Meet Katie…

I’ve always been a skinny, fat person.  The truth is…I love food. Mmmm. Generally, food. Specifically, brownies. I digress. For years I hid my obsession/addiction. My involvement in sports allowed me to keep an impressively svelt body, and more importantly it hid my relationship with food. After college, the sports stopped…the food didn’t. Fast forward 10+ years, a husband and three kids, and I was a shadow of my former self. I had succumbed to complacency. And while all of the excuses I listed were real, serious struggles that moms of young kids go through, they were also a crutch that I clung to. Like…white knuckle clung to.

My husband, Mr. Fitness, is the sole reason I am not morbidly obese. (Read: no soda, chips, etc… in the house.) For years, he encouraged me to take my health and fitness seriously. I always promised that I would make a change, but was never able to sustain it because it was not something I enjoyed. In reality, I hate to exercise. Yep. I said it. I hate going to a globo gym and feeling like I am in the way of the pretty people. I hate running on a treadmill and not going anywhere. I hate feeling like I am not wearing tight enough shorts or enough makeup to fit in. I hate all the mirrors reminding me that I don’t look like the rest of “them.” It would always lead to a point where the anxiety I felt about setting foot in a big box gym was offset with ridiculously sincere pride for having completed a mere fraction of what I had intended to do… “Hey! We did the warmup. Good job me…lets go home.” This pattern of starting out strong/motivated only to find myself justifying a warped sense of reality & accomplishment would happen every time, until eventually I couldn’t bring myself to show up at all…again. And each time I fell off the fitness wagon, the self-shaming was worse. My internal dialogue on my “thick” legs was beyond self-deprecating…it was abusive.

Pregnant with my third and last child, I knew that I couldn’t cling to the baby weight excuse forever. My husband had been doing CrossFit for a few years, first recreationally in the gym he managed, then full time in an official CrossFit box. He talked about it constantly. No really. All the time. I swear, we couldn’t go to the grocery store without him talking to someone about CrossFit. I was soo over it before I even began. (Sorry hon!) So, I did what I do best, and negotiated…”After this baby is born, I will do CrossFit for one month, after which you will NEVER pressure me again.” Deal.

5 weeks post-delivery, I saddled-up and made my way into the local box. I intentionally wore jeans…those whackos were NOT going to get me to participate. I found it odd that there were no mirrors. That the athletes were more concerned with what they were doing than how they looked. That people said hello and asked my name…and then REMEMBERED it. I signed my waiver and paid for the one month that I was committed to. I watched the class for a few minutes. Then I walked to my minivan (you are jealous) and started to cry.  Inside, I still felt like that college volleyball player. But I was faced with the reality that I hadn’t been her for a long time. I wouldn’t be able to keep up. I knew it would hurt physically, but what struck me with such force was the realization that this was going to hurt mentally. My competitive spirit was about to take a major blow. I would finally have to face my excuses and get out of the way of my own ego. My own hubris. Myself. Shit.

Two weeks later, I set foot in my first class. I had spent the last 14 days reminding myself that I was only there for a month. Suck it up. I had every intention of fulfilling my end of the bargain and walking away. But then, I drank the cool aid. Hard. And I asked for a second helping. And a third.  The support of the community was like nothing I had ever experienced at big box gyms, and made me want to show up. I remember this thought going through my head on repeat for the first month: “You have never not finished…it may hurt, and you may want to quit right now…but it has NEVER been soo difficult that you physically could not keep going…and today isn’t going to be that day.” I also remember the exact moment (only weeks later) when I realized that I couldn’t recall the last time I had to talk myself through a WOD like that. Sure, it was still hard. Like they say, “no…it doesn’t get easier, and you wouldn’t like it if it did.” But I know now that I am capable of soo much more than my brain thinks I am. I try to take that lesson with me in every aspect of my life now.

That was years ago. The list of benefits is long. I sleep better. I have more energy and less stress. But to me, the thing I love the most…what keeps me coming back even when I read that ugly word “Jerry” on the board, is the camaraderie. This is a team sport. And I have missed that dearly since college volleyball. I get to see my teammates every day. We push each other. We tease each other. We support each other. My teammates drive me to be accountable to show up. To be honest in my achievements. Because of that support, I see myself differently now. I am not the college athlete anymore. That’s ok. I have come to terms with the fact that those days are behind me. Now, I am proud of what I accomplish in the gym every time I go. I love knowing that my kids are growing up witnessing fitness as a normal part of a balanced life. And, I am ok with my thick legs…because for the first time in a long time, I am able to look at my body and see it not for what it isn’t, but for what it is. And you know what? It is STRONG!