Based on a True Story

The former big girl in me would normally be jumping up and down right now.

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I stumbled into the bathroom, got a glimpse of myself and, in the midst of the stretch marks and leftover skin is a PERFECT six pack.  “I’m thin! I’m thin!” she yells.  Forty year old me knows better.

I’ve had a hell of a week and other than those two cups of Starbucks and few pieces of chocolate, I can’t even remember what I ate in the past two days.  I’m not thin.  I’m delirious.  Life is so real right now.

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Tuesday was the most emotionally heavy day I think I’ve had since the first day my son was in the hospital.  The day was such a build up; texts that just didn’t sit well with me, information on my aunt’s funeral arrangements, updates on friends who are in the hospital or on bed rest, schedules all over the place, personal challenges, work demands.  By 6;30 p.m., I had just lost it. It is no shock that when I woke up at 3;45 a.m. (not a typo) to get ready for work yesterday, I had an emotional hangover.

At 3;55 a.m., my first client canceled.  She was sick.  I was tired but awake.  I made it all the way until 7:30 a.m. (and I’m not sure how) before I headed to Starbucks.  By this time, I was already engaged in a text message conversation that was wracking my brain and was then approached by a woman I recognized but wasn’t sure I knew asking me about my “situation.” I made it back to the gym to train the rest of my clients.  I then get a text from my husband.  My daughter is sick and he is picking her up from school. I sit in the parking lot of Whole Foods and eat a little food and daydream that I’m not as frustrated as I feel.  I stare at this text message and decide whether I am going to tell the truth or if I am going to pretend like I’m o.k. so we can end the conversation.

I tell the truth.  This is my life.  My real life.  No more facades.

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I drag myself to my next class and sit in the car for about thirty minutes trying to convince my body and mind that I’m o.k. and that once I put the microphone on, everything will be fine.  I make my way into the class.  It’s hot and I’m apparently not the only one bothered.  There is a universal feeling of “life sucks” in the room.  We make it through class.  I make it back to my phone.  More texts.  More emotion.  I get home and my daughter is asleep.  I get in the bed myself and try to get ready for my next class.

My husband and daughter leave for the doctor and I finally get up.  The nap has done me some good because I finally understand the text messages and respond accordingly.  I’m getting my music together. I’m getting dressed.  I’m dragging but I’ve given myself the speech and I’m going to go in, train my last client, teach my class and then call my grandmother for her 81st birthday.

The phone rings.

My daughter is being sent to the pediatric ER. They think it’s her appendix.

Life falls apart.

 

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The short version is she is o.k., her appendix is fine and she is in there asleep on the couch. The reality is I had to rush out of the house in my workout clothes, make calls in the process to cover my class and reschedule my training sessions,  pick my son up instead of having him drive to the hospital and try not to panic that my little girl could have been in real danger.

This is life.  This is how I coach. This is how I train.

I cannot coach you to have a life like Beyonce. The truth is I don’t know what Beyonce’s life is like.  I know what Beyonce’s life LOOKS like.  I cannot train you to have a body EXACTLY like Jennifer Lopez. Do you have genes like J Lo? Do you eat like J Lo? Can you keep a schedule like J Lo? And do you know EVERYTHING J Lo has done to have a J Lo body?

Nobody in my Zumba class knew what I had been through the night before.  Women tell me all the time how they wish they could dance like me and have energy like me and teach like me and lose weight like me and etc.  The truth is they don’t know the entirety of my story.  They don’t know that sometimes the energy of my dancing is because if I don’t dance I might DIE.  They don’t know that my stomach looks flat today because I didn’t eat yesterday because I was at the hospital most of the evening yesterday and in the bed crying the evening before that.

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Our goals have to based on our own stories.  What are WE dealing with and what are OUR goals based on where we have been and where we are going? What is our reality? What are our passions? What do WE really want? What do we believe? What is our vision for ourselves?

Believing what someone else has is ultimately what we should be aiming for is a trap. Knowing life happens to all of us and you can still go on is the resiliency you need to build your own success story.  I want to stay home in the bed.  I’m going to go to teach yoga. I’ve got goals…..based on MY story. Start where you are.  It’s never going to be perfect.

 

What’s your true story? Are you ready to rock THAT? I’m accepting coaching and personal training clients.  Email me at hiphealthychick@gmail.com

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2 Responses to Based on a True Story

  1. zaji says:

    There it is. In a nutshell.