2022: Rabia Chaudry on "Fatty Fatty Boom Boom: A Memoir of Food, Fat, and Family"

Brie Loskota: I'm so delighted to see you.

Rabia Chaudry: Hi, Brie. Hello, everybody. Good evening.

Brie Loskota: So, welcome. Welcome to the University of Chicago. This is the last day of your book tour.

Rabia Chaudry: Is the final, final day of my book tour, and I couldn't have asked for a better ending than doing it with you, Brie. Brie is a dear old friend, and I'm just so excited to be – I don't know if we've done an event, we have done one event before, maybe, I don't remember.

Brie Loskota: It's been a long time.

Rabia Chaudry: This is the best way to wrap it up. Thank you.

Brie Loskota: We're delighted. So, I want to take you back to the origin of this book. What I remember is sitting in your living room after Adnan's Story had become a New York Times bestseller, and I think I, like many people at the time, were asking that very annoying question: What are you going to do next? Sort of like a parental question, like, "Oh, you've done the New York Times bestseller. What's next?" And you said, "I want to write a cookbook memoir."

Rabia Chaudry: Did I say that?

Brie Loskota: Yes, yes. And I thought: What the hell is that? And so it's amazing to see what you had imagined come to life. But how did it happen? Give us the origin of this.

Rabia Chaudry: I actually don't remember having that conversation, but certainly, the seeds must have been there. I mean, yeah, after Adnan's Story, almost immediately after it was published, the publisher, my agent, they're like, "What are you going to do next?" And I didn't really envision immediately – and it was a really hard book to write. I mean, Adnan's Story, I had six months to write it in, and I had to go through thousands and thousands of case files to get every date right and every fact right. I didn't have a research assistant, so I was like: I don't know if I have it in me to do that again.

But when it was suggested that I do a memoir, I thought: Okay, at least I don't have to do a lot of research for that one.

Brie Loskota: It's an easier lift.

Rabia Chaudry: But that must've evolved then, between the conversation I had with you and by the time that I settled on what that memoir would be about. You can write a memoir in so many different ways, but I had spent years talking about the issues I actually work on. So I was like: If there's a story that hasn't been told, then this is it. And even though, yes, there are recipes and it's a memoir, the central theme really is just my weight loss journey – loss and gain journey – repeated, rinse and repeat, my entire life.

Brie Loskota: So tell us how the book is organized. It's got a unique kind of through-line throughout it.

Rabia Chaudry: You know, I think very linearly. It's chronological. It's ten chapters, each chapter. It begins with when my parents meeting and getting married, because my diet very early on in infancy, I really believe to this day impacts me and my body. And then it moves on through early childhood and middle school, high school, college – all the way up until about two years ago when I finished writing the book. And then, at the end of the book are ten recipes, and each one kind of corresponds to one of the chapters.

The recipes were a bit of a fight. My editor didn't want the recipes in the book. And I was like, I can't do that. I have to put the recipes. I talk so much about food in the book, and I know if I tweet a picture of a cup of chai that I've made online, I get 300 requests for the recipe for chai. I can't talk about all this food and then not give some recipe. So they're at the end. If you don't want to read them, it's fine, but they all have stories with them, too.

Brie Loskota: Tell us a little bit about the conflict over the book itself, because it's not common to have a book laid out the way that you have laid this out with the recipes included in it. Did you have any pushback around it? What did it take to get your vision on paper?

Rabia Chaudry: It was about a year ago – August of last year, I think. I was at the point where I thought, "I think I need to return my advance and just abandon this entire project." My editor and I were at this weird crossroads. I had pretty much finished the book. I think I had sent in maybe two thirds of it or half of it or something, and she had started reading her first read-through. She came back to me and said, "I don't understand this book. I don't get it."

Brie Loskota: What didn't she get?

Rabia Chaudry: She didn't understand. She said, "Well, you talk about moments in your life where you are in such a misery, because you're either eating out of control or you're at your heaviest or all this – there's clearly all this pain and trauma around food. And then you lovingly describe this food, and then you're like, 'Oh, here's a recipe for it.'" She's like, "It doesn't make sense to me."

But when I dug a little deeper, it turns out my editor had never had a weight problem, is not a foodie, doesn't cook, and I don't even know why she bought my book. And I said her, I said, "To me, there's no disconnect between any of these things. First of all, everybody has to eat. So what you're saying is you want me to take out all my love for food out of this? But most people who have had weight struggles have a love for food." Everybody has a love for food. Who doesn't love food? My editor doesn't love food, apparently.

Brie Loskota: I've met these people who live on Diet Coke.

Rabia Chaudry: I mean, yeah, I think she might've been one of those people who's just like, "I'll just eat what's there." Maybe she doesn't get a lot of joy out of it. But when she said, "I don't understand it" – and I think maybe part of it for her was she was thinking: What genre? What part of the library will it go into, the recipes of this and that?

And so my lit agent, who I've had since the beginning of my writing career –she's lovely – she just kind of, through the phone, held my hand and walked me down from "It's done. I'm not doing this book." Because I was like: If my editor doesn't understand the book, I don't even know – I don't know where to go from here. I'd written it.

My lit agent said – and she also has a similar story with body image and stuff – she's like, "I get it completely. I completely understand your book. She doesn't because she hasn't had a similar experience. You stick with it." And I'm so glad I did, because as I'm meeting people all across the country, I keep hearing over and over that people are like: "We have nothing in common, but so much of your story resonates with me. I see my story in it."

Brie Loskota: There's something about that, though: that the way that you can tell a universal story is through deep particularity of a narrative. I heard that once from a Hollywood screenwriter, who said that how you describe how something smells or it tastes or it feels on your skin – is what makes something that could be seen as foreign and exotic and gazed as something intimate and close – even though it might actually be as foreign and exotic and distant. You do that really well in the book. What was it like to struggle with making something that you knew most of your readers would not understand – the language that you were using to describe your family relationships, the language for the food itself – but it's not exotic, even if it's far away. It felt really intimate listening to it.

Rabia Chaudry: One thing I really wanted to be clear about when I wrote this – because I read other South Asian writers, fiction and nonfiction, whatever, because you kind of tend to gravitate towards seeing how others from your background – what they're creating and what they're putting out in the world. And a lot of times, I've been a little bit confused by the kinds of language and characters that I read because they are – it'll be like people in a village who are all philosophers, and their conversations are so esoteric. I'm like, my relatives cuss and they talk normal people, and I haven't those magic brown people that are in this book. And so I was like, I'm not going to do the magic brown people. I'm going to give you the real brown people who break chairs over each other's heads (my uncles).

So I just kept it real. I remember when I first started writing, I was like, God, am I going to totally confuse people with – I'm calling my grandmother nani amma in this. I'm not saying "grandmother"; I'm using the titles that I would use. Am I going to confuse my reader? Is it going to be too much? And I thought: I am underestimating the reader. I mean, people can do this. It was like, should we put a glossary in the back? And I said, "I don't think we need that much. I think it's okay. I do brief descriptions."

When I read the audio book for it and I narrated it, I remember the first day when I started narrating. I was like: Should I pronounce that an American? I was like, no, I'm going to pronounce it like a Punjabi.

Brie Loskota: What word?

Rabia Chaudry: Every Urdu word or Punjabi word that comes in here. So even the title chapter for the first title ... So I was like, no, I'm going to lean in to the Punjabi auntie and just do it the right way.

Brie Loskota: Your family features very prominently in the book. What was it like to decide to write about them, and how have they received what you wrote about them?

Rabia Chaudry: Oh, gosh. I feel like I'm really exposing my family when I respond to the second question, but I'm just going to answer that first. My family does not read at all. Nobody in my family reads. My dad was the only one who would have read this book if he hadn't had a stroke a few months ago. He read my first book. Nobody else in my family is a reader. I was the only reader in the family. And my mom will sometimes say – my mom were the first five pages of the book, five or six pages.

Brie Loskota: So she's in there.

Rabia Chaudry: She's in there, and she's prominently in the first chapter – her and my dad, obviously, because it begins with her wedding. This was an advanced copy, and she just put it down and said, "Nobody's going to read this book. Why would they read about this stuff?" But ever since then, she keeps calling it "that book you wrote about me," because that's all she read. And so she's like, "Oh, that book you wrote about me is getting great reviews." I'm like, "Yeah, mom, that book I wrote about you." My sister's not a reader. And so I could have almost written anything.

But the truth is, all of these stories are stories that we have all either laughed about – we experienced together or we laughed about over years, we've recounted many times. My uncles, my maternal uncles, are crazy. So they know the stories that are in there, and they're getting a kick out of the fact that other people are reading them. And I do a little bit of interviewing of my parents, just to make sure I got some details right from before I was born, obviously. But most of the stories involve me being in them, and as long as that's how I remember it, then that's the story for me.

Brie Loskota: You do something that memoirs struggle to do, and I think you do really well, which is that you situate what is happening in your life and in the life of your family in a much broader narrative – in a much broader series of events that impact your family. You do it in a way that makes them small enough that they can be understood. You could have gotten lost in the details; you could have gotten lost in the details of Partition, but the way that you write about it, it's really, really quite great.

"My mom's family had seen the inevitable and decided not to wait until the two nations officially parted ways to leave Delhi. Before the bloody riots began, they moved to an ancient city of Lahore in the province of Punjab, which was essentially split between India and Pakistan. They were already settled in their new home when, in August of 1947 independence was declared, and consequently, none of the family fell victim to the ensuing violence."

So it features very prominently, but the story of your family is the part that we focus on. And I think that's a really delicate balance: to tell an important story and not get lost in the details so that it overwhelms the personal story that you're telling. That happens all throughout. That happens with 09/11. It even happens with Adnan's Story. That's a really hard line to walk.

Rabia Chaudry: Yeah, I mean, you're never operating in a vacuum or in a bubble, right? Everything's happening, our lives, in context to what's happening around us and in relation to that. I grew up hearing over and over again – from my mother, particularly – this story that, "Your father and I, yes, we were both from Pakistan, Lahore from close neighborhoods, but we come from very different worlds, because of where my family came from in India and where his family was."

And so that was so much, it was like she was trying to drill into us the fact that: You have two separate histories that you come from. If the Partition hadn't happened, it probably wouldn't have brought those two families together close enough that the kids could have gotten married. It was really important. But also, I had to explain these – I don't want to say I know if they're ethnic groups, but the Punjabis and the Mohajir. I mean, these are groups that have very distinct cultures and cuisines. That was like my mother and my father's family and how my mom – the stories my mom told me about her food versus their food. I grew up with both, I think the best and the worst of both of those worlds. And there is a nugget of truth in a lot of the stereotypes, I have to say.

So I wanted to provide some of that context, but at the same time, I remember there was moments when the editor said about that particular time: "Maybe we should go into more of the history." And I said, "I don't want to overwhelm people. This is not a historical – it is not that kind of book." And so you have to give enough that people get a little bit of a sense of it, but you have to steer back to the personal, obviously. That's why you pick up a memoir. I want to know the personal story.

Brie Loskota: You mentioned the markers of status and distinction within Pakistani society. You also talk about your mom, who's going to read this book. The thing that is laced throughout this is an incredible amount of judgment and scrutiny that you've experienced, but also that sort of is in the story of your family. In fact, there's something that I thought was really remarkable: Your skin color, your body, your divorce, your mom – all of these things are laden with so much judgment, but you don't write with anger about it. You don't write having adopted the same judgmental tone.

And then in the end of your book, you say, "I know they did it out of love, out of concern for how the world would treat me, wanting to protect me from judgment, knowing others wouldn't see any part of me but my size. There's an Islamic belief that God rewards actions by their intentions, which is a good thing, because actions themselves don't always give the results we hope for. That's the grace with which I think about my family's many attempts at getting me to lose weight."

I think it's really remarkable to have a book with so much judgment. The weight of it is in the judgment, but you don't write with that.

Rabia Chaudry: When I saw the movie My Big Fat Greek Wedding, I was like, oh, that's my family. Do you guys remember that? When you watch that film and you see that story, it's all judgment for that protagonist. Her family – all they're obsessed with is, when it comes to her: "Take care of yourself. Who's going to marry you?" But at the same time, you still feel there's no maliciousness in it that's coming from them. My sense was they really love her and that's just, it's like a cultural thing. That's how they talk. That's how, relationally, that they are. And for me, that's how I viewed – and that's why, it wasn't until my early adulthood, my first marriage, that I really started internalizing the pain of this stuff and actually hating myself.

For much of my childhood, they would say it so – my dad would so lovingly offer me $3 a pound if I lost weight, but then also say, "What would you like for dinner? You want some pizza?" They never made me feel like – they never said I was ugly. I felt loved. I did. It never felt hateful and hurtful. Of course, my first marriage, a lot of the same kind of language felt hateful and hurtful because it was. They wanted to hurt me and they did hurt me. But that sense wasn't there, and so I certainly didn't want to convey it.

And there is this cultural thing. I met this one Punjabi family at my book event last night, and they're like, "Oh my gosh, this is so our culture. If we call somebody fat, it's not an insult, it's just an observation. You call somebody bald, this is an observation." That's really how they – they really believe that.

Brie Loskota: We met many years ago. When we met, you –

Rabia Chaudry: Brie is my personal Yoda. I'm just telling you right now: When I need life advice, I'm like: Brie Loskota.

Brie Loskota: Now you're going to make me blush. We met many years ago, and you were a community leader. You were doing work that was topically very important at the time, especially in Muslim communities. And then your presence in the world grew. You have hundreds of thousands of Twitter followers. You have hundreds of millions of podcast downloads. What are we at now?

Rabia Chaudry: We stopped counting after Undisclosed crossed 400 million downloads, so it's a lot.

Brie Loskota: So there are very few of us who can say that we have the kind of reach that you do. How do you think about even the weight of that: the publicness that you have, the perch that you have on the world, the number of eyes looking at you all the time. What has it felt like over the last dozen years that we've known each other, to go from somebody doing intense work in this way, to being a public figure?

Rabia Chaudry: You have seen me in my darkest times and suffering the judgment of the public in many times, and you've seen me suffer through it. It's different when a lot of what your work – I mean, it's almost like a lot of my work has to be on social media. It's hard. I can't not use social media, but then when you're on social media and you're in a public space, then you're opening yourself up to it. And it really has become about managing myself and creating boundaries. I don't think about that stuff most of the time. What I think about is: Am I doing what I believe in, am I enjoying what I'm doing, and am I having an impact? If I'm doing those things and I feel like I'm working with integrity, and I can face my Lord and I can face my family, and I have nothing to hide, and I'm just happy in my work –then, well, whether people see it, follow it – We all do work that nobody sees as well, right? I mean, that's for real, too.

But at the end of the day, for some of the work for Undisclosed, which ran for seven years and thirteen of our defendants are home –

Brie Loskota: Which is remarkable.

Rabia Chaudry: It is. I'm so proud of Undisclosed. I'm so proud of that team.

Brie Loskota: Does everybody know Undisclosed? You want to just give a quick summary of it?

Rabia Chaudry: It's a podcast that I launched with Susan Simpson and Colin Miller, two other attorneys, in the wake of Serial. After we covered Adnan's case, we just kept getting requests to take other cases, and we have. We have had incredible success, and I think it's because we are educating the public, we're creating a public whole media [campaign] around it, but also, that media is funding the work. These defendants cannot afford hundreds of thousands of dollars for post-conviction attorneys and investigators. We take on that role. We get paid through our Undisclosed sponsors, and we can do that work for free for them.

And so for me, at the end of the day, that media product is just a means to an end. That's the way to fund the work. The work itself is what's more important. After Adnan's release, I a number of times posted about other cases, as well. I was like, okay, Adnan's out. That's great. Everybody's happy and thankful for that, but there are all these other people, too, and you have to keep the eyes on it, too.

I'm so focused on the work, I don't think a lot about that – I've learned that you don't respond to trolls, and I've gotten better at social media in that I just don't respond and react. I don't get hurt by it anymore. I just block and move on.

Brie Loskota: Yeah, that's good advice. Since you mentioned Adnan, can you give us an update about how he's doing? Have you had a moment to reflect on – I mean, you've moved very quickly from Adnan, too. There's all these other people that we can help, but it's the end of a multiple-decade journey for you. Have you had a chance to assess what it means to be done?

Rabia Chaudry: I was in Canada over the Thanksgiving holidays and I was visiting my in-laws. My mother- and father-in-Law are just the loveliest people. They threw me a surprise party to celebrate. They got these big cakes that [said], "Congratulations, Rabia!" Because for seventeen of these twenty-three years, they have watched me do this, advocate for Adnan and try this, and try this, and try this. So it was a surprise party to celebrate the fact that Adnan was released, and this case is finally wrapped up, and also for the book, as kind of an afterthought. But that was, I'm like, this is actually the only time I've gotten kind of celebrate that moment, because life has been a fever dream. Nobody could have predicted that Adnan was going to be released around the same time that the book is happening. I had a new podcast launching, I think two weeks after his release, so we were doing tons of production for that. My dad had a stroke shortly before his release.

It was like the universe was throwing everything at me. If you see the footage of us walking out of the courtroom, I look dazed. I was. I was like sleep-deprived and dazed. And then I had to do – my manager knows – just back-to-back media for days, and days, and days, and days, which, it's work, at the end of the day. And I was like, I don't even have time to talk to Adnan because I got to talk to the media about Adnan, because nobody else is doing the media. He can't do it. So I'm literally the only media rep to do it, and literally haven't gotten a chance ...

So I've seen him three times since he's been out. He's doing great. We text all the time, and yesterday, we were texting and he said, "Oh my God, Rabia, I'm on a group chat with twenty other exonerees. It is a shit show." I was like, "Every group chat is. You are learning how these things go now."

Brie Loskota: You had to sort of bring him up to speed to how we interact with each other, which is terrible.

Rabia Chaudry: He was exonerated by a state's attorney who has, in the previous three or four years, exonerated twelve other innocent people, and six of them were at the courthouse on the day he came home. He has been incarcerated with almost all of them for decades. So it's like he already has this family that he grew up with that has now been exonerated. It's shocking that so many of them were innocent and were with him in prison.

So he's doing great. He actually is starting a new job at Georgetown University. I don't know if this might be the first time I'm saying it publicly, but yes. He is working with an innocence clinic that they have there and a professor there who does innocence work, and he will continue his bachelor's degree hopefully at Georgetown. He wants to go to law school. So yeah, it's going well so far.

Brie Loskota: That's really amazing.

In your book, America represents this place of goodness. You talk about how your parents assumed that the food would be healthy because America was good. Actually, we just had lunch, and we had some British visitors, and they were talking about eating Twinkies. Yes, this is our culinary achievement, right?

Rabia Chaudry: They will last forever on your shelf.

Brie Loskota: But then the story of Annan, the story of your work, is a different side of America. It's a side of America that is not healthy, nutritive, that's not nourishing. In fact, it's very ugly, right? Criminal justice reform, wrongful incarceration. So when you think about your place here and what the place represents – how do you think about that, given what you were fed as stories of America, that you've experienced very differently?

Rabia Chaudry: My dad – since his stroke, he can't talk a lot, and I'm glad I had so many conversations with him before this most recent stroke. I asked him just about six months ago. None of his family is close by. I mean, he has a community of people here, but had he been back home and growing older, all day, people would have been coming by, cousins and uncles. So I said to him, I said, "Do you ever regret moving to the United States?" He's like, "Never. No. In Pakistan, I could not have had the freedom to live my life how I wanted to live it." Even though he was an adult and he was a professional, he's like, "Coming to America meant I could choose all of my paths: where I want to live, how I want all these things."

Yeah, I mean, for them, America was abundance. Everything about it was good. I remember hearing all the time growing up that the food here is pure, and the food back home has ..., which means it's mixed. If you get milk, it'll have water mixed in it. You can trust the food here because the government regulates it, so you know it's going to be nice, good and healthy for you.

And they actually never made the connection. It's interesting, I didn't realize this until I wrote the [book]. They didn't made the connection between my weight gain and their weight gain and the food we were eating, because up until adulthood, they ate whatever they wanted in Pakistan, and it didn't show on their body. It was: You eat because you have to eat and you should love food. They did not understand. They always thought it was because I sat too much and I read too much. They're like, "This is the root of her issues, that she just sits and reads too much and that's why she's heavy."

So for me, America is about promise, and I really do believe that. I know enough about Pakistan to know that – and other countries, and you do as well – that every place has its issues. There are social issues. I don't care if it's Dubai, I don't care if it's Pakistan, I don't care if it's England – anywhere you go, there are problems. But I feel like in a place like the United States, there's always promise and hope. I can work on these issues here. Whereas maybe in Pakistan, I couldn't work on some of these issues. In Pakistan or other countries, maybe politically it wouldn't be safe. I have friends who've moved to the UAE who love it there because it's safe, the quality of life is amazing, everybody's got servants. They're like, "As long as you don't say anything politically about anything, or don't mention the poor workers, the laborers that are being exploited here, you're fine." Well, I don't want to live in a place like that.

I have always believed in the promise of America and the fact that we are able to, even if you take steps backwards, you can push forward. I think history shows us that's true. We are moving slowly, slowly, slowly in the right direction, back and forth, but we are getting there. I feel like you can talk about these issues here, whereas in a lot of places in the world, you can't.

Brie Loskota: That hopefulness that you have, that also may be a function of the fact that things have worked out in this case, right?

Rabia Chaudry: Yeah.

Brie Loskota: So there must have been times throughout where you didn't feel a sense of progress – with Adnan's case, with how life was unfolding for you. Did you always have that kind of hopefulness within you or is that – ?

Rabia Chaudry: I think I did, because I think that's how my parents raised me. They really believed in this country. I remember – this is like ten years ago – my dad went for the hajj, which is the pilgrimage that Muslims attempt to try to make once in their life. They go to Mecca. It's a big deal when you go for your hajj, and when you come back, people throw parties, they call you "hajji," they give you a title. It's a big deal. I go to the airport to pick up my dad and my sister. They had made this pilgrimage together. My dad comes out of the airport and I'm like, "Did you come back spiritually enlightened and cleansed?" And my dad's like, "I hate that place. I'm never going back. I'm so glad to be back in America." I was like, "Dad, don't say [that] – it's the holiest place in the – you can't say those things." And he's like, "The Saudis are – "

Anyway, so my parents love this country, and a lot of it, I know, is naïveté, because they don't know the history of the country. They don't know all these things. All they know is that when they got here, they worked hard and they saw their children get educated and be safe and what they wanted, they achieved. So they hadn't seen a lot of that. But for me, I'm like, as long as I feel like there's space to work and the potential for progress, then it's worth the fight. Yeah.

Brie Loskota: I love the way that your book ends with a sort of – what came off to me as a kind of settledness and sense of agency over your body, over your life. At the end you write, "I never deprive myself of the joy of food, especially the good, wholesome, home-cooked Pakistani food, where I am the master of every ingredient, where the dishes flood me with memories of places I love and the loved ones I've lost. There will never be a time in my life that I don't have a cup of chai with whole milk and real sugar. It's a daily gift to myself along, with a Zero biscuit, crumbly, dotted with cumin, sweet and salty, perfect for soaking up chai."

So what I got out of the end was a kind of resolution and acceptance of who you are, of what you have gone through, of your history, of the story of you. What do you hope that people get out of it?

Rabia Chaudry: I couldn't have written this book ten years ago, or five years ago. I couldn't have written this book until I had gotten to that place emotionally and psychologically that I was finally – I had processed through four decades of this struggle, and feeling completely out of control. And it wasn't until I realized that it was never about that number on the scale, because I have never been goal weight, and I will never be goal weight. Literally, who gets to goal weight? I don't know.

It wasn't until I figured out that so much of what I thought was my own failure was actually me believing in lies that I had been told, me believing that it was a lack of discipline – although I will tell you: a person who was struggling with – nobody works as hard. Nobody restricts themselves as much as a person who is struggling with weight and trying to lose weight. The things that I have done and others I know in similar situations I've gone through – and yet feeling like a failure, and yet being told that you don't have the willpower or whatever. Not understanding what a lot of foods that I grew up eating probably did to my metabolism, and probably did to my palate.

My sister is so different than me, because her first three, four years, she grew up in Pakistan. Her palate has always been different. I grew up immediately, as soon as I got teeth, eating junk food here. So for me, it was a sense of finally being able to forgive myself, and also feeling like I'm in control, finally. And you're right, agency is the right word. I'm like, oh, I finally get it. I finally get what my body responds to, what it needs. She's not my enemy. I don't have to hate her like I have all these years. It's not like I love my body now; I just won't hate my body. And that's a huge sense of relief.

So yeah, that's where I landed. I really hope – because I was able to connect so many dots without trying to make the point in your face. There are moments in which I'm running five miles a day, and climbing fifty flights of stairs, and restricting my calories, and nothing is happening. I know people are going to read that and say, "Oh, I've been there." But then see what happens when I get beyond that, and how I realize why that wasn't meant to work.

So I'm hoping people will, when they read it, they'll see their story in it, but also maybe it'll help them solve a little bit of the mystery of their own body, too. Because I really felt like I didn't understand my body. I just didn't get it. It's like, what do you need? Why are you – it's like I feel like I can achieve almost anything I put my mind to, but you have failed. I can't figure you out. And so it was like finally making friends with my body after all these years.