The Pedestal Problem

Adapted from Waitless—the sequel to Lifting the Wait, coming later this year.

I had a CrossFit hero once. You know the type—hard-nosed, no-nonsense, always dropping truth bombs that made you sit back and question your own excuses. They had this way of cutting through the noise, making everything sound so simple. Just do the work. Stop making excuses. Be disciplined. Get after it.

But the phrase that stuck with me the most?

“Who do you want to be?”

They said it like they knew the answer. If I just followed their lead, I’d figure it out, too. And so I listened. I absorbed. And I got stricter. More critical of myself. More unforgiving when I wavered. If I skipped a workout, I wasn’t just tired—I was failing. If I didn’t push through the pain, I wasn’t just sore—I was weak.

Because who did I want to be? Apparently, someone who had their shit together. Someone just like them.

At least, that’s what I thought.

The Moment the Pedestal Cracked

I had the chance to attend one of their events. I was excited—like a kid finally meeting their favorite superhero. I had followed for years; someone whose words shaped how I viewed my struggles. If anyone could give me that final push, it was them.

But from the moment I arrived, something felt… off.

The smell of alcohol hit me first. Not a faint trace, but a thick, overwhelming stench that filled the air around them. It wasn’t just lingering from the night before; it was fresh, potent and suffocating. My stomach twisted as I turned my head, desperate for a breath of clean air.

Then came the unsteadiness, the delayed reactions, and the glossy, unfocused eyes. I watched, transfixed, as they swayed slightly, their gaze rolling back for just a second too long before snapping forward again. And suddenly, I knew.

They weren’t fully here.

Still, I tried to shake the thought. Maybe I was overreacting. Perhaps they were just exhausted. Maybe—

Then it happened.

They turned too fast, lost their balance, and nearly stumbled straight into an open fire. My mouth dropped open. For a split second, my breath caught. Was I going to have to react? Was I about to watch this unfold in real time?

Someone reached out and steadied them, laughing it off like it was nothing. And just like that, the moment passed.

But I couldn’t unsee it.

The Flashback I Never Asked For

I hadn’t thought about my stepfather in years.

But suddenly, I was back there. Small. Helpless. Watching him sway, slurring his words, knocking over furniture. I could hear the shift in his voice—the one that meant the night was about to go bad. The one that meant my mother would pay for whatever frustration was brewing inside him.

(First the stumble. Then the fists.)

Back to the event: I wanted to leave. Every instinct screamed at me to turn around and distance myself from what was unfolding.

But instead, I stood there. Watching. Absorbing. Realizing.

Some of the words made sense—sharp, cutting wisdom that echoed the messages I had clung to for years. Almost. But then, just as quickly, the words would dissolve into something incoherent, slurred and scattered. A sentence would start strong, only to fade into a murmur I couldn’t decipher.

I squinted, tilting my head, trying to make sense of it all. I grabbed onto the parts that made sense while ignoring the ones that didn’t. I wanted wisdom and inspiration, but they were coming in pieces, fragmented and unstable.

The person I had put on a pedestal—this unshakable, disciplined, no-excuses leader—was human. Messy. Struggling. Just like me.

And suddenly, their words felt hollow.

“Who do you want to be?”

For years, I thought they knew the answer. But now, I saw it for what it was—a reflection. A deflection. A question thrown back at me, because they didn’t know either.

The Hypocrisy of “No Excuses”

I wasn’t angry at them—I was fearful for them. I wanted to cry for them. I wanted to help. But what could I do? It’s no different from someone struggling with obesity. We know what’s happening. The doing part is the hardest. I’m not here to judge them for being person with alcohol use disorder—that was their struggle, just like we all have our own. Their battle looked different from mine, but that doesn’t make it any less accurate. We’re all fighting something, seen or unseen.

What rattled me was the hypocrisy.

This was someone who preached that getting healthy was about mental toughness. That excuses were just weakness talking. That if you really wanted something, you’d make it happen.

And this wasn’t the first time I’d seen it.

Hypocrisy in the fitness space is rampant. Especially my space. It repeats itself like a twisted cycle of projection and pretense. One person loved to share parenting tips, specifically how diligent she was about keeping sugar away from her kids. They were good parents because their kids never ate sugar. There are so many of them. 

And yet, one morning, I watched as her kids sat there, comfortably eating thick sugar coated glazed donuts—like it was any other day. Like they had been eating those things their whole life. And honestly? That would have been fine. What would have been the big deal in just admitting, “Hey, my kids eat donuts from time to time”…… What are we afraid of? 

Then there are the ones who shout about the evils of sugar—wagging their fingers, demanding we vilify carbs—while throwing back that alcohol again like it’s a sport. Sugar is the enemy, but somehow booze gets a free pass?

And let’s not forget the ones who tear apart other people’s nutrition online—mocking, making scathing internet videos about how you eat—while their own kitchen is stocked with candy, ice cream, chips, and enough Hot Pockets and frozen pizza to survive the apocalypse.

Behind the polished Instagram feeds there’s always a deeper truth. Here’s mine:

Having obesity is a struggle everyone sees. You don’t get to hide it behind a good speech. No one assumes you have it all figured out.

But addiction? That’s different. You can mask it. You can preach discipline while gripping a water bottle full of vodka. You can talk about health while numbing yourself just to get through the day.

I realized my struggle wasn’t better or worse. It was just visible. That’s it. that’s the only difference. 

Rewriting the Narrative

I left that event feeling different than I expected. It took months to unpack everything I walked away with. Looking back, I learned a lot about myself—but more than anything, I left aware.

Aware of how easy it is to believe someone else has the answers. Aware of how often we measure ourselves against people who are just as lost as we are. Aware of the weight of self-judgment and how pointless it really is.

But also? I left grateful.

Not grateful for the disappointment, but for the clarity.

It also gave me something unexpected—permission.

Permission to struggle. Permission to be in the struggle. Permission to exist in the in-between without feeling like I had failed.

This kind of thing? I’ve seen it time and time again in the fitness space. People presenting one image while privately unraveling. It’s not about judgment—it’s about realizing that my struggles aren’t less valid. That it’s okay to be where I am. That I don’t have to hide it. That I don’t have to apologize for it.

Because this is what change looks like. Messy. Imperfect. Unfinished.

Moving Forward with a New Kind of Pedestal

This experience (and others like it) shifted my perspective. I started to think differently. The only person I should ever put on a pedestal is the person I’m becoming.

Because the truth is, putting others on pedestals doesn’t just elevate them—it diminishes us. It tricks us into believing they have something we don’t, that their struggles are smaller or their discipline is stronger. It makes us think they hold the secret, when in reality, they’re just as flawed, human, and lost in some ways as we are.

That’s why the better question isn’t “Who do you want to be?” but “Who are you becoming?”

Not the person I wish I could be. Not the person I think I should be. But the person I am actively working toward—one step, one choice, one day at a time.

So if you’ve been beating yourself up because you think someone else has it all figured out, let me remind you: They don’t. No one does.

We’re all just doing our best with what we have. And if there’s one person worth believing in, it’s not the one standing on a pedestal.

It’s you.

Do I still admire this person? I do. Deeply. Because struggle doesn’t cancel wisdom, and imperfection doesn’t erase impact. I have lot of people I consider friends who are also very hypocritical. What can we do? Love them through it.

Even the apostle Paul said, Follow me as I follow Christ—not because he was flawless, but because he was trying. We can learn from each other, be inspired by each other, and still hold space for the fact that no one gets it right all the time.