Happy International Women’s Day! I am a product of strong women and I generally like to think I choose pretty bad ass women friends. The ones who are down for all kinds of adventure and have survived and thrived despite multiple challenges life throws their way. Am I a proud woman? Hell yes! Am I a confident woman? Most days, yes. Am I a confident woman in this moment? Nope, not really.

I’m bumbling along in my first pregnancy, I worked so damn hard for, just wondering if it’s all going to be worth it or not? I know, things one shouldn’t say out loud. Then I feel guilty for admitting that thought because getting pregnant and staying pregnant wasn’t easy. I mean this kid is SO wanted…so why am I not feeling like I’m walking around on a hashtag blessed cloud all day long? I mean, sure I have my powerful Beyonce moments where I am like, I am Mother Earth… the fiercest queen who grows new life inside her! (Insert tribal drums here). But those moments are fewer and farther between as D day nears.

While I believe I possess grit and have figured out how to navigate the world around me, I’m starting to seriously doubt if I have what it takes to A) keep a small infant alive B) grow a small infant outside of my body and C) raise that infant into an adult I am proud of. Maybe, I want take backs at this point. Maybe a part of me does want to bury my head in the sand and say I can’t do it. I currently feel overwhelmed with the thought that the odds are higher I’ll mess this up than succeed.

I try and tether myself the memories of past fears going through major life changes and remind myself that I not only survived running the gauntlet, I thrived on the other side. I fear the unknown, but I know deep in my soul it’s what I want more than anything in this world, so I “just keep swimming.” I walk through the threshold as best I can with as much grace as I can. Hoping I can laugh about it all along the way or at least in retrospect.

And yet no matter how rational or irrational, the fears keep coming. Such as, I never really love other people’s babies. They’re like little breakable aliens who rightly sense I’m not suited to hold them so they’re never quite comfortable in my arms and I never quite get used to their foreign noises. Also, I can’t breathe on them too hard because their parents will blame me for giving them the plague that killed them. Holding someone else’s newborn is incredibly stressful, because you feel the parents just burning holes into the back of your head with judgment and worry.

Our one friends just had the first beautiful newborn I’ve ever seen (IN MY LIFE) and I had to comment on his appearance because he is a true unicorn. Newborns don’t get me high on love like puppies. I currently grapple with a very shallow fear turned question of what chance does my kid have of being even a decently looking newborn? I resembled a fresh road kill frog upon being forced to exit my mother’s womb. Not like an intact frog, more like a frog that got hit by a car after forceps pulled me out and forced me to be a part of the world. See? I was afraid to cross the threshold from the very beginning. Thankfully, there’s a partner in this scenario providing outside DNA. So I did a little research to see exactly what the chances of a decent looking newborn would be for us. And as the ol’ Magic 8 Ball would say, “Outlook not so good.” While my husband didn’t resemble a run over amphibian, he did look like a quizzical old man wizard. Which gives our genetic cross the outcome of a frog wizard baby. Congratulations Hannah and Larry, I can hear the nurses saying, as they hand us our very own Wizard Frog we are then expected to keep alive for the next 18 years.

I know what you’re thinking. It doesn’t matter what the baby looks like. All that matters is that the baby is healthy. They will grow and change so much! But this leads me to another fear. Will I openly lie that my kid is cute? Knowing full well my kid is not that cute. Maybe I’ll say something like, frogs and a wizards can grow up to make great adults! Or focus on the baby’s abilities instead of appearance. Man, can my kid poop! Poop champion, right here! I’ll get a sticker for the back of my mom car that says, “Great eater on board!” or “My kid made 80^th percentile!” Is there a way to be a truthful brag bus parent as opposed to a big fat liar?

If you enjoyed this let me know. If you want the 2 minutes of your life back it took to read to this let me know that too. I’m never low on crazy thoughts to share. Happy International Women’s Day to all the bad asses I have the privilege of knowing and continuing to strive to be more like. XOXO!

 
Sorry it has been a while since I’ve been in a space to share something I’ve written. I’ve written a lot of angry incoherent things and a lot of circular sad things. I’ll admit I’ve been in a fog seeing all of the sexual assault and harassment allegations in the news. I’ve been following a lot of the women who have come forward against some hugely powerful names in Hollywood and politics and my admiration for these women is next level. While I wish none of these women had to experience the fear, guilt and pain of the trauma they’ve endured, I hope they know they are incredible role models for young girls and women including myself. From their stories, I feel my own strength and ability to vocalize what is acceptable behavior and what is unacceptable behavior in the workplace coming out more easily than in the past.

While I have not been a direct victim of sexual assault, I have grown up in a misogynistic environment and have felt micro aggressions coming from male peers and authority figures such as professors and bosses. For years I’ve endured inappropriate comments about my mixed race and had my ability questioned because of my gender. I learned that acting overly feminine, sweet, and selfless got me nowhere but feeling taken advantage of, overlooked, and often threatened. While I could be those things in my personal life, at work I had to have my guard up. It is my greatest hope these women’s stories change the course of history. It already has me reminiscing about the stories the women in my family told me growing up.

As a little girl, I couldn’t wait to grow up and be independent and in charge of my own life. I used to love when my mom would get together with my aunties and grandmother because that’s when I would get to hear their stories. While I didn’t know it at the time, this was how I decided early on, who I would become. They told me stories about being humiliated on a plane for looking “oriental;” stories about rejecting a family fur from a white matriarch who was racist, thereby rejecting her in return; stories about sexual abuse from male authority figures and the path to healing; stories of being denied access to renting property; stories of being considered less intelligent than their male counterparts when they were equally qualified and often more talented. The list of injustices I can name alone from the women in my family goes on and on…What makes them so strong, you ask? They were unafraid to share the experiences that affected them to their cores: The things they were ashamed of; the things that made them afraid of the dark; the things that kept them awake at night. I learned how in their own individual ways of not giving up, they were taking a stand, and by passing on their stories they were strengthening me. Re-telling their experiences was how they resisted. I carry all of those stories around inside and most days they stay tucked away with all the other young Hannah memories. But every now and then, when I hear another story from a woman who felt guilt, fear, and unworthiness from a male figure I am reminded of the strength of the women who raised me.

I don’t have an answer on how to make the world a better place as I often get lost in the state of things and feel despondent. I do know that it’s important we not forget the little girls looking up at us with big eyes and open ears. We must tell them our stories. Perhaps it is by sharing our own experiences of injustices brought against us that we can help strengthen the girls now who will someday soon become women. Perhaps telling our stories is a larger contribution than we will ever know.

In the height of a relationship that has taken a wrong turn, you feel like you are in a washing machine with the spin cycle on repeat. You feel exhausted from hammering home the same points which seem to do nothing but escalate the tension between you and your partner and create a divide so large you couldn’t leap across it if you tried.

When I take a hard look at my past relationships and the amount of energy I wasted fighting the same fight again and again, I realize there was good reason we were stuck in a spin cycle. There was something not quite right with our relationship. And while I couldn’t identify it, I also couldn’t ignore my feelings. Not only is continuous fighting over the same subject a waste of energy, it can also be a major red flag. It could be your gut sounding the alarm that this partnership is not right for you. I stayed for way too long in relationships that weren’t right for me because I didn’t want to see that maybe it wasn’t the best match. Looking back on it all, loop fighting, was my smoke signal warning of what was to come.

So what is a loop fight, anyway? I suppose the best way to recognize it is when a smaller annoyance such as cabinets being left open or a bed going unmade, ignite the larger fight for survival. The fight gets so big you feel like the essence of who you are is being threatened and could potentially be snuffed out completely. In a loop fight, without hesitation, you’re willing to put everything on the line to defend yourself. Why is the energy so big and raw? Because you or your partner is demanding the other CHANGE who he or she is.

If you’re asking an introvert to be an extrovert or an urbanite to be a nature enthusiast these are just a few examples of asking your partner to change who he or she is. INSTEAD, you should be asking YOURSELF, why do I want my partner to change? If I had done this the first time I asked a partner to change I’d have saved a lot of time and energy diving head first into the spin cycle. I realize now, that when I asked past partners to change, it was because I didn’t like certain aspects of who they were. If you can think of a laundry list of things you’ve asked your partner to change, maybe it’s you who needs to change partners. To all my exes I tried to change. I’m sorry. I should’ve left you the hell alone. It really was ME, not YOU.

Am I encouraging you break up with your partner if you’re stuck in a spin cycle? No, but if you choose to stay, I am asking you take ownership for what you sign up for long term. You fell in love with a certain person then you asked/demanded/fought tooth and nail for him or her to CHANGE. There’s a 90% chance this WON’T HAPPEN. Are you okay with being with your partner long term as is? Understanding why you’re asking and doing the work within yourself can provide you with clarity on the non-negotiables YOU WANT out of life. And if those non-negotiables don’t line up with your partners, know that it is okay. Being aware of this is actually great! You have the power to decide to continue to fight (feeling like a part of you is being denied or you’re denying who your partner really is) or to take a big step in the direction that is right for YOU (with or without your partner). We get one life, don’t waste it having the same fight.

 

One of my biggest fears when it comes to my relationship, is losing my identity. I’m so afraid if I don’t protect it fiercely, it will be swallowed up by my partner and I’ll be left living a lifetime in a BIG, FAT, SHADOW. I grew up watching my mother sacrifice, and then sacrifice some more, for my father to build his career. I then watched as his respect for her diminished over time and thought that was normal. More recently, I “watch” my father’s wife tout on social media the “hobbies” she loves doing which are essentially my dad’s hobbies. I even watched as she gave away her Shih Tzu and instead bought two dogs that were my father’s favorite breed instead. I remembered thinking HOW is this middle aged woman still doing the exhausting work of being someone she is not to please my father the narcissist? Not only is it annoying when I see grown women stuck in this vicious cycle of partner pleasing but it is infuriating that their partner would want to overshadow the unique soul he is sharing his life with.

I’ve seen it happen first hand to too many women and I’ve been that woman myself. I’ve adopted the hobbies of my exes and did SO MUCH CRAP I DON’T LIKE TO DO, like fishing. I BLOODY HATE FISHING because I feel bad for the fish and it’s the most boring thing I can think of. You toss a line in the water and then feel like a macho man or woman when you reel in a live but injured animal that thought it was getting breakfast and instead got a hook in the mouth?!? Nothing about fishing seems right to me. The laziness with which one catches fish and the prizes the fish are viewed as. If you really want to impress me, jump out of the boat and catch a fish with your bare hands. Now that would be a feat right there! No hook in the mouth, the fish can go free when you’re done, and you got a workout in. Win. Win. Win. In another relationship, I told myself I also liked living in a sanitary bubble and never wanted to get my hands dirty (turns out that wasn’t me either). And in yet another, I told myself I really loved not putting labels on things just existing like a free spirited hippie (also, apparently, totally false).

Watching my parents’ dysfunctional marriage growing up wasn’t confusing, it just was the way it was. I didn’t grow up seeing my father treat my mother with much respect. His career was always what was important, and while she kicked serious butt raising three kids as a stay at home mom, I never once heard him THANK HER for the doing the MOST DIFFICULT JOB of the two. He never once came in the door after work and said, “How can I help with dinner or the kids?” There was an expectation similar to  the norm of my grandparents’ era that the house would be clean, the kids would be handled and all the meals would be made by her. I’m sure it didn’t start out this way. I’m sure they marched into love thinking they’d be incredible teammates in life. And THIS is what is so FREAKING SCARY to me. How do relationships break down to the point where one person doesn’t even recognize who he or she is anymore?

The other side of the story I came to resent as a teenager was why my mom didn’t DEMAND respect from my dad. It made me an angry teen. She sighed, sucked it up, let her resentment build and more and more frequently passive aggression would bubble out of her. And like beads on an abacus, instead of sliding to the same side, working together, they just slid to opposite sides. When I became a mouthy teen, I started to pick at my mom for serving my dad like a king. I demanded to know why she didn’t just say, “No I’m not doing that. Dinner is not happening, YOU can cook tonight.” The truth was, she was holding on by a thread and had suppressed her needs, hopes and dreams so far down she didn’t have the words or energy to explain decades of feeling less than to a an unruly teenage girl. I don’t blame her.

So with my only playbook information being what I witnessed in my parent’s marriage, I went off to college naïve and hopeful that maybe I could meet THE ONE. I thought that true love’s kiss would save me or at least distract me from my own dislike of myself at the time.  I was hopelessly romantic and all I knew was that my parents met in college. All the stories about college I heard from my parent’s generation was that was where your soulmate could be found. This idea was very enticing for a 17 year old girl dying to get out of Iowa. I had drummed up this fantasy of a sophisticated intellectual college romance ending with a beautiful white wedding which, therefore, equaled eternal happiness. The truth was, when I had my first long term college relationship I had no idea how who I was or what I wanted out of life. I also didn’t think it was okay to express who I thought I was if I wasn’t really sure. So I became a shape shifter and I adopted his life. If he asked me where I wanted to go out to eat I’d always say I didn’t care. I left so many of the decisions up to him. I wanted to please him. I wanted him to love me and I wanted to get married. Man, I was a fool.

After things fell apart, I was completely freaked out by the idea of marriage. If the formula I knew of how to be in a relationship was correct then marriage was just a lifetime of pretending I’m someone else. Was that all it ever could possibly be?!?!? After that relationship ended there were other boyfriends, but as I started developing more of my own adult identity, I didn’t chameleon as much or let it go as far as that college relationship. I knew the things I didn’t want or like from my previous relationships but I was still unable to paint a complete picture of who I was to my partner. So instead, I grew increasingly impatient with my boyfriends. I didn’t want to party as much or I didn’t want to sit at home in the air conditioning all summer if the temperature got above 80 degrees. I started listening to these feels of being constrained or denied who I actually was and as a result those relationships didn’t last as long. Each time I broke free, I understood more about who I was and what I wanted out of life.

I’m most comfortable when things are in progress and I think I’m working towards something. I’m extremely uncomfortable when something really good just plops into my lap out of nowhere. That was Larry. He was this big plop of goodness in my life. To say I panicked would be an understatement. I was befuddled and FREAKED OUT. This kind, respectful, loving man is telling me he likes me… what the hell am I going to do with this information?!? I panicked. What do you do with a really honest person who shows you a lot of respect through their actions and isn’t full of hot air? If you’re like me, and trust issues should be tattooed across your forehead, you test the hell out of him. You look to push buttons, you let him know on the 2^nd date exactly who you are, what you want out of life and what you’re not willing to sacrifice to come together as a couple. And yet, he didn’t’ run away…

As our relationship grew, we talked more and more about getting married I had some real fears. Not only were we talking marriage but we were also talking leaving San Diego. I was sure that moving was the first step down the slippery slope towards losing who I had become. So far, I think I’m still me, but who knows? Maybe that will change. I am so afraid Larry will become the boogie man and I will become a wilting flower. I’m so scared I’ll lose who I am that I’ll wake up having lost decades on my life I’ll never get back. We took a big leap of faith in hopes maybe our story will be different than our parents.  On my positive days I whole heartedly believe it’s possible. On my days filled with self-doubt, I wonder if it’s inevitable that time and life stressors will wear us down into fragments of the rocks we once were? I had a clear choice: Let this person go from my life out of fear or walk through my fears and follow my gut. After careful over analysis I always came back to he is worth the risk. I had become so protective over myself like if I didn’t watch over who I was like a guard at the base of tower, I’d slip away like a Post It in the wind. I’ll always be hyper vigilant about feeling controlled or beholden to a man. I’m just that way. So far, beginning to trust and let go of my biggest fear has enriched my life. I thought I’d feel helpless and lost. Instead I feel empowered and whole. Sometimes the very thing we want the most (GROWTH) is the thing we are most afraid of. Will I live to regret leaving my life in San Diego? I’m not exactly sure. But so far, I’m pleasantly surprised by the deeper meaning I’ve found in all of my close relationships once I loosened the grip. Will I ever let go of my fear completely? Currently that sounds too SCARY, but my goal is to ultimately be freed from fear as I strive towards my goal one day at a time.

 

                                                                         

Unless you’ve been living under a rock, you’ve heard it, read it, been told a million times that in order to lead a healthy life, “It’s all about finding a balance.” As I strive to live my best life, something about hearing this ANNOYS me. If the word BALANCE were a big target in the sky, I’d want to shoot it down with a flaming arrow. What does it even mean??? I suppose it means take things in moderation? But here’s the truth about balance: It is as big of an illusion as the concept of PERFECTION. Striving for balance means aiming at a moving target and feeling like a failure if you’re not eating fields of kale and organic grass fed protein, and working out past the point of your body’s natural point of exhaustion. The advice also induces guilt, if you need a night off from busting your butt at the gym and enjoy multiple glasses of wine instead, why should you feel like a failure?

My natural body type is that of a cake pop and my beloved dog’s is that of an artisan loaf of bread. My husband is blessed with a lean genetic build and the ability to pause and feel full while eating. We’re hoping any future children get his blessed genes. Frankie, and I? Not so much. We don’t have an off switch receptor so we eat what’s in front of us until it’s gone. Just a cake pop and a bread loaf enjoying each meal side by side then finishing off what Larry leaves behind. Thankfully, Frankie, has the highest self esteem and absolutely zero body issues. Just one of the many perks of being a dog.

So my dog and I are NOT naturally thin creatures. That’s okay!  If I was, I would be lazier. Well, I’d be Frankie… Instead, vanity drives me to actively work against my cake pop body type whereas Frankie has fully given up on life. Instead of coveting someone else’s body, I’m learning how to love my own for it’s strength, speed and flexibility (for what my body can do). I’ve learned how to put a larger structure in place within my daily and weekly routines so I can maintain looking less like a cake pop and more like an 70% lean piece of solid beef. Thankfully, where my dog and I differ is I do love to exercise! It keeps my stress levels down and is a way of expressing myself. I enter a flow state when I exercise where nothing exists but my breath and the task at hand. My mind turns off, my body knows what to do, and I trust it to take me to the end.

Foods I have to regulate to keep me in check: White pasta, tortillas, tortilla chips and white rice, potato chips. I love me a good bowl of comfort carbs! Who doesn’t? I’m the lady at Chipotle who on a bad day, asks for a giant warmed tortilla on the side. Larry will see the foiled piece of lard love sitting next to my bowl, and know instantly, it’s been a bad day. So like any work of art, the jury is still out on what my actual health status is. But here are the most important boxes I know I’m checking off:

1) I have energy throughout my day

2) I have a general positive outlook on life

3) My body is fueled in a way that it can perform when put to the test

It’s easy to get swept up into health crazes and I admire those who can weigh their food and pre-plan what they are going to eat out at a restaurant. But for me, eating too rigidly, takes a lot of the joy out of eating, so instead I follow some very basic guidelines. They are my buoys in the storm of life which can be messy, complicated and stressful. When life stressors get too high and I’m being greeted on a first name basis at Chipotle, I know I need to get back to what I know works for me. Here are my health buoys:

• PLAN your weekly grocery list and try to add one new veggie side a week. I like to bake my veggies in olive oil and spices in the winter because it’s easy and delicious and I abhor salads when it’s cold out and I like to make fresh salads in the summer because it’s easy and delicious.

• COOK for yourself whenever you can and cook in excess! You’ll save money, eat better, and have the bonus of leftovers! I cook for myself even if my husband is gone. Non-negotiables for are protein, veggies, healthy fat and a carb that doesn’t make me feel bloated like sweet potatoes. Don’t forget about the leftovers you can freeze that still taste good defrosted a month later, like chili! YUM!

• LEFTOVERS for the win. If you cook well, you are guaranteed that your next day lunches will be just as nutritious. It’s a no brainer way to have healthy lunches throughout the work week.

• PARTY WATER. Make sure your urine is clear throughout the day and jazz up your water with cucumber slices, mint, or fresh squeezed lemon juice. I call it Party Water because that’s exactly what it is, dressed up, looking good, and smelling good. This water is ready for a good time and I have a better time drinking more of it when it’s jazzy.

• SLEEP. Not everyone can get the amount of sleep they need so just try and make sure the sleep you do get is quality sleep. We recently moved to a place with a pair of blackout shades and they have changed my sleep game. The quality of sleep I get is so much better. I wish I had known this earlier and I would’ve invested in a pair of black out shades sooner.

• EXERCISE.  Sports and exercise have always been in my life but I continue to evolve to do what speaks to me, what motivates me, and what I see myself wanting to get better at. Figure out what type of exercise speaks to you and MOVE DAILY. Some days it’s CrossFit other days it’s walking outside. Some days its yoga, other days its swimming, and sometimes it’s just walking the dog (against Frankie’s will of course). Your body tells you what it needs. Listen to it.

• Find the JOY in taste. For me, a good cheese, a good dark chocolate, a good glass of red wine, and a fresh donut are all worth living for. I try to remember they’re also meant to be tasted not inhaled. Try and make sure your treats are quality and you eat them without distraction. I eat my treats on my balcony away from the computer and TV. When there’s a screen in front of me, I don’t even know I’m eating!

• Say NO to junk in the house: Unless you have an insane amount of self-discipline, just don’t do it. If someone offered me dragon eggs, I wouldn’t take them because I know I can’t control a full-grown dragon. I know myself, and it’s the same with junk food. I get too weak and I work from home. Recent example, I made Larry banana bread. He left for a work trip for 3 days, came home and said banana bread was gone. He said, “You ate that banana bread in 3 days?!?” I lied saying, NO, blamed it on the dog, then admitted, YES, and added that that I had extended the poor banana bread’s due date by eating it in three days instead of one. He shook his head and I smiled.

That’s about it. I like the routines my structure give me during my week and the way I feel when I keep up with them. Am I balanced? Hardly. When I get so far off the beaten path, I begin to question my identity, I find my buoys (The above mentioned routines, if you’ve been sleeping through this post). It’s okay to get out of routine so long as you get back into it. You haven’t fallen off any wagon and no one is judging you. Don’t beat yourself up, just find your buoys. And once you’re back to rocking your weekly health routines I challenge you to add in one more layer. Start to get in touch with your body’s intuition by asking yourself:

• What does my body need today?
• What does my mind/intellect need today?
• What does my spirit need today?

By answering these questions you’re taking your basic foundation (the healthy routines you do weekly) and customizing it to your own needs. Feeling good in your body is worth working for. It helps you maintain a positive outlook on life, provides you with increased physical energy and confidence, and it brings you one step closer to the place we all truly long to be, the land of self-acceptance.

It used to sting a little bit when Father’s Day would roll around. There was this old Folger’s coffee commercial where the daughter sneaks downstairs in her robe and slippers in the morning for coffee but her dad has already made her breakfast and a cup of perfectly brewed coffee. The commercial fades out with the father/daughter duo smiling at each other enjoying their coffees at the kitchen table and the jingle plays, “The best part of waking up, is Foldgers in your cup!”

The idea that a father can be a daughter’s greatest protector, hero, and soft place to land when life gets hard used to make me want to cry or throw something at the TV when I’d see those father/daughter hallmark commercials. However, it’s easy to see a visual ideal and long for what you didn’t get: the caring husband, father, wife, mother, grandparent, boyfriend, girlfriend, sibling, son or daughter. I am not a victim and I do not believe in self-pity or using my experiences as an excuse to be a degenerate.

Over the course of the past 10 years I’ve adopt two beliefs that bring me comfort daily:

1. The gratitude I have for the family who love me and the family I’ve created through friendships out shadow any resentment I have towards my father. This circle is tight and I am protective over it. This happens when you and your core unit has been messed with in the past. To me, they are the light, the good, and the love in my world and as long as I have the strength to do so, I’ll protect them.

 

2. I believe to my core that my personal experiences both good and ugly are what make me brave, a fierce protector, a skeptic, a tough critic, an adaptable individual, a flawed soul, a doer, a story teller, a relatable human being and a truth seeker.

When you’re raised by a parent with the emotional maturity of a child you become forced to grow up too fast. You become savvy to manipulation too young. You become burdened by adult emotions and believe you are responsible for your parent’s happiness. If that parent happens to be of the opposite sex, something in you believes you are not worthy of love in romantic relationships. Conditional love could have driven me to total self-destruction. In my darkest moments, destructive thoughts should have led to more destructive behavior. Looking back on it, I don’t know where I got my strength from. God? My moral compass? I think my friendships saved me at some critical points of darkness. To this day, the power of friendship is something I value so highly because of this.

This past Father’s Day, it struck me how far I’ve come in my own healing process and for that I’m really proud. On Father’s Day, like every holiday, if none of his kids reach out to him, my father sends all of us a text instead. It’s meant to actively gain our attention that we missed showering him with attention on HIS day. Ten years ago, a guilt trip text like this caused me extreme stress. This year, I read it, deleted it, and felt active pity for a man who continues to seek attention if and when it suits his needs. It was nothing more than a blip on my radar and I had a wonderful day.

As an adult, I’m working on my knee jerk reaction when I see other adults acting immaturely. It’s like I take personal offense to it. When I see grown adults making poor decisions and blaming others or the situation or flat out denying their wrong doing I get angry. It makes me repeat my favorite line from Bridesmaids, “GET YOUR SH$T TOGETHER, CAROL!” I guess I get this visceral reaction because I had to live under immaturity for so long; because I was forced to sift for the truth out of BS since I was a young kid; because to me, it crosses a boundary that is just not okay. I have a hard time respecting those who blame others for their problems, or remain on the run hiding behind substance abuse or shape shifting their identities by adopting new lives, or those who deny the existence of a problem all together.

I’m not saying I expect perfection or that perfect is a good goal. I’m not saying I’m better than anyone else. I am asking you to own your story. That’s it. It’s not always easy but it’s freeing and others can relate to and learn from the struggles you are willing to share. When will you face the things you’re afraid of instead of lying to yourself and to others? People don’t like hearing the truth because it’s often ugly. If you don’t want to hear it, then OWN it. Get to your truth before others can.  Sit in the ugly and the shame and then put in the work to stop blaming yourself for what happened to you. We all have a story. Walk into your darkness, unafraid, and see how your story has made you BRAVE. See how it has made you worthy of LOVE and choose the more difficult path of self-improvement over denial. You didn’t have control over how your story began, but the middle and ending are up to you. Don’t ever stop striving to do one better.

I was talking to a friend on the phone the other day and the subject of goodbyes came up: How our goodbye was gut wrenchingly hard and whether it was easier to leave or be left.  I believe it is easier to be the one leaving than the one being left. I’ve experienced (as most of us have) both sides of the coin.  When my best friend moved away from San Diego with her fiancé, I felt this huge hole in my heart and lump in my throat. Who would invite me over for Sunday dinner as their third wheel? Who would take me on their group friend trips and insist I come even if that means sleeping on the floor in their rented room? Who would I walk over to with wine and a stories about the guys I was dating? Who would be my sanity but never judge me for being crazy when I started most conversations with, tell me if I’m being crazy but this is what I just did… Who would answer me with, “First off, you ARE being CRAZY, but we can figure this out together…”? It was her time to enter the next chapter in her life. I was so happy she was happy… and yet so sad I was losing my rock. Of course we’d be friends forever but our San Diego chapter had come to a close and it was really difficult to handle.

When she left, I went through a friendpression. I had other friends but no one like her who was in a loving relationship but also completely independent. I never had to worry about her putting me on hold to ask her fiancé if she could hang out with me. It took me a while, but I did recover from the loss and I did go on to make one or two more very dear friends who I hold in as high esteem. In that respect, I got really lucky. I felt left behind a lot in San Diego as friends moved away. I wanted so badly for things to stay the same always, and yet they were always changing because friends were always moving on. San Diego can be a transient town and so a lot of friends moved back to their families to start families of their own. At the time, I never thought I’d meet anyone worth settling down with in San Diego, therefore, I’d always live in San Diego. Just like 1+1=2…or so I thought.

Three years later, it was my turn to leave. The best case scenario had happened, I’d fallen in love and HE was the best reason to leave. I knew I’d be a fool not to, however, whenever I leave anything good a part of me always wonders if anything else will ever be as good? Like, how can it be? I also try lean on the positive thought of starting anew, and the possibilities that lie ahead in the next adventure. As a Navy brat, this was instilled in me growing up: You greet transition with positivity even if you’re dying on the inside. Growing up, we moved.  We left dear friends, we started new schools, we got into the mode of adapting and starting over. So from experience I knew I wouldn’t die from heartbreak. I knew the wounds I felt would eventually heal and I’d be okay. Given enough time, I’d even feel great again.

So why is it harder to be left than to leave? When you’re left, the setting stays the same. The same beaches, ice cream shops, bars, and parks you used to have friend dates at are still there. You feel this weird resentment that life goes on even though your best friend is no longer there. You pass by her old apartment and are filled with memories of some of the most life altering conversations you’ve ever had. Like, should I or should I not fly to Colorado for a 3rd date with someone I really know nothing about? He could be a serial killer and I could be the next Dateline special! She told me to go, and it was the best decision, as the serial killer in question is now my husband and much the opposite of a serial killer in general.  After I left, San Diego I needed some time to pass before going back to visit. If the wound was too open, too fresh, I worried I may freak out and stay there upon re-entry.  I’d end my new marriage out of fear of personal growth. Instead, I work to embrace everything good about where I am and lead with an openness to connecting with new people. Will I ever be graceful with transition? Probably not. I cry, I’m emotional, I second guess my decision to leave, and I wonder how I will ever build a life so rich in relationships again. Did I mention I’m dramatic? But then I moved, and the really great friendships I left grew stronger and the new ones I’m forming (slowly but surely) seem destined.

Next month, it’ll be one year since I left San Diego to start married life. Moving, even if for a positive reason is a major stressor. It means establishing a new home, a new community, and a new routine. I attempted to keep training powerlifting solo with remote coaching when I first arrived in Chicago last July and attending USAPL Nationals for the second time. I distinctly remember loading up my squat bar in the corner of Brick Chicago and feeling like I didn’t have the fire in me. I just didn’t care if I squatted the bar down and back up again. It’s a feeling I have felt before, when I’ve tried to continue a relationship with an ex boyfriend when the chapter had come to a close. Nothing in me felt like pushing so hard anymore… at least not in that direction. I felt like I was letting my coach down and that was difficult, but I needed to create space to grow into this next chapter of my life and powerlifting in the corner without a community felt like I was trying to re-live the past. It was time to let it go. I broke up with powerlifting.

 

Sometimes, I believe my own lies and a period of self-doubt followed. Who am I if I’m not powerlifting anymore? Who am I if I’m not coaching anymore? A year later, I can confidently say, I’m who I’ve always been. I’m a wiser, savvier, fitness enthusiast who continues to learn, grow, and become more in tune with my physical and mental needs.

 

I started swimming again and integrating into the general fitness classes at Brick. I could pick up and put down an impressive amount of weight in the WODs but my body felt cumbersome and downright clunky in motion. My favorite class offering at Brick Chicago was a high intensity stations class called B/X. It used different time domains and different amounts of rest and we would rotate between dumbbell or kettle bell, body weight movements, rowing, running on the true form runners and biking on the nicest air dynes I’d ever seen. At first I felt like, puking, every time I went did B/X. But as the weeks went by of consistently attending B/X 2-3 times per week sprinkling in general CrossFit classes 2-3 times per week I started to feel a lot more balanced. As my burpee endurance grew so did my willingness to let some of the strength go. I still kept a good strength baseline but the high intensity sweat and the fast twitch movements like bench hops gave me a great dopamine rush through the winter months. I’d drag my body wrapped in a sleeping bag through the 10 minute walk in the freezing air and I’d go with the intention to sweat. I didn’t hold myself to number and took a break from tracking any sort of training plan. What started with just wanting to sweat helped me get back in touch with the joy of movement and play. That’s what made me fall in love with CrossFit in the first place. I never wanted to take any of it so seriously. It’s my extracurricular after work. Its my ME time.

 

With the pressure off, I believe my goofiness came back and I started to make friends with a few awesome women. I looked forward to seeing them in class in the evenings and we collectively got excited about doing the open together this year. Two weeks into this year’s CrossFit Open I got sidelined from high intensity exercise for health reasons. This was mentally tough for me because I had adapt to an unexpected 2 1/2 month time out. I made a diligent effort to eat really well and indulge in less junk because I couldn’t just go and sweat it out as easily as before. I got myself a pull buoy and kick board and started swimming 3 times per week. In between I attended yoga classes and generally felt down about myself. I didn’t get the same endorphin high without the high intensity sweat, and truth be told, I felt lost without it. Enter depressive writer phase. I tried to find other releases. I wrote some really dark stuff and that nasty little devil known as self doubt weaseled it’s way back into my psyche making me think, do I even know how to lift? Could I even pick up a barbell?

 

When I got cleared to start running and CrossFitting again at the end of April I would’ve thought I’d be charging out of the gates hard and fast. The opposite was true, I didn’t know if I wanted any of it any more. It seemed overwhelming to enter any CrossFit gym and go through the rebuilding process, let alone a brand new gym because we were moving again. I was seeking something more healing and feeling stuck in a rut of what was familiar. I started reading yoga studio reviews all over town and I decided on a 90 minute hot yoga class. I went hoping it would speak to my soul and it did. I loved the instructor, the intentions he set before the start of class, and the women and men around me who were strong, disciplined and all kinds of bendy. Dipping my toe into something new and inspiring set the wheels of motivation back in motion and I found CrossFit Federal Hill.

 

Since then, I’ve found a nice balance of hot yoga, CrossFit and running. Running came up unexpectedly as I started joining Larry for his longer weekend runs as he trains for his first marathon. Last week I hopped in on an 8 miler fully expecting to turn back at 4 miles and surprising myself I survived 8. It also brought back an incredibly nostalgia for my own running days.

 

This past year has taught me that through life’s stressors fitness will look different. Sometimes your body calls for total rest and it’s okay to take the time your body needs with an open heart, free from fear and self-doubt. I’ve also learned that motivation can be found in unexpected places (yoga has never inspired me in the past but I feel like it’s my time) and just because a chapter on one sport closes doesn’t mean that door is shut forever. Maybe I will return to competitive powerlifitng in the masters division years from now. My biggest goal is to be fit over the course of my lifetime. I have to remind myself that means I won’t always be the strongest, fastest, or most flexible.  That I don’t need to hold myself to high standards all of the time. My energy levels won’t always be high and I may need to take time off to heal. I always want fitness to feel fun. I want to look forward to my workouts and I want to feel good in motion without pain from repetitive injury or major muscular imbalances. Moving twice in the past 9 months has pushed me to adapt and seek out what my body, mind and spirit all need. If you’re in a lull, mix it up, try something new. If you’re in a groove, ride the wave of motivation into areas of your life outside the gym. Remember, that you don’t have to prove anything to anyone. Move to feel good and be the best version of yourself, and remember to always find the joy in staying fit.

Anyone who’s close to me knows I love to joke around about being a stay at home yoga, trophy wife and competing with the best of the best. It is, in fact, one of my most favorite happy hour conversations to have with friends (well back in San Diego where I had ample friends). The way I see it, girls can start with average to below average genetics and driven by simple competitive spirit, ample resources a thirst for power, they can climb the ranks. Their weapons to proceed to the next levels include new body parts, new hair, refreshed labias, and new social media images. It takes a village to rise to the “top.” And for the ones who do it well, and are driven by their insecurities to sink all of their energy into staying there, I have a massive amount of respect for you. These are the crème de la crème, the masters of image control, and it has taken them true grit to cement their spot in bitch royalty.

As someone who was always drawn to the power of reinvention, I was the young girl who identified more with power hungry Disney villains than the dopey princesses. I was fascinated with their open thirst for power and winning. Did Ursala, give up on life because she was an octopus and not a mermaid? No. She harnessed her talents of manipulation, magic and wit to prey on a naïve adolescent mermaid who only had seashells and a voice. We don’t know a lick about Ursala’s upbringing or former social status within the sea kingdom but one can assume she didn’t have King Triton to shelter her. No, everything she had (those little mermaids raked across the grove) she worked for. That bitch had to WERK for her place in life. And as I attempted to hang in a packed 90 minute yoga class that catered to the city moms (the ones who hadn’t moved to the suburbs, who were still clawing and swatting at the others to remain at the top of their game), I felt the same complicated feelings of pride, respect and empathy like I still do for the villains. Often misunderstood and incredibly talented, these moms have worked their asses off to maintain bods, style, and most importantly, the adoration of the weak from which they draw their construct of power.

Have I mentioned I love a good competition? I come by my competitive nature, genetically. I figured that out the day my 80 plus year old grandmother started drag racing my 60 plus year old mother down the street with me riding shotgun. It was Oldsmobile Cutlass versus Toyota Matrix and I was doubled over in hysterics. I needed verbal confirmation of the obvious which had just taken place, Nai Nai, did you just drag race mom home?!?! She giggled and responded, “Why not? I won, didn’t I?” To be a good competitor at anything you have to have a fire in your belly. And to have that fire, you must have at one time felt completely misunderstood. You don’t just go from being a sweet little thing to out for blood. It takes years of injustice you’ve endured to build that fire and cross into villainess status. But after you’ve accessed it once, the recall time shortens and you get skilled at harnessing your power exactly when you need it. Maybe it’s the competitive bitch in front of you at Starbucks, trying to make her latte skinnier than yours? Maybe it’s the bitch at the gym, who just saw your weight on your bar and raised you 10 pounds? Maybe she’s lurking in the salon chair next to you with a comment on how baylage is so 2015 as your stylist applies the color to only the ends of your hair? Wherever she is, depending on my mood, sometimes elbows need to be dropped. And not to gloat or anything, but I’ve gotten so good at this, I can harness my daddy issues faster than you can fry an egg and BOOM, I’m ready to rumble!

The unnecessary backstory I provided above leads me to participating in and observing yoga bitches. I have never lasted more than 30 minutes in a yoga class. Like. Ever. However, a friend reached out and invited me and since I have an average of 2 friends in Chicago I was like, HAN YOU CANNOT TURN THIS DOWN, FOR IF YOU DO, YOU WILL SURELY SHRIVEL UP AND DIE FROM LACK OF LOCAL FRIENDSHIPS! I was so friend starved, I’d go scrape road kill if that was the proposed activity by a potential new friend. So in truth, I attended this damn yoga class out of friend desperation and saw a byproduct would be a test of maturity. If I can last in a 90 minute yoga class, maybe I’m finally patient enough to take up golf? Trapped in the confines of my mind and out of the commitment I made to my friend, I had to fight my urge to leave at the 30 minute mark and go find a donut instead. I remember thinking, how the hell am I going to distract myself from the task at hand for the next hour, and fake participate? I did what I’ve done since I figured out school and requirements by society standards are incredibly boring, I began to observe the women around me and to daydream.

Last week, around 6:30 pm, I walked into my first Chicago dentist’s office after work. I was cold, tired, and hungry wishing I was well, anywhere but the dentist. I took my big, puffy coat off and was called back by the dental tech. She was a beautiful, lithe, blonde, impossibly sweet without any airs of snobbery. In girl world, she absolutely could’ve had that air of I know I’m impossibly pretty therefore I’m going to talk to you like you’re a small, learning challenged child but instead she was like Kimmy from My Best Friend’s Wedding: sweet, beautiful and young. I wanted to hate her just like Julianne wants to hate Kimmy but it is in fact completely impossible to do so.

In her care, I began to melt from the wicked witch of the Midwest to a much softer version of myself. I learned she is from Texas, married out of college and moved with her husband here. She rides her bike to work (are you effing kidding me? I wouldn’t even walk more than a few blocks to a train or bus), and so far doesn’t really mind the cold. I thought to myself, I bet she looks impossibly chic in a million layers while I look like the Bob’s Big Boy in sleeping bag (thinking I’m all cute with a big cheesy grin, but instead I’m a size husky in a goose down wrapping).

She brought me back to the chicest dental space I’d ever seen complete with sexy hotel elevator music loud enough to drown out the sounds of sirens and homeless people outside. You know the kind of music I’m talking about, right?  There are no words and it is driven by a clubby beat. I typically call it Single Guy Trying Too Hard Music. I imagine a single guy trying to increase his sex appeal by putting it on after bringing a date back to his place in hopes that the music plus the alcohol he is serving puts his date into some kind of trance. That somehow the music will hypnotize her into seeing him as a Hemsworth brother versus his Danny Devito reality. After flushing this out, I think I’d re-name this music genre to “No Really, I’m a Hemsworth Brother”. I can just see hotel designers doing a walk through with their clients saying in an exotic accent, “When you enter the lobby your senses will be reinvigorated with the scents of Balinese sandalwood infused with mandarin orange as you walk to the sexy music of “No Really, I’m a Hemsworth Brother.”

So here I am in my bag lady coat, Target fake Uggs, with my rats nest windblown hair, when Sweet Tea asks me if I’d like some chap stick for my chapped lips. If I thought I was flying under the radar in this far too sexy office, now I had just been announced over the school speaker that I peed my pants. Um, sure that’d be nice, I responded. She handed me a free tube of Chap Stick and I about lost my mind. Hence, why this entire paragraph is devoted to the sexy dentist’s Chap Stick. I learned from my new bestie that this stuff is ordered special from Maui and smells like tropical, fucking, paradise in a tube. It’s like the taste of the first lava flow you get fresh off the plane. Not the tenth lava flow when you feel yourself start to bloat on the sugar and have a stomach ache. It’s the first tropical frozen drink you’ve been dreaming about for months. God bless this dentist.

Next, I was escorted to the skull scanner. I stood in this orbital contraption and rested my chin on the chin rest. Instead of the scary puff of air into my eyeball like I’m used to (I hate that glaucoma test) this beast rotated around my head and instantly brought up pictures of my skull and teeth on the screen. Compared to how I’ve imagined my skull to look like, the image of my skull looked like a small deer head. I thought to myself, has my ego inflated my imagined size of my own skull?  The reality was if my skull were classified along other species at the Natural History museum, I would right next to a spider monkey. Note to self: Google what an abnormally small human skull looks like when I get home.

After my 5^th element skull scanner, I was escorted to different dental chair station where waif blonde number two emerged. She was nice but in that overly intelligent I’m a city girl so I’m skeptical of everyone kind of way. I wouldn’t entrust my unborn children with her like I would Miss Texas, but she was good at what she did. My typical interaction with hygienists consists of being held hostage to their lectures about my plaque buildup. Yes, I’m a bad person. Yes, I have plaque, that’s why I’m here. Do you wanna hit me? Maybe you should go ahead and smack me across the face and get it over with. I’m starting to feel I deserve the beating. If they take the instrument out of my mouth long enough, I have one defensive line I must get in. Every. Single. Time. It comes from the angriest, darkest part of my soul. I say, yea, my mom told me genetically I’m prone to plaque. As if I can pull one over on the hygienist that I never EVER floss. I always get the, you are so full of crap your eyes are brown look in response but it just makes me feel good to say my line. Back to my Icelandic princess of a hygienist. She had a tiny automatic plaque picker (I’m sure this is the name of the tool taught in dental school) and thankfully a soft touch. My gums did not bleed like a scene out of The Purge. I felt the most relaxed I’ve ever felt in the dental chair. I listened to the trance music and wondered what the dentist could possibly look like? I decided he either is Thor or he’s a small insecure fellow who only hires Wheel of Fortune, letter turner, models to do his prep.

After a short wait, in strode the dentist, and he was neither of my two imaginary guesses. If the Brawny paper towel lumber jack were a red head pretending to be dentist, you’d have my dentist. He shook my hand with his 2 lb burger patty palm and got down to business. I bet he came into this world the size of two year old and his parents are Wildlings. He’s just a really big dude, and an incredibly nice and professional dude. He reviewed my skull photos, gave me a mini lesson on tooth root length and left. He delivered dental news the exact way I like it, short, sweet, and to the point.

I believe I left this place a changed person in so much as I felt the need to tell the story to whoever would listen. To the guy on the train: Dude, you’ll never believe this dental experience I had on Wednesday night; to the girl in the supermarket line: Honey, put down that Carmex, you’ve never lived until you’ve tried THIS Chap Stick. Certain experiences change you. I’d been used to being treated like a DMV client at the dentist for so long, I didn’t think there could be any other way.