When Life Gets Tough, Be Tougher

Three months ago I sat on a plane, taking a Sunday night redeye home from yet another long business trip, feeling defeated. The past month of my life had been a whirlwind. I had spent more time at 30,000 ft than I had at home. I saw more of the East Coast than I did the inside of my apartment. And for 72 hours I thought my 18 month old puppy was going to die. Charlie went from a ball of fluff & energy to a dog I barely recognized over the span of a week. I still remember the gut wrenching feeling I felt as I saw him get significantly worse with no answer and no way to help him. Even after he was diagnosed with GME and started his chemo treatments, I still never really allowed myself to believe he was okay. I was beyond thankful that he could walk, see, and begin to enjoy life again - but a part of me was always waiting for the other shoe to drop. I was terrified to be alone with my own dog for fear that he'd fall and I wouldn't be able to get him up or that he'd take a turn for the worse and I'd be too paralyzed with fear to know what to do. Through late night pee breaks, doggy diapers, and a never-ending living room slumber party we began to find our new normal. We slowly started to see bits and pieces of our old puppy shine through. With every chemo treatment the vet became more impressed by his progress and how well he responded. Almost four months later, the steroid dose has reduced down to half a tablet each day and the treatments get pushed out further each time. Our happy, healthy, hungry boy is back in action and I couldn't be happier to know that however long his life is, it'll be one for the record books.

But this isn't about my sweet baby, Charlie [though let's be honest, most things in my life are]. It's about me and why I felt so defeated in Seat 7E three months ago. See, Charlie being sick took more of a toll on me than I initially realized. Not only was it emotionally draining to go through so many highs and lows in such a short period of time, but it was physically [and financially] draining, as well. I felt responsible somehow for Charlie getting sick. Did I miss something? Was there a sign that something was wrong? If I didn't travel so much and I spent more time with him, would this have happened? Am I a bad mom? I felt like I had failed him. My life was consumed with making sure his didn't end. When I did remember to eat, it was frozen pizza or BWW chicken tenders or ice cream straight from the gallon. When I did sleep, I was waking up every few hours to make sure Charlie hadn't died. Morbid, I know. I didn't make working out a priority outside of teaching my regular indoor cycling class every Thursday because coming home to Charlie was more important. I was working two full-time jobs: one as an Account Manager and one as Charlie's mom.

Then it happened. The word fat. Guys, I can't remember the last time that I let the words of someone, especially someone so insignificant, shake me. But this was bad. Like, socks with sandals bad. It sent me into a downward spiral that I honestly thought I wasn't going to get out of. The words of one person who barely knows me, my life, or my story wrecked my self image. I became obsessed with what I ate, what the scale said, how much I worked out each day. If I skipped a workout, I felt guilt. Like, earth shattering kind of guilt. UNHEALTHY guilt. If the scale went up a pound, I'd stand in front of the mirror and think of all the reasons why I hated my body. All of the things my body couldn't do for me. I had lost complete control of my body, my head, and my life. I couldn't shake the feeling that I wasn't good enough.

I don't know when it hit me or what my a-ha moment was. Honestly, I'm not even sure I had one. I can't say that I don't still have days where I stand in front of the mirror and struggle to love who I am. But I can tell you one thing, I am in control. Of my body, of my head, and more importantly, of my life. For anyone who knows me, they know that when I do things...I dive in head first. Two years ago when I decided I wanted to lose my Senior 50 [okay 55...OKAY 60], I didn't decide to lose 10 or 15 to start. I decided to lose all of it. Last May when I realized my job no longer made me happy, despite how much I enjoyed the day my paycheck hit my account, I quit. No plan, no safety net. Just blind faith. So when I decided I had lost control, I decided to take it back. Not slowly, but all at once.

Now when I see the number on the scale go up, I look at the muscles I didn't know existed. I look at my jeans that are 6 sizes smaller than they were two years ago. I look at my feet that two years ago were posted up on a couch somewhere and now are carrying me through my half marathon training. And if my feet can't get me there, I know my heart will. Because the size of my heart is so much more important than the size of my hips.