Our societal views on single vs. relationships is fucked up.
Being single does not mean I have to date. Someone thinking I’m pretty does not mandate me to have to be in a relationship with someone. My single status does not mean I have to say yes to guys when they ask me out. Having a profile on a dating app does not mean that I have to say yes to any date, respond to any message, or even be active on the app. It means I have it there as an option for the very rare slow moments in my life that I might want to see if anyone interests me to engage in some conversation or maybe even give up my favored single crown. Slim chance, though.
I am so sick of defending my time spent to my career and my kid instead of paying attention to and responding to messages from guys.
Speaking of valued time, scheduling a showing or listing appointment with me simply to meet me because I don’t have time to date is not a smart move. It’s the fastest way to turn me off. It’s a complete disrespect of my time, and my freedom as to how I spend my time.
It takes two to make any relationship work. Simply because someone wants me bad enough does not mean that I owe them a chance. Honestly, why would you want to have to talk someone into dating you? They should simply want to be with you. If they’re not, they’re not the person for you. If you have to talk someone into dating you, are you really going to feel good and secure about being in that relationship?
Wanting me does not mean you get to have me. It is not that easy.
And when the hell did being single translate to not being able to get a guy? I love the comments of “how the hell are you single?” people will make to single folks. Well, sir, ma’am, we single folks choose to be single.
How about being single means I am actively choosing, in this moment in my life, being single is the best decision for me. That being single is what I want to be.
How about…
I choose to dedicate my time to my career.
I choose to dedicate my time to my daughter.
I choose to dedicate my time to my commitments.
I choose to dedicate my time to rediscovering my friendships.
I choose to dedicate my time to ME.
And how about I refuse to enter into another relationship that is anything less than I deserve.
Every time a guy comes after me and solely focuses on my looks or body, I’m sorry but it further pushes me into enjoying being single. I don’t want to settle. I want to be appreciated.
Quite frankly, I really appreciate me single and finally learning to set boundaries.
I don’t want to be tied down to someone right now. I don’t want to deal with their expectations of me making time for them. I don’t want to defend myself when I choose my career over date night. I definitely don’t want to repeat myself when I can’t make time due to having 100% custody of my daughter and choosing to spend my free time with her. I’ve been struggling to make time for friends, I’m not trying to date.
I want my freedom.
I want to be single.
How about I’m good enough for me, just me, more than enough, and that makes me incredibly happy right now.
I’m a single mom. That’s just who I am. I’m a mom who by definition takes care of her kid on her own. A fulltime single mom.
It’s what I’ve known.
I make all the decisions. I pay the bills. I play good and bad cop. I play parent and best friend. I don’t have someone to turn to as backup or support. I don’t have someone to talk through hardships with. I don’t have someone to juggle her schedule with. I figure it out on my own. All of it. There’s no one to argue with when she’s sick and must stay home from school. There’s not many options for me to call to pick up my kid from school if I’m stuck in a meeting or running late. There’s no one to take her to school if I’m sick.
There’s no one to rock paper scissors with on Saturday mornings when she wakes up at 7am and is ready for some dippity eggs and toast. There’s no one to cover for me when I have a debilitating migraine and need a day off spent in bed, amid darkness, quietness, and closed blinds. There’s no one to spend time with Evelynn during the long working days. My daughter is known for being my showing assistant.
It’s not a path well lit. It’s a path lit by just a cell phone with a dying battery that must be made sure to be charged every night.
Aka it’s poorly lit.
Aka sleep isn’t always on my side.
It’s navigated by putting one foot in front of the other and trusting my feet and my heart will take me where I need to go and my head will stop me when or before any shit hits the fan. If I’m not sleep deprived and delusional by then.
I’m doing the job of two. I don’t have someone to lean on at the end of the day for reassurance or backup. It’s just me and that’s draining.
But I’m incredibly grateful for the people I have in my life. The companies I have worked at over the years who help me make it work.
From Hall Financial where Evelynn would go in and sit with the boss man during meetings to Fitness Tee Co. where there was a kid room she could chill in if necessary. I’m grateful for the understanding of flexibility and working from home ability. It’s taught me discipline in keeping a strict calendar, time management, getting work done, the meaning of non-negotiables. It’s taught me that time is our most valuable currency.
It runs out.
I’m grateful for the clients who accept me as a fulltime single mom and choose to work with me. I’m grateful real estate offers me more flexibility as Evelynn gets farther into her education and sports. I’m grateful for Graydon’s and their allowance for Evelynn to come in on sick days or no school days so I don’t have to cancel work. It’s a blessing and one I have never taken for granted. Although, sometimes, I do struggle with understanding why more companies can’t be so accommodating.
Last week, we were kicked out of our place 8:30AM to past 6:30PM with an unusable kitchen so we spent our days at the restaurant after school. I have the most sociable child and I’m not quite sure where she got it from. She has no problem going up to a kid and asking if they want to play her games with her (this happened Monday). Or forcing the bartender’s husband into playing her Nintendo Switch with her (Tuesday). Or asking a couple people at the bar to scooch over so we can fit in (Wednesday). Or, my favorite, the time she roped a regular (now friend) and the bartender into creating barbie clothes out of gloves and napkins with her.
I refuse to be the person who says, “My God, this is so hard. You don’t understand.” Quite frankly, there’s others who have it much worse. I might not be great at asking for help but I know there’s a crowd of people rooting for me; who wish me well. That’s an incredible feeling. Somedays, knowing someone else believes in me, is all I need. That alone is enough to keep me going.
It drowns out the ones wanting me to fail. They don’t even register on my radar. (To the point this is an afterthought.)
Even more, I did choose this path. I had it as my New Year’s resolution to make it on my own, to break it off with the baby daddy. I don’t believe in resolutions…but that one. It was it for me. He hurt me and I was done with him. I couldn’t trust him. He wasn’t a good dad. He wasn’t a good human. I deserved better. Despite all the fear thundering through me, I was going to squish it and set my own path. I was going to teach my daughter that you can make it on your own. I was going to show women that you are worth a hell of a lot more than a bad relationship. I was going to show single moms, nothing is worth staying if you’re not treated well.
So these hard days, these long days, these lonely days; I’ll still take them all. They’re worth a hell of a lot more to me than any day where I was hurt; was degraded and talked down to; made to feel stupid or ugly or unworthy; made to feel less than or not enough.
There are many days I need a nap but the love for this little girl and the life I’m building for us carries me through. She’s my best friend. Even on the days she drives me absolutely crazy, she’s my everything.
I get to see her every day. I get to tuck her into bed every night and sing our I Love You song. I get to teach her healthy eating habits. I get to nurture her into a good human and woman. I get to set her on the path for independence. I get to hear her laugh and make her smile. I get to sing and dance with her. I get to set an example for her.
I get to watch her grow up. Wake up to her and say goodnight.
Mama might need a nap but I’m not missing any of this. If I knew how my days would turn out, I’d choose this path again, without hesitation. Often times, the hardest moments are the most rewarding memories.
I’m a fulltime single mom. I wouldn’t dare change that until it’s well worth changing.
One of the best compliments I’ve ever been given was, “She’s not a woman who needs a man or who is scared to be on her own, that’s a woman who is independent and completely secure on her own.”
They’re not wrong.
I do date. I will relentlessly put myself out there, as my dating history has shown over the years, but I ultimately choose who I want to be with. I have no qualms about turning someone down. I will not force feelings. Sometimes, I’ve gotten it wrong and allowed a man to tear me down but in the end, I always get up. I always leave what’s no longer worth my time (& time is my most valued currency). I always realize my worth. I always choose to walk alone instead of being treated like a last thought.
And I don’t just walk, I freaking dance.
I’m a firm believer that you can simultaneously choose to be with someone and make them a priority if you want to. Hell, I’ve turned guys down simply because my busy lifestyle in certain stages won’t allow me to make a relationship a priority.
Reality is everyone is an option, they should be. You should not need someone in your life to determine your happiness, worth, or outlook on the world. The best thing is knowing someone doesn’t need you but they want you. They wake up choosing you. Above everyone else, they’re not only choosing you but they’re not even trying to look for someone else. They have to earn to be in your life just as you earn to be in theirs. It’s a partnership—it takes two to tango, one can’t do it all.
My last three relationships I jumped into. I let the man decide the pace of the song & the status of our relationship. When they wanted to be exclusive, we were. When they got distant and didn’t communicate, I allowed them to act like I was hardly a back of mind thought. I allowed them make me question my worth for a period of time.
I’m not proud of any of this.
And yet, I always find my independence again. At the close of each relationship, I’m reminded what I compromised. I find myself again and it’s my favorite thing about a breakup.
I love the freedom of dancing alone, selecting my own song to groove to.
I also love the freedom of whom I choose to dance with; when we create a peaceful symphony of harmonies & melodies.
This is my story of darkness. This is my story of tragedy. This is my story of weakness. This is my story of sadness. Of loss. Of grief. Of heartache.
This is also my story of overcoming. Of growing. Of strength.
But let’s be clear of one thing: this is my story.
You will inevitably have questions. Concerns. Comments. It’s natural. You’re human. We want to know everything about certain events to understand, to heal, to help, to sympathize. For some, to properly judge and feel righteous about it even—yes, I did just call those folks out. You don’t get that. You don’t get that luxury. This isn’t about you. It’s not even about me. It’s about how broken we have become as a society. How broken systems have become. How much we’ve made everything about the individual instead of as the whole. How much we’ve ignored the individual to make it about everyone else.
This is about the silenced. This is about the abused. This is about the unprotected. The uneducated. The loss.
My god, this is about the loss.
And this is also about the gains.
I am not a victim. I am not a survivor. I am me. That is still my superpower.
There is an immense power and feeling of achievement in being secure in my own skin to have done a boudoir shoot after everything. I will not let that power be stripped from me.
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“Want to play the rape game?”
“No.”
“That’s the spirit!”
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The first time I had sex I was raped. We had been hardly dating, both virgins, and shared the same birthday.
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They say you have to say it. That saying it is what helps you get over it. False. But there. I said it. It’s true what they say: the hardest thing is admittance. This next one, though.
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The second time I was raped it was by a long-term boyfriend and on my 25th birthday. I might also mention he is the father of my daughter. My daughter who partially shares his last name. If you think I had her name changed because I’m a single mom with full custody of my kid and I was sick of proving she was mine—we had different last names—you’re wrong. That’s just excuse I had given him. I had her name changed because his name makes me physically ill. I still hate that it’s partially attached to her.
His name. The sound of his voice. The sight of him. Sends me into a downward spiral. Chasing the flush of the toilet.
And did I mention he knew about the first occurrence? Talk about a betrayal. Talk about the hurt. Talk about the disrespect.
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I wish I would have seen what her doctors saw.
My daughter’s first two doctor visits, they made a point of asking me if I feared for our safety. The first visit, he was with us, they made an excuse to pull me into the hall. They asked me twice. Are you sure? The next visit, I took her alone and they asked me once again.
They told me it was standard procedure, normal protocol. They ask all the moms.
I’ve asked other moms about this. It’s not standard practice. They were never asked.
Why didn’t I see what the doctors saw??
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I hate my birthday.
Eleven years ago, it was a different kitchen in this same city. I was of a different mind. There were no brown cabinets. Everything was white—the counters, the cabinetry, the appliances—but I was picturing them stained red. Instead of laughing with my daughter in my lap, there were silent tears with a phone in one hand and a knife in the other. I couldn’t see the future; I was blinded by nightmares. I was reliving a moment I couldn’t even fully remember.
Yellow light. Lines. The carpet tells me it’s daylight. His snores tell me it’s early. My head confirms it’s too early. Then the flashes.
Hands on thighs. Spinning room. Darkness. Limp hands. Fingers wrapping wrists. A tug. Pounding head. Nooo. Thick tongue.
Darkness.
Denial.
Text message.
Gathering clothes, shoes, keys.
Down the stairs.
Out the door.
Car.
“I think I had sex last night. Mind if we stop at the drugstore first?” Oh thank God.
“You know what? Same here,” Denial reroutes. Changing story.
We took the pills together. Nobody cared. All was silent.
Denial loves silence.
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The thing about private colleges is they’re small. Too small. Everyone knows everyone. Everyone parties with everyone. Everyone knows who bangs who.
Or didn’t.
They never knew. It had been a week. We stopped talking. It was as if neither existed. Then I’d hear him slip past my dorm room door with a different girl almost every night. My how the mighty virgin had fallen. They don’t know.
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It was lunchtime when I learned he supposedly lost his virginity differently than how I’d lost mine. There was a party at a larger campus and after years of waiting for the right girl, he chose a random chick to hook up with. The story was out. It was news. It wasn’t me.
But it was.
Denial.
Twenty months later I “lost” mine on Christmas Eve to a random guy I graduated high school with. It was over. No more falsely holding the title Virgin. No more being asked why I hadn’t yet or what I was waiting for. Over. The story was wrong, the time was wrong, but it was over.
Twenty months were spent in nightmares, wondering. Piecing together a night of clips. Until one night when it became too overwhelming to deny. I ran from his house, puked along his driveway. Lost the battle to tears on the drive home. I couldn’t get home fast enough.
Because, what if I just ran this truck into a tree instead?
I made it home, only because I wasn’t sure if crashing would work.
The following years would be spent hopping beds in drunken stupors.
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Stranger Danger. That’s what we’re taught in schools. We don’t learn how sometimes it’s the closest ones we allow in who we have to fear. How that guy you’re dating could be a monster. How even if his friends know you’re dating you might still want to keep him at an arm’s length. How you can’t trust the guy to just cuddle you in bed. How you can’t trust the guy for an untampered beverage. How you can’t trust the guy for just some Advil.
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My 25th birthday was rung in fighting off my boyfriend and then sleeping with the palm of my hand cupped around my own private after throwing up—not because of the alcohol—and a shower to wash him off me. 3:30 am on my birthday and I’m standing in the shower scrubbing him off me furiously—why won’t he just wash off me?! I was stone cold sober. He couldn’t get it through his drunk skull that I didn’t want sex. He thought he was being irresistibly cute. I, however, wasn’t drunk enough to forget a fucking detail. This time, I didn’t have enough in my system to forget and two and a half months later, I didn’t have the mind to deny it any longer.
He doesn’t remember a thing. Doesn’t understand why that was the last night I let him touch me until I finally broke it off over two months later. How I was short fused and found the presence of him annoying, ugly. How I would find every excuse in the book not to be alone with him.
How two weeks later I locked him outside of his own damn house.
We had gone to a friends’ wedding. I played I had migraine when friends asked me what was wrong—they noticed I would flinch at his touch, my forced smile, my aggravated voice, my judgmental tone, and disgusted stare—he couldn’t do a damn thing right. I didn’t allow him to go out with the after party—I encouraged him. I went home to his house—I was in town visiting—and ignored his calls and texts when he got home. I had locked him out of his own house. But that fucking banging—he wouldn’t stop pounding on that goddamn front door for me to open up.
He tried again. This time when I forcibly said No, he heard me—though not without calling me a tease first.
I was his fucking girlfriend.
I was revolted.
I wanted him gone.
I still do.
I want nothing more than that night to be erased and the man who did it, as well.
Do you have any idea how it feels to be the type of person who wastes every single birthday, shooting star, 11:11 wish on the disappearance of someone? Not just someone but the father of your child. I’ve done it so many times I’ve lost count. Seven years of wishes wasted on a sickness.
Do I think he was intentional? No. He had no clue what was going on. He’s a compulsive liar and the most selfish person I’ve met. Do I think he knows what he did? I’ve watched him spin so many lies over the years, he could never comprehend. If you told him the story as it involved two other people, would he recognize the wrong? Absolutely, he’s not that stupid.
He thought it was a game. He thought he was being sexy—he said so. And it had been so long. Seriously, that’s what he said: “But baby it’s been so long,” “But baby, doesn’t it feel so good?” No, it didn’t. In fact, it hurt. I felt raw. I was dry. It was like sandpaper. And I told him such when I begged him to stop but he didn’t believe me because to him, it felt “amazing” (gag me). “But baby, I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.” No, baby, what YOU are doing to me; I can’t even fucking fathom.
Apparently, that’s common after giving birth. Not being able to get wet enough for sex or feeling overly tight. But it was six weeks to the night post birth, and it had been so long for him.
One-in-four women are sexually assaulted by the time they’re 25. I read that statistic once and it’s never left my head. I was lucky enough to be assaulted twice. Correction: Raped.
I wonder what the statistic is for that.
I hear admitting the actual term is great for healing and moving past a tragedy.
Catch me later on it, maybe it will have worked by then. No promises.
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Full confession: I hate the #MeToo movement with a passion. It capitalizes on this idea that men in power assault women who want to rise up. It negates the fact that majority of these cases actually happen between relationships, in the home or with a boyfriend or close friend. It’s not men in power. It’s everyday men who we give the world to and abuse that power, that trust.
Newsflash: marriage doesn’t give one ownership of a body. The only one who owns my body is me.
Consensual sex: agreeing to have sex the entire time for which the event of sex occurs.
This means that as soon as one person wants out or says no or becomes unconscious to where they can no longer say yes, it is over. Done. Pull out. Get off.
I was in a college classroom—Sex Ed for my health education minor—when our teacher reiterated this again and again. As I sat in that seat and couldn’t stop shaking. I was the last to leave the classroom. The reality, the last little straw of denial that I had tried to hang desperately on to had simply evaporated. Funny how they don’t reiterate it when it matters—when we’re kids. Twenty-six years old, I was just then hearing the firm definition of consensual sex. Funny how my teachers never went into the details or exercises of what consensual sex means when it counted—before the rape, when I was innocent and ignorant of sex. Maybe then girls wouldn’t be blamed for the guy’s abuse of power. Maybe then society wouldn’t assume guys were the only gender who could commit such a crime. Maybe then victims wouldn’t feel like the justice system was rigged when it came to rape cases.
Not just rigged, assaulting.
Who am I kidding? I still wouldn’t have had the mental capacity to come forth and fight for the truth.
And who am I kidding? He still wouldn’t have pulled out when I had told him to.
That didn’t happen. Instead, I had to wedge my knee in there and force him out and off of me. Me, 118lbs. pushing a 190lb. male off me. Because it had been too long and I couldn’t possibly be saying No to him. I was. He just didn’t want to hear it.
One good thing about not having enough to drink that night: I could overpower a clumsy drunk ogre.
I didn’t sleep that night. Instead I thought of all the ways of how this could’ve been my life. How this could’ve happened twice. How my baby’s daddy could do this to her mother. This couldn’t be real life.
But this was my life. And I had made it through it once before.
Though, before I hadn’t been capable of accepting the truth and working through it. Instead, I blindly found guys to replace the memory, to put as much distance (sex) between that first rape and the present—a futile effort that never succeeded. I chased sex to erase that first time as if it was the only way. Instead, I learned how many guys listened when I did say no. Some may have been assholes about it.
But they stopped when told.
Somehow, that knowledge and recognition was healing.
I don’t think every walking male is a rapist and I can be in a room alone with a man I don’t know. That’s the stereotype, that’s why we don’t speak up: we aren’t all victims, we don’t all let it ruin our lives, we don’t all allow it to blur the lens when we look at the rest of the male population. Just because one guy hurts us doesn’t mean we believe all men will.
It’s the victim mentality that keeps us quiet. That and the truth. We suddenly know the worst part of someone, we’ve been held captive (literally) by their evil, but that is not always who they let the public see. Then, there’s the little girls who cry wolf—they are the ones who shut us up. They are the ones who make us believe we won’t be heard because too many have lied before—yet we don’t dare call them liars because who are we to judge and assume? We can’t know which ones are lying, we just know some are. Or we question their tale because we knew the man or because their story is never consistent or because whenever something doesn’t go their way they’re quick to claim sexual harassment. Or we question their tale because we had been there and it’s not a laughing matter. It’s not the butt end of a joke. It’s not for fucking talk radio.
It’s fucking hell. It’s suffocating. It’s drowning. It’s clawing at my throat to breathe. It’s my god why can’t I just crawl out of this fucking life and be done.
Speaking up isn’t hard because of the fear of not being believed, it’s because we first had to fight someone off and then we are forced to fight the world in telling them who someone really is; when really, we just want to forget. We want to move on. We don’t want to live in the nightmares and we don’t want your pity. We don’t want to retell the same story we relive every night when we fall to sleep. We don’t want to be put in the same room with the one person who makes us dizzy, whose voice makes our skin crawl, whose proximity makes us fight to not lose consciousness.
We don’t want to fight to prove we were raped—we want to fight to forget the entire event and the person exists. We don’t want to recount our story over and over again for someone to find fault—someone who wasn’t even there, who couldn’t feel the warmth of our tears on our cheeks or taste the saltiness when they reached our mouths; who couldn’t understand the inner turmoil of “this is really happening” and “this can’t be fucking happening”; who isn’t sent back to that fucking nightmare with just one word from one voice and then we’re fighting to be out of that room even though we’re already miles and years away.
No, fighting for justice is another form of rape.
We aren’t survivors. We are living.
sur · vi · vor
noun
the remainder of a group of people or things.
a person who copes well with difficulties in their life.
I hate that fucking term. It assumes the odds are against me. The odds were never stacked against me. I decide my odds.
Let me be clear when I state the only thing that died that night was my respect for this guy and our relationship. I am very much alive. It didn’t kill a part of me. It was a tragedy, it was by all means a “difficulty” to “cope” with—still is, I refuse to be put in the same room with him, I avoid all his phone calls—but I refuse to let it define me. I refuse to let this one night, and the other night, determine the woman I have become and am still becoming. I didn’t “learn to cope”. I was already strong. This didn’t make me stronger. It just taught me evil exists in the world and sometimes, it’s close to home, closer than we can ever imagine. I refuse to give him or this event credit for who I am today.
He does not get that.
I can love my body, feel good in my body, feel secure in my body, and show some skin without it being an open invitation to my body. I am the only owner of my body.
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I didn’t realize how much that first one affected me until I realized I had stopped singing in the shower. I was always singing in the shower. When we had to be quiet in the house and my mother would tell me to keep the music down in the shower, I would get an attitude. It was habit. I don’t remember many times during my childhood when I didn’t sing in the shower. But that changed when I came home my first summer of college.
I started singing in the shower again last year. I had met a guy who made me feel unbelievably safe. I was never one who fell asleep easily but somehow, with him, or his one dog that always slept on the bed with us, I could pass out quickly and sleep through the entire night.
I’d give just about anything to feel that safety again. It has been the hardest part of our recent breakup—not being able to sleep well or through the night—for me to give up and get over. He wasn’t perfect but for the first time in twelve years, I had felt safe behind closed eyelids.
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My rapists don’t get to define me. They don’t get to have a piece of me, not even the broken pieces.
Here’s a reality: I love sex.
That feels so damn good to say.
After everything.
The fact that I get to say this makes me feel so incredibly good about myself and how far I have come. What they couldn’t keep from me. What I have been able to put behind me because I know. I know the beauty of intimacy; I know how good it can feel. I know that it is not the clothes I wear or how I act that determines my choice to give someone my body. It is me saying yes, for the entire time we have sex. And it is someone accepting and also saying yes for the entire time.
They don’t own the broken pieces of me because I didn’t break. I may have wanted to end my life at one point, I may still collapse at the slightest appearance of his name, sound of his voice, or sight of him…
But I’m still here.
I bended. I chose to move on. I have said the words that no one should ever have to say, and I kept going.
I still choose to date. I still open myself up to love. I’m still standing. I still choose to believe there are good guys. I still choose to trust.
More importantly, I choose to live. Every day. Not walk around in a daze, not succumb to the fear or the nightmares. I choose to fall asleep at night. I choose to close my eyes. I own my life and my body and I make sure I know this.
These days, I put myself to sleep at night and I wake up wanting and ready for a new day.
I’ve been through hell, and I visit it on occasion, but I refuse to become a resident there.
Why do I so firmly believe in pushing forward? It’s the only way to move. I’ve been held down, I’ve been stripped, I’ve been taken. There is power in knowing we can overcome.
We can. I am.
What happened to me will never be okay. It will never be okay that our system is rigged. It will never be okay that I will never feel safe to talk about this shit. It will never be okay with me that my daughter’s father is a disgusting human. It will never be okay that even though I have confronted him about this once, I will likely never hear an apology from him. It will never be okay that I can’t seem to simply forget, forgive, and move on—I would love to forget, maybe forgive. It will never be okay with me that people could talk behind my back but could never ask me, “Why can’t you be in the same room with him?” It will never be okay that as soon as this is posted…if I post it…people will look at me differently. It will never be okay that some people will have the nerve to talk about this even though it doesn’t consume them, it doesn’t involve them, they are not part of the nightmare.
It will never be okay.
But I am okay. Not every day, but most days. And I will be okay. And I am more than okay with that. You don’t need to be—this doesn’t involve you. But I need to be.
And for anyone who thinks they have been in my shoes, you haven’t. And if you have had to spoke those words or are still trying to admit those words and give them a voice, I haven’t been in your shoes. Because your nightmare didn’t involve me, it’s yours to work through and overcome and I will not talk as if I know your nightmare. I don’t.
There’s something about breakups that make me come out on the other side stronger and more in love with me and everything I still have in life. Even when it feels like things might be falling apart, or that I might be meant for singledom. When things fall apart, I learn just how many people I have in my corner; even when it feels like I’ve grown incredibly distant with everyone because I’m an introvert used to being alone.
They show up for me and it feels good.
This isn’t easy. I’m struggling. I’m hurt. I’m lost. I’m heartbroken. We’re still living together. We still sleep in the same bed at night. It’s incredibly difficult to walk through a house with someone who I firmly believed the best in him only for him to break up with me because he believed the worst in me. He held his ex and all her faults over my head as if I was her and it’s difficult to grapple with his reasonings when at the core of our breakup is not our relationship, it’s his schedule and his inability to communicate and love.
I can’t read minds. And I shouldn’t be faulted for such.
I dated a runner, though. What could I expect? I dated a man who has never been chosen and will only love his dogs. He loves the idea of love but I can’t say if he ever loved me. It sure doesn’t feel like it. You don’t give up on the people you love simply because something got difficult, or someone got busy.
I prosper with breakups. I suck at dating and finding good, mature men, but I prosper with breakups and excel at finding me.
And understanding what I deserve.
I deserve more than someone who will walk two feet ahead of me when going on a date and will let the door slam on me instead of waiting or holding it open.
I deserve someone who is willing to have the patience to win my kid over and work through issues, who understands she’s seven—and that by saying such is not an excuse, it’s cause to teach her and show her acceptance.
I deserve more than someone who will snuggle and love on all three dogs and then only give me a quick quiet shout before walking out the door or ignore me completely.
I deserve more than someone who believes that because I’m not his mother nor the mother of his child, he doesn’t have to recognize or celebrate Mother’s Day for or with me. I should not have to explain to someone that loving me is accepting that I’m a mom and therefor celebrating that with me, especially when Mother’s Day is one of my favorite holidays—highlighting all the accomplishments I’ve done to get where I am, everything I’ve overcome as a full time single mom.
I deserve more than having to pick up and pay for my own birthday dinner for the entire family.
I deserve more than just a “how much money will you make off that?” while still glancing at his phone when I announced I just released and published my first book of poetry, a longstanding childhood dream of mine that finally came through. I also deserve someone who will take enough interest to see what the book looks like and will at the minimum flip through its pages.
I deserve someone who will follow through with wanting to celebrate my first real estate sale rather than just chalking it up to his dad “doing me a favor” (I sold his grandma’s house).
I deserve someone who wants to show up to events and parties with me that we’re invited to and tries to recognize each other’s schedule instead of one reigning priority.
I deserve someone who will communicate with me when he’s going to be three hours late to our plans because he stayed longer with friends than he had initially said he would—and understands the difference between this being respectful of my time and not me being controlling. I should not have to explain this to someone.
I deserve someone who will not neglect my daughter’s birthday.
I deserve someone who will not tell my daughter to lie to me or keep something from me.
I deserve someone who will console me or talk to me when he makes me cry, not ignore me or intentionally hurt me more.
I deserve someone who will not attempt to belittle me in order to feel superior—this is a partnership, after all.
I deserve more than someone whose go to defense mechanism when Evelynn acts up is that he is not his father and she is not his responsibility, especially when I have never said anything remotely similar about his own son. And he should not be telling this to her with anger in his tone.
I deserve someone who wants to show me off and take me out and will speak highly of me.
I deserve someone who will believe in the best of me, be honest with me, love me, and respect me.
We met during covid, when things were relatively easy and we didn’t have jobs to show up to and we could be present for each other so easily. We could skip off to the beach, deliver GrubHub and DoorDash together, talk endlessly about life and philosophies and beliefs and our past. It is so incredibly hard reconciling this man; who I know he can be with who he ended up being. Why do I still believe the best in him? Why did I let all those things I didn’t deserve slide?
He taught Evelynn how to ride a bike. He taught her how to use her fingers and nose to do math. He taught her the alphabet in a manner where she could remember it. He was around when her own father only showed up five times in a year for her. He prioritized showing up for her school conference over coaching cheer. He would help her build a sandcastle and play in the water with her, two things I’m just not great at doing, whenever we went to the beach. He would lay in her dirty pool with her just because she asked and didn’t want to be alone. When she started calling him daddy in public, he took it in stride and just let her do her thing, what she wanted and needed. When she later was insistent that he was NOT her dad whenever she was asked, he accepted it even though it bothered him, her aggressiveness in stating that he wasn’t.
I’m not easy to date me. The whole 100% custody thing is difficult to get around. I’m a packaged deal, there’s no way around it. There is no break from parenting in my world. Andy took it all on. When Evelynn’s dad scolded her for calling Andy “daddy” and spoke negatively of Andy and his family to her, it created a major riff and thus began the spiral of Evelynn acting out against Andy. Her father was jealous and began ruining her relationship with the only man that had stuck around and took on the fatherhood role of showing up for her, asking her about her day, encouraging her with her education, not allowing her fear to get in her way of achievements.
Andy helped her break through so many barriers.
I hate her dad and hate is not a word I allow to be said in this house. It’s not something I allow in Evelynn’s vocabulary. Yet, I have spent too much energy wishing he would just disappear. What father does that to his daughter? Discourages a healthy relationship. I would have hoped that a man willing to step up and be there for her would have been an amazing thing to embrace and be comforted by.
Jealousy really is an ugly green monster.
Not to mention her own dad forgot her birthday. I can’t be shocked, he only saw her five times last year and has a history of cancelling, hence why we’re down to only every other month of supervised visits. He’s lied about being sick so many times I blocked him on social media—I was completely over the blatant truth of him instead being too hungover or wanting to hit the golf course because he didn’t prioritize seeing his daughter.
Andy, despite his conditioning to hold a grudge and not willing to be around to celebrate Evelynn’s birthday, showed up in other ways. He allowed us to move into a house he bought designed for just him and two dogs. Instead, he got three other humans (his son moved in with him about a month before we met) and yet another dog. He hasn’t had the ability to enjoy this home he bought all on his own through hard work and perseverence. We moved in and took over, and that’s another grudge he’s holding over my head.
But I never needed shelter from him. I needed love and support.
And grace and acceptance, as I had shown him.
I needed communication and no judgment.
And I needed a cheerleader. For being a cheer coach, he failed at cheering me on the moment it was inconvenient for him.
I don’t get a clean breakaway. I’m stuck until I find housing and it hurts.
There are so many moments where I would just be enraptured by him. I’d just stare at him and be so in love. I was so sure of him. I felt so unbelievably safe with him. My favorite sound was when him and Evelynn would wrestle and he would make her belly laugh. God, I miss that sound. I miss him being the sole reason for that sound.
It is utterly heartbreaking to find yourself at the end of a relationship where you thought you would and could spend the rest of your life with the person. When he was job searching, I had told him to look wherever he needs to because I could sell real estate anywhere. And we had fully discussed this possibility.
Somehow, instead, only months later, we’re over. That’s really fucking hard to accept.
While attraction draws me to someone, compatibility keeps me around. I was so sure we could make it through anything. It’s depressing to learn you’re the only one in love and willing to fix things, believing in your relationship.
All those things I deserve, I mean it. However, I also knew he could do them if he wanted to.
I remember our first fight. He’s a yeller. He sees red. It consumes him. He yelled so hard he spit on me—accidentally! Don’t get your panties in a bunch (still spit though, I know). I told him to walk away from me.
The next day I made it clear that I am not someone to speak to like such and that we will not have arguments of such nature. It’s not something I will allow. It’s not something I want my daughter to view as an acceptable form of communication. It’s not something I want his son to see and think is okay to replicate.
He never did it again. Not once. He learned to walk away when heated or upset. He learned to calm down first.
And I noticed. It meant something to me, oh dear lord how it meant everything to me, that he understood what I wouldn’t allow and didn’t do it again.
It’s hard moving on when I’m still here in this god damn house, sleeping in the same bed with him, exchanging niceties. It’s all so fake. I thought he was my best friend—he’s not. I still want to fight for us but again, I can’t be the only one wanting to fight for us; and also, again, I do not need someone in my life who doesn’t want me in theirs.
There are moments when I forget we’re broken up, and then it hits.
Those moments floor me. They knock me down. Makes it hard for me to breathe.
I still want his arms wrapped around me at night when we’re on the couch. I still want a kiss goodbye when one of us leaves to go somewhere. I still want to be invested in his day and accomplishments. I still want to be able to touch him in bed at night. Still want to love him and show him love.
How am I, really? I have a way of breaking free with breakups. I realize what I’ve compromised on that I never should have allowed. I will come out on top, I always come out stronger. Despite feeling lost, I have a way of grounding myself. I know I have a hell of a lot to offer someone, someone who will appreciate me and what we have; and I also know that I’m the best he will ever have, in all aspects.
I said what I said.
When he first mentioned going on a break, I wanted to hold on to the idea that he just wanted space and for us to date, traditionally, after I moved out…. but let’s be real, that was just worthless words he said in passing to ease the blow because he didn’t have the respect for me to break if off. I had to force him to make a decision. And let’s be realer, why would I want to hold on when he was letting me go so easily? It felt like he was leaving me to drown as he steered the boat away.
I loved hard and deeply and I lost big for it. I can be okay with this knowledge. I know, leaving, that I gave him everything. I showed up for him. I celebrated his wins. I cooked and meal prepped for him to make his nights after a long day easier. I took care of his dogs, and dealt with their attitudes and the one’s aggressive psychotic episodes, without refusal to do so or claims that they weren’t mine. I made sure his son ate every night. I didn’t push him away or reject him. I changed up my routine and how I do things to fit his style.
He did a lot for me…when it was convenient for him. That is where all the hurt lies.
I showed up for him regardless; behind closed doors where no one else could enter and in the public eye.
I made clear that I still love him and wanted to work on things, be with him. I made clear that I still believed we both could do better and be happy together. I made clear that even though there were things in our life I was unhappy with, at the end of the day having him made me happy overall.
And I made these things clear without hearing them in return. All I got was a “well, we’re definitely on a break, I know that much.”
So I’m working on breaking free because wild horses run in me.
I spent most of the last year fighting—to keep going, to push through, to stay positive, to persevere, to not give up.
When 2020 began, I was dating my boss and less than a month into the year he ended the relationship. And when he broke it off during lunch at work, my exact words to him when he told me to “say something”, were something like, “well I can’t be too surprised since it feels more like I’m a workplace sex toy.” And I wasn’t wrong.
Less than 2 months later I’d lose my job along with the rest of the staff, only for him to pursue hiring high schoolers and college students on the cheap. Or so I heard.
It takes something from you when you lose a job where you had also had a physical and romantic relationship with the owner. It wasn’t something I had entered into lightly—there were four girls all under the age of 11 involved, both of us being single parents. And the last time I’d dated a boss, I was pregnant & he fired me (by telling his superiors I had put in my two weeks when I hadn’t) in fear of not getting a promotion when management asked about our relationship. It wasn’t something I ever wanted to repeat.
And yet there I was again.
Like I never learn.
I questioned all of my worth. I questioned my mind. I questioned my decision making skills. I questioned my body—not if it was good enough or if I was pretty enough, but if that was all I’d be seen as by a man. An ornament, an instrument. Something only meant to please them and to covet.
Not for me to be loved.
I was once told at a job to wear heels to a meeting because we were meeting potential partners. I had been asked on more than one occasion if I’d gotten where I was at because I slept with someone, if it was because of my body.
I don’t mind using what I have when it’s appropriate (aka not career) but I do mind that being seen as all I have to contribute.
I more than doubled my salary in 3.5 years of my marketing career and suddenly I was jobless. When I changed jobs and moved across state over two years ago, I had been kept on at the first as a consultant for a term. I went from working 60-80 hour weeks to being labeled “unemployed.” I went from 430am workouts before work and working until 11pm at night to not having to do anything. Except parent.
And then I couldn’t find a job. I started applying at 530am the morning after I lost my job. I was devastated. I filled out hundreds of applications and 95% of them I never heard back from. The rest? I didn’t have childcare during a pandemic and they wanted me at work during the shutdowns. With virtual school on the horizon and everything unknown, they didn’t want a single mom who couldn’t come in 8-5. I was too experienced for the job and they couldn’t afford me—I literally told them I am not above anything, I had lost my job. But for most of that 5%, they changed their minds and were no longer hiring for the position due to an uncertainty with the economy and shutdowns.
So I wore that godawful unemployment crown.
And I took my background in marketing mortgages and decided to pursue real estate instead.
Only for me to receive a letter last month claiming I owe the state almost $30K (with monthly interest) because I was never eligible for unemployment due to not having childcare during a global pandemic that shut down the state.
I was so mad. At the government. At my old boss. At hiring companies. At fucking politics. At this fucking virus.
I’m still waiting to see if my protest will be approved or if I have to go to court.
My health and fitness have often felt like the only thing I could control. It has helped keep me sane. Helped my sanity and mental health, helped me check those self doubts.
I have questioned my worth—in career, in love, in parenting—more days than I would ever be willing to admit. But I’m still here.
I’m. Still. Here.
Because in the last year, I have made a career jump to real estate, met an amazing guy and fell in love, I have learned I can love my body—I should—and relish it and not accept that it is all someone sees of me, and have never once heard my daughter tell me she hates me. She has never once physically fought me or threw a temper tantrum upset at me like I’ve heard many parents go through with their young ones during the shutdowns and pandemonium. Instead, I still hear everyday how much she loves me.
So I’m still here pushing for more because even on the worst mental health days, there’s still a light, still a desire, still a flame in me, no matter how small. It’s still there. No matter how worthless I might feel, I know—I KNOW—I am in fact more than enough. I am more than just a body. And sometimes, life is simply hard. I simply have to overcome. If it was easy, there’d be little to appreciate.
When the hell did it become so damn easy to let me go?
That’s the plaguing thought I’ve had over the last few weeks. Have you ever been there? It’s not the same as not feeling enough and it’s not asking what is wrong with me because I believe I’m whole on my own and I know who I am and more importantly, I love who I am. I have flaws and I have issues I’m working on but at my core, I’m not insecure with who I am. I don’t question my worth. Despite the number times I have been stood up in the past or the guys who have cheated on me or verbally abused me, I don’t question my worth. So let’s be clear that this isn’t me tearing myself down or throwing myself a pity party. Fuck that.
But damnit.
When did it become so damn fucking easy to let go of me?
It’s more of a burden thing. When someone breaks up with you as if you’re this huge weight to carry. Yet, you were hardly even ever together so how could you have been a burden? And when you were together, it was easy—or so you thought.
I’ve never been one for surprises. They freak me out. I’m always scared my reaction is going to hurt someone—or rather, my reaction isn’t going to meet someone’s expectation. This last breakup, though, that was a freaking surprise. Every relationship I’ve had, there was no abrupt end. I could easily trace the dots and when it ended, it didn’t come so completely unaware. How it ended may have been a different story, but I was always aware of the distance created or the games the guy would begin to play, the lies told, doubts communicated, etc. Even the times when I got stood up, there was nothing there to ever lose. It was just a disrespect of my time and the treatment of being a game to someone.
This time, though, I thought we were climbing the mountain together. And then one day I looked beside me and found I was completely alone on the path.
I have always excelled at being alone without ever feeling lonely. It’s amazing the shift that happens after a breakup I didn’t see coming—suddenly, I feel very much alone and isolated.
I lost a lot of friendships over the years, either through the breakup with the baby daddy, moving around, or simply through growth. When you’re focused on goals and bettering yourself, people will naturally turn away from you in fear of judgment. And then there’s the whole single mom thing—I don’t get much time without the kiddo and I don’t go out of my way to seek out time away from my daughter. Many people have a hard time comprehending this. Every time she goes to my parents for a weekend once or twice a month, I feel like I’ve lost a limb. I have this moment after dropping her off with my parents when I walk back into my apartment without her and lock the door behind me where I look around and I’m just like, “omg, how do I do this? I need her back here.” I need her energy and tiny feet and loud voice filling up this small space. And then that moment of panic evaporates because distance is good and I’m a single mom who needs to get shit done or get caught up on sleep.
This happens to be the first weekend of being kid-free since the breakup—the last two weekends we had spent at funerals or visitations or memorial services. The loneliness has crept in more than ever. I thought I was over it—I used to be so good at flipping the switch on feelings. Where I’d just get disappointed or upset but then be done with the dude. I’m used to being alone (other than the kiddo), I’m used to being single, I’ve become quite accustomed to being happy alone. I’d rather be happy alone than force any relationship, that’s always been my niche. It’s what’s always made moving on so easy for me.
Then again, this time I just had to go and date my boss. A constant reminder. And suddenly that switch isn’t so easy to flip.
And this time, I’ve lost trust in myself. That’s the hardest pill to swallow. When you decide to put complete trust in someone and they simply change their mind, you lose your sense of trust in yourself—you question how you could have gotten it so wrong.
And I put my kid in the mix.
I used to have a rule of not making future plans until months into a relationship. No planning vacations, no hearing promises, no mentioning of living situations or anything that could impact plans long-term. When my kid asked if we could do something with whomever I’m dating, my go to response was always, “We will see,” or “Maybe.” This time, I let myself open up and allowed the conversations and I am bruising my ass from kicking myself for breaking this simple rule. When Evelynn asked if we could take them (the guy I was dating was a father) to the zoo or to the beach come summer, my reflexive response became, “Yes, Evelynn, once it’s warm out we can go to the beach with them.”
Don’t get me wrong, I like to live in the now and hope for a future, but I will not bank on it until we’re past that new relationship honeymoon jazz phase. You know, when the other person starts to drop any façade or false impression and you realize who they really are.
And I broke my fucking rule.
The guy I dated over the summer? His façade dropped 2 months in when my daughter suddenly became such a chore for him to play with or be around. You can imagine how easily that was for me to end and flip the switch.
How can I trust myself when this recent relationship ended exactly how I vocalized my fear of it ending before we began dating? How can I accept someone’s words to have value? I’ve always thought trust and honesty were the cornerstones to any solid relationship. While I can trust myself to be honest, I’m having a very hard time accepting the idea of trusting someone else. I always want to believe the best in people, so when they tell me something the first time, I trust them and I continue to trust them…but if they break it, that is when it falls for me and I have difficulty trusting in the person again. Each new relationship or dating experience I’ve had, I get up and I trust again in the next guy. I give that guy a clean slate. But now, that concept is fading me.
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.
Confession: I roll my eyes every time someone says, “No Excuses.”
It’s not a concept I can get behind. I 100% support it if it’s the mantra one person uses to keep a promise to themselves and to reach their goals. If it makes sense to them for them, I’m all about it. Otherwise, I snuff my nose at the phrase when someone uses it to motivate others, as if they’ve walked in their shoes.
I don’t participate in the whole nature vs. nurture debate because as far as I can tell, it seems pretty obvious both impact your journey and every day you make choices. Ever go down that whirlpool of, what if I left my house 5 minutes earlier? What if I took this street instead? What if I hadn’t chosen this college to attend? What if I hadn’t stepped into this coffee shop? What if the DJ had chosen to play a different song? What if I didn’t buy this bottle of wine? The questions can be endless. Does the outcome remain the same? I think it’s most remarkable when looking at twins—they have the same environment but their thought patterns can be different.
Nobody is the same. Nobody thinks the same. Nobody faces the same experience, in the same manner, at the same time, with the same history for them to process the experience the same way. When I hear statements made like “No excuses” or “If I can do it, you can do it,” I become speechless. I stare at the words or the person speaking them. I have no response. These are not my mantras.
I never tell someone they can do something because I did it. It’s not that I don’t believe they can do it—they can—it’s because I believe they can do it simply because I believe in them. I was brought up through experiences that made me strong—strong-willed and stubborn—and with an outlook that if I want to make it happen, I can. It’s that simple for me. It might take time, pain, and many failures, but if I want to overcome something, I can. However, I also understand that life happens that could derail these plans and goals.
I’m a single mom with a good career who stays active—not every single mom gets lucky to have the support to do this. The amount of times I’ve had to call in to my previous job and now my current job because of Evelynn being sick or me having a migraine, and me keeping that job, blows my mind. Every time I’ve made that call I’ve worried it’s going to be the nail in the coffin, and I envy couples who can share these days or have a stay at home parent to more easily accommodate—not everyone has this. Some employers are very strict about time off or working from home, some jobs don’t accommodate working from home, then there’s the folks who live off tips for income.
I refuse to tell someone that just because I can find time to dedicate to my fitness, they can too. The reality is I struggled a lot. There were days I had to make compromises instead of excuses. Currently, I live on the rule “I get one day off from working out in the week, use it wisely.” If I have to take more than that, I refuse to double up the workouts for that day because they weren’t designed to be doubled up, they were designed with a rest. My bonus cardio workouts I don’t ever include in the formula—those are bonus for a reason and not part of my program.
And sometimes life gets in the way. I had to overcome a lot to tell myself, “No, you are doing this now.” Thursday night, I didn’t want to workout but I had to ask myself, “Do I want to take two days off this week from the program? Will I be happy with myself if I do or will I beat myself up for it wishing I had just pushed play?” I knew Saturday I wouldn’t be able to do the cardio flow workout that’s scheduled because my parents don’t have wi-fi. I had already scheduled it for Sunday, my normal “rest” day (if I want to take a rest day). I knew two days off I would regret. So, I buckled up and got it done. And to be honest, Sunday night when I got home, I didn’t want to work out at 7:48 p.m. either.
Saying No to sweets and Yes to healthy options, wasn’t easy. It came with learning that the unhealthy food came with unhealthy feelings. I love burgers, LOVE burgers, however, I learned that while a burger made me want to skip my to-do list and pass out or down 3 drinks and then deal with a hangover the next day, a salmon with roasted asparagus and seasoned red lentil noodles portioned right made me feel well-nourished and like I could tackle the day.
I’m not a fan of going out every weekend. I love waking up, sipping on my coffee, getting in a yoga flow, and just flying through my to-do list, even if it’s reading an entire book and chilling out the rest of the day. Why? It makes me feel good. Hangovers—not so much.
Not everyone can do this easily. Saying “No” and “Just Doing” mentality didn’t happen overnight. It happened after months of practice and consistency. It happened when I figured out my why—whyI wanted to eat healthy, workout 6 days a week, and focus on my health. Why it was important for me to say No to that which didn’t help me and Yes to that which made me happy—I also had to determine what made me happy.
Do I still have slip ups? You bet. After being stood up so many times the first few months of the year, I gave up puppy chow for lent. I was eating popcorn for meals so much that I gave it up for lent, too. Lent kicked my ass into gear when I knew what I needed to do but also needed a little extra motivation. Reality was I could have portioned the puppy chow and popcorn somehow into the balance of my diet, but I don’t like eating that much sugar and junk cereal. If it makes me happy and I had 87% control of the rest of my health, it’s fine to indulge (my theory for my body). However, I didn’t want that 13% to revolve around puppy chow popcorn every day. I like the occasional donut, bacon for breakfast, extra pancake with the maple syrup, dairy free butter on my sweet potato, red meat, White Claw, and there’s the whole lack of sleep thing some nights. I like my balance options.
Balance doesn’t exactly fit into the whole No Excuses mentality. Does it? I can’t see it.
The amputee who runs a marathon. The person who was confined to a wheelchair for the rest of their life but was able to beat all odds and walk again. These have been deemed No Excuse examples. These are strong will, strong mind and body. There are individuals who dedicate everything to overcome an obstacle that has a less than one percent chance of beating and yet are still unable to. I think you can do anything with a strong mindset and will power, but you also need the right tools and support, and sometimes those tools are dependent entirely on your body. I will not use No Excuse because I will not degrade the hard work of individuals who give everything but still get nothing. I will also not degrade those individuals who did beat unspeakable odds and made it happen for themselves—that’s extraordinary, not the normal. Saying anyone can do what they did seems to defeat the odds they beat, and simultaneously insults those who weren’t able to do so.
That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t go all in.
Go all in like you have the winning hand. Go all in like you have a straight flush. Chances are, you’re winning but then, sometimes, you might just end up in a game where someone else holds a royal flush. That’s life. You know what happens? You get dealt another hand.
Like poker, you don’t know what hands others are dealt. Simply because you have a winning hand now doesn’t mean your initial hand was applaud worthy or your first game brought attention.
An ex tried using the No Excuse mentality on me to have me do a push up. He didn’t believe me when I said my back was poor and my shoulders were even worse. That I hadn’t yet built up the strength. What happened? I did the pushup, heard a crunch, a flush of what felt like extremely warm liquid heat flowed through my shoulder blade area and I was in pain for days. I should not have done that pushup. Now, after a very scripted workout regimen and complete focus on form along with gradual increase in weights I’m lifting, I can do consecutive pushups with no pain. I didn’t get here because someone manipulated me into doing it by saying, “You want to do them again? Do them right here right now, no excuses.”
Sometimes those excuses aren’t excuses, they’re someone’s reality. Just because it’s not your reality doesn’t mean it isn’t someone else’s. I 100% believe in moderations, and if someone complains to me about not being able to do something without trying and failing at all odds, then I might push back on them. I won’t ever tell them, “Well, you said you wanted it, no excuses. Run 5 miles.” No, it’s, “Well, if you really want it then let’s make it happen.” Mindset. They know their body, they live in their body; I do not.
Let’s play the hand we’re dealt. And next hand, we’ll shuffle the deck because our hands will constantly be changing throughout our lives. Know when to fold and when to go all in—I hope you go all in every time, there’s always the next hand. But sometimes, just sometimes, the risk of losing is greater than the chances of winning. Sometimes excuses, aren’t something to slyly look over.
What does it sound like when I push someone or myself when working out?
Is it painful or are you just sore? Burns so good. That’s you living honey, keep going. This is less than 5% of your day. That’s all you have to give me. You get the other 95%, I get these 60 minutes, your body gets these 60 minutes. Five percent. Give five percent of your day every day to fitness and you are already on the ready to a healthier you. Progress baby. If it’s not burning, if you’re not working for it, it’s not working for you. Push harder. You can do this. If you stop now, will you look back and say, “Damnit, I wish I would have finished out these last 3 reps?” Don’t regret exercise, feel satisfied. If you need to drop down a weight, drop it but let’s finish it up. Let’s finish this strong. Those lungs are breathing, those legs are burning because they’re happy to live and they’re capable. You are capable. And if you’re not feeling capable to give more today, if you know you won’t regret stopping now, you will be capable tomorrow because you pushed yourself today.
Sometimes, I’ve been known for just yelling, “Go, go, go, go! Almost done ladies, let’s do this! 5 more to a healthier you! 5-4-3-2-1 YESSSSSS!!! You did it! How fucking proud of you are you??”
Pushing that hard isn’t for everyone, and sometimes, even myself, I’m so dead by the end of the workout it takes me twice as long to finish the reps because I refuse to do proper form but I don’t want to give up. It’s not No Excuses, because for many in that predicament, it might be best to end it and no risk damage or injury. For me, I know my limit, though, and it’s a, “Do you feel like you will die? Do you feel hurt? Or are you just fatigued and need to slow down? Will you be happy with your performance when you’re done?” And damnit, I love the finish line.
Not once did I say, “No Excuses” to push forward or to go all in.
I have a habit of saying, “Just say no” to people despite knowing it’s not easy. Don’t want the extra slice of pizza? Just say no. Want to make it to the gym tomorrow after work? Just go. Want to eat more veggies and less fried food? Just do it. It’s an easy concept but not easily done. I know this. And while it’s not always easy for me, I would argue it’s easier for me because of how I grew up. I saw sacrifices made, I saw the value of health and an active lifestyle, I witnessed the reality of cutting cold turkey is the easiest process. Watching Taylor, not having the experiences or luxuries that others had, I grew up gaining different values and a high respect for health.
Finding out I was celiac and couldn’t have gluten anymore, I had no choice. I had to give it up for my health or I faced bigger issues than fatigue, migraines, underweight, constant nausea down the road. I found out that when you decide something firmly and you do it, you just do it. There’s no other process. I found out that while I was a single mom but I also later decided I was going to chase a career and make both a priority, that I just had to do it. There’s no other option. It was either I wanted it and let it be a pipe dream, or I chase the fuck after it like I owned my dream and make it into my reality. I just did it. Some days I don’t quite make it, and that’s okay. That’s human nature not to have 100% perfect all in days—some hands we have to fold on.
It’s not, “Just say no” or, “Just say yes.” It’s, “Just say no this once” or “Just say yes this once.” Because once you show yourself you can do it this one time, you realize you’re capable of doing it. The second time is easier until what you thought was unimaginable becomes second nature and routine. And for the very few times you fall off, you know it’s easy to get right back on again the next opportunity you have because you’ve already proven to yourself you can.
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.
Jo Taylor Blogs 