Dear Diary,

Why is it that the numbers we see on the scale seem so dang heavy? Why does the simple thought of even stepping on one bring the bravest among us to our knees?

When we pause and take a look at the past, many of us can identify specific weight-related traumas experienced at a very young age. I remember one incident as if it happened yesterday.


I was sitting quietly in PE Class with 30 other boys and girls on the very first day of second grade. The teacher was presenting her plans for the year ahead, but I didn’t hear much of what she said. My attention was focused on the tall, professional-looking scales standing by her desk. 

I felt anxious because I thought I knew what was coming, and I was right. We were all about to be measured and weighed.

Names were called in alphabetical order. Students filed one by one to the front of the room. Height was measured first, and then weight. At each step, our teacher called out the results for her assistant to record.

Before my turn, it was Alice with her long, curly red hair who weighed the most at 84 pounds. As the class erupted in laughter, she was overcome with sadness. Alice lowered her head and my heart ached for her. 

I think I blacked out after that until after my name was called. In fact, I don’t even remember walking to the front of the room or how tall I was. What I clearly recall was hearing “82 pounds” and the laughter that followed like it was yesterday. I’ll also never forget how my face burned with shame.


I still wonder why our teacher did not recognize that some of us might be more sensitive to this process than others. She could have easily recorded the results quietly instead of shouting them out for all the world to hear.

In the grade school years that followed, participating in PE class was always the worst. I never could do a pull-up, and I hated having to run around the football field as a standard measurement of fitness. During the hotter Texas months of the year, my inner thighs would rub together and cause painful rashes.

I have since tried to bury the humiliation I felt that day in second grade and on all the other days I was called names (like “fatty”) and made fun of by mean boys on the playground.


I recently ran across a few old letters I had written when I was eight and attending a Brownie Scout summer camp. In one, I told my mom I had been trying hard to stick to my diet. In another, I told her how much fun I had singing songs around the campfire one night but then apologized because we had also made s’mores and I ate one of them.

I cannot imagine my mom ever sending me off to camp with food restrictions, but my weight was still obviously on my mind.


It took me 64 years to find a permanent solution to my weight issues. What I learned will work for anyone willing to commit to the process (which has nothing to do with a prescribed diet plan).

The beauty of knowing this process is that it can be applied to solve small problems or used to help you turn ambitious ideas into reality – and, I am certified to teach it.

Until next week,


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Lisa Boyer