And yet, as relentless as the obesity crisis appears to be, its expansion doesn’t have to be a foregone conclusion. That’s because, unlike a naturally occurring epidemic, it’s almost completely human created — a reality that allows for the possibility of a human-directed reversal.

What does such a reversal require in practice? First and foremost, awareness, and thanks to everything from Michelle Obama’s fitness campaign to HBO’s new documentary “The Weight of a Nation,” that prerequisite is finally starting to be met. But then what? As GI Joe said, “knowing is half the battle” — but it’s only half. Once more of us are aware of the emergency at hand, what will be the most reliable way to address the problem?

In an instant gratification culture obsessed with extreme makeovers and get-thin-quick diet schemes, it’s easy to feel confused about a path forward. But a tranche of new science, data and public policy proposals that cut through the fog of misinformation suggests that path is there — if we’re willing to take it. Here are five of the most promising ways forward.

1. Tax Junk Food

Over the last four decades, we went from spending $3 billion a year on fast food to $110 billion a year on fast food. At the same time, there’s been an explosion in the amount of chemically enhanced, calorie-packed processed foods Americans eat at home, at work and in the school cafeteria. Not surprisingly, in predictable cause-and-effect fashion, this has all happened as obesity became a public health epidemic.

The response from some policymakers has been to champion junk-food taxes, initiatives whose supreme press-release-worthiness can make them seem a bit gimmicky, but whose merits are nonetheless rooted in substance. Indeed, a bevy of new studies show that such levies, when structured properly, can disincentivize junk food consumption on a large scale.

In one University of North Carolina study, ABC News reports that “Patients got significantly less of their calories from soda or pizza when there was a 10 percent increase in the price of either.” In another study of college-age adults, “researchers found that the students generally bought fewer lunchtime calories when sugary, high-fat fare came with a tax of 25 percent or more.” In yet another study, this one from the University of Buffalo, it was much the same result: Higher taxes meant more healthy consumer choices.

New York Times food columnist Mark Bittman has noted that while taxes alone won’t solve the obesity crisis, they are an important part of a multifaceted attack on the problem — and they will also raise much-needed public revenues at a time of crushing deficits:

A study by Y. Claire Wang, an assistant professor at Columbia’s Mailman School of Public Health, predicted that a penny tax per ounce on sugar-sweetened beverages in New York State would save $3 billion in health care costs over the course of a decade, prevent something like 37,000 cases of diabetes and bring in $1 billion annually. Another study shows that a two-cent tax per ounce in Illinois would reduce obesity in youth by 18 percent, save nearly $350 million and bring in over $800 million taxes annually. Scaled nationally, as it should be, the projected benefits are even more impressive; one study suggests that a national penny-per-ounce tax on sugar-sweetened beverages would generate at least $13 billion a year in income while cutting consumption by 24 percent…A 20 percent increase in the price of sugary drinks nationally could result in about a 20 percent decrease in consumption, which in the next decade could prevent 1.5 million Americans from becoming obese and 400,000 cases of diabetes, saving about $30 billion.

Put it all together, and junk food taxes should be about as close to a no-brainer as you’ll find in the public policy arena.

2. Stop Subsidizing Junk Food

There’s no scientific reason junk food should cost less than whole grains, fruits and vegetables. After all, the former are the product of a mechanized process relying on an entire industrial system, while the later can be grown directly out of the ground by almost anyone.

Yet, junk food consistently beats natural foods in the price competition. Why? It’s all about the subsidies.

As a the U.S. Public Interest Research Group’s “Apples to Twinkies” report shows, your taxpayer dollars subsidize junk food and artificially deflate the cost of that junk food so that it undersells everything else. “Between 1995 and 2010, $16.9 billion in tax dollars subsidized four common food additives—corn syrup, high fructose corn syrup, corn starch, and soy oils.” At the same time, PIRG points out that “taxpayers spent only $262 million subsidizing apples, which is the only significant federal subsidy of fresh fruits or vegetables.” To put those numbers into real-world terms, “if these agricultural subsidies went directly to consumers to allow them to purchase food, each of America’s 144 million taxpayers would be given $7.36 to spend on junk food and 11 cents with which to buy apples each year — enough to buy 19 Twinkies but less than a quarter of one Red Delicious apple apiece.”

While studies show that changing this subsidy structure would be no cure-all for obesity, there’s no evidence to suggest that keeping it in place does anything but make the obesity crisis worse — and there is evidence that changing the subsidies would make things better. This isn’t surprising; it’s basic economics.

Think about it: If subsidies for commodity crops that create junk food were redirected into subsidies for natural foods, it would radically change the market incentives for healthful eating. Sans the subsidies, industrial food corporations would no longer be able to price processed foods at artificially lower prices than their natural competitors. Instead, healthful foods would have the price advantage — and, quite likely, bigger market share.

3. Ban Junk Food in Schools

The Obama administration has been trying to reduce the amount of obesogenic foods in school cafeterias, under the theory that stopping obesity-inducing eating habits at an early age might stop the obesity crisis in its tracks. It’s been an uphill fight. According to the Associated Press in February, “Junk food remains plentiful at the nation’s elementary schools,” with “nearly half of public and private schools surveyed sold sweet or salty snack foods in vending machines or other places.”

Nonetheless, new data proves the administration’s efforts, in conjunction with local school districts, are indeed worthwhile. As the New York Times recently reported:

Five years after California started cracking down on junk food in school cafeterias, a new report shows that high school students there consume fewer calories and less fat and sugar at school than students in other states…The study found that California high school students consumed on average nearly 160 calories fewer per day than students in other states, the equivalent of cutting out a small bag of potato chips. That difference came largely from reduced calorie consumption at school, and there was no evidence that students were compensating for their limited access to junk food at school by eating more at home…

To study the effect of this policy, the researchers examined data from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention on the eating habits of high school students in California, comparing it with data on students from 14 states that did not have nutrition standards for vending machine snacks and other foods sold outside of school lunches and other meal plans…California students had the lowest daily intake of calories, fat and, especially, added sugars.

In light of this, it’s hard to imagine anyone still defending the American school system’s role as glorified junk food machines.

4. Stop Glorifying Unhealthy Eating Habits

In his endorsement of the campaign to legalize gay marriage, Vice President Joe Biden said that “when things really began to change is when the social culture changes … I think Will & Grace probably did more to educate the American public than almost anybody’s ever done so far.” It was an acknowledgment that televisual images often play as big a role in our society as ironclad policies — and the same truism relates to the obesity crisis.

Today, our political culture regularly equates unhealthy eating habits to Americanness and authenticity. As evidence, recall that the party nomination fights have become a kind of televised eating contest, with candidates trying to one-up their competitors with photo ops stuffing corn dogs and cheesesteaks.

The committee now has a White House petition calling on the president to stop undermining his wife’s crusade against obesity and end such photo ops. It’s the least the administration can do.

5. Start Broadening Our Understanding of Obesity

Conventional wisdom holds that a calorie is a calorie, and that if Americans simply take in fewer calories and use more via exercise, obesity can be stopped. But journalist Gary Taubes reports that science now suggests that this formula may be fundamentally flawed — that obesity is a product of specific kinds of calories from sucrose and fructose:

There is an alternative theory, one that has also been around for decades but that the establishment has largely ignored. This theory implicates specific foods—refined sugars and grains—because of their effect on the hormone insulin, which regulates fat accumulation. If this hormonal-defect hypothesis is true, not all calories are created equal…

Sucrose and high-fructose corn syrup have a unique chemical composition, a near 50-50 combination of two different carbohydrates: glucose and fructose. And while glucose is metabolized by virtually every cell in the body, the fructose is metabolized mostly by liver cells. From there, the chain of metabolic events has been worked out by biochemists over 50 years: some of the fructose is converted into fat, the fat accumulates in the liver cells, which become resistant to the action of insulin, and so more insulin is secreted to compensate. The end results are elevated levels of insulin, which is the hallmark of type 2 diabetes, and the steady accumulation of fat in our fat tissue—a few tens of calories worth per day, leading to pounds per year, and obesity over the course of a few decades.

He goes on to note that “back in the 1980s, the FDA gave sugar a free pass based on the idea that the evidence wasn’t conclusive” — but that now, the evidence can’t be ignored.

This isn’t to say that the theories about sugar are 100 percent correct; it is only to point out that if we are going to reduce our consumption of junk food in order to stop the obesity epidemic, we need a better understanding of exactly what junk food is. That means broadening our understanding of obesity’s roots and rejecting the reductionism that says simply that “a calorie is a calorie.”

At first glance, such reductionism seems logical, rational, even boringly uncontroversial. But two recent news items highlight how in a globalized economy, there are troubling consequences that come from the particular kind of export economy we’re building.

The first bit of news came from the Washington Post, which this week reported that “the Obama administration is crafting a proposal that could make it easier to export firearms and other weapons.” Though the Homeland Security and Justice Departments say the new rules could make it easier for terrorist and drug cartels to further arm themselves, the White House is nonetheless citing the “stuff” theory of exports to ignore the objections.

This is part of a larger pattern since President Obama took office. During Obama’s first year in the White House, he began to gut the Pentagon’s approval process for arms exports, weakening controls on what could and could not be sold. Later, diplomatic cables uncovered by WikiLeaks showed, as Fortune magazine put it, “American officials act(ing) as de facto pitchmen for U.S.-made weapons.”

The result is that America has become the true “Lord of War,” as the arms dealer motto goes. We are the leading arms supplier to the developing world and we are responsible for the majority of all weapons sales across the globe. Yes, we are so committed to selling instruments of death to the rest of the planet that military industries have almost tripled their share of the U.S. economy in just a decade.

The second bit of news came from the Institute for Agriculture and Trade Policy, whose new study shows that America is exporting our obesity crisis to Mexico. Coupling health statistics with U.S. export data since the North American Free Trade Agreement tore down Mexico’s agriculture trade barriers, researchers found that the Mexican market was flooded by American agribusinesses’ taxpayer subsidized commodities (corn, soybeans) and their processed derivatives. According to the report, that quickly wiped out Mexico’s local food economy, leaving its food system exactly “like the industrialized food system of the United States — characterized by the overabundance of obesogenic foods.” Not surprisingly, Mexican obesity rates have consequently skyrocketed.

Taken together, these export booms represent what could be called America’s new Guns and Butter economy. We are so desperate to export any “stuff” we can, we are now fattening up the world and arming it for permanent bloodshed.

Seeking to short-circuit any objections to this trend, President Obama has said simply that “we’re at a moment where necessity has tempered the old debates” over exports and economic policy. In terms of history, he’s not wrong — during the previous century, America witnessed fevered fights over what constitutes a moral farm policy, and in the 1930s the U.S. Senate’s Nye Committee held almost 100 hearings into “greedy munitions interests” that were unduly influencing public policy. Sadly, Obama is correct – those debates have been silenced.

But should they be? Should we simply say that any exports — no matter their moral, ethical, environmental or health implications — are inherently good? Does “necessity” really mean that “stuff” for stuff’s sake must be the basis of our export economy?

Washington and profit-at-all-cost industries certainly say yes — but that doesn’t mean it’s the right answer.

In just the time it takes to realize that “Work It” is the worst thing that ever happened to television, you could change your life. Thirty minutes a day. That’s the minimum amount of physical activity the CDC recommends to stay fit. Yet approximately 30 percent of Americans get no weekly activity at all. Zero. Not even candy-ass pastimes like gardening. And many more of us aren’t exactly wearing out the gym membership cards. Right now, the only thing moving at a fast pace in our country is the obesity rate – 30 percent and climbing.

In an already over-saturated life full of work and family and errands and commuting, it’s often grueling to find 30 minutes to do anything at all. There are days when carving out a window of opportunity to grab a shower feels like a big deal. But I promise, a half-hour is not a lot of time. Treated seriously and honored consistently, it’ll do a lot more for your health and well-being than that spinning class across town you go to once a month. And don’t you deserve as much loving attention as you’d give your car or your iPad?

Here’s what you need. Sneakers. A mix of cardio and strength training. An understanding that you can’t fool your body by not making an effort. A casual saunter on the treadmill while tweeting isn’t going to do jack. You know that lady in the Apple Siri ad, the one who wants to be reminded to call Chris while she’s going for a run? Yeah, don’t be her. No talking on the phone. No checking the weather. And no excuses. Thirty minutes to put in real work, whatever work feels like for your fitness level. (Here’s the inevitable reminder that this isn’t medical advice, and you should talk to your doctor about a plan that’s realistic for you.) Here’s the payoff. Research says that you can build bone density and ease the symptoms of arthritis, high blood pressure and even depression. If this stuff came in a pill, it’d be hotter than Viagra and Effexor put together.

Like a lot of people, I spend most of my days on my butt. Yet I have a beautiful heartbeat. When I see my doctor for my weekly health monitoring, he smiles appreciatively as he presses the stethoscope to my sternum, praising my “slow, steady, runner’s rate.” And last summer, shortly before my lung surgery, the respiratory technician was similarly complimentary. “Look at that pulmonary function,” he said encouragingly as I puffed into a tube. “I can always spot the yoga people.”

Now here’s what you need to know about me. I was always chosen last in gym class. I can’t open a jar of pickles without assistance. I don’t train for marathons. I will never be on the cover of a magazine, Valerie Bertinelli-style, flaunting my abs. I have a body that’s over 40 and has birthed two children, and looks it. And many days, I don’t want to get out of bed. But I put in three and a half hours of exercise a week – mostly running, mixed with the use of a pair of five-pound dumbbells and a yoga app on my phone. I breathe hard. I stretch muscles. I resist gravity. Then I’m back on my butt, possibly holding a beer. That’s it.

Good health should not be reserved for the perky sporty types. Screw the jocks. Almost everybody, of every age and fitness level, can afford a half-hour a day. You can. Why am I telling you this? Because when the surgeon had to cut some cancer out of my lung last August, I was pretty happy I could breathe unassisted afterward. And because I hope that if you’re ever in a similar situation, you are likewise prepared.

This year, it’s not about fitting into those jeans that linger accusatorily in the back of the closet. It’s not about the scale. It’s about getting in touch with what we humans were meant to do – move around. It’s about taking the stairs. It’s about being able to play with your kids. It’s about those sweet, sweet endorphins. And it’s about knowing that though we’re all different, we’re all capable of greater wellness. Is it hard sometimes? Does it get boring at times, day in and day out? Sure. Is it achievable, and is it worth it? Always. But don’t listen to me. Listen to my beautiful heartbeat. Now get out there and thump along. And tell me about your progress — I’ll be right alongside, cheering you on.

I wondered what this woman would say if she met my own parents. Would she blame them for the way I turned out? For that matter: Should I?

Let me back up a bit. I’m fat and have been since I was a toddler. Not “trapped in my trailer” fat, or “have to use an extra-wide electric wheelchair at the grocery store” fat, but medically, technically, morbidly obese. I confess that whenever I hear that term — morbidly obese — I giggle, because I picture chubby Goths with back nail polish and dog collars. That is not to say I do not take it seriously, because I do. It is the first thing I think about when I wake up in the morning, the last thing on my mind when I go to bed at night. And I will never be a member of the “fat acceptance movement,” because I don’t accept it. I have been fighting my weight for over 35 years.

But I don’t believe I deserve to be hated, and hate is what I feel every single day as a fat woman. I feel it in the stares from strangers’ children, and when someone screams “fat ass” as I walk my dogs. I feel it when I get a flawless performance review, but my boss asks if I have considered weight loss surgery — as if that has something to do with my professional skills. I feel it in the constant stream of media images about what women should look like, in the tired fat jokes from comedians (come on, stop phoning it in — get creative!), and in the constant articles about the doom that is The Obesity Epidemic. Fat people are taxing the healthcare system, they make other people uncomfortable on planes and trains, they use more fossil fuels because it takes more gas to haul their big butts around thus causing global warming, and they suck up the world’s food resources while others starve.

And yet, I understand: These arguments aren’t without merit, and it is after all human nature that some people express their points with meanness and derision. I don’t take it personally.

But even at my most open-minded, I could not bear the debate that erupted in response to the JAMA article (and the derisive online comments). While the study, by Dr. David Ludwig and Lindsey Murtagh, did suggest that obese children — in some extreme circumstances — should be taken away from their parents, coverage of the article focused on the most sensational elements of the argument. It resulted in a cascade of hate on cable news and morning shows that was packaged as concern for children, like that disgusted-looking pundit who made me sick to my stomach.

Did my parents make me fat? Probably. They fed my siblings and me meals of bologna on white bread, hot dogs and potato chips. They let us have four of those Oreo-knock-off cookies-that-don’t-quite-taste-right in a sitting, rather than one or two. They used fast food as a reward and eating in general as a form of entertainment. If I was upset, I might be offered a tasty snack as a pick-me-up. Even if nothing got done all day, not the dishes, not the vacuuming, not mowing the lawn, by god dinner would get done and there wouldn’t be any leftovers to pack up and put away. I suppose to some people it is a portrait of failed parenting.

But my parents are also a success story. They were teen parents. They had me — the eldest — at age 16. It was not a mistake but a planned pregnancy. My mother grew up in a household where she faced daily abuse at the hands of people she trusted. There were challenging finances and in a family with eight children, food could sometimes be scarce. My father grew up in a slightly more stable financial situation, but where violence was the primary outlet for anger, or disappointment, as well as for discipline of children. When these two wounded, but hopeful souls met they made a forever pact in heart-shaped doodles on their class notebooks. They crafted an escape plan: Create their own family where they would make different rules. That is just what they did.

And they did it all on their own. My dad worked two jobs while finishing high school. My mom went back to night school after I was born. Dad worked double night shifts and Mom cut coupons and raised the kids while balancing work at McDonald’s. They never got welfare. They never received food stamps. They modeled hard work and commitment and most of all, love. They are still married — still go out on date nights and still laugh and look longingly in each other’s eyes — almost 40 years later.

Doctors did warn them about the children’s weight, and these problems were not ignored. My mom worried. She ached for me when I came home crying after schoolmates teased me all day long. She was my biggest cheerleader when, in the fifth grade, I became the youngest member of the local Weight Watchers group to reach the 50-pound weight loss mark. She saved money we didn’t have to buy weight-loss shakes and exercise equipment. She went without sleep sewing cute clothes that actually fit well, unlike the pricey crap in the husky department. Dad did his best when he wasn’t working.

But once the fat is on, it is hard to get it off. When you get it off, it comes back with a vengeance. My parents could never quite bridge the gap between what was recommended and what we could afford, between what they went without and what they would never allow us to miss. And who’s to say what part their parenting played in all this, really — which part was simple genetics and which part of was the learned behavior of emotional eating; which part overindulgence and which part the negative side effects of yo-yo dieting; which part was uncooperative children and which part plain lack of knowledge and time. To think of that pundit giving such a disgusted look to my parents, crushes me. They tried so hard. They, in fact, did way more than so many. From troubled beginnings, they created a family where the cycle of violence was broken, where their children had access to more education and opportunity than they had. Did they make mistakes with food? Yes. But there was nobody better to raise my siblings and me than the two people who sacrificed so much to make sure we grew up happier and healthier than they had.

That’s the real point here: We are healthier for their efforts. No matter our size.

Stacey R. Hall lives and works in southwest Ohio, where she regularly walks her dogs, despite the rude yelling, and works with her siblings to educate the next generation on healthy eating, exercise and the importance of family.

I’ve been in denial about the number. I argue that, inside, I’m the same person I’ve always been. But the reality is that I can no longer easily do the things I love. The old, adventurous, unstoppable me decided to run the New York City marathon after one disciplined year of training — and finished in under five hours. When I met Jeff, I was a fit size 12, going daily to power yoga class. Lately, though, I’m always the biggest person in the studio. Where I used to stand proud and tall at the front, I now hug the wall or lurk behind a pole, hoping to escape notice. It requires courage to take my place in a room packed with bendy bodies in booty shorts; many days, I’m just not brave enough.

It’s tough to be a bad-ass girl in a dainty world. In a pole dancing class, I tried to conquer my fear of a tricky move called “the snake,” which involves flinging feet over head, gripping the pole between your thighs, dropping your hands and slithering into a coil of turgid sexpot on the floor. But when it came my turn, the teacher — a vegan ballerina — blurted, “I can’t lift you. I’ll break my back,” then walked away. In true fat girl form, I bit back my tears and gave up the pole for good.

It hasn’t always been this way. I was a fat kid until the eighth grade, when I went on a diet to get the part of Liesl in a local production of “The Sound of Music.” I lost the weight, got the part and more or less kept my figure in check for two decades. I never stopped looking at myself through fat eyes, though. Eventually, the weight started to creep up on me. I went from a plush hourglass to a brick doorstop. My thighs began to rub together. I began to sweat more. I noticed fat rolls. Actual fat rolls.

I ignored them, and hoped other people would, too. Bad plan. Not long ago, I stopped by my favorite downtown boutique, where the designer, a curvy blond goddess, tie-dyes vintage lingerie, transforming it into one-of-a-kind cocktail attire. It had been a while, and when I walked in, she met me with an ebullient, “Oh my God, when are you due?”

My heart dropped. I didn’t want to embarrass her. So I lied.

“Uh, you know … in the fall,” I stuttered.

She looked at me funny. When I grabbed an irresistible sky blue top, she winked at me.

“That won’t fit you much longer,” she said.

“That’s OK. It’s for after the — you know, for inspiration.” I managed a fake, shame-tinged glow as I left, knowing it was the last time. How can I go back without a baby?

Being fat colors every moment of my existence — even sleep because, according to Jeff, I snore like a jet engine. Unable to handle the racket, he built himself a bed in another room. When we make love, I undress as fast as I can. If he touches my stomach, I flinch. I worry that his eyes are closed so he won’t see me. After all, I don’t look at myself if I don’t have to.


There is no excuse for how I got like this. I don’t have a thyroid condition. It’s not raining Goobers in New York City. Every ounce of padding came in through my mouth, via my hand. Nobody did this to me. I did it to myself — one bad decision at a time. So how did it happen?

 In 1999, I briefly played Erica Kane’s prison guard on the soap opera, “All My Children” and wrote a one-woman show, “Guarding Erica,” about my experience. Writing and performing my own work was the most challenging and fulfilling thing I’ve ever done. As a result, I was offered a job writing for soaps. I wasn’t crazy about the genre, but I needed the money (substantial), not to mention the health insurance (excellent), so I signed on, promising myself to work on my own writing between soap scripts. But there was little time and less creative energy left after turning in my hundred- (or 200-) page assignment each week. I spent most of my time sitting at my desk in pajamas, or watching TV (“research”), drained and depressed. I was making a six-figure salary. Shouldn’t I be happy, I wondered? Instead, I felt stalled, stuck, guilty and fuzzy-headed. In order to muster the energy and mental clarity to work, I used food, jacking myself up on coffee rich with whole milk, sucking down chocolate “energy bars” and Gatorade when I felt overwhelmed — which was most of the time. My doctor prescribed antidepressants, which made me hungrier, then fatter, thus more depressed, so she upped my dosage, which made me hungrier, fatter and bluer, still.

Then “As the World Turns,” the last show I wrote for, was abruptly canceled. There were goodbye parties … with plenty of photographs. When I saw myself plastered all over Facebook, I was shocked at how puffy, frumpy and uncomfortable I looked. As I untagged myself in picture after picture, I wept with embarrassment for the artificially jolly, fat, middle-aged schlub I’d become. It was a life or death moment. Either I had to stop the shame spiral, or permanently lose my way — and possibly my life. 
 That’s when I said, “Hell no.” I want more time with my husband, my nieces. And there are stories I need to tell. So I made a choice, walked away from soaps and got to work on own writing. No more excuses. Now, it’s time to take off the force field of fat I created for protection, so the world can see me, and I can fall back in love with myself.

Alone at my desk, paging through fitness and fashion magazines, it seems an impossible distance from here to there. But I’ve been at my goal weight before. That trip began with one choice. Then another. And one more after that. No bacon. One extra push-up. Walk instead of ride. Love myself, if only for a minute. Tomorrow, maybe two. In my mind, I know I am more than the number on the scale. More than a bag of dirty laundry. Now, I just have to believe it.

On the day I ran the New York City marathon, the sun was so bright, the sky so azure that it gave a Technicolor feel to Central Park. I rounded the bottom west corner of Park Drive and saw the finish line up ahead. Because of my steady training, I still had gas in the tank, and I wanted to leave it all out there on the asphalt. With 26 miles behind me, I started to sprint. I passed dozens of runners, and as I did, I felt my smile open up, unbidden. Strangers on the sidelines began to shout my name (which I had written proudly on my shirt for exactly that purpose). I soared across the finish line, arms raised in victory. I had run 26.2 miles alongside 25,000 other dreamers, powered only by my heart, my will, and my determination not to quit. When it got tough, I told myself to run to the next landmark, the next mile marker, the next corner.

I try to imagine the romance of waking up every morning on equal terms with the world. My heart lifts at the thought. A smile slides across my face. No more fat girl. One landmark at a time.