learning self-love.

For years I don't think that I really had the words self-love and self-hate in my vocabulary. But as I began to run, eat right and learn more about what makes happiness sustainable, these two words have carried a lot of weight. There are things that instantly make me hate myself--like weighing myself every week and seeing minimal results and then there are things that I can do to love myself--like stop weighing myself and go for a nice long run on a brisk morning. These actions influence my internal self-talk (and this is where battles are won and lost). We all have a voice inside ourselves that tell us how we feel about ourselves. I would say most people don't have one that says very nice things and sometimes mine doesn't still. Along the way I've learned that the voice that is negative can always be silenced and replaced by an empowering though.

I wish I could offer a simple advice on letting go of all the negative feelings we’ve learned to have about our bodies and ourselves. As we grow up it is quite literally marketed to us that our bodies in so many ways don’t measure up, and attaching this idea strategically to our worth we buy all kinds of products to “fix” all these things that make us unlovable.  So we spend years upon years repeating that message into our mirrors, running a tape in our heads, “if I could just change my appearance in this way” my life would be better/I would deserve love/I could accomplish more/ I would be worthy.

So when someone who still is above average for her height on a scale looks in a mirror and says I’m beautiful and worthy– it’s a little our of place.  It doesn’t match the running tape.  It doesn’t fit with all that we have learned about what it is to be a woman.  But somehow it feels familiar.  Because we didn’t always feel this way. We were taught with every beauty product and ever Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition this is what we're supposed to look like.

I feel like I can call myself an expert on the subject  of self-hatred as I started on this self-hatred path early.  I always had the perfect athletic family growing up around me and I was the chub of the family. I had already learned to position myself “appropriately” as less-than by the time I was in middle school because I couldn't play sports as well as the rest of my siblings and wasn't as slender as the other girls on the basketball team.  I can recount many stories throughout childhood where I felt like I jiggled too much or I had dressing room breakdowns because an outfit didn't look right. (My mothers singular response was always "you can change it so stop complaining".)  Also, being the type of person people who has a large circle of loved ones, I can tell you that while not all stories are the same, almost all the women I’ve ever known have felt these feelings.  There is no dress size attached to it.  Most of us have these scripts embedded into us.  

 All that to say, letting go of the story you’ve been telling yourself about your body for decades is not the kind of thing that happens overnight.  There are no easy steps or 30 day plans.  It’s a big pill we’ve swallowed and it takes time for the effects to wear off.

Here is how I did it:

I’ve had moments, and I think most of us do, where I've felt beautiful.  During an engagement shoot, getting ready for a night out, that kind of thing.  But they were fleeting and certainly not enough to shift my thought patterns. I remember the first time that I felt like maybe I had somehow broken down a barrier that would turn me into an extraordinary, beautiful person. It was when I ran my first half-marathon. I've never been a woman who attached beauty to make-up or hair styles. I wasn't raised that way but I did attach beauty to being slim and athletic. Maybe it wasn't even finding that I could push my body to it's very limit but more so that I could find something that was uniquely me. There is beauty in being unique and even at a horrible 13:00 mile pace there was something so freeing about getting sweaty and forgetting that there is such a thing as looking beautiful because this moment was beautiful. 

During that almost 3 hour run, I decided that I was beautiful. That the person I had become was worthy of so much more. Not because of any of the normal standards but because I could be inspired and motivated and to me that was beautiful. So I suppose if there was a step one it would be: Decide you aren’t going to hate yourself anymore.  More important than any weight routine followed, cardio completed, piece of kale eaten--this decision changed me.  But that doesn’t mean it changed the track in my head.

It was a conversation with my roommate, Mike that reframed how my mind thought about my body. Over a usual Sunday dinner, he asked me what my goals were with all this running and working out. With a wedding around the corner, the first thing that came out of my mouth was something about weight. He cut me off right there and told me that was first of all an awful goal and secondly, it will never work. From that moment on, as much as I can I decided that I would think differently about my goals. If I would begin rolling the tape that says things like, “You’ll never lose weight, your body is disgusting,” I would immediately change my thoughts to something like, “You are beautiful, you're getting healthy and any improvement on the scale is just a bonus.”

I have said negative things about my body to friends in the past 2 years.  I have said awful things to myself.  I have replayed that old tape time and time again.  But as I've gotten closer to accomplishing my goals, I’ve pushed back with positive loving thoughts, even when it was hard to really believe them (I always say fake it until you make it).  I made the commitment to be my own cheerleader until the bully I had always known began to disappear.

Along the way, I began to trust in my body and nourished my body with good, whole foods.  I've always loved to cook but I made sure that I was cooking the right things. I took baby steps, never allowing weight loss to be my primary goal.  I wanted to be inspiring. But I didn't want to be an example of “how not to be fat” but how to take care of yourself and to be the kind of woman that honors her needs as important and not just everyone else’s.  

I didn’t realize at the time, but the very act of exercising for the sake of feeling better instead of as a way to bully myself into looking better gave me power.  It forced me to pay attention to how I was feeling and act accordingly.  It made me proud when I accomplished something new.  Every time I could do something, I learned to love the power that my body held rather than seeing myself as weak. 

Next, I stopped making judgements about other women.  This is one of the more challenging ones, and it’s not because women are jerks.  I believe that women are so cruel in their judgements of one another because we’ve agreed to these impossible standards for ourselves.  We hold so close to the ideas that we don’t measure up, that the logical reaction is to throw stones at anyone who might or feel like we're better than those we feel like we're doing better than. If I didn’t have to judge other women then I no longer had to think about how i measured up.  I could see their unique beauty and thereby honor my own. Also, I think it is just as important to stop spending time with women who constantly bring down other people. We all know the type--they're the ones who can't sit in the bar without making fun of what a woman down the bar is wearing because it's not right for her frame. You'll never improve your own thinking space if you allow people who constantly bring others down pollute that space.

I see pictures of myself from the last two years and it is clear there is some sort of outward change. It takes sitting down and making a list of things that I have changed to achieve my goals that I realize that something much bigger has changed. I love myself and think that I am beautiful inside and out. That is not something that anyone can take away from me or that the number on a scale will change. I don't write this as an expert on self-love because really it wasn't easy to get this far and I still struggle. But it is the most freedom I have ever felt to be exactly who I am.  It is the accomplishment, while internal and non-medal earning, that I am most proud of.  It is the most empowering thing I’ve ever felt knowing that I can contribute to my body as it evolves and changes and know that it is was and always will be good.  I’m beautiful.  I’m good enough. And I know I have the power to walk around in this body at peace, however it is (and will be).

That is beautiful.

the only truth i've heard about running.

There's only one truth I've ever heard about running. My friend, Jamie, told me it when I first decided to train for a half marathon. He said 'running will change your life'. I had no idea what he meant but I'm sure I responded with a smile and then my inner voice said some nasty things and I thought 'yea right'. A year and a half later I am here to say running has changed my life. I think that it's only fair to say that not all that change has been easy and, until about 2 months ago, it has felt a lot like work. Two months ago I made the decision that if I am going to sacrifice time away from family and friends to train, to workout, to skip out on alcohol centered events the night before a run (aka 6 nights a week), then I was going to love what I was doing. And now, I wake up and can't wait to go to the gym. Sometimes I don't run my fastest miles because I stop to sit on a bench to stare at the beauty of the Japanese Gardens. I have never felt such passion about something in my life before.

I started this as a way to prove to myself simply that I could. After I got engaged I decided I need to hit a goal weight so I looked amazing for the big day. I currently sit 18 pounds heavier than that number but I have given up the hope of thin for the desire of fit. Running has gone from a way to workout to reshaping my dreams. I've always been an East Coast girl, but I dream of being on the West Coast. I think of the trails I could run and the mountain climbing I could do. I've always wanted to stay home with my kids but thought it would be a small and simple life but now nothing more interests me than being able to stay home, have a modest farm, adventure and be active, and in some capacity use that love of nature, life and fitness to inspire others. [This blog and my Facebook are my outlets, for now, to attempt to inspire someone to be better than they were yesterday, in their health or otherwise.]

It honestly doesn't interest me to run a half-marathon, a marathon, a 50k peaks my interest but I have set my sights on ultra-marathons. Someone asked me recently why I would even want to run 50-miles? My answer was that I can so why not. It was a simplified way to say what I really meant. I don't want to be one of those people who sits around and watches safely from the sidelines. So many of us accept the easy way, the next logical step, and settle in. I will never know what I am capable of achieving as an individual if I don't go out and try to beat myself every single day. They say that ultra-marathoners have somewhat of an addictive personality. You may be a shopaholic, need your coffee in the morning, a workaholic or a partier--my drug of choice is pushing my body to it's limit. I haven't found that limit yet and I'm not willing to stop until I find it.

The second part of my answer goes deeper. I was born the type of person who was scared of everything. If you asked me what I'm scared of it would almost be comical the list that would be produced: driving, dogs, heights, deer while I'm walking, my own home some days, the dark, spiders, people's opinions, failure/trying, riding lawnmowers... the list goes on and on. For once in my life I am not afraid. For once in my life I am trying and sometimes failing daily. For once I know who I am and have a clear vision of who I want to be in five years. For once I am the only judge. For once I don't care if I'm in pain. For once I, the girl afraid of standing on a chair, can't wait to ice ax her way up a mountain. I have found a way to conquer my fears. I've found a place where it is me, the pavement, and a little prayer to God.

I'm not sure this is what Jamie meant when he said running would change my life.

gratitude makes what we have enough.

Every day we are overloaded by information from Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr, and every other website that is now so easily at our fingertips at all times. Every person, company, and article seems to end with something that you should buy to read more, look cool, or accomplish a task better. Maybe I am alone in my selfish, greedy attitude but I can't even count the number of times a day I send a link to Jim or write down something with the words "I want" attached to it. The only thing more obnoxious than the amount of times a day I say "I want..." is those times that I let the words "I need..." slip out of my mouth. For instance, my recent "I need..." is a Jawbone. I eat right, I exercise plenty, I hydrate like it's my job and I get at least 7 hours of sleep a night. Do I really NEED something on my wrist that will confirm each of those things with more exactitude? Will it really improve my health? I know I need gas for my car or food to eat for dinner, but do I NEED a Jawbone? [Honestly, sometimes I will have something in my hand at a store and hear the words "I want this so bad" come out of my mouth and I promptly put it down and leave it at the store. I have a home full of things and spend barely anytime in any sort of clothing besides those fit for working out or playing with children.]

I understand this is the most superficial level of want and need. I know that there are people in my life, including me, right now who are looking for things that are the more basic needs and wants. Some people are looking for houses, wishing for significant others, heartbreak to go numb, hoping for healing, trying for babies, searching for forgiveness, or thinking about relocating. The heartbreaking disappointment that can come with these types of wants can cripple you. They bring down your self-confidence. They make you feel trapped in a jail of sorts. They create stress and make you feel like good things aren't meant for you. If I could snap my finger and have everything I wanted, is this the life that I would be sitting in right now? Absolutely not.  

Recently, my spirits have been low. Jim is my rock, my strong and steady when I can't seem to fathom holding on to anything else. He said, 'let's go, let's  move'. It gave me pause. Will moving make me happy? Will having kids be a secret pill? Will having a partner make your life perfect? Will having new clothes to hit the bar with or the latest iPhone make your life complete? It won't. 

What will make our lives more full is gratitude. Being thankful for what we have been given in the here and now. Are there things that I wish I had that I don't? Sure. You know what makes me feel fulfilled? It's starting a list of things I'm grateful for when I start getting a little down with a certain area of need or want. I start at the beginning of the day--I woke up in a house, with heat and a bed next to someone who loves and takes care of me. I ran in $110 sneakers. I drank coffee. I checked my iPhone with a bill higher than our heat and electric bill combined... I can usually stop there. It's never going to be the big things that make us feel grateful. The big things are the ones that so easily go wrong or we can find holes in. The things that are so small--food, heat, love, transportation, money to make it to tomorrow and possibly no further, jobs, family, friends--are where we will discover we have all we NEED.

Thanksgiving is always the time to remind ourselves that we are blessed. I will say that this year, I especially need that reminder. So many things that I want, that I need, are out of my control right now. I can't have them by snapping my fingers like buying a new sweater but only through planning and patience. I'm sick of feeling like I'm fighting a wall almost every day but need to learn to be grateful for the things I have now, the things that I can control. There are a lot of my friends going through struggles today. I'm not diminishing the pain that some of these things create but just asking you to step back and take a moment to consider what you DO have. 

One of my favorite quotes is "what if you woke up today with only what you were thankful for yesterday?" I know what I'd be left with. What would you have?

obsession.

All of us have obsessions. I used to worry about money, constantly. I would avoid plans with people so I didn't spend money that could be used more wise. Now, I have replaced my money obsession with calorie counting apps and nike+ workout logs. The blog I wrote just a few short months ago about positive body image seems like a distant dream and another person because the truth is you start to get fit, people compliment you, the distance on your runs goes up and the number on your scale goes down. For me, this seemed all well and good until I realized that almost every day something has come out of my mouth that is negative word vomit. The words ugly and fat have become an obsession. Almost daily I am concerned about where my worth lays. I am not even thin yet but there is something so hollow about my eyes and cheekbones that says my healthiness comes at the cost of exhaustion. Sleep comes hard but never long enough until I am jilted awake for a gym session or a run. Could I just sleep in if I wanted? Sure. Could I sleep in and then not sneak minutes on the elliptical (on top of my evening workout) while my kiddos watch their one morning show because I am so upset I missed my morning run? Most definitely not. 

Does everyone have these obsessions? Am I the only one who cannot spend a healthy amount of time and energy concentrating on something? I realized something needed to change after a recent conversation with my roommate in which he told me he couldn't handle anymore of me feeling like my day was ruined because I drank part of an iced Capp (really though, it was a whole run down the drain. I'm still upset at myself.) A similiar conversation occured when I was debating outloud whether I should have a string cheese or not. A 9-year-old told me to 'stop talking outloud. I don't care, it's your body do what you want.' 

I have never been good at striking a balance. I'm either all in or all out. Tunnel vision to a goal and a number and feeling like a complete failure if they weren't hit. It is debilitating. Yesterday on an 11-mile run I stopped upset that I wasn't holding under a 10-minute pace evenly but neglected to accept that even what I did do on that run would land me with a PR on race day that would be 36 minutes less than my best thus far. 

As always let me insert my moment of insane honesty--most mornings I LOATHE myself for not sweating enough, cutting enough calories, or drinking enough water. I guess I am just sending this into the void to say, I am healthy, I am energized, I am usually happy but mostly I am self-obsessed and can't seem to find a balance that feels like I am loving myself with my healthy lifestyle. What is your obsession? How do you force the balance? 

the safe space project: choosing my own ideal

For most of my life, I've envied no one. As a young girl, I was the daring one of my friends who jumped into the middle of action without thinking twice of the consequences. I was comfortable around boys and boyfriends, was free thinking, of average height, thin, strong, thick haired, well dressed. My body, from the outside perspective was petite yet provocative; 5'3", 120 lbs with 32 DD breast.

I not only liked who I was, I loved myself and my life. Except on occasion, when my mature body coupled with my sense of confidence evoked a strong sense of lust from older men, lust that I was too young to understand and ill-prepared to handle. My trusting, independent mind could at once be considered a gift of maturity and potential for heartache. The attention from boys and men took its toll on my sense of purpose as a young lady. While giddy girlfriends prepared for a night out by stuffing bras and gossiping about boys from our study hall, I was deep in my closet juggling two distinct selves. The first, who’s instinct it was to wear out a compression bra under a t-shirt, and the other who was beginning to believe it was a better move to choose the low cut halter top that needed, and garnered, constant attention. I had come to expect the regular club bouncer would never once glance at my fake ID. He busied his eyes with soft roundness of my tits, which teased and taunted in the halter. On more than one occasion, after hours of guzzling cheap beer, I came to feel I owed him something.

I suppose I imagined my teenage breasts had found purpose after tormenting me through middle school. Recreational sports had become a thing of the past before ever reaching high school. The last time I remember handling a ball, I was thirteen and playing in a girls basketball league for the YWCA. The girls on my team wouldn't recall me wearing two sports bras simultaneously to prevent my breasts from swinging directionless because I came to the locker room already in uniform. They would have thought I was sitting on the sideline recovering from defensive tactics, not because my adult sized jugs were so sore from continuously being flung, smashed into and flattened, that I was near tears. On the ride home from what I knew would be my last game, I cried silently in the back seat knowing my newly formed boobs were too much a distraction from the game to ever play sports well again.

I paced the gynecologist's office just after my nineteenth birthday pleading for a referral to a plastic surgeon who would give me the green light for a breast reduction. The Doctor did her best to persuade me I was blessed to be so well endowed and reluctantly gave me the referral I desired.

I spent the weeks leading up my appointment compiling edited and re-edited lists of every possible reason I could conceive of why my breasts were a nuisance and possible danger to my health. But before presenting my data to the surgeon, I threw myself into the arms of this stranger, buried my face into her lab coat lapel, sobbed and begged for her to take them.

The insurance company responded to our case within a week, the answer was no.

I grew into a woman, lost baby fat and gained hips, began to use my sexuality as a tool of persuasion. During an internship, I was sent to interview a local artist, and though I had done a fair share of research on his work and personal history—prepared lead questions and formed a connection through daily emails—I fell back on a low cut shirt and flirtation as insurance to make our time together as advantageous as possible.

I would be remiss not to mention, during this fragile period of entering adulthood, the man who would soon become my husband knew my intentions of forming relationships was not a threat even if I did not, and loved me without judgement, but I had lost my self love.

Later that year Matt and I founded a creative studio and I realized I could no longer rely on the primitive desires of men to gain clients. I channeled my former self, hid my money makers behind button-ups and pull-overs, found again my assertiveness—and clientele looking me in the eye. I let myself be overtaken by a new sort of confidence in honing my expertise in selling Matt's illustration work.

As our wedding approached and it was time to choose a dress, I began again to value other areas of my body. I applauded myself for running every other day to quiet my mind, admired my toned and tan legs in the mirror, focused on tightening my ass. And after, as we flipped through our wedding photos, I concentrated on facial expressions and overall atmosphere.

Time passed, our son began to grow in my belly and I relished my melon sized protrusion, never once restraining myself during a meal or worrying about post-partum muffin top. I loved pregnancy. Of course I knew there would be excess weight to lose once my son was born, I expected a need for more routine physical exertion than I was accustomed to, was sure I would shed the pounds without resistance—and I did. Mostly.

Just a few weeks after he was born, as my stomach shrank and my hips narrowed, I sunk into a deep seeded depression, blaming my mood swings and general emotional distance from my family on the difficulty of breast feeding. But every time his sweet lips were close to my naked breast, resentment appeared. I lied to myself, visited lactation consultants, pointed a finger at lack of latching, low milk supply, sleepness nights and for many months denied the resentment was a result of my now sized 34 H/I breasts always needing to be contorted so that my hungry boy could find the nipple in a mountain of flesh.

My disproportioned body image was not in my head. Intending an industry joke about the effects of Photoshopping, a friend edited a photograph of Matt and I from the summer before so that my pregnant belly was placed on Matt, and I was once again slim waisted. He left intact my mountainous boobs which solicited comments suggesting this photo was true to my current physical appearance. My breasts never deflated after breast feeding and my ego had.

In the following months I hunched over, used my baby to conceal my torso and searched desperately for clothing that would both hide my body and still be appropriate for a twenty-something year old.

During a transitional week—filing paperwork for an audit and weaning myself off of being a full time Mom—a wave of knowing washed over me. It was time to do something more proactive if I ever hoped to find myself.

With Matt's encouragement, fully expecting to pay for surgery out of pocket even if it meant staying lean on extracurricular activities, I returned to my gynecologist expecting to demand a referral to a plastic surgeon. She handed me two slips for specialists considered the best in the area without hesitation and within weeks I found an understanding, scrupulous man willing fight with my insurance company to cover the cost of the procedure.

It was a painful ordeal, took what felt like months to heal, and of course I have scars. But these scars are precious to me. They empower me to project my mind and not my body. These are a daily reminder of how far I have to come to accept myself. 

Laura Duquette

www.12grainstudio.com

two years. four months. nineteen days.

i remember the day life ended. it wasn't as ceremonious or scary as one would believe. it felt like any other day--i fed the dog, locked the door, and at 8 am left home in the direction of newport news. i had just enough money to buy gas to get me back to buffalo--if i forewent any food along the way. i had no where to stay and no possessions to my name except for the two rubbermaid containers in my backseat. those rubbermaid containers stayed in my backseat for almost a month because in some alternate universe there was something i could do to reverse everything. my family and friends were courtesy enough to not mention that i seemed to be home for more than a visit as the weekend turned into a long weekend turned into weeks, months and finally years.

the thing that still stings me most about this time period is what a fucking liar i was. "i'm totally fine." "it was never right." "we all saw this coming." "can't wait to move on." but here's the thing that people don't tell you--no matter how many activities you put in your schedule, no matter how many times you refill your wine glass, no matter how many lies you make up for others, you cannot lie to yourself. we've all been through these types of endings. we've all told ourselves these lies. but i have friends going through life changing events right now and i'm writing this to tell you, when your whole life changes no matter the catalyst, it is a hell of a lot easier to go through it with people than to try to cover it. there is no shame in pain, in tears, in irrational rants where you perhaps disclose an almost too detailed account of how you will kill the people who brought this pain to you.

the worst part of life ending is that people have all these expectations for you. apparently there is a time frame in which everything is supposed to be tied up into a little box and walked away from. they'll tell you it's when papers are signed. they'll tell you it's once you have a job again. they'll tell you it's when all the flowers from the funeral have died. they'll tell you it's once you've climbed out of debt. the judger is allowed to have a whole airport full of baggage, but you, my friend, must be clear of heartache and drama. as i talk to my friends who aren't through their storm yet, i have realized that talking about my life-altering experience to help them has made it worth it all and has been therapeutic. but there's one thing i have yet to really admit to myself. so here's the biggest, hardest confession that i will ever make: i feel like i just got my life back two weeks ago.

everyone gets to choose their own bench marker of when whatever said life-altering event is over. i had to move thousands of miles on a dime, with no money, a mountain of debt, heartache, a sense of failure, nowhere to live and no job. i know this isn't the worst thing to every happen to someone but let me tell you, it wasn't very pleasant. thankfully i had a bundle of apology jewelry to sell and a sympathetic sister to get me through. i found myself and found love. i found jobs but nothing i lived for or that helped pay the bills. it wasn't until a few weeks ago that i took a job that will allow me to pay down debt and actually save money. this seems like the final puzzle piece for me to say that although life ended, i gained MY life. a life that i am proud of. a life where i don't feel unfulfilled and underappreciated. it wasn't until two weeks ago i felt like i had all the tools in front of me to tell my old life to fuck itself and fix whatever is still hanging in the balance. i'm glad i went through the struggle because now i know i can make it to the other end of anything.

two years. four months. nineteen days. that's how long it took for me to feel whole again. so friends who are hurting right now--go through your process. you get to decide when you run your life again. i hope for you, it's faster. i hope for you, everything falls in line quickly. but if not...if for you it takes time...that's alright, too.

the safe space project: a study in beauty.

A Study in Beauty

Page Nolker

I was a teenager when I stopped reading fashion magazines and began my long journey to stop judging my looks. At one point in my life I have rejected and resented every part of my body and appearance from my hair to my toes. My bushy eyebrows, sleepy right eye, inadequate lashes, crooked nose, too large nostrils, full lips, huge smile, revealing gums, protruding chin. My right index finger is fatter than the rest and I once longed for square, strong fingernails instead of the ones I have. Of course my breasts didn’t measure up to my expectations as a young woman—whose do? My two birthmarks came under critical scrutiny before I even hit my teens; no one else I knew had them. I have judged my vagina, my ass, my thighs, behind my knees and I recall more than one adolescent summer spent obsessing over my toes and wishing that feet came without them. 

That kind of self scrutiny is crippling so in my early twenties I bought a painting by the artist Margaret Lazzari from her study on beauty and made the subject my muse. I vowed to rewire my brain’s standard of beauty and learn to enjoy myself. I studied the portrait’s languid, sensual self embodiment and the sexiness inherent in her calm and self possession. She hangs in my bedroom; her radiant, compassionate warmth the first thing I see every morning. Over the years, she came to personify my idea of Grace and my feminine ideal. She became my icon of beauty; my guardian angel.  

I have spent hours in front of the mirror witnessing myself. Wondering why I never look the way I feel? Why my two profiles seem unrelated? Noting how a child and a woman share the same space. 

For six years I cut my own hair—and still do on occasion. I used to admire older women with smart short cuts and dream about finding the courage to cut mine some day when I also was older and no longer afraid. I didn’t end up waiting and the experience was more cathartic than I could have conceived. Of all my features, I hated my hair the most. I hated getting my hair cut from my earliest memories. I hated sitting still in front of a mirror being examined by a stranger—submitting to their interpretation of me. I cried every time I got my hair cut growing up and it became a family joke. My father would greet me when I came home ready with a paper bag that had eyeholes cut out. It wasn’t until I chopped my hair off and began cutting it myself, stopped caring and started walking around in the world confidently—despite my amateur effort and the occasional bald spot—that strangers, men and women, started stopping me on the street to tell me how much they loved my hair. Astounded, that’s when I realized people weren’t responding to my hair itself, but to my attitude; the energy with which I wore my hair. 

The self portrait at the top of this post was another intentional act of healing. Like getting my hair cut, I hated having my photo taken; I hated photos of myself. I arranged for a photo shoot with my niece and went to the mall for a makeover in preparation. For years, I hadn’t owned any makeup to speak of. I wore only the basics and only to weddings and formal events. I selected a young art student at Sephora and asked for his help. I explained a little about myself and intention and then handed the creative direction over to him. He made up only one half of my face and asked me to compare them. He’d done a nice job and I told him truthfully that I liked both sides. Surprised, he told me women buy makeup to hide, no one ever says they like they’re natural selves. He also told me I look like Annie Lenox. I’d heard that before. Not really knowing what Annie Lenox looked like I assumed the resemblance was surface: short hair, long face; an androgynous look. 

The truth is: I don’t want to look like anyone but myself. I prize being original; my own one-of-a-kind in everything I do. Still, curious I went home and googled images and videos of Annie Lenox. Unconcerned about the details of similarity, I studied her energy. I wanted to see how Annie Lennox embodied her beauty, her self. 

Actions speaks louder than words and confidence conveys more than a perfect smile, pinup figure or beautiful hair. My whole is greater than the sum of my parts—priceless wisdom I spent the first half of my life learning. 

**You can find more of Page's insights and personal journey at babeeffect.com**

why i run.

one of the major things that keeps me motivated while i am training is reading books by or about successful people. over the last year or so, i have read dozens of books about successful runners, bikers, business owners, creative types and humanitarians. and in all of these books there seems to be a part where they tell you how they succeed and why they do what they do to begin with. specifically in running books, there is always the answer to the question of why we run. there are of course those arguments that it must be natural if children do it. there are the arguments that we were gorillas and really enjoyed playing tag with antelope; it came about as a survival skill; our bodies were designed for it to get from place to place. it's always some scientific, anthropological, ignorant, generalized-for-every-human-being-ever bullshit. but what's lacking in the dozens of books that i've read is the 'I'. i don't think that i have finished one of these books with the answer of why a single athlete does what they do besides that they can.

i have openly and honestly been having trouble getting back into running this summer even though my mind and motivation have lofty goals. so yesterday, after several tough runs in a row, i decided to give up on running and tossed my shoes in the recycling bin. but this morning, after a terrible night's sleep, my body woke up and wanted to run. that's why at 6:03 am, about ten seconds after i heard jim's engine start to leave for the gym, i leaped out of bed and dug up an old pair of running shoes and hit the pavement. (i didn't want him to know i was running in case it was another shitty run and then i'd just pretend i never went.) something in me wants to run. something in me can't just let it go. so, why do I run? i've struggled to answer this question and i think that's the start of why i have trouble with the actual action of running. if i'm not doing it to benefit myself and get something out of it, of course i am just going to get frustrated. so this morning on my run i really thought about why i run and here's what i came up with.

i run because i've never been a mentally strong person. most of my failures in life started in my mind and then manifested themselves in my life. i want to train my brain to overcome, to push beyond boundaries. running pushes me further emotionally and mentally than it does my body. this is a war zone for me but i rather work it out on the pavement than in an important area of my life.

i run because since college i haven't followed the career path that i assumed i would. this has led me to a feeling of stagnancy and feeling like i don't have goals in the sense that most 26-year-olds do. to be incredibly honest with you, i will avoid going to events or gatherings where i know that i do not have a career similar to the other attendees. i run to have goals and bench markers and prove that i can still accomplish something even if it's not in the expected ways or in the way that society tells me should be important to a 26-year-old.

i run because i hate sweat. hate is a major understatement. what i've learned is that moment that i feel moisture on my neck is the moment that i pick up my pace a little. one of my favorite quotes is by muhammad ali. he said 'i don’t count my sit-ups; i only start counting when it starts hurting because they’re the only ones that count'. i run because it's the one time i am motivated by something that usually makes me cringe. when i sweat, it means i've worked.

i run because i love to depend on myself. i like knowing that i can use my two feet to get to somewhere that seems so far away in my head. one of my favorite runs is from my house down to canalside and back up through downtown. there are gentle hills and straightaways where you feel like you're making no progress at all but i know at the end i've run about 7 miles of my city. as i start to move towards a lifestyle that is more about refinishing, growing my own vegetables, minimizing the tangible things i have, eating to fuel my body rather than my taste buds, owning one car instead of two, nothing makes more sense than to be able to use my two feet to get to where i want to go.

a lot of us say that we like running when we're playing sports because sports are distracting. i don't think that's it. i think that we like running when we play sports because there are no measures of the running we're doing. we're just listening to our body and running accordingly. so this morning for my run i decided to run like i would when playing sports. i stopped trying to speed train. i put on old sneakers. i put on worship music and slowed even under my normal pace for part of it and far above my normal pace for parts. the only thing on my mind was catching the sunrise near the water. it was refreshing to forget about training and checking my pace, my mileage and remember that running is not about why everyone else run, it's about why I run. running is the only time i feel appropriate being selfish and that's why i run. it's why my shoes will never land permanently in the garbage.

the safe space project: engendering safe space.

You, yourself, as much as anybody in the entire universe, deserve your love and affection. 

– Buddha

We all have insecurities. Unfortunately, they don’t subside with years, job titles, or fanciful thought.  In fact, I would be willing to bet that the aforementioned only exacerbate that which we hold so tightly, and secretively on to.  

Which warrants a critical conversation on our culture’s proclivity toward dismissing the subjective, or at very least containing it. As a society, we have compartmentalized times for talking about our feelings and emotions rather than making it a deeply integrated part of our daily interactions with one another. I believe that we need to provide the safe space necessary to foster healthy and meaningful relationships with each other that result in open discussions about our personal misgivings.

Suffice it to say, my sister’s courageous statement of self-love in a moment of

self-doubt has produced such a space; I feel it wise to make use of such an opportune moment. In the words of Marianne Williamson, “As we let our own lights shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.”

So, here goes. If my sister can lament of body image, I have the now have the ability to publicly proclaim that, since I was a child, I have struggled to rectify my internalized identity with my outward expression.

Growing up, gender norms were reinforced quite strictly. My mother’s telling of my birth always details the fact that she “waited 18 years for a girl.” And she never lets me forget it. Though she may have finally gotten her girl, my refusal to wear dresses on occasions that required them became a repeat topic of discussion. And, I cannot count the number of times I was made to play house with my sister in lieu of football with my brothers.  

“I wish I had been born a boy,” I thought to myself.  

It seemed like the only logical solution. I had grown weary of the constant corrections – and reminders – of proscribed gender roles and my inability to properly fulfill them. Fortunately, my understanding of gender identity and expression has changed quite dramatically since childhood.

Through many evolutions of thought and awareness of self, coupled with the many encounters of supportive individuals that I now call community, I am able to succinctly describe why it is that I reject the gender binary. Not in an attempt to be countercultural, but in order to free myself (and others) from the confines of a social construct I (nor they) have never agreed to.

I am a self-described genderqueer.

For the most part, I now can confront the looks of confusion or embarrassment – and sometime both – that come with the length of my hair and the skinny ties that I wear. And I am also more than accustomed to adults and children alike asking, “Are you a boy or a girl?”

But. Why does that matter? Why should that matter?

I am who I want to be(come).  

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vVg7mtgEqGY

-Sarah E. Bishop

the safe space project: body image.

i'm an emotional. real. self-conscious. lady. and sometimes all those adjectives come into play at once and a blog like this one happens. i apologize in advance--but not really.

today there was a moment right around five o'clock where i lost it. maybe it's the exhaustion of getting up early to run or the extra long hours with new kids i've been putting in at work or maybe it is that i cut sugar out of my diet this week. but at five o'clock, at hour 9.5 of work, i had what can only be described as a nonsensical break down. it started with my hair which a mother had complimented a few hours before. "really?! this frizzy mess of curls." next it skipped to the fact that maybe i wasn't a girl i'd notice across a bar. "ugh, i bet i'm one of those girls who just fades into the background like a framed piece of stock photography." and from there, i can't even tell you the crazy thoughts about my face, my eyes, my man hands (thanks Seinfeld for giving me a descriptor everyone understands), and my less than rock hard abs.

doubt is a funny thing. when you start to doubt the little thing about yourself, you start to doubt the big things about yourself. i think this is similar to the concept that in order to love someone or be loved by someone you must first love yourself. you have to start at the beginning or everything else falls apart. it started with a compliment and ended up with me wanting to run away to some place no one knows my name. but the point is at the end of my pandemonium hour, doubt did a wonderful thing for me. it reminded me of exactly the reason that this doubt about my body and looks rarely inches into my head. it's because i know who i am. it's because i know that the outward is not a reflection of the inside.

if you would have hit me up a few years ago, i would've told you the reason i always needed to have my nails done or why i shopped 3 out of every 7 days and it's because i was searching for something that would make me fit it, make me look the part, make me more like someone else. and then i found someone who loved me (no, not Jim. myself.) and it was a fabulous thing. i now accept that i will never be a skinny mini, my hair will always be a frizzy mess and i will get breakouts over the littlest stresses. i will always be the person who says things out loud that were better left in my head, i will always take too many instagrams, and i will always send mushy texts to friends and family just to tell them they're important. i'm a woman who is a walking contradiction--i am patient but impatient. i am sweet and sincere but i am a harsh, honest bitch. i will never be a people pleaser and people will (i probably should say do) dislike me for that. i am intelligent but will read any gossip magazine i can lay my hands on. i am outgoing but get anxious as hell in public. that person. that person is who i am and it is made up of the things inside not some outward appearance that really tells nothing about me at all.

so you may wonder, if i don't find myself doubting my appearance often, why do i care about cooking healthy and training for a half marathon? and the answer is simple. i believe that the body is a temple and we've been given able, healthy bodies as a blessing so why wouldn't we take care of them? i also believe we get out of life what we put into it so sometimes that needs to mean hard work and discipline. yes, i know that i could stand to lose some weight. yes, i do call my arms flub and my stomach chub but that's MOSTLY in a joking way. as anyone who knows me reads this you understand that i am confident in spirit, in personality and with my body (and it's flaws) but today, on a day when i feel bad about everything down to my hair and freckles i am going to do the most freeing thing i can think of, and just toss a picture up of me. no make-up (who am i kidding 350 days a year i am make-upless), sweaty from running 2 miles, in a sports bra i wear for almost every workout, flabby and white as a polar bear. this picture is not stunning or sexy but it is me. i am ok with my soft bits and know that they aren't who make me who i am. that crazy woman above is who i am--and her, i wouldn't change her. so for me. for me to end what was a rough day on a freeing, positive, crazy leap of faith note, here is that photo.

running shorts.

Tonight was the first night I broke down and put on a pair of running shorts since last August. Somewhere around mile 3, when my breath was short and Carl kept tripping over my feet, I was discouraged. That discouragement was only amplified by looking down and seeing my thighs.

Growing up, my family had always referred to my thighs as 'thunder thighs'--a name that was not always meant in a nice way but that I have come to accept as a part of me, perhaps until tonight. I am ill prepared for the half-marathon in five weeks and that in itself is my own fault. But tonight, looking down in frustration, my whole mood changed from light and optimistic to defeated. Looking around there were at least a dozen runners around me all with the perfect form. We're talking about the types of girls or guys you could see in loose fitting hoodies and sweatpants and know from the very stride of their walk that they were runners.   In this moment, the first thing I thought was that I am not a runner. No matter how many miles I log a week or how many Chia Seed Breakfasts, Salad Lunches and Quinoa Dinners I eat, I will never be a "runner". In this moment, even my calves, the ones I'm usually so proud of in dresses for showing the hard work that I put in on the road, just looked large and frumpy to me. A moment of weakness in my run, caused me to completely crumble.

I don't think this is unusual. I don't think that it's so crazy for even the most fit person to hate the size of their ass compared to the rest of their body or for the prettiest girl to worry about that one freckle or zit that is misplaced. What I do hate, is that when I could have just buckled down and admitted to myself that this was not my best run, I attacked myself. Worse yet, I attacked my running partner. I went from thinking that I wasn't a runner because I didn't have the ideal runners body to all of a sudden thinking that I was somewhere just above worthless. At the root of it, it was me comparing myself to the people around me. What is it, that we have to compare ourselves all the time? I was told daily by either my parents, sister or on the rare occasion that my brothers were feeling extra nice, that I was beautiful. I believe it, even if it's not in a traditional sense. But running is the one thing that should be about self. Tonight I just couldn't do it. I looked around and then I lost myself, my pace, and my drive. Why do we compare? Why does it matter if my pace is different than yours or if my thighs don't display the strength that they hold?

Tonight...my run was a mental failure.

Tomorrow...my mind will be stronger and my stride a little longer for suffering through this run.




P.S. If you haven't watched this yet, DO IT!! Why do we compare when we don't even see the real us to begin with?  Dove Beauty Sketches

i lead a small, simple life.

It's a rainy Friday morning and the view of Jim's plaid collection from my bed seems more promising than venturing the half a block for my normal day-off breakfast at Five Points. So in order to buy myself a few more minutes in bed without feeling lazy, I'll write...


"Sometimes I wonder about my life. I lead a small life - well, valuable, but small - and sometimes I wonder, do I do it because I like it, or because I haven't been brave? So much of what I see reminds me of something I read in a book, when shouldn't it be the other way around?"


It's is a quote from You've Got Mail, one of my favorite movies, that I always find myself relating to. I feel like I lead this, small and simple life. I think until I really started 'dejunking' my life, I thought that it was a bad thing. But the more I challenge myself to change, the more I realize that all I want is a small and simple life. I want the type of life where I create with my hands and my mind. My grammy Tollini told me about how little her family's life was effected during the Depression. With a family of 12 children, I find it unbelievable so I ask her to tell me about it regularly to make sure she isn't mixing up her facts at 93-years-old. She lived in the country. They grew their own food and most of their needs were met with their own two hands. That is the life that I want to live. I know that I want to live a life that is hard-earned but that no one can take away from me.

I work a job that can be grueling and stressful for less than living wage. Some days I come home feeling defeated that I pour myself into children who in five years won't remember me while not making ends meet or so easily hit me when they're having a hissy fit. I know that I am called to work with children and so I absorb the stress and the financial loss until I can move abroad and walk out my dreams (or stay here and make my dream coffeeshop). But what I find, at the end of a long day, is that I come home to something amazing each day. 

My house is far more than just four walls. There is love here. I'm greeted immediately at the door by Carl, a pit bull-mastiff mix. For being such a tough guy he certainly knows how to make you feel needed and wanted. He's my roommates dog and to be honest when I moved in I wasn't sure how I was going to like living with my roommate, knowing maybe more his public persona than anything real about him. What I found is that I gained more than a friend but someone that I consider a brother. He's always quick with a joke when things get tense and when I find myself on the stairs sneaking an unusual alone moment, he checks, just to make sure that I'm okay. And of course, Jim, who can light up my whole day with just one smile. I have found myself wanting to spend nights at home, because the three men who can make me smile after a rough day are right there--laughing and joking, discussing life's little problems or just being in each others presence. There's no logical reason the three of us should have such great relationships, we're all so different but what we've created here is more like a family, our home a safe-haven where anything that happens stays here and we go out of our way for each other.

To me, building a home has been the most important key to my small but valuable life. No matter what happens outside this house, I know what I have to come back to. I know I can make a simple phone call to Jim or Mike when I'm in a tight spot and there they will be. In the age of social media, there are hundreds of people that you might be 'friends' with, but who are those people that you purposely build relationships with? I used to think having a bunch of friends was so important until I realized that the people I cut out were the gossips, the negative energy in my life and when I was left with just a handful, I knew it was that these people, I wanted to pour my life into and share a relationship with them not just be Saturday night drinking buddies.

When I take time to notice how much my life has changed in the last two years, it always seems like it is mainstreaming to a fulfilling, simple life. I don't go out and party, I rarely spend money on things but rather experiences, and I use about 1/4 of gas preferring to walk and giving up my car. I value a good cup of coffee and conversation with friends during a hike. I've strapped on running shoes instead of alcohol to get out my stress or to reward myself and when I would usually find myself bored, I put a pen in my hand and make a sketch. I'm starting to believe the smaller and simpler the life, the more you are able to dig in your roots and make your relationships with yourself and others deeper. Superficial interactions are eliminated when you live with meaning and purpose whether that's saving a building on the West Side or planting a garden out back. 

More than anything, I think that you miss out when you don't stop to think about the small things in your life. You probably come home every day to the same house, the same people. You probably spend Sunday brunch at the same restaurant, drinking the same cocktail. It's okay to live a small, simple life. One you love and are comfortable in but make sure that you stop and are thankful for the life that you have taken the time to lead and the things you are fortunate to have. I've really done that this week and I'm telling you, it is eye opening what you'll see.

the workbench.

My grandparents house is slowly being broken down for sale. It has been hard for me

to stomach my second home no longer being available for me to escape life, lay in the

backyard and sun bath, pick apples and plant tomatoes. Not too long ago, my mom

asked if there was anything in the house I would want as a memory. I had a short list:

grammy's vanity and grandpa's tools. Mom couldn't understand why I wanted his tools

but told me I was free to take what I wanted as no one else would argue for them.

When I was a little girl, I used to play with my grandpa's tools at his work bench, not

understanding the actual use of most, but knowing that this area had been special to my

grandpa, it quickly became one of my favorite spaces to spend time. Grandpa passed

away when I was just five-years-old and still manages to be the most influential person

in my life. For me, his tools are an extension of his warm smile, his stubborn streak, his

handwork, and his marlboro habit.

As the distance slips between my grandma moving out of her home and the selling of

the house, I knew I had to find the tools that would be most helpful in my upcoming endeavor. Today was the first visit to the house in over three months. Round one of a treasure hunt for the thing that would inspire, motivate and influence me to finally fulfill my dream of ten years. It's not that there haven't been other whispers in my ears--from my persistent sister, my senile (but wonderful) mother, and a supportive partner. But somewhere in this head of mine I had a theory that if I could find the right tool, everything would just fall into place. Ten years worth of putting off making the next piece

of jewelry would end. And I wasn't wrong.

There, at the workbench that hasn't been used for a real project in over twenty years-

- since my grandpa passed--I found not just one thing to inspire me, but hundreds.

Spread out in fruit baskets and cigar boxes I found files, hand-crank drills, hammers,

saws, stakes from the garden, and hundreds of metal things I couldn't tell you the use

for but will all be used in some way. My grandpa used these tools for something much

different than I. He made the windmills that were in our backyard, the deer decor on his

garage door, the many wood fixtures surrounding his gardens. Me? I'll be using them to

make jewelry.

Welcome to the first day of Willink Forge. I'm not a blogger but I think this is going to be a journey worth sharing.