The Littlest Thing

It is truly amazing how big an impact something so tiny can have.  The worry, the anxiety, the

unknown.

I have let my big worry about this tiny thing rule my world. Every step is filled with trepidation. Every turn a “what-if.”

But today, today I am going to enjoy it for what it is. There is nothing I can do to change the outcome. Today, all I can do is enjoy the moment.

Have the best day ever.

If it all ends tomorrow, so be it. What I do today is all that matters. I can’t live for the maybes of tomorrow.

So today I will allow myself to smile. Laughter will erupt spontaneously. I will fall into the arms of faith and blindly allow my own happiness.

The other option is to drive myself insane, to lose grip with reality and live in a world of perceived fears and what-ifs. I could surround myself in the darkness of the unknown and succumb to the anxiety of it all. I could allow it to become all encompassing and eventually consume me.

I won’t do that. I can’t do that.

I have come far too far. I have worked too hard. So, happiness it is. Happiness it will be.

In reality, this tiny thing will end with a very happy ending. It will turn into something big and beautiful. It has the potential to change my life for the very best and bring me more happiness than I could have ever imagined. I chose to focus on that.

And if in the end it all goes wrong, it ends in sadness, at least the journey was happy. At least the path to the outcome I feared was lined with smiles and laughter.

It is truly amazing how big an impact something so tiny can have. The worry, the anxiety, the unknown, I am letting go of. I am shifting my focus onto the happy and that is where I will stay.

Everything deserves happy.  Even the tiniest, unknown things. 

For more Sunday Confessions head over to More Than Cheese and Beer

A Loss For Words

 A person’s a person, no matter how small.
- Dr Seuss

"Well, maybe that'll teach you for posting "belly" pictures all over Facebook!"

Her words knocked the wind out of me. I felt like I had been kicked, right after being hit by a Mac truck.

I had just told her that I had lost the baby. That I was no longer pregnant. It took every ounce of energy I had to say the words. The words that were met with words that pierced.

I excused myself and headed home. Maybe she was right, I should have known. This was my fourth pregnancy and my third loss. It was all I knew.

But we were so excited, so hopeful. My belly had started to round slightly as the weeks progressed seemingly fine. I always showed early, this one was no different.

We "announced" the pregnancy with a hilarious photo of me and our then 18 month old daughter. It was supposed to be a sweet photo of her sitting above my tiny bump. Instead she arched her back, opened her mouth and let out a hell-hound howl just as my husband hit the shutter. The resulting photo was an upside down, angry baby and a laughing pregnant momma. It was perfect.

Until it wasn't.

We went in for a routine ultrasound. We would finally be able to see our baby. As the OB scanned his face contorted. The baby had stopped growing a few weeks earlier. It's little heart was barely beating enough to make a flicker. Our baby was fading and there was nothing anyone could do.

We mourned. I took the photo down and made a brief statement on my personal page. We started the process of un-telling our friends and family. All while scheduling me for surgery, my body was not letting the baby go. My heart wouldn't either.

The support and love we received kept us going. It lifted us when we were down. Sharing our good news had made going through the impossible, a fraction easier. When it all went wrong, we had people to turn to.

Except her. I thought she was my friend. I thought she would understand. I thought wrong. Her words cut into me so deeply that now, two years later, I still hear them when I see her.

Maybe, just maybe, she didn't mean them to hurt me. Maybe she didn't know what to say. Maybe, in her own way, she was trying to find levity and I wasn't ready to laugh. Regardless, it hurt.

I had another pregnancy that resulted in another loss after that. We didn't tell a soul except my doctor. I couldn't see another set of pitying eyes look at me and not now what to say, or worse yet, say the very very wrong thing. We grieved alone. Away from judgement and opinion.

Words have such a great impact. They can soothe and they can hurt. They can make what should have been a supportive moment between friends into something hurtful and awkward.

In the words of my mom, "If you don't have something nice to say, don't say anything at all." I have learned that this simple statement holds more knowledge than I ever gave it credit for. Words have the power to heal and they have the power to stay with someone for years, reminding them of a hurt so deep, it may never fully heal.

Choose your words carefully, you never know what they will do once released.

"Sometimes the smallest things take up the most room in your heart."
- A.A. Milne

For more Sunday Confessions head over to More Than Cheese and Beer

Never Again

"Well you only need the light when it's burning low
Only miss the sun when it starts to snow
Only know you love her when you let her go

Only know you've been high when you're feeling low
Only hate the road when you’re missin' home
Only know you love her when you let her go"

Let Her Go -Passenger

I am not going to tell you to cherish every minute of life. I am going to tell you that I do. 

Why?

Because I have lived through and seen the lows. I have watched what happens when life slips away, unnoticed and under-appreciated.  

People are left standing in the wake of tragedy or disappointment, with nothing to hold onto. With a short string of happy memories and a long string of complaints and wishing-it-had-been-different. 

This doesn't mean that I do not complain. I do. I am human. 

I have days that I eye the nearest window to escape and run away.

I am thankful for those days. Those are the days that make the good and brightness shine ever so brighter.

I lived amongst the darkness for so long. I didn't allow the light in. There was no balance. I missed out on so many moments. I was barely grateful for the breaths I took. The sun would rise every day and yet, I didn't care. I was so fixated on my own hardships, I didn't realized how incredibly blessed I was, I am.

I allowed myself to see the light. I focused on it while appreciating the darkness in which I had came. The chaos is welcomed because the calm is so much sweeter by knowing it. The warmth is so much more inviting when coming in from the cold.

So many people scoff at the idea of cherishing every moment. I see it this way, you can't have a rainbow with out the rain. There is no up without down.

"Staring at the bottom of your glass
Hoping one day you'll make a dream last
But dreams come slow and they go so fast"

Let Her Go -Passenger

I live my life with gratitude. Everything is a lesson. My hardships are my teachers. My darkness, my guide to the light. I will never again allow myself to loose sight of all that I have. I will live my life in balance.

I will not take shelter waiting for the storm to pass. Instead I will dance in the rain. 

See more confessions over on More Than Cheese and Beer

Celebrate.

I try to celebrate every moment.

The tough, the easy, the happy, the sad.

They all deserve celebration because they, when woven together, create a tapestry of my life.

When I look at the proverbial glass, I do not see one that is half full or half empty. I see a glass that is just right. A glass with history and room to grow. A glass that I can drink from and refill. I see possibilities.

I have days that are a challenge to celebrate. Days I would rather run and hide. Days that I want to pull the dark cloud that hovers over me, down over my face and scream. Where the tears out number the laughter. Those are the days that need celebrating the most.

Those are the days that I take a deep breath and focus on what I have. I celebrate a supportive husband and a happy child. I celebrate a roof over my head and food to eat. I celebrate a life lived well lived. I celebrate the ability to cry without fear of judgment. I celebrate how far I’ve come and how far I will go. I celebrate knowing that the sun will shine again; it just might need some help from me.

I have not always celebrated every moment. I used to fight against them. Push so hard to distance myself from feeling anything at all. I built walls and hid so well, I couldn’t even find myself. I succumbed to the darkness, a place of no celebration. I hit a rocky bottom and realized I wasn’t living. I was barely existing.

It was a long climb out of that darkness. The path was not well marked. I had to forge my own trail. I slowly and carefully walked into the light of day. One step at a time, celebrating every small victory along the way.

Frequently you are told to never look back. March on and do not wallow in the past. I disagree. I am my past. My present and my future as well. I not only look back, but I celebrate where I have been, what I have been through, and where I am going. This is my story, my journey; I have to celebrate it fully. No one else will, it is up to me.

I will always celebrate. Gratitude is my theme and celebration a means to acknowledge all that I am thankful for. It is a deeply personal celebration that I chose to share through my words.

Not everyone will understand. They will move along, looking for more snark, less feelings.

And you know what? That is ok. I write for ME, as part of MY celebration. Nothing will stop me from being grateful for every moment of every day, even the moments that bring me to my knees. Those moments, I celebrate more. They are the ones that make me grow and become a better person. There is no wrong way to celebrate, this is they way I chose.

Yesterday, as I walked down the sidewalk, towards the bookstore in which my beautiful family was running amok, I had a moment of pure, simple, happiness. The sun was warming my face for the first time in months. Laughter filled the air as people emerged from their winter hibernation. The smell of melting snow and fresh mud wafted through the air. The feeling of hope and renewal and CELEBRATION was visceral. I had to fight back tears of happiness.

Every moment deserves a celebration. Life deserves to be celebrated. Find the reasons in every simple moment. Shift your focus. It’ll all become clear and when it does, it is beautiful. 

For more Sunday Confessions head over to More Than Cheese and Beer

Exhausting.

There are people in my life that I will never please.

I will never gain their respect.

When our paths cross, I will know what they have said. They will be unaware. They will "play nice" and be chatty. I will excuse myself, leaving the conversation and the overly artificial niceties.

For so long I felt nothing more than anger. Anger towards them, that they would say and assume things about me, about my family that were not true. That they would feel as though it was ok to talk about me when I wasn't there to defend or explain myself. I carried that anger everywhere with me. That anger that was rooted in a deep disappointment.

Carrying that kind of weight, for so many years, is exhausting. It drains a person. It was a slow leak in my soul. Leaving me feeling heavy and drained. It was time to do something about it. It was time to move forward instead of dragging the past behind me like a dead weight.

I forgave. What they said was unforgivable. Their actions, hurtful. But I forgave anyway. I took a step back and made a realization. It was never about me. I was just an easy target. It was always about them. About their insecurities and unhappiness.

For every fault they placed on me, they carried with them. Every wrong doing, they had done. Every insult was a slice of jealousy shining through the cracks in the armor they had built around them. I am not the person they were fighting. Their struggles are internal. I am simply the external manifestation.

So, I forgave. I moved forward, leaving them and their bitterness behind me. If they need to name their struggles, they can use mine. I know the truth. I have happiness. I have love. I will not allow them to take any of that from me. I have fought too hard to get to this place.

In addition to forgiving, I prayed. I prayed that they are able to look inside and make the changes they need to to find true happiness. To find a place where needing a scapegoat is unnecessary. I prayed that they acknowledge all the good and love that surrounds them and find that it is, in fact, enough. 

Choosing to hold on to the anger is easy. It is the easy way out. But it will drag me down and break me. It will exhaust me to the point that I can barely stand on my own. I refuse to allow it. So, I forgave. I took the road that required more work and persistence. I took the road that led me to feeling renewed. I took the road that led me to hold my head high and bask in the gratitude I have for the life I live.

There will always be people in my life that I will never please. I will never gain their respect. But they, they will always have my forgiveness.

Read more Sunday Confessions over at More Than Cheese And Beer.

Dear Ex

Dear X Love,

We haven’t spoken in forever. When things ended between us so many years ago, everything ended. Communication, interaction, everything. It needed to be that way. I needed it to be that way. My heart was shattered, I needed to heal, to move on.

If we had spoken then, right after the break up, my words would have been bitter, angry. I would have said whatever I could have thought of to hurt you. To make you feel the pain I did. Instead, I walked away. I said nothing. I wrote down my feelings and let them out that way.

I am glad we didn’t speak. I am glad I had that space. In that I space I came to realize how much we were not meant to be. How much happier I felt with you as part of my past and not part of my present. The wounds I thought were forever started to heal. I grew and eventually I moved on.

If I saw you today, I would politely say hello. Ask how you are, how your family is. I would smile at your niceties in return. What I wouldn’t say, what I wouldn’t express, would be the one thing that I have wanted to say to you for years.

Thank you.

Thank you for teaching me what I didn’t want. Thank you for teaching me that I could rely solely on myself in times of pain and grief. Thank you for recognizing that we were not each other’s future. Thank you for setting me free so I could find myself. So I could find the person who was meant for me.

I don’t regret our relationship. I don’t regret you or our demise. I also do not miss anything about what we had. I do not miss you. You will always be a chapter in the story of me, but a chapter I will not re-read with any frequency. A chapter that holds lessons imperative to my future but not one I want to ever relive.

I found him, you know. My great love. He is everything I could have ever wanted. He has shown me unconditional love. He has given me a family, a home and a bright future. I am not telling you this to spite you or rub it in your face. I can’t imagine that you even care after so many years. I do want you to know that I am happy. I hope you are too.

Thank you X love, for giving me the experience I needed to be where I am today.

-Michelle

 

Read more confessions over at More Than Cheese and Beer

My Closet.

Her chubby finger pointed to the red pair, her smile and eyes widening in anticipation. I pulled them from their perch and placed them on the floor in front of her. She grabbed my hand as she slid her tiny feet into them. She shuffled and clacked her way to the full length mirror.

"Oh, Mommy! I look beautiful in you shoes!!!"

She headed out of my room and down the hall, off to show Daddy her footwear. I could barely contain myself. It was one of the cutest things I had ever witnessed. She walked slowly and with purpose. She was proud of those shoes.

I turned and looked into my closet. While I was assessing the organized chaos I thought about my own mother's closet. I would sit at the foot of her bed and watch as she opened the doors. I would crane my neck to get a peek of the lavender bridesmaids dress she wore for my uncle's wedding, the tiny outfit I had worn for my preschool graduation. The outfit my mother had sullenly put on for her sister's funeral.

My mother is not, and never was, the clothes horse that I am. I am not sure where my fashion hoarding comes from. But I do know that our closets both tell a tale of who we are, where we are going, where we have been. Hers was the prologue to my own. The dress I always admired, the bridesmaid's gown, became my prom dress. A few alterations and my mother made sure it fit perfectly. I had never felt as beautiful as I did the day I wore my mother's dress.

I unzipped the silver garment bag that hangs at the end of my closet. I ran my fingers over the fabric inside. Two gowns, only worn once each. The pink one to my sister's wedding as her Matron of Honer and the blue, worn to the wedding of my dear friends while seven months pregnant. The amount of memories woven into the fabric that slipped between my fingers was astonishing. I had considered getting rid of them. Neither fit and I rarely went to events formal enough to make them appropriate anyway. I tucked them back into their bag and slowly zipped it closed. I would keep them. Maybe my daughter would one day feel beautiful in them.

I could hear the giggles coming from the kitchen where she was showing her daddy her shoes. The shoes I had bought to wear to an event after giving birth. An event that I was scared to dress my new body for. I bought the bright red shoes to distract from my perceived imperfections. I felt beautiful in those shoes, and now, so did my daughter. Even if they were enormously huge on her. 

I turned back to my closet. There was my wedding dress. Still covered in grass stains and dirt from our beautiful back yard wedding. I closed my eyes and could feel the sun on my face and smell the crisp fall air as I vowed to do one of the most natural things I could imagine, love my husband for all of forever. I had no idea what that day would lead to. I pulled out my dress and held it. Whispers of that perfect day filled the room. The beginning of everything. That dress told the only story I needed. The story of us.

I gently put my dress back in it's bag and back in my closet. I smiled as my eyes scanned the rest of the contents. They held memories. The stories, no matter how unintentional, were clear. The history they held, important. Every item had a story, a memory. No matter how much of a disaster my closet may be, it is mine. It holds the incredible stories that when woven, make up the fabric of me. Of my life.

I stepped back and closed my closet. I forgave myself for having too much in it. I let go of feeling overwhelmed by it's overflowing contents. I silently thanked it for holding my stories, keeping them safe, preserving them so my daughter can make her own. I turned and left my room for the kitchen to catch the end of the fashion show that was happening. To watch my daughter dance in my shoes and feel beautiful.

More Than Just A Bag

I bought a super fancy diaper bag when my daughter was very young. I knew it would be my constant companion for a while and wanted to make sure it would stand the test of time.

I remember the day it was delivered. Finally, I would have room for everything my tiny daughter required to leave the house. I stocked it full of diapers, creams, wipes, toys, nursing cover, blankets, extra clothes, my phone, a notebook, and her favorite stuffy. Together we were ready for what the day in the outside world would throw our way.

Over time the things in that bag changed. They evolved. A sippy cup replaced the nursing cover, diapers turned into training pants. Her tiny blankets left, giving room for crayons and coloring books. Snacks overflowed form various pockets and her favorite stuffy jumped ship, opting to be carried in the arms of my now walking toddler. The contents of our bag had changed signifying the change in my daughter. In me.

Slowly the need for the bag lessened. Some days it would be left at home in favor of my purse. Other days I would grab it only to abandon it in the car when we arrived at our destination. The transition was slow. As my daughter grew the need for this bag faded. The last thread of her babyhood slipped into the background.

I loved that bag. I loved the tiny diapers it once so dutifully held. I loved the smell of the creams and the wipes. The feel of her soft blankies and tiny clothes all folded so neatly inside a pocket. I loved the security of having what I needed at arms reach. I loved watching her crawl to the bag and peer in, looking for a snack. I adored seeing her struggle to carry it and toddler to me, asking for a new diaper.

It recently occurred to me that I had not seen that fancy bag in a while. I decided to hunt it down. Part of the reason I bought it was so I could continue to use it as a purse for myself long after my daughter outgrew it. I sifted through bins in our basement. Boxes of clean, folded, diapers, untouched for the past year. Totes bursting with impossible tiny dresses and shoes. Bins full of brightly colored toys that, at a push of a button, would play “You Are My Sunshine.” I smiled at the memories these things induced. Only a few years ago these things were nothing but a dream. My daughter nothing but a wish. A hope. My biggest prayer.

Seeing all these things, all of her things from her babyhood made me realize how much we have grown. All of us. I closed the boxes and put the lids on the totes. I tucked away the bins and went upstairs. I watched as my now pre-school age daughter twirled and leapt, practicing her dance moves.  I listened as she sang to herself, a song of her own creation. 

“I love you so much!

I love you so much!

I love you Mommy!

I love you Daddy!

I love you SO SO SO much!!!”

She has grown out of her babyhood. She has moved beyond her toddler years. She was growing up before my very eyes. She wasn’t looking back, why was I? As I reached over and clicked off the light to the stairs I breathed a sigh of contentment.

I never found the bag. I left it to be with the other sweet memories, in the basement. I didn’t need it. She didn’t need it. We had grown, we had aged and as much as I adored the early years, I wouldn’t trade now for anything. 

**Thanks to More Than Cheese And Beer for another great Sunday Confessions. Check out her post for more great confessions.** 

Reconcile.

Growing up I was one of many kids from "broken" homes. So many parents had divorced that when someone said theirs were still together, it was sometimes a shock. I heard many kids talk about how they wished their parents would reunite. I even watched as some tried to bring them back together through not-so-cleverly-schemed set ups.

I never once wished my parents would reunite.

You see, I never knew them to be together. They split when I was very young and all of my memories are of my mom. No dad. Just a mom doing her very best to raise her daughters. My father was a ghost, an apparition of parenthood. He didn't exist to me. His existence was nothing more than a childhood fairy tale. Folklore.

The stories were few and far between. I knew they married far too young, my mother was pregnant with me. They were children themselves and had no business being together. Their fire burned furiously until it burnt out and my mother was left standing in the ashes with two small children to raise on her own. She picked us up, moved on.

My sister, a handful of photographs, and myself were the only proof he ever had a relationship with my mom. There was never any contact with us after it was over. None as we grew up. No birthday cards or Christmas dinners. He was nothing more than an empty seat at my dance recitals. A missing piece of my genetic puzzle. I had no desire for him to come back because I never knew him to be there. The only relationship I had with him was the one I had with a tattered photograph and less than happy stories. I have never wanted my father to reconcile with my mother.

But maybe someday, the reconciliation will be with me.

__________________________________________________

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No Longer Insecure

I used to spend a lot of time focusing on my "flaws." I would pick apart every dimple and bulge. I would hide my smile and cover my body. Internally I would chastise myself for not changing the things I despised. How could I be so lazy?

Then, I grew up. My body, with all of it's self perceived flaws, produced a healthy, happy baby girl. I walked out of the birthing center weighing more than I ever had. I didn't care. It would come off, eventally. And if it didn't, well, that was ok, too. It was time to drop the insecurities. The were petty and took up far too much space in my brain.

My confession? I do not allow myself to focus on the common insecurities that are supposed to come with being a woman.

You hear it in the media, you hear it from you friends, your mother, your sisters. As a woman you are expected to be insecure. It is part of the package. Double X chromosomes, breasts, uterus and a whole heapload of insecurites. Congratulations, you are a girl.

I fell prey to that way of thinking for far too long. It was exhausting. At one point I was a size 0. ZERO. That isn't even a number. And get this, I thought I was chubby. I hated my thighs, my hips, my butt. The parts that fit into those impossibly small jeans. I would beat myself up for not exercising more. I would step on the scale and find myself not wanting to leave the house. Why? Because I was supposed to. If I had found myself attractive or loved the size I was, I would have been chasized for having too large an ego.

Too large an ego? Is that even a real thing? How can a person possibly love themselves too much? We are all deserving of the biggest love we can comprehend, shouldn't we start, set a precedent, by loving ourselves first? I say we should embrace our egos. Nurture them and let them grow. Be proud of who we are.

As I watch my daughter dance in the mirror, proclaiming her own beauty, I wonder if she will lose that quality? If she will ever look into a mirror and despise what she sees? The thought of that breaks me. How am I supposed to teach her to love herself, to not develop insecurities, if I am bogged down with my own? I can't. So, instead of faking it, trying to teach something I had yet to learn, I took a long hard look at myself.

I have a loving and adoring husband. He tells be how beautiful I am all the time. Why should I call him a liar? Why should my absolute trust in him falter with that statement? The fact is, he loves me for me, completely. My daughter adores me. Her face lights up when I walk into the room.  Hearing that tiny voice say, "I love you mommy," is amazing. Neither of them ever add, "despite your flaws." They see me. All of me. They love me.

I decided it was time to love myself back. I embraced my curves and stopped criticizing my body. I stopped going over myself with a fine tooth comb, searching for things to feel insecure about. I took a step back and looked at me. All of me. What I discovered is what I hope you all discover. I am pretty amazing. I may have days I feel less than, but I will not let those days define me. I will no longer live my life with the voice of insecurity directing my thoughts.

I will embrace me, because this body, this life, is all that I have and I want to enjoy it to the fullest.

Resolving to Dream (Sunday Confessions: Resolution)

This is my dream. I will make it happen.

This is my dream and no one can take it from me.

These are my words and they are mine. No one else can have them.

To make these dreams come true I have to do some work. On my life, on myself.

 I will stop being afraid of what people may think and start listening to myself.

I will appreciate and trust in myself. If I can't do that for me, who will?

I will fall deeper in love with the things and people around me. I will not worry about the consequences of that love, instead I will enjoy the fall.

I will pursue avenues I never thought were mine for the taking.

I will push myself out of my comfort zone and find comfort there.

I will be patient with myself, with my slip ups and mistakes. I will extend the same understanding that I so freely give to others, to myself.

I will judge myself less. I am my own harshest critic and it is time to silent that voice. I deserve better. 

I will acknowledge my strengths. I will concentrate on them hard enough that my weaknesses are no longer in focus.

I will forgive those weaknesses and will nurture them into strengths.

I will do all this. It will be scary. It will be hard. It will be worth it.

Because this is my dream and I will make it happen. 

Sunday Confession: Family

 

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I always knew that one day I would be a mom. I envisioned a large family, it was what I knew. I grew up in a house with four kids. My mom was one of four kids. My grandfather one of five. Large families were my normal.

I met and married my husband, a man who was one of two children. A man whose father was an only child. Small families were his normal.

We talked about children from the very start. We knew we wanted them. We agreed that one or two would be great but never said we had an absolute maximum number. We would play it by ear. See what fate had in store for us. I still had visions of multiple children.

Eight years into our relationship, four years after our wedding, I gave birth to our daughter. It was the hands down best day of our lives. In nine short months, we had gone from "us" to a family. Family. It was incredible. We decided nearly instantly that we would have another. We no longer talked about numbers, we just talked about future children. We were made to be parents.

Multiple losses and two years of heartbreak and we have stopped trying to expand our family. At one point the reality of our situation nearly destroyed me. I don't know what hurt more, the actual losses or the letting go of a dream. Either way, I was broken.

But we were still a family. We still had a beautiful little girl. A girl who filled my days with laughter and smiles and entertainment and wonder. This may not have been what we, what I had envisioned for our family, but it was mine.

They are mine.

My confession: I had dreams of a large family but ended up with the small family of my dreams.

Sunday Confessions: Tree

See additional confessions at More Than Cheese and Beer

 

**My confession? I can barely wait until after Thanksgiving to buy and set up the tree and by mid-December I am over vacuuming and want to throw the damn thing out the picture window it resides in front of. 

Merry Christmas, y'all!

Sunday Confession: Eating

Eating.

Food.

Weight.

Body issues....

When I sat down to write this I didn't want to do it. I have struggled with food and body issues as long as I can remember. It feels like the dirtiest of my laundry and I wasn't sure I wanted to air that.

"Just remember, it doesn't have to be "deep,'" More Than Cheese And Beer reminded me.

So I tried. I tried to write something a little fluffier. I tried not to go so deeply into my confession. I tired to make it funny and light.

It did not work.

My issues with food and eating run so very deep that deep is all I can write about. 

I remember being six years old and complaining to my mom about my underarm fat that showed when I wore my dance leotard. I probably weighed 40 pounds. I was tiny. There was no fat, just a crease in my skin. My mom did her best to reassure me that I had nothing to worry about. I wasn't convinced. I worried.

As a teenager I was super thin. Underweight even but I couldn't see it. I ate like crap and didn't take care of myself. My body was a war-field. Me against myself. A fight for beauty and against the fat that I perceived to be there. An impossible war I could never win.

I settled into a routine of quietly watching what I ate and making sure the scale always stayed the same. Then, I found out I was pregnant. Everything changed. Something in my brain switched and I allowed myself to eat whatever I wanted. No guilt, no worries, no fat obsessed thoughts. My goal was a healthy baby and she could only be that way if I was a healthy mom.

I'd love to conclude this with: And I lived happily ever after with a healthier outlook on food and myself. I'd love to write that and leave. But it isn't true. It never will be. It is not who I am. I will fight to keep unhealthy thoughts away. I will struggle to balance my hatred for eating with my love of donuts. I will force myself to love the body I have, today. I will keep fighting because I have to be an example for my little girl. 

Now, into my thirties I am dealing with actual physical repercussions of years of abuse to my body. Pain that is a reminder to be gentler on myself. A reminder that my body is not a fortress, able to withstand the abuse of war. 

My confession: My issues with food, and myself, have eaten away at me.

Requesting Relations

I have tried. I have fought against every particle of my being and tried. I have swallowed an immense amount of anger and tried.

But this, this one thing that should be meaningless, this one thing that should not have any effect on me. This was the final straw.

Our relationship began rocky. I was a 7 year old girl who had never had a father. At least not that I could remember. Then my mom introduced us to this guy. I heard her say she loved him. I heard they were getting married. That we were moving away from the only town I ever knew. Away from my family. Not far, but far enough.

I didn't know how to feel. I was sad. And angry but she seemed happy. He was ok. I never felt especially close to him. He was my mother's husband. I could comprehend that. Then they said he would adopt us. My sister and I would be his daughters. He wouldn't be our step-father. He would be our dad.

I watched from our car as my absentee father, a man I did not know, signed the papers to allow the adoption. I cried silently, never letting anyone see my sadness. I had a photo of him. Taken before I was born. I would spend hours staring at a man I had an uncanny resemblance to but didn't even know his birthday. My emotions were jumbled. Hatred and love coexisted. I longed for what I never knew.

The adoption was finalized on March 7, 1989. Everyone seemed so happy. So, I did my best to be happy. I had a chance to have a father. I was a little excited and a lot terrified. I didn't know what it meant to have a dad and I was pretty sure he had no idea what it meant to have a 9 year old daughter. I daydreamed about us figuring it out together.

As the years went on, we did not figure it out. He would bark orders and make arbitrary and rigid rules. I would rebel and scream. He would yell and swear. I would dream of leaving. Nine years after becoming father and daughter I did the best thing I could for our nearly non-existent relationship and I left. I moved out, never to look back.

With the lack of literal common ground our paths hardly ever crossed. Only a few times a year at family gatherings. Maybe a random phone call. We had nothing in common besides a last name and even that was just on paper. Conversations were awkward at best. I had nothing to say to him, he seemed to be forcing himself to speak to me. I asked him to walk me down the aisle on my wedding day. He on one side, my maternal grandfather on the other. Our only commonality was about to end at a ceremony he escorted me to.

My daughter was born a few years later. I had my own family now. One without tension. One I loved unconditionally, something I could never give the man who became my father 21 years earlier. I watched as my daughter and her father fell in love. I shed tears of joy and tears for my own longing for something I would never have.

Eventually the phone calls stopped. We stopped exchanging niceties at family gatherings. The silence that stood between us was a relief to me. I no longer had to push away feelings and offer an olive branch to him. I no longer had to play the role of adoring daughter when all I wanted was my birth name back. I found comfort in his absence. I had my own family.

Then, one day while checking out Facebook I saw that he had created an account. I saw that he had listed my siblings as his children. The familiar yearning for family, for a father washed over me. I didn't hesitate and I clicked "Add Friend" and waited. Days turned to weeks. Weeks to months. I still waited. I saw him interacting with my mom, my siblings. Conversations with the rest of my family that I was not involved in. I was on the other side of the digital window looking in. Maybe he hadn't seen the request?

I waited. It has been 3 years this month that I have been waiting for him to approve my friend request. I am done trying. There is only so much a person can take before it takes over them. Clearly family is more than a shared name and common relatives. More than bloodlines and heritage. More than a common address and parental rights.

A family is about unconditional love.

I will no longer wait for him to accept my request.

Sunday Confessions #3: Content

Today is cold. Like bone chilling, can't wear enough layers, wind that cuts to your soul, cold. I refuse to leave my house. It is warm and bright and cozy. I am surrounded by the people and the things I love.

I am content.

Not very long ago, I would have never been able to say that. I was constantly striving for more. Trying to keep up with the Jones'. Problem was, I didn't even WANT what the Jones' had. What then was it that made me not content with my own life?

Myself. I was miserable. I had become someone I hardly recognized and most definitely didn't like. I made a decision to stop looking at everyone else and focus on looking inward. Create the life I would love from within.

It took months of changing my thoughts. I withdrew from much of my social life. I wrote near constantly and really studied who I had become and where I wanted to go. I worked day and night at growing, changing, evolving. Slowly, I started to like who I was becoming. I started to appreciate the little things. Then one day it happened. I felt content.

It was not an easy journey. I can't pinpoint the moment I arrived and am not entirely convinced I am there. I can say that I sacrificed a lot to become a better person and I did it for me.

I lost some friendships but gained myself. Recently a friend said, "You can tell who your true friends are in your darkest hour." It touched and comforted me. I had a very dark, very long hour. Those who stayed and waited it out are some of the best people I know.

Today I can look in the mirror and like what I see. I can look within myself and love the person I have become. I am no longer ruled by fear or jealousy or anger. I do whatever it is I feel is right and no longer worry that someone will think less of me for it.

I believe in paying-it-forward and giving without expectations. I believe in kindness. I believe in myself.

My confession? It has been a long road but I can say, after a lot of hard work, that I am content with who I am.

Sunday Confessions #2: Beauty

Every Sunday, my friend over at More Than Cheese and Beer will give a prompt and whoever wants to can post a confessional post to their blogs. We will all link together and join hands and sing Kumbaya support each other.

This week's prompt is "beauty".

I don't even want to know how many hours, more likely years, I have wasted in the pursuit of beauty. Of physical attractiveness. Trying so hard to be skinnier, shinier, smoother, better. Or at least I thought that if I was these things, I would be better. Food became my enemy. The mirror become my enemy. I became my enemy.

Then, on my 30th birthday I found out I was pregnant. 20 weeks in, I found out I was having a girl. Everything changed. Just like that, a switch was flipped. My definition of beauty was turned on it's head. My body was beautiful. It was growing life. It was growing a perfect, beautiful, little girl. One I didn't want to grow and have the same battles I did.

After giving birth my body didn't snap back to it's 20-something form. It had morphed in a 30-something woman's body. One that had grown and birthed a human. It wasn't perfect but it was beautiful. It nourished my daughter, helped her to thrive. No amount of thigh-gap could feel as good as looking into my daughter's eyes.

I vowed to never abuse myself in the name of beauty again. I want to be a role model for my little girl. I want her to see that the flaws we all carry are what make us beautiful. That her best friend's mom is just as gorgeous as the Victoria's Secret model. That a pant size or a number on our scale does not equate to our worth. That we are far more than the sum of our perfect parts. That perfection is a myth and everyone has flaws. That it is up to us to love ourselves BECAUSE of those flaws and not despite them.

My confession this week is simple: I think I am beautiful and it as taken nearly 34 years to get here.

Sunday Confession #1: Love

My friend over at More Than Cheese And Beer birthed this amazeballs idea. Every Sunday she will give a prompt and whoever wants to can post a confessional post to their blogs. We will all link together and join hands and sing Kumbaya support each other. I love this idea so very very much.

Which brings me to this week's topic: Love.

I heard about this great blog hop from my blogger bestie: Mommy Needs Wine Not Whine. She wrote this great piece about her online girl crushes. I am one of them.

Insert a red face and incredible feelings of insecurity.

She had so many nice things to say about me the first thing I thought was: She clearly doesn't know me.

And here it is folks, my confession: I have a tough time loving me, sometimes. I need to learn how to because there are some pretty awesome people who do love me. I should join their ranks.

I pushed my own self doubt aside and relished in this new friendship. I have always struggled to make friends. It is hard when you live 10 minutes from the small town you grew up in. Everyone knows your business, short comings and all. The reputation you had at 13 is still there at 33. Every move and misstep you make is under a microscope.

Here, on this blog and on my Facebook page, I don't have to worry about any of that. I can be the most authentic me I want. If people like it, great! If not, I usually never know it. Unless they are a troll. And then I am usually too busy laughing to take any offense. Through this I am slowly finding out that I am pretty great and worthy of love. Even a girl crush.

I am so very grateful to all of my lady friends. They may be few, but they are fierce and fabulous. They support me and laugh at with me. They cheer me up and cheer me on. The rock so freaking hard, I don't know how to thank them.

Thanks for loving me. Thanks for showing me that I should also love me. Lord knows, I love you all.