It took 54 years, but I finally love my body

By Jessica Gardner
Current Contributor

My body and I have been in a constant battle with each other for as long as I can remember, at least back to the 1980s.

I grew up in the 1970s and ’80s as an average-weight kid. I was tall for my age, until I stopped growing any taller at age 10; I developed early, and my weight reflected that. I wasn’t skinny, but I also wasn’t overweight.

Organized sports weren’t my thing. I grew up in a household where only boys played organized sports, so I spent many Saturdays on the sidelines watching my brother play soccer. I wasn’t coordinated, so even tennis lessons were a waste for me.

When I was 12, my paternal grandmother told me at a family dinner party that, if I had a second serving of a side dish, I’d grow up to be fat and no one would love me. 

Those words rang in my head for decades.

That may have been when I first became weight-obsessed and started dieting. I was on one diet after another throughout high school, even though I had always maintained a healthy weight previously. I was obsessed.

The thing about those diets was that, even though I’d lose the five to 10 pounds I wanted to lose, I’d eventually regain it and add another couple of pounds. 

By the time I finished high school, I hated my body—and, by extension, myself. I was probably only 15 pounds above what my doctor would have liked, but all I saw was the “fat lady from the circus” every time I looked in the mirror.

College was no different—one fad diet after another—except it also included beer at frat parties. I’m sure I added the “freshman 15” without blinking.

The summer after my first year of college, I religiously exercised and ate nothing but bland chicken breast, grapefruit halves, and salad, and I lost the now extra 30 pounds that I was carrying. I recall returning to school for my sophomore year feeling like I was on top of the world.

I maintained my exercise routine and healthy eating habits that second year of college. In fact, during the summer between my sophomore and junior years of college, while working at Watervale in Arcadia, I walked about eight miles daily up Stratton Hill and back. I’d never been healthier or in better shape—still, I wholeheartedly believed I’d never been fatter and uglier. 

I remember feeling ashamed of my body while wearing a bikini for the first time in my life that summer. (For perspective, my five-foot-four-inch body probably weighed 125 to 130 pounds at the time.)

When I returned that fall for my junior year of college, I sank into what I now know was a deep depression. I struggled emotionally and academically, but I didn’t know how to get help. The depression turned to shame as I stopped exercising, ate poorly, and hid in my dorm room to avoid being seen eating in the cafeteria. 

A group of boys drew a caricature of me on the bathroom wall—my face on top of Shamu’s body. As I came to learn, Shamu was an orca whale at SeaWorld.

And those 30 pounds that I’d worked so hard to lose and keep off? They quickly came back—along with an additional 10 or 15 extra pounds.

The depression and shame turned into a cycle I couldn’t stop. 

The more depressed and ashamed I felt, the more I struggled academically. The more I struggled academically, the more I beat myself up. The more I beat myself up, the more I ate to soothe myself. The more I ate, the more weight I gained, and the more depression and shame I felt. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

After college, I moved to Washington, D.C., and dove headfirst into my work as a paralegal for a top law firm. I loved what I did. It was exciting, and I was great at my job. The harder I worked, the more I succeeded. The only problem was that, by working 60 to 80 hours each week, I wasn’t cooking—I was eating at work, either whatever was available in our cafeteria or whatever could be delivered.

Caffeine was my lifeblood at that point—Diet Coke, to be specific. I’m not a coffee drinker, so when I wanted caffeine, Diet Coke was it.

I didn’t sleep much—who sleeps when you’re working 60 to 80 hours weekly, going out with friends, studying to get into law school, and doing all of the regular household stuff required once you’re an adult—and relied on caffeine and sugar to boost my energy.

I joined gyms and occasionally took fitness classes, but I always quit, ashamed and feeling like I didn’t belong. 

I’d look around and see “skinny” and “fit” people and feel like I stuck out like a sore thumb. What right did I, an overweight woman, have to walk into a gym or class with pictures of skinny people on the walls and actual skinny people everywhere? 

And it wasn’t just all in my head. I distinctly recall being on a treadmill and overhearing a man say to his buddy, “I can’t wait until all of the fat New Year’s members quit, so we can have our gym back.”

I never returned to that gym.

Instead, I continued to try every diet. Jenny Craig. Weight Watchers. The Diet Center. Slim Fast. The Grapefruit Diet. The Cabbage Soup Diet. Nutrisystem. Hypnosis. I did them all—multiple times.

In the late 1990s, my cousin invited me to be one of her bridesmaids. I was ecstatic to support her as a member of her wedding party; I’d never been a bridesmaid, and I thought of her like the sister I’d never had. She picked out a gorgeous designer dress that all of the bridesmaids radiated in. When it was my turn to try it on, though, the saleswoman looked me up and down and said it didn’t come in my size—a size 16 or 18. The largest size available was a 12. 

But my cousin loved the dress and announced this was “the one.”

When I asked her if I could just wear a similar dress, she said no and told me to take Fen-Phen—a combination of two appetite-suppressant drugs, fenfluramine and phentermine—so that I could wear the dress she had chosen and be in her wedding.

I marched directly into my doctor’s office and demanded it. Three months and more than 30 pounds later, Fen-Phen was pulled from the market and from my life, because of the heart problems it left many users with. And I still couldn’t squeeze into the size 12 formal dress, anyway. 

So I was out of the wedding, not by choice, but because of my weight—I didn’t fit in the dress, and the dress was non-negotiable for my cousin.

The shame I felt at failing to lose enough weight to fit into the dress was compounded with mean comments from a great-aunt, who said I didn’t have any right to be in the wedding, because none of the other cousins had been asked. 

I’d also experienced a panic attack during the middle of the LSAT, the exam required to apply for law school: I had blown the test, which left me feeling even worse.

Needless to say, the weight that I’d lost—plus some—came back quickly. 

I told myself my weight didn’t matter anymore. No matter what I did, I was never not going to be fat. I was convinced that my grandmother had been right all those years ago about the twice-baked potato.

I sank back into the old cycle of depression, shame, eating, and hiding. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

As an emotional eater, I ate when I was happy, sad, stressed, lonely, and upset. It was both a reward and a punishment. Actually, I used both eating and not eating as both a reward and a punishment.

My 30s and 40s were a blur of more yo-yo dieting. I began swimming daily, losing weight, and building muscle, which I loved. However, when someone who knew I struggled to find joy in exercise flippantly told me that swimming “wasn’t good enough,” I quit—if a whole-body exercise like swimming wasn’t a good enough exercise for me, I could never successfully exercise and lose weight, I reasoned.

By my 40s, my health began to deteriorate. My thyroid stopped working correctly. I developed pre-diabetes. I was diagnosed with sleep apnea. I had stage 0 breast cancer, twice. I had uterine fibroid surgery. My depression was back, and it brought its friend, anxiety, with it. I wasn’t sleeping. 

I knew that I was dangerously close to permanently damaging my health, but I didn’t know how to fix it. My doctor would tell me to “lose weight,” and I would sarcastically think, Why didn’t I think of that brilliant idea?

Living outside of Chicago at the time, I’d participate in Hike Lake County, an annual event where participants completed five two-mile hikes in two months. I tried Zumba, yoga, more swimming, and walking. I even tried running once, maybe twice. I did plank challenges. But I couldn’t get any of it to “stick” or even find enjoyment in it. Also, because I was out of shape, I got winded quickly and discovered pain in parts of my body that I didn’t know could hurt, which made me feel ashamed and discouraged.

I even signed up for a few five-kilometer (5K) walks, but I never actually showed up the day of, because I was sure I’d be the fattest and slowest person there and wouldn’t be welcome.

I kept hearing the voice inside my head telling me I wasn’t enough—I would never be athletic enough to belong in spaces that I believed were reserved for “fit” people. In my mind, athletes were thin people who were already in top physical shape. Something I obviously wasn’t and believed I never could be. 

I was right back in the endless loop of shame, eating, depression, anxiety, and hiding. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

When I visited Watervale during the summers, as I had since I was a child, I stopped doing many of the active things that I had always enjoyed. Climbing Baldy and the Sleeping Bear Dunes. Walking to the Outlet. Swimming. Even kayaking. I didn’t want to slow other people down and feel their silent judgment, and I especially didn’t want to discover that I couldn’t make it to the top of Baldy. I already felt bad enough; I couldn’t face more disappointment in myself.

Leaving Chicago four years ago to live year-round in the beauty of Benzie County, I vowed to find a way to enjoy exercise, once and for all. 

I went on hikes in good weather and kayaked more, but I still felt ashamed. No matter what I tried, I really didn’t truly enjoy any of it. Sure, I loved the beauty of being outdoors, but I still loathed exercise and believed I didn’t belong in these spaces.

Earlier this year, I visited my friend Phil in Florida for a few weeks. He’s really fit, and I knew he worked out at Planet Fitness. I’d seen the commercials for Planet Fitness and its “No Judgment Zone.” Curious, I asked Phil if I could be a guest of his “just once or twice” at the gym. He told me that he could do better than that—I could go with him daily.

At my first visit on March 16, I proudly walked two miles on the treadmill in 53 minutes and 50 seconds. I probably could have walked faster, but I wasn’t sure how my body would react, and so I took it slow.

Over the next two weeks, I increased my movement from about 2,000 steps per day to an average of 9,000 steps as we visited the gym almost daily. The days when we weren’t at the gym, we were walking around Jacksonville, Cape Canaveral, St. Augustine, Amelia Island, and Tarpon Springs. 

We developed a gym routine—I walked on the treadmill, while Phil did the treadmill and weights. When he finished his workouts, we ended with a cool-down on the massage chairs.

Just two weeks after my first workout, on March 30, Phil walked towards me to see if I was ready for the massage chair. I looked at him and adamantly said: 

“Don’t come near me! I’m on track to walk three miles in 60 minutes, and I’m not stopping! Go away!” 

I didn’t know it, but for the first time in my life, I was in The Zone—that elusive place, filled with endorphins I’d heard other people talk about but didn’t believe existed.

When I finished 3.05 miles in 59:18, I audibly cheered. I’m sure people heard me, because I heard myself through the loud Taylor Swift music in my earbuds. But I didn’t care. I floated out of the gym knowing I’d achieved something significant and wanting to experience it again.

In just two weeks, I’d gone from walking an approximate 27-minute mile to less than a 20-minute mile. What a rush. I was sold and announced that I was joining Planet Fitness up in Traverse City when I returned from vacation to Northern Michigan the following week.

Not only did I have a newfound joy in exercising for the first time in my life, but I also learned some new things about how to feed my body for that exercise.

Phil is a phenomenal cook, and the cleanest eater I know. During the three weeks that I was in Florida, he taught me more about healthy eating than I’d ever learned in the dozens of diets I’d been on throughout my life. His regular diet is a modified Mediterranean Diet, which I now enjoy immensely. 

I even (mostly) gave up Diet Coke. 

I returned to Benzie having lost about 10 pounds, and my vacation clothes were no longer fitting, because they were now too big.

True to my word, I became a daily visitor to Planet Fitness in Traverse City, despite the 45-minute drive up and 45 minutes back. And I loved it. I wasn’t concerned about my walking speed or about people thinking I didn’t belong. No one cared. Planet Fitness really was “judgment free.” I joined Planet Fitness Facebook groups, where members were cheered on for their health and fitness journeys—not simply for losing weight.

I also continued to eat the way that Phil had shown me in Florida—high protein, low carb, with an emphasis on lots of fresh produce. He taught me to dress my salad with a little olive and truffle oil rather than processed salad dressings. How did I not know about this delicious, healthy hack?

One day, I walked into Fleet Feet to buy a new pair of Hoka gym shoes and saw a sign for the Run the Runway 5K happening at the Cherry Capital Airport in Traverse City in mid-May, about a month later. I snapped a picture of the sign and couldn’t get the thought of participating in a 5K (3.1 miles) out of my head.

But I had serious doubts. All the thoughts ran through my head: Could I finish before they forced me off the route, so planes could land? Would I be dead last? Would I embarrass myself? Would people laugh at me?

I reached out to my friends Christie—a runner for years who has completed numerous Ironman competitions, marathons, and 5Ks—and Blair, who is an avid daily walker. They both assured me that my current speed of 3.1 miles in a little over an hour was not too slow and that the Run the Runway 5K was the perfect first race. Blair was even planning to do it herself, so I’d know someone.

I signed up and told Phil of my goal: to complete the race in under 60 minutes. That became my workout benchmark. They cheered each day when I texted a pic of my treadmill accomplishment. Beyond Phil, Christie, and Blair, though, I didn’t tell anyone else for a few weeks; I was still afraid of judgment from friends—and from myself.

As I continued to train, weight started coming off quickly, and many of my clothes no longer fit. When I shared a photo of the pile of clothes that I was taking to Lake Effect Consignment in Elberta, Phil cheered this accomplishment, too. And on days when I felt discouraged or didn’t want to exercise, he gave me pep talks.

I saw my primary care physician at the end of April. He was really excited about my plan to walk a 5K and the weight I had lost. I was down about 18 or 19 pounds at that point, and I told him that my goal was to be down 30 pounds by the time I saw him next, at the end of July. We ran bloodwork that day, and my results showed significant improvement from where they’d been a year earlier. 

Not only was weight coming off, but my 5K time was coming down, too. 

On May 7, I finished a 5K on the treadmill at 58:03. The next day, I completed it in 56:44. Then I walked a 5K on the Betsie Valley Trail in 59 minutes. Ten days before the race, I was regularly hitting my goal. 

For the first time, I felt like I would be successful in an athletic activity.

On more than one occasion during the month leading up to the Run the Runway 5K, I did something I’d never done before: I exercised twice in a day. I’d spend my morning at Planet Fitness and take a second walk after dinner. 

I got to the point where my body wouldn’t let me go to bed at night without exercising. Who was I becoming?

The morning of the race, it was 49 degrees and raining. I honestly wasn’t sure if I even wanted to drive to Traverse City to exercise in the gross weather, but I’d made a commitment to myself, Blair, Phil, Christie, Dave (my brother), and also my friend Linda, and I wasn’t going to let myself out of it. Dave and Linda were even coming to cheer me on—if they were going to stand out in the rain to support me, the least I could do was show up and give it my all.

I arrived a bit early and stopped at Planet Fitness to warm up on the treadmill. That was a wise decision. At the race site, Blair gave me a quick pep talk, I turned up Taylor Swift, and I was ready to go when the gun went off.

I made myself a promise: no matter what, I wouldn’t look behind me—I was afraid that if I did and saw that I was last, I’d quit before the race was over. I needed to stay out of my own head. I had a goal, and looking behind me wasn’t going to help me achieve it.

At the first mile marker, I high-fived the sign. I was feeling good. At this point, however, the route curved, and—much to my surprise—I saw more than a few people behind me. That motivated me to keep going, but I knew this wasn’t about them or anyone else’s speed, including mine; it was about me and about finishing what I had set out to do. 

I had to prove to myself that I could do this.

I high-fived the second mile marker, but I was feeling tired by this point. So I turned up my music and reminded myself that I was more than halfway through—I could finish this race.

Because I forgot to turn on my timer app, I didn’t know how far along I was towards my 60-minute goal. I just kept walking.

There was no third mile marker, but I saw my friends waiting for me at the finish line and pressed on.

Crossing the finish line, I heard the Rocky theme in my head and raised my arms to cheer for myself. My friends tackled me with hugs and many congratulations.

My time? 57:01—I’d beat my 60-minute goal, with a ton of time to spare!

Tears of joy ran down my face. I’d set a physical goal and beat it. I’d battled the negative words that still lived rent free in my brain and won. And, once again, I had that incredible rush of endorphins that made me want to keep exercising in the first place, just a couple of months ago.

Later that day, I posted pictures of the race on Facebook with the words: 

“I am an athlete.”

Those words have become my mantra as I’ve continued on this journey. As I write this article, I’m proud to say that I’ve walked a total of five 5Ks—Run the Runway in Traverse City on May 17, Kick Yer Asparagus Fun Run in Empire on June 7, Firecracker 5K in Beulah on the 4th of July, Running Bear Run in Glen Arbor on July 22, and Blueberry Dash in Frankfort on August 2. My time has decreased from 57:01 in the first race to 54:55 by the Blueberry Dash. 

I even went kayaking after completing the Blueberry Dash—because that’s what athletes do, and I’m an athlete now.

Notably, I’ve come in last place twice, and I learned that it doesn’t matter, because people cheer just as loudly for the first-place winner as for the last-place winner. And let’s face it, anyone who completes a race—no matter the race distance or the time it takes them—is a winner. 

What matters is that I am out there doing it. And I’m loving it.

I’ve gained enough confidence through this process that I have transferred my gym membership from Planet Fitness in Traverse City to the Betsie Hosick Health & Fitness Center just outside Frankfort, where you’ll find me on the treadmill, the elliptical, and doing weights. 

I’m also hiking my favorite spots—Green Point, Baldy, Pete’s Woods, and Railroad Point—and it is easy now. On the day that this essay is going to print,  I climbed Sleeping Bear for the first time in close to 20 years. I kayaked on Lake Michigan for three hours earlier this month without my arms falling off.

And that end-of-July visit with my physician? 

I hit my goal of losing 30 pounds and learned that my A1C was on the cusp of not being pre-diabetic anymore. My doctor cut both my antidepressant and pre-diabetes medicines in half. I’ll get a full panel of blood work at the end of October, and I have a new goal: eliminate my antidepressant and pre-diabetes medications for good. Last week, my sleep apnea doctor lowered the pressure on my CPAP by 25 percent, and I have a goal to be off the CPAP by this time next year.

While I haven’t lost any additional weight over the last month, I’ve maintained my 30-pound weight loss, and I’m happy about it. August and September have brought many friends and family members to town, with lots of dining out and entertaining at my house; I’m no longer hiding when I eat, and that feels great. Maintaining my daily exercise and the 30 pounds makes me proud, for now.

I’ve got three more 5Ks in the next few weeks: Betsie Valley Trail Run in Thompsonville on September 27, Run the Town Pink 5K in Manistee on October 4, and Port City Run 5K in Frankfort on October 11. My goal for these races is to finish in less than 54 minutes. 

That will be eight 5Ks since May; I plan to complete a total of 10 races by the end of December.

Yes, I’ve still got weight to lose. More than I care to think about, but I’m taking it in 10-pound bites—pun intended. 

I celebrate new low weights. I celebrate new walking speeds. I celebrate new weight-lifting accomplishments. I celebrate the way I can move my body today that I couldn’t six months ago. I celebrate clothes I haven’t been able to wear in 10 years. I celebrate how all of this makes me feel, the newfound confidence that I have. I celebrate exercising even when I don’t want to. And I celebrate the way that I now see food and exercise not as rewards or punishments, but as ways to nourish both my body and soul.

When I eat my modified Mediterranean Diet, I don’t feel deprived. I feel great. I’m drinking lots of water and have cut my Diet Coke to about eight ounces each day; on many days, though, I don’t have any. My body craves daily exercise. I’m sleeping a lot better.

Best of all, the cycle of depression, shame, eating, and hiding is a thing of the past. 

Instead, I’ve discovered a new cycle of eating healthy, exercise, water, and sleep. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. And I have never felt better.

Have I had some slip-ups and done some emotional eating? Of course. I did it just a couple of nights ago, actually, but it happens a lot less frequently than it used to; I am able to pull myself out of my emotional eating faster, and I no longer beat myself up for it. 

This is a journey that’s not always a straight line. I’m looking for progress, not perfection.

Years of therapy have taught me that the negative voices inside my head are liars and helped me to process the traumas that led me to be an emotional eater. I’ve also learned to ignore the people who say being overweight is due to laziness, because, in my experience, many of them have no idea what they’re talking about.

My body and I are no longer frenemies. We’re working together, not against each other. And we’ve become friends.

When I stand in front of my mirror, I no longer see the weight of the shame I felt for decades. I no longer see ugly. The negative words of myself and of others no longer live in my brain. Yes, I still remember the words of strangers and family members, but now, they have no power over me.

I see the strength of a life well lived, the courage to keep going, the scars of battles fought and won—some physical, some in my head—of developing muscles I didn’t know could come back. I see beauty in whatever size I am. 

I see an athlete.

Featured Photo Caption: On a gray day in May, Jessica Gardner finished her first 5K competition in 57 minutes. After a lifetime of being “frenemies” with her body, she finally feels like an “athlete.” Image courtesy of Jessica Gardner.