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" As the cab zips up Manhattan&amp;#039;s West Side, I hear my boss&amp;#039;s words over and over in my head. &amp;quot;You don&amp;#039;t look as good as you could,&amp;quot; Barbara said at our meeting over breakfast. &amp;quot;I always feel better when I work out,&amp;quot; she pressed mildly, neither asking whether I exercise nor telling me to. But I understood her perfectly. And then, in the cab, the reality sinks in: I am precariously close to losing my gig at Good Morning America, where I have worked so hard to be successful. And what&amp;#039;s worse, everyone who knows me will know why. Because I&amp;#039;m fat. Period. And if I get dumped by ABC News, my weight will make it all but impossible to get another job in television. I can just hear the comments: &amp;quot;She&amp;#039;s good, but\u2026fat.&amp;quot; I roll down the window, gasping for air. It feels like I held my breath for the entire meeting. For years I&amp;#039;ve told myself that I don&amp;#039;t have time to take care of myself because I&amp;#039;m too busy taking care of everyone else \u2014 my husband, Peter, and our twins, Emma and Jake, 14. But now a switch has been flipped: I don&amp;#039;t have to lose weight just for cosmetic reasons \u2014 I have to take care of myself now because there is no way I can continue to take care of anyone else until I get rid of what is literally and metaphorically weighing me down. My breath catches again as I think about the daunting task ahead of me. Just to fall into the &amp;quot;normal&amp;quot; range on those maddening body mass index charts, I will have to lose at least 50 pounds. But to look good on TV, it will be more like 80. I haven&amp;#039;t lost more than 18 pounds in the last 30 years, I think. How will I lose 80?  My heart is beating fast and I&amp;#039;m feeling slightly faint. I am desperate to get into my apartment, to close the bathroom door and cry. And that&amp;#039;s just what I do. Later, Peter tries to comfort me. &amp;quot;Was it even her place to discuss this issue?&amp;quot; he asks. &amp;quot;Of course,&amp;quot; I say. &amp;quot;If someone doesn&amp;#039;t look right on-air, it&amp;#039;s definitely Barbara&amp;#039;s responsibility to confront them. I&amp;#039;m just relieved she&amp;#039;s given me a chance and not the boot.&amp;quot; Peter thinks that I am still in shock and must be suppressing how I really feel. He may be right \u2014 but that night, as I lie in bed, I feel the stirrings of something different. My whole life, I&amp;#039;ve rotated through fad diets and seesawed between denial and acceptance, and now I feel the seeds of an unfamiliar emotion, at least when it comes to weight loss: determination. Twelve hours earlier, I thought I&amp;#039;d be crying myself to sleep. Instead, I am surprised to find I actually feel a tiny tinge of excitement. I can do this, I think. This time can be different. The next morning, I resist the bagel with cream cheese that I really want and pick up a small container of Greek yogurt on my way to the office. Before I turn on my computer, before I dive into e-mails, before I start eating and working and multitasking, I scoop a creamy bite into my mouth. It&amp;#039;s not what Oprah calls an &amp;quot;Aha!&amp;quot; moment; there is no revelatory &amp;quot;If only I&amp;#039;d known how delicious this healthy food is, I would have made better choices all along.&amp;quot; I know what yogurt tastes like, and I&amp;#039;m not a huge fan. What is an &amp;quot;Aha!&amp;quot; moment is that when I&amp;#039;m finished, I am full and satisfied and, most important, I don&amp;#039;t feel guilty. The Cleanout About two weeks later, I decide to go through the kitchen cupboards. Though I&amp;#039;ve been good, the temptation is too great. All of the foods on my &amp;quot;no list&amp;quot; \u2014 and that includes all carbs \u2014 have to go. That means even healthy ones, like brown rice, because I know from past experience that I&amp;#039;d start with them and soon be back to the white versions. I also pull out a huge bag of baked Cheetos. I had convinced myself that if the Cheetos were baked, they were OK \u2014 diet food, even. Not anymore. I am ready to stop playing games with myself. I have made a psychological shift. It is no longer about what I would like to eat \u2014 it&amp;#039;s about choosing something I want even more: to lose weight. Moments later, Peter shows up. He is more than a little peeved, since he&amp;#039;s the one who does the cooking and he is afraid I&amp;#039;ll get rid of something he wants or needs. But I am strident. &amp;quot;I can&amp;#039;t have anything in this house that might interfere with my success,&amp;quot; I say. For once in my life, I am going to put myself first. I need the fresh start of a clear kitchen filled only with things that support my quest. Next:   The First 11 pounds To keep myself motivated, I weigh myself every day; normal fluctuations in weight might drive some people crazy, but they keep me on track. If I&amp;#039;m up, it toughens my resolve. If I&amp;#039;m down, I become more determined to soldier on. On a morning two months later, I am down 11 pounds. For more than 60 days and nights, I&amp;#039;ve thought hard about each morsel of food before putting it in my mouth. I have stayed away from all possible offenders. Now I want \u2014 no, I deserve \u2014 a standing ovation from everyone in the United States and high fives from the rest of the world. Or at least a pat on the back from someone. But nobody \u2014 not my family, not my friends, not GMA viewers \u2014 says a thing to me about the way I look, because the fact is, you can&amp;#039;t tell I&amp;#039;ve lost an ounce. I can&amp;#039;t even tell. I worry that Barbara and the other ABC News executives are monitoring my progress, or lack thereof, and sharing snarky comments. &amp;quot;See, no change. I told you she couldn&amp;#039;t do it,&amp;quot; I envision thin men in suits saying to Barbara. I have my weekly GMA segment in two days, and I&amp;#039;m becoming anxious \u2014 desperate for a quick fix to show some progress. I&amp;#039;ve never liked shapewear \u2014 I find it too constrictive \u2014 but I make an executive decision: I need Spanx. Stat. I buy thigh shapers, a &amp;quot;Hide and Seek&amp;quot; body smoother, and, as backup, footless tights. But that afternoon, as I stand in front of my bathroom mirror with less than 48 hours to go before I&amp;#039;m live on-air in front of millions of viewers, I realize that no matter what I buy to hide my shape, I can&amp;#039;t escape looking large. I know on some level that I should be patient with myself. I have been making progress, even if it&amp;#039;s not noticeable yet. But somewhere in the back of my mind I&amp;#039;ve convinced myself that there&amp;#039;s a gimmick that exists just for me, that I&amp;#039;ll find something that will make me thin, or at least make me look thin like these body shapers are supposed to do. I have devoted so much of my life to the &amp;quot;quick fix,&amp;quot; the &amp;quot;shortcut,&amp;quot; or the &amp;quot;trick,&amp;quot; as opposed to simply \u2014 on a daily, consistent basis \u2014 eating much less. I&amp;#039;ve tried every fad diet there is and bought into every weight-loss scheme out there. The morning of my GMA segment, I shimmy into the Spanx, hoping that if the big bosses are watching, they will see that I am smaller. The shapewear doesn&amp;#039;t shave off pounds, but it does smooth out my still substantial curves. I&amp;#039;m eating right. I&amp;#039;m walking \u2014 not in a formal way, but often hoofing it instead of taking cabs when I need to get somewhere. I may not be slimming down as fast as I want to, but I will give myself credit for sticking to the shift, this new outlook that is changing my life. This is what&amp;#039;s going through my head as JC, the audio guy, clips a battery pack to the back of my pants, runs the wired microphone up the front of my blouse, and then whispers, &amp;quot;Hey, you&amp;#039;re losing weight. Good for you.&amp;quot; I don&amp;#039;t know if it is the shapewear or the confidence I feel from being true to the shift, but when the camera goes live, I am beaming. The Tough Choice &amp;quot;What&amp;#039;s your secret?&amp;quot; my friend Cindy Morrison asks. It&amp;#039;s a few months later, and we are traveling for Spark &amp;amp;amp; Hustle, conferences I run for women in small business. I can relate to Cindy&amp;#039;s eagerness for answers, but I anticipate she will be disappointed to learn that I have no big secret, just a lot of discipline and hard work. Cindy wants to lose weight, too, but when she acknowledges that no, she doesn&amp;#039;t want to give up her glass of white wine at night or her margaritas when she&amp;#039;s out with her girlfriends, I&amp;#039;m skeptical. The biggest difference between Cindy and me right now is in our states of mind. You can&amp;#039;t begin this journey until you&amp;#039;re ready \u2014 really ready. You have to choose: preference or priority. My preference, hands down, is to eat whatever I want, just like Cindy wants to have her wine. But my priority is to lose a lot of weight, and that must always trump my food preference. When it comes down to it, the question is, what is your priority? And what are you willing to forgo to achieve it? A few days later, I do a segment for local WABC in New York City. After, I get an e-mail from Barbara. &amp;quot;You are looking great. Hope you&amp;#039;re feeling well. Let&amp;#039;s do another breakfast soon.&amp;quot; What a difference a few months can make. Another breakfast \u2014 as if the first one weren&amp;#039;t enough! (Gotta love Barbara.) Truth is, I&amp;#039;m thrilled she&amp;#039;s noticing, because I&amp;#039;m indebted to her for setting me on this journey. And then it&amp;#039;s a year. The morning of my one-year anniversary, I get on the scale. I know I&amp;#039;ve lost a lot of weight, but now I&amp;#039;ll find out exactly how much. Twelve months ago, I wrote down a number and stashed it in an envelope. It&amp;#039;s seared in my mind, but I want to see it in print anyway. I tear open the envelope, and it&amp;#039;s there, in thick, red ink from a Sharpie marker: a three-digit number that once made me cringe \u2014 my weight a year ago. &amp;quot;OK,&amp;quot; I call to Peter, who&amp;#039;s reading the paper. &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;m ready to do it.&amp;quot; I step on the scale. The needle shakes back and forth, as it always does, then stops at the number in the center. I stand still for a few minutes, almost daring the needle to move. But it doesn&amp;#039;t. I ask Peter to come into the bathroom, to read the number. I&amp;#039;ve lost 62 pounds. It hasn&amp;#039;t always been easy saying no to my favorite foods, but it&amp;#039;s all been doable. I&amp;#039;m not finished with this journey \u2014 I don&amp;#039;t think I ever will be. And I&amp;#039;d like to lose some more weight. But aside from my proudest moments \u2014 marrying Peter and giving a shot at life to our two wonderful children \u2014 nothing comes close to the sense of pride I feel about what I&amp;#039;ve done. It has given me an inner strength that is now part of who I am. This time, it&amp;#039;s not an act. Excerpted from The Shift, available this month. Meet Tory Johnson on her six-city tour. Details at shiftwithtory.com. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
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