Category Archives: mental health

Jun26

Migraine hell.

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I’ve always done it alone. And I was fine with that. Though, I couldn’t tell you how as I never remember much other than the puking. The constant puking and pain. Everything else is black.

Until this time when I had someone by my side.

Migraines are my invisible enemy & Wednesday I came down hard with one. I was out for 36 hours, dead to the world. My boyfriend claims to have spoken to me throughout the day but I don’t remember it. He took Evelynn the entire day and then planned on having to do so again yesterday (he skipped going to football practice) because he didn’t know what to expect. If I’d feel better or if I’d still feel like death. Yesterday, I still wasn’t 100% with a lingering headache that I had to work to manage.

My brain was in a meat pulverizer. It was like a construction crew was having a jackhammer party in my head. I couldn’t keep down anything, not even water. My body would overheat and then get hit hard with chills. I couldn’t stand up, I was dizzy, I was seeing spots. It’s wondering if death is a good enough answer just to end the pain—it’s not. But that’s the troubling thing with migraines: you want it to end as fast as possible by any means possible. There is nothing I can do except sleep. Looking at a screen makes it worse. Trying to keep hydrated just makes for more trips to the bathroom to puke. I go dark.

While I spent the entire day in bed, Andy took care of Evelynn. They washed both his truck and my car. They took the dogs for a walk and she rode her bike. She got dirty and played with mud. They did a bonfire and danced. She ate all her meals and earned herself some ice cream. He kept her happy and entertained.

I’ve had to skip major events for migraines. I’ve lost great friends from migraines. I’ve been verbally abused by past boyfriends due to my migraines cancelling their plans. I’ve had grades slip in college due to migraines and my attendance record alone. I’ve slept through days on vacation due to migraines. I’ve missed soccer games growing up due to migraines. I’ve left bachelorette parties early due to migraines. I’ve almost lost jobs due to migraines—my work ethic and communication helped me keep them, helped my employers trust me. I gave up going for my teacher certificate because I couldn’t sub more than 3 days in a row without getting a migraine. I once chopped my hair because I heard that could help. I once gave up lentils (yes that means peanut butter, too) because I heard that could reduce headaches. I once went on a migraine med and ended up pregnant because it interacted with my birth control despite original assurances it wouldn’t—8 months after giving birth there was a “new finding” that the med I had taken was reportedly making birth control pills ineffective.

Since finding out I’m celiac and going gluten free, I’ve had far fewer debilitating migraines. Where I used to have them for 2-5 days 2-3 times a month, I now only get the excruciating crushing ones a few times a year. Most people don’t know how to react. They can’t see it. They can’t feel it. It’s invisible. Some think I must be faking it. It’s extremely difficult for anyone who doesn’t experience such crushing and debilitating migraines to not be annoyed with me for disrupting their day. Reality: it’s my hell. I not only have to battle the migraine but then I will have to also defend myself.

Today with the migraine gone and the post lingering headache gone, I’m feeling unbelievably blessed to have a man who took it upon himself to watch Evelynn for a day without complaints. Thank you babe.

Aug16

Level Up: It’s Sanity.

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I’m not the person you come running to complaining. I’m not even the person you come running to crying. Not because it makes me uncomfortable but because I’m going to talk about how to overcome. We’re going to have a deep discussion on how you got to this place, why you’re unhappy, and what you can do to change it. And then I’ll push you to change because I’m not someone you come to just to talk either. I like action.

It’s a tough love paradise with me and few can take it.

I have no room in my life for people who react to experiences and people with jealousy or complaints. Taylor has a right to be jealous—he’s spent almost 23 years of his life hardly living, don’t come to me crying because you refuse to put in the work to become better. Don’t come to me crying because you wanted a simple, easy journey. I will tell you things could be worse. I will tell you to take a few minutes to cry it out but then to get over it. I will tell you how good you have it—or how good you could have it.

They don’t say the best things in life are worth fighting for because it’s a catchy phrase. No, they say it because fighting for something you love, fighting to making something happen, that journey makes you appreciate it more. If it were easy, you’d let it go. You’d play a game of waves—coming and going back to the thing knowing that it will always be there for you. (Sounds like a toxic relationship, eh? It is.) No, we fight for things that aren’t easy because when we get there, when we climb the mountain, we appreciate the hike, we appreciate the sweat and lack of sleep it took to get there.

People always want to hear about the climb for a reason.

They might want to hear you say it was easy and Rome was built in a day, but it’s the climb they always ask you about—how did you do it? We’re fascinated by this process not realizing the only thing keeping many from doing it is by actually starting and then by keep going.

I’m a firm believer people are capable of going to great heights and putting in the distance to get there. The issue is people don’t always want it bad enough; they’re too focused on quick fixes and instant gratification to see the bigger picture. Take running for example, distance runners are more in shape than those who run 5K’s. Why? The training is brutal. Anyone can do 3.2 miles at a walking pace but very few can do over 25 miles of running. I could wake up tomorrow and run a 5K if I wanted—I’ll have cramps in my side, likely an asthma attack, and will walk part of it—but a half marathon or a marathon? That’s entirely out of my league without at least a couple months of training. It takes running consistently and timed nutrition. It takes education. It takes time.

Most people have no time for time. It’s what sets everyone apart. It defines character. It defines the fighters. It requires leveling up.

I’ll let you in on a secret: I don’t always want to workout every day. I don’t always want to eat healthy. Some days I want to take that time to read instead. Some days I crave pizza and donuts and burgers and other greasy or sugar loaded foods. The difference is I refuse to give in every day. I made the decision that feeling good long term was worth more to me than the savory taste of a loaded juicy burger and fries for 10 minutes. I recognized that taking 20-40 minutes of my day every day for physical activity meant I gained a lifetime of ability—not being as winded going up stairs, ability to park in the back of a lot and walk the distance in without grumbling, no pain or joint issues when squatting down, carrying eight bags of groceries inside no sweat because I don’t want to take more trips, playing an entire game of soccer without an asthma attack, keeping up with my daughter.

I fell in love with the process not because I love celery over a burger (I don’t, actually), I fell in love with the process because I love how I feel.

I also recognized I have absolutely no right to talk about my failures if I’m not actually putting in the work. I recognized I have absolutely no right to talk if I’m not leveling up. It’s a level up or shut up paradigm.

If you cannot level up, I don’t want to hear what you have to say. I do not want to hear what you could do back in the day, I do not want to live in your past, I do not want to hear you put others down because they are farther along than you—because they started on a journey to better themselves while you refuse to make a move. I do not want to hear what you could do tomorrow when we both know you’re not actually going to be able to do it because you haven’t put in any work.

And this goes for anything—career, fitness, nutrition, health, relationships. What’s the definition of insanity?

I believe humans are resilient but I also believe they have to want it bad enough. We have to take ownership not only of our actions but also of where we’re going. So I ask you, are you wanting to merely survive or are you thriving? Are you going to level up? Your sanity will thank you.

Jul25

Give Me Strong.

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2015 113lbs

June 2015, 113lbs. Still sick sometimes and learning about celiac disease.

Four summers ago, I was bone.

I weighed 113lbs. at 5’5”. After having Evelynn, I lost the baby weight and then some fast—if you’ve read any of my blogs on my pregnancy, this isn’t news. I was bones. I was a size 0, easily a size 00 but refused to put myself in that category. I had enough people commenting on my weight loss, a mixture of “what’s your secret??” and “You need to start lifting,” and “Girl, you need to eat.” Problem was, I was eating. It just wasn’t settling well for me. I would stare at myself in the mirror and wonder, Why? How? Is this really what women chase? Is this what they starve themselves for? Is this what they fantasize over? Is this what people believe to be the standard for beautiful? A boney body with no curves, back pain, and inability to lift anything heavy. I hated the “you look so good now!” comments. It was always that now that really irked me. And then there were the guys, many of whom I had known for years, who seemed to suddenly appear out of nowhere or hit on me. I didn’t want to be noticed. I felt like shit. I missed working out. I missed having the stamina and endurance for soccer.

You could see my rib cage some days.

I didn’t have abs. I had a sunken stomach.

I don’t have many pics of me from this time.

I missed me.

I was a size 0 but would sometimes buy the size 2 because I never planned at staying a size 0. I remember the first Thanksgiving after I had Evelynn, I was only 3 months postpartum, when I refused to buy the size 0 pants. I had been a size 5/7 prior to my pregnancy. I never thought I’d keep dropping weight after. I was planning on lifting my way back up. I had never been a size 0 that I could remember, not even in high school when I was a solid 132lbs. for most of the 4 years; it didn’t make sense. So I bought size 2’s with room to grow.

I still have those pants, by the way. All of them. The size 5’s and the size 2’s. They’re in a box in my parent’s basement just chilling like villians. I titled the box pregnancy clothes because I had never gained enough weight during my pregnancy to have to buy bigger pants. But I finally donated the 7’s and 9’s a year ago.

Workouts came with spells of dizziness or pukefests. I couldn’t keep consistency. I always loved the gym, but now I only loved an empty gym—where people didn’t tell me I needed to lift heavier or needed to try another method or how yoga was “not a workout” or to go past 90 on my chest press—I have shoulder hypermobility, it’s a hard No for me and does more damage than strength building, and I often opt to do these on the floor for that control variant. I was a fan of compound moves. I was a fan of a well-rounded routine. I loved starting with cardio before lifting—I wanted that elevated heartrate to begin. I studied health and fitness for a stint, I started lifting in middle school, I got myself out of knee braces before college—I knew my body well enough. And every time I overdid it—to prove something to them or to me, I don’t know—I kicked myself. I’ll never forget when I was challenged to do a pushup and there was that crunch putting me out for weeks.

2016 118lbs

February 2016, 115lbs. Occasionally lifting and cardio, mostly yoga, primarily clean eating.

Enter Yoga.

The teachers thought I had been practicing for years when it was only my second class. I had the lithe, thin body, the balance and flexibility. What I wanted was strength. I fell in love with yoga and the stamina I’d build, but it didn’t sculpt my body and I wasn’t building muscle. I couldn’t go enough considering my daughter at home, the hours I worked, and traveling 74 miles for work (one way), 4 days a week.

I went back to the gym.

In cycles.

Never consistent. Always at only a few weeks at a time before I’d go off again because life, work, parenthood. Gradually, however, I gained some weight back. Consistent nutrition at the forefront of the battle, always there beside me on weeks when working out didn’t quite happen. Over time, I gained weight, little by little—10lbs. maybe, big whoop. However, most of this can be contributed to the gluten free lifestyle after finding out I had celiac—it was a long learning process of what I could and couldn’t have.

Want to know a secret: a major deciding factor of me moving out of my parent’s house last summer had nothing to do with my career. It was a leading factor but it wasn’t the only factor. No, I wanted to workout consistently.

My parents don’t have Wi-Fi. 2019 and they still don’t have Wi-Fi out in the boonies. That spring, I started to look at other programs.

Yes, I was that desperate.

I mean, 28 and living at home, that was harsh in itself but throw in the crap that I didn’t have Wi-Fi or space to workout there and the inability to hit the gym consistently, and I was feeling weighed down (pun not intended). I wasn’t happy.

So I looked at programs to do at home—I needed guidance and plan because I had no motivation or desire to workout at home but I had reached desperation. I spent 3 months researching programs like Beachbody, BodyBoss, BBG and Sweat, Fit Girl’s Guide. I bought the BodyBoss method which I did love but wasn’t challenging enough and again, lack of space in the colder months. It was the only one that didn’t require Wi-Fi that I could do at home without weights. When I moved out, that’s when things improved, but it wasn’t the act of moving out that helped.

120lbs pre BOD

July 2018, 118lbs. starting my first Beachbody program: LIIFT4.

I signed up for Beachbody and it was the best decision I ever made. After 3 years of saying No to people because I dreaded the idea of working out from home or I wasn’t a big fan of the human sending me an obvious copy/paste message or I simply was unable to workout from home (parents’) without the Wi-Fi, I said YES. I had my own place and dove head first into this fitness community.

I fell in love with working out at home.

I know, crazy. I actually just admitted that.

I. Fell. In love. With working out. At home.

When I started my first program I had twig arms, a back that had me crying every time I did dishes, weighed 118lbs. – 123lbs. (I fluctuate easily), and was a size 0. A year later and that’s all changed.

Well, almost.

I’ve got biceps for days that love to pop in photos without me trying. Hell, I even have triceps I never knew could exist.

A back that after only 2 months of working out with this new program, I noticed didn’t have me crying in pain doing the dishes. In fact, I realized I was able to cook and do dishes every night without pain.

140lbs

Spring 2019, 140lbs. wondering where the weight is going if I’m not having to buy new clothes.

I now weigh over 140lbs. aka my prepregnant weight.

I’m still a size 0.

Except my ass and thighs about want to bust out of my jeans—my waistline is what keeps me here. If I move up in size, the pants are still too big and I have that uncomfortable gap.

It’s not the size that matters, it’s the weight gain. The musclegain that came with hard work, dedication, consistency, and persistence to eat healthy. From 11pm and 5am workouts. From the refusal to take rest days when my body didn’t need a rest day. It’s difficult to comprehend the muscle gain without talking about being in the same size clothing, otherwise people are going to focus on the scale and a “weight gain” in a negative fashion. Non scale victories—I gained my health here.

I know I’ve talked about it before—that weight gain was a mindfuck to overcome in today’s society—but it deserves to be said: fitness matters. Health matters.

Do I owe all of my 30lbs. weight gain to Beachbody? Hell no. I owe it to me. But we can’t discount what got me here. We can’t discount it worked. That it helped. That it provided me with tools to buildsomething from. Through the journey I learned my body needed more carbs to sustain through more workouts and that I wasn’t eating enough proteins—veggies, oh I was good there. Over the past year, I increased my food intake without feeling like I was overeating or doing it for the fuckers who accused me of an eating disorder. I did it for me, for my body.

I loved myself then like I do now. I wasn’t happy with my body but I was happy with my mind. I wasn’t happy with my body because I wasn’t at my healthiest or strongest. Now, I’m 2.5 months away from entering my 30’s and I can confidently say I’m at the healthiest I’ve ever been.

I can play a full game of soccer at midfield—the position with lots of running—in 85 degree sun and heat. I can do a plyometric based workout (granted, some modifications still necessary). I can carry a napping Evelynn along with all our work and school bags, no problem—I like to live that one trip life. I can drink water during a workout without puking. I can eat a meal within hours before a workout and not get sick.

I can do unmodified pushups.

Four years ago, it hurt to sit my ass was so boney. Now, I’ve a nice cushion that won’t be stopped from them booty gains.

143lbs beach

June 2019, 143lbs. 

And I know I’m going to piss somebody off here, someone is going to remark to me, “You don’t know what you’re talking about, you’ve never been fat,”—it happens every time, I’m disappointed to say. Well, honey, Fat is a derogatory word, just like Skinny. I prefer not to associate with either term.

When I look at myself in the mirror, I don’t look at size. It’s crazy and some people, again, will try to call bullshit on me but when I look at other people, I don’t take in their size. It is not relevant to me and doesn’t register. I don’t believe it’s what matters. I don’t compare the size or shape of my body to other women. I compare it to how I feel. I look at health, the muscle gains, if there are bags underneath my eyes, if the girl looking back is in pain. I no longer look for the bones or the curves.

 

I am no longer bones. But I loved every one of those bones. Those bones are still here, just not as visible. Those bones kicked ass, persevering. Those bones started my first workout of Beachbody a year ago. Those bones paved my way to freedom and today’s muscle gain. And I can’t wait to kick off the newest program Beachbody has to offer next week.

I’m back to me.

But fuck Skinny, give me Strong.

Jun28

Float butterfly.

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I spent most of this morning in tears and I am not one who cries. Caught between the pain and feeling emotionally run down, unsatisfied, I cried because I was crying.

Did I mention I don’t cry?

I cry when I’m in very intense pain. I cry when I’m overly pissed and have no outlet because I’m not someone who calls someone to complain, I don’t scream, I don’t punch anything, I don’t crawl into bed. I work through everything. I work out for therapy.

I do not sit and cry. When I do, it’s for five seconds, three streaming tears I can wipe away with one hand, and one trembling lip I can easily—kind of—in six seconds.

But I don’t wallow.

I’m the tough love, get over yourself, keep going, play the hand you’ve been dealt or find a new game—life, after all, is a game—but I don’t quit. I don’t throw in the towel, I don’t let life bring me down. I persevere. No matter how hard things might get. I don’t believe in wallowing in self-pity because the thing is, someone somewhere has it worse.

My mom believes it’s partially due to seeing how much my brother has suffered and missed out on in life. And she ain’t wrong.

Some people have called me naïve. Some people assume I don’t know hardships. Some people believe I’m inexperienced in life. This is a naïve thought that can only be derived from either negative people or people who are unwilling to believe you can overcome struggles or rise out of the darkness.

Others believe I’m just strong—stubborn and strong will-powered. These people are not wrong.

I am strong. I am stubborn. But as my lovely boyfriend also pointed out the other night when I was suffering in pain from a neck issue derived in a soccer game, I’m human. Or as he said, “it’s nice to know you’re mortal and human like the rest of us even if you’re like superwoman or supermom.”

So here’s the truth: you can be strong and get knocked down. And here’s my reality: I refuse to stay down. Even when I’m an emotional wreck for a morning. It just means I need to change my stance.

Get knocked down. Change your footing. Duck the blow. Float the fucking butterfly.

Apr18

Give me the fighter.

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I don’t suffer from anxiety and to be completely honest, I find the term—more accurately, the label—to be overrated. Anxiety is not a synonym for stress, sad, overworked, tired, or irresponsible. They might lead to anxiety but they are not the same.

Buckle up, I’m about to ramble. This is a difficult topic to articulate my thoughts and beliefs because it’s so complicated.

Anxiety is panic: increased heart rate, fight or flight mentality. It’s an entirely normal feeling but does not equate an anxiety disorder. Oftentimes fear and stress can pair up and create an overwhelming anxious feeling but it does not mean one suffers from anxiety.

I get anxious plenty. I have a fear of flying, of elevators, and of movie theaters. I have a fear of concrete failure—not the minuscule failures you overcome when you try again but the definitive failure of never reaching a goal. I have a fear of something happening to Evelynn—she can be a fearless and rambunctious kid 14 hours of the day aka when she’s not sleeping. By no means do these fears translate to me suffering from anxiety. I have a fear of not being enough so I overcompensate with dedication and time. Every fear I force myself to overcome and be okay. I get on the plane (if I have to), I travel the elevator, I watch the movie.

I think sometimes, we overlook what our mind is capable of in order to minimize something else. I read somewhere that anxiety is most prevalent in young adults, those ages 18 to 30. Do you know what happens in these years? Major life decisions.

And we’re suddenly back at fear.

What if we made the wrong decision? What if I chose the wrong school? What if I’m not cut out for this career or position? What if I let my parents down? What if I’m a bad parent? What if my boss finds out I’m not qualified enough? What if I don’t make the cut? What if he’s not the one? What if he doesn’t really love me? I’m not ready for this. I’m not ready for this.

I’m not ready for this.

It’s in our head. Fight or flight. Do we face the challenge and accept the outcome, or do we run away and blame it on anxiety?

And here lies my real issue with anxiety.

Many people claim to have an anxiety disorder and use it as a crutch without it ever effecting their life. It is not excessive, and it does not affect the lifestyle—until they want it to or unless they want to ignore an obstacle by blaming anxiety.  Some don’t lose sleep, don’t overeat or lose an appetite, don’t even get an increased heart rate. They simply have a fear or don’t want to do something they need to do. It’s just worry. Nothing happens.

I believe there are many people who do suffer from anxiety, my issue is who is claiming to have it. Most people I know who suffer from anxiety don’t want to grow up, they don’t want to face adulthood, they don’t want to be responsible. Anxiety is a healthy emotion, it’s normal to get worked up over things we fear or are out of our comfort zone. Anxiety disorder is when that emotion is in abundance and happens too often with difficulty to cope.

It can be accompanied by OCD and depressive behaviors—counting or repeating words or actions to manage, inability to concentrate or sleep, repetitive or persistent dark thoughts, fatigue and irritability.

I’m in no way a mental health specialist but I have a habit of observing people. Often times I’m mistaken for being shy when really I’m an introvert who prefers to observe someone before I come out of my shell. I notice the fake smile, the limp they try to hide, what makes them flinch or tick or offends them.

I also notice when they may be worried or become anxious but that is where it ends.

You don’t hear about single moms working two jobs to stay afloat living in rundown apartments with an anxiety disorder. They don’t have time for anxiety. You don’t hear CEOs who juggle the demands of running a company while still having an active role in their children’s lives having an anxiety disorder. They have moments of anxiousness but they push through, they accept the emotion and move on to overcome the obstacle. Maybe they hide it well, who knows?

Instead, we hear about anxiety disorder from people who are stuck in life and who have time on their hands. We hear about it from people who suffer from boredom. We hear about it from people who aren’t active. We hear it from people who have moments of anxiousness and not a disorder.

This is the downfall with mental illness—too many are untreated and don’t speak up because others romanticize the issue.

Anxiety mirrors high level of fitness activity thanks to the increased heart rate. In fact, studies show that those who have suffered or still suffer from anxiety and who also workout regularly can overcome or control their anxiety. Why? Their body doesn’t panic when fear arises because they’re body has become used to that increased heart rate. These people recognize the feeling and push through because they know they can handle it. When that fight or flight mode hits them, they fight through.

There are moments in my life that I get anxious. When I get bored, I’m the most anxious because I’m very rarely bored or with time on my hands. I love to be active, whether mentally or physically. I can spend hours reading and be happy alone. I hardly know what boredom is, it’s so rare for me because I simply turn to fitness or reading, but I have had moments.

Notice I said I have moments of anxiousness not that I have anxiety. Why? I know it’ll pass and I’ll get through. I’m secure in my mind and self that I can handle and make it through whatever is thrown at me. I have dealt with enough troubling and difficult events to know what I can overcome and that I can overcome. More than that, I have never felt the need to curl up from it, ignore responsibilities, or shut out people around me. I’ve never closed down from it. I might want to, but it’s a moment that fades as I work through whatever I need to do.

I know, I seem naïve and I seem unsympathetic. It seems like I’m oversimplifying a condition that for many is a reality. In a way, I am. I am a firm believer in mindset—mental strength. However, there’s more to it. We are so quick to label ourselves for some fake “in” with a group of individuals—they claim to suffer from it but they don’t talk about the why. They don’t try to understand what causes the episodes; they simply accept them without any further assistance.

Mental health is real. Mental illnesses are real. The brain is another organ. When somebody has high blood pressure, they take medication, workout, and eat a more restrictive diet. When someone has diabetes, they take insulin and limit sugar intake. When someone has asthma, they use an inhaler and are mindful of physical activity and activity. When someone has celiac, they remove gluten and sometimes dairy or egg, too, from their diet. I’m not a fan of medication; it’s why I’m so adamant about my nutrition and fitness. I pop ibuprofen like candy some weeks thanks to headaches and migraines—I don’t want to rely on any other medication. However, with any illness, there’s a treatment plan. Few people wait and see what happens, even when there’s no cure.

So why are some people claiming to have anxiety only in hindsight and without taking initiative? By hindsight, I mean as an excuse. They claim it because they chose to nap instead of studying for a test, they chose to grab drinks with friends instead of finishing a work presentation, they chose to binge watch Netflix instead of hitting the gym. This isn’t anxiety, this is failure to take responsibility. Lack of self-awareness and increased laziness.

Don’t come to me telling me you can’t workout because of anxiety if you don’t plan on having an in-depth conversation and creating a plan to overcome this obstacle. Don’t tell me you can’t stop eating the fridge at 9pm every night because of anxiety if you don’t want to talk about the why and how to stop. Don’t tell me you didn’t get the job or the promotion if you don’t want to take a look at your work ethic.

Are you upset yet?

Anxiety disorder is a mental illness. It can be managed. Claiming to have anxiety only when it suits a need for an excuse, on the other hand, is bullshit. It’s like the person who claims to be sick every day of the week because they don’t want to go to work or school but then is magically healthy on the weekends enough to party and go on road trips—can you tell this is a huge pet peeve? My parents raised us to where if we couldn’t do our weekday responsibilities, we didn’t get the fun. If we couldn’t attend school, we didn’t get to attend soccer practice. If we couldn’t attend some boring event, we didn’t get to go to a friend’s house. If we couldn’t vacuum the house, we couldn’t play video games or watch television.

Mindset is amazing when you look at how or why you do something or feel some way.

Last fall, I was in a job where I felt overworked and undervalued. I was stressed. I was at times anxious. A lot. By Thursday and Friday I always came down with a crippling migraine—I have a history of migraines, this wasn’t big news. I prioritized getting my work done from home these days, leading Friday to sometimes be a blackout and Saturdays and Sundays as recovery days. Seriously, Monday I’d have to recheck work done on Friday because I couldn’t remember half the day or any emails I might have sent. I wasn’t even working out regularly. Some weeks, I didn’t work out at all.

I’m not an anxious person but I’m human, I have moments. I firmly believe in my strength and will power. However, I was in a losing battle—I don’t lose. I hated losing. So I looked at my life. I loved my job most days but I didn’t like how I felt so I made a move. I rooted around for the cause. I didn’t want to accept it but I had to. Anxiety is a normal healthy emotion when it happens on occasion—not when it becomes routine. Even when it was routine, I fought to cope and refused to let it take over my days. I still worked—I was an adult. Work paid the bills. It was hard as hell but it was fixable. And it was only for a short time.

Anxiety is overrated. Anxiety disorder, however, is real. So which is it? Claim the false label or see a professional to cope? Take the crutch or make moves? It exists. It’s very real. Don’t claim a title because it suits you in the moment when there are others who fight like hell to battle against it.

People fight against heart disease, against asthma, against diabetes, against celiac. They fight against cancer. If you’re going to claim a label, at least also be a fighter.

I’m entirely empathetic and supportive of those who have anxiety and suffer. I fully believe there are people who suffer from anxiety to the point where it’s crippling—that’s heartbreaking. I turn my head when others only admit to it for attention or a get out of jail free card, without working to cope. When it’s a minor case or just moments and by no means a disorder.

I don’t like sob stories—insensitive again, I know—growing up with Taylor showed me life is tough but you make the most of it, you push your limits and boundaries. It’s not about saying “No” to something, it’s about about accepting it but also breaking through. Saying no or overcoming something is never easy the first time—it gets easier with time.

I like the fighter. I cheer for the fighter. I respect the hell out of the fighter.

Apr17

I only pray for strength.

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“If all your prayers were answered, would it change the world or just yours?”

I don’t believe in the power of prayer to heal. I believe in its power for strength and acceptance, but as for asking for wellness or to live or to beat something? No. (*snort) No, I’m sorry.

Evelynn was sick last week. Again. She came down with walking pneumonia, which is basically pneumonia but without a fever is how the doctor described it. When someone asked me how she was, they immediately went into the mode of “Did you take her to the doctor? Has she been put on medications? Did you pray for her?” First, I was already annoyed that a near stranger was asking me about my parenting skills when I had already had it taken care of. I don’t need someone checking on me with basic common sense.

Second, I don’t believe in praying for someone to get better.

That is favoritism.

Health might not be a materialistic item but I’m still asking for special favors. I’m asking not for me to have the strength and ability to overcome something on my own (or in this case, Evelynn’s), but for God to grant me health when there are thousands of other sick people on this earth, as well. I’m asking for special treatment.

And I love when it’s a “speedy” recovery people pray for.

I won’t do that. In fact, when people ask for prayers to get better, I move on. Well, first I pray fo something else entirely and then I move on.

I know, I sound cold.

Hear me out.

Taylor is 22 years old. He wasn’t supposed to live past a week, then a year, then two years, then five years, then ten years. Then he wasn’t supposed to make it to be a teenager, then into adulthood. They gave up guessing his life sentence but continued to be amazed by his survival. Damnit, he’s old enough to drink. He has the second largest spinal fusion surgery, beat only by one more vertebrae—yay Taylor (eyeroll). He lives his days in a hospital bed sleeping and watching television. He’s hooked up to oxygen and heart monitors. Somedays he’s constantly being suctioned to remove mucus buildup. He’s never grown out of a diaper and gets sponge baths via the kitchen counter. He’s fed through a g-tube. At one point, he had been put on a ventilator after his spinal fusion surgery, which lead to him now being fed through said g-tube. He’s my height (5’5”) about and half my weight—he’s less than 70lbs. You read that right. Cut my body in half vertically and you have the size of Taylor. Literally.

He’s 22 years old and didn’t celebrate his 21stwith alcohol—it wasn’t an option and not by choice but by total health restrictions. Hell, he doesn’t even get cake.

I don’t pray for Taylor to get better. I used to pray for Taylor to magically walk one day but then I hated the idea that maybe he’d be stealing someone else’s ability to walk. I loved him but hated that idea. I lost my faith in God in high school because I didn’t understand how God could be cruel. I found my faith again years later and it’s not conventional or founded in the church.

It is founded within.

He’s not cruel. Life is just unfair. There are other kids worse off than Taylor. Kids who don’t make it until 22 years old. Kids who don’t have the mental or physical strength to withstand abuse and neglect. Kids who are unloved.

Taylor is very well loved. He smiles. He laughs. He can’t talk but he can communicate.

Taylor is a living miracle.

Taylor is strong.

Strength is what I pray for. The ability to handle the outcome. I think it’s the only thing God can give in abundance, besides love, because it’s requires our own will power.

Yes, I believe God gave us free will. In that free will, he gave us strength. The strength to accept any outcome life throws at us. We have to decide how strong we are going to be. We have to decide what is worth it in life. We decide what is worth losing everything over and what is worth moving on from.

When someone passes away, I pray those they leave behind are strong enough to grieve and make it through. When someone is diagnosed with cancer, I pray they are strong enough to battle the fight; and if their body isn’t physically strong enough, I pray they are mentally strong enough to accept the outcome. When someone needs a transplant, I pray for strength and acceptance because the alternative—to pray for someone else to die in order for them to get that transplant—fucks with my head too much.

Strength and acceptance. Those are the only two things I will ever pray for. I hope you have the strength to accept the life you make for yourself. And if you can’t accept it, I hope you have the strength to change it. I hope you have the strength to rise above. I hope you have the strength to live instead of simply survive. I hope you have the strength to make a life worth living.

Apr15

This body is mine.

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Do you own your body?

Let me rephrase, do you confidently take ownership of your body? I’m not talking about do you decide who chooses to touch your body, I’m talking about can you look at yourself in the mirror and proudly say, “That’s me. I own this body, I nurtured and nourished, created this body.” When people give you compliments, do you dismiss them or accept them?

I’m the worst at taking compliments. I often discount them and never know how to respond. I refuse to give a compliment in recognition of being complimented because to me, it feels ingenuine. I dislike the idea of coming off like I was prompted. Only recently did I start saying “Thank you” without following it up with a, “I was sick all last week and lost weight” or prelude it with an “Ehh, it happens but,” as if I wasn’t working on my health every day.

That sickness and weight loss? I work my ass off every time to gain it back by eating healthy and lifting weights.

I still forever and a day call my abs groundhogs, as if they don’t pop almost every morning and as if I don’t have strong abdominal muscles. I do, I’ve always had a strong core because I’ve always loved working on building that strength, it’s the foundation to proper form for so many exercises. It’s true, sometimes they’re covered by, oh I don’t know, skin and some fat because that’s normal, rolls are normal. Yet, I often fail at recognizing how I worked for these muscles, whether they’re showing or hiding underneath.

I have worked for my strength.

I have worked at controlling my flexibility.

I have worked at my health.

I have worked at increasing my stamina.

I have worked at building muscle mass.

I have worked at fueling my body.

Yet, I always credit my difficult pregnancy for where I’m at despite the fact that even when I was pregnant, I aimed to eat healthy. After: I ate healthy. I got into yoga as soon as I was cleared. When I couldn’t stay on top of my fitness like I wanted to, I focused more on the nutrition side. I focused on what I could control.

Every day, I actively choose to say NO to foods and activities that make me feel like crap and say YES to those which nourish my body and mind. My favorite food is a fully loaded cheeseburger but it doesn’t always like me. I choose the rabbit food and lighter meal options because those are the foods that make me thrive and feel alive instead of sending me into a food coma. I workout daily, sometimes twice a day. I trade late nights out for early mornings at a yoga class.

While others make jokes or judgmental comments, I make moves.

And every time I feel extremely self-conscious when someone compliments by wanting my body, because instead of working for what they want, they wish for it.

It is not my place to feel at fault for this. It is not my responsibility to feel less than so they can feel comfortable.

This body didn’t happen overnight. I didn’t push my limits to overcome obstacles so I could forget my accomplishments. I should stand here with pride.

These abs? I was a night owl as a kid. I could never sleep. I could never calm down enough in the night so instead I exhausted myself by doing sit-ups and pushups in bed, by reps of 100 until I was tired enough to lay down and pass out.

These legs? I grew up in knee and ankle braces. The specialist I saw encouraged me to quit soccer, adamant I’d need a full knee replacement by my 30’s. I’m 29 and still running. The summer before I went off to college I spent hours in the gym every day to build up strength and work my way out of the knee braces.

These biceps and shoulders? I dedicate myself to modifying what I could do instead of not doing anything at all.

These lungs? I keep moving.

This stamina and drive to be fast? I give it my all.

I welcome the burn and then continue to press play. I push myself to the edge to expand new boundaries.

Last week I played soccer for the first time in almost a year. Last year, I only played twice. The year before that, three times. I haven’t played consistently since before I found out I was pregnant with Evelynn. Last week I played soccer and it wasn’t my best game. Last week I played soccer and had to remind myself that for not playing competitively in years, I played damn good. In a coed league with college male players, I kept pace with them down the length of the field when others failed to get back on defense. I stepped up and pushed through consistently when other players were giving up. My touches weren’t the best, but my legs—damn, did they love the burn and the movement—and my lungs—no asthma attack. I’ve always been one of the fastest players on the field, I still was—that’s my body. My body.

So I ask again, do you own your body? Do you set your boundaries, or do you let your lifestyle set your boundaries?

I love fitness because of what it provides me. Beyond the therapeutic release and the endorphins. It pushes me to keep going when I don’t think I can. It cements my belief in what I’m capable of. It gives me as much mental strength as it does physical strength, if not more.

I create my own limits.

And when I’m looking within, or when I’m looking in the mirror, it gives me pride to know every day I seize this body I was given, seize this opportunity, and turn it into something that’s constantly improving, becoming stronger, and performing better than the day before. I can stand there and say, “THIS is my body. I helped make this.”

I don’t see perfection. I don’t see results. I see the progress. I see future growth. I see the history. I see the boundaries I continue to expand. I see the body I’m working to build. I see a healthy running machine.

I see the body I own. I see the metaphor for how I tackle life.

What do you see?

Apr7

I validate me.

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There’s something very validating when you finally come to a point where you don’t need validation from others or from a guy. When you know you’re doing well. When you appreciate being single. When you love yourself and would prefer to wait than give in to something less than.

Less than exhilarating.

Less than thrilling.

Less than emotional.

Less than respectful.

Less than life altering.

Less than worth shouting from rooftops.

Less than everything.

Less than love.

Yesterday was a day. A day of epiphanies, chaos, productivity, and fun. Yet, somehow, it was relaxing, welcoming, peaceful. It began with wiping my kid’s ass, three cups of coffee, reading 70 pages of Girl, Stop Apologizing, reading three books to Evelynn, and showering before 11am. Then came the biweekly gluten free cupcakes and donuts run and not-so-quick stop at Target before paying bills, doing my taxes (I file them myself, go me, thank you dad), working out (leg day), making tacos (Evelynn demanded, again), cleaning the bathrooms (1.5 to be exact), doing 6 loads of laundry (including folding), cleaning the kitchen, and showering (again).

And finally this: writing until 1am. Where I’ve been putting most of my “free time” lately.

This is how most of my days go. My weekends are as busy as my weekdays, sometimes more so. I’m an adult. I have responsibilities. I have goals. I choose not to ignore them, deny them, or pause them.

I run with them.

Somehow, that means I’m not dateable, because I don’t have time for fun (wrong) or because I’m a mom (many assume they’re immediately playing daddy, wrong again).

The last month has been rough when it comes to random guys popping up out of nowhere. And I don’t mean guys I had previously turned down; I mean guys who only wanted me for my body. Why? Because they’re bored with their girlfriend or because I’m apparently the rebound. It’s fantastic. Seriously.

(Honestly, I really hope you caught that sarcasm.)

More than once I’ve wondered, how do I not feel like I want to curl up in bed? How am I not crying right now? I feel like I should be crying.It’s degrading and demoralizing.

The worst: they seem to think it’s flattering, being the girl who gets their dick hard but not good enough to date or be with. It’s not flattering. One dude actually wanted to tell me goodbye before he deleted me from social media because the temptation was too overwhelming—for him, not me. I refused to be the girl he cheated on his girlfriend with or send him nudes. Then there was the guy who wasn’t sure if he made the right decision—as if I was still an option. I’m one of those girls where when you don’t choose me, you have to walk through hell to prove you deserve a chance because I want to know you’re not going to walk away at the drop of a hat…..again. Or as soon as someone who isn’t a parent and who doesn’t have responsibilities of a child comes along that offers him a different lifestyle. And then there were the three guys who broke up with their girlfriends and needed a rebounded—I am not a second choice (again, see where you’d be walking through fire and we both know you don’t have that willpower or level of interest).

For the record, I don’t mind if someone initially wants me for my body. It’s how you notice someone: something on the exterior is found attractive, whether it’s looks or a laugh or something they say. And in a world of online dating or noticing one from a far, I don’t care if someone wants to get to know me because of how I look but I’ll be damned if they don’t come to love me or appreciate me for my mind, too.

My favorite, though, are the ones who come around to tell me I’m too good for them. That they don’t deserve me. That they’re not enough for me.

I hate that.

As soon as the words are out of their mouth, I’m telling them how right they are. I’m confirming their belief: I am too good for them. But not for why they say it.

I like to believe that when you find someone you’re interested in or love, you’re naturally going to think they’re too good for you, that you don’t deserve them because you’re amazed someone like them could like someone like you. And you spend time trying to prove to them why they chose you out of the 7.7 billion people in the world, they chose you.

And that’s mutual.

But you know you’re worth it. That you are worth them and what the two of you share.

That’s the end goal, right?

I’m a goal digger. I chase my dreams. I go to bed with a clean kitchen every night. I work out, I eat healthy, I fuel my body. I read to exercise my mind. I can’t shut my mind off when it comes to possible writing material or project initiatives for work. I put my kid before everything. I continuously work to grow. I make things happen for me.

That doesn’t automatically mean I’m serious one hundred percent of the time. It means my life is a rollercoaster. Highs and lows. A balance of fun and adulting. Why are we so hellbent on believing we can’t have fun as an adult? Because I can’t run off at the drop of a hat because I have a kid? That’s insane.

I think I have a habit of going for assholes because they remind me of being a kid. They easily make me feel like a kid again. They never grow up, though. And I don’t want a Peter Pan. I want that balance.

I like a guy who can just as easily be a kid and then chase his dreams full heartedly and not slack on his responsibilities, all in the same day.

I want someone I admire, and who admires me. I don’t want to rely on their validation, though, to feel secure.

I’ve hunkered down on my nutrition and fitness. I’m a firm believer that endorphins, fueling our body well, and regular activity are three tools that mentally make us strong. And they promote selflove. When we take care of our bodies, we feel good about our bodies. We see what we’re capable of. When we say no to foods and to the negatives in our life, we enhance that strength.

For everyone who says saying “No” isn’t simple, they’re right; it’s a simple concept. I’d love to eat pizza four nights a week and drink beer and not care that one skipped workout turns into another. But I absolutely love feeling amazing and worthy long-term. That pizza and beer and skipping the workout might be great in the moment but later? I’ll be hating my life, feeling miserable, and driving circles in the parking lot just so I don’t have to wear myself out walking into the store or unable to walk up stairs without losing my breadth. I’ll have regrets.

I’ve never known anyone to regret taking care of themselves and making themselves a priority.

I want someone who admires me and isn’t afraid to hold me accountable because they know me, who I want to be and where I want to go.

There are those guys too, and they might be the most common: the guys who realize I’m not afraid to call them out. They talk about what they want and who they want to be but lack the drive and don’t show initiative. I’ll tell them, I’ll push them to chase their dreams and ask the hard questions. I don’t want this type.

I’m nearly thirty years old and I’ve spent the majority of the last four years single. At this point, I’m holding out. It’s disheartening to see folks who gave into someone out of the fear of being lonely, and now they don’t know what to do. They complain about the mundane and miss the exhilaration. They traded chasing dreams for a life on the couch and being their partner’s biggest cheerleader without him or her returning the favor. I don’t want that. In fact, that’s my fear: to end up in a loveless relationship or to feel stuck.

I’m looking for the guy unafraid to push me, who knows I don’t need him but that I choose him every day.

There’s validation in that: choosing someone because you love them not because you need them to make you feel happy or good about yourself. I think we forget about this too often: how to love ourselves and validate ourselves without someone else’s affirmations.

I hope you see value in that—surrounding yourself with those who push you and bring you up, and have your partner be your biggest supporter and you theirs. Your dreams don’t have to align or be the same, but you do have to respect yourself and love yourself or you’ll always wonder why they chose you.

I’m not going to lie, insecurity in relationships annoys me. When fears overpower the moment or the future. When you spend more time defending or explaining yourself because someone needs you to feel good about themselves or because they can’t accept you chose them. Suddenly, it’s like living under a dark cloud instead of dancing in the sunshine.

So right now, I choose me. I choose to wait. I choose to love me. After all, I’ve got a daughter who I need to set an example for. And right, damn do I feel good about me, who I am and where I’m going. I’m not settling for less than love.

Apr5

Temple.

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I’m a firm believer the body is an amazing vessel.

Vessel: a hollow container.

We decide how we fill ourselves up. We decide how we work the body we’ve been given.

Adrenaline can block out pain. The mind can “delete” a traumatic event. We can breathe without thinking about the action. We teach ourselves how to walk, how to get up when we fall down. We determine if we want to keep going, keep pushing. We decide when enough is enough. We decide how to talk to ourselves. We have an intricate system that simultaneously works together to give us life and it’s often up to us to determine how. We decide our boundaries and how to push our limits, we decide how to fuel our bodies, we decide how to manage our time.

Did you know that men who can do 40 pushups in a minute are at a significantly less risk for a heart attack?

Did you know that working out regularly helps with anxiety because the increased heart rate is the same, you’re teaching your body how to handle and control and accept the stress of that fight or flee inclination that comes with panic?

Did you know that celery juice, as little as 4-6 oz. a day, can help combat autoimmune disease symptoms?

I could go on. There are options. The above aren’t law, they’re just a few things that can help promote optimization and longevity, overall health. You have a choice.

Me? I choose activity and nourishment. Despite day 3 of a migraine, I chose to move. I feel like an expert in migraines; how I could write a novel about the various degrees, triggers, and remedies. But not all remedies work. Sometimes, it’s because of my body. Sometimes, it’s just a phase and I have to make the best of it.

TMI: The shark hasn’t visited in months and next week is the scheduled dive in the ocean. It happens—my body is changing. I’ve gained weight, muscle. It’s thrown my hormones. That’s normal for some women. I am one of those women. In December, I had gluten contamination, which can also throw off the regularity of womanhood. So, this week, my body has been given a warning with migraines that can’t be dismissed but CAN (sometimes) be tamed.

Medicine hasn’t helped and food sounds disgusting. My brain refuses to shut off—that’s a hell in itself, it literally will not stop thinking; about what’s next, creating ideas and plans for work, or scripting a blog, poem, or novel. My brain doesn’t have an off switch when my body craves activity. Body and mind both crave stress, to be nurtured by movement. And to prevent this movement, I’ve got about 13 crews of construction workers jackhammering around in my head, while it feels like my head has been put in a vice. It’s compressed. Cold, fresh air feels good on my head. But it won’t shut off. I can’t take naps easily. So, I did 2 rounds of mini yoga sessions (20-30 minutes) each day during this migraine and for the subsequent hour or two, it helped. That compression eased up, the nausea held off, and 11 of the crews took a break.

Don’t dismiss endorphins. Don’t dismiss activity. Yoga worked my body but calmed my mind.

And because I know what some of you are thinking reading these symptoms, no, I’m not “with child.” The ER has already tested me twice because they refused to believe me back when I was sick all through December to February. This is just being an active woman making advancements with my body and health. I have to go through this phase to become healthier, and I can tell you, compared to other migraines in the past, this one was manageable and that’s saying something.

Nobody said it was easy living but for me, it’ll be a healthy life because my body isn’t just a vessel, it’s a temple. Fill it with gold.

Mar20

Moving for the climb up.

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I am strong. If there’s one thing I am that I know people recognize me for because they’ve told me passionately, it’s that I’m strong. Hell, I’m fairly confident someone would suggest it to go on my tombstone somehow or in my obituary. But I didn’t always believe it about me. It wasn’t a trait I often associated me with. I thought they were crazy. I thought they weren’t privileged enough to see inside my mind and heart. I thought they were blind to the chaos surrounding me. I thought they were neglectful to the tears I sometimes shed in pain and sadness.

I was wrong.

You don’t go through heartache and have a voice without being strong. You don’t get knocked down and stand back up without being strong. You don’t push forward or move on without being strong. You don’t recognize sadness and make moves to become happy without being strong. You don’t become the queen at bouncing back without being strong.

I’ve questioned myself and my strength more than someone ever should over the years. I’ve doubted myself. I’ve wondered if I’m just being stubborn and should instead move on. I’ve pondered over how I’m able to keep going and why I haven’t just given up.

Part of this, I will recognize, is due to this stupid belief that thinking positively about myself is conceited or annoying to others. I fucking hate that.

Mindset.

For me, it all comes down to mindset. I was lucky enough to somehow be raised over the years in environments that nurtured mental strength. I was lucky enough to meet people who believed in me just enough for me to not stop, who were mindful enough to articulate their belief in me at the moments I needed to hear it most. I was lucky enough to witness my brother’s survival through the years and him continuing to laugh and share smiles with the world despite all his handicaps and diagnoses and limits.

I’m a firm believer that “depression” is often an overused term and mislabeled. Depression is a chemical imbalance in the brain. It’s an extreme sense of loss and helplessness. It’s overrated. I have a hard time trusting people who toss it out there to describe a temporary feeling when really the terms they’re looking for are sad or unhappy. In our quest to accept and normalize mental disorders, we’ve disassociated ourselves from recognizing a feeling as just a feeling. We want to attach it instead to a very troubling—depression, in its proper form and diagnosis is extremely troubling, debilitating, crippling, and heart wrenching, leading to loss of interest and inability to function—issue that many folks go undiagnosed with until it’s too late. However, sadness and unhappiness are feelings we can overcome if we choose to. Failure, stress, grief, tragedies are not one-way streets to the road of Depression. They might be the trigger, for some, but they are not the deciding factor.

I can’t get behind this notion that just because life isn’t going someone’s way or moving at the speed they imagined or aren’t entirely happy with it, they are depressed.

No. Those are obstacles, predicaments, circumstances. That’s not depression. That’s a poor outlook and a negative, unhealthy mindset.

Depression is not a “normal” state we want to be. Having a spectrum of feelings is normal.

When I was pregnant with Evelynn, some people assumed I was depressed because I had migraines, was constantly sick or nauseous, read a lot, napped a lot, and had little appetite. To be honest, it wasn’t much different than the previous 24 years of my life it seemed, except this time I had a little human growing inside me and I was bedridden. They wanted to cure me of a mental state when it was instead a difficult pregnancy and a physical state. Despite the difficulties and fear for the unknown, I was never entirely lost or felt helpless. I could see a future. It was, however unknown, tangible. Thenowmight have been a difficult timebut it never felt like the end of the world or like things could never get better.

Things got better because I persevered. I decided I was going to make a change. I decided to keep going.

After pregnancy, I still threw up. I remember asking my doctor, “Are you sure you missed like a twin or something? Because I’m still sick every morning and after every meal.” Seriously, that was my joke that wasn’t really a joke. I was so perplexed and scrambling for answers, I was damn near delusional. I was at a loss but I wasn’t lost. I was also seeing a hematologist to find answers regarding my low platelet count.

And then I heard about celiac disease. And after talking to numerous specialists from various fields throughout almost 3 years, I was firmly diagnosed. As firmly as you can with a disease where the testing is 20% inaccurate. Suddenly, the week-long migraines and daily puking and inability to gain weight on my 5’5” 115lb. frame devolved. Going gluten free and understanding celiac saved my health.

Fighting for me, knowing me, saved my mind.

The one and only gastroenterologist we saw, was a bitch—I don’t use this term lightly—before she even tested me for celiac. It was only 5 months after I heard about the disease. She told me NO based on the fact that I was the one who inquired with my doctor on the disease, despite that I had almost every single one of the symptoms and removing gluten from my diet was the only thing that had helped me in decades. I was a walking billboard for celiac flashing neon green to boot. She told me the tests came back with a firm negative and I could have gluten, I might just have a sensitivity. Years later I found out those tests were actually inclusive and given my symptoms and the fact that my platelet count had increased to the highest they had everbeen in my life by simply going off gluten, other specialists and my hematologist were very confident I most definitely have celiac disease. The hematologist even joked he would look into this further for his other patients he was having extreme difficulty diagnosing.

I don’t recommend self-diagnosing. I think most people do it out of paranoia. However, when we were told No by one doctor, it didn’t mean the others were also convinced it wasn’t. Conversations, knowing your body, asking yourself why you believe something—that’s key.

And for the record, celiac, because it can cause extreme fatigue, can show symptoms similar to depression.

I was never depressed. And I’m not afraid to admit when I’m sad—I hate to admit when I fail and I hate crying, there’s a big difference.

Last fall, I was sad. I was stressed but I was immensely sad. I couldn’t get control of my migraines again; they came like clockwork every Thursday, forcing me to work from home Thursdays and Fridays. I became sick and couldn’t get control of my workout routine—workouts are healthy and I’ve always been active. The endorphins they release are a natural anti-depressant. It also helps build your immune system. It’s also often my therapy. I felt overworked and undervalued. I felt unstable because I couldn’t gain control of anything. I was in a city with my only friends being coworkers who I rarely talked to outside of work. I felt alone. I felt like I was failing.

But I never felt lost or like there was nowhere up to go.

Failing, to me, does not mean an end. It just means something else, something better is best for me.

My favorite thing is recognizing you can only go up. There’s only growth. When you only have the best ahead, even if there might be more dips along the way. When there’s a gorgeous view to reach and take in, you have a beautiful future ahead. I think the climb up is a beautiful and amazing process. Recognizingthatis a key ingredient to a strong mind.

Most people hit rock bottom and think life is over, so they continuously allow rock bottom to become their sanctuary—that is depression. I didn’t hit rock bottom, not that time. I hit rock bottom years ago during a winter break in college and some subsequent semesters.

This was just a moment of sadness.

I was scared to make a move across the state to Grand Rapids but I didn’t let that fear of the unknown stop me.

When I first moved out of my parent’s house with Evelynn and to the Detroit area, the first time I was on my own fulltime with a child—who let that happen?—I was terrified. I was scared of possible migraines (not having them regularly always seems to foreign to me) and stress and finances and just staying alive. The always thriving independent part of me, however, was electrified. She was so excited for the freedom. So I made it happen.

I refused to be the one to stand in my own way. It was a healthy move—I needed that freedom and control of my own life.

That happiness of living in the area only lasted about 4 months. Instead of dwelling, though, I asked myself Why? Why was I suddenly so unhappy?You don’t need to pay a therapist to look within, you just need to have the mindset and strength and courage to ask yourself the hard questions. And allow yourself to recognize the answers instead of running from them or denying them. You need to accept them and then do somethingabout them—that’s another key.

For a girl who was considered crying a weakness, I bawled often. In the shower and in bed at night after Evelynn went to sleep. I have a habit of bottling up emotions and feelings until they pass. I don’t talk about my troubles well. I’m an introvert to the core.

I wasn’t okay with that state of feeling.

I looked around at my life in Detroit and realized everything that made me unhappy. I hated fighting with Evelynn’s overpriced school and stuck-up principal; loved the area and what it offered but it was missing something, compared to every time I visited Grand Rapids my heart sank when I left the city. I loved the challenges of my job but questioned the value and growth at the cost of me. I was upset up for every guy who asked me out but I wasn’t interested in; I felt like a bitch turning them down. I found myself constantly angry or annoyed over the smallest things. The city was wrought with heartbreaks for me and not feeling like enough.

And I wasn’t writing.

I’ve had one goal with a deadline for as long as I can remember: be a published author by the age of 30. I turned 29 in October and I hated that I wasn’t writing. Not poetry. Not one of the multiple books I had to start in college for various writing workshop assignments. Nothing but the occasional blog following a dating annoyance or travesty. I’ve damn near wrote more blogs so far this year than all of last year.

Despite how down or sad I felt, every day I told myself, “Today is a good day. My daughter is healthy and I’m alive. I’m able. I’m moving. I’m breathing. I can think for myself. Today I have opportunities. It’s all about my outlook. Mindset.” I might have been undeniably sad to the point where I couldn’t escape its recognition, but I also chose to look up. I wanted that climb.

I decided to take the unhappiness and fear and run with it. I embraced it. I changed jobs and moved across the state. I have even less time “off” as a single parent and for someone who enjoys being alone or spontaneous trips and adventures, that can be difficult to reconcile.

But I chose to move. I chose to recognize my capabilities, sought what I could change, and refused to let my circumstances or fear stop me. I chose to embrace the unknown and not let any fear define me. I chose to be strong. I chose me.

And honestly, choosing you is the happiest choice you can ever make.