Then I found out I was pregnant—and I didn’t know if the child was my husband’s or the rapist’s. I know this sounds like the plot of a twisted daytime soap opera, but it actually happened to me.
After that, I knew I had to talk to my husband and tell him about the pregnancy. In hysterical tears, I told him everything that had happened in that pet store parking lot. He held me tightly while I sobbed and spewed out all of the horrible details.
He was completely stunned. He promised me that we’d get through this. He told me that I could get therapy, counseling, anything I needed to recover from this attack, anything at all. We could try to track down this guy and press charges, if I wanted to. We could do anything I needed. He would be right by my side.
I was so grateful for my husband’s unconditional support. But even with his love and encouragement, I was a complete mess. I was still reeling from the attack, and I was having frequent panic attacks and nightmares where I’d bolt awake with my heart pounding out of my chest, nauseous, dizzy, and sweating like I’d just sprinted through a marathon. I’ve always been a sunny, positive person, but during this chapter of my life, I didn’t feel like “myself” at all. On any given day, I’d swing between feeling anxious…and feeling numb and emotionless.
Ultimately, I miscarried and lost the baby. I continued working full-time and caring for my other two kids. I went to PTA meetings and baked cookies for bake sales. I dutifully visited my therapist’s office once a week. Life just sort of…carried on. But I really wasn’t OK.
Even though everything about my life seemed “fine” to the casual observer, inside I was incredibly anxious, stressed, and unhappy. I couldn’t figure out how to make myself feel better. My medication of choice became food.
I started snacking mindlessly all throughout my workday—chips, chocolate, whatever was lying around—just to distract myself from all of the complicated, uncomfortable emotions I was feeling. Back at home, after work, I’d make a huge platter of Brie cheese, bread, crackers, more chips, and wine, and I’d eat the entire thing while zoning out in front of the TV, watching shows I didn’t even enjoy.
I was trying to escape my own body, trying to tune out everything I was thinking and feeling. And you know what? It worked. Food can be a really effective escape hatch, at least temporarily. But of course, eating constantly does carry some unwanted consequences.
I wound up gaining almost forty pounds in the span of just a few months. I’m a short woman with a petite build, so this felt like an enormous amount of excess weight on my frame. Now, on top of feeling distraught over the rape, and the miscarriage, I also felt ashamed for not having enough willpower to eat properly and stay thin. Misery on top of misery.
For about a year, I tried every diet known to womankind. Weight Watchers. South Beach. Atkins. Jenny Craig. I counted calories, carbs, and points. I boiled vats of tasteless, bland, low-sodium cabbage soup. I starved myself with carrot sticks, celery stalks, and sugar-free candies, and then binged on massive plates of enchiladas to “reward” myself for being so “good.”
I got myself into a sick, twisted cycle of dieting and bingeing, losing and regaining, over and over and over. At one point, my body was so malnourished and depleted from the constant dieting, my hair started to fall out.
Watching those blonde strands swirl down the shower drain, I had an epiphany.
“This shouldn’t be happening. I need to stop dieting and figure out some other way to lose weight, because this isn’t healthy.”
It didn’t happen overnight, but in the months that followed, I figured out how to start treating my body like a friend instead of an enemy.
I taught myself how to slow down and actually taste and savor my food, instead of stuffing myself mindlessly. I decluttered my closet and got rid of my “beige, boring mom” clothes—anything that made me feel tired or frumpy. I decluttered my circle of friends, too, and I ended a couple of relationships. Back then, I had a lot of “friends” who didn’t act like true friends at all, and who only wanted to get together to eat poorly, drink, and complain about their bodies, whine about their husbands, or gossip about other women. I didn’t want that type of negativity rubbing off on me anymore, so I distanced myself from those people. It was like a “detox” for my social life. I felt lighter and happier immediately.
I also challenged myself to be a little braver, and to do things that scared me. Little things, like posing for a family photo with my kids, even though I didn’t feel “thin enough” yet. Gradually, I challenged myself to do bigger things, like enrolling in a certification program to become a life coach, and eventually, quitting my job in real estate so that I could do coaching full-time.
Week by week, month by month, I continued to shed all types of things: old clothes that I didn’t like wearing, depressing diet books, stacks of magazines filled with unrealistic images, toxic relationships, and social obligations that bored me.
As I continued to strip away everything that had been weighing me down, an amazing thing happened: I lost weight, too. It happened gradually and naturally, without any calorie-counting or obsessive behavior. It just…happened.
My entire life was transforming, and my body was transforming right along with it.
It felt like a miracle—and it was a miracle that I wanted to share with as many women as possible.
In the years that followed, I started offering weight loss coaching to women in my community, and then eventually to clients that I met online, based all over the world. Women loved hearing my personal story of transformation, and they loved my “no diet” approach to weight loss, which felt so different from anything they’d been encouraged to do before. Over and over, clients emailed me to say “I’m losing weight, just like you said I would, but that’s just the beginning. I also found the courage to apply for my dream job!” or “I finally launched my online jewelry shop!” or “I booked that vacation that I’ve been putting off forever!” or “I asked that cute guy at the dog park out on a date.”
I noticed a distinct pattern: when women stop dieting, and stop obsessing over their size, ironically, that’s when they finally start losing weight. In the process, they become braver and bolder. They start asking for raises at work. They start demanding more help around the house. They lunge after exciting opportunities instead of hiding and waiting until “later.” Their lives expand in all kinds of ways. This isn’t just about “weight loss.” It’s a female empowerment revolution. It’s about treating yourself like a woman who matters, and who’s worthy of respect.
I wanted to write a book about my story—a book that would guide women through a weight loss process unlike anything they’d seen or tried before. My clients told me, “Yes! I’d buy that book in a heartbeat.” My Facebook community—which had grown to over ten thousand fans by this point—echoed the excitement. “Do it!” “Write it!” “I want to buy a copy for my daughter!” “Please write it ASAP.”
I holed up for five days with Alexandra, my writing mentor, and poured out the book. Hundreds and hundreds of pages of material. Stories from my own life. Stories from my clients’ lives. Specific, actionable guidance on how to lose weight without harming yourself in the process—and guidance on how to become braver and feel unstoppable.
After that, we created a very detailed book proposal to describe why this book needed to get published, and why it would be a smash-hit success and sell millions of copies. (Well, hopefully!)
With that, it was time for me to start emailing literary agents. I needed to find someone who would believe in this book as much as I did.
I wish I could say that it was a quick and easy process. I wish I could tell you that I woke up the very next morning and three agents had already emailed me to say, “I love you! Your book is a work of sheer genius!”
But,