Gutsy Ex-Obese Puts it All on the Table.
Musings and learnings from being twice and half my size.
Dear Reader,
A few months ago, I spoke on a panel about my 200-pound weight loss journey and noticed a young, overweight woman in the front row. The entire time I was speaking, she nodded or cried.
During my talk, I disclosed my struggle to feel significant. Like I could never be sure if telling my story helped anyone.
She followed me to my car, “I don’t mean to bother you,” she said when she reached me. “But I’ve been so sad the past few months, to the point of wondering if my life was even worth living.”
She paused, sniffled, and looked me straight in the eyes.
“What you said tonight changed my life. I now know exactly what to do tomorrow morning, and you gave me the courage to go do it. You’ve turned on a light at the end of my tunnel. Do not question if telling your story helps. You may have saved one life tonight.”
She smiled and walked away.
I sat in my car that night and said out loud, “It’s time. Enough wondering if this story of yours is helpful. Sit down. Write.”
I’ve been telling stories as long as I’ve uttered words. Capturing material as moments occurred around me. Stringing letters into words into sentences to help me make sense of a life that did not always - make sense.
I started writing as a career when I moved to LA from Paris as a correspondent for a French magazine. The guy who hired me, a major French press mogul who used to teach Journalism and Writing at Stanford, interviewed me for an hour and gave me the job on the spot. On my way out, I paused. “You’ve never read a word I’ve written. How do you know I can write?” I asked.
“You tell great stories—you can write,” he said with a smile.
I’ve been the overweight woman in the front row, crying and nodding along with authors who stuck their necks out before me. Their words turned on the light at the end of my tunnel.
I may have changed your life, woman-in-the-front-row-whose-name-I wish-I-knew, but you also changed mine. Thank you for prompting me to shut up. Sit. And write. Hopefully, one day, you read my work and find me somewhere. So I can hug you. And thank you in person.
I am done wondering if my words are helpful.
They were helpful to you. That’s enough for me.