What Price Ambition?

For 2 Years, I Didn't Invest in My Health (Big Mistake)

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It was a Sunday, and at about 7:30 a.m., I received a “Got a minute?” text from a protégé, client, and friend. I first met her when she was in her 30s and her kids were little. Now she’s 50, launching young adults, navigating a demanding, well-compensated career, and processing post-divorce trauma.  (There’s something “magical”--note the sarcasm--about the two-year mark post-divorce. Maybe I’ll tackle that another day.) This woman—my friend--considers herself a hard-fought success.

As she should.

Like many of my clients and proteges, she out-earned her ex-spouse, held down the fort, made the holidays special for everyone, raised the kids and, among other indignities, suffered the scornful comments he made when she’d failed to maintain her age 20 weight throughout their marriage. She worked through health issues, teenager issues, and family issues on a steady diet of “everyone else comes first.” Yet she was told, through uplifting “You go!”-isms, that she could—and should--feed her personal ambitions too. 

Now it’s time for her to focus on herself. Endlessly proud and happy for her, I want her to rein in some of the ambitious goals she has for herself so she can invest in her health first. Wealth and joy will follow, but without health, there is no wealth and little joy.  

Finfluencers and women’s advocates love to talk about wealth and achievement goals. And we are getting better at articulating the challenges of trying to “have it all” (maybe not all at the same time, but all nonetheless). It’s true that if you want something, there are theoretically no obstacles to how high you can fly.

But … but … but …

… there’s a support system you must have in place to act as ballast for that ambition.  And if it’s not in place, the price in health may not be worth the prize.

When I took up my financial planning career in my 50s, I knew I was on a short runway to become credentialed. I had no time to waste, and I was determined to complete both the RICP® and CFP® certifications in two years. And I did. How? By treating myself like a college student: caffeinated, sleep deprived and gorging on my favorite junk food group, Goldfish.

Despite the excellent partnership of Fred, who gave me study time and chopped vegetables for dinner, I sacrificed both cardio and weight training during that two-year period. And when I finally came up for air, I was a newly credentialed, 15-pound heavier, achy mess.

There are plenty of people who can dispense cautionary advice about menopause. The current administration has just approved much-needed funding for the study of women’s healthcare. We’ve spent too many centuries rendering women invisible. But menopause was not the reason for my weight gain, my strength deterioration, or any of my other ills. Several years prior, I had faced menopause and thought I’d won the battle. This new malaise was caused by sitting almost all the time, eating fake food, and stress (some external, much brought on myself.)

Sure enough, six months after sitting for the CFP® exam (I had completed the RICP® first), I was at the gynecologist being treated for endometrial hyperplasia. This condition greatly increases the risk of endometrial or uterine cancer. Luckily, a biopsy (the most painful 10 seconds of my life) was negative. How did I get there? Probably through prolonged creation of cortisol and adrenal fatigue which suppressed what was left of my natural hormones. I was given the option of a biopsy every six months or a total hysterectomy.

And there went the rest of my hormones.

All of that is a long way to say, “I have learned my lessons the hard way.” And if there’s a way for us all to control our stress and heed just a little of my advice, please do. I told my friend and protégé what I would have wanted my 50-year-old self to hear: You must design your life around your health. You won’t sleep when you’re dead; you must sleep every night. You won’t get back into shape once you’re established; stay in shape or suffer the consequences. Leach the fucking cortisol out of your system with a daily walk. If you must compromise, buy the packaged salad and roast chicken prepared at the grocer.  It’s not ideal, but it’s better than eating Goldfish for dinner.  #WeRescueOurselves

The information contained herein and shared by Madrina Molly™ constitutes education and not investment advice.

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