I had my first panic attack when I was around 15, a little over 40 years ago. Fortunately for me, I’ve had very few since. Unfortunately for me, at that moment, I was standing on a stage. Picture 80s me with 80s hair in an 80s home sewn taffeta tea length “gown” in a beauty pageant inside a hotel ballroom near the World Trade Center. A beloved high school teacher approached me, months prior to that pivotal, panicky moment, telling me she’d heard about an upcoming pageant, err scholarship program, with the reigning Miss Texas as a judge. She thought I should enter. See, I was a pretty smart kid until it was time to talk in public. Crowds weren’t my thing – still aren’t. This teacher had pushed me as far as she could. She wondered if facing fears straight on would cure me of my phobia. It would be good for me, yes? That is how I found myself inexplicably culled from 200 to top 50, then down to 25. I was elated! Why, this was a dream come true. Yet, backstage in this ballroom, where a huge disco ball hung over the audience, I was lined up with 25 other similarly aged girls I did not know. Some of them had done this same pageant for consecutive years. A few of them had their own hair and makeup people. Not a soul spoke to me backstage, nor did I approach anyone. I felt out of my league. What was a country bumpkin doing here in the first place? A director woman wearing a headset was making the rounds. “Talent is next,” she barked at us. “Get your costumes on, ladies!” The words choked in my throat, but I forced out a whisper loud enough for her to realize, as our eyes met, that I was desperately seeking information. “What do I wear?” I croaked. “What’s your talent?” she spat within an inch of my face. “I’m giving a speech?” I softly bemoaned. She responded, “You think you’re giving a speech, or you know?” I stammered. She directed me, as directors do, to just wear what I had on. Minutes later, the others returned. Dancers were in leotards and sequins. Singers were in snazzy casual outfits. Piano players were in dramatic ball gowns. But the girl holding court at the front of the line, the 4-year Dallas Miss Teen Pageant veteran contestant, who looked exactly like Phoebe Cates (yo, 80s kids), was in full theatrical mode. Shabby dress, apron, hair kerchief, broom – I hadn’t been to many theaters in my life, but apparently, she had. She was slated to sing Matchmaker from Fiddler on the Roof. This was not going to end well for me. In that moment, as the Phoebe doppelganger was running vocal scales and the dancers were all practicing their choreography, I realized that I was about to vomit. At least, I hoped it was vomit. The other expulsion option would be far worse. Moments later, my name was called. Did she vomit? Did she make it to a trashcan? More on that later.
Health journeys are my thing. I am always looking, not for a fountain of youth, but for a way to stay alive and thrive. I read the medical studies. I follow the naturopaths, the homeopaths, and the functional medicine gurus. Stay off meds. Keep weight down. Control blood sugar. Eat real food. I restrict my diet and up my movement as only a person who lived to tell the tale about cancer is prone to do. My father left this world at 91, still trying to replumb a bathroom and able to drive a class A motorhome. I intend to exceed him, both in age and quality of life. Recently,
one of my sons came to me with an idea. “Mom, you should really do this 75 Hard challenge with me. It’s intense, but it would be so good for you. There’s a lot of working out, but its more about mental toughness.” That’s how I find myself, at this very moment, on day 42 of 75, working out twice a day (once outdoors), eating a low FODMAP modified carnivore diet, avoiding all sugar and alcohol, reading motivational book after motivational book, drinking a full gallon of water each day, and taking daily progress pictures. The pictures are the worst. Some vaguely familiar but very old woman keeps popping up in those shots. Anyone who knows what’s going on has asked me why. Why are you doing this to yourself? Why would you subject yourself to two long workouts each day? Don’t you deserve a break or some chocolate or a taco or a glass of wine? What are you, some sort of self-punisher? The only response that seems to shut people down is this one: because it is hard. I am a firm believer that doing hard things is good for us. I think this world has a lot of problems caused by those who’ve never had to do any hard things. Complacency, entitlement, and apathy are tools of the weak. I felt this way when I birthed babies at home. I feel like this when I practice delayed gratification. I feel this same feeling on this so-called mental toughness challenge. You cannot grow in a space where you aren’t challenged, aren’t inspired, aren’t a bit uncomfortable. Maybe that’s just me.
I remember walking onto that stage in 1983. I recall approaching the microphone. I did the one thing they told me not to do – I looked at the crowd. So many bright lights. So many people. I took a deep breath. I pushed back tears. I told a story about my grandfathers, about patriotism, about the American flag – how it morphed and grew, just like an entire country morphed and grew, and just like we would all morph and grow. I ended with my best 15-year-old version of “you gotta stand for something or you’ll fall for anything” mantra. I exited stage left with scattered applause and one yell from my boyfriend in the audience. Predictably, the Matchmaker won the pageant. I placed 10th. You would not have known that by the feeling in my heart, however. That was the first time I ever felt such a sense of pride in myself. Hard things are good. The glass of wine I will have on day 76 will be good, too.
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