Receiving a Miracle

Qualification

Once, I broke a set of stairs. Tumbling from the deck to the ground, I lay on the grass in my summer dress (a muumuu), begging for it to be a dream. I was surrounded by adults and children at a birthday party, humiliated, ashamed, and embarrassed, and everyone rushed to see if I was okay. I wanted to disappear. But my 240-pound body and tears of shame kept that from happening. No, it wasn’t a dream. This was my reality, and as hard as that moment was, it wasn’t the worst humiliation.

In April 2021, after a chaotic year through COVID, pandemic schooling, no structure, and a ton of uncertainty, I had gained over 80 pounds.

I had battled anorexia and bulimia through my 20s, 30s, and early 40s, but when COVID hit, the pendulum swung in the other direction. I had completely lost control over food and began binge eating to oblivion. I was desperate for help, and I spent thousands of dollars on mindset coaches, therapists, nutritionists, and trainers. I searched “binge-eating disorder” websites on the internet and joined more social media groups than I had time for. I ended up sinking further into the darkest hole. At 44, I had become a raging mom, impatient wife, and a sad, desperate woman. I believed there was no point in life.

For most of my adult years, I had managed some control with food. I wore hunger like a badge of honor, and yet now I could not find fullness, either in satiety or in life. I was hollow, yet larger than my husband’s heaviest friends. At 259 pounds, I determined that this was a nightmare, and I could not figure out how to change the trajectory. I couldn’t cross my legs or keep up with my three girls on walks, let alone chase after them, and every time I sat in a chair I feared I might break it.

I had lost connection with most of my friends, as I couldn’t bear seeing or talking to anyone in my hideous state. I hid in a giant tent-like muumuu most of my days and donned the same oversized tent dress when I was forced to go outdoors on hot summer days. The ripped up, hole-ridden pajama had become a metaphor for my life. I no longer cared about my appearance because I didn’t want to see anyone. This was a big departure from only 20 years ago when I modeled professionally, weighing a gaunt 100 pounds, wearing only the best clothes and shoes, and happily receiving attention about my looks.

It was like looking into a mirror. She was telling my story. I sobbed. Except that this woman was glowing, thin, happy, and able to keep up with four children on rock climbing walls. I couldn’t even keep up with my kids on a walk through the neighborhood, always returning breathless and in pain with my exacerbated plantar fasciitis.

As she shared her story, I couldn’t help but think that I wanted what she had. I wondered aloud how she got help and, although I didn’t know this woman, I reached out to her with a private message, begging her to tell me where she found help.

Privately, she responded very simply, “We don’t eat flour, we don’t eat sugar. Here’s the website.”

I immediately found the FA website and, admittedly, was very weirded out by the fact that the word “addict” was in the title. I didn’t identify as an addict, that’s for sure. Nevertheless, I downloaded the greeter list and found one Canadian greeter. She happened to be from my small hometown. I thought to myself this surely was a sign from God.

I spoke with the kind woman on the other end of the phone. She asked if I was ready to start that day. I cried but answered with a certain “yes.” I listened to everything she said. No coffee. No alcohol. No flour or sugar. The coffee and alcohol took me by surprise, but I was so desperate, I agreed to everything she laid out.

The next time we spoke, she shared the actions that were expected of me. Quietly, I wondered to myself, how would this be possible? I am an entrepreneur, mother of three young children, head of my household. I couldn’t possibly carve out time to make three calls daily, sit quietly for 30 minutes, plus a daily 15- minute call with my sponsor. But instead of challenging her or complaining, I simply nodded on the other end of the phone, “Yes, ma’am.” Recognizing that surely God had brought me to this program, how dare I turn my back on it now?

A couple of days later, this woman agreed to become my sponsor. She was a teacher, living in my hometown, and beautiful inside and out. I knew I wanted the peace, serenity, and body she had found.

I knew this was God’s miracle, and I was open to receiving it. I put my will, my stubborn “I know what’s best,” and my grieving for coffee and alcohol aside, and listened to every word she shared. I had the gift of desperation. I worked this program, despite being in the midst of a business launch, despite having to manage my children’s remote learning needs throughout the pandemic, despite feeling like I didn’t have time or energy. I worked every single tool, every day, and I attribute that to the strength and courage of my sponsor.

I am truly grateful for this incredible program. To myHigher Power, whom I call God, I am eternally grateful that He led me on this path, to my sponsor, and to this fellowship. Without God’s handiwork that day and without my willingness and desperation, I surely would not be living life as I now know it, brimming full of miracles and new possibilities, waking each day with hope and a spirit of gratitude.