I know you think you’re a failure, but you’re not.
I know you think you’re fat, but you’re not.
Your reality, the one you’re living right now, is perceptive. What you see as truth is really nothing more than a shadow of fact, one that is sifted through the filters of your mind and heart.
In other words, your life is what it is because you choose to see it that way.
(don’t get mad and quit. keep reading.)Read More
Self-Care and the “No Time for Bullshit” Mom – How to Love Yourself, Practically
A couple of years ago, I was invited to attend an “Entrepreneurial Women in Leadership” luncheon.
If I can help it, I avoid gender specific events. I prefer to attend functions based on the content, not the attendees, and I have zero effs to give as to the male-female mix of a room.
Because the invitation to the luncheon triggered an eye roll, I accepted it. Usually the stuff that makes me irritated, angry, or upset is the stuff I should be focusing on. I want to be better, so I decided to put in the effort.
I adjusted my attitude, signed up, and a few weeks later I attended.Read More
Last week I read an article titled “21 Gentleman Traditions That Still Apply Today.”
Being self-appointed Internet Accuracy Police (especially on the days that start with p-week), I thought “Huh. We’ll just see about that.”
I read it. I agreed with all 21 points. I agreed so much, in fact, I may have swooned. The points of manliness discussed were accurate and absolute truth, and I wish the man I love (who is already great) would do a few more of them.
Not to be outdone, and as an advocate for the abolition of hypocrisy, I thought it would be best to create a complimentary list for us women. A list that teaches us to be more than what we are, by being everything we used to be. A list that encourages us to become a complimentary counterpart to the masculine companionship we desire, and challenges us to be better.
This is an article about being a lady, a woman who exhibits traits of self-respect, politeness, culture, decor, propriety, respect, manners, modesty, and elegance.
1. She accepts chivalry.
When a man (or anyone) opens the door for her, she accepts it as a gesture of kindness and says “Thank you.” She does not read into it, assume he’s trying to make her look bad, take it as an implication of stupidity, or believe he’s trying to prove that she’s weak. Men are created to fight for a treasure and then keep it safe. She wants to be a treasure, so she acts like one.Read More
Let’s say your life, upon completion, ends up looking something like this.
[Yes, that’s a cake.]
…mmmmm….cake….
Our lives, no matter how we choose to live them, are an addition of experiences, choices, actions, intentions, people, and feelings. Like ingredients, we mix these things together to create something we hope turns out wonderful.
Your life is a cake, and you are the baker.
August 5.
So, I’ve got long legs.
I’ve got REALLY long legs. For my height, 29.7″ is the average inseam length.
Mine is 34″.
[And because I know you’ll ask, average inseam for a female is about 45% of her total height. I am 66″ tall, .45 x 66 = 29.7″. I geek out now. Math is good.]
I’ve spent a lot of time over the last month thinking about my body. I’ve dissected it apart, taken photographs, talked about all the things I’ve found. I’ve done some great introspection as to the parts of me I don’t like, and I’ve learned more about why I don’t like those parts.
For the most part, the only parts of me that are left to talk about are the ones I actually like.
As it turns out, writing and examining the parts of me I like is almost harder than dealing with the parts I don’t.
I would guess that for most of us habitual body-haters, talking about our good parts is hard. I spent a lot of years hating myself, and during the darkest parts of self-disgust I did not one time praise myself for my …well, for anything.
Why is that, do you think? Why do we do that?
I’m sure I could have found SOMETHING nice to say about myself. I’m sure, if I’d looked, I would have found one physical attribute to praise.
I didn’t even look.
I didn’t even TRY.Read More
I wonder if Eve thought she was fat.
You know, THE Eve. Adam’s love, the woman that lived in the Garden of Eden. THAT Eve. The first woman around, the first woman created. I wonder if she thought she was fat.
Regardless of your religious stance, whether you believe the story to be God breathed or purely fiction, take a minute to think about it. I can see it perfectly in my head.
Eve wakes up for the first time, freshly formed from Adam’s rib, formed by the hand of God Himself, takes her first breath of God-filled air, looks down at her body, and says, “HOLY HIPS, GOD. WTF. Looook at how fat I am. And this pudge. (grabs skin around middle) I am SO ANGRY. THIS is what you dealt me? I could have been ANY SHAPE, and THIS is the one you pick. ARE YOU BLIND? LOOK AT ME. No one in the world is ever going to want me, I’m DISGUSTING. You might as well name me the same as that thing over there. (points to brand new cow) (looks around, sees Adam) Hey you, what’s your name? Adam? Hey, Adam, do you think these leaves make me look fat?”
[And yes, I know the leaves came later, but you get my point.]
In my mind I can see Eve, acting out the words and thoughts I’ve had with regard to myself and my body, and I can’t stop shaking my head.
I just don’t think she’d do that.
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A very, very long time ago I made a hugely big-girl decision and put myself on birth control.
I did it even though I was married and he didn’t like it.
I did it even though I was a “natural family planner.”
I did it even though (according to religious doctrine) it was a no no to prevent conception, even though it supposed to be a mutual decision, even though I was supposed to be submissive to my husband’s direction, even though I had more or less committed to having four kids and not just three.
I did it without anyone else’s permission, without anyone else’s input, and without anyone else’s blessing.
Even though I never thought I’d be on birth control again after I stopped to have my first baby, even though I knew for sure I wanted more kids, I did it anyways.
I remember the day I made the decision. I was nervous, excited, kind of sad. I remember the rush of adrenaline that came with putting my foot down, and how much stronger I felt to take responsibility for my sexual identity and reproductive system.
I remember feeling sad, a little, that my body had to be “taken back” from the role of wife-mother-child-bearer, like the name tag I had worn on my chest for so long needed to be changed from all those other things to “Just Erin,” but I ALSO remember how right it felt to have a grain of control over my life and my body.
For the first time ever, on that day I took OWNERSHIP of myself, my destiny, and the trajectory of my life.
For the first time ever, I did something just for me.
My body, my rules, my life.
Sounds selfish, right?
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For a very, very long time in my life, I felt lonely. REALLY lonely, like I was the only person on the planet. For all intents and purposes I should not have felt that way. I was surrounded by people through work, family, friendships, church, in groups, online, and in my own house. I had been married for 10 years and had (still have) three kids that I desperately loved. In fact, almost all of my time was spent with people. I hadn’t so much as peed alone for five years, but I still felt most of the time like I was the only one alive.
I felt like a tiny, isolated island in the middle of a choppy, wild ocean, my very existence completely unknown by anyone except myself, constantly beat on from all sides by waves that eroded me away.
I felt like a palm tree in the eye of a raging, savage, tearing storm, cemented in place and unable to move, small and insignificant, bowed and bent and victim to circumstances outside of my control.
Being inside my life felt like being stuck in slow motion on a busy sidewalk. I was sweating and pushing to go faster, muscles straining and heart racing, trying to wave my arms and scream at the top of my lungs just to be NOTICED, but even with all possible effort I was invisible. Forgotten. People buzzed past me, bodies brushed by, and my omittable self was drown out by an endless cloud of blurred faces and swirling voices.
Being lonely when you’re all by yourself is one thing. Being lonely when you’re surrounded by people that say they love you is something completely different, and infinitely worse.
It sucks.
And it happened ALL. THE. TIME. It happens to all kinds of people, all the time.
In fact, at one point or another in your life I bet that it’s happened to you.
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Through the process of writing I’ve come to realize that I’ve experienced some pretty rough stuff in my life.
[I can hear you now. “UM… are you freaking kidding me? I read your blog. Of COURSE the stuff you’ve been through is rough. Have YOU read your blog? MAYBE YOU SHOULD.”]
Yes, I have. (I love it when you speak up, by the way.) But before I thought things through far enough to write the stuff down I didn’t see it as ROUGH STUFF, I just saw it as STUFF. Stuff that’s always been there. Stuff that I’ve dealt with FOREVER. It’s always been that way, so it never struck me as anything HARD. Or heavy. Or painful, or something that I felt I could change. It just was.
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ref·uge [ref-yooj] (n) :
1. shelter or protection from danger, trouble, etc.
2. a place of shelter, protection, or safety.
3. anything to which one has recourse for aid, relief, or escape.
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Have you ever felt refuge?
Have you ever felt like you NEEDED it.
I firmly believe that the difference between someone that comes out of a pile of shit with hope and compassion, versus someone that comes out cynical and hard, is how much refuge they were able to find during their struggles.
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