Jul25

Give Me Strong.

Posted on by
Standard
2015 113lbs

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

Four summers ago, I was bone.

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

You could see my rib cage some days.

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

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

I missed me.

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

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

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

2016 118lbs

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

Enter Yoga.

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

I went back to the gym.

In cycles.

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

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

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

Yes, I was that desperate.

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

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

120lbs pre BOD

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

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

I fell in love with working out at home.

I know, crazy. I actually just admitted that.

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

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

Well, almost.

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

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

140lbs

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

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

I’m still a size 0.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I can do unmodified pushups.

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

143lbs beach

June 2019, 143lbs. 

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

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

 

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

I’m back to me.

But fuck Skinny, give me Strong.

Jun28

Float butterfly.

Posted on by
Standard

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.

Jun18

She dances to her own tune.

Posted on by
Standard

IMG_9061

“But Mom, I’m a little busy right now.” — Evelynn’s response to me wanting to take a pic of her folding laundry last night.

Well, this girl might not be starting kindergarten in the fall. I knew there was a 98% chance the evaluation wouldn’t go well, and I had already been tempted to keep her back in the Young 5’s because of age, size, speech, and attention span.

Newsflash: she’s 4. She’s young and curious and has a very active imagination.

She has an impeccable talent to keep herself occupied for hours in the car by simply playing pretend with her hands—no socks, no puppets, no dolls, no clothes, just her fingers and nothing more.

Here’s what the teacher saw:

  • A child who could not spell her own name.
  • A child who could not stay on task.
  • A child who talked too much.
  • A child who was more interested in drawing and color than picking out numbers and letters.

Here’s what the teacher didn’t see:

  • That “R” initial for her last name was because she loves her preschool/daycare teacher Ms. Julie Rozek and she will go around and tell people her last name is Rozek.
  • It was at the end of a long day. She is one of the most on task kids in her preschool class and is exemplified for her listening and behavior. By the time I pick her up each day, her “following” skills are typically done and she’s all about doing things her way.
  • She’s social. She will talk her ear off. Her telling you she loves your necklace and asking how your day was and telling you about her weekend coming up because she’s excited to go to grandma’s house and see Logan is who she is. You’re an adult. It’s a one-on-one time. She doesn’t see this as a test. She sees it as an opportunity to have a conversation.
  • She’s an artist. She’s creative. She has an overactive imagination. She doesn’t count or pick out letters because she doesn’t want to—not because she can’t. She thrives on knowing the why behind why she is being asked to do something.

Finally, her stubbornness to do her own thing is not a developmentally delayed dependent child—I assure you she has more independence than most kids. She walked into your classroom without my assistance or urgency. She drew two very well done people that were not stick figures and even let you keep the picture without a fight, using all the colors at her disposal because she’s a kid who sees life in color. You said they were about her age level—that’s because of her great interest in coloring—but her inability to stop or to draw the items in your order of need made her lack discipline.

She does things on her terms. That doesn’t mean she’s developmentally delayed, it means she’s the boss of her own life.

She is not a child who does something simply because you tell her to. She does bend at your will.

Honey, she’s the strongest, independent child I’ve ever met.

Can we go back to the fact this is a 4-year-old doing an assessment at 4pm for less than 15 minutes?

Here’s what really annoyed me: she has a speech problem the teacher failed to inquire about. Evelynn’s teachers, first in Chelsea, then in Birmingham, and then now at her current preschool, have all made the same comments regarding her communication: she is very good and imaginative at creating ways to get her thoughts across.

I don’t doubt Evelynn should be in a Young 5’s class instead of Kindergarten next year. I was already on this fence. However, I’m disappointed in how they determined this recommendation. Children learn differently. They express themselves differently. They are not robots. This is not a time to give a child 7 tasks of yes/no. Children live in the grey area based entirely on their mood, especially come after 2pm—if they make it that long.

I’m disappointed that in less than 15 minutes this “expert” in young 5’s decided Evelynn didn’t know her numbers simply because she wouldn’t pick out a specific number on a list. Listen Linda, last night she helped me fold clothes and towels—not one of which I had to refold behind her, mind you—and when she spotted the number on the back of my soccer jersey, she asked me, “Why is there a 5 on your shirt?” I never encouraged the number recognition, she did it on her own. She’s curious, not a child.

When Evelynn was first placed in WISD and 3 teachers would come to the house to work with her on her speech—she was only 2 at the time—the eldest lady of the three, for all her expert years, didn’t understand Evelynn. She thought Evelynn didn’t understand her. They were playing on the floor. This lady repeatedly asked Evelynn to do a simple task with a baby doll and then proceeded to show her how to do it. When Evelynn continuously ignored her, the lady started to speak louder. Without even looking at the lady and breaking from working on her puzzle, Evelynn slammed the baby down on the floor to show the lady she didn’t want to do what she was asking. It wasn’t a mean slam, it was a “I’m not doing this” because the woman wouldn’t stop shoving the back at Evelynn—it was only a few inches off the ground. I had already told the lady to move on to a different task, Evelynn was uninterested—until Evelynn put that baby down, the lady didn’t believe me.

And you can bet your ass I told her, “I told you, that’s what she does.” It was only after Evelynn dismissed the doll that the woman tried a more appealing method.

I’m not an expert in child development, but I like to think I’m somewhat of an expert in my daughter. I watch her. I observe her. I know her. I can tell you when she’s fake coughing to avoid brushing her teeth. I can tell you how the first thing she does when she walks through the door is take her shoes and socks off and defuzz her toes and she can’t be expected to do anything else until she does that. I can tell you if we don’t sing “I love youuuuuuu” in a singsongy voice to each other as I tuck her into bed at night, she won’t go down. I can tell you how upset she will be with you if you unwrap her cheese or chocolate or open her juice or milk for her. I can tell you how her previous school told me she could count her numbers but she never would for me, she told me she couldn’t—I didn’t know she could until I caught her singing in the car. She’s sneaky like that. I can tell you she can’t leave her preschool/daycare without giving all her teachers and friends a hug; and if we miss anyone, she has to go back in. She’s an independent girl who needs routine and learns in tunes. More than anything, she’s her own person.

When I first walked out of that school after her evaluation, I felt like I failed as a parent. It doesn’t bother me that she might be going into Young 5’s—I want her to be in the best environment for her to succeed as a human—I felt like a failure because of how many times that teacher repeated “developmentally delayed”. I kept thinking about it. Kept watching Evelynn—I’m fully aware of her stubbornness and her attitude and the fact she can’t read—but I couldn’t see it. All I saw was a happy 4-year-old soon-to-be 5-year-old curious about life around her.

So here it is, I had misspoken. It’s not 2032. It’s hello class of 2033. Let’s just add on another year of Evelynn running the class because this kid is hellbent for election. Good luck teachers, she’s ready for you. I just hope you’re ready for her.

May1

The Double C’s of Dating—You’re Failing.

Posted on by
Standard

I haven’t been dating. I’ve been on the apps and engaging in conversation but that is where it ends. The other day I was asked to participate in a survey and one of the questions was, “What are your hesitations with dating?” It made me pause for a hot second. Took the weekend for me to respond because I knew already knew the answer. I had been thinking about the concept for a couple months. I’m open to dating, I’m hesitant in taking any action.

Dating today is no longer consistent. People come and go. It’s all about attention in the moment. I get stood up a lot because these guys don’t seem to care about dating, they just want you to say yes.

And I want nothing to do with that type of dating scenario.

When guys ask me out, I don’t take them seriously anymore. I don’t get excited. I don’t get stressed. I hardly even plan for it. I’m just like, “Okay, yes,” it’s not like you’re actually going to make it happen anyway. Seriously. That’s literally my vocal and internal response and dialogue. Here’s the thing: the date never happens.

Whatever happened to someone asking you out with a date and time and place in mind. Now, it’s all “Hey want to go out sometime?” “Yeah, I’d love to.” ………silence……….

It’s so very annoying. That lack of preparation highly suggests a lack of enthusiasm. I want to date a guy who wants to fucking date me. Not just go through the motion because it’s expected and we’re both single. No, I want a date where the dude is genuinely interested.

That is, if they ever actually plan on showing up.

I no longer accept dates from guys who are inconsistent in talking. Guys who talk one week every day and then silent for a few weeks and then back again a couple days. Like, no. you’re either interested or you’re not. I don’t care about a busy schedule, it’s “Hello good morning, hope you have a great day!” and a “Hey how was your day?” It doesn’t need to be constant chatting 24/7, but I’m not trying to date a man who can’t be bothered. I also won’t date a guy who asks me out right out of the gates because those have a 100% success rate of standing me up.

Here’s the hypocritical thing: I can’t be bothered. I used to be on my phone so much at my previous gig that I would read a text and not respond because I didn’t have time to engage in conversation; only to forget about the text for 24 hours or until they texted me again. This wasn’t just for dating, this was for anything. Email I was golden on. Email I could own with prompt replies all day. Texting and calling, however, I was on my phone enough for my job that I didn’t want to be on there anymore as is. So when a guy asked me out and I realized I hadn’t been the best communicator or conversationalist, the thought was often followed with the sudden awareness that I simply wasn’t that interested. When I connected with a guy who I was interested with, I made the time to chat. I was busy as hell with a kid on my hip, one hand on the computer, standing at the stove cooking, and still texting with my friend hand. I could have a full schedule and still make the time if I wanted to. Sometimes, there were exceptions but rule no. 1 of controlling your life: embrace the chaos. Rule no. 2: make what you want happen.

When you want to talk with someone and get to know someone, you make the time. There’s no if, ands, butts about it.

Here’s the other thing I often notice: who engages the conversation.

Seriously, if I’m talking with someone and I realize that if I don’t text him first every day then we don’t talk, well, we stop talking. It’s hilarious to me when guys assume this means I’m upset with them after a few hours or a couple days go by when sometimes I’m just too busy and running behind on my day. However, I make my own assumptions too, especially when I let it go—you realize something: disinterest. No matter how great the conversation flowed, it’s hard to remain interested in someone who doesn’t text you unless you text them first.

And don’t get me started on this “Well, I texted you last” bullshit. Honey, this is not high school anymore. I don’t care if you send me 7 texts in a row because some days I was swamped with meetings or some days I’m juggling errands and I do not text and drive so it’s a few hours before I ever respond. And let’s not forget the aforementioned part where I will read a text and promptly forget for hours when I’m busy. No, you don’t sound crazy. You sound like you had something to say and damnit, why not fucking say it? Life’s short to worry later about, know what was that thing I wanted to tell them?? I hate wasting my time on those. I’ll blow a friend up all in one day because I had a million things flying through my mind and before I forgot them I decided to just text what I had to say and we can talk about them later when they’re free. Why is this so complicated?

Maybe I am the crazy one.

Consistency in dating. Consistency is key in anything you want to get results from—fitness, health, career. Why are people so inconsistent in showing interest in someone? I don’t do well with talk. I want the proof.

If a guy asks me out with no plan in mind and without taking time to talk to me, I lose interest. I literally stare at my phone like, is this mofo serious? He wants me to agree to a date without knowing when and where? DUDE. BRO. BRAHHHHHH.

I’m out.

Even if I might not be able to go to the restaurant offered for lack of a celiac friendly menu or can’t do the day initially suggested because I’m mommying it up, at least there’s effort involved. If the guy is going to halfass asking me out, he’s likely going to halfass any relationship. Suddenly, I’m no longer interested. That’s not a relationship I want. Besides, here’s the reality, the things in the beginning are going to be there at the end. Those signs and red flags are in fact smoke signals, foreshadows of the end and how little any dating will last. Those nuances in the beginning, though little, might be something one can’t overlook later once the “honeymoon” phase—or whatever people are calling it these days—is over.

I know me well enough that while I’m quiet and an introvert and not one to talk on the phone ever, communication and effort are key. Without them, I’ll be bored in a week.

And then there’s the guys who ask for my snapshot and not my number. Like seriously, WHO ARE YOU TRYING TO HIDE ME FROM? Oh the sweet joys of dating. And then, since the evolution of dating apps, I don’t think I’ve ever been asked out by a guy calling. Never. Not even guys who ask me for my number at the bar. It’s always via text message. And while I’m not usually a nitpicking person but this is something that I notice. I’m expected to meet up with a guy for a date without ever hearing his voice. I’d like to at least know if he’s one of the weirdos who pronounces “milk” funny.

Tip: If you’re going to ask a girl out, at least show you care. Don’t act like she’s only an option right now that you’re already planning on dismissing. Ladies, same thing goes to you. This ain’t no one-way street bullshit. Consistency and communication: it’s the double C’s. You can’t open the door to a relationship or dating happily without them.

Apr30

Keep Going.

Posted on by
Standard

You can excuse yourself and still never give up. It’s not about your excuses, it’s about pushing, perseverance, resilience, and CONSISTENCY. Even if it’s hitting pause or slowing it down.

Hit pause. Slow down.

Then keep going.

My biggest pet peeve with past coaches was when I was having a blown asthma attack and they would yell at me to move my ass and stop giving excuses. I could run a 6-minute mile with an asthma attack at the end forcing me to walk a stretch before finishing strong. I made up my sprints after others were done and the attack passed. I had limits, I worked with them and I pushed them when I could. However, my coach’s expectations because I was a “child” were beyond unrealistic. I never pushed myself for them or because of them, I’m pretty sure I fought with them more than anything. I pushed for me.

I also hated when coaches would ask me, “What’s your excuse today?” because my physical therapist, for example, didn’t want me doing cleans with my shoulder—I always later dislocated it. It never changed: my therapist was very clear I was not to do that movement. I was hypermobile with little strength. It was a move I’d have to strengthen with other exercises, not something I would just jump into for a physical test, and nothing ever weightbearing. Tearing something was a big worry.

I don’t care about your excuses. We can work with your excuses. Excuses are part of life.

I’m a mom, sometimes I have to excuse myself from activities because I LOVE being a mom and that’s worth more. It’s an excuse to others; it’s my reality. My greatest achievement. Sometimes, I work long hours. Again, not an excuse when chasing dreams. I won’t try intermittent fasting despite health benefits some people claim—I have very, very low blood pressure. It’s not safe for me. This is not a method I will use for “more energy” because for people like me, it can do more harm than good. I’m gluten free because of celiac disease. Some people get annoyed that I have a limited menu and restaurant options to choose from. Confession: I like this restriction most days, it forces me not to go through the McDonald’s drive-thru when their fries are calling. I will accept this excuse all day—it helps hold me accountable.

It’s not about your excuses, it’s about what you do with them and how you allow others to perceive them.

Do they hold you back from what you want or do you overcome them? Do you let them control you or do you embrace them and push through? Do you find ways to make things work, no matter how many attempts it might take you? Are they a status of your life or are you using them to reconcile missing out on living your best life without trying to make things better?

That is the only excuse I care about. Stop missing out. Stop holding yourself back.

If you live a life with no excuses, honey you’re not living. At some point, you will embrace what someone else considers an excuse because you are damn proud of who you are. You are a mom and for one night, going to your son’s soccer game means more than stressing over getting a workout in that day. Take the day off. You are a sister and haven’t seen your family in months, take the weekend off. Eat all the homemade meals. Your wrist kills and can’t handle doing a pushup. Work up that strength. Take time to do it properly instead of further injuring yourself.

Confession: I have the Ann Arbor Art Fair butting right into Faster Horses for a long 4-day weekend this summer and I don’t plan on working out one bit for those 4 days because I will not stress myself out over scheduling and I will not stress myself out over using the communal gross showers. Instead, I have had my workout schedule planned all the way through that weekend since before April. That’s right, my March through July workout schedule is already set. Some might see that fun weekend as an excuse to ridicule—honey I’m grabbing on to it with both hands, it’s my reward for my dedication and consistency. It’s my reward for persevering.

If you live a life with no excuses, then all you’re doing are the motions without the why behind them. Eventually, years will pass and you will realize you wanted to take that one saturday off for donuts and beer festival with great company, lie on that beach one weekend to read one more book, skip a class to see Garth Brooks perform one last time. You have to prioritize what makes you happy with what makes you healthy to enjoy the most out of your life. Do you want to hike mountains or claim the couch cushion? Do you want to watch your daughter’s first ballet performance or train for your half marathon? Do you want to do yoga at sunrise or drinks to celebrate someone’s birthday at sundown? Prioritization and organization. You do what you can, and slowly you build it up and increase what you can do.

So hit pause. Maybe rewind. Maybe a little replay with a new DJ. Maybe slow down, reevaluate and reposition. Know the difference between giving an excuse and giving up, and know when an excuse can turn into giving up.

“Never confuse a single defeat with a final defeat.” – F. Scott Fitzgerald.

“Keep going.” – ME.

 

Apr22

Just this once.

Posted on by
Standard

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.

Turn “Just this once” into your habit.

Apr18

Give me the fighter.

Posted on by
Standard

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

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

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

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

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

And we’re suddenly back at fear.

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

I’m not ready for this.

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

And here lies my real issue with anxiety.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Are you upset yet?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Apr17

I only pray for strength.

Posted on by
Standard

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

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

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

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

That is favoritism.

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

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

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

I know, I sound cold.

Hear me out.

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

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

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

It is founded within.

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

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

Taylor is a living miracle.

Taylor is strong.

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

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

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

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

Apr15

This body is mine.

Posted on by
Standard

Do you own your body?

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

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

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

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

I have worked for my strength.

I have worked at controlling my flexibility.

I have worked at my health.

I have worked at increasing my stamina.

I have worked at building muscle mass.

I have worked at fueling my body.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

These lungs? I keep moving.

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

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

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

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

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

I create my own limits.

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

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

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

What do you see?

Apr7

I validate me.

Posted on by
Standard

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

Less than exhilarating.

Less than thrilling.

Less than emotional.

Less than respectful.

Less than life altering.

Less than worth shouting from rooftops.

Less than everything.

Less than love.

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

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

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

I run with them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I hate that.

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

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

And that’s mutual.

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

That’s the end goal, right?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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