Looking the Part

Posted on May 7, 2014 by Jonah Soolman

Wow, I am hard pressed to remember an instance when something I read made me as angry as Juliann Schaeffer’s article in Today’s Dietitian entitled “Dietitians and Their Weight Struggles.”

In summary, the article contains quotes from dietitians who offer their opinions as to whether or not a dietitian’s weight and appearance should matter. Although the piece improves at the end when some sanity and rationality is injected into it, the beginning quotes from one of my fellow dietitians are so shamefully off base that I feel deeply embarrassed to be associated with her.

“If someone has a weight issue, then in my opinion, they should choose a specialty that does not conflict with being overweight.”

“If you can’t make it work for you, how can you make the case for someone else?”

“. . . the reality is that health care is a business, and people do judge you by appearance. Is it right or wrong? That doesn’t make a difference. It’s a business, and it is what it is whether we like it or not.”

“I wouldn’t think much of advice from a cardiologist if I knew he had had a heart attack.”

So wait, are we dietitians supposed to list our BMIs on our resumes and websites now, or how does this work?

It is one thing for some personal trainers, chiropractors, life coaches, “nutritionists,” therapists, doctors, and other dietitian wannabes to go outside the scope of their expertise and give harmful dietary guidance, but when an actual dietitian represents the profession the way she has there is just no excuse for it. This is our wheelhouse. We should be better than that.

When I was an intern, I had a rotation in a bariatric surgery clinic where two dietitians worked. One was heavier, one was leaner. Some patients did not want to work with the heavier one because they questioned, “Look how heavy she is; how can she possibly help me?” Yet other patients did not want to work with the leaner dietitian because they worried, “Look how skinny she is; how can she possibly relate to what it is like to be fat?”

Last year, a new patient told me she almost cancelled her appointment because she was intimidated by what a “great athlete” I was. Just a few months ago, another new patient came to me all impressed that I had “beaten cancer.” Well, no, I did no such thing. She had misunderstood my online autobiography. When I told her that, she deflated like a balloon.

Let’s get real for a moment. The whole notion that a practitioner has to look or behave a certain way in order to help patients is incorrect. Out of all the questions I asked the surgeons I met with before my most recent back surgery, I never thought to ask who among them has back problems. But I should have because if a surgeon has back problems then it is logical to conclude he or she cannot help me with my issues, right? Or wait, I want a surgeon with back problems because he or she can relate to my experience, is that how it goes?

How about just finding the surgeon whose approach, experience, and demeanor made me feel most comfortable and confident? I know, crazy me and my outlandish notions.

During my first year as a personal trainer, few members were interested in my services. Although I had good relationships with many of them and they routinely asked me questions about exercise, few were willing to cross the line of actually hiring me. However, after I took two months off to ride my bike across the country, suddenly members were booking sessions with me left and right and my boss began to refer new clients my way, too. Other trainers treated me and my opinions with more respect. The gym even gave me a raise without me asking for it.

Come on.

Sure, more money and clients were great, but the driving force behind the upturn in business was so ridiculous that I felt insulted. It took riding my bicycle 4,000 miles, up and down mountain ranges, through all sorts of weather, for my expertise to be recognized and taken seriously? The ride did not make me a better trainer. If anything, I was a worse trainer after my trip because I was rusty from not having worked in two months. But hey, perception is all that matters to some people.

Right now, I have a patient who wants to be a CrossFit coach and feels she needs to lose 15-25 pounds in order to be taken seriously by potential clients. Sure, she has room for changes in her lifestyle, just like we all do, but she generally eats well and takes great care of herself. As disappointing as it is for her to hear, it seems her body just naturally belongs 15-25 pounds heavier than she would like it to be. Do I push her further down the path she feels obligated to follow, risking perhaps disordered eating or an eating disorder, as she sacrifices health for a number and a look, or do I guide her towards the reality that she can be a great trainer no matter her weight and appearance?

Due to my surgery, it has been seven weeks since I lifted weights and did any physical activity in earnest. Muscle atrophy is setting in. My shoulders and chest are smaller. My six pack is gone.

Am I a worse dietitian now than I was two months ago?

What if you did not know that major surgery had affected my fitness and you came in here and saw a scrawny dietitian without any context? Would you have less confidence in me than if you knew about my operation?

What if I had not undergone surgery and I just decided to take two months off from working out?

What if I had a healthy relationship with both physical activity and food, but my body just happened to be thinner, less muscular, or heavier than society feels its dietitians should look? Would you go elsewhere?

I have blogged about my athletic accomplishments, such as my mountain running, on a small handful of occasions because it can enhance patient care for them to understand that I am a human being with a life outside of this office and I face challenges just like everybody else. Perhaps patients garner some inspiration from those postings, but if anybody reads one and then comes to see me with the mindset, “Jonah is thin and Jonah is an athlete; therefore, he can help me,” God, that would just make me want to take all of the posts down. I just cannot be part of that act.

The purpose of self-disclosure is to enhance patient care, not to serve as an advertisement, not to capitalize on misconstrued ideas, and certainly not for a practitioner to defend or justify his or her behaviors or body shape.

I disagree with the notion that health care is a business. The first priority should be patient care, not money. If the dietitian I quoted earlier had her priorities in order, she would be helping to reeducate her patients and change a culture of misunderstanding rather than playing into it for profit. Giving people what they want and expect for the sake of financial reward does not justify providing poor care and perpetuating a myth.

Or maybe I should just play along and take up steroids, lest patients go elsewhere because I no longer look the part, right?

Come on.

He Said, She Said: Meal Plans

Posted on April 17, 2014 by Jonah Soolman

Creating meal plans based on calorie needs has been a staple of nutrition counseling for years. Is it time to say good-bye?

He Said

“The first session is about food. Every session after that is about why they [the patient] are not doing what I told them to do.”

That is how a seasoned colleague explained her work as a nutrition counselor to me when I was just starting out as a dietitian. With all due respect, the quote illustrates nutrition counseling gone awry, the result of an outdated, archaic, and ineffective approach that puts too much emphasis on information and too little on individuality and motivation.

A popular tool in dysfunctional nutrition counseling is the meal plan. While meal plans can take on different forms, the kind that I am referring to is based on an estimation of the patient’s calorie needs; those calories are then broken down into numbers of servings that said patient should consume from various food groups over the course of the day.

In theory, meal plans sound like a useful tool. From a dietitian’s standpoint, meal plans are easy to create, they give patients flexibility, and they put the responsibility for execution entirely on the patient’s shoulders. From a patient’s perspective, meal plans give a welcome sense of certainty and control, thereby temporarily relieving feelings of confusion and powerlessness. Just follow the meal plan and everything will be okay, right?

Unfortunately, the problems with these meal plans are extensive:

Estimates of the patient’s nutritional needs are not tremendously accurate. The most accurate means of measuring one’s resting metabolic rate is through direct calorimetry, which involves spending time in a chamber that measures the heat he or she generates. To my knowledge, direct calorimetry never happens outside of a research setting. Even direct calorimetry has its problems, and every other method available has larger sources of error. Practitioners like us use algorithms that estimate calorie needs based on height, weight, age, gender, and similar data. Attempts to quantify calories expended through physical activity introduce additional error. Calculations of one’s calorie needs are at best just rough ballpark estimates. Therefore, the whole foundation of the meal plan is shaky.

The reported calorie content of different foods can also be inaccurate. Whether due to faulty assumptions used in the calculations or labeling laws that allow for rounding off, what we believe to be the nutritional content of a given food is sometimes not quite true. Yet the numbers are taken too literally, and patients exhaust themselves with kitchen scales and measuring cups trying in vain to consume the exact number of prescribed calories, a goal that is virtually impossible to achieve.

The expectations put on meal plans are unrealistic. With genetics, environment, stress, and other variables heavily influencing health and weight outcomes, the notion that a meal plan can guarantee virtually any measure of success is nonsense and misleads patients.

Meal plans fuel the inaccurate “good food, bad food” dichotomy. Foods present on the plan are seen as “good,” while those that are absent are considered “bad.” One meal plan form that I used to use omitted some fruits for no other reason than space did not allow for a complete list, yet countless patients expressed criticism and fear of the fruits that did not appear on the plan.

Meal plans focus heavily on individual foods, but much of the foods we consume in real life are combined with other foods in unknown quantities. Even when we prepare foods at home, estimating, for example, the volume of beans in minestrone soup, or cheese on pizza, or oil used in a stir-fry with any degree of accuracy is a time-consuming and tedious challenge. When eating in a restaurant or buying prepared foods, forget it; there is virtually, or in many cases literally, no way to know. The meal plan paradigm of tracking portion sizes fails when portion sizes are uncertain.

Meal plans teach patients to follow external cues for their eating. This may work in the short term, but not in the long run. At best, relying on a meal plan delays the development of mindful-eating skills. If long-term change is to occur, it is virtually inevitable that one must learn to eat in response to internal cues.

Following in the footsteps of my more experienced colleagues, I put hundreds of patients on meal plans at the beginning of my career. Some of these patients saw short-term improvements in their health or weight, but I cannot recall even a single instance of a meal plan approach spawning long-term behavior change. When things inevitably fell apart, patients blamed themselves, but really the problem was the approach. For that reason, I recognized meal planning as the dated and ineffective technique that it is and almost entirely removed it from my counseling tool box.

The only exception is that I still use meal plans for some patients with eating disorders. Sometimes the stakes are so high that inadequate nutrition risks hospitalization or admission to an inpatient program, so in these cases I temporarily use meal plans in an effort to keep the patient safe. In the long run though, as the eating disorder is overcome, we leave the meal plan behind and work on mindful eating.

There are times I do devise lists of meal and snack ideas with my patients, but do not confuse these with the meal plans that I have discussed up to this point. Working together with my patients to devise individualized ideas for what they can eat in certain situations can be very helpful due to the customization and collaboration. The utility is quite different than just writing in some numbers on a meal plan sheet, handing it over to them, and then getting together next session to discuss why they are not following it.

She Said

To meal plan or not to meal plan, that is the question. A lot of people assume that since the majority of my patients are those with eating disorders, that I must use meal plans with all of my patients. This most definitely is not the case. When a patient first comes to see me, I spend the initial session (or two) learning about that patient: Why are they coming to see me? How have they been eating? At what point in their recovery are they? These are all questions that can help me decide whether a meal plan is indicated or not.

Meal plans, in my opinion, are training wheels for those struggling with feeding themselves adequately. Usually, if a patient has just left an inpatient or residential eating disorder treatment facility and is having a hard time eating all of her meals and snacks at home, I find that a meal plan can be very helpful to get her back on track. But, just like training wheels, the meal plan should not be permanent, and eventually the patient should be weaned off of it.

The ultimate goal that I want to help my patients achieve is the ability to engage in intuitive eating. In a nutshell, intuitive eating is eating when you are hungry, stopping eating when you are satiated, and eating what feels best to your body. This also means not eating according to external rules, but rather listening to your body and honoring its cues.

As I’ve mentioned before in other blogs, we are born with the innate ability to regulate our food intake. When a baby is hungry, she will cry until she is fed. When she is full, she will turn away from the offer of more food. Even toddlers still use internal cues to determine when and how much they want to eat. But, eventually, we begin to lose the ability to listen to our body’s cues when we start placing external regulations on our eating (e.g., eating according to a strict schedule, dieting, being a member of the clean plate club, etc.). This behavior causes us to lose touch with our body’s innate wisdom and can lead to disordered eating.

I rarely, if ever, use meal plans with my non-ED patients, although I’ve had many of them ask for one. I find that those patients who ask for meal plans are the ones that want to be told what, when and how much to eat and don’t trust themselves to feed themselves appropriately. They want to rely on external regulations around their eating, as they feel that if left to their own devices, they would devour an entire sheet cake in one sitting. In these instances, using a meal plan is not a good idea, as it just reaffirms in that patient’s mind that she is incapable of feeding herself solely by using her internal wisdom.

In sum, while I think meal plans can be a useful tool in ED recovery, they are not indicated in every instance. The ultimate goal is to relearn how to eat intuitively, and that means not relying on a meal plan, but instead listening to one’s gut.

Body Image and Self-Acceptance

Posted on April 8, 2014 by Jonah Soolman

Between the blogs Joanne and I have written, as well entries by others that we have shared, we have posted quite a bit lately about body image and self-acceptance. While the link between these topics and nutrition is likely obvious to some readers, it occurs to me that it might not be so apparent to others and an explanation is probably in order.

The driving force behind our food choices is multifaceted. When I gave a talk to the FDA last month, the participants and I brainstormed a list of factors that influence our eating: perceived nutritional value, health concerns, availability, cultural norms, emotions, ethics, allergies, culinary expertise, previous experiences, finances, taste, time, and personal goals, just to name a few.

Within personal goals often lies a desire to look different. Consider the following examples: A model severely restricts his or her eating, becoming anorexic in the process, in order to gain a certain look. A naturally-slender man, convinced that his lean frame is responsible for him still being single, forces himself to overeat in hopes of gaining weight and finding a partner. A husband tells his wife that she is “not ready for that dress yet” and so she diets, convinced that he will not be attracted to her until she loses four more pounds. A young lifeguard, self-conscious about being in a bathing suit all day, becomes bulimic.

Those are all real people who we know, either through our work or our personal lives, and they are all examples of individuals adapting unhealthy eating behaviors because of how they feel about their appearances. Therein lies the problem: More often than not, dissatisfaction with how we look leads not to healthier lifestyles, but to harmful behaviors.

Oftentimes, a deep issue is being displaced and playing itself out through one’s food choices. Therefore, in addition to working together with us on their eating, we encourage our patients, when appropriate, to work with a qualified therapist on severing any link they may have between their appearance or weight and their self-worth, and to love and accept themselves the way they are regardless of their size or shape.

As these issues fade away, space is created for a healthier, simpler, and more satisfying relationship with food.

Day 15: Acceleration

Posted on April 3, 2014 by Jonah Soolman

A few years ago, I spoke with a woman at the gym about the time she had to take off from work for cancer treatment. Upon her return, some of her co-workers treated her as if she had been on vacation, which infuriated her. As she explained to me, and I know first-hand, there is a big difference between using vacation time and going on medical leave.

Spending all day on the couch watching television might be fun and relaxing when you do it by choice, but being forced into it because there is virtually nothing else you are capable of doing is an entirely different matter. My first week home from the hospital was the slowest seven-day span I can remember.

As that first week came to a close, I made the decision to focus less on what I could not do and to instead emphasize the small indicators of progress that came with each passing day. Each evening right before going to bed, I wrote myself a quick note about what I had accomplished that day.

My whole perspective shifted. Powered by a more positive outlook, I have nudged myself to do just a little bit more each and every day, and the results have come at a rate so accelerated that I never would have expected it. Just one week ago, for example, I went outside for the first time after my operation and slowly shuffled around the block with Joanne’s help. Today, I walked six miles by myself.

Yesterday was my first post-operative appointment with my surgical team and they could not believe how well I am doing. They were floored that (1) I am already off of all of my pain medications, and (2) that I have been off of them for a week already. My baseline fitness going into the operation and my generally-healthy diet, they said, are likely significant factors into why I am recuperating so quickly.

That is probably true, but I like to think that my resolve to get off the couch and do something productive with my days also has something to do with it.

Everybody Belongs Somewhere

Posted on March 20, 2014 by Jonah Soolman

“I have chosen to reword and publish the following text that, when I first wrote it, was never intended for posting.”

Our patients come here with all sorts of opportunities for improvement, but the common theme is that virtually all of these conditions require long-term management. Eating disorders can be worked through and overcome, cholesterol levels can be improved and maintained, but nobody accomplishes these or similar feats after a single session. Whatever our challenges, long-term success grows out of patience, perseverance, and finding a sustainable balance that enables us to manage our conditions in the context of our lives.

Practitioners are no different. Taking care of my chronic back woes involves the same sort of day-to-day management and balance that our patients face with their own conditions. Just as many of our patients do, I have my good days and my not so good days, and my motivation oscillates from time to time. Being a health care professional does not exempt me from being human.

Self-disclosure is a tricky issue, and while there are certainly wrong ways to go about it, there is not a singular right way either. My approach has always been that if sharing information about myself enhances patient care, then I am open to it.

For that reason, I have chosen to reword and publish the following text that, when I first wrote it, was never intended for posting. Meant for nobody but myself, it was an internal document, a tool in my decision-making process as I weighed whether or not to have another operation on my back. Writing out the intertwined relationship between my health and the sport that I love helped me to resolve my ambivalence, move from Contemplation to Preparation, and make a decision regarding surgery.

“The sport came naturally to me and I instantly fell in love with it.”

At a young age, I discovered that nowhere feels like home like a tennis court. My brother, four years my senior, was a standout baseball player and I had to go to virtually all of his games, or at least it felt that way. Back then, I appreciated neither the sport of baseball nor the importance of supporting a family member, so I spent the games sulking in boredom. In order to give me something to do, my mom gave me her old wooden tennis racquet and let me hit against a backboard near the baseball diamond. Anybody at my wedding who saw me out on the dance floor with Joanne can attest that I am one of the least coordinated people to ever walk the earth, but for some reason I had a specific talent for hitting a tennis ball. The sport came naturally to me and I instantly fell in love with it.

Hitting against the backboard segued to Park and Rec group lessons and then to private lessons with Ben, a family friend just a few years older than me who was one of the best players in town. My parents, neither of whom had a whole lot of experience with the sport, bought a couple of racquets for themselves so they could hit with me. One summer day when I was probably 13, my father and I finished hitting on the courts next to Needham High School and sat down on the steps that overlook Memorial Field. He told me that if I wanted to play for the team when I got to high school, he thought I could make it. I didn’t believe him.

“Approximately 20 spots later, in next-to-last place, was my name.”

While I had a talent for hitting ground strokes, tennis involves a whole lot more than that. When I got to high school and tried out for the team, I felt overmatched by players with more well-rounded games and experience. After Coach Shea cut my friend Todd, who in my mind was a much better player than I was, I figured I was destined for the same fate. Not until Coach assigned me a locker did I realize I had made the roster. He posted a ladder that ranked everybody on the team relative to each other. Ben was first, a spot he most certainly deserved and would ordinarily have occupied anyway, but in this case it was just symbolic, as he was unable to play due to a brain tumor. Approximately 20 spots later, in next-to-last place, was my name.

My first match was in Walpole on a chilly March day in 1992. I paired with my friend Josh, the sole player on the team ranked behind me, for a doubles match. Our opponents were two disheveled kids who kept on complaining that we had to hurry up because they had to get to some store before it closed. We managed to hold serve once, but that was all as we lost the one-set match 1-6. Before I knew it, we were off the court and back on the bus with our teammates, almost all of whom had won their matches. One of them greeted us with, “Wait, you LOST???”

Tryouts were rough my sophomore year, too. Still one of the weaker players on the team, I now had to compete for a roster spot against the incoming freshman as well. After I lost a “challenge match,” a one-on-one battle that determines who moves up and down the team’s ladder, against one of those freshmen, Coach told me he was considering cutting me. He let me stick around, but I had a tough season and finished with around a .500 record.

“With all of the losses I have had in approximately two decades of playing competitive tennis, this is the one that I wish I could have back.”

During tryouts my junior year, I drilled one of my teammates in the crotch with a two-handed backhand when he came to net. The ball’s direction was a complete accident and I felt bad that my shot put him on the ground in pain. On the other hand, that backhand got Coach’s attention. Every rep of my off-season weight training went into that passing shot. Coach knew I had worked hard coming into the season, and it proved to be the only year out of my four in high school that he gave me a spot on the roster without hesitation.

Early in the season, I played a challenge match against Andy, a very solid player with an excellent game. To the shock of everybody, including Andy and myself, I beat him. Upon leaving the court, Andy asked our Assistant Coach, “What’s he doing on JV?” As a result of my win, I shot up the ladder and played my first varsity match, second doubles, after a teammate was out sick.

A short time later, I was up against Jed, Ben’s younger brother, in another challenge match. Like Ben, Jed was an incredible player and I thought I had no chance. My intimidation showed as I lost the first set 0-6. Coach pulled me aside, calmed me down, and told me to play like I had against Andy. I won the second set. In the third set, I had a 5-3, 40-15 lead on Jed’s serve. Double break point, double match point, double by-far-the-biggest-victory-of-my-life point.

Jed took his time, methodically pacing in small circles behind the baseline before stepping up to serve. As the point evolved, he came to net and slammed an overhead that bounced high above my outstretched racquet. No problem, I thought; I still had match point. Jed again took his time to focus. He came in again and my down-the-line backhand passing shot failed to clear the net. Deuce. The self-doubt returned. Jed won four straight games to take the final set 7-5.

It’s not like I tanked. I tried my best during those last four games, but in my heart I felt that my window of opportunity had closed and that affected my play. To cap it off, I double faulted on Jed’s first match point. None of my teammates or coaches said one word to me after we walked off court. We all knew what had happened: I had choked. I had choked big time. With all of the losses I have had in approximately two decades of playing competitive tennis, this is the one that I wish I could have back, to see how my tennis future would have changed had I beaten a player of Jed’s stature at that point in my career.

“In a short span of time, my lack of confidence had been replaced by an exhibition of arrogance so obnoxious that I am still embarrassed of it to this day.”

Next season, with many great players still ahead of me on the ladder and a coach’s policy against playing seniors in JV matches, I had no spot on the team. Coach pulled me aside and explained that after three years together he felt too badly to cut me, but I should cut myself because I was not going to play. I refused to do so and remained on the roster as a practice player. After one of our best players was kicked off the team, I found a spot on varsity playing first doubles with Andy.

Our games blended nicely. My consistency and his power complemented each other well. Although we had both been on the team for years, we never really got to know each other until we were paired up for doubles. It turned out that we worked exceptionally well together. We each were capable of making the other one laugh, focus, calm down, fire up, whatever was called for in the given moment. Together, we had a swagger that neither one of us had on our own.

By the season’s midpoint, he and I were undefeated together. We were the top-ranked doubles team in our league and considered one of the best in the state. After defeating another highly-ranked doubles team in Brookline one afternoon, we walked off the court with my pointer finger held high in the air so everybody in attendance knew who was number one. In a short span of time, my lack of confidence had been replaced by an exhibition of arrogance so obnoxious that I am still embarrassed of it to this day.

After Andy and I lost a couple of matches, including one to a very weak tandem we should have dominated, Coach thought perhaps it was time to shake things up. While traveling home from a match, he sat across the bus aisle from me and asked what I thought about playing singles. Whatever the team needed, I told him, but my smile gave away the truth that I had badly wanted to be a varsity singles player for years. Coach shuffled the lineup and slotted me in at third singles, which remained my spot for the rest of the season while our team made it all the way to the state quarterfinals.

Playing third singles for Needham High School, 1995

The last match of my high school career, I lost 6-1, 4-6, 4-6 on the same Brookline courts where I gave that number-one gesture earlier in the season. Served me right. Karma. However you want to say it, the bottom line was there was some justice in losing a tough match to that team on that court after the stunt I had pulled.

In both the second and third sets, I was serving at 4-4, 30-all. Both times, my opponent won the pivotal fifth point, broke me, and went on to win the set. In tennis, all points are not created equal. One can lose the majority of points or games in a match, yet still win it. In fact, I outscored my opponent in games (14 to 13) this particular day, but he was the one who walked away victorious. The outcome of matches often hinges on how you respond in just a few key situations. Either you rise to the occasion and respond appropriately or you do not. Such is tennis, and such is life.

“I just could not do what they could do; it was like we were playing two different sports.”

Late that summer, I arrived at Tufts University for freshman year and attempted to make the NCAA team as a walk-on. Approximately 60 of us were trying out for two open spots on the roster. I made the first wave of cuts, but did not survive the second. Still, I was not ready to give up on the idea of playing college tennis just yet, so I kept on showing up to the team practices and hit with the guys. Not until Coach Watson gave me a uniform and put me in the lineup for a JV match that spring did I realize he had reconsidered and added me to the roster.

College tennis was an enlightening experience. All of my teammates were better than me, most of them by a lot. Each of them had been the best player in his high school, a status to which I could not relate. Incapable of even holding my own against most of them, I frequently got blown off the court in practice. I just could not do what they could do; it was like we were playing two different sports. The holes in my game that I had been able to work around in high school were routinely exposed at the college level. Coach did not understand how I often failed to execute shots and plays that were so easy for my teammates. His frustration with me showed through sometimes, not in a Bobby Knight sort of way, but more through glares and occasional harsh words, yet he kept me on the team and for that I was grateful.

While I did manage to win some singles and doubles intercollegiate matches, I cannot specifically remember even one of those victories in any sort of detail. By and large, the fragments of matches that I do recall have coalesced into a hazy memory of getting destroyed.

1997 Tufts University NCAA Tennis Team (I am in the center of the back row.)

1997 Tufts University men’s tennis team (I am in the center of the back row.)

“I could not stand at the sink and shave without having to take a break in the middle to stretch.”

During the offseason between sophomore and junior year, I trained like a madman. Although I did not look it, I had gotten myself freakishly strong. In the weight room, guys much bigger than me used to watch with confusion as I bench pressed nearly twice my body weight. I sprinted up hills, ran demanding interval workouts that I remembered from my high school track days, performed footwork drills at a court near my house, and practiced with the Tufts Assistant Coach who lived in a neighboring town. That pre-season, I held my own with, and even beat, some of my teammates who had blown me out of the water the past two years. Playing as well as I was, I thought I had an outside shot at even moving up from JV and playing some varsity matches.

Before the season began, Coach insisted that I see a doctor for my long-standing back pain. Since I was 14, I had lived with chronic pain that often radiated down my right leg. My pediatrician never seemed to see it as a big deal and therefore neither did I. By that pre-season, however, the pain was so bad that I could not walk the two blocks back to my dorm after practice without needing to stop and stretch on the sidewalk. I could not stand at the sink and shave without having to take a break in the middle to stretch against the bathroom wall. When Coach ordered me to see a specialist before he would clear me to play the season, I told him it was a waste of time. I was fine, I insisted.

“My new primary care doctor told me I had post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). Although some of my friends could tell I had changed, I largely kept my struggles to myself.”

A sudden look of seriousness spread across said specialist’s face as he held up the x-ray he had ordered and viewed it for the first time. My life has never been the same since that moment. To my complete surprise, it turned out that I had a tumor on my spine. Instead of fretting over whether I would make varsity or again be on JV, I worried about whether the tumor was benign or malignant. While my teammates prepared for the season, I did my best to ready myself for immediate surgery.

I remember looking out the window of my hospital room a day or two after my operation and watching the red line trains ride in and out of the Charles/MGH stop. “Those passengers are participating in life,” I thought, while I was absent. My classes were still going on, my teammates were still practicing, yet I was hospitalized. Back when I was in high school, being home sick from school yielded a sort of unsettling depression and anxiousness because I was not where I belonged; I was not living my life. Being in the hospital generated that same feeling, but to an exponentially-greater magnitude.

Death is a topic to which I had given little thought until I experienced anesthesia. My expectation was that being under would mimic sleep. Instead, there was no dreaming, no indications at all from my vantage point that I was in existence. I closed my eyes, then opened them, and in between was a void of which I had no memory. It was as if for that period of time I wasn’t – period. I thought to myself, “This must be what death is like.”

My hospital roommate was in bad shape. The brain tumor that he previously had removed had grown back and he had to have it removed for a second time. This time, he lost vision in one of his eyes as a result. While my brother and I were going for a short walk down the hospital’s corridor, a dead patient was wheeled past us on a gurney.

After what I witnessed and went through myself, I was scarred, more figuratively than literally, and I felt very, very, very mortal. After I got home, I assumed the worst. A headache meant a brain tumor. Abdominal pain meant colon cancer. My new primary care doctor told me I had post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). Although some of my friends could tell I had changed, I largely kept my struggles to myself. Only my doctor and my girlfriend knew the internal turmoil I was experiencing.

In hindsight, I am surprised my doctor did not send me to a therapist, or that I did not figure out on my own that I needed help. Part of me rejects the PTSD diagnosis because there are people out there who truly have PTSD – war veterans, rape survivors, first responders, etc. – and their ordeals should not be disrespected, cheapened, or watered down by my experience. Whether or not I really had PTSD, the fact was that I was struggling and it took me the better part of a decade to get over the emotional toll of my surgery. Years went by before I could ride the red line through that Charles/MGH stop and even look in the direction of Mass General without triggering horrible memories of how it felt to be on the other side of those hospital windows.

“That was no way to live no matter what my abs looked like.”

While I did return to the Tufts tennis team a couple months after my operation, by season’s end it was clear that my back was no longer fit for the sport. The decision I knew I had to make was so difficult for me that I could not even express it to Coach Watson face to face. Instead, I wrote him a letter thanking him for everything and explained why I had to leave the team. I sat out what would have been my senior season.

For the next four years, I played no tennis except for rare occasions when I casually hit around with a friend. Fueled by an intense fear of getting sick and dying, I spent these years doing everything I could to take care of my health. Although I hated swimming, I picked it up on the advice of my neurologist. I performed every core exercise I knew and added new ones along the way. Even though it meant sometimes going to bed when it was still light out, I spent nine hours in bed each night, every night. I paid more attention to my eating than I have at any other time in my life, including now. Guys in the locker room used to talk about my abs.

In the film Across the Universe, Jude says to the Vietnam veteran, “You don’t seem too messed up,” to which he responds, “Well, everything below the neck works fine.” Similarly, even though my emotional health was in disarray, I looked okay from the outside, and my back and body as a whole were getting stronger.

I often talk with my patients about living life in balance. At that point in my life though, I was anything but in balance. After turning down plans with friends so I could exercise after work and go to bed early, some of them began to distance themselves from me and stopped extending invitations. My insistence on only eating food I had brought from home kept me from joining co-workers for lunch and my rapport with them weakened. My stress level was so high that I often woke up nauseous in the middle of the night and sometimes vomited. A bottle of Maalox tablets was a permanent fixture at my bedside. While my physical fitness was fantastic, my life was filled with rigidity, unhappiness, and a whole lot of fear. That was no way to live no matter what my abs looked like.

“They were telling me their game plans without even realizing it.”

After four years away from tennis, my back was feeling well enough where I felt ready to try the sport again. I moved to western Massachusetts, joined a new gym, and saw on the bulletin board an ad looking for players to join a men’s United States Tennis Association (USTA) team. The captain, Scott, and I got together to hit at Hampshire College. Having not played in so long, I was terrible. As if I was playing the sport for the first time, I had no idea where the ball was going when it left my racquet. Still, Scott let me on the team and he introduced me to some very nice teammates with whom I began to regularly practice. The rust wore off.

My time away from playing the sport afforded me an opportunity to see it from a different perspective. Not just to see it, but to really consider it, to experience tennis from a macro vantage point from which I had never viewed it before, to understand the flow of the game, why players do what they do in certain situations, what separates the winner from his or her opponent, and other complexities that I never took the time to examine and absorb when I was too busy focusing on my first-hand experience.

Although I never was again the same player physically that I had been in college, I returned to the sport a much more intelligent player. I was more observant than I ever had been when I was younger. Subtleties often gave away my opponent’s next move. The opening of his racquet face signaled a drop shot. Like a change in arm slot tips a pitch, a slight shift in grip indicated the kind of serve coming my way. A quick peak out the corner of my opponent’s eye revealed his target spot. Other times it might have been what a player did, or did not do, in warm ups to hide a weakness or show off a strength. Small talk before the match or on changeovers, whether he looked me in the eye or not, and his posture, these were all windows into his state of mind. They were telling me their game plans without even realizing it.

That’s not to say that I was always able to take advantage of these insights or that my own game was absent of faults. Certainly, I ran into players who exploited my weaknesses, outsmarted me, or blew me off the court with power, but those were the exceptions rather than the rule. After going 11-1 for Scott’s team, I moved up to a more challenging USTA league the next season. The players could do everything a little bit better than in the previous league: move quicker, hit harder, play more consistently, etc. After losing two matches early in the season, I adjusted and went on a run. Next season, I was undefeated and had more match wins than I did double faults. My baseball-playing brother got a kick out of it when I compared my statistical achievement to Bret Saberhagen’s 1994 season with the Mets when he had more wins than walks. All told, three years went by before I lost again.

Immediately after upsetting one of the best players in the USTA Districts tournament, 2004

“I thought to myself, ‘Someday I will look back on this and laugh.’ When that day comes, I will let you know.”

In the summer of 2006, I rode my bicycle from Seattle to Boston for charity. One morning outside of Eureka, Montana, I fell off my bike and hurt myself. I wish I had a more exciting or heroic story to tell, but the truth is that I was not even moving at the time of my fall. In the process of mounting my bike, I lost my balance and started to lean to my left. As I tried to plant my left foot on the ground, my cleat accidentally glanced the pedal and clipped in. With no way to stop my momentum, I fell over to my left and landed on my back. Because I was wearing a backpack, my spine forcefully hyperextended upon impact. Although I did not know it at the time, I had fractured some bones in my spine near the surgical site.

Standing over Lake Koocanua in Montana a few minutes before my accident, 2006

Standing over Lake Koocanusa in Montana a few minutes before my accident, 2006

In that moment, all I knew was that I was in a tremendous amount of pain and I was having trouble moving because the muscles in my back and hips had completely locked. Reaching Eureka, which was just a few miles down the road from where I fell, was a painful struggle. When I got into town, I found a gas station and went into their bathroom. Only after using the toilet did I realize there was no toilet paper, and my back was so bad that initially I was unable to stand up. There I was, injured, thousands of miles from home, stuck on the toilet, unable to wipe, unable to stand, and I thought to myself, “Someday I will look back on this and laugh.” When that day comes, I will let you know.

Although I managed to finish the trek back to Boston, my back was never quite the same again. When I got home and resumed playing tennis, I knew I was not right physically and my confidence on the court was gone. After starting the season 1-2, I went to the neurologist, then to a couple of surgeons, got the bad news about the fractures, and stopped playing. Because my appreciation for the sport had deepened since college, leaving the sport behind for a second time was even harder than the first time around. To date, I have not played competitive tennis in over seven years.

“Balance is the foundation of a healthy lifestyle. Sometimes it takes going through a period of imbalance to come out on the other side and find a happy medium between taking care of your health and taking care of who you are.”

Others have talked about the parallel between tennis and life much more eloquently than I can. Some mention the loneliness of a tennis player, but there is a harsh beauty about having sole responsibility for your actions. Everything you do right and wrong, every act of sportsmanship and gamesmanship, every sound strategy and dumb idea, every shot made under pressure and choked away, they are all yours. You own them all. Together, they comprise a bouquet that defines you as the player that you are.

Consequently, when you make a mistake, you have to face the fact that nobody else is to blame and accordingly use it as a learning opportunity to grow. Conversely, when you do set out to execute a shot or strategy and you make it a reality, there is a peaceful satisfaction, a sense of well-earned serenity, that comes with knowing that you made it happen. One of the best feelings in the world is launching a topspin lob over your opponent’s head, tracking the ball as it arcs through the air, and, out of the corner of your eye, noticing him turn his back and helplessly slump his shoulders as he discovers what you already knew from the the moment the ball left your strings: It is landing in.

At the same time, the ultimate outcome of a match is sometimes out of our hands. You can do everything in your power to win, dig as deep as you possibly can, and still lose. In this kind of defeat, you learn that there are incidents in life that are not up to us. We are only somewhat in control of our own destiny, and we have to roll with events and outcomes that do not go our way.

This lesson comes into play frequently in my work as a dietitian. Some people act as if they can avoid morbidity and mortality if only they get more strict with their food intakes and more rigid with their lifestyles. In other words, if only they take things up a notch, everything will be okay. It can be hard to accept that we will all die, our bodies are not designed to last forever, and if we are lucky enough to be spared fatal accidents and malicious acts, we will each eventually succumb to a condition of some sort. The truth is that we can minimize our chances of getting sick and dying prematurely, but it is a matter of risk reduction, not risk elimination.

Given our uncertain futures, we need to make sure we do not get so caught up in trying to take care of our health that we lose ourselves and the pleasurable aspects of life in the process. I learned this lesson the hard way in the years after my surgery. Balance is the foundation of a healthy lifestyle. Sometimes it takes going through a period of imbalance to come out on the other side and find a happy medium between taking care of your health and taking care of who you are.

My friend, Ben, who gave me tennis lessons when I was just starting to play, could tell you all about life’s unpredictability, but he eventually died of the tumor that kept him from playing the only season in which our high school careers overlapped. He was only 25 when he passed away 15 years ago. To this day, he remains the single nicest and most considerate person I have ever met. Sitting at his funeral, I felt not just sadness, but an overwhelming sense of unfairness: Not only was Ben cheated out of life, but life was cheated out of Ben. Despite the time that has gone by since Ben’s passing, I still think about him often and how much better I would be to everybody in my own life if only I could be at least a little bit more like him.

“Everybody belongs somewhere; everybody has a home.”

When my back suddenly and dramatically worsened this past fall, the idea of surgery was presented to me. Not only would an operation improve my pain, fix some of my spine’s structural issues, and increase my function, the surgeons said it could also allow me to return to competitive tennis. However, given how awful my first back surgery experience was, my resistance to a second surgery was strong. As rest, physical therapy, medications, injections, and acupuncture showed their inability to fix what is really a structural problem, I knew I had to give surgery more consideration.

In an attempt to work through my ambivalence, I sought opinions from six surgeons, discussed the dilemma with Joanne, and began to write this document. Whether trying out for a team that I thought I had no shot of making, sticking around after I had been cut or told to cut myself, or coming back (twice) after my first back surgery, I have always done whatever I could to stay in the game. The realization that ultimately enabled me to make my decision was discerning that choosing to undergo, not decline, surgery represents a continuation of this long-held personal mission. This turning point marked the resolution of my ambivalence. Today, the day of my surgery, my mission continues.

We are only hard-wired to an extent. If I was born into a different culture, perhaps I would have pursued cricket, or in a different time, jousting. Perhaps I could reinvent myself even now, maybe take up chess or painting or get more involved in music again. However, my efforts to refocus my life in the last seven years have done nothing to fill the hole, which feels just as deep now as it did upon its creation. Without tennis, I am not the same person. It has woven itself into my life’s fabric so tightly that it is part of how I self-identify. I am a tennis player. Everybody belongs somewhere; everybody has a home. I know where I belong, and I hope that with patience, hard work, and the tempered resolve to wake up each morning and inch one day closer, I can make it back there.

What Not to Say to Someone With an Eating Disorder

Posted on February 26, 2014 by Joanne Soolman

It’s National Eating Disorder Awareness Week, so to stay with that theme, I thought it might be worthwhile to write about one of the most common questions I get from parents of my eating disorder (ED) patients: “What should I not say to my daughter/son who has an active ED?” Working with hundreds of ED patients and their families, I have compiled a list of “what not to say to or around your loved one who is struggling with an ED.” Here are three comments that could be triggering to your loved one.

1) “You look so healthy! How could you possibly have an ED?”

On the surface, this seems to be an innocuous and even positive comment. But, all the ED patient hears is: “You don’t look emaciated enough to have an ED. So therefore, you are fat.” Clearly, this is not what the speaker intended, but someone with an ED has a very distorted view of themselves and how others perceive him or her. It’s important to remember that people with EDs come in all shapes and sizes and it really isn’t possible to determine the severity of someone’s ED just by looking at him or her.

2) “I can’t believe how fat I’ve gotten! That’s it, no more carbs ‘til Christmas!”

I can’t tell you how many times my patients tell me that one of their parents has uttered the above. A parent might think that since the comment is about himself or herself, it shouldn’t be triggering to the child. This is incorrect. Kids learn by example and if they hear you talk badly about yourself and be critical of your body, they will think it’s okay for them to talk badly about themselves and criticize their bodies. This just fuels the ED even more.

3) “I know she needs to gain weight to be healthy. But we don’t want her to gain too much weight, right?”

Yes, I have heard these words from a number of parents and in front of their kid, no less. Weight gain is often a requirement in the recovery for anorexia nervosa. But weight isn’t the only factor that needs to be measured. Vital signs such as heart rate and blood pressure both lying down and standing up are very important indicators of health. Other measures of health include blood tests to look at nutrition status, whether or not a menstruating female has lost their period, and bone density. EDs take a toll on the entire body, not just weight. By keeping the focus on weight, we are fueling the idea that weight is the end all and be all. This is just not true.

Obviously, none of the above comments are meant to be malicious – we all want the best for our loved ones. But, it’s important to think about how your comment might be perceived by your son/daughter/sister/friend. We can’t edit ourselves every minute of every day, but by being aware of your words, you could spare your loved one (and yourself) a lot of unnecessary grief.

What Is the Difference Between a Nutritionist and a Dietitian?

Posted on February 24, 2014 by Jonah Soolman

The title of Nutritionist is unregulated. Anybody can call themselves a Nutritionist. You are a Nutritionist. Your neighbor is a Nutritionist. So is your infant. And your dog. The title is meaningless and does not indicate that the person has any training or expertise whatsoever in nutrition.

In contrast, the title of Dietitian (short for Registered Dietitian, RD) coveys that we completed a program of formal academic study in nutrition, graduated from an accredited internship program that included working in a wide range of specialties within the field (everything from food service to organ transplant), passed our boards, partake regularly in continuing education, are registered with the Commission on Dietetic Registration, and have a license to practice in the state. Dietitians are held to a code of ethics, just as doctors, nurses, and other licensed health care practitioners are, and we are recognized within the medical community as the experts in nutrition.

Despite the meme posted at the top, some Dietitians do refer to themselves as Nutritionists. Doing so is nothing more than a public relations strategy. While Nutritionist is a hollow title that means nothing, its inclusion of the word “nutrition” yields a title to which laymen can relate. Furthermore, some people mistakenly believe that Dietitians only work inpatient jobs at hospitals. These misunderstandings are so common that the Commission on Dietetic Registration now gives the option for a Dietitian to call him or herself by the alternate title, Registered Dietitian Nutritionist (RDN).

So, all Dietitians are Nutritionists, but not all Nutritionists are Dietitians. If you are looking for help with your eating, check the person’s credentials first and make sure he or she is a Dietitian.

Balance

Posted on January 30, 2014 by Jonah Soolman

A couple of people sent me the link to this article about identical twin brothers who performed a nutrition experiment on themselves. One of them adopted a diet very low in fat while the other followed a diet extremely low in carbohydrates.

By the end, neither one of them felt well. One brother concluded, “We should not vilify a single nutrient. It is too easy to demonize fat or sugar, but that enables you to let yourself off the hook in other ways. The enemy is right in front of us in the shape of processed foods.”

While I agree with the first part of what he said, his last sentence undermines his initial point. Just as it makes no sense to scapegoat a particular nutrient that exists in the larger context of one’s eating pattern, it is similarly ridiculous to blame a particular form of food (in this case, processed food) that exists in the vast expanse that is one’s overall lifestyle. To do so is to badly oversimplify what is a very complex picture. Exclusion, oversimplification, and blame rarely lead to good nutrition.

The people I have seen who have been able to attain and maintain good health are the people who find balance: balance in their eating, and balance in their lifestyles. Every food has its pros and cons and therefore no food is “the enemy.” Even processed foods have their upsides: enjoyment, convenience, shelf life, price, etc. Otherwise, nobody would ever eat them.

While eating processed foods all the time clearly has ramifications, so does never eating them. Decreased enjoyment, social isolation, weight gain (yes, gain), preoccupation with food, and eating disorders can all result from this kind of restriction. Misled by a culture of dieting and nutritional scapegoating, many well-intentioned individuals struggle with these issues. Joanne and I regularly work with such patients at our practice, where we help them to find a healthier relationship with food and ultimately better health overall.

The time to leave exclusion and scapegoating behind is now. Instead, understand that every food can have its place in a healthy lifestyle. Pursue balance. We are here to help.

Is the Risk of Foodborne Illness Worth It?

Posted on January 30, 2014 by Jonah Soolman

Almost immediately after posting a Wall Street Journal article entitled “Does Rinsing Fruit Make a Difference?” on our Facebook page yesterday, I got an email from a family member talking about pre-washed salad mixes in the past tense (“What a convenience they were.”) and asking me if I will change my own eating habits because of this article.

When it comes to foodborne illness, risk always exists. One can take every known precaution and still contract a foodborne illness, or one can grotesquely forgo all food safety guidelines yet not get sick. The question is not one of risk’s presence, but rather one of risk’s relative magnitude.

Each one of us has to decide for ourselves how much risk we are comfortable taking. The article talks about the health of one’s immune system as being an element of consideration, but other factors are in play, too: What does one like to eat? What can one afford? How much time does one have for food preparation? What are the realistic alternatives if one forgoes a given food? Pros and cons exist for eating and not eating a given food, and these must all be considered before reaching a conclusion.

The answer to my family member’s question is no, I will not be changing my own eating based on this article. Generally speaking, I do not care for vegetables. I know, I know, a dietitian who does not like vegetables. As it turns out, dietitians are people too and we have our own challenges with food just like everybody else. The modes in which I enjoy vegetables are slim: carrots and peppers dipped in humus, spinach in lasagna, and broccoli and mushrooms on pizza. In terms of true enjoyment, that’s about it.

Raw salad greens topped with fresh fruit and nuts are moderately enjoyable, but the tipping point is such that convenience is a major factor for me. Take away pre-washed salad mixes and the likelihood that I will buy whole greens and prepare a similar mixture on my own is very slim. Therefore, when I weigh their benefits against the risk of foodborne illness, continuing to consume pre-washed salad mixes makes sense for me.

Somebody else might reach a different conclusion for his or her own life and that is perfectly fine. My case is nothing more than an example; I am not suggesting that others should or should not reach the same conclusion for themselves that I have reached for myself. Everybody has different needs, priorities, goals, and constraints, which is why Joanne and I feel so strongly about providing individualized nutrition counseling that is customized for each one of our patients.

He Said, She Said: New Year’s Resolutions

Posted on January 21, 2014 by Jonah Soolman

You already know that New Year’s resolutions do not typically last, but you have not yet heard our opinions as to why and what you can do about it.

He Said

A few weeks is not yet enough time for most New Year’s resolutions to have fallen apart, but if past statistics are any indication, by the end of the year only 8% of us will have been successful in achieving our resolutions. The poor rate of conversion from resolution to reality is partly due to the goals themselves, as Joanne will discuss below, but being honest with ourselves about how ready we are for change is of utmost importance, too.

According to the Transtheoretical Model describing behavior change, individuals can fall into any one of five stages. The preceding link gives detailed explanations of each stage, which I will concisely summarize below.

Precontemplation: The person does not see a problem and therefore has no intention of changing.
Contemplation: The person recognizes that a problem may exist but feels ambivalent about what to do.
Preparation: The person has decided to make changes and is formulating a plan.
Action: The person is implementing changes but has not yet maintained them for six months.
Maintenance: The person has maintained the given changes for six months or longer. (Note: Some versions of the Transtheoretical Model also throw in an additional stage, Termination, but often this stage is considered part of the Maintenance stage.)

Classically, the idea is that a person moves from one stage to the next in the sequence in which I listed them, but in reality someone can jump from any one stage to another at any point in time. The Model is not perfect, but it expresses an invaluable truth: Not everybody is ready to change.

This truth, by the way, is perfectly fine. Change is a process, as the Model indicates. When Joanne describes our counseling approach to people unfamiliar with how we work, she often tells them, “We meet our patients where they are.” She does not mean that literally as if we make home visits; rather, she is referring to their stage of change. Recognition of said stage is critical to successful counseling.

What do you think would happen if I counseled a patient on the changes he can make to his eating (thereby treating him as if he is in the Preparation stage) while he does not even see a problem with his diet and came to my office only because his doctor insisted he see a dietitian (which suggests he is in the Precontemplation stage)? He would not feel heard, the session would be unproductive, in all likelihood he would not return for another session, and whatever health condition he is dealing with would remain a problem.

Conversely, if I listen to him without judgment as he shares his emotions and opinions, acknowledge the validity of his feelings and point of view, and discuss his doctor’s concerns with him, he may transition to the Contemplation stage and move closer to ultimately making and sustaining behavior changes that will improve his health.

Alternatively, perhaps after learning more about his condition and the potential consequences, he decides that he will maintain his current lifestyle anyway, at least for now. It is his life, he can do what he wants with it, and I respect his choice without judgment. At least he will have had an opportunity to weigh his options and make an informed decision.

Similarly, we each have to meet ourselves where we are at, too. In other words, when we make New Year’s resolutions, we have to be honest with ourselves about how ready we are to make the given change happen. The calendar’s flip from December to January does not automatically transition us to the Action stage. In all likelihood, if we were truly in the Action stage, we would have implemented the change before New Year’s rather than wait for the holiday. Willpower can only force change for so long. Whatever was holding us back before New Year’s will remain and ultimately catch up to us after the holiday and bring an end to the resolution.

Instead of setting yourself up for failure by setting a goal that is unfit for your readiness to change, use the New Year as an opportunity to be honest with yourself about your health and how you feel about it. In other words, meet yourself where you are instead of forcing yourself to take an action before you are truly ready for it. Reach out for whatever information or support you need. Consider the following examples:

A husband in the Precontemplation stage might give in to his wife’s urging to finally make an appointment with a dermatologist to have his strange-looking mole examined if for no other reason than to appease her.
Perhaps a diabetic in the Contemplation stage might decide to schedule an appointment with his doctor to discuss his ambivalence regarding monitoring his blood sugar at home.
An individual in the Preparation stage might meet with me to plan specific and achievable changes to his eating that will improve his cholesterol, then go home and discuss the upcoming changes with his family.
An osteoporosis patient in the Action stage might continue to use the package of personal training sessions she bought so she can continue learning how to lift weights safely and preserve her bone structure.

Most important, remember that New Year’s is just an arbitrary point, and one need not wait for a new calendar year to start the process of making change. Said differently, we do not need an exterior cue to trigger internal change. When we are truly ready, we will make the change happen no matter what date it is. One of my favorite quotes is from Andre Agassi’s Hall of Fame induction: “ . . . every journey is epic, every journey is important, every journey begins today.”

She Said

Mid-January through the beginning of February is a tricky time for many of my patients. Their motivation for keeping all of their nutrition resolutions is starting to dwindle, and many people feel like they have failed in one way or another. What I often find is that many of my patients had set the bar too high in terms of nutrition goals. They expect too much from themselves and have no other option than to not meet their goals. Most of these goals are so overly ambitious that it would be very difficult for almost anyone to follow through with them.

So what’s a person to do?

When my patients ask me for help setting nutrition goals, I tell them to think S.M.A.R.T., as in goals that are Specific, Measurable, Attainable, Relevant, and Time-bound. No, I didn’t invent this clever mnemonic; it has been attributed to George T. Doran who wrote a paper called There’s a S.MA.R.T. way to write management’s goals and objectives in the November 1981 issue of Management Review. But I really like the simplicity of this handy acronym.

Specific goals are those that are clear-cut and unambiguous. Examples of specific goals could be “I will make a kale smoothie for breakfast…,” or “I will prepare a new salmon recipe…” Measurable means that the goal must be quantifiable in some way so that you can clearly assess your progress. This can be accomplished by adding to the above goals; for example, “I will make a kale smoothie for breakfast 2 times….” and “I will prepare a new salmon recipe one night….”

Attainable goals are those that are ones that realistic for you. If, for instance, you know that making a kale smoothie for breakfast 5 mornings per week isn’t likely to happen (e.g., you often sleep late and don’t have time, you have difficulty going to the grocery store to get the ingredients, etc.), then shoot for something you absolutely know you can do. In other words, it’s much better to start with smaller goals and then build on them than to start with goals that are too ambitious for you.

Relevant goals are ones that are worthwhile and applicable to you. If upping your omega-3 intake isn’t that important to you, then don’t set a goal to eat more salmon. By the same token, if you are already succeeding at one area of your nutrition (say, getting your leafy greens), then maybe it’s time to focus on something else, like increasing your nut intake.

Finally, it’s important that your goals are time-bound, that there is a particular time frame for achieving them. You could add on to the examples given above: “I will make a kale smoothie for breakfast 2 times this week,” and “I will prepare a new salmon dish one night per week for two months.” By giving yourself a deadline, you will be more likely to achieve your goal on or before that deadline.

If the above seems a bit much, the one piece of advice I give all of my patients is to keep it simple. When goals are overly complicated and ambitious, it can be overwhelming. And be kind to yourself – you are human, after all!