A lamp for my feet – a light on my path

I just came home from vacation this week. It was a wonderful week of activity, people watching, and enjoying nature. I’ve been running for about a year and a half now. I run mostly in Ohio, and mostly in an area that is very flat. We have a few hills, but you really need to go out of your way to get to most of them. As a result, my runs have very little elevation change. I also tend to run in the early evening, while it’s still quite light out (and the bugs aren’t too bad). Although summer just ended, as summers go it wasn’t terribly hot in Ohio. All in all, it’s been a mild, pleasant summer for a novice runner.

As we were planning our vacation, I scouted for running events that would fit our timeline. I discovered the Twilight Lake Las Vegas run and signed up for the 10K distance (they had 5k, 10k and half marathon available).

I took a very bad fall a few years back that left me with a leg broken in 4 places with a full complement of hardware installed to keep my skeleton together. Although my balance has improved significantly since I began running and doing #DDPYoga, it still isn’t one of the strengths.

The day of the race, we started walking from our hotel of the Vegas Strip to the Avis office a mile or so away. I stepped off a curb and landed on my knees and elbows. While I wasn’t badly injured, it hurt. My knees and hands were scuffed up, and I had fallen on the knees that has the worst arthritis of the pair. We kept going and picked up the rental car. We left Las Vegas and drove to Hoover Dam where our hotel was located. We did some sightseeing and checked into our room. It was 108 degrees. I’ve heard it said that “dry heat” is cooler than the humid heat we have in Ohio, but no matter how you look at it, 108 degrees is HOT.

I spent the time leading up to the race hydrating and fueling. My training plan fell apart in the weeks leading up to the race, and although I wasn’t concerned about being able to cover the distance, I knew I wasn’t going to be fast. I grabbed a cooling towel and we headed to packet pickup. We drove through the Lake Mead area and enjoyed the views, stopping at multiple scenic overlooks. The red rocks and landscape seemed so alien compared to the lush Lake Erie landscape that I’m so accustomed to.

My husband dropped me off at the start line and drove back to enjoy Lake Mead some more. The half marathon runners lined up first. Their race began at 6:30 p.m. I listened to the directions – make sure you have a flashlight or a head lamp. The course is unlit. I checked the lights in my trusty ball cap with “head lights.” They functioned. I decided I was good to go.

The half marathoners were off, and the 10K runners lined up. The run was just starting to dim. It was still quite hot, but not as hot as it had been moments before. I tested the injured knee – no bad pain. I re-tied my shoes and took a last chug out of my water bottle before recycling it. The horn sounded and we began.

The course was paved and pretty wide. As it wound through the desert landscape, I saw succulent plants. I wondered if there were snakes, scorpions, or other critters out there. I’m a “back of the pack” runner, and this race was no exception. As I neared the 1.5 mile mark, some of the fastest 5K participants passed me. Soon, I was all alone. The 5K runners had turned around, and most of the 10K runners were ahead of me.

I watched the sun set, and I turned on my “high beams.” I was dismayed. Although that hat was great for letting people know that I’m out there on the road, it really wasn’t a great light source. I ran off the edge of the path once and resolved to stay closer to the middle to avoid matching hardware in the other ankle. As the course progressed, my eyes became accustomed to the dark. Although I couldn’t see well, I could at least see the path.

A volunteer told me to turn left “Everyone goes up the hill.” Wow. What a hill. I wasn’t prepared for this. I made it up the hill, huffing and puffing. I went back down the other side and soon found myself running near a freeway. The oncoming headlights, while a safe distance away, destroyed my night vision, and I was soon stumbling along the edge of the path again.

My cooling towel began to dry out. I got hot. Then, I heard something I couldn’t identify and I got scared. I began to question the wisdom of signing up for this hilly race in the desert with no lights. I began to question my ability to run the distance. What if there were a rattlesnake on the path enjoying the warmth? I wouldn’t be able to see it. What if I fell and nobody found me?

An aid station was in the distance. I stopped for water and a volunteer asked if I would like my cooling towel re-soaked. Gratefully, I said “yes.” I finished the water. I wrapped the cold towel around my neck, and I took a few deep breaths.

As I began to run again, I felt a sense of calm. As my overheated body began to cool down, the words of a praise chorus I used to sing while playing the piano came to mind.

Although the sky didn’t get brighter (and neither did the lights on my cap), I felt a sense of calm wash over me as I sang the words quietly. I looked out at the horizon and saw the lights of Las Vegas. As the trail turned away from the freeway again, the quiet desert greeted me again. The course turned downhill. The going was easier. There was a lightness in my step.

As I passed the 5K turnaround again, I saw a woman who was laboring heavily to get to that mark. She had a wonderful team of supporters there to encourage her. I remembered my first tentative running steps at over 300 pounds. I remembered the difficulty and the fear. I tried my best to encourage her as I passed her on my way back to the finish. Soon thereafter I encountered another struggling runner with a walker. She, too, was accompanied by friends. Although I was running unaccompanied, I wasn’t alone. There in the dark, all I had to do was cry out for comfort. My “support team” was there, guiding my steps.

I crossed the finish and collected my medal. I grabbed some snacks and a cool water while I waited for my husband to collect me. I don’t know if I’ll do another night time run, but if I do, I’ll have a brighter headlamp, and I’ll remember that although I may be the only runner in sight, I am never truly alone.

The Wo[man] in the Mirror

Posted by BecomingBetty

I’ve never had a good relationship with my mirror. It shows the wrinkles, the stray hairs, gray hairs, and flaws in my physique. In the mirror, everything is backwards to me. Because I’m used to seeing only my reflection, photographs look off to me. My hair is parted on the wrong side. I just look a little different.

Truth be told, I don’t like many photographs of myself either – for much the same reason as I don’t like my mirror much.

This past week, though, I had an unusual experience – I saw myself in the mirror and I LIKED what I saw. In fact, I liked what I saw so much that I took a picture of myself. I took that picture and placed it side-by-side with a picture of myself near my heaviest weight. I even had my husband take photos of myself from every angle.

Looking at that comparison, I saw, for the first time, the remarkable changes that have taken place during my journey thus far. I realized that because I tend to avoid mirrors and looking at full length photos of myself, I have a skewed self-image.

In the shower, I see the way the skin sags and the remaining fat rolls. I see each part in isolation. Although I live my life in this miraculous machine – my body – because I’m am in the inside looking out, I do not see myself as others see me.

I shared one of those comparison pictures on a facebook group for members of DDP Yoga with thousands of members. It even showed my tummy, but I was so thrilled that I didn’t care. I didn’t worry about judgment. I knew the people in that community would be supportive.

Comment after comment referred to my transformation as “inspirational,” and I resolved, in that moment, to try to see myself as others see me.

This week, a wall of mirrors went up in my workout room – my “fortress of solitude.” I look at the woman in the mirror. She has skinny collarbones, and I can see a hint of definition around her abs. She smiles at me – and I smile back.

From WWE to WDW – The Pro Wrestler and the Princess

Posted by BecomingBetty

Today is a really proud day for me. Today I was featured by the DDPYoga team for their Transformation Tuesday posts on Facebook and Twitter. I will be appearing soon on their “works in progress” section on the website. I am an enthusiastic spokesperson for the plan, and I have not been paid for my testimonial. The lessons I have learned are far better payment than money.

The seeds for my journey to good health were planted in 2012 when I saw a video about the remarkable transformation of a disabled former paratrooper who used DDPYoga to completely transform his life. I watched that video over and over with tears streaming down my face as Arthur fell down over and over, but ended up throwing away his crutches and learning to run again.

Former WWE wrestler Diamond Dallas Page was in that video talking about helping Arthur. I googled Diamond Dallas Page Yoga and found the website for DDPYoga (formerly YRG). I ordered it immediately, then I received an email link sending me to TeamDDPYoga.com, a website for support where I found others who had watched the “Arthur Video” and were desperate for help, too.

I weighed at least 322 pounds (that’s the highest my doctor recorded), with an ankle injury and arthritis in both knees that frequently required me to use a cane to get around, I was desperate. In my 30 years as an overweight adult, I have spent thousands of dollars on infomercial products, aerobics classes and diet meetings. I never stuck with any of it.

When I received my discs, I began my transformation. I learned to get off the floor without using a chair. I learned to change the way that I ate. I learned to stand on one foot. I made great progress. I lost 30 pounds, and then life got complicated and the discs went back into the drawer. Although I didn’t gain back all of the weight, I stopped progressing.

I re-booted the program a couple of times, but it wasn’t until I listened to the rest of DDP’s message – that life is 10% what happens to you and 90% what you do about it – that I began the real transformation. In March 2014, I hit a real low spot in my life. It was a low time physically, emotionally and spiritually. After a scary spell at work (a panic attack that I believed with my whole heart was a stroke), I committed to making the changes that would lead me to where I am today.

I do a lot of running. I never ran as a young person. I believed that I couldn’t run. watching Arthur run ignited a burning desire to prove everyone (including myself) wrong. I took the first tentative steps on the treadmill and never looked back. Nearly a year and a half (and 796.4 miles later), I have learned to call myself a runner.

Through my journey, I’ve met scores of awesome people – people who, like me, believed that they would never be able to reach a healthy weight – never be able to run. I receive messages that said, “You inspire me,” and I am so grateful for the opportunity to show others that it *is* possible to overcome bad diet, physical injuries, thyroid problems, PCOS and arthritis pain to build a better life.

Last February I participated in the 2015 Disney Princess Half Marathon at Walt Disney World. I wasn’t able to finish, but the fact that I even STARTED is testimony to the fact that by owning your life, you can make tremendous changes. I’m going back next year to finish what I started.

DDPYoga is “not your Mama’s Yoga.” There are no mantras, no meditation, no soft music or incense. We end each workout with a BANG!

DDPYoga is but one facet of the wellness program that I have adopted, but it’s an important one.

“When the student is ready, the teacher will appear.”

God uses many teachers to show us the way. DDP is one of the teachers who have shown up in my life when I needed it most.

All The Colors of the Rainbow (An Unbiblical Marriage)

Posted by BecomingBetty

My husband and I have been married for 15 1/2 years. We have a child together. We disagree sometimes. We make up again. We have been through some real trials and tribulations, but we have weathered the course and I can say with all sincerity that I think our love and our commitment to each other is stronger than ever.

With the marriage equality issue squarely in the limelight right now, I have devoted a lot of thought to the issue of marriage.

I’ve been delving into the scriptures, and I realized that I have the privilege of being married to my wonderful husband only because the State does not put Biblical constraint on heterosexual marriages. You see, I have been married before. I was married at age 19 and divorced some 8 plus years later. Both my first husband and I have moved on. We are each married to new partners. If, however, the State had taken the position that is consistent with the scripture, I could not have remarried.

In 1 Corinthians 10-11, Paul stated, “10But to the married I give instructions, not I, but the Lord, that the wife should not leave her husband 11(but if she does leave, she must remain unmarried, or else be reconciled to her husband), and that the husband should not divorce his wife.”

My husband and I eloped. The only “guests” at our wedding were the other people waiting at the little chapel for their turn to state their vows. We did not have to seek approval of clergy. We did not go through pastoral counseling (not that it would have been a bad idea), we just paid our money, said our vows and signed on the dotted line.

I have close friends in the gay and lesbian community. I attend services at a church that has taken an “all are welcome” stance on the issue. They have welcomed my divorced and remarried self with open arms. Their love has shown me what I have been missing in my life as I worshiped in solitary.

I have witnessed first hand in both my personal and professional lives the havoc that can result when a gay person marries a straight person who is unaware of their sexuality. Although those marriages are Biblical, they can leave broken hearts in their trail, and frequently do.

As a sinner, I leave the judgment to God. I have never attended a gay wedding, but I will if invited. Perhaps gay marriage is not sanctioned by the Bible. Neither is remarriage after divorce. Perhaps there are florists and bakers who would have refused to cater my wedding reception if I had planned one. They’re not making the news, though. I respect the right churches to refuse the rites of marriage to those couples whose unions are inconsistent with that church’s teachings. I expect we will see more on that issue soon.

I thank God for my husband. I thank my family, who may or may not have agreed with my decision to remarry, for accepting us and encouraging us. I realize that on this issue, we may not agree. I learn from them, and I am thankful for every opportunity for me to consider my stance on issues where law and faith intersect. They have always been respectful when disagreeing with me, and I am confident that will continue on this issue. I love them, and I know that they will continue to love me, just as they have in the past when we have disagreed.

I quietly celebrated yesterday. I have many men and women in the LGBTQ community who I am honored to call “friend.” They welcomed me with open arms into their circles. They did not care that I was once divorced, an unwed mother, or a morbidly obese person. They simply called me “friend.”

Just as they do not refer to me as their “obese, divorced and remarried heterosexual friend Betty,” I do not think of any one of them as “My gay friend Max,” or “My lesbian friend Sally” – they are simply my friends. I love them. I will celebrate with them.

I am an Ally. I am a welcoming Christian. I have chosen not to discriminate in my business or in my friendship. I cannot personally use the scripture to deny the right to marry to anyone whose union doesn’t comport. I gave up that right when I chose my own path.

Count your Blessings

Posted by BecomingBetty

Prayer and meditation are important to me. I’ll admit, though, that I am easily distracted. I start praying and the dog barks or the neighbors’ kids laugh, and I’m instantly thinking about something else. I’m one of those people who need tools to focus.

I began a new routine today, one that I hope to stick to. I began by writing in my journal – the one saved for positive thoughts and positive memories. This act of recognizing peace, beauty and blessings in my life helped to get me into the proper mindset for part two, which was literally counting my blessings.

Some time ago I purchased a Mala, which is traditionally a Hindu or Buddhist tool for meditation. I purchased it for its beauty, and it resides in my special space. Today I picked up that Mala and tried it as a tool to focus for my prayer practice. Holding the tassel, I began my prayer by thanking God for the many blessings in my life, including my family and my improved health. I asked God to bless the people in my life and asked that as I said each name, that He would bless that person with joy, hope, peace and health, and to bring into their life anything that they needed.

There are 108 smaller beads on the mala. As the string of beads slipped through my fingers one at a time, the names of 108 people in my life came to me, one after another. 108 blessings. I know about the struggles in some of their lives, and as those names came to me, I prayed for those situations. Others I simply prayed that their lives would be filled with the blessings that they bring into my life.

I had no mental “prayer list.” The names and faces came into my mind one after another. I was somewhat surprised by some of the names that came to mind. Some were people who had hurt me, and along with praying for blessings for them, I prayed for help to forgive long-ago hurts.

108 people, 108 prayers, 108 blessings. As I closed my prayer, I thanked God for such a rich life. I thought it would be hard to come up with 108 people to pray for, but as I write this, the names and faces keep coming.

My life is blessed – truly blessed.

The Maple Egg

Posted by BecomingBetty

Before I can tell the story of the maple egg, I must give you some background. For many years, my mom made hand-dipped chocolates at Easter and Christmas. For weeks before either holiday, our kitchen would be filled with boiling pots of fondant and warm pots of melted chocolate. The house smelled like the oil of peppermint, cocoa powder, or vanilla extract she was using to flavor the current batch. One flavor, however, provided a particular, cloyingly sweet aroma that filled the house for days. Maple. Maple overpowered anything that came before it.

For Easter, Mom would carefully mold bunnies and crosses, and she would dip egg-shaped wads of flavored fondant in milk chocolate and decorate them with royal icing flowers. These would be sold to Dad’s co-workers and others who had placed orders. She did a booming business.

My favorites were the chocolate covered cherries. You simply can’t find cherries like the ones that Mom used to make. Hers would explode with sweet liquid as soon as you took a bite. She didn’t make those at Easter. It was dipped eggs or molded chocolate.

I loved the buttercream eggs, and the chocolate cream eggs. The peppermint was good, too, but the buttercream was my favorite.

Having explained this, I still can’t understand what I did on Saturday. A dear lady I helped recently sent me a lovely thank you note with a $30.00 gift certificate to a local candy store where they still hand-craft chocolates just like my mom did. The weather was beautiful on Saturday. I put on my running shoes (and my bunny ears) and ran the mile or so to the candy store to spend my loot.

As I approached the store, the Easter Bunny himself asked to take his picture with me. I was happy to oblige, and then I walked into the crowded shop. There, before me, were shelf upon shelf of molded chocolates that looked like they came from the same molds that Mom used to make. Alongside them were the creamy eggs dipped in chocolate, decorated with the same dainty lavender royal icing flowers that Mom used to make. I was in heaven.

The flavors, though, weren’t familiar. I found coconut and raspberry, but no buttercream or chocolate cream. Then, I saw it. The MAPLE egg. As I approached it, the sticky-sweet scent reached my brain. I filled my arms with other treats to eat and share, but I HAD to have an egg with the royal icing flower. I went back and forth between the flavors, and almost bought raspberry… but then the wave of maple hit my brain again, and I knew I had to have the maple egg.

I finished my run and put my purchases on the dresser. My husband lovingly saved me from most of the molded raspberry bunnies and the small raspberry and coconut eggs that I bought. I savored the little dark-chocolate covered marshmallow-caramel candies. Everything was delicious. The maple egg made it through Easter without being touched. The smell filled the bedroom. Monday, I thought I smelled the maple scent clinging to my clothes. When I finally arrived home from work around 8 p.m., I knew I HAD to try that maple egg. My mouth was watering.

I carried the fragrant package downstairs and got a cutting board out of the cupboard. Gently, I cut a thin slice. The fragrance filled the air. I took a small bite. The texture was wonderful. Then, as the flavor hit my taste buds, I remembered that I never cared for the maple eggs. I LOVE real maple syrup. I could drink it straight (if it wasn’t so bad for me), but I don’t like the artificial maple “flavor” that is used in confections.

Don’t get me wrong, this was a great maple egg – even better than Mom’s (don’t tell Mom I said that)… but it was still a maple egg. I went back throughout the evening for another slice, and another, thinking all the while, “I don’t even like maple eggs.” My husband had a slice too. He agreed that “it was a great maple egg, for a maple egg…”

This morning when I awoke and went to make my pot of coffee, about half the egg was still there, taunting me with it’s sticky-sweet aroma. I sat down at the computer to check my email, and the remaining chocolate-covered caramel marshmallow mini-eggs stared at me (much more to my liking than the maple egg, but still not my favorite confection from the candy store). My belly felt lousy. “No more sweets,” it begged.

I went off to work. I called my husband part way through the day and asked him to either take the remains of the egg to his study or to throw it out. He thought about it for a moment and said that he thought he would throw it out because if he was going to “spend” that many calories on something, he preferred to really enjoy it.

I asked him to stick the rest of the chocolate-covered caramel marshmallow mini-eggs in the freezer for me so they wouldn’t tempt me tonight. “Why?,” he asked. “So I can have one if I really want one sometime,” I replied. He responded, “If you really want chocolate sometime, put on your running shoes and go get your very favorite.” My husband is a very smart man.

I learned several valuable lessons from the maple egg:

1) Don’t spend your energy on things you really don’t want. When you indulge, make it worthwhile.

2) Childhood memories are powerful motivators. We will willingly endure even things we don’t enjoy to re-experience fond moments from our past.

I’m not sad that I bought the maple egg. It brought back some very precious memories. I haven’t thought about Mom’s Easter chocolates in a long time. Next time, though, I will go to the candy store to smell the maple, and I’ll bring home just a piece or two of my very favorite.

A Subtle Sunrise

Posted by BecomingBetty

Easters were special growing up. We colored dozens of eggs. Mom made homemade candies and molded bunnies. I wore a new dress every year. Some years Mom made the dress for me. The white shoes came out of storage (forget Memorial Day!) and we posed for pictures in the back yard in our finest.

My Aunt would buy bags and bags of the left-over Easter candy and a week or so after Easter, we would have a big candy hunt with all of the cousins. Life was simple.

We didn’t always attend sunrise service, but I remember being excited to go. Some years, it would be very cold, and I would insist on wearing my thin Spring dress (often sleeveless) no matter how loudly my teeth chattered. Although I can vividly remember some of those dresses (and the hand-crocheted shawls Mom made to go with them), I cannot remember the sunrises. In my imagination, they were vivid – as we sang hymns, the bright ball of the sun peeked over the horizon and the angels sang. In my imagination, it was quite a spectacle – worthy of motion picture awards.

This morning, My dear sister-in-law and I decided to go to sunrise service. It was cold (low 40s), and the service was being held on the shores of Lake Erie, where ice covered the water mere days ago. I had no Easter dress, and as an adult, common sense ruled and I wore my heaviest wool pants, two sweaters, a winter jacket and woolen socks under my winter boots. I carried a travel mug of steaming coffee. I was prepared.

The rest of the early morning worshipers dressed like me. Nary a light spring dress with bare arms was to be found. In the pitch black darkness, we sat on rough wooden benches, our backs to the frigid lake. As the service began at 6:45 a.m., the sky began to lighten just enough to read the prayer on the bulletins we were handed.

Our Pastor shared the scripture from Mark 16 – “…trembling and bewildered, the women found the empty tomb and fled from the tomb. They said nothing to anyone, because they were afraid.”

This account lacks the drama from the Passion Play. Mark doesn’t tell us about Jesus’ appearance to his followers. There are no vivid beams of light streaming from the empty tomb. No heavenly chorus – no trumpets – only frightened women fleeing.

As we said the closing prayer and sang the remaining hymns, the sky continued to brighten. There was no startling contrast, no brilliant colors. The lake didn’t sparkle. It was quite dreary (and still very cold). Pastor told us how some evenings when vespers is held at the same location, the sunset is stunning. Other times, like this morning’s sunrise, it is just a subtle transition from one day to another.

I wish that I had more time this morning to sit and contemplate that subtle sunrise. Instead, I came home, downed a cup of coffee and cooked breakfast for seven. After breakfast, I boiled eggs to color with one of the grandchildren who had spent the night. As my daughter helped him dye the eggs, I began preparation for the family celebration as we came together to enjoy fellowship (and food!)

After lunch, the children scampered through the yard looking for brightly-colored plastic eggs filled with candy. While I was inside the house being busy, the day had transformed completely. The cold had disappeared and the sun shone brightly. It was too nice to go back into the house, so we visited on the front porch. It was a wonderful time.

With the last of the family guests gone, I took my opportunity for that quite contemplation that I missed earlier. I donned my running tights and shoes and headed for the high school track. I reflected on the cross, and the excruciating pain that would be involved in crucifixion. I remembered Christ’s pleas for forgiveness for the people who were torturing and killing him. I imagined the empty tomb, and this time my mental movie included this morning’s subtle sunrise, as the black night gave way to the soft gray of a cloudy morning.

My own life has changed a lot in the past year or so. It’s been a slow process. Some days I am disappointed that the changes aren’t mind-blowingly vibrant. Other times, like today, I am grateful for the calm that fills me when I’m alone with the only sounds being those of nature around me and my feet striking the pavement. As I took my final lap around the track, the sun began it’s gentle descent toward evening. The bright ball in the sky was too bright for me to capture with my iPhone camera. It was the kind of light that chases away any kind of sadness left in the corners of your mind.

I sat in the car and watched the light. It was the kind of brightness that would be perfectly accompanied by angels’ voices and trumpets. It filled me with awe, and calm.

Last week was difficult. My mind was occupied with current events and political thoughts. I spent energy uselessly pondering issues that are beyond my control and problems that aren’t even mine to solve. While I was alone, in that moment, none of it mattered.

My subtle sunrise brought me calm. The light that ensued brought me joy – and peace.

The emotions today brought with it may be lost in translation, but the message for me came loud and clear – even a dreary, subtle sunrise can become a breathtaking day.

As the Easter hymns of my childhood echo in my mind, I am filled with joy.

He is risen [He is risen indeed!]

Thanks for the Memories

Posted by BecomingBetty

Sorting through a box of things that once occupied a drawer in my late father’s desk, I stumbled upon a non-descript white business-size envelope. It had some stains, but didn’t look particularly old. There was no writing on it, but it was stuffed full. From it, I pulled an odd assortment of papers.

The envelope contained a letter from an attorney to my Maternal grandfather. Written in 1939, the letter concerned settlement of a complaint regarding vehicle that a neighbor borrowed without consent and returned with damage.

The envelope also contained a postcard that I mailed from a Junior Achievement event in Bloomington, Indiana in 1984, a drawing I did at age 17 (in the style of a small child) of “My Family” in magic marked on notebook paper, and a handful of photographs of my brother and myself, my grandparents, and my own children.

There were a couple more letters — one from a missionary in Mali, and one from my grandmother to Dad about a run of the mill Sunday in July 1952.

These photographs and documents seem to have little in common to warrant their inclusion in a single white envelope. The unifying feature is only that Dad found them significant in some way. These documents, spanning some 70 years or more, somehow belonged together in my dad’s mind (and filing system).

Why do we include this one, and not that one? I find myself asking that questinoa lot these days as I sort through boxes from multiple years spanning multiple marriages and multiple homes — differnt worlds, differnt lives, it seems.

Today I went through a large carton of notebooks and research/theme papers from my undergrad years (1999–2006). When I finished with “when in doubt, throw it out,” a large garbage can was full, and my “keep” stack measured approximately 1.5″ thick. Why, exactly, my paper on one subject needed to be kept, while another went into the trash is hard to put into words. Looking back, I kept the ones that contained personal stories — my written history. Some day these might mean something to someone. Even 10 years later, they bruoght to mind things I had forgotten — once-treasured memories buried by new experiences.

I can’t bear to discard Dad’s white envelope. It doesn’t take up much space. Perhaps it was just a holding spot for things that meant something to him — memories that resisted classification. The envelope is now in my own desk drawer, where it will likely stay until someone is clearing it out because I’m no longer able to use the desk myself. I think, perhaps, I will add to it my own memories that resist classification – a time capsule of unrelated things that hold a secret meaning, waiting to be rediscovered.

Can’t We All Just Get Along?

Posted by BecomingBetty

I took back my life a little over a year ago. I began exercising regularly, I improved my diet, I made a vow to try to focus on the positive instead of the negative, and my life has improved drastically as a result. Although I am still quite overweight, my health and fitness have improved to the point that most of my limitations are gone. It’s a great feeling.

As a part of the changes I joined a number of facebook groups filled with others who are facing or have faced similar challenges. As a result, I see a lot of articles about “fat shaming,” “fit shaming,” and “fat acceptance.”

I’m not sure why we need all of these labels. Wouldn’t it be great if we could all just get along? No amount of fat shaming could make me lose weight. It made me feel even worse about myself, which led to poor self esteem and misusing food as a comfort device. fat acceptance isn’t terribly helpful either. Someone telling me that they love me “just the way I am/was” still made me feel like a fat slob. We don’t tell slim people “I love you despite your fitness.”

I’m encountering a new phenomenon online (not in my personal life yet) in which a once unhealthy individual is being shunned by friends after adopting a healthy lifestyle. That’s “fit shaming.” I don’t know whether the shunning is due to the individuals’ unpreparedness to face their own health issues or whether it’s because the newly fit person talks a lot about her new lifestyle (I know I’m certainly guilty) and the old friends can’t relate.

We’re all people. We all have strengths and weaknesses. There are people in my life who are suffering from lifestyle-induced illnesses just as I was. I accept them as people – not “fat” people. There are people in my life who get tired of hearing about my runs and races and my new shoes, I’m sure. I’m fortunate that they still talk to me anyway.

I feel accepted. Most of the time I felt loved and accepted at 300+ pounds. I don’t think people like me more or less because I’ve lost weight. I’m not ashamed of where I am. I’m not ashamed of where I was. Every step of this journey teaches me more about myself and about others.

Fat or fit, gay or straight, black or white, we are worthy of love and acceptance. Meet people where they’re at. Leave the judgment for God. Let’s all get along.

~Be~

It’s Not All About the Numbers

Posted by BecomingBetty

Today I rediscovered the joy of running.

One year ago today I bought my first “real” running shoes. I was painfully slow, and filled with pain – both emotional and physical. With each mile I ran, I found freedom. For the first several months,all of my running was inside on the treadmill. there I could run in the safety of home, with my television for entertainment, the air conditioning and ceiling fan for comfort, the bathroom mere steps away, and an unlimited supply of ice water whenever I wanted it. I could run in shorts or pajamas. I couldn’t imagine running outside. That soon changed.

As the weather became nicer, I decided to venture out to the local high school track. I couldn’t believe how different it felt. I hated every step that first trip. The wind made it harder to run. There were people there who might secretly (or not so secretly) make fun of me. They were all faster than me. They had nicer running clothes, too.

I posted on Facebook that I didn’t think I would ever really like running outside. A friend commented that she wouldn’t be surprised if I changed my mind. She was right. I loved watching the scenery pass, and I loved the feeling of actually moving forward. I enjoyed the sights and the sounds and the sensations. Sometimes I ran with music, and sometimes I listened to the wind and the birds.

Soon I was running at the track on a regular basis. I “branched” out and began running around town and on local trails. As winter fell, I found I hated the treadmill. I had fallen in love with running.

Although I tracked my pace and was delighted to watch it improve, I didn’t focus much on my pace. That all changed when I signed up for my first half marathon. I knew it was an ambitious undertaking. I had started as a person who needed to lose fully one half of her body weight. I couldn’t walk a mile without stopping. The race I signed up for had a time limit. I was slow (I still am). Not only was I asking my body to move much farther than it ever had before, I was demanding that it do so at a particular rate of speed.

I began tracking my pace on every run. I tend to get a little obsessive about certain things. Soon I was running with three different apps open, each with a particular feature the others didn’t have. The joy of running turned into anxiety about a slower than average day, or the fact that I hadn’t improved over the previous week. I pushed my body harder and faster, and when the race came, I still couldn’t keep up with the pace. I got swept. It was terribly disappointing.

Upon my return to the gym, I downloaded more apps that did more things. I put a sensor on my shoe and obsessed about whether or not the apps were properly calibrated for the indoor track. I lost sight of the joy I had found and focused on the numbers as a measure of success.

It’s been a long, cold winter. When the sun came out today, I went back to the high school track where I took that first outdoor run. I turned on an app to track my pace, but I turned off the feedback about pace and distance. I listened to music. I ran “faster” for one minute, then “slower” for the next minute. I didn’t stress about my pace.

When my run was finished, I looked at the stats. My pace wasn’t half bad, but that wasn’t what was important. I got out there. I ran. I burned calories. I sang. I had fun. I remembered why I started this running business in the first place.