals? What are you waiting for? The time is now.