Alarm set in when I glanced at the clock. I couldn’t fit into any of my clothes and was going to be late for work if I didn’t figure something out quickly. As I wrestled with a pair of slacks, I acknowledged the cold truth: The scale was not broken and the washer and dryer were not shrinking my clothes. I had gained an unhealthy amount of weight.
I’d been athletic my entire life, but it dawned on me then that it had been some time since putting it into practice. Although spraining my ankle the year before hadn’t helped, the lifestyle I was currently leading played the biggest role. Working 80 — 100 hours every week and commuting 3 ½ hours each way did not leave much room for anything else. Making matters worse were those godforsaken lunch and dinner meetings.
I was supposed to be a professional dancer by that point. The current career path was meant to be only temporary until I could get on my feet. My hand paused on one of the hangers in the closet as I realized just how much time had passed as the day-to-day rigmarole took over. My mind began to calculate. It would still be challenging, but if I was ever going to make it happen, now was the time.
Since an overnight overhaul was not practical, I did the best I could with what I had to work with. I put together a nutrition plan and allowed extra time to walk from the train station to work in the heart of Boston’s Financial District. It turned out the subway was slower anyway.
I also began taking ballet and modern dance classes again. It was not my old régime by a long shot, but it was something. On Wednesday nights, I put my size 6 ½ foot down and left work at 5 p.m. for the studio. The weight started to come off and I began to feel like me again — not just a robot.
BELIEVE IN YOURSELF … OTHERS WILL TOO …
The next several months weren’t easy. Once, I took a vacation day and decided to go for a run. I was feeling really good about myself — until a driver slowed down and began imitating and laughing at me. My eyes burned and my lips trembled as I tried to focus on the next telephone pole and the song I’d been enjoying.
I thought, “So I’m taking care of myself. What’s wrong with that? I feel so much better than before. Imagine how I’ll feel in a few more months.” Picking up speed, I was resolute. I just needed to focus on getting my body healthy again so I could pursue my dreams. Although it still hurt, the self-talk and goal reflection helped take away the sharpness of the sting.
Later that day, I confided in a trusted friend and told him how discouraged I was. We headed out to pick up some groceries for dinner. While we were in the store, he told me he needed five gallons of water. “I have a plan for these. I’ll tell you about it later,” he explained as he loaded the jugs into the carriage.
When we got back to my apartment, he began loading those five gallons of water into my arms and asked me to carry them in — all at once. “You’ll see,” was all he said when I gave him a questioning look. After I finally made it up the stairs, I turned and looked at him as though he were out of his mind while I struggled to catch my breath. “That’s about how much weight you’ve lost so far,” he explained. Pride replaced the irrational shame I felt that morning.
Ramping up my training, I began looking at dance programs. After shedding nearly 70 pounds, I felt strong and agile again. My dreams were finally coming true when an oncoming vehicle unexpectedly turned left in front of the car I was riding in. The injuries left me bedridden. The doctors told me I’d never walk again and that I could kiss my dancing days goodbye. After three years, I refused to listen anymore and took matters into my own hands. The progress was slow and incredibly frustrating but, on March 20, 2006, I walked my first mile.
The life I once had was gone and there was no choice other than to rebuild a new one. One night, I looked up from the eyeballs-deep paperwork on my desk. There I was on the 26th floor of a high-rise in Boston’s Financial District at 10:30 p.m. How did this happen — again?! I was not going to be able to erase what transpired, but I did not have to allow it to determine the rest of my story.
Walking was one thing, dancing was another. By then, it had been five years since I’d danced at all and I still looked like Frankenstein when I walked. Determined to reclaim my life again, I trained through blood, sweat, and tears and began teaching dance classes part-time. In the Fall of 2009, I listed my house and left the world of IP Law behind when I moved to Austin, Texas. I picked up the pen and began to write the rest of my life story …
We may not have a choice in what happens during our life, but we do have a choice in our outlook … our approach. Whether things have gone off course for only a minute or for many years, it doesn’t matter. What matters is what you do about it. So take a deep breath and hold it for four counts. Then exhale and remember: As long as your ticker’s still ticking, you still have time to write the rest of your life story.
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