Sep6

Just walk on.

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I thought I had hit rock bottom almost 13 years ago. This past week proved me wrong if you went at all by the liters of tears shed. I was broken and lost. I got everything so wrong.

Thirteen years ago I had to pick myself up off the kitchen floor. I was broken down by the nightmares, the replays, every time I closed my eyes, every time I got close to a guy. I couldn’t see through the madness. I was living in denial until the darkness suffocated me. I thought the only way to get through was getting out; drinking myself into a state where I couldn’t think nor remember wasn’t working.

I grabbed the sharpest knife I could find in the kitchen; and I kept wondering how much cutting I’d have to do to get the job done, how much blood would there have to be, how red all these damn fucking white cabinets and tile would be, and if they could even get the stains out. I really wanted to know how long the pain would last. How deep I’d have to cut—if I’d be able to cut deep enough—for it to be quick.

Knife in one hand, phone in the other, I don’t remember getting up. I don’t remember hanging up the phone. I don’t remember dropping the knife—did I put it down on the counter?

I only remember flipping the switch and turning off the lights.

I am beyond stubborn. It’s one of the reasons why I’m likely hard to date—at least I know it, though, right?

The stubbornness got me through. Helped me see to the other side. I couldn’t let him win.

I don’t like my birthday. It’s a shitty reminder of the first guy I really dated—he shares my birthday—and what he took from me.

Why don’t people of sexual assault and rape speak up? We have to fight with ourselves to get through it, and then we have to fight others for our stories to be heard, and then there’s the nonbelievers picking us apart. It’s the one crime guaranteed to rip us apart twice. It’s never just the incident, it’s the after effects.

I was a virgin.

And then I wasn’t.

The first time I openly spoke about it was in a college nonfiction writing course. The paper was assigned around the time of my birthday, and it consumed me—the nightmares, the fear, never really leaves. It had been over three years but I was back in that bedroom, under him, like not a minute had passed. By the time the paper was due it was too late for me to change the topic and write something new.

I have since wrote and deleted the story countless times. Every anniversary, every birthday. How do you talk about an event that cripples your tongue, that you don’t want to answer questions to, but that you physically need to release from your shoulders? That you need to let out into the world. That you need to let go of. A weight you can’t and shouldn’t have to carry.

Sometimes I’ve wondered if it weren’t for Evelynn how much strength would I have?

The first time it happened was long before she came along in my life.

The second time? Almost seven years ago, only weeks after her birth and on my birthday.

That fucking birthday of mine.

No, that second time wasn’t the same guy. Yes, both were guys I dated.

I have intimacy issues. I don’t need a therapist to outline or draw up a map to find the root problem. I’ve faced it in the bedroom multiple times—the difference is all the other guys stop when I say. They don’t force me as soon as I say “No” or turn away.

My stubbornness pushed me forward. Forced me to focus on tomorrow. Stop living in the past. I swam my damn self to shore. I breathed for air when I thought I would drown. I walked on.

The road was unpaved with no mile markers or street signs, but I walked it headstrong and alone.

I have high standards—I won’t date less than my worth again. And I’m too damn old to teach a guy how to treat me…again. My standards are my shield. I’m real quick to leave any relationship that no longer fulfills me, that no longer gives me happiness.

I create my own happiness, but I’ll be damned if another relationship brings me down.

There was nothing normal about our relationship. We didn’t get to date—we met during quarantine. He met my daughter on the first “date”, which was going on a walk. I quickly gave him allowance to co-parent. We fully moved in together within only a few months. We’ve had to navigate each of us starting new jobs within the first year together during a pandemic.

I thought this time was it. For the first time, I felt safe. I thought I was loved. I forgot about the past. I was so certain. Everything felt so incredibly natural. Even when it was hard and we were navigating something new together, I felt assured. For the first time in my life I fell full on in love, and I did so without fear. It felt beautiful.

I had never really loved before, never allowed myself to. When I spoke it, it was a lie due to the guy’s expectations.

This one was different. It was refreshing.

I have a knack for getting it wrong, though.

Here’s the thing. I don’t need someone to pull me out of the deep end, out of my worst self, out of my nightmares. I don’t need someone to take care of me.

I pulled myself out twice before. I’ll do it again. I do it every single time.

If I can survive the conviction that suicide could have been the answer, I can survive anything. I have two lungs that breathe, legs that not only walk but can run. I have a daughter—albeit as stubborn as I—who grounds me. I have people in my corner. I have everything I need.

I don’t need someone in my life who doesn’t even know if they want me in theirs.

Read that again.

I

do not

need

someone

in my life

who doesn’t even know

if they want me

in theirs.

One week ago, Andy said he wanted a break. Scratch that, “we are definitely on a break.”

First, what the fuck is even a break in a relationship besides a Friends show fantasy?

Second, if you haven’t learned, I don’t do breaks. I’m absolutely terrible at hitting pause. My brain goes static and my body convulses at the idea. I like movement. And I’m not sure what good it does waiting around for someone who claims to be unhappy about so many things in their life but is solely blaming me and our relationship for it all. He’s not hitting pause on anything else, just us. (Thanks Bill, for my sign.)

I’m not okay with that. I’ve spent more time in the last week crying than not crying—I’m not someone who cries.

It hasn’t been a perfect relationship—I don’t think any relationship is perfect. However, I do fully believe they are a reflection of how two people work through problems and respect each other.

I can’t be the only one wanting to fix things or wanting to try. It’s that simple.

Some people believe distance can make the heart grow fonder—apparently, he thinks space will provide the answer if he misses me or not, misses what he had or not—but we’re still living in the same house. There is no room for “space” in this house.

And there is the root of all my pain this past week.

I don’t even get a clean break up. I’m just getting a break, a maybe, an “I’m not kicking you and Evelynn out.” Seriously, bless his heart for that kindness, not many men would be so willing. But limbo is purgatory for me. I walk through this house struggling—failing—to keep it together while he hums and goes about his day as if nothing has changed. How could I mean so little to someone who meant so God damn much to me?

When I made the decision to move out—not easy in this housing market, by the way, and as a real estate agent, I know—it broke me even more. Especially because it’s not immediate. I’m still here—this fucking holiday weekend. And it means I’ll be throwing money away at rent, not even an investment—cue another bullet hole.

But I’m not the girl who sits around and waits for a man to decide if he even wants me. I’m not second best. I’m not a second thought. You don’t get to give me up like I’m a light switch to be flicked on and off.

Saturday, I spent the entire day searching for rentals and housing options. It took a toll on me. By nightfall I packed up a suitcase and drove across the state to my parents for the night. I needed out. It’s hard watching someone so easily throw away something that was so good without hesitation. You doubt yourself and everything you thought you knew in the relationship.

I gave this man everything, easily. I would have given him more if he’d asked. Right now, he also took my ability to trust. I’m not sure he realizes that even if he chose me again, that I could choose him without fear that he would do this again. He cleanly chipped off a piece of my heart. It’s not about how much I love him or want him, it’s about a relationship where two people want each other and will work through things together. Not with a wall up between them. It’s about a partnership not two ships sailing in the night.

Sometimes, the very thing that hurts the most—my god does it hurt—is the very thing we need to do, to respect and protect ourselves. I don’t want to walk away but am I even really the one walking away if he already has a foot out the door?

Yesterday I was told, “Well, if there’s one thing I know it’s that you’ll get through this. You always do. You’re stubborn enough to make anything work once you’ve made the decision. You’ve done it with every new job and Evelynn. You always make it work.”

My dad ain’t wrong. I do and I will.

Every time.

I might be broken and the future feels very unknown but this still stands: I’ve picked up those broken pieces before and put myself back together; and I sure as hell am no stranger to traveling the unknown road. I may have taken the wrong turn somewhere, but I’ll end up where I need to be.

Mar3

I’m still here.

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I’ll stare the devil down, let the fire take 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.

Jan8

Obesity is unhealthy, stop the censoring.

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Health and self-love are not 100 percent co-dependent. I loved me when I was deemed slightly overweight, I loved me when I was most definitely underweight. I love me as I am now. Recently, I shared a post on Instagram regarding obesity and health and I still stand by it. If it’s offensive to someone I’m going to assume they need the wake-up call. This is tough love.

“Obesity = Unhealthy.”

Notice nowhere in there does it mention beautiful, wrong, less than, unworthy, ugly, strong, weak, etc. There’s only two words—count them, ONE TWO, two words—obesity and unhealthy.

Now let’s move on.

I don’t know of a single case when a person who is obese (note: I’m saying obese, not overweight) would be given a clean bill of health. I don’t. Obesity is not healthy. Plain as day. I am not okay with magazines highlighting it with bold words of “THIS IS HEALTHY” splayed across the page. It is not something I want my daughter believing. Reality check: Someone who is obese is at higher risk for heart disease, asthma, cancers and tumors, sickness and illness, poor mental health, diabetes, and more.

THIS DOES NOT MEAN THAT SOMEONE WHO IS NOT OBESE IS AUTOMATICALLY HEALTHY.

Read that again.

This also doesn’t mean the goal is to be skinny.

If you don’t know already though, as far as I’m concerned, “skinny” and “fat” are derogatory terms. They mean nothing. The correct terms would be underweight, overweight, obese, or healthy.

When I was slightly overweight (I toed the line basically), no I wasn’t living a healthy lifestyle. I was active but I also drank almost every night—that’s not healthy. I suffered from migraines often because I was undiagnosed with celiac disease and had no idea I needed to give up the gluten. I ate a lot of fatty foods and rationalized it because I played soccer 4 times a week, had a gym membership, and loved to eat my veggies too. Clear as day, though: I overate and drank. I was always sick and heavily fatigued. When I became pregnant, I couldn’t gain weight. Even when I was told to eat ice cream and steak daily (something my doctor made sure to note was unhealthy but in this case I needed to gain weight and it called for desperate measures), I could not gain weight. The placenta levels were so low I was first induced 3 weeks early.

After birth I immediately lost weight and went to the other side of the spectrum.

When I was underweight, I pursued a healthy lifestyle but was still unhealthy. I did all the things: yoga multiple times, worked out semi-regularly, played soccer, eat 90/10 clean. But I was throwing up daily—not intentionally—I had migraines every single week, and I suffered from severe back pain.

I was not healthy in either of these situations.

That does not mean I didn’t love myself. That does not mean I broke myself down.

It means I could be honest with myself and my health. That recognition allowed me to keep going.

Chances are if someone is doing the healthy things but underweight, overweight, or obese, there is something missing or they’re just on their journey. That is okay! There’s age (natural), drinking, eating portions, food ingredients and what they’re eating, and sleep. Then there’s medical reasons.

People simply aren’t born healthy and it’s done, finite, no more work is needed, journey is over. No, one has to live healthy.

It’s my mindset that pushes me to be healthy. And I am the healthiest I’ve ever been for every reason except my size.

I am healthy because I eat a mostly clean well-proportioned diet—I pay a lot of attention to ingredients. I workout regularly. I hardly ever drink. I don’t smoke or take drugs. I am not on antibiotics—gut health wreckers! I don’t drink my calories and I stay away from most artificials (coloring, flavors, additives, sugars—I’m very choosey). I make sure to get 6-8 hours of sleep no matter how hard I’m trying to hustle. I brush my teeth twice a day sometimes three. I keep my coffee to only a 4-cup pot (equivalent to about 20oz.) a day and half the time it goes unfinished. I drink my gallon of water 6 days of the week. When I see myself in the mirror, I avoid picking out my flaws and instead appreciate what makes me look like me—what makes me identifiable in a room full of strangers. I refuse to eat gluten and dairy because my body does not allow for it. I gave up peppers, onions, and nightshades like tomatoes because it makes me break out in acne and makes me uncomfortably bloated. When our bodies have adverse reactions to food, like bloat or acne, it’s our gut or body telling us “hey, maybe we shouldn’t make that a regular thing.” Doesn’t mean we can’t do it, more like it should not be a daily habit.

I would eat donuts every day of my life but the flour and sugar bloat me when it’s in abundance. The longer I go without them, the more severe the bloat because my body isn’t used to that level. Same with popcorn and puppy chow and other baked goods. Freaking love them. Can even make healthier versions—still not going to be a daily occurrence in my life. If I were to eat them daily, I’d gain weight and it wouldn’t be bloat and I can promise you, that would be unhealthy. Other than fueling a good lifting session and making me happy in the moment because I love the taste of them, there is no benefit. None.

Size means nothing when it comes to health but yes it can most definitely be a factor.

One can work out daily and be right in their target weight range, yet unhealthy because of the foods they eat. Or don’t eat. Or because of alcoholism. Or due to smoking. Have you heard of bodybuilders on steroids?

Those fitness competitions? Not everyone does it natural. And that’s a nationally recognized sport based on body composition, size, and looks.

There’s a reason bodybuilders have an average life expectancy of 47 years old: stress on the body and a high animal protein diet. For some, it also includes the use of steroids and the stress on the body when getting off of steroids. Anything that messes with your hormones, is going to wreak havoc on your body. (Note: this is NOT every bodybuilder, though.)

As I said, size means nothing but can be a factor.

My grandmother was obese. Couldn’t fit through a camper door. Couldn’t walk up or down stairs without help of a smaller step and others to aide her along. She retained a lot of water and wouldn’t give up the salt. She had a scooter. She was particular about temperatures because her body couldn’t regulate body heat well. She had scabs in her rolls. She got diabetes. I loved her but there was nothing healthy about that state in life. As she got older it became increasingly difficult to lose weight, a factor of age that’s natural, but she also never really tried. She would complain about her ailments on end, and even gossip about others being overweight or going through weight changes, and then never take any action regarding her own weight or health. She didn’t want to hear the doctors when they told her to drink less water or use no salt. The salt argument was quite a common occurrence—she would never admit being told repeatedly; it was always, “Well that’s the first time I’m hearing that.” When I was pregnant, she had to be told that I was upset with her because we had no idea if she would be around long enough to meet her great granddaughter when it was within her power to choose healthier habits. She was still loved very much by many—my daughter talks about her almost every day, wishing she was still around.

That being said, I stand by obesity equals unhealthy. That’s not insensitive, it’s a truth bomb. If this bothers you it might just be time to reevaluate your health.

If you are obese and don’t mind it, then damn, more power to you. I can’t handle not feeling like I’m living to my full capability—I already said I get annoyed with bloat because I find it incredibly uncomfortable. I fell in love so much with this feeling of not being sick, less migraines, ability to move easily and not get winded on stairs or keeping up with my kid, strength to lift heavy things without pulling a muscle when I was living on my own, and more mentally present that I can’t give that up for anything.

So when I shared this post/quote of “Obesity = unhealthy”. I got a negative message about it and I noticed other friends pulling the passive aggressive defensive move of posting something in retaliation. It was annoying because they completely missed the point—many of these women either don’t choose to strive to be healthy on a continual basis or they keep starting over with long gaps in between. And others do pursue a healthy life they’re just mid-journey. But I was appalled how much people will take the simplest concept completely out of context, starting with the fact that obese and overweight are not the same, one is the severity of the other.

The picture posted by @iamdavehurt on Instagram that I shared to stories & saw some flack for.

It takes discipline to go after your health. F*ck motivation and your why—discipline gets you there when your motivation doesn’t show up or is nonexistent. It takes strength to say, “Under no circumstance will I give up on myself.” It takes courage to admit, “I am not healthy.” It takes awareness to say, “I am not as healthy as I could be because I keep giving into these vices.” It takes heart to say, “I am not healthy but I love you for who you are and what you can do in this moment but I want more; and I will love you where you want to go, let’s go there.”

Here’s the thing though. When I went back and read through a lot of the comments on the original post/quote, it was by obese or formerly obese people agreeing with it—and they had all chosen to make a change and pursue a healthier lifestyle. Obesity is selfish. People worry about your health. Just like if someone is not eating and underweight, it’s noticed and worried over. Unhealthiness comes in many forms and sizes. (As I said, my daughter misses her great grandmother and wanted more time with her.)

Sometimes—hell, often times—it does feel beyond our control. Take Taylor for instance, he’s about half of what he should likely weigh due to his severe disability, but we never give up on him. He still eats healthy, even if it’s through a g-tube. My mom still fights for answers for him, still does ample research and looks for new studies regarding what she can control: food. Taylor might not be able to workout because of his predicament, but he can eat healthy. He doesn’t have preservatives and my mom packs him with healthy fats for him to hit his calorie count.

I’m not offended if you say Taylor is unhealthy—he’s like 5’4” and 68lbs. with a novel long list of health issues, of course he’s not healthy. I’d be upset if someone connected his personality and beauty to his health status. I’d be upset if someone tried telling me he’s healthy and we can’t control his situation, that we should give up on his eating habits aka what we can control.

Beauty is your heart. Strength is your perseverance and mind. Health is the innerworkings of your bodily systems.

You can be obese and love yourself—damnit you freaking should!—and be loved—you are!—but there’s a line when it comes to this sensitive bs. Unhealthy is unhealthy, let’s not undermine, manipulate, or blatantly deny it—that’s just cause for more unhealth.

Loving your rolls (or bones) doesn’t mean you have to accept being unhealthy or the state you’re in. Choosing to be healthy doesn’t mean you don’t or can’t accept yourself in all your stages of size. You can promote loving yourself while also encouraging others to make healthy choices. It’s simultaneously a very easy concept, a perfect blend of black and white—yet it’s grey.

Oct26

& just like that, he’s 24.

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Taylor turned 24—24!—a week ago and I’m still processing it. Partially I think because I wasn’t there to celebrate it and that’s rare, I usually always make the trip home for it but this year it didn’t quite seem like the best idea with everything going on—working, starting up real estate, bathroom addition, Evelynn’s virtual schooling…the list goes on. Even more, I think it’s because every birthday of his, every year he lives, is incredibly unexpected. His birthday hits a little differently when you grew up being told he won’t live long, when he was always given a “deadline”.

I’ll never forget the Christmas that started late because he woke up blue and my parents had to rush him to the hospital that morning—I was 10.

Or I’ll never forget the call my third year in college when I had to rush home to meet my grandmother so she could drive us to Chicago—or was it St. Louis? You never remember the details, just the emotions—because Taylor’s surgery had some hiccups.

Then there was the unexpected tracheotomy that came out earlier than expected—if that doesn’t tell you the whirlwind of his hospital visits and medical care, I don’t know what will.

All of the times I woke up in the night as a child from my mom banging on my bedroom wall (it was the wall behind her rocking chair) because Taylor was having a seizure and he wasn’t breathing and I had to wake up my dad to help. 

The times when I had to get used to hearing the oxygen machine and heart monitor through the night—his bedroom was across from mine and I never liked sleeping with the door shut, too stuffy. 

It’s even crazier to think of how he was before the spinal fusion.

Back when we thought there was a slim chance of him walking, with assistance, and had feet/leg braces and I would put his feet on mine and we would walk, slowly taking steps around the living room, or dance.

When he could be pushed on a swing—he freaking loved it I might add!

When you couldn’t eat ice cream without him having some too—when he could eat, in general.

When he would roll around on the floor to play with his toys…and then if it was during a Red Wings hockey game and a commercial came on, he’d roll on up close to the tv and “yell” (jabber) at the tv until the game came back on. 

When he could roll over on his own, in general.

Covid-19 has been hell on everyone. The masks, the distancing, the unknown. Honestly, I have more to complain about the politics behind it than anything else because quite frankly, as far as I’m concerned, I’ve witnessed the worst. As far as I’ concerned, when it’s your time, it’s your time.

It hasn’t been Taylor’s time yet despite being prepared for it as a child.

People are not allowed in my parent’s house at the slightest flu or cold symptom because Taylor’s immune system is shot. For a very long time, he had to have daily breathing treatments multiple times a day. My mom’s “job” is to be his caretaker and I can count on one hand the number of dates my parents have gone on in the last decade. Oh yes, decade.

We never know how severe anything is with him, everything is a gamble. The doctors have said he could be the only person in the world with his case—they have no idea how to “treat” it, there is no “treatment”—and long ago made it clear that Taylor would not live a long life. Of course, they’ve always made it sound like he would pass before I became an adult yet here we are, I’m 31 and Taylor is 24(!!!!!!!).  

Growing up with a sibling like Taylor, it puts things in perspective—in many ways. I did not grow up with the assumption that my life was standard or “normal” (ugh, I can’t believe I just used that word, insert eyeroll)—far from it—nor did I ever believe it was quite special. Instead, it gave me an awareness, an ability to accept circumstances.

But not excuses, never excuses. Let’s be real clear about that one.

Do I believe that someone can have extenuating circumstances that can make doing something or achieving something very difficult? Absolutely—see Taylor. However, I also believe that for 99.99999999999999(repeating)% of the population, if they want it bad enough, they can make it happen. We see people overcome impossible circumstances all of the time. 

Though I can accept circumstances, I’m the person who tilts her head and goes, “Ok, but how do we get past that? How do we overcome that?” Taylor has been through hell and back; lives his days in a hospital bed; cannot turn, roll, or move over on his own; is fed through a G-tube; cannot communicate by any “normal” (ugh, again) standard—no sign language or speaking—that no stranger could attempt to immediately interpret; is hooked up to an oxygen and heart monitor with oxygen always nearby; has to have loose phlegm suctioned using a tube that goes down his throat or in his nose; can’t throw up because his esophagus is wrapped; must wear an adult diaper.

I could go on. 

Taylor does not know what it’s like to push your lungs to exertion by choice not by coughing. He’s never had jelly legs from working out. The only wind he’s felt on his face is from a windy day which isn’t the best thing for his health and can lead him into a coughing fit and then being suctioned. 

When I see people complain about not having the time or motivation to work out, it physically pains me. They have all they need to work out—working lungs, working legs, working heart. It’s just a matter of wanting it bad enough to manipulate their time. It’s a matter of putting themselves—their well-being and health—as a great enough priority. And why don’t they want to celebrate what their body can do? This is something I’m unable to grasp.

Broken hearts hurt like hell—at least I get the opportunity to fall in love if I open myself up to it and want to (I do, love you babe, by the way).

Being unemployed and losing my job due to Covid-19 was a very hard hit to take back in March and the unknown freaked me the f*ck out—at least I get the chance to create my own future, to find a career (hello real estate, can’t wait to crush it!).

Finding myself unexpectedly pregnant almost 7 years ago was scary—at least I get to have kids. Even if I’ve been doing the whole single parent thing alone for years, at least I have that option of having a child (and man oh man has motherhood been the best and most thrilling rollercoaster ride of my life).

Too often, people complain about things they mistakenly forget they can control. 

I wake up every day happy that I have a life that I actively choose—even when I’m in a mood or have a debilitating migraine, because I know neither one will last forever. And then I go to bed every night feeling absolutely blessed and amazed that this is my life, even if I had a bad day and it’s not everything I want from life, that this is my life: a man I love beside me, a daughter that drives me crazy but whom I’m crazy about, a house we’re making a home, three annoyingly stubborn but hilarious and protective bulldogs, a new career I can’t wait to dive into, supportive family and friends on my side, and a strong and healthy body that can and does work out regularly (sometimes rigorously).

24 years old, the youngest sibling in my family and who has never gone to school, yet Taylor continues to teach me more about life and living than I think anyone ever could. 

Jun26

Migraine hell.

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

Until this time when I had someone by my side.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Feb23

When.

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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.

 

Because when

did I become

so damn easy

to let go of?

Feb16

Reality Check.

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On his 90th birthday last Sunday, my (step) grandpa attended a memorial service for his daughter; and on Valentine’s Day, my paternal grandpa attended a visitation for his wife of almost 63 years. The following day was her funeral mass and burial. It’s been a week of reality checks and right after a breakup I didn’t see coming nor did I want.

Death is a reality check.

My step aunt passed away from cancer and while I didn’t know her well, let me just say cancer is only for the strong. Even when it feels like a losing battle or like giving up, it is only for the strong. Whether you are the one battling the disease or watching someone battle. You cannot be weak and have cancer. Nobody is weak and has cancer, whether they beat it or not. I firmly believe cancer is only for the strong. The mental and physical hits one takes, their capacity to process—only the strong get cancer.

We grew up rotating between visiting three sets of grandparents every week. We lived with my maternal grandmother until I was ten and then every Sunday we would visit either my maternal grandfather (now deceased), my maternal great grandparents (now deceased), and my paternal grandparents.

After returning home Sunday evening from my step aunt’s memorial service, I got the call that my grandma wasn’t doing well. I hadn’t seen her since last summer and I had made plans for Evelynn and I to go see her Tuesday. She never made it through Monday.

My grandparents didn’t have the best health. I’ve only known my grandmother to be extremely overweight and to make little effort in achieving better health. But oh man could she complain. And with my growing up with a severely disabled brother who is confined to his hospital bed and wheelchair, you can imagine how much her lack of interest in selfcare was difficult for me to process and accept. Not to mention my dedication to my own fitness and healthy eating, and struggles with health and celiac disease. And they knew. My mom guilted my paternal grandparents into eating better when I was pregnant—I wanted them to meet their first great grandchild. I’m sad to say by the time my grandmother passed, she was seeing my daughter more than she was able to see me.

Despite this difference, she was damn proud of me and she was a ferocious woman. She was stubborn as all get out and was all about that girl power. Of nine grandkids, I was one of only two girls. Sometimes, I think she loved the fact that I was a full-time single mom. I think it made her prouder.

My grandmother was the only person who whenever I was dating someone would ask me, “Well, does he make you happy? Are you happy Tiffany?” That’s all she cared about. She might ask other questions about his job or how we met—the gossipy bits of general info everyone always asks—but she always without fail would ask me if I was happy. That was the most important thing to her. And if I was, then it was a, “Well then I’m happy for you and Evelynn.” And if I was single, it was a “Well, I’m proud of you. One day there will be a man good enough for you but never settle.” And then there was my favorite, “I’ll let you in on a little secret. Men aren’t worth the trouble of settling.”

Actually, she’s one of two people who would ever consistently ask me this—my step grandpa also asks me this whenever him and my maternal grandma find out I’m seeing someone new or when they meet a new man in my life. My paternal grandmother, though, she would ask me this every time I saw or spoke with her. Every time. Whether I was seeing someone new or not or if it was the same person. All she asked was, “Well are you happy now that you’re living in Grand Rapids?” “Well, are you liking your new job? Are you happy at your job?” “Is Evelynn happy?” All she ever cared about was if Evelynn and I was happy. It was the underlying theme to every question every time I saw her.

And yes, I’ll admit, thinking about all of this immediately after a breakup I didn’t see coming and in a relationship where I felt valued and naturally happy, it’s painful. With death, you realize how little time matters and when lack of time was the key reason I had been given for why he wanted a breakup, it stung and was confusing.

Death is a reality check if nothing else. It makes you think of where you are at in life, where you want to go, what you haven’t done that you thought you would have. Above all, it makes you realize how short life really is. Time is fickle.

I never thought life was a given. In fact, we speak of life not being a given but a gift, yet we act like we have a lifetime ahead of us and we are owed that lifetime. Maybe it’s watching Taylor live a very confined life all these years, but I feel lucky for anything I get to achieve or experience. It’s why I’m so passionate about working out and eating healthy—I’m showing appreciation to my body. I feel lucky to be able to work out daily and breathe in fresh air and wake up in the morning to a new day. I never could be the girl to sit around and binge watch Netflix. I could never be the girl who felt good being winded by stairs. I was the girl who if stairs were making me winded, it meant I was going to up my cardio game in my workouts. If I couldn’t play a full half game of soccer without needing my inhaler, oh man was I on a mission. Asthma might be a diagnosis but it was not about to control me.

I think it’s why I never settle in dating. I think it’s also why I never quite give up. Life is too short to be in a relationship I don’t want, respect, or value; where I don’t feel valued or where I simply know I’m not happy. But life is also too short to not want to experience life with someone else by your side and make memories with and build a life with in the hopes that when we reach 90 years old (fingers crossed), we can look back together and reminisce and be like, damn did we live. The only three questions I ever ask myself when dating: Am I happy? Do they treat me well? Do I like who I am when I’m with them? That’s my criteria.

I find it extremely captivating and beautiful to be able to grow with someone. To have someone who calls you out on your bullshit, expects the best of you and pushes you to grow but also accepts you for you and knows you’re not perfect. It’s an ideal I continue to hold out for.

And it is completely acceptable—encouraged, even—to be selfish in love.

The other day my recent ex made a comment, “I know you want to be in a long-term relationship with someone.” Here’s the thing, I want to be in a long-term relationship with the right person for me. (And yes, I did correct him, too.) I might have a fear of going through life without ever really knowing love and it might hurt like hell when someone doesn’t choose me back but I’m not willing to force it. I’m not willing to force finding it or feeling it. I’m 30 years old and I won’t lie, I thought I’d be married by now—don’t most of us?—but I’m also 30 years old and know who I am, know my worth, and know what makes me happy. I’d say, I’m pretty ahead of the crowd because all that is worth more.

And I have to thank my late grandma for consistently asking me about my happiness over the years (and reminding me not to settle) because it’s a question I’m not only not afraid to ask myself, but I’m also not afraid to answer honestly and make moves to change if needed.

Nov2

Balancing Act: Single Parenthood.

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Incredibly grateful. That’s the mood.

I was terrified to be a parent. I knew without a doubt I could love my daughter hard and give her my heart but I didn’t think I could have the energy to be present. I thought I might be one of those moms who are always laying down. Not because of depression or lack of desire but because I had suffered from constant chronic fatigue and endless migraines. You have to understand, I missed so much school in high school that every year I had to write my principal and the board a letter requesting not to make me repeat a grade and explaining the cause of my extensive absences, and I had to get all of my teachers to sign it with their stamp of approval. After I had Evelynn, I was subbing and couldn’t wake up to sub more than 3 days in a row without coming down with a migraine from exhaustion. I’d spend the next 36 hours or so sleeping. It was dreadful.

I worried endlessly about a career I could juggle with single parenthood. Until Evelynn, there was a reason I stuck with serving—it worked for me to sleep, I didn’t take the job home with me, it required little to no functioning. It wasn’t until we found out I had Celiac Disease and I learned how much working out daily helps that I improved and did basically a 180 with my health—I now average less than 6 hours of sleep most nights, little to no fatigue (unless obvious overexertion), and migraines minimized 95 percent I’d guess.

And then there’s the other part: I am adamant about believing I do NOT have it harder than any other parent, single or not. Some days it gets really difficult to believe but I refuse to go down that road. I am not special. I am not the only single parent. I am not the only parent. There are plenty of others in similar or way worse situations—let’s be real clear and honest about that fact. I have it pretty damn good.

Reality is it’s still frustrating when folks don’t get that single parenting as the sole parent is tough. No, I can’t drop things to go out. No, I don’t have “half the days off a month” to date. No, I don’t have someone else who can pick her up from school because she’s sick. No, I don’t have someone else who can get her around in the morning because I’m running late. Everything is on me—the school events and extracurriculars, the finances, the cleaning, the nurturing. I play best friend and parent. I play both parents.

I love her hard enough so she never doubts she is less for having only one parent routinely around.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way. Seriously, I always feel like I’ve suddenly lost a part of me on those weekends she goes to my parents without me. Might not be often but damn, shit hits hard. (I swear I’m not a helicopter parent.)

I am no supermom. I don’t mind if Evelynn thinks I am but I don’t want to be anybody’s goals simply because I might have it hard. I know I have it hard. You can respect me for it but it’s only my reality, not yours. Your reality is yours, and your only goal should be to make it work, make your dreams happen, make the best of your situation.

The difference between me and others, though, isn’t because of my single parent status, it’s because of my mindset. I refuse to settle. I refuse to give up.

Whether I had Evelynn or not, my reality would still be me pushing forward, working for more, consistently showing up for me.

I can account for every moment of my day. I act with intention. I make things happen for me and my daughter. I don’t believe in complaining about things we don’t have or our struggles when I can work at changing them. I have the power (98 percent of the time) to grow and make changes.

And then there’s the reality we can’t always control things. I shared my fear of parenting due to health issues and support—I wasn’t sure I could keep or find a job with my life. Single parenting is hard and you never feel so alone as a parent until you’re taking all the days off work for both your illnesses and your kids, even if it’s just the flu. You never feel so alone until you have to fit in the groceries, the bill paying, the dinner cooking, the workouts, the cleaning, the drop-offs and pickups, the extracurriculars, the bedtime stories and tuck-ins, the early morning wakeups and midnight calls. And then the actual work for an income. It’s stressful. There’s no one to fall back on. I have an extremely supportive family but my life is not their responsibility. I’m pretty adamant about that, too.

So why do I refuse to recognize myself as having it “harder” than other parents? Because their situation isn’t mine. I think parenting in general comes with some hiccups and difficulties. It’s a road only you can travel. Every child is different, every household is different. It’s the entire reason for the nature vs. nurture debate. We can’t depict how one’s upbringing effects one’s life. So how we can say single parents with 100% custody have it harder? I simply have different obstacles to overcome than others. We’re still all in the same battle of raising littles.

The benefits: I raise her. I make the decisions. I don’t have to consult with a partner currently. I have the freedom to raise her how I choose—there’s no room for varying upbringing beliefs that I have to take into consideration.

But I also own all the failures. And I’m good with that.

I have been profoundly blessed in finding two jobs over the last few years with leaders who support me. Who instead of immediately looking at a piece of paper and take me to the chopping block, will ask me what is going on and how can we make it work? What do I need from them to be successful and balance everything? Often times that has included taking odd hours or working from home. Sometimes, it’s just being given a little grace.

My daughter comes first with everything, the balancing act of recognizing when that means I show up for her versus when that means working towards building a life for us, is the tricky part. I’m still learning this balance. But I always tell her why and we communicate.

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When she didn’t see me during the parade, her face was ashen white.

Thursday was Evelynn’s costume parade at her school. Of course, I didn’t find out about it until the day before. She had already scolded me once before for missing some activity in class in September where most of the parents had come to class to participate—it was a 1-on-1 volunteer. I didn’t feel the need to volunteer when they had said they had enough. Evelynn of course thought otherwise.

Evelynn didn’t see me during the parade but I saw her. She was ashen. She was so white in the face I couldn’t tell if she had been extremely upset and scared or if they had put makeup on her. She ran right by me—she hates being put on display in front of a large group of people she doesn’t know. Like every parent, sibling, grandparent, and faculty of the school. When I showed up to her class after to snag a photo and tell her hi/goodbye and grab a kiss, she IMMEDIATELY lit up. Instant color to her face. It was amazing—shocking and eye-opening, too.

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She was thrilled I stopped in for a few minutes to say hi. check out those colorful cheeks! And yes, she wore last year’s costume so her Anna costume for trick or treating wouldn’t be worried…but we couldn’t find her Minnie ears so I improvised. #momwin

I didn’t stay for the Halloween party—balancing act, remember?—but she understood.

So Thankful. That is how I felt all of Thursday and since. That I was able to text and email my bosses late Wednesday night and request 2 hours off Thursday morning to see Evelynn’s parade.

We’re all balancing something. This happens to be mine—and I love mine despite all the struggles and unknowns.

Sep30

Just you & me, kid.

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I don’t give my daughter nearly enough credit.

Last Saturday morning I had to have the hard conversation with Evelynn regarding what breaking up with a guy means. I was expecting tears, I was expecting some No’s, I was expecting a little resistance to the idea of him no longer being around. The last time I dated someone for a few months, she was still asking about him 10 months later and didn’t take the breakup well.

Instead, the conversation surprised me.

“Evelynn, E. isn’t going to be coming around anymore.”

“Why not? I want him to.”

“Well, remember when we talked about how first I date someone to find out if I can love them and want to be with them forever?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, honey, I just can’t love E. I can’t marry him so I had to break it off.”

“But I want you to marry him.”

“I know, I’m sorry. But he’s not the one for me.”

“But who you going to marry then?”

“I don’t know kid, that’s why I date. To find someone.”

“Well, you can marry my boyfriend.”

And that was that. We were back to her imaginary boyfriend Dugon. No tears. No asking for E. When he came to get his stuff less than an hour later, she asked to give him a hug and a kiss goodbye, told him she hoped to see him again, and it was over.

Like I said, I don’t give her nearly enough credit. Kids are resilient.

That was 36 hours after I had done the deed and broke it off with the guy. I was terrified to have the conversation, but she fell asleep early both nights and I wasn’t able to do it sooner. She had been crazy over him, accidentally calling him daddy, asking him to always stay over or if he’s going to move in. It was too fast for her. I hadn’t expected it. Breaking her heart was the one thing I feared most.

But I’ll never settle. I refuse to settle in love or a lifetime partnership. I don’t want her to think it’s okay to compromise because in the long run, I know I wouldn’t be happy. And I know my happiness (or lack of) can affect her. She is such an empathetic kid. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life with someone I don’t love.

And here’s the one thing during the breakup that got to me: when he said, “I wasn’t expecting you to fall in love at all with me.”

Say what now?

It’s so unfair to let someone love you and not love them back, I can’t do it. I won’t do it. And it saddens me to know that he was okay with letting that be.

But I have wondered if I’m capable of loving someone. I know I’m picky, and I know I don’t let people in easy. I can count on one hand the number of really close friends I have, and I don’t even think I can use all five fingers. I’ve never needed someone to know who I am. I’ve never needed someone to care for me. I’ve never needed to rely on others to be happy or get through hard times.

Yes, you could say I’m introvert to the very end.

I can socialize and love a good night’s out. And when 90’s night comes, I’m the girl dancing and singing along to every song without a single care of who might be looking on—I know people notice, I just don’t care.

I’m the introvert with strong self-esteem.

And I don’t want to fix a guy. I don’t believe in “fixing” someone. It’s about accepting them.

In the process of breaking up, turns out he was paranoid I was cheating on him. Despite the fact that I had never given him a reason to doubt me. Soon after the breakup, I was also asked out by someone and I turned the guy down…again. I simply wasn’t interested, in dating or in him at the moment. His response: “I’m never the one for anyone.” It’s not the first time I’ve heard someone say it in response—from him or from another guy when I turn them down. It’s a response that will guarantee a no when asked again in the future, though.

You have to learn you’re good enough for yourself before you can believe you’re good enough for others; before you can chase love. Otherwise there will come a time when you distrust others & how they view you, or you will become so reliant on their view of you. Or, you may just falsely accuse them of cheating or being disloyal. How others see you should not impact how you see yourself. As long as you’re doing good in the world, you’re golden. You have to learn to love yourself first, though.

I hate saying it but I won’t date a man with low self-esteem. I just won’t. I don’t want to be the girl to fix them. I don’t want to fix anyone. I don’t mind helping someone realize their value, but I won’t be the reason for them to see it. And I don’t want to deal with the constant thought of them thinking they’re not good enough for me, that I won’t stick around, or that I’ll cheat on them. At that point, they are placing their fears on me instead of respecting who I am. At that point, they allow their negative self-talk and low self-esteem blind them. At that point, intentional or not, their view of me isn’t healthy or kind.

I won’t be brought down by someone else’s insecurities. I won’t allow it into a relationship. I won’t allow it into a relationship my daughter will inevitably witness. I’ve witnessed friends live in toxic relationships because of low self-esteem. I don’t mind helping someone see their true value, I don’t mind providing someone with the tools and teach them how to have a positive mindset when talking about or viewing themselves, but I won’t date them through it.

Through the process of breaking up with the latest guy, I found out how paranoid he was believing I was cheating on him or talking to other guys. He even had the audacity to ask my daughter if I was bringing other boyfriends home. He played it like he was joking—that’s not a joke I take lightly.

I’ve never understood how one can think so highly of someone & yet be so occupied with the belief or fear that the person is cheating on or leaving them. If I thought someone was cheating on me, I’m confronting them and then very likely kicking their ass to the curb. There are no second chances. There are no games. There are no second guessing. Because at that point, I’ve lost trust. Either in the relationship or with them. And I won’t date someone if I can’t trust them or if I can’t believe in what we have. I won’t date them if I can’t feel secure in our relationship or what we have.

Currently, I’m not sure if I’m open to dating. I’m picky. And the dating pool simply hasn’t been enticing with the games…and did I mention I’m picky? I’m not sure how soon I want to bring my kid into another relationship. Simply put, I’m not sure if I have it in me.

So Evelynn, I guess it’s just you and me, kid. And honestly, I can’t complain about that.

Aug16

Level Up: It’s Sanity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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