"When were you happiest with your body?" the girl with the badge and toned body asked.
"Five years ago," I said.
The answer came out faster than I could've imagined, considering I didn't know the question was coming. I was wearing my favorite work out gear, and my hair was up in my cute double buns that look like antennae atop my head. I even had on a little tinted moisturizer and mascara, because if I think I look good, I have more confidence. This is true even when I plan to sweat my butt off.
Inside, though, I was shaking with nerves at the sight of the orange walls, loud music, and workout equipment. Where was the friend I had wrangled into going to this Orange Theory (OT) class with me? This whole "get fit" mission is one I had pursued before, but being alone with the clipboard questionnaire and fitness chick somehow made me feel small, though I probably was only ever bigger while pregnant. I felt silly and soft and vulnerable. Ugh! These are not my favorite ways to feel.
The instructor soon appeared, took me through the expected routine of the class and how to use the equipment. I saw my friend arrive, and I exhaled. Thank you, Lord! I would not be alone for the sweat fest part of this experience. I mean, I chose to do this and roped my friend into the deal (she was willing and loves OT, by the way), so why the heck was I such a timid mess? I was straight up dying inside.
I kept thinking about my answer to that question. Five years. What was five years ago?
I sweated and limped and sometimes squatted, ran, and rowed my way through the class. I hydrated, took a selfie and felt accomplished. I was also grateful for my friend who worked out next to me for that hour and made me feel like a star. She is a star.
The vision of myself five years ago kept haunting me, though. In fact, I was haunted for days. While pushing myself through a workout of my own design, it hit me as to why I was so much happier with my body back then. First of all, I should acknowledge the obvious thing - I weighed 30 pounds less than the trembling, awkward chick on the bench at OT. But there was more.
My view of myself and my life was different then. I lived in a place awash in gratitude. I had a 2 year old and 5 year old that brought me more joy and excitement than could ever be captured in words. I had a fire in my belly that burned stronger and longer than the Olympic torch. My "spare time" was spent running 5Ks and taking boot camp classes. My career was booming with opportunity and connections that made me proud and kept me fulfilled. My hubby and I were happier than a couple of newlyweds. I had purpose, goals, and drive to overcome whatever lay ahead.
These days...not so much. Why, Grace, why?
Happiness is a choice. And somewhere along the way, I started choosing other stuff. Like self pity. Like self doubt.
Silly as it may seem, I went and looked in the mirror. I made myself strip down - my clothes and my emotions. I looked at who I was right then in that moment - a tired, sad, overwhelmed, out of shape mom, wife, daughter, sister, friend, colleague and woman. This was not the person of five years ago, and this was not the woman I would be the next day. No more. No more. No more.
I ran into the reality of my choices so hard, I may still be suffering from the effects of whiplash. All the stuff that had happened to and for me over the past five years didn't create the woman looking back at me. I did. It was time for new choices and a new investment in myself. This couldn't be my trajectory. I had to be intended for more than this.
I had shown up at OT with the mission and mindset that I needed to lose weight and feel better - physically - for my 40th birthday. This was a good goal, for sure. But now, I am not only working towards a physically healthier version of myself, but also one that finds strength emotionally and spiritually and in her connections with others.
Lumpy, clouded, sad, and awkward are not how I wish to define myself or ways I would want anyone to see me. Therefore, it is time to choose joy, seek out my own happiness, and create a life I am excited to live each day. That may mean sore muscles and difficult internal dialogues, but growth and gains don't come from comfort food or comfortable places. They come from pushing past that moment when you think you can't go another step.
When you cross a finish line you never thought you could reach, you suddenly see the person you dreamed you were, but didn't know was there all along.
Friday, August 17, 2018
Expectations
I recently got really mad at my husband. News flash, we fight. Oh, you and your partner fight, too? Okay, well then, you get it. I guess the news flash was really for me.
I was yelling at him for asking me to take HIS shirts to the dry cleaner. I mean, come on. Why couldn’t he do it? I was running the kids to and from God knows what, working full time just like him, and volunteering for kids’ all important activities. Everyone is always asking me for something, and he should know better than to pile on.
His eyes were wide. This dry cleaning thing is something I do all the time, and I was headed to the same shopping center anyway. Why was today so different?
That was when it hit me. He was right (which is the case a frustratingly large amount of the time). It wasn’t a big deal, and yes, I could take the shirts. I simply needed to voice the real reason I was upset. Go ahead, Grace, say it.
I was upset, because I do for everyone else. No one ever helps me. I make all the appointments, arrange for sitters, set up social events, manage the sports/activities calendar, take and pick up the dry cleaning, jockey the kids to the doctors, fill out paperwork, and on and on and on. The thing is, though, I don't ask for help. How was my husband to know I was drowning in the chaos, feeling lonely and underappreciated? I never told him. I never asked for the hand that everyone else in my house seemed fully capable of asking for. I was expecting him to see what I so dutifully hid from the world. I was overwhelmed and hating it.
When we got to the real issue, I cried. There was no longer anger, but an unveiling of resentment that was both unfair to my family and to me. They could never measure up to expectations they didn’t know existed, and I was being asked to do more than I could handle, though they weren’t aware. After all, it always somehow got done.
This was a lesson on several levels. One, I needed – clearly – to become more adept at admitting to needing an extra set of hands. This is very much not my jam. I am a self-proclaimed doer. Allowing myself to say, “I need help” sounded a lot like “I can’t do this” inside my head. When, in actuality, it means I am human.
Two, I definitely have to examine my anger for a second (or longer) before opening a can of whoop ass on those I love most. Even though they may be in the wrong, my flying off the handle isn’t serving anyone well. It just makes everyone feel bad. Plus, if my anger is misplaced, this gives me the time to make sure I am directing my feelings in the right way.
And finally, the big punch in the gut…I need to learn to love myself. I need to extend myself grace when things aren’t perfect, and I need to put "Me" on my list of priorities. While it first seemed selfish to me that I devote time to my personal growth when I am attempting to raise two girls to be strong women, that suddenly shown itself to be the exact reason it is important. Being an example of a woman valuable and worthy of investment, kindness, forgiveness, and fun is what I want for my girls. So yeah, I am now experiencing a revival of sorts – a love affair with myself. I don’t know what it all means yet, but if I can’t figure out what I want, expect, and cherish, I cannot expect those around me to respect my needs.
I was yelling at him for asking me to take HIS shirts to the dry cleaner. I mean, come on. Why couldn’t he do it? I was running the kids to and from God knows what, working full time just like him, and volunteering for kids’ all important activities. Everyone is always asking me for something, and he should know better than to pile on.
His eyes were wide. This dry cleaning thing is something I do all the time, and I was headed to the same shopping center anyway. Why was today so different?
That was when it hit me. He was right (which is the case a frustratingly large amount of the time). It wasn’t a big deal, and yes, I could take the shirts. I simply needed to voice the real reason I was upset. Go ahead, Grace, say it.
I was upset, because I do for everyone else. No one ever helps me. I make all the appointments, arrange for sitters, set up social events, manage the sports/activities calendar, take and pick up the dry cleaning, jockey the kids to the doctors, fill out paperwork, and on and on and on. The thing is, though, I don't ask for help. How was my husband to know I was drowning in the chaos, feeling lonely and underappreciated? I never told him. I never asked for the hand that everyone else in my house seemed fully capable of asking for. I was expecting him to see what I so dutifully hid from the world. I was overwhelmed and hating it.
When we got to the real issue, I cried. There was no longer anger, but an unveiling of resentment that was both unfair to my family and to me. They could never measure up to expectations they didn’t know existed, and I was being asked to do more than I could handle, though they weren’t aware. After all, it always somehow got done.
This was a lesson on several levels. One, I needed – clearly – to become more adept at admitting to needing an extra set of hands. This is very much not my jam. I am a self-proclaimed doer. Allowing myself to say, “I need help” sounded a lot like “I can’t do this” inside my head. When, in actuality, it means I am human.
Two, I definitely have to examine my anger for a second (or longer) before opening a can of whoop ass on those I love most. Even though they may be in the wrong, my flying off the handle isn’t serving anyone well. It just makes everyone feel bad. Plus, if my anger is misplaced, this gives me the time to make sure I am directing my feelings in the right way.
And finally, the big punch in the gut…I need to learn to love myself. I need to extend myself grace when things aren’t perfect, and I need to put "Me" on my list of priorities. While it first seemed selfish to me that I devote time to my personal growth when I am attempting to raise two girls to be strong women, that suddenly shown itself to be the exact reason it is important. Being an example of a woman valuable and worthy of investment, kindness, forgiveness, and fun is what I want for my girls. So yeah, I am now experiencing a revival of sorts – a love affair with myself. I don’t know what it all means yet, but if I can’t figure out what I want, expect, and cherish, I cannot expect those around me to respect my needs.
Thursday, May 17, 2018
I Lived
In the midst of pain, it is hard to know where to start in explaining yourself. So, I will take a cue from Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music and start from the very beginning...a very good place to start. And what a start it was when a small sports car crossed the center line and crashed into my SUV head on. As quickly as one can imagine, while also moving in slow motion, my truck spun and plunged forward into a tree where the world stopped. Two head-on collisions within breaths of each other.
I immediately jumped from the vehicle, hearing my 21 month old daughter screaming from the back seat. I was in shock and bleeding, and every airbag had exploded. Thank God, of course, for the airbags, but I could only hear and not see my baby. Suddenly, several women came from their homes and other vehicles to help. They removed my daughter from the vehicle. While these angels were unbuckling her car seat and carrying her to me, still strapped in her 5-point harness, the other driver approached me. He repeatedly touched my arm, as if to console me.
"You're okay," he said.
"Your kid is fine," he said.
I could smell him. I could see him sway. I could hear the overconfidence in the tone of his voice. The adrenaline from the crash turned to Mama Bear protection mode, and I unleashed my fury.
"Are you drunk?" I screamed.
He dare not respond, but only backed away as I cursed his existence. Police and emergency vehicles rushed to us, sirens blaring. I was soon strapped to a board. My daughter was removed from her seat and placed in the one on the ambulance. We were whisked to Shady Grove Hospital...
It was 3pm on a clear and sunny Sunday. We had just gotten home from an amazing vacation and were on our way to pick up our dog from camp. We went from bliss to terror in a split second.
This happened in October 2010. The terror was tangible and everywhere. There wasn't a space in my life not filled with fear. I was afraid I'd never be the same, be whole again. That fear was a truth, while I didn't know then, which would haunt me for years to come.
I lived. A broken finger. A branded burn in my arm of the emblem of my carmaker from the airbag exploding open. Neck pain. Back pain. Shoulder pain. Ugly bruising from the seatbelt across my hips, abdomen and shoulder. Then came hours and hours over months and months of physical therapy. Visits to a psychiatrist. Chiropractic care. Acupuncture. Surgery. Radiofrequency Ablations. Pain meds. No sleep. But I lived.
In living, I suffer. I mourn the loss of the carefree mom and wife that was left at the scene of that crash. I mourn the healthy, strong young woman I once was. I mourn the fact that I didn't appreciate my happiness or working body while I had them.
When sharing this story, I often hear, "Wow, but it could've been so much worse." While people mean well - and it is true - these types of comments attempt to diminish the pain I feel and the anguish I live with on a daily basis. It downplays my sadness and the medical procedures. It belittles the stress of mediation, bills stacking up, and years of documentation and conversations with attorneys. Such statements make me defensive of my pain and experiences, so I most frequently prefer not to discuss what you cannot see.
This trauma was first held close to the vest for legal reasons. And when that was resolved, I had become one with my pain, in a sense. I shared with those close to me when I scheduled a procedure or needed a ride, but not many knew the depth of the ache. The dark cloud that hung overhead began to loom inside me. Pain is lonely. It makes me angry and often unkind. I lash out and dislike myself and the reality that my body cannot respond as I want or need much of the time. It became easier to swallow the hurt than to be vulnerable and open. But to share is to trust - others with my story and myself in my truth.
I lived. I acknowledge my pain, and I work hard everyday to not let it define me. I live.
I immediately jumped from the vehicle, hearing my 21 month old daughter screaming from the back seat. I was in shock and bleeding, and every airbag had exploded. Thank God, of course, for the airbags, but I could only hear and not see my baby. Suddenly, several women came from their homes and other vehicles to help. They removed my daughter from the vehicle. While these angels were unbuckling her car seat and carrying her to me, still strapped in her 5-point harness, the other driver approached me. He repeatedly touched my arm, as if to console me.
"You're okay," he said.
"Your kid is fine," he said.
I could smell him. I could see him sway. I could hear the overconfidence in the tone of his voice. The adrenaline from the crash turned to Mama Bear protection mode, and I unleashed my fury.
"Are you drunk?" I screamed.
He dare not respond, but only backed away as I cursed his existence. Police and emergency vehicles rushed to us, sirens blaring. I was soon strapped to a board. My daughter was removed from her seat and placed in the one on the ambulance. We were whisked to Shady Grove Hospital...
It was 3pm on a clear and sunny Sunday. We had just gotten home from an amazing vacation and were on our way to pick up our dog from camp. We went from bliss to terror in a split second.
This happened in October 2010. The terror was tangible and everywhere. There wasn't a space in my life not filled with fear. I was afraid I'd never be the same, be whole again. That fear was a truth, while I didn't know then, which would haunt me for years to come.
I lived. A broken finger. A branded burn in my arm of the emblem of my carmaker from the airbag exploding open. Neck pain. Back pain. Shoulder pain. Ugly bruising from the seatbelt across my hips, abdomen and shoulder. Then came hours and hours over months and months of physical therapy. Visits to a psychiatrist. Chiropractic care. Acupuncture. Surgery. Radiofrequency Ablations. Pain meds. No sleep. But I lived.
When sharing this story, I often hear, "Wow, but it could've been so much worse." While people mean well - and it is true - these types of comments attempt to diminish the pain I feel and the anguish I live with on a daily basis. It downplays my sadness and the medical procedures. It belittles the stress of mediation, bills stacking up, and years of documentation and conversations with attorneys. Such statements make me defensive of my pain and experiences, so I most frequently prefer not to discuss what you cannot see.
This trauma was first held close to the vest for legal reasons. And when that was resolved, I had become one with my pain, in a sense. I shared with those close to me when I scheduled a procedure or needed a ride, but not many knew the depth of the ache. The dark cloud that hung overhead began to loom inside me. Pain is lonely. It makes me angry and often unkind. I lash out and dislike myself and the reality that my body cannot respond as I want or need much of the time. It became easier to swallow the hurt than to be vulnerable and open. But to share is to trust - others with my story and myself in my truth.
I lived. I acknowledge my pain, and I work hard everyday to not let it define me. I live.
Monday, August 14, 2017
Be Kind
Even though people may be mean, you are still you. No matter what shape or size you come in, even if people are mean, don't be mean back.
I know many people who are different. When you are different, you are special. I don't laugh. I say, "do you want to play with me?"
I go through tough times, but I speak up. Don't let people be mean to your friends. I tell the nearest grown up.
If you're mean to your friends they will be mean back. So be kind!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
- Norah Middleton
I know many people who are different. When you are different, you are special. I don't laugh. I say, "do you want to play with me?"
I go through tough times, but I speak up. Don't let people be mean to your friends. I tell the nearest grown up.
If you're mean to your friends they will be mean back. So be kind!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
- Norah Middleton
Love Lives Here
My children are growing up with a Jewish aunt, uncle and cousins. I have sat at several Seder dinner tables, lit candles on the menorah, attended an Aufruf, and stood as maid of honor to a bride and her groom as the tallit was wrapped around them and they began their life as husband and wife. An honor was bestowed on me eight and a half years ago when I was asked to be Godmother to a precious baby boy...who is being raised Jewish. None of this may seem earth shattering on its own, but I was brought up Catholic and am practicing and raising my girls in the faith. My Jewish family is one of choice and not blood, but my kiddos do not know a difference. Rather, an effort is made to teach them that love and family comes in all different shapes, sizes and religions. Their faithfulness enriches our faithfulness.
My daughters are growing up with an Hispanic uncle and cousins. With ancestry from the Dominican Republic, Spanish is spoken by their eldest female cousin and their uncle. This does not cause my kids any concern, it excites them. They wish they knew more than boring English. Family and love transcends language and ethnicity.
My girls have a friend who is 6 and transgender. They are aware. Do you know what they said in reaction? "It's awesome she can be who she knows she is!" They love her for her kind heart and the fun they share when playing. Friendship doesn't care one ounce about gender. And my cousin, preparing for a same-sex marriage, has a relationship no different than the love my babies see in their parents, because a family's love isn't determined by gender, either.
It is my goal and my responsibility as a mother to raise my children to lead with love; to show them how to be brave when facing adversity and to always be kind. If I am to serve as an example, I need to not only talk about acceptance of differences, but celebrate them in daily life. To be Catholic and Christian, to me, means I am called to treat everyone I meet with respect and open arms as Jesus taught us. To judge is not my job, for we all sin. My faith is not superior to another. My skin is not superior to others. My gender and sexuality is not superior to anyone else's. And maybe more importantly, no one is lesser than. Everyone is deserving of love, acceptance, and FREEDOM!
While hate is taught, I think we need to do more to ACTIVELY teach the importance, beauty, and lessons learned from our differences. To be American, a member of the great melting pot, is to embrace cultures and languages and lifestyles. If love comes in an unfamiliar package, it is still love. Do not diminish what you do not know. Rather, take the opportunity to learn, grow, share, and embrace.
As we face a scary and disturbing time in our nation, I could not sit quietly. History is repeating itself. Why? We have become complacent and turned a blind eye. Because hate may not directly affect you does not mean you have no voice or reason to speak up. I generally talk to my friends about my concerns and opinions on the world and do not use social media as my platform for anything other than fun. The acts of terrorism of late require a change, a voice, and a bigger stage. When hate is at a fever pitch, we must yell, scream and bang on drums. Hate does not live here. LOVE LIVES HERE! LET LOVE DRIVE OUT HATE! And please know, no matter our differences, I LOVE YOU!
My daughters are growing up with an Hispanic uncle and cousins. With ancestry from the Dominican Republic, Spanish is spoken by their eldest female cousin and their uncle. This does not cause my kids any concern, it excites them. They wish they knew more than boring English. Family and love transcends language and ethnicity.
My girls have a friend who is 6 and transgender. They are aware. Do you know what they said in reaction? "It's awesome she can be who she knows she is!" They love her for her kind heart and the fun they share when playing. Friendship doesn't care one ounce about gender. And my cousin, preparing for a same-sex marriage, has a relationship no different than the love my babies see in their parents, because a family's love isn't determined by gender, either.
It is my goal and my responsibility as a mother to raise my children to lead with love; to show them how to be brave when facing adversity and to always be kind. If I am to serve as an example, I need to not only talk about acceptance of differences, but celebrate them in daily life. To be Catholic and Christian, to me, means I am called to treat everyone I meet with respect and open arms as Jesus taught us. To judge is not my job, for we all sin. My faith is not superior to another. My skin is not superior to others. My gender and sexuality is not superior to anyone else's. And maybe more importantly, no one is lesser than. Everyone is deserving of love, acceptance, and FREEDOM!
While hate is taught, I think we need to do more to ACTIVELY teach the importance, beauty, and lessons learned from our differences. To be American, a member of the great melting pot, is to embrace cultures and languages and lifestyles. If love comes in an unfamiliar package, it is still love. Do not diminish what you do not know. Rather, take the opportunity to learn, grow, share, and embrace.
As we face a scary and disturbing time in our nation, I could not sit quietly. History is repeating itself. Why? We have become complacent and turned a blind eye. Because hate may not directly affect you does not mean you have no voice or reason to speak up. I generally talk to my friends about my concerns and opinions on the world and do not use social media as my platform for anything other than fun. The acts of terrorism of late require a change, a voice, and a bigger stage. When hate is at a fever pitch, we must yell, scream and bang on drums. Hate does not live here. LOVE LIVES HERE! LET LOVE DRIVE OUT HATE! And please know, no matter our differences, I LOVE YOU!
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