The Back Story

For 30 years, I was the fat girl.

You know her.  The one whose best feature is a "great personality."  The non-threatening best friend of insecure skinny girls.  The perfect wingwoman who is fun to have along for a night out but who runs no risk of distracting the attention of eligible bachelors.  The good listener.  Jovial.  Dependable.  Safe.

At 29, I was okay with my fat girl status.  There had been times in my life where I was in better shape than others; I was a competitive equestrian for most of my life, so I stayed in functional shape for the most part, but I'd always been big.  And when my horse retired and I couldn't afford a younger mount, I stopped riding, and gained more weight.  By 29, I'd come to terms with my chub.  Sure, it sucked to only be able to shop at plus size stores, and to always be the biggest bridesmaid in wedding photos.  But I'd managed to find a career that I enjoyed, a posse of fantastic friends, and a husband who loved me despite my extra chins.  (And he's a chef... fat girl bonus!)  Overall, life was good.  What difference did it make if I couldn't navigate two flights of stairs without getting winded?  I had all the things in life I'd always wanted.  I was (relatively) happy.

For my 30th birthday, my friends and I planned a truly epic 80's-style celebration that involved a limo bar tour, horrendous 80's prom gowns, and (obviously) wearing sunglasses at night.  It was a several month long planning process... after all, it takes time to compile the perfect 80's playlist and scour the local thrift stores for appropriately hideous attire.  The process went smoothly, except for the minor disappointment of having to resort to a miserably ugly bridesmaids dress from David's Bridal (no Goodwill had authentic 80's ball gowns in my size), and when the big day rolled around, I was ridiculously excited.  The celebration didn't disappoint; it was everything I'd dreamed it would be.  I drank, I danced, I rocked a side ponytail, and I ended the night with a Primanti's sandwich, all in the company of my husband and all of my closest friends.  It was the best birthday (and one of the best days, period) I'd ever had.

The following morning, after crawling out of bed with an epic hangover and eating a leftover birthday cake breakfast of champions, I settled down on the couch (with Ghostbusters on TV as background noise, naturally), plugged my camera into my laptop, and began excitedly uploading photos from the night before.  Such a truly, fabulously spectacular event needed to be shared with the world immediately!  Facebook, here we come!

But as the pictures uploaded one by one onto my screen, excitement quickly faded into surprise, then disappointment, and eventually into shocked horror.

I. LOOKED. HUGE.

Now, I'd known that I was a big girl, and I'd been (mostly) okay with it.  But until I saw those birthday pictures, I'd had no real concept of how overweight I'd really become.  I wasn't just fat... I was obese.  And to make matters worse, I looked OLD.  Time, weight, and way too much drinking had not been kind to me.  As I sat there on my couch, head pounding and last night's bright blue eye makeup smeared across my face, looking at pictures of a me I barely recognized, I realized that I felt my age for the first time in my life.  I was old.  And fat.  And maybe not as okay with it as I'd always thought.

30th birthday bash.  Ouch.

I did a lot of hungover soul searching that day, and eventually came to a conclusion: I would give myself one month to eat, drink, and do whatever I wanted -- a "birthday month", if you will -- and that after one month's time, I would make some serious changes.  In one month, I would get healthy.  In one month, I would stop accepting my fate as the fat girl and become... well, something else.

I drew a big "X" on February 8th on my calendar and hung it on the fridge, where it served as a constant reminder of my upcoming leap into the unknown.  Throughout that month, my attitude wavered from firm resolve ("You'd better enjoy these birthday crab cakes, self, because pretty soon you will NEVER EVER TASTE MAYONNAISE EVER AGAIN!!!!") to wistful resignation ("Sigh... we've had a good run, pizza.  I'm really going to miss you.") to utter denial ("If Nacho Cheese Doritos are wrong then I DON'T WANT TO BE RIGHT!!!!").  But when 2/8/12 rolled around, I settled on an attitude of quiet determination.  As promised, I spent that morning methodically purging our kitchen of all things delicious, then replacing the junk food with a fridge full of fresh produce.  That simple task alone gave me a feeling of satisfaction, and the guts I needed to implement Phase 2 of the plan:  I went out and bought a scale.  It was with great trepidation that I removed the scale from the package and set it up in a prominent corner of the living room where I couldn't ignore it.  Then, with the same resolve with which I'd parted with my last ice cream sandwich, stepped on.

What?  No.  Impossible.

Holy shit.

279 pounds.

Two. Hundred. And. SEVENTY. NINE. FREAKING. POUNDS.

My mind raced as I stared disbelievingly at the ghastly numbers.  Maybe the scale was broken.  Maybe it was because I'd just eaten lunch.  Maybe I was just wearing really heavy clothes.

But deep down, I knew that there were no excuses.  The truth was, I'd let my body balloon to nearly 300 pounds, and I had no one to blame for that but myself.  It was at that moment, with equal parts horror and dread, that I realized dieting wasn't going to be enough.  I needed to get moving.

So I marched directly out the door, got into my car, and drove to Mojo Running and Multisport.  With the help of Jenn (who I've since come to think of as my magician/footwear fairy godmother), I purchased my first pair of running shoes: an unattractive but super supportive pair of Brooks.  I then drove home, laced up my new kicks, and set out for my first run. 

If you can even call it a run.  I ran/jogged/stumbled until my knees were aching, my lungs were screaming, and I had to take a walk break.  I was pretty proud of myself.  I turned around to take a triumphant assessment of how far I'd run... and realized I was only 6 houses down from my starting point.  I could still see my driveway.

FAIL.

But I kept going.  I forced myself to slowly trudge the rest of the way around the mile-long loop of my street, alternating between jogging and walking, convinced I was dying the entire time.  I hated every second of it.

And the next day, I did it again.

That was the beginning of the crazy whirlwind journey with which most of you are all too familiar... either because you've been running beside me, cheering me on, or simply tolerating me while I talked about it ad nauseum.  On Saint Patrick's Day, I "ran" my first 5K in Harmony.  It took me 45 minutes, and I ended up walking most of it.  But there were more races, and I got a little better and a little faster each time.  I bought a bike and started cycling on my days off from running.  In June, two wonderful friends and I competed in the Merrel Oyster Race, a 20+ mile run/bike/kayak adventure race that had been a dream of mine since I'd volunteered as a "challenge judge" the previous year.  In August, I completed the much anticipated Run For Your Lives Zombie 5K, combining three of my greatest loves: mud, friends, and the undead.  Despite being "killed" by zombies and bruising the hell out of my ass on a ridiculous 3-story slip-and-slide, this race quickly replaced my birthday party as my favorite experience of the year.  I was losing weight, feeling great, and doing all of the things I had set out to do.

Team Badass post-Oyster

Zombie 5K

But somehow, it didn't seem like enough.  I didn't feel like I was truly pushing myself as far as I could.  My race times were still slow, despite decent times when I was out running on the trails with only my dogs for company.  Despite 70 pounds of weight loss and countless accomplishments, I still felt like something was holding me back.  I just didn't know what that "something" was.

In short, I wanted more.

Through all of this, I had been listening to a close friend talk endlessly and enthusiastically about her love of something called CrossFit.  I wasn't sure what CrossFit was, and I wasn't familiar with the lingo.  (Why is it a "box" instead of a gym?  What is an AMRAP?  And for the love of God, WHO the hell is Fran and why does everyone hate her?!).  But I couldn't help but get wrapped up in her obvious excitement and passion for this strange foreign world.  Running was nice, and made me feel good.  But I'd never been so excited about a run that I felt the need to call my friends and shout, "GUESS WHAT I JUST DID?!".  Maybe, I thought, that kind of unbridled excitement was what I'd been missing.  Maybe it was time I found a "box" of my own and went to meet this Fran person.

In early June, a quick Google search told me that a new business, CrossFit TPA, had recently opened up a mere 5 minutes from my house.  Perfect, right?  Well, that same Google search led me to some pretty terrifying YouTube footage, and that was my first glimpse of what CrossFit was really about.  Some of my initial thoughts were as follows:

~Oh, HELL no.
~Pull ups?  Yeah.  Right.
~What in the name of God is the appeal of jumping onto and off of a wooden box a thousand times?
~WHO THE HELL CAN LIFT THAT MUCH?
~I didn't know people used jump ropes after kindergarten.  And I wasn't even good with them back then.
~What asshole invented this "burpee" business, and why would anyone want to do one, much less multiple, burpees?
~On second thought, I think I'm okay going through the rest of my life without EVER meeting Fran.

No, I decided... this CrossFit business was way out of my league.  No way, no how.  But my aforementioned friend was persistent.  She insisted that all of the "WODs" (why can't they just call it a "workout" like everybody else?) could be scaled to accommodate "different levels of fitness" (her kind way of saying, "fat people can do it, too!").  Eventually, she wore me down.  It took me a month to decide that I was ready to try CrossFit, and another two weeks after that to get up the guts make the call to TPA.  In mid-August, I had a short phone conversation with Tammy, the owner and head coach at CrossFit TPA.  She gave me directions, told me to come in for an Elements (aka newbie) class, and that was that.  Ready or not, I was about to see what all of the fuss was about.

My first CrossFit experience was on a Tuesday evening.  I couldn't sleep the night before, and my anxiety was through the roof.  I had no idea what to expect.  What if I was the only fat person there?  What if I couldn't keep up?  What if everyone else is super strong and fast and buff, and they all laugh at me?

I was an emotional wreck by the time I showed up at the box, and my worst fears were instantly confirmed.  I was introduced to the coaches, and was instantly intimidated: if Chuck Norris and a supermodel were to have a lovechild, she would look an awful lot like Tammy, Tricia, and Julie.  To make matters worse, the only other student in my "beginner" class was a 6-foot-something machine who looked like he might be a marathon runner but with bigger arms.  Umm, hi... yeah.  I don't belong here.

I didn't have much time to stew over it.  We jumped right in, starting with 5 minutes on rowers, then going through any number of bizarre, unfamiliar exercises of varying difficulty and intensity.  After 20 brutal minutes, I was drenched in sweat and ready to call it a night.  I was totally relieved when Tammy told us to stop and called us to the center of the box.  I'd done it!  I'd survived!

Then she said the words that I will never forget, and that continue to haunt me to this day:

"I think that's enough warm-up.  Let's start the workout."

WHATTHEFUCK?!

My first "baby" WOD was a 12-minute AMRAP ("as many reps as possible", I discovered... one mystery solved!) of box jumps, wall balls, air squats, and kettlebell swings.  Sounds easy enough, right?  Wrong.  It was horrible.  The smallest kettlebell felt like the weight of the world, I kept almost dropping the medicine ball on my head, and I felt like a total jackass stumbling onto and off of a 12-inch "weenie" box while my traitorous fellow "beginner" was on the other side of the gym lifting heavy shit over his head.

In short, I hated every second.  12 minutes might as well have been a week.  By the time I finished, I wasn't sure whether I wanted to cry, puke, or splinter the shit out of the stupid box by smashing it with the stupid kettlebell.

But then, something weird happened.  I still wanted to puke, but the sensation of near-death was fading, and being replaced by a strange elation unlike anything I'd ever felt.  In the span of two minutes, I went from hating everything and wanting to break shit, to feeling like a total badass ready to take on the world.  I. Was.  AWESOME.  And I wanted to shout from the rooftop about just how awesome I was.  Not only was I awesome, but box jumps were awesome, and kettlebells were awesome, and even that heavy-shit-lifting asshole who'd totally shown me up was awesome.  Did someone slip ecstasy into my water bottle, or was this the post-WOD high that my friend had sworn I would experience?  I didn't care.  Whatever it was, I'd never felt it before, and I wanted more.

I was still all psyched up when I got home, and had an insatiable need to talk to someone and dissect every second of my workout in painful detail.  My husband wasn't home, so I called my aforementioned CrossFitting friend and talked her ear off.  She listened patiently, and graciously restrained herself to one well-deserved "told you so."  Then I called my husband.  And my mom.  And a bunch more of my friends.  I couldn't stop talking about CrossFit.  It took me hours to calm down enough to fall asleep.

When I woke up in the morning, I couldn't walk without a limp, and felt a little like I'd lost a fight with an angry gorilla. The day after that, I was unable to navigate stairs or lower myself onto the toilet to pee.  I was CRIPPLED.  Everything hurt.  I'm not talking post-hard-run aches and pains... I'm talking total debilitation.  It was almost a week before I could function normally, and another few days before I felt ready to go back to the box.  I was nervous again, but mostly just excited.  I wanted to feel AWESOME again as soon as possible!  Bring it!

My second CrossFit experience, however, was an unmitigated disaster.  Without going into too much humiliating detail, suffice it to say that I almost passed out, had to have the coaches sit me down and fetch me an electrolyte drink, and sat with my head between my knees and my eyes closed until the dizziness subsided.  Icing on the cake: all of this happened during the WARM UP.

Yeah, I didn't even make it to the workout before I literally almost passed out.

It was beyond mortifying.  And, admittedly, rather scary.  I'd never had an experience like that before, and besides being quite shaken by literally seeing stars, I felt like a complete and total failure.  I eventually was able to rejoin the group and complete a half-assed baby WOD using a PVC pipe instead of weights.  But all I could think the entire time was, "SHIT.  I will forever be known as the fat girl who almost passed out while warming up for the Elements class."  Needless to say, no post-WOD high that day.  In fact, it was all I could do to get out of the coaches' line of vision before bursting into tears in my car.

My unshakable feeling of failure followed me around all week.  I was way too humiliated to even consider going back to the box.  Fortunately, this all happened on the verge of a much-anticipated vacation to coastal California.  I came up with a plan: I would view my week in paradise as a vacation from my new fitness-obsessed life and just enjoy myself.  If I chose to return to the box after that, hopefully I could have a fresh start.  If I decided not to go back, I could just disappear, and no one would notice I was gone.  I would decide once I got home.

California was life-changing in a lot of ways.  We started out with three days in the Napa Valley, experiencing wine country and visiting with a dear friend from college.  My husband and I spent our days eating breakfast at the Bouchon Bakery, touring exquisite vineyards, sampling incredible wine, and dining at some of the nation's finest restaurants.  It was so relaxing to kick back with my husband without counting calories or worrying about when I would squeeze in a workout.  A persistent voice in the back of my head began to question the past 6 months: "Didn't you miss this?  Is skinny really worth it?"

From Napa, we drove down the breathtakingly beautiful coast, and after a relaxing day of strolling the beaches of Monterrey, we decided to get up at the crack of dawn to go hiking in Big Sur the following day.  At the suggestion of a park ranger, we decided to hike Buzzard's Peak, a trail famed for its 360-degree ocean and mountain views.  The ranger told us that the trail was approximately 2.5 miles, and at one point splits off into two trails: a scenic route to the left, and a "seriously challenging" steeper route to the right.  After eyeing me up and down, the ranger said in a slightly condescending tone, "You'll probably want to stay left."

Being the slightly petulant and extremely stubborn person that I am, I immediately decided to prove this asshole wrong and take the harder trail.  So when the trail split off, I ignored Jim's pleas, turned right, and headed up the mountain.

Half a mile in, I was seriously rethinking this decision.  After a mile, I was ready to turn around.  The trail was ridiculously steep, more of a climb than a hike in spots, with no flat areas for resting.  My legs were burning, my lungs were aching, and I was pretty sure I was dying.  But I imagined that smirking bastard park ranger and was determined to finish what I'd started.

Eventually we made it to the top, gasping for air and clutching the cramps in our sides.  Cramps and chest pain were immediately forgotten, however, when we took in the view: it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.  Words won't do it justice so I won't try to describe it.  But as I stood there, surrounded on all sides by blue ocean and stunning mountain tops, I felt a familiar feeling of incomparable elation.  I'd pushed through something that had felt impossible, and was rewarded with this absolutely incredible moment.  I literally felt on top of the world.  And I couldn't help but wonder... would I have felt that way, at that moment, if we'd taken the easy way to get there?  I thought, then, about how it felt to collect my medal after the Oyster Race... to share muddy hugs with my favorite people at the finish line of the Zombie run... and how I felt after that first miserable, wonderful attempt at CrossFit.  Would I ever have felt that way in my life if I'd kept skipping out on all of the things that scared me?

Incredible views from Buzzard's Peak... how could you NOT be inspired?

That day, overlooking the Pacific Ocean with sweat pouring down my face and heart pounding in my chest, I had an epiphany.  For the past twenty years, fat hadn't been the problem.  Fear was the problem.  As a child, I'd been absolutely fearless.  I was an avid equestrian, always craving higher jumps and faster courses.  I was a ski bunny with a need for speed, infuriating ski instructors across the country with my refusal to "make the pie" because I thought it was more fun to go straight down the slopes like a bat out of hell.  I'd had no fear because I had no concept of failure.  I could do anything.  Somewhere along the line, life had beaten that fearlessness out of me.  I had somehow become timid.  I don't know when it happened or why.  But what I realized on that mountain was how much I'd been letting fear run my life without even knowing it.  At work, I'd been shying away from acute patients for fear that I'd make a mistake and kill them.  I'd skipped out on trying countless new things because I feared being judged if I wasn't good at them.  I hadn't skiied in years because I was afraid I was too out of shape to enjoy it.  I hadn't ridden a horse in far too long because I feared the inevitable disappointment I would feel when I wasn't as good at it as I used to be.  I'd never really pushed myself all the way in a race because, if I truly tried my best and still finished poorly, there were no excuses except that my best wasn't good enough.  And now, I was considering giving up on CrossFit, something that had brought me moments of intense joy, because of my fear of failure.  Was I really ready to let go of that joy just because it's hard to achieve?  Was I going to let my life be run by an endless path of metaphorical left turns?  I didn't want to walk in circles of mediocrity.  I wanted more.  I wanted to find out what was up the next hill and to the right.  Perhaps that nagging voice in my head was right.  Maybe skinny isn't worth it.  But feeling happy, healthy, and alive is sure as hell worth it.  And if there's one thing I knew, it was that I'd never felt more alive than I did on that mountain... except, perhaps, after twelve minutes of jumping on a stupid box and swinging a stupid kettlebell.

On top of Buzzard's Peak

As I descended the mountain, I felt something I hadn't felt in years: free.  Not free from fear; I was still scared to go back to CrossFit, scared to suck at it, and scared to make an ass out of myself in front of my badass coaches and the beastly strong athletes at the box.  But I felt free from the crippling restrictions that fear had carried with it.  Someone smarter than myself once said, "Courage is not the absence of fear, but the mastery of it."  Maybe it's okay to be afraid, as long as you don't let that fear rule your life and stop you from doing what you love.  Maybe fear should be used as a motivator instead of a restriction.  Maybe anything truly worth doing is a little bit scary.  Maybe if I could master my fear, I would be rewarded with joys I hadn't even imagined yet.  I wasn't sure.  But I was determined to find out.

The next week, I went back to CrossFit for my final Elements class.  The coaches didn't bat an eye and welcomed me back without question (although Tammy did admit, months later, that she was shocked that I'd returned after my previous fiasco).  I learned the lifts, went through another mini-WOD, and once again was rewarded with that crazy elation I'd been craving since my mountain top epiphany.  I was sore afterwards, but Tammy told me to come back the next day for my first "real" WOD.  I was terrified; if I was struggling with the Elements class, there was no way I could handle a full-scale WOD.  And surely there was no way I could keep up with the athletes in a regular CrossFit class. But Tammy insisted that I just needed to jump right in, and I trusted her.

I was so scared before my first "big girl" WOD that I was literally ill.  But as promised, I showed up at the box on a hot September day and met "the 8:30 crew", who would later become my friends, my inspiration, and my lifeline during tough workouts.  I can't for the life of me remember what my first real WOD was... I seem to have blocked it from my mind in some bizarre form of Post Traumatic WOD Disorder.  But I do remember that as soon as I saw the whiteboard, I wanted to vomit.  Complete and total panic.  But as Tammy started the timer and the ten-second countdown began, I made a conscious decision to channel that fear towards finishing the WOD, no matter how long it took or how ugly it was.

The WOD was brutal.  I do remember that it included a 400-meter run at the end of each round.  It was hard.  Really hard.  Probably the hardest thing I'd ever done.  I was slow, and the rest of the group finished way before me, despite using more weight on the lifts.  I was struggling in a huge way.  On my last 400m run, I desperately wanted to run back to the box and finish on a strong note, but my legs seemed to be failing me, and I found myself hobbling back at a walk.  Suddenly, a figure emerged from the shadows of the box and was running towards me.  It was one of the women who had long since finished the WOD.  She reached me and then started running beside me.  "I needed the extra run today," she told me with a smile.  I knew she was totally full of crap... there's no way ANYONE needs an extra run after that brutal of a workout.  But I was so grateful for the kind gesture that I didn't point out her blatant fib.  With this complete stranger at my side, talking me through every painful step, I was able to run the last 200 meters back to the box.  When I got there, the rest of the group (also complete strangers) cheered and high-fived me like I'd just finished a marathon.

And you know what?  It kind of felt like I had.  The post-WOD high that day was off the charts, and the sense of accomplishment was enormous.  That day was also my first taste of what an incredible community CrossFit TPA really is.  The kindness that was shown to me by these strangers, these athletes who were so superior to myself in so many ways but never acted like it, made the difference between a miserable defeat and a huge success.  I never would have finished that workout on a strong note without one woman's encouragement, and I never would have felt as good about it as I did if it hadn't been for an enthusiastic cheering squad at the finish line.

I went to the box three times that week, and four times the next week.  Before I knew it, I was WODing five days a week religiously.  I was hooked.  I was addicted to the amazing rush that came with every mastered lift, every PR, and every noticeable improvement.  Even the smallest accomplishments seemed enormous.  The two inches between the 18"box and the 20" box might as well have been a mile, and conquering the bigger box was almost a religious experience.  The first time I wasn't the last person to finish a "for time" WOD, I nearly cried with joy.  Every day, I surprised myself with the things I was able to do.  I was pushing my mind and my body to their absolute limits... and loving every single second of it.  I still love it today.

Now, it hasn't been all rainbows and butterflies.  There have been setbacks... I've been through 3 rounds of miserably painful knee injections, had my gallbladder removed with many complications resulting in multiple invasive procedures, and spent two weeks in the hospital as a result.  Even when I'm healthy, it hasn't always been pretty.  Sometimes I leave the box feeling discouraged after a tough WOD or a failed lift attempt.  I'm still almost always the last person to finish, or have the least number of rounds in AMRAP WODs.  I still can't do a pull-up without a big fat black band, and handstand push-ups and double unders still feel like pipe dreams.  I still walk into the box every day and panic a little bit when I see the whiteboard.  But despite my moans of protest every time I see that board, there is always a soft voice in my head that tells me, "You've got this."

That little voice follows me out of the box every morning and stays with me through every day.  It's the same voice that calmly reassures me at work when I get the call that a cardiac arrest patient is three minutes out and coming into one of my rooms... the voice reminds me that I know my job and know what to do to give that patient the best chance.  It's the same voice that quietly but firmly fights back when my insecure inner fat girl rears her ugly head and tries to make me feel bad about myself.  It's the voice that has talked me into getting back out on the ski slopes, and that will no doubt be gently pushing me when I am ready to get back in the saddle and start horseback riding again.  That voice tells me every day that I am good enough, smart enough, and strong enough to succeed.  And I think I'm finally starting to believe that little voice, because for the first time in my life, I feel confident.  Not confident for a fat girl... just confident.  Period.  And that is a truly amazing feeling.  I never thought I would consider myself to be strong, or brave, or an athlete.  I'm starting to feel like I might be all of those things... and so much more that I haven't even discovered yet.

Early in my CrossFitting adventures

Today, I can't believe that I ever almost gave up on CrossFit due to fear.  I can't even begin to describe all of the ways that CrossFit TPA has changed my life.  I've gained strength, both emotional and physical, beyond anything I ever could have hoped for back in February.  To date, I've lost 114 pounds.  I can front squat 145 pounds, dead lift 245 pounds, and have knocked a full 5 minutes off of my pre-CrossFit 5K PR.  I have survived Fran, Cindy, Colin, and most recently, Angie (barely).  On New Years Eve, I completed my first "prescribed" WOD (FGB, for those of you who are CrossFitters) and PRed in the Harmony Silvester 5K.    I've gone from a 2XL to a medium (even have one pair of small shorts that sorta-kinda-fit)... from a 24/26 to a 10.  But one of the greatest things I've gained from CrossFit is an incredible group of athletes who have welcomed me with open arms, encouraged me through every step of every WOD, cheered me to all of my PRs, and supported me through my toughest moments.  The coaches, who I found so fiercely intimidating in the beginning, ended up being some of the kindest, most supportive, most inspirational people I've ever met, and I can't imagine taking this journey without them.  I feel so incredibly lucky to be a part of such a wonderful community, and I truly believe that my life has been changed epically for the absolute better by the amazing people I've met through CrossFit.  TPA isn't just a box... it's a family.  I don't think any of my accomplishments would seem as big or feel as sweet without them by my side.  To think that I almost missed out on all of it due to fear is mind-boggling to me.

The TPA family after an awesome Christmas Eve WOD

Post-NYE WOD... strong is beautiful. :)

Which brings me to the purpose of this novel-length post and the point of this blog.  (I swear, they won't always be this long!).  I've been thinking a lot lately about what I would do with my life if I knew I couldn't fail... if I had no fear.  Which got me to thinking, what is really stopping me from doing those things?  So what if I fail?  If there's anything I learned in 2012, it's that you don't have to be great, or even good at something to enjoy it and benefit from it.  Which is why I have decided that 2013 will be dedicated to overcoming my fears, living like there is no such thing as failure, and going balls to the wall in everything I do.

From this attitude, Twelve Months of Scared Sh*tless was born.  Each month of this new year, I will do at least one thing that absolutely terrifies me.  I'm talking about things that literally make me want to vomit when I think about them.  Because in my experience, those are the things that really change you.  And this year, I'm embracing change.  I'm embracing fear.  And I'm going to write about it all in this blog.  Not because I care if people read it... but because I want to be able to look back at this in the years to come and laugh about the silly things that scared me, and how much better my life is for having done them anyways.

Some of the twelve months are already covered.  January was the Harmony Polar Plunge (because anyone who has ever seen the Connoquenessing Creek knows that there is nothing scarier than that water... not to mention the fact that it was 20 degrees outside and snowing.  But that's a story for another post.)  In May, I will conquer my fear of distance running and complete the Pittsburgh Half Marathon, even though the thought of running more than 5 miles makes me want to cry.  In August, I will be running the Tough Mudder with Team TPA.  In September, I am looking into the Ragnar Overnight Relay Race from San Francisco to Calistoga (anyone game?).  Also possibly on the agenda: a triathlon, skydiving, rock climbing, and repeat appearances at the Zombie Run and Oyster Race.  The schedule is not written in stone yet, and I'm definitely open to suggestions.  My friend Lynn has agreed to join me in Twelve Months of Scared Sh*tless, and if anyone else is interested in conquering their fears this year, we would love to have more people join us in our adventures.  But whether it's jumping out of an airplane, finishing an Iron Man, or just taking that first scary step in that first scary run, I challenge all of you to do something, anything, that scares you this year.  I challenge you to challenge yourselves, to find and ignore your mental and emotional limits, and to push yourself to your physical ones.  I challenge you to master your fear.  You'll be amazed by what you have to gain when you lose your inhibitions.  I hope that you all will share your Scared Sh*tless experiences with me so that we can all grow, change, and get stronger together.  And above all, I hope that this year is as incredible for all of us as 2012 was for me.  Something tells me that it will be even better.

Happy 2013, everyone. Make it count.

3... 2... 1... go!

Down 114lbs and ready for anything!