Apr5

Temple.

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

Vessel: a hollow container.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mar20

Moving for the climb up.

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

I was wrong.

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

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

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

Mindset.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fighting for me, knowing me, saved my mind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was just a moment of sadness.

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

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

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

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

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

I wasn’t okay with that state of feeling.

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

And I wasn’t writing.

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

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

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

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

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

Mar19

Like someone you love.

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

I want you to go all in on you.

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

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

Dive into the chaos of stress.

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

I want you to stop standing in your own way.

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

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

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

You CAN.

YOU can.

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

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

I want to see you THRIVE not survive.

I want you to love yourself like someone you love.

Mar18

Give me bossy, I’ll give you a voice.

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IMG_6329

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I take the bossy.

I welcome the bossy.

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

And then she nails it.

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

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

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

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

Mar11

Going High Maintenance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ugh, what an embarrassment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s too much.

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

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

I should’ve given up dating for lent.

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

Looks like I’m going the high maintenance route.

Feb28

Looks Be Damned, More Coffee Please.

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

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

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

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

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

That is sad. That’s crazy.

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

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

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

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

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

There’s a kicker, though.

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

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

 

PERCEPTION.

per·cep·tion

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Feb22

I’ll take the fitness, Pot.

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

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

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

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

There is a cancel option.

How’s the Kettle, Pot?

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

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

Being active is being active.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Congratulations Pot, you found Kettle.

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

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

Feb13

Put down the scissors, girl.

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image1 When I first saw this photo, I was physically pained. I’m talking gut clenching, throat constricting, breath catching, eyes burning because I might cry type pain. And every time I look at this photo I have that same reaction. The harsh reality is there are girls who want to do this. There are women who are so into health and fitness because of body image that it impacts their daughters and women around them negatively. There are women who are so depressed with how they look that they let it define their happiness. They base how they feel on how they look instead of how they look on how they feel. Even when they’re doing something about it, they let that inner mean girl just bash every tiny roll or skin imperfection.

It’s difficult to witness.

I’m terrified for my daughter.

I struggle with self-acceptance. As much as I preach about it, I struggle sometimes, too. I have a difficult time taking compliments from people and I hate to admit it’s because of relationships. Our relationships largely define our mindset. They define how we speak to ourselves. The number of times I’ve been cheated on and played, it’s taken a hit on how open I am to dating. I don’t see how the next guy can see something attractive in me that previous guys couldn’t find good enough to stick around.

And it’s created an intense pickiness where I find very few men interest me enough to date.

How we let others treat us mimics how we treat ourselves. I no longer will let a man make me feel insignificant, small, unworthy, boring, incapable, or invisible. I no longer will allow a man to define his interest in me based solely on my body.

This goes beyond just dating, though. Family, friendships, and work place relationships all define how we see and speak to ourselves.

I still can’t get over how a guy I dated long-term never once complimented my worth (without someone telling him to) until I dropped from a size 5 to a size 0, and over 20lbs. Y’all, a size 5, 140lbs. at 5’5” isn’t that big when it’s mostly muscle and ass. I became bone thin. Was the guy waiting for me to cut off my fat?

I was now skinny fat and couldn’t take a compliment to save my life. The term “skinny” had such a rotten taste in my mouth—still does, some days. And his compliment: “You’re the hottest chick here. Don’t break up with me because every girl who does gets fat.” This is why when the only compliment a guy can give me is on my looks, I don’t stick around.

Health is rolls and health is bone. More importantly, health is how you fuel your body with food and activity. Health is how you speak to yourself.

I like people who want to bring me up because I like bringing others up. I want my daughter to be surrounded by people who bring her up. I want people who are in our corner cheering for us.

Behind this girl is a voice that says, “you’re not good enough,” that’s drowning out the voice that’s yelling, “Damnit you are MORE than enough.”

But I’ll fucking shout it: YOU ARE MORE THAN ENOUGH.

Jan30

Single Mom Status Null.

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Single parenting doesn’t really hit you until you’re sick and convinced you’re on your death bed and want everything to disappear. When the only route you want to take is from the bed to the bathroom and back to bed. When you’re a single parent, there’s constant detours and the bed often turns into whichever floor of the room your child is playing in. There’s no sleeping in or going to bed early or naps during the day. It’s just a little shut eye here and there if you’re lucky—dependent on your child’s age.

I’m adamant about parenting not being defined by status but solely the child. I told myself from day one it’s not harder for me because I’m a single parent with 100% custody. I have the same qualifications. I will not be held back. My relationship status doesn’t determine how capable I am of being a great mom. My kid doesn’t suffer from it. It’s 2019 after all. The traditional family dynamics have changed, afterall.

Similarly, being a single mom alone doesn’t make me a super mom. There are plenty of parents who perform the role alone in marriage. Some stay at home and dedicate their entire lives to their children. Simply because I’m a career woman and a single mom does not put me on some higher-level ground. I’ve always hated this thinking. Yet, it’s too common.

My status is simply my circumstance. It doesn’t define me. It doesn’t define Evelynn. It certainly doesn’t define other parents.

Let me repeat that: one parent’s circumstance doesn’t define how great of a parent they are, and it doesn’t define how they compare to another parent.

I’m a firm believer that parenting is based on how you love your kid and how you prioritize them. It’s where they hold a place in your heart & in your mind. It’s how being a parent plays a role in making decisions. Money, relationship status, sexuality—none of that matters in defining someone as a parent.

But damn is it hard not to think of the difference when Evelynn or I am sick.

There’s no option to negotiate who will stay home with Evelynn when she’s sick. There’s no someone staying home with her while the other runs to the pharmacy to pick up cold meds. When the thermometer broke on me once, I thought I was going to have a meltdown. The idea of bundling the sick little girl up to weather the cold so I could pick up a new thermometer and more meds was agonizing.

There’s no partner to care for her and take on the role entirely so I can just “rest up” like the doctor ordered because that’s the best cure for any sickness. No, there’s puking outside my car door so I can get Evelynn to pre-K, setting 9 alarms so I don’t miss anything, and taking more sick days than one is likely allotted & fingers crossed my boss is understanding, & working from home when sick or late into the night to make up for everything. I got lucky with that, pursuing a career I can manage from home when demanded has helped tremendously.

I’ve been single for awhile and it never bothers me until I become very ill. I suddenly want to cuddle and watch Harry Potter, Law & Order, or Friends marathons on repeat; need someone to wash my hair because my arms aren’t lifting that high up; have someone run out to grab me meds and Coke because I hate keeping artificial beverages stocked in the home; and have someone make me soup because I’ll be cutting my nails off if I’m given a knife when sick—I get these severe shakes when under the weather.

Basically, for being stubbornly independent, I might as well tattoo “Needy AF” on my forehead when ill.

I tell myself being a single parent doesn’t make parenting any harder, more rewarding, or less stable than if I were to have someone by my side. Truth is, though, I missed an entire week of work due to Evelynn being sick and then me, and now schools are closed because of the weather. Some days it’s difficult to believe the notion single parenting is simply parenting.

I might be the first to label myself as a single mom because I am doing it—parenting alone—and I love breaking labels but parenting is parenting no matter how you status yourself.

 

Nov25

Gaining Pieces.

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I don’t know how to date anymore. I don’t know how to open myself up to someone. More accurately, I don’t know how to let someone in.

I lost pieces of me, each guy taking a small enough piece of me for me to never notice until the other night when I was on a date and I realized I don’t know how to do this.

The reality: I don’t know if I want to date.

Confidence: that was the last piece taken from me. What can this guy possibly see in me to make him choose me.

I don’t easily lack confidence. I know who I am, I like my body, I’m happy with my health, I know I’m good at my job, I know I’m a great mother, I’m comfortable with who I am. I can look at the woman in the mirror and applaud her instead of pick her apart. I am confident with who I am.

I am not confident when it comes to guys wanting me or feeling like I’m enough for someone.

I get asked out a lot and I don’t say yes to many guys. Most guys I turn down will ask me, “Why not just give me one chance? I could turn out to be the one who makes you happy.” They seem to think they can like me enough to make me like them, they can persuade me into liking them. I don’t want someone to have to talk me into liking them, it doesn’t feel genuine and I highly suspect it will lead to doubt and insecurity on their end later on in the relationship. Many guys accuse me of being shallow, that it’s all about looks as to why I’m turning them down. It has nothing to do with body or status.

It’s this magnetism. I hate admitting it’s the knowledge that I’d feel no different if they had never come around. I don’t get excited to tell them big news, I don’t wonder how their day went, I don’t ask them if they want to hang out. That lack of enthusiasm is why I say no.

I remember before Evelynn came along being asked why I could simply forget guys so easily after they betrayed or lied to me; and to me, it was because it was that simple: if they didn’t want me, I didn’t want them. If they couldn’t respect me, I didn’t want them. If I wasn’t enough to be the only girl they saw, I didn’t want them. There was no room for “buts” in there. The philosophy still applied even after Evelynn.

Then I met a guy when I didn’t care, when my guard was down, and I let him just walk right into my life with no reservations. I didn’t plan for him to stick around. He wasn’t meant to be anyone other than just a one-night stand. The rules were simple. I didn’t care what I told him or what he thought of me. I didn’t care if he saw the real me and rejected me because I wasn’t planning on him staying around.

He had other ideas.

& I let him talk me into more than just one-night expectations. I let him talk me into seeing him again.

We didn’t see each other again. He met someone else soon after and it turned out him getting me to want him was just a game to him. All the talking and texting and planning after was just to feed his ego. At the time he had told me he met someone randomly, immediately after me, and they just clicked like nothing else. It wasn’t until recently that I found out it was also all just a game to him. That’s what he said at least.

I know what you’re thinking: stupid, stupid girl. He was kryptonite, though. Where everything you find attractive is in one person and you’re just like damn. Which is why it was to be just one night, I knew I could fall hard and fast…and we’ve already discussed in previous blogs, I’m not one to fall, especially not fast. I never have. And I wasn’t ready to let someone invade my life just yet after I was still dealing with a toddler hung up on the last guy I had seen. I already had hang-ups about dating.

And before you go getting all high and mighty on me for having a one night as a single mom. Well, I’m a single mom. I’m pretty sure I somehow made the first move on him (apparently my “tinder eyes” do work). And this isn’t a common occurrence. However, sometimes, just sometimes, you need to do things for you and that day I decided to live in the moment and fuck the future—no pun intended.

I had no intention of having anything with him but he pursued and I gave in. I can’t get over that. How I could get it so wrong—fucking kryptonite. It’s a mindfuck when people purposefully fuck with your emotions like that, though. That’s where the pain and second-guessing came in. & this wasn’t the first time I had it wrong. This was just months after I had it wrong and that first time, Evelynn was caught in the crossfire.

In early September, Evelynn and I did a weekend road trip out to Lake Michigan—we hadn’t been to the beach yet over the summer—and we saw a couple friends on our way back through Grand Rapids…and we ran into the guy she still sometimes asks about. He didn’t acknowledge her, and what little respect I had left for him disappeared. Her demeanor fell. She was tired, hungry, but her shoulders and face fell. It was like a cloud completely washed over her. She looked down and got busy with a napkin and never looked up. He never said hi to her; this little girl who would beg to go to his house or didn’t want to leave after weekends spent there just less than a year before.

I didn’t think my heart could break more watching her.

Until we left to drive home.

I heard crying in the back seat, then, “Augie no like me. Augie no say hi to me.” She cried herself to sleep. Luckily, in less than five minutes but I couldn’t believe it. All hope of that cloud in the restaurant just being her overtired from the long weekend: shot. All hope that she didn’t really remember him because she was only 3 at the time: gone. All hope that whenever she had asked to go to “Augie’s house” or to see him again that she didn’t know who she was really talking about and just throwing a random name out there because she was only 3 at the time: dead. She remembered exactly who he was.

I came home lost to the dating scene. I had no interest in bringing a guy around Evelynn. I had no interest in bringing a single father and his daughter around Evelynn.

I had no interest.

I stopped trying. I stayed off dating sites. I ignored guys when they asked or it was always a no. Until a few weeks ago when I said yes to a guy, a really great guy with attractive qualities, and I couldn’t stop thinking about just how fucked up dating is in 2018. Or maybe it’s just me. I couldn’t stop wondering how much was an act, how much was genuine, how much interest did he really have?

Pathetic. I have a hard time jumping on the bandwagon of making guys prove just how much they want or like me before I show them any interest—that’s been the advice I’ve been given over the last couple years. Feels like a game to me then. I hate the whole “hard to get” attitudes. I’m not a fucking mouse for you to chase. You’re either in or you’re out. You either like me or you don’t. Magnetism. Mutual magnetism.

Lucky for me I’m still that bounce back queen. I know exactly who I am. It’s been a month—I’m over the pessimism. I won’t lie, that feeling I had that one day: hell yeah I’m going to chase it. That feeling of just giving into someone and letting go because you’re attracted to them, life is short, and fuck the overthinking mind. That used to be my approach before Evelynn came along, used to be why I was asked how I could so easily move on once being into someone. I knew a better feeling would be out there. I wasn’t going to dwell on the hurt.

The way I see it, take all the pieces—with each piece I gain something within myself: resilience, strength, determination, self-respect. And if you think I gave each piece freely, well, takes two to date. Take all the pieces. I might be someone who can’t get out of her heard but I’ll choose magnetism. What’s dating without raw attraction unforced? An arrangement. No thanks. Take all the pieces.

As for that confidence? She back.

Next.