The other day, I found an old diary from fourth grade. On the very first page it says, “My name is Alison Berkley and I weigh 92 pounds, which sucks.”
It saddened me to realize despite being an athlete my whole life, I have been struggling with my weight since I was 10 years old.
As a competitive gymnast, I was made acutely aware of my “extra weight” by coaches who fancied a tough love approach. They set weight goals and put me on diets, made me do extra situps and denied me sweets at team parties. It’s tough to wrap your mind around the idea of a diet when you’re 10, when the promise of a McDonald’s Happy Meal or a soft-serve ice cream cone from Dairy Queen is still the basis of your parent’s primary bartering power.
I was taught from an early age that my body would be judged – literally. My coaches said I needed better muscle definition in my stomach if I wanted to get better scores. It didn’t matter that I was a powerful kid who could execute some of the most technical tricks on my team on the uneven bars or throw high-flying flips in my floor routine with the power of a freight train. They were more concerned about my chubby stomach.
It turned out that those proverbial judges would follow me around for the rest of my life, long after I was done with gymnastics meets. It wasn’t until some 25 years later I got my weight under control. Not just under control, but where I’ve always wanted it to be.
I’m 5 feet tall and have always weighed between 120 and 130. I’ve never had that innate, natural athletic ability like a lot of my friends or been one of those people who can pick up a new sport and make it look effortless. But I’ve always been strong and healthy and willing to work hard. I love to challenge myself, to scare myself a little, get my heart racing. That’s what attracted me to outdoor sports like surfing, snowboarding, mountain biking and rock climbing.
Because I did all these sports, I was never fat, just what I would describe as stocky (or “thick through the midsection” as my dad once put it). People would always say things like: “But you’re all muscle. Muscle weighs more than fat.” Or, “It’s just the way you’re built” and “you’re really proportional,” whatever that means.
Despite fat-free diets (I remember thinking Gummi Bears, pretzels and diet Pepsi were perfectly acceptable staples because they didn’t contain a single gram of fat) and the low-carb craze, despite juice fasts and working out and running a gazillion miles, I always had that little extra something, the little Buddha belly, the bagel, or whatever term of endearment I could come up with for that area from my ribs to my hips.
The best part about living in a mountain town is guys don’t seem to care if you’re stick-thin or even slender. In a climate where most of the year is spent in fleece jackets and wool caps, no one seems to pay attention to what’s underneath, as long as you’re capable of keeping up on the hill. Guys here love women they can share their love for the outdoors with. Colorado in general is just one of those no-makeup-necessary kinds of places. (Yes, even in Aspen. OK, I meant to say Carbondale.)
Maybe living in Colorado helped me find the freedom to explore my health and fitness without society holding a mirror in my face. It allowed me to do things I love to do, and discover how to feel good, not just look good. I stopped eating processed foods, focusing instead on organic fruits, vegetables and whole grains. I started to incorporate healthy fats (avocados, raw nuts, coconut oil) and lean proteins (mostly fish and chicken) into my diet. I discovered Bikram’s yoga (also known as “hot yoga”), which enabled me to do all those demanding sports without getting injured. And I learned about this little thing called “balance.” Like, I still drink alcohol. I do live in Aspen, after all. I do live.
I lost 25 pounds in six months. I went from a size 8 to a 2, which means I no longer have to get everything shortened. And something funny happened: My performance improved beyond my wildest dreams. I can run faster, bike harder, climb better and go longer easier.
It only took me 25 years to figure out I’m the only judge who matters. That’s all it really took to finally even up the score.
Freelance columnist Alison Berkley can be reached at alison@berkleymedia.com.
