“This day is going to suck.”
That’s what I thought one December morning in 2011 as I got ready to meet Barbara Fedida, the highest-ranking woman at ABC News. I’m an on-air contributor on “Good Morning America,” and this would be my first one-on-one meeting with her.
I feared her agenda was my weight, which I had battled forever.
I wondered what outfit would give me the best illusion of thinness. I wanted a superhero costume to protect me but grabbed black wool pants and a black silk shirt instead — all-black being the oldest of slimming tricks. I was so tired of this — and sick of fooling myself into thinking I wasn’t really so fat, given America’s obesity epidemic.
Barbara and I met in the ABC cafeteria, passing a display of muffins, cold cereal, eggs and bacon.
“What would you like?” she asked, testing me to see if I’d bite — literally. I chose bottled water, she coffee, and for almost an hour we talked about everything but the matter at hand: our kids, New York City public schools, husbands and the “GMA” ratings.
I kept praying her BlackBerry would summon her to a meeting. It did not. I knew The Talk was coming.
“You don’t look as good as you could,” Barbara said, calmly changing the topic. “I don’t think your clothing does you any favors.”
I tried to remain composed, certain she was about to move in for the kill: How could you expect to be on TV when you’ve let yourself go? You knew this day would come, right?
Instead, she politely offered to connect me with a wardrobe stylist. I stared blankly at her: I wasn’t going to admit that I knew my weight was a problem — that although I could talk easily on live TV, dressing was a constant challenge. Finally, I cracked a smile and said, “Sure, that sounds great. I’d be happy to meet her.” It was a lie. Unless this stylist could whisk away the pounds, I doubted she could do any good.
But Barbara wasn’t done. “I feel much better when I work out,” she said, as I smiled weakly, not bothering to claim any exercise activity of my own. We wished each other a happy holiday and outside on West 66th Street, I marveled at how polite and slick she was.
Not once did she call me fat, say I had to lose weight, or hint that my job was in jeopardy. The words “fat,” “overweight” or “obese” never came up.
But what I did hear was, “Lose weight, or lose your job.” It was like when you ask a friend, “How does this outfit look?” and she replies, “Oh, it’s fine,” and you instantly think, “So you’re saying I look fat?”
When you’ve been fat forever and don’t want to be, it’s like living in shackles. Failing at every diet is like being in prison. The conversation freed me to finally tackle what I couldn’t ever do before.
Over the next year, I made a major mental shift: What I put in my head was more powerful than what I put in my mouth. Having always looked for instant, overnight results, I flipped a switch: Losing weight takes patience and persistence. By cutting carbs, eating less and moving more, I lost 72 pounds — the basis for my new book, “The Shift” (inset), which I dedicated to Barbara.
Sure, I look better on TV, but I’m also a happier and healthier woman. For the first time in my life, I wear dresses — until last year, my teenage daughter had never seen me in one. After avoiding doctors for more than a decade because I didn’t want a lecture about my weight, I got a full physical and received a clean bill of health. I can only imagine how much longer I would have put off having my first mammogram if it hadn’t been for Barbara.
Barbara did for me what doctors, family and friends never could. Since then, friends have said they wish their bosses would tell them to lose weight because so far they haven’t listened to anyone else. I’m forever grateful for her gentle grace during that difficult workplace chat that changed my life — may have even saved it.