Once upon a time there was a recovering chunky-butt named Kirsten who decided she wanted to work in a gym-o-awesomeness and surround herself with healthy, fit-minded peeps. As part of her indoctrination into the land of IFAST-dom, she was awarded an assessment that verified her strengths and weaknesses as a dormant athlete. She quickly proved herself to have the dexterity of a Weeble-Wobble. They sent their noble and optimistic warrior, Sir Jae, to feverishly train Kirsten in the art of Anti-Humpty-Dump-tery. This is her story…
Last fall, my doc said I had gotten lean enough that it was time to repair my making-me-look-preggers-even-though-I’m-too-old-to-be-knocked-up hernia (note: not the scientific name, but it certainly paints a better picture than “ventral hernia”).
Originally I had no plans to get my hernia repaired; I felt healthier and more at peace with my body than ever before. But then the surgeon started dropping scary words like “potential bowel obstruction” and “risk for gangrene.” Suddenly time off from work sounded lovely.
When I had my consultation with the general surgeon, he advised that because of the size of my hernia, he would be partnering with a plastic surgeon to close me up after my surgery. I’m not gonna lie. My first thought? FREE TUMMY TUCK! As it turned out, Dr. Plastic’s role would be functional rather than cosmetic. To have him do the fancy-schmancy stuff would’ve cost another $6k ((puts ear next to bank account and listens to crickets)).
My surgery was December 10th. My post-surgery care mandated that I not lift more than a gallon of milk for three months. And as someone who transferred many of my emotional-eating issues into lifting heaving stuff? 3 months was a very, very, very, very long time. Making good food choices was often a white-knuckle struggle. In the end, I was supercaligrateful to just maintain my weight loss.
In the middle of March, with the blessing of my surgeons, I started back slowly. Team-training here. Bike riding there. I was more impatient than ever to lift heavy stuff.
Then, this past week, the clouds parted, the sun shined, and the angels sang: I was finally back among the elite known as Those with IFAST Training Programs. Here is a picture I took for definitive proof:
New Training Program + my 2-Year IFAST Anniversary + 1st Week of our Healthy Habits Transformation? Indeed I took it as a Golden Rule of 3 that I was supposed to be super-duper dialed-in and impressively fierce.
Not only did I train 3 times, I also lost 2 pounds and am below 180 for the first time in over 20 years. ((Cue glitter bomb)).
Thank you to all of you who sent me messages, raised me up in prayers and thoughts, and filled my world with warms and fuzzies. Even though I’m working on making my body hard, my heart has never been mushier.
Being at IFAST isn’t just a job or a place for me to train. It’s a core part of my identity, my emotional toolkit, and my friends and family. It has transformed my whole world.
I am forever indebted to Bill for keeping my entire family healthy and to Mike for seeing me 2 years ago as so much more than a 250-pound unemployed, middle-aged woman.
Recently someone asked me if I was “just gonna work at a gym forever.”
God I hope so.