Category Archives: rant blog

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.

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.

Mar19

Like someone you love.

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a letter to me, you, and whoever needs to hear it.

I want you to go all in on you.

I want you to stop setting deadlines on your goals and capstones on your achievements. I want you to stop thinking failure is a dead end. I want you to appreciate obstacles and fall in love with the prospect of a new path—pave your own way.

I want you to see you how I see you. I want you to stop picking apart your looks, your fears, your failures. I want you to not meet reality with self-destruction. I want you to talk to yourself like you talk to the ones you love. I want you to bring yourself up. I want you to be your greatest cheerleader. I want you to stop creating weaknesses where I see strength. I want you to give yourself leniency when you’re mind and body demand, but I also want you to understand stress is a tool for growth—appreciate stress.

Dive into the chaos of stress.

Your growth is a muscle, it must be worked, it must be loaded. Pay attention to your mind—your form. Drop something when you lose esteem, gain with confidence. Only you can decide what is too much for you to handle.

I want you to stop standing in your own way.

I want you to know it’s okay to take time. Take the time to ask yourself what you want and where you want to go, but don’t spiral in time. LIVE. Once you decide, go make it happen. And if you can’t decide, make decisions in the now. Live in the now with a prospect of the future.

I want you to know life outside of a television screen and outside of four walls. That news—agenda biased. That discovery show—you can’t exert yourself hiking trails while sitting on a couch. That popular sitcom—not real people.

Breathe fresh air. Take it all in. I want you to close your eyes and take time to breathe. I want you to know you can.

You CAN.

YOU can.

I want you to stop settling. For shitty people, shitty jobs, shitty food, shitty books, shitty days. I want you to wake up in love with the prospect that you have one more day. I want you to move on. I want you to love yourself more. I want you to choose you. I want you to love yourself enough to walk away. Have the strength to remove the toxic people from your life, to let the people who don’t belong only get a viewer’s seat from the sideline, to show them you are more than their negativities. Have the confidence to quit your job if it’s not growing you or pushing you; and working for management who doesn’t respect you.

I want you to fight for a life you love living.

I want to see you THRIVE not survive.

I want you to love yourself like someone you love.

Mar18

Give me bossy, I’ll give you a voice.

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I have a problem calling my daughter bossy. I also find it difficult to reprimand her for the times she is bossy. She’s young and impressionable. I’d rather she grow up bossy and strong, with a slight attitude towards authority, than lose her voice. She’s young and knowing the difference at this age is challenging.

Attitude is everything. It’s what defines growth and success. It’s what decides if goals are achieved. It’s what can define our character and how we think of ourselves, how we talk to ourselves.

It’s also what separates state of content from true pure happiness.

We have a habit as empathetic humans of getting roped into things that aren’t good for us because it’s what someone else wants or because we’re told it’s what’s best for us. We’re never given a well-rounded why but we take it, hoping maybe they know something we don’t or because we host this fear of the unknown.

It’s why we go back to toxic or negative relationships. Instead of burning the house down we shut the door and hang a rope out the window.

It’s why we stick around for undervalued or underpaid jobs instead of chasing a career and holding out for the positions or pay we deserve.

It’s why we don’t speak up when we disagree with a popular opinion.

It’s why when we’re sad, we smother it and self-medicate in damaging ways or ignore it until it becomes a ticking time bomb and too much to bear.

It’s why we overuse words like depression and anxiety, when what we really feel is sad or fear.

It’s why we often times forget people cannot simply demand our respect given their job title or status in life—it’s something that must be continuously earned.

It’s why we lose curiosity and imagination with age.

It’s why when we’re told “No” or that we’re not good enough, we often take it.

We’re told “No” too many times. “Sit down.” “Be quiet.” “Listen up.” Yet, we never give someone at a young age the platform to speak and cultivate their own thought process.

I make Evelynn play alone. Sometimes, I’ve wondered if I’m a bad mom for fostering independence—I know some people find this “selfish” behavior on my part but never ask me why I do it. I want her to rely on herself and feel confident alone. So many people are so scared of being alone or find too much comfort in it as a way to escape reality. I want her to grow up balancing social and alone time.

When Evelynn was first put into preschool (a pre pre-preschool at age 2) for 2 hours, it was required the parents stick around in the room. What happened? Every child only wanted to play with their parent. I refused. I encouraged her to play with other kids while I drank my coffee and watched, stepping in as needed if there was a problem. Overtime, other parents tried to do the same and we’d chat, often interrupted by their kid wanting their attention in a roomful of child peers. Evelynn ended up being the only child social enough to play with other kids and parents the entire time, every day. Despite her speech issue.

When she went into pre-preschool at age 3, she became the child who sought out the lonely kid and made sure they had a buddy. While other kids often sought her out, and she would play with them, too, she was comfortable enough to play with the quiet kid, the disabled kid, the lonely kid.

For our 90-minute trips to the east side or back, she plays with her hands. Her fingers are puppets. She entertains herself. Whereas me and my brother would have berated our parents with “Are we there yet?” Evelynn keeps herself occupied or tells me a story. Or naps. I’m lucky there.

What do I mean when I make her play alone? Saturday and Sunday mornings are my “coffee time” when I drink my coffee and read. Evelynn can cuddle with me if she’s in a mood or, mostly, I encourage her to play with her barbies or dolls or animals or kitchen set. I encourage her to color or do her puzzle. She’s still on this 400-piece puzzle that I refuse to help her with. The only thing I’m willing to do is sit at the table with her or separate the pieces by theme (sky, snow, edges, etc.). I want her to be able to say she did it. I want her to be comfortable on her own.

I don’t want her to equate playing alone with nobody wants to play with her or be around her. I don’t want her to equate being alone with nobody wants her or likes her.

I take the bossy.

I welcome the bossy.

When she tells me to do something, I give her a look and she uses her manners. I ask her why she can’t do it herself and if it’s a sufficient reply, I’ll do it. If she thinks something is “too hard” I make her try first before I help. We often do a, “Evelynn, stop. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Okay? Try it again,” when she’s frustrated and she is the only obstacle standing in her own way.

And then she nails it.

The child has a speech issue. Still. It’s better but most folks can’t understand everything she says. Hell, I often struggle. It’s a work in progress. However, this hasn’t stopped her from engaging with peers or talking with a stranger at Target. She’s always telling the checkout lady or sir a story. She hasn’t let it deter her.

We have a habit in growing up of losing our curiosity and voice. We’re so scared to tell someone how we feel, that we love them, that we’re happy, that we love ourselves, that we’re sad. We filter everything; in fear they won’t love us back, we don’t want to be seen as conceited, we don’t want to be seen as broken, we don’t want to be labeled. I love that kids have no filter (except when they’re saying something hurtful or doing something harmful, of course).

Evelynn isn’t afraid to tell me how she feels or what she wants. I want that to grow and continue. I want her to know she matters. I want her to foster that imagination. I want her to foster that curiosity. I want her to foster that empathy for others. I want her to keep randomly coming up to me and announcing with pride, “Mom I’m strong,” while pumping her arm muscles on display; or, “Mom, I did it! I’m smart,” when she completes a new 100-piece puzzle; or even, “Mom, I’m beautiful” when she puts on a new dress she likes or wears “flower hair” (braids) she loves.

I want her to know she CAN validate herself. I want her to foster that voice. I want her to know she has the power.

Mar11

Going High Maintenance.

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Can you be a serial dater if you never actually date because you have like a 95% rate of getting stood up?

While most people love the beginning stage, I hate it. I find it tedious. Mostly because it’s difficult to find time and so much easier to skip to when the guy can come over with Evelynn around and I don’t need to worry about scheduling a babysitter or be mindful of time. It’s also difficult because people seem to forget that at that beginning stage, you’re still getting to know someone. You don’t know what makes someone tick or makes them feel insecure, you don’t know their schedule, you don’t understand their joking style. Mostly, you don’t know how honest or dishonest they are.

It’s no secret I seem to be a beacon for the assholes of the world but despite any trust issues I might have, I’m adamant about blank slates. I can’t treat each new guy like a past guy if I’m moving forward in life, so I don’t. However, more often than not, when I allow myself to believe the guy’s excuse, it bites me in the ass and I end up wishing I’d have gone with my gut, trusted history, and not have wasted my time. Red flags exist for a reason.

It’s a disappointing place to be when this is the trend of my dating life.

More disappointing: when you have to tell the guy how to date.

It’s noted somewhere in one of these blogs how I’m not a fan of the rich man. How it’s typically an immediate turnoff for me. Recently, I decided to listen to my old boss and my new boss on giving rich guys a try regardless—it doesn’t always mean manipulation, sometimes it can mean discipline and hard work. Of course, given this is my dating life, I give the rich asshole a chance not a man who happens to be rich.

Twice this dude asks me out and says “Okay, I’ll follow up with you and let you know what works and what the plan is.” Twice he fails to follow through and I don’t hear from him for over a week. Not to mention, he was very unspecific about a time, instead choosing “this weekend” or “later this week” and then wonders why I don’t still have his number in my phone.

I’m the dumbass who let him do so twice.

And who the hell speaks about “following up” for a date?

Sad part: I haven’t actually counted this guy in my Getting Stood Up count because I’m not sure how to qualify it since he asked but without giving a specific time, and he asked twice.

Ugh, what an embarrassment.

And did I mention he’s 34 years old? WHY AM I TELLING A 34-YEAR-OLD HOW TO DATE IN 2019?

Because it’s 2019 and this is dating in 2019.

What happened to dating? You know, when someone has a plan and time already in mind instead of no clue until the night of or without expecting you to drop everything and agree to plans last minute (HI! Single mom here). It’s annoying and I’ll tell you how this attitude towards dating translates: “I’m lazy and not that interested but I’ll ask you out since I’m bored and have no one else to ask.” I should make it a rule to automatically say NO to any guy who can’t just Man Up with a plan but up until now it’s made me feel high maintenance to even think it’s an issue. Apparently, I need to be high maintenance.

Yes, I said Man Up in an overly sensitive society. No, I don’t care.

I’m not asking for a label—I hate them and firmly believe if it doesn’t come naturally, you’re likely either not with the right person or not ready for a relationship. Also, who labels on the first date? I’d run. I’m not asking for flowers—I’m not a girl you buy flowers for. I’ve even dedicated an entire blog to this once. I’m not asking for a fancy dinner—I prefer great conversation over comfort food and some Jack Daniels (or a homecooked meal if it’s not the first time) in a darker lit restaurant. I’m not asking you to play daddy—I don’t even want you meeting Evelynn until I know where I stand with you.

Who made dating so complicated? What happened to simple mutual attractions, hanging out to see if it could go somewhere, and honest communication?

And then there was this weekend. Getting stood up this weekend—number 5 or 6 or 7 depending on how you qualify being stood up—was something entirely differently. Another round of that clear miscommunication and a few yellow flags.

It’s too much.

I allowed myself to be excited. We’d talked enough and I’m a sucker for a great conversation and communication, a strong wit—and someone who calls me on my bullshit. I also allowed myself to cry for about 24 seconds because when does it end? When does the conversations stop ending abruptly with being stood up instead and start to be continued in person?

And because I wanted puppy chow but I gave it up for lent.

I should’ve given up dating for lent.

But this is me we’re talking about, I’m stubborn as hell. Giving up would mean they won, they got to me, they broke me. And I hate that pesky statistic that says 82% of single moms with a daughter remain single. I hate being defined by statistics. I make my own labels.

Looks like I’m going the high maintenance route.

Feb28

Looks Be Damned, More Coffee Please.

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IMG_6465I always seem to be the girl at the center of every coffee joke, meme, or purchase item; constantly tagged by friends, family, and even strangers. Yet, I’ve never dated a guy who drank coffee.

You read that right: not one of my exes drank coffee. I’ve been racking my brain trying to remember one who did. Instead, every single one of them refused to touch the beverage and would quote, “It just means there’s more for you and I’ll never be the cause of why you might run out of coffee. So I can never piss you off.” Translation: “I’m never responsible for buying it and I don’t support your Starbucks runs.” Which sadly aligned well with most of the nonequal relationships by the end.

Lesson: pay attention to the little things; their voices will be shouting by the end.

Last weekend I got stood up again and I’m starting to actually wonder if this is the trait at the core of my dating issues. Sad part: I can’t even tell if I’m joking. (Insert slap face emoji.)

We’re only two months in the year and I have been stood up 4 times. I’d be lying if I said it hasn’t hurt or doesn’t break me just a little every time it happens. It comes to the point where I never get hopes up with dating and always expect the guy not to show. That’s become my norm.

That is sad. That’s crazy.

It’s so early in the stages of getting to know someone, it makes you question your looks. The person has yet to know you on any deep level. Their attraction at the beginning is almost entirely based on looks. Basic attraction. That’s why first dates happen, to see if there’s a human interaction connection.

It makes me question if I’m pretty enough and I hate that.

Anyone who knows me well, or well enough, will tell you I hate promoting the “look good feel good.” I despise promoting the fitness for looks goals and Tuesday Transformation posts. I’m the girl wishing everyone felt confident in their own skin because they feel good, because the endorphins from working out has a positive impact on happiness. I hate when people associate looks with size—don’t worry, I won’t go into the skinny beautiful rant again, I’ve done that enough.

Yet, I’m the girl questioning my looks. There’s my confession. I am allowing my subconscious to pick apart my body.

Every voice that pops up in my head to tell me I’m not good enough because I’m not pretty enough, I have to tell take a hike. The voices that pick apart my skin, size, hair, shape….we fight constantly. Here’s the thing though: I refuse to let her win.

There’s a kicker, though.

Lately I’ve been asking myself this one question: How can I feel confident in my own skin and love my body when I’m constantly allowing this voice to pop up in my head, telling me, you’re not pretty enough, what’s wrong with you? It’s a crazy paradigm. It’s irony. I’m at the best I’ve felt in my own skin and yet, this voice is just nagging and there. It doesn’t matter if I tell her she’s wrong or that I do love my body. It doesn’t matter that when she tells me, “your back is scared” or “you’ve got rolls instead of a flat tubby” I turn around and say, “Well, so the fuck what? That’s life. Doesn’t matter. She’s still there and I still get stood up.

Reality: It’s a continuous journey. Sometimes, I like to call it an ego check; it’s what keeps us humble.

 

PERCEPTION.

per·cep·tion

A way of regarding, understanding, or interpreting something; a mental impression.

Here’s today’s thought: How often has your perception of yourself been influenced by the negative actions of other people?

You can’t control how people perceive you but you can control your actions and your mindset. Despite common belief, you can choose to be happy with yourself. You can choose to accept yourself but why only accept yourself? Why stop there?

So, here’s to the one who is having trouble loving yourself:

  • You are smart. If you don’t feel smart, read more and always be curious.
  • You are strong. If you don’t feel strong, lift more and be more active.
  • You are kind. If you don’t feel kind, do 3 things every day to bring kindness to someone and make at least one of those acts of kindness to a stranger.
  • You are loved. If you don’t feel loved, love more—those around you and yourself.
  • You are exquisitely beautiful. If you don’t feel exquisitely beautiful, start every day by telling yourself one thing you love about your body and why.
  • You are ALIVE. Nothing else matters. Be happy that you can enjoy what it’s like to fill your lungs with air, to feel the ground beneath your feet when you walk, and to taste your favorite food.
  • You are YOU. Nobody gets that superpower. Fall in love with yourself for that alone.

Don’t be on the wrong side of loving yourself. The world—you—has enough critics. And anyone who doesn’t love you, fuck them. Seriously, life is too short. Too short for stupid boys and questioning your looks or your worth.

Besides, I’d rather have a good cup of coffee with a guy who brings me up and doesn’t make second guess myself.

 

Feb22

I’ll take the fitness, Pot.

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Beachbody didn’t give me my beach body. It didn’t give me my love for fitness and it wasn’t the platform that taught me how to eat healthy. It didn’t give me discipline. It didn’t give me a drive or light the fire within me. It didn’t make me realize my dreams or give my inspiration. I had that hard work ethic and was digging for my goals before I ever joined the Beachbody community. It didn’t give me this large sense of belonging—I’m introverted AF. However, at a time in my life when I had no ability to attend a gym regularly, it gave me consistency. For the days I need therapy and I can’t get to the gym because HELLO career woman living the single mom life, it’s allowed me to push play within minutes.

You, a friend, telling me I’ve joined a cult that you’ve done no research on as you sit on your throne of a couch and judge, can move along. You, a stranger, who knows nothing about me or my life as you do your own fitness journey and promote activity—”do any activity”—but judge, can also move along.

The honest truth: it took me over 3 years to join because previously, it didn’t work for me and previously, I had other methods of staying active. I also didn’t like the coaches who approached me on their high thrones with their copy/paste generic messaging—that’s on them, not the program—telling me how I should live my fitness life. Then, I moved out of my parents with my kid, alone, and had no babysitter and worked 60+ hour weeks. I researched at home fitness programs, and then I researched coaches of such programs. It worked for me, and now you’re telling me there’s a fault in being active? At $99 a year?

Am I fan of the tiered marketing system? No. However, it’s brilliant. Catered to the stay at home mom feeling in a slump; the overweight or depressed female insecure for the gym; the fitness enthusiast who has career goals but also wants to share her love for fitness and health with the world; the extrovert fitness gal. Anyone. And you’re labeling it all as a cult without ever trying it or actually looking into it? They don’t force your hand, they provide you options. What you do with it is up to you.

There is a cancel option.

How’s the Kettle, Pot?

There’s no one-size fits all fitness program & unfortunately, I don’t agree with many things in the Beachbody community but hey Pot, that’s life.

I recently joined Planet Fitness and let me tell you, their whole “Judgment Free Zone” epitomizes the hypocrite label. Again, not perfect. Are you also going to make fun of the obese man doing cardio for an hour because I’ll applaud the man just like I’ll applaud the lunk (is that the word PF uses?) who grunts to clean 300lbs. They’re more active than most of the population. I don’t care how one chooses to be active—hi Free Will, welcome to the party—as long as they’re active (and not hurting anyone). If they want to eat like crap to balance out their fitness, I might not agree with it, and I certainly won’t hear of their ailments when they suffer from high blood pressure or the doctor tells them they’re at risk of a heart attack, but that’s their prerogative.

Being active is being active.

How you choose to live life will not affect me. How you choose to judge my fitness and health journey, will not affect the outcome of my results.

If you complain about not having time to make it to the gym and being inactive but stick your nose up to any at home fitness program, again, that’s your problem and I don’t want to hear about it. I may not follow the “no excuse” phenomenon but that, Pot, is a shit poor excuse. What’s your next one?

Have I struggled with my name attached to the same company of women I’ve had to personally block from my social media because they bullied me for not wanting to blindly try a product that was never labeled Gluten Free or didn’t believe me when I said I had no Wi-Fi because I lived in the boonies and preferred yoga and the gym? Absolutely. I’m also not a fan of joining the same gym that told me, “Well, he probably didn’t cancel your membership because you don’t look pregnant,” despite me filling out the proper cancellation paperwork. Newsflash, I didn’t “pop” until I was over 7 months along into my pregnancy. Fitness programs, affiliates, and companies are not perfect. (Then again, you’re not either. Yeah, I said that.)

Here’s the thing you’re overlooking in your enthusiasm to blindly label: it’s sales and it’s business. These are women who are running a business, like you sell Arbonne, mortgages, jewelry, real estate, candles, or apparel. If you don’t want to be sold to, turn off your television, cancel your phone plan, and move to the wilderness.

Beachbody simply decided to create a company that allowed women, many of whom seem to be introverts, to turn their passion for the lifestyle into a fitness on a platform (social media) that allows them to feel comfortable breaking out of that introvert shell. That doesn’t make it a cult, it makes it a brilliant marketing campaign. BBG could do the same and from the research I’ve done, it looks like 1stphorm has done the same to some degree. The difference is Beachbody thrives on community and friendships so VOILA: “cult” aka more accurately labeled SUCCESS.

If you’re going to judge these women for taking control of their health, turning it into an income, falling in love with themselves, and wanting to empower others to do the same, well, you’re just as bad as the coaches who believe Beachbody is the “only” fitness method.

Congratulations Pot, you found Kettle.

Now, as for me and my fitness journey, you can find me either at the gym or doing triple bears in my living room with my 4-year-old daughter. As long as I’m consistently active and pursuing my health, I don’t care what my method is.

At home workout bonus: my kid plays witness to an active and healthy lifestyle and can join in. I’ll pay another $99/year for that gem.