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I Hired My Conservative Christian Mayor to Mindfuck Me Into Losing Weight

  • Writer: Sandee Hunt
    Sandee Hunt
  • Jun 24
  • 4 min read

Updated: Jun 26

Rock bottom looks a lot like a hotel floor and a throne made of cheeseburgers. But hey—every queen’s gotta start somewhere.
Rock bottom looks a lot like a hotel floor and a throne made of cheeseburgers. But hey—every queen’s gotta start somewhere.

I could’ve hired a weight loss consultant who was someone exactly like me — same politics, same neuroses, same mutual agreement that binge eating is probably childhood trauma wrapped in a tortilla. Or maybe that girl from high school who keeps sliding into my DMs with “hey girl! Buy my protein shakes.”


But let’s be real: if someone like me had the answers I needed, I wouldn’t have been crying into my fourth DoorDash of the week. I would have figured it out already.


I needed an interruption. I needed a worldview so opposite from mine that it short-circuited my internal monologue and forced a reset. Not a vibe match — a system override. Someone who wasn't going to take any bullshit. Specifically -- my patent-pending proprietary brand of bullshit.


So no, I didn’t hire Wren or Saylor or some other moon-charged white girl with a nose ring and a podcast.


I hired my mayor.


Yes, my actual mayor — a conservative Christian woman who lives in the suburbs, wears a Fitbit unironically, and absolutely does not believe the government owes me a weighted blanket and a participation trophy. But I dug her vibe, and clearly she was doing something right to be an out and proud Republican and continually keep getting elected in one of the bluest places in California.


Why not try the GOP before a GLP?


Spoiler alert: it worked.


She didn’t coddle me. She didn’t co-sign my chaos. She wasn’t afraid of my edge, my tears, or my meticulously categorized excuses. She was the first person in years who wasn’t trying to emotionally process with me—she was trying to get me to carve brand new roads in my brain for my thoughts to travel. The current ones were highways with a Taco Bell and Chick-fil-A at every offramp into a sketchy side of town.


Not once did she hand me a calorie target. Not once did she tell me how to meal prep or send me a squat video. What she did was break my mental cycle. And you know what that takes? Courage. Guts. A willingness to be wildly unpopular with your client.


She asked me, “What do you honestly think of yourself when you look in the mirror? Not what you want to believe. What’s so true your soul wouldn’t waiver—something you could say with the same certainty as your own name?”


I looked at her and said, “Well, not perfect. But still looking like a snack.”


She laughed, and I even had t-shirts made with that slogan on it. But she still didn’t let me off the hook.


On one of the many occasions where she gently took a jackhammer to my worldview, she asked me what my ideal day looked like. I gave the curated Pinterest version. You know: 30 minutes of exercise, clean eating, gentle movement, fresh air. She nodded and said, “Okay. This week, I want you to commit to three minutes of movement.”


I was perplexed. “Three minutes? That’s dumb. What’s the point? I would go do the entire 30 minutes because three does nothing. What is this chick on?”


Next session, she asked if I had completed the assignment.


I said no.


And she hit me with the dunk of the decade: “So you think you’re going to exercise 30 minutes a day in a regular routine… and you didn’t even do the three minutes I asked you to?”


Boom. Roasted.

I think about that scene in Long Shot when Seth Rogen’s friend “comes out” as a Republican. Seth yells, “'pull yourself up by your bootstraps and be in charge of your own destiny' … That Republican shit! You put that in my brain and it made me feel good! … that’s so gross!”


That’s what this was. A full-brain reboot. A no-bullshit reset that actually worked — and yeah, it was a little gross. But so was the way I had been treating my body for 40 years.


On paper, we don’t match. At all. But she saw me. She challenged me. And she didn’t let me waste her time with cute excuses and therapist-approved language. She forced me to stop intellectualizing my self-destruction and act.


This woman changed the trajectory of my life more than any diet, doctor, or therapist ever did. Once I rerouted my thought patterns, I was taking new roads and seeing neural scenery I had never experienced before. It made me want to reroute other parts of my life, and it put together one big map to a higher road of self-worth.


Sometimes the coach you need isn’t the one who shares your Spotify Wrapped or your ballot. Sometimes it’s the one who doesn’t give a shit about your excuses—and dares you to want better for yourself because they can see the potential your own brain has barricaded you from.


She did that for me. And she didn’t even make me count macros. Or listen to Tucker Carlson.

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Blacklight Dispatch is a sharp, unfiltered blog covering pop culture, politics, digital chaos, and everyday absurdity. Expect biting commentary, glitter-dusted truth bombs, and the kind of content that says what everyone’s thinking—louder, funnier, and with better sources. From blind item gossip to deep dives on internet culture and power dynamics, nothing hides under this blacklight for long.

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