Spiritual Belly

I recently watched the Netflix documentary about The Biggest Loser . I can remember when the show first came out — I’d sit there on the couch and feel inspired, almost electrified, thinking, “If they can do it, maybe I can too.” Watching contestants shed enormous amounts of weight in just a few months made it seem like change was right there for the taking. It was motivating. It made me want to get out there and do something about my own health. But little did I realize what went into making that show — and what many of the contestants faced after the cameras stopped rolling and the spotlight dimmed. Behind the triumphant weigh-ins and the before-and-after photos was a story not of lasting transformation, but of spectacle, extremes, and hidden costs. The Origins The idea for The Biggest Loser started, surprisingly, from what seemed like a good place. One of the producers was at the gym and noticed a handwritten note tacked to the bulletin board. It was from someone who was obese, des...

There’s a peculiar kind of dance I’ve been stuck in lately — dipping down into a new weight decade, only to spring right back up a few days later. Down a little, up a little. A tease of progress, followed by the disappointment of reversal. It feels like standing at the threshold of a door that won’t open, no matter how many times I jiggle the handle. At first, I brushed it off. “That’s just the scale being fickle.” But as the pattern repeated, the emotion underneath grew heavier. My heart beats faster when I step onto the scale, my shoulders tense, and there’s a dull ache behind my eyes. It’s not panic. It’s not even fiery determination. It’s something slower, heavier: frustration. Frustration has its own flavor. It doesn’t usually shout. It seeps in like a fog, whispering: “What’s the point?” The effort feels wasted, the hope deflated. And yet, I can’t quite walk away, because the desire for change is still alive. I’m caught between caring deeply and doubting it will matter. What is ...

On September 10, 2025, the floor was pulled out from beneath us. Charlie Kirk — conservative activist, father of two, a public figure many admired and many criticized — was speaking at Utah Valley University when he was struck by a sniper’s bullet. Authorities say the shot came from a rooftop roughly 200 yards away. A bolt-action rifle was recovered. This was no quiet crime; the act was deliberate, public, and symbolic. That same day, in Colorado, a student opened fire at Evergreen High School, critically wounding two classmates before turning the gun on himself. One act was overtly political, the other seemingly personal, but both remind us of the fragility of life and the way violence echoes outward into communities. What I’ve noticed in the aftermath is not only grief, but polarization. Voices rise quickly and sharply: some lamenting that political violence has no place in a civil society, others warning that dehumanizing rhetoric inevitably provokes bloodshed. Some gloating that Ch...

I grew up in a home that felt steadfast, safe, and beautifully concrete—anchored by ministries that spoke of family, faith, and values as both compass and shelter. It gave me a sense of direction, structure, and belonging that shaped my early life in profoundly comforting ways. My family and church life provided me with firm values—a blend of warmth, clear boundaries, and emotional stability. It helped me develop a strong work ethic, social competence, and a sense of purpose. I look on my childhood upbringing fondly. And yet, as I gained more exposure to the larger culture, I later met people whose stories contrasted sharply with my own, I sensed cracks forming—not in what I was taught to believe was “good,” but in how that goodness was experienced. What felt like clarity and safety sometimes became pain and erasure in another’s memory. But stories rarely fall into only one column of “good.” For where I felt acceptance, another may have felt rejection. Where I sensed love, another was ...

Lately I keep hearing the phrase “AI slop.” It makes me laugh a little, because it captures the feeling perfectly—like someone tipped over a pot of lukewarm stew onto the internet and called it dinner. Piles of half-baked blog posts, soulless images, filler videos—content for content’s sake. But underneath the chuckle, there’s something sobering. AI slop isn’t really about the machines. It’s about us—our craving for shortcuts, our rush to be seen or to make a buck without putting in the time. The tech just amplifies whatever groove our culture is already in. And yet, I don’t think this is the whole story. Tools can be mirrors. Yes, they can churn out junk if that’s all we ask of them. But they can also be companions in learning, partners in creativity, ways of making beauty and meaning more accessible. The real question isn’t “Should we use AI?” It’s more personal than that: What are we using it for? And who are we becoming in the process? That’s what I want to explore here—kind of lik...