“Try Harder” Wasn’t the Answer: My Path Away from Shoulding

Have you ever had a moment, frozen in time from your adolescence, that still echoes in your adult mind? For me, it was the sound of construction bangs and the roar of laughter in a 7th-grade class in a temp building. 

I don’t remember what class I was in, but I will remember forever what happened that day. 

There were loud banging noises, because they were building and paving the road by the school.  Whatever class I was in required all of us to get up for the art supplies for the project we were doing. I was sitting at a table by myself, which was unusual for me. I usually got along with people pretty well, and could find people to sit with in most classes. 

Some of the loud bangs would rumble and shake the building we were in. The first time I got up to get more markers lined up with one of the loud shaking bangs. When I sat down I noticed one of the tables in the corner looking over at me and laughing. 

I could feel my face turn red… although it didn’t make much sense to me why they would be laughing at me. I tried to ignore it, and assumed it had nothing to do with me. I was far from one of the “popular” kids, but I got along with everyone.

Then, it kept happening. The really loud bangs that shook the room didn’t happen every time, but if I got up and there was any noise, the table in the corner would laugh. And the laughing starting to grow to the other tables as well. It was like an unspoken joke… well, unspoken to me at least. So, I assumed I was the butt of it.

My adult, master’s degree in counseling, brain tells me I have no evidence that they were laughing at me. Yet, my 13 year old, 7th grade, self-conscious brain did not think that was possible. At that moment, I knew they were laughing at me. 

I also knew it was because I was overweight, and they must have thought it was possible for me walking in the building to have that effect. I felt helpfulness in that moment. “Could they be right? Am I really that big?”

Eventually, I just stayed sitting instead of getting more art supplies. Believe me, that was a big deal. I loved art projects and being creative. So, staying in my seat with only one marker for the rest of class was not a small choice. 

I was distracted from class even, listening when other people got up to make sure I wasn’t being dramatic… but I didn’t hear laughing from the moment I chose to stay in my seat. Even with the loud rumbling construction noises that continued to happen. The laughing had subsided.

Eventually, I felt dumb for sitting that long. Maybe the reason they weren’t laughing was because whatever joke they were telling had played its course. And, I really wanted whatever project I was doing to look good!

I chose to risk it to get more supplies. 

The moment I got up, one of the loudest noises from the construction outside happened, and it shook the whole room.

The roar of laughter, also the loudest one yet, felt like daggers coming from every table in the class. I did my best not to show how upset I was feeling. A part of me may have even believed them, and didn’t blame them for laughing at me. 

I didn’t have a lot of confidence at that time, especially about my body. I didn’t look like the other girls at school, and it often made me think something was wrong with me. 

Even my family members seemed like they had an easier time staying fit or skinny. 

I like sports, I always have. My family are “sports people.” My siblings are very athletic! They played many different sports going up, and they still do now. They both even married wonderful, kind, athletic partners. I have a lot of memories of wanting to play, and choosing to watch instead. “I’m not that good,” I would think, or tell them.

It’s a nuanced blend of immense happiness for my loved ones’ athleticism and health, coupled with a quiet ache of feeling unable to fully share in that physical experience myself. It’s a complex mix of joy, admiration, and a lingering reminder of my own body image struggles, especially when it comes to feeling physically enough to participate and make a difference.

I also feel at times that I don’t fit in physically in my family. Since 4th or 5th grade, I have felt that my body was not able to do the things I wanted it to. I could watch, and even think I understood, but then my body couldn’t do it. It was extremely frustrating. I would almost will my body to do what I knew it was supposed to do.

As a kid, before I could play on a girls softball team, I was on my brother’s baseball team. With the boys. They were all better than me, but it was coach pitch… so I figured I had a chance! I had the same feeling that I needed to will my body to behave correctly. One day in practice, I was batting, and I swung SO hard. I could see in my mind what I was going to do.

It was a strike. Apparently, I had closed my eyes, really tight. I couldn’t even see the ball. The coach and my dad even talked about how I actually swung before the ball crossed the plate. They talked to each other about how they had never seen anyone do that before.

In high school I was on the soccer team. Not because I was “good” at soccer exactly, but because everyone made it. I also played through my childhood, so did my brother and sister, so I understood the game pretty well. 

I did not have the endurance to run the whole field, no matter how hard I tried. 12 minute miles were my norm. I was disappointed in myself. Our school was not very good at sports, so I still made the team.

My sister is 6 years younger than I am, and when I was playing soccer in high school, she was about 10. My dad was her soccer coach, and I was the “assistant.” 

I remember being the kind of assistant coach that did more of the administrative roles than the physical ones. Not because I didn’t want to be able to participate or help with the physical parts of coaching, but I was not quite as good at it. I would talk to the moms, and plan the orange slice and snack schedule instead of coming up with the drills.

One day, my sister, dad, and I went to the track at the middle school for some endurance training. We brought water, and sunscreen, and just planned to start with running on the track. 

My sister was great, she seemed like she had endless energy. Not me. I couldn’t even make it through one lap without stopping. 

It was embarrassing. I assumed it was just pushing through. That’s what I needed to do. It was about being determined, and not giving up! That is what resilient people do.

Not giving up felt like I was good at. In school, I often had to just keep going. Homework seemed to take me 2-3 times longer than others, and I somehow figured it out. I ended up getting really good grades. So, that meant I needed to do that now. 

I wanted to stop, and give up, but I didn’t. I kept going. My running wasn’t really that much better… but I did throw up. 

I was disappointed in myself for not trying hard enough. Now, I can look at this and think it may have been a message from my body to slow down or take a break. Back then, I thought I should be able to do this, my little sister is doing it no problem.

The moment I start to think about how I “should” be now, I remember one of my favorite pieces of advice: “Don’t should on yourself. Shoulds are not based in reality.”

Could it be possible that things are different for everyone? That “trying harder,” is not always the answer? That life is not as binary as I was either “good,” or “not good,” because of my physical endurance? 

Although this is an important way to look at life, and one that I encourage others to do as a parent and a therapist, my adolescent brain had a lot more life to live before coming to this conclusion. I’m thankful for this perspective now, especially since my physical abilities did not improve since being diagnosed with MS. 

At times, it was difficult for me to walk at all, much less keep up with the “traffic” in the grocery store. Don’t even get me started on the sensory sensitivity of being there… those lights… The familiar feeling of not being good enough bubbled up again for me at first. The feeling that I just needed to “push through,” when things were hard. 

I felt bad for being in the way of other shoppers, or walking slowly with my cane and wondering what others thought about me. The old thoughts of not being good enough, or just trying harder was not far in my memory. I figured I could just walk faster, try harder, do more, and then things would get easier. 

I had physical therapy, and tried that. Push through the struggle, and just everything. Push my self to the point that my body was yelling at me to stop, and I would create new limits for myself.

But, no. That was not how it worked. Fatigue would demolish my goals. Then my body felt so heavy It was hard for me to even lift my arm. It would take me longer to get things done, and it was much harder to focus. Instead, I found, if I just rest when my body is telling at me, even if I think it should be different, I would be able to get things done at my own pace.

I’m very lucky to have such loving people in my life that accept me for who I am, and love me. Even with their athletic skills, I have never felt left out by my family members. 

One of the biggest examples of this is when I was with my sister exploring the south. We were in Myrtle Beach, and were getting ready to go to the beach with some military boys we met at a bar. I remember telling her I wish I looked better in a swimming suit. She looked so good, and I felt less of myself.

But, why? I didn’t even like these guys, or have any interest in them romantically. They repeatedly showed racist and sexist behaviors when we were at the bar. Also, my body having more curves on it was actually considered more attractive when we were in the south than in Colorado.

I just wanted to be accepted. I wanted to feel good enough. 

My sister told me she wished I didn’t feel that way, and told me she thought I was beautiful. Her love and acceptance meant more to me than these boys I just met, lived miles away, and had questionable values. Her love was not just words, she shows me all the time how genuinely she loves me.

I’ve felt so loved and accepted from my whole family throughout my life. My brother and dad supported me in my sporting events, even when if I (and the team) played terribly. My mom spent extra time shopping with me when I couldn’t find clothes that fit me right. Even when it felt like an endless hostage mission.

I have been so lucky to meet the fit and athletic partners my siblings have found and married. They have never made me feel that I was not good enough, or that I needed to be different than I was. They have been an amazing part of my family, and continued to help me feel valuable. When they have sporting events, I do my best to attend and cheer them on, and show them support. 

Having these moments, and allowing myself to accept who I am, has allowed me to continue healing some of the wounds that were created in my adolescence. It’s cliche, but I have challenged the belief that my pants size determined my worth, or if I couldn’t run a mile in 6 minutes it meant I wasn’t good enough. 

I have worked with a client that was told “fat people are lazy,” by her family growing up. At first it was hard for me, and I could see it was hard for her to say those things to me as her therapist. I knew she didn’t want to offend me. There were moments I believed this stereotype myself. “If I just tried harder, I would be better… like everyone else.”

I have learned not to blindly believe that. My husband and I went on a diet a while ago. We were very committed and worked hard to have healthy salads every day. We spent time with food prep on the weekends, and sometimes it took the whole weekend to get everything ready. I learned to kind of like it. After a few months, he was noticing changes in his body, and even lost some weight.

Not me. I actually gained weight. At first I felt disappointed in myself, maybe I should’ve tried harder. 

But, no. That’s not the truth. I tried very hard. I was very committed, I did my best. I tried harder, nothing changed. He even told me he felt I was more committed to these changes we were making then he did, and yet I didn’t have results. I kept trying, we went on walks and I was even doing squats in my office between clients.

I never had the results he did. I didn’t lose weight, mostly I would be exhausted, and dizzy, and find it hard to focus. Now, I look at this time and think some of the symptoms began to have may have been missed signs of MS.

I’ve learned being overweight, or walking with a cane, or needing a wheelchair for long trips has nothing to do with my value. I have also learned trying harder is not the answer. Sometimes, we can be trying as hard as we need to, and we may need to look at our expectations instead. 

I hope we can all look at ourselves with kindness, embrace the beautiful complexity of being human, and never limit our worth to our physical abilities or perceived imperfections. You matter, and you are important – exactly as you are.

After writing this post, I realized how deep these roots go, and how hard it was to share it with my family, much less the “world.” (Okay, I don’t want to be dramatic. Although I would love to reach a large audience with my words, I don’t think I’m there… yet!)

When I shared it with my family, my sister sent me an image that gives a beautiful summary of this message. I would like to leave you with it.