Life Is Pain

"Life is pain, Highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something." -The Princess Bride

I had a rough weekend.

It started with a terrible dream, followed by an extended bout of insomnia that left me in a fog of anxiety and discomfort. We were scheduled to have a family dinner Sunday night, but my mounting insecurity led me to send J and the kids without me.

While avoiding a social event seemed the most gentle choice for myself, I wondered why it was {and is} that so often I become obsessively ashamed of my body when I'm depressed. What had started out as feeling just a little off-kilter and sad had quickly transformed into a full-fledged case of self-loathing.

I couldn't possibly be in the presence of normal, attractive people and pretend to be one of them, I thought. They would see right through me. Being caught trying to walk among them would be torture of the highest order. An unredeemable embarrassment.

I knew, at least on some level, that these thoughts were ridiculous; self-defeating and entirely unhelpful. But where do they come from? They're like a well-worn path that my brain unconsciously treads with the slightest provocation. The ease with which I walk it must mean I've thought this way for a long, long time. I reason that even the most hurtful coping mechanisms were-- once upon a time-- just that. Coping mechanisms.

My theory is this: a long time ago, I was a teenager with very little control of my life, and a very high level of fear surrounding that. It felt powerful and affirming to set goals {run 4 miles} and achieve them. It was meditative and calming to know that whatever else happened, I could succeed in controlling my body.

It was healthy until it wasn't.

Because somewhere along the line, it stopped being simply a means of dealing with pain and fear, and became a hoped-for cure to pain and fear.

Instead of thinking,  I'll feel happier after I go running I'd think, I wouldn't be so sad if I looked like a real runner.

Instead of feeling a sense of accomplishment as I achieved goals, I began seeing my unmet, unrealistic goals {to look like a model} as the source of all that was wrong with my life. I wanted to feel complete-- inoculated from all dissatisfaction and uncertainty. I wanted to be a finished product.

I still do this. Unknowingly, yes, but still-- whenever uncomfortable feelings start to overwhelm me, I tread that well-worn path of thought. If I could fit those old size 0 jeans, this wouldn't hurt me so much. Aside from being patently untrue, thoughts like these inevitably lead to shame and despise, not motivation. I sink into a pit of despair.

What snaps me out of it is often a variation on a theme. {It seems I must learn the same lesson, over and over again.} I remember that when the Buddha was asked to reveal the meaning of life, he replied, "Life is pain." A rather macabre statement, but one that I find oddly comforting. I looked it up; In fact, the inescapability of pain is the first of the Four Noble Truths.

Remembering that life is pain frees me from reading too much into painful experiences. Pain does NOT mean that I'm unworthy of happiness until I'm thinner or richer or admired or what-have-you. Pain does not mean God is punishing me, or testing me, or playing cruel games with me. Pain does not mean that I'm just pessimistic and could be blindingly happy if I would look on the bright side. Pain is just life, and remembering that saves me from wasting my time hopelessly trying to avoid it.

I had a therapist once who said that the degree to which we open ourselves to pain is the degree to which we open ourselves to joy. That we cannot experience one without the other, and that when we live in fear or pursuit of only one, we live a half life.

I think of all the good people in this world who have suffered and yet done heroic, good things with their lives. I think of how none of us ever has true control over anything. I think of how little it matters in the end what dress size I wear. I think of all the small yet sacred things I can do with my time if only I wouldn't allow fear of pain to derail me.

I'm trying to condense all these thoughts into a concise mantra I can feed myself as I tread a new path of thought in my brain: "I am not my body. Life is pain. Embrace it. Look for God in it."

Baby steps, people.

{image}

Monday Links

My posts this month are all rather single-minded-- quite a reflection on how I tend to get. :) But changing my self-perception is no small feat! As I've pursued it with increasing vigor, I've become convinced that body shame and self-objectification is a pervasive, deeply entrenched ailment among women. The more I learn about it, the more I long for all of us to shake off the shackles and own our true potential.

Don't know where to start? Here are some of the resources I've found that have helped me recently:

Beauty Redefined couples telling-it-like-it-is {on everything from photoshopping to ageism} with empowering step-by-step guides to developing media literacy and dealing with our own negative thoughts. I've found it so enlightening, I've started re-reading a few posts every morning just to ensure that they stay on the forefront of my mind.

I love the way Weightless encourages me to be gentle.

Cultivating self-love through self-portraiture.

Turn off the television, put down the magazine and start enjoying real women, face to face.

I love that Mara doesn't shy away from talking about the deep stuff.

The truth behind before and after photos.

Feed your soul. I took my cue from Nicole and have started painting again.

Have a great MLK Day everyone!

Be Gentle

This morning, I met my own eyes in the mirror and it felt like it'd been ages since I'd truly seen myself.

That is, I see my reflection every day, of course.

One must.

I check my outfit. I floss my teeth. I apply mascara. But I've become expert at seeing only the pieces. Thighs that are too wide for that skirt. Legs that could use some high heels. Under-eye circles that should be covered. I reduce myself to a list of flaws to be masked or fixed, never looking too long or allowing myself to dwell on the whole. Reflective surfaces are almost as bad as scales for producing shame and disgust within me.

No wonder it's so difficult to face myself.

But this morning I met my own eyes in the mirror and instead of quickly looking away in embarrassment, I lingered. I saw my own pain.

"You poor thing," I thought involuntarily.

It's been a difficult two years. It shows in my face; in my posture; in everything, I expect. Instead of dismissing my softly plumping body with revulsion, I found myself feeling an overwhelming sense of compassion.

There have been days when I can't get out of bed. Days when I live off of carbs. Days where I have to ignore all my own feelings and function for the kids. I've run miles and miles in search of endorphins and drugged myself with pounds upon pounds of chocolate. I've been faithful and discouraged, strong and fragile, vulnerable and steadfast. I do not begrudge myself the hours I've sat on a couch, wrapped in a blanket as I ate my stress. I deserved some ice cream amidst the demise of my life. But today, I thought, today I deserve more.

I should take you for a walk in the sun.  

I should feed you something hearty and nourishing.

I should read you a book full of wit and humor. 

You've been through a lot. I need to be gentle with you. 

My self-directed thoughts were so uncharacteristically tender, I felt tears prick my eyes. I think that for quite some time now, my soul has longed to be seen. My body has longed to be respected. It felt right to honor them both.

I wrote "Be gentle and loving in deed and in thought" on my bathroom mirror. I think it's my mantra for the year as I strive to acknowledge my own worth and treat myself accordingly. If I can be gentle with myself, I think it only follows that I will be more gentle with others as well.

The world could use a little more gentle.

{image}

Mirage

J and I were driving home from a party one night. I was deep in my own head, staring out the window when J asked what was wrong.

I had to explain that one of the guests had been talking about her nutrition class at the university. She'd been required to step inside a machine that measured body fat, and she {acting all demure and modest} reported the result to us. Her percentage was miniscule. As in, I've only ever heard of a number that low in men who were marathon training.

Instantly, I felt like a failure. My clothes felt uncomfortable. My SKIN felt uncomfortable. I wanted to crawl outside of myself. I felt like a thing unworthy of even taking up space. For the rest of the evening, I'd withdrawn to a corner of the room and tried to survive the onslaught of feelings.

However, If depression has taught me anything, it's been to examine and question my own thoughts. Before J interrupted my reverie, I'd been in the midst of some major self talk.

If my body fat percentage were lower than hers, would it actually make me better than her? 

What if I were in a car crash and became burned or disfigured, would I suddenly be worth less?

Can I only feel good about myself if I feel better than the other women in the room? Don't I actually hate that? 

I've seen other women look at me and feel bad about themselves. I always have to jump in and proclaim "This tan is fake!" "I'm wearing spanx!" "I'm just having a good hair day!" I feel like a fraud that has simply succeeded in fooling everyone.

If I don't want to feel better than other women-- if I don't believe I am better than other women-- why do I allow myself to feel worse? Less than?

Isn't this a no-win situation? Isn't this a distraction? Something to keep me discouraged so that I can't do wonderful, inspiring things with my time? Isn't beauty all just a mirage?

And just like that, I felt a moment of clarity. I'd been torturing myself like the plain-bellied sneetches with no stars upon thars.

Beauty does has a place in life. I appreciate beauty. I create beauty. I seek beauty.

But beauty is not the purpose of life.

In fact, if I allow myself to get lost in the world's narrow definition of beauty, I actually miss out on seeing, appreciating, creating and becoming. I think the unfathomable potential we all have is really, truly beautiful.

We are taught that even Jesus "hath no form nor comeliness: and when we shall see him, there is no beauty that we should desire him." {Isaiah 53:2} The greatest of them all didn't even match the world's expectation of beauty. 

I find that freeing.

Not Something to be Seen

"She never looked nice. She looked like art, and art wasn't supposed to look nice; it was supposed to make you feel something." -Rainbow Rowell "Eleanor & Park"

Shortly after J moved back in following our 9 month separation, we began preparing for a trip to the Cayman Islands. 

Now, even if a new and relatively fragile reconciliation hadn't been part of the picture, a beach vacation and all that it would entail would have been enough to make me start to feel very small, anxious and insecure. 

This was meant to be a second honeymoon; an opportunity to reconnect and recommit. I didn't want it to be marred by my body shame, and I really didn't want to spend every second of the trip watching where my husband's eyes went and competing to keep them on me. 

So, how to feel calm, comfortable and confidant? I didn't know. I prayed for help. 

I'd already thrown out pretty much anything that had bad memories or past associations with them, so I was now forced to purchase essentials. Bras, underwear, swimsuits, sundresses, etc. The very first thing I determined was that I would not allow myself to perform. I was not going to buy something simply because of how it would make me look to others; my primary objective would be that it made me feel pretty. If I liked the way I looked, that would translate to security, right? I would be able to enjoy myself, sure that I looked nice to me.

I braced myself and went to Victoria's Secret, {Ugh. Who knew bra shopping could be so traumatic?!} and spent an ungodly amount of time in a dressing room with a box of bras, trying things on and crying. I wanted to look pretty. I wanted to feel pretty. Was that really so wrong? I didn't think so, and yet the whole experience was making me feel terrible. I went home with my purchases and felt like throwing up.

That evening as I poured out my anguish to the Lord in prayer, I heard these words in my mind: "... not meant to be looked at." and knew immediately that I was more than something to be seen. I was more than that to Him. I wanted to be more than that to others. And I certainly needed to be more than that to MYSELF. 

I'd been so terrified of being objectified and judged-- confused because I didn't want to be lusted, but scared of being dismissed and despised-- that I'd bought into the prevalent theory that the way to take back power is to objectify myself.  That if I thought of myself as sexy and desirable {something to be looked at} first, that what others thought of me wouldn't phase me. I would have confidance. I would have self-esteem.

Bull#%$&.

I was accepting that I was nothing more than something to be looked at! It didn't matter if someone else said it through their actions towards me or if I said it to myself-- I was allowing myself to internalize the lie that my reflection was a measure of my worth. And that-- buying into that lie-- was killing me. 

All that pain, all that depression-- it was as if my very soul were rejecting the notion, refusing to be dismissed as simply a body. As I let the idea that I was more sink in, I began to feel free.

I took back the stupid, pink bag of 'sexy' undergarments and bought something simple instead. This time, I just wanted to honor and respect what I saw in the mirror. 

I purchased a modest, stylish swimsuit that felt like 'me'. I tried not to worry about whether it made me look thin or not. 

And when we ended up on a boat to see the stingrays and sat across from a model in a tiny bathing suit-- I closed my eyes and told myself that I am not my body-- and neither is she. We are not a threat to one another.

It was the first step in an ongoing journey. 

{image of a Migrant Mother by Dorothea Lange. I love the strength and humanity in her face. It reminds me that beauty is everywhere and is far more than society's 'ideal body'}

Measure of Worth

It is amazing how long one can cling to faulty thinking, even when that thinking is blatantly unhelpful, illogical, and extremely harmful.

For years I've said the words, "I am a child of God". I've sung them, recited them, taught them to my children and professed my stalwart belief in them. 

I am a daughter of God. 

Yet, how can I hold this sacred truth in one hand, while also holding the belief that what I look like is a measure of my worth in the other? It's a crazy-making dichotomy, one that undermines me constantly.
 

Over this last year, I've experienced a slow awakening. I'm seeing just how painful my own faulty beliefs are, and I've resolved to dedicate my efforts over the next 12 months to changing them.

Because I DO have immeasurable worth. We all do.

That worth is not conditional. It doesn't change. We can't earn it or lose it, no matter what we look like, or what may happen to us in this life, or how good or poor our decisions are, or how loved or despised we may be by others; no matter what. We have infinite, immeasurable, divine worth, simply because we were thoughtfully and individually created.

We exist, and so we have worth.

This week, I'll be writing about what I've learned and what I'm working on. I hope you'll join me. :)

 {image 1, image 2, image 3}

Something New

So often, I dress to feel thin. I avoid certain styles, hair do's, trends, all because I don't feel 'thin enough' to pull them off. When I'm depressed, my thoughts become consumed with how much happier I'd be if I could just lose 10, 20, a million pounds. It seems as though it's my mind's default for avoiding any other emotion or problem I may be facing in life.

I'm sick of it.

This year, I vow to live in that uncomfortable space where excitement and uncertainty dwell. I want to drown out that voice that tells me to put off my life until I achieve some unattainable ideal. I want to be joyful in my own skin instead of wishing I could slough it off like the grime of a filthy cell I'm caged within.

And I'm starting today.

I'm putting my hair up, though I'm certain it leaves me entirely too exposed {with my pointy nose and turkey waddle.} I'm wearing skinny jeans even though the mirror reflects only my hips and thighs. I'm sweeping on bright lipstick and stepping out of the house scared but exhilarated-- because today feels like the beginning of something new.

A more contented me.

Pardon My Introspection

{image}

Disclosure: this post is long and largely personal. But I felt that it was important to both document and share.


I stopped by the Church building on my way to the gym, knowing it would be unlocked due to the Stake Women's Conference being held that morning. I needed to organize and disinfect all the toys in the nursery as part of my new calling, but I'd been too tired to do it the previous Wednesday night. Thus it was now a chore squeezed between my morning workout and Grandpa's 94th Birthday Party that afternoon. 


I sorted through plastic dinosaurs and matched the Little People to their farms and schoolyards, all the while feeling rather sad and disgusted with myself. Do you know how sometimes unhappiness can feel like a weighted blanket across your shoulders? At that moment, mine felt as heavy as bricks. I spent an hour tidying and categorizing, all the while berating myself for my shortcomings in an attempt to give myself some kind of psychological kick-in-the-pants. 


When my task was completed, I readied myself to go but became distracted by sounds drifting down the hallway. I'd forgotten about Women's Conference. I wandered towards the source, acutely aware of my inappropriate attire, and was startled to hear a live speaker-- not a broadcast, as I'd been expecting. 


I turned to leave, but just as I did, my sister in law stepped into the hallway with her infant son fussing in her arms. She took in my tousled hair and paint-splattered gym clothes, and with a comforting smile convinced me to sit next to her in the back of the Chapel. 


The woman up front was in the middle of her presentation. She was talking about self-image and how the destructive acts of comparing and belittling ourselves prevents us from accomplishing the things that the Lord would have us do on this Earth. The story she told next resonated in my soul to such a degree, I haven't stopped thinking of it since. I've discussed it with three different people, and do not think it would be an exaggeration to say that I believe it has changed me. She said:


Seven years ago, her marriage was falling apart. Although things between she and her husband were later repaired with the help of counseling, repentance, prayer and hard work, it was a very difficult time for her. Because of the nature of the problems, she felt that she wasn't measuring up to some 'ideal'. Her self worth was very low and she despaired, wondering why this had to happen to her. {wow, that all sounds familiar!}


It was Christmastime and she was 8 months pregnant. She took her young daughter with her and to an overly crowded Walmart and attempted to get all the shopping done in a single miserable trip, figuring she was unhappy anyhow. 


With her cart filled to the brim, she got into a long, slow checkout line and then looked down to find her daughter gearing up to throw an all-out, screaming, flailing, bawling-at-the-top-of-her-lungs fit. Nothing she did calmed the little girl, so eventually she was forced to abandon her cart and drag the child out of the store, past gawking strangers, to the very back of the parking lot and into the car. Having strapped her child into the car seat, she collapsed into her own seat and and then heard in her mind with perfect clarity, "You are a bad mom."


She covered her face and began to weep, the thoughts continuing to barrage her.


"What made you think you could have more children? You can't even handle the one you've got. You're marriage is hanging by a thread and you are a failure."


Then, through the sobs, she heard a small tap, tap, tap on the window. She raised her tear-streaked face to see a woman with four older children huddled behind her standing at the door. The woman motioned for her to roll down the window, which she did.


"I saw you struggling with your daughter in the store," the woman said kindly, "and then I noticed you here crying. I felt I just had to come and tell you this: You are a good mom."


"We've all had those days" she continued. "You're doing a good job. I can see that you love your daughter and you're handling her just right." The woman patted her shoulder and murmured more comforting words until the mother had calmed down and was able to drive herself home. 


At this point, I was sitting in the back of the room struggling not to cry. Not even 20 minutes earlier, I'd been listening to that voice. The voice that tells me that I'm a bad mom. That I'm unattractive. That I don't measure up. That voice feels real. It sounds right. Sometimes, I even convince myself that the words it says are exactly what God would say to me. I listen to it and hang my head in shame, feeling the weight of my imperfections. 


Sitting through the woman's account made me realize: I have forgotten the true nature of God.


All throughout the scriptures are examples of God's mercy when dealing with fallible humans. He invites others to cast the first stone. He weeps. He heals. He forgives. 


I have heard His voice through blessings and from Prophets. I have felt it in answers to prayers. Always it is gentle, tender, loving and infinitely compassionate. 


He does not berate. He does not condemn. He says, "Thou art mine" and "Go and sin no more." His words lead me to all things virtuous, lovely and praiseworthy. When I allow myself to hear Him, to truly believe that I am a daughter of God, it empowers me in ways that no kick-in-the-pants self-despise ever can. How could I have allowed myself to forget?


I know that not everyone believes in Satan. Or God for that matter. But I do, and this weekend I decided that labeling that voice as depression is not enough. That voice, the one that berates and belittles, is Satan getting a foothold on me, discouraging me to the point that I am unable to reach my full potential. 


Well, I'm not having it. From this time forward, that voice is going to have a fight on his hands.

PS- Do you remember the story of Mary and Martha? Martha was busy about the house, preparing and worrying over many things, while Mary sat at Jesus' feet and listened to his words. On Saturday, I felt like Martha. I was weighed down and busy, scurrying between chores and parties and motherly duties. But my Sister in Law was there at the church, dressed appropriately and listening to Women's Conference- just like Mary. Luckily for me, she pulled me into the Chapel and allowed me to be Mary as well for a while. I will be forever grateful. Thanks, Lu. 

Imagine

Sometimes I get tired of dealing with depression and image issues. I mean, really? I'm not over this yet? It's been decades.

The upside is that at least I'm familiar with the drill. It may not be easy to employ all the coping strategies to dig myself out of self destructive thinking, but at least I know what the coping strategies are.

For example: last night I was in one of those situations that I knew would trigger all of my insecurities. As we cleaned up from an otherwise enjoyable evening, the thoughts started to tumble into emotions that then threatened to avalanche into full blown depression. I took a deep breath and {much the way a public speaker imagines his audience in their underwear} ran through these mental exercises:

Imagine that every woman in the room wishes she looked like the woman next to her. While I find women of all shapes and sizes to be breathtakingly beautiful, I often berate myself if I do not fit into a very narrow definition of perfection. If I imagine that every woman is torturing herself with the same kind of self-loathing and comparison, the result is so heartbreaking that I'm often able to snap out of such ridiculous thinking.

Try to see myself the way J sees me. J has told me again and again that if I looked the way I wish I looked, he probably wouldn't give me a second glance. I always want to be taller. He likes that I'm petite. I want to be skin and bones. He likes the femininity of my curves. He says I'm already the ideal woman. My problem is that I don't appreciate it.

Tell myself, "You're an athlete". When I remember the feel of my body when I'm running, or imagine each muscle, sinew and bone working as I move across a room, my body becomes something more than just a 'display'. It becomes a marvelous machine that I love and appreciate for all that it can do.

Imagine Satan laughing. Whenever I'm overtaken with self-despise, I imagine that Satan must see it as a victory. I picture all the good things I'm not able to achieve because I'm too busy hating a body that he only wishes he could have. The thought of his glee rouses all of my faculties and ignites the fighting spirit inside of me. It gives me the strength to push away negative thoughts.

Sometimes, this is all it takes to return to a healthy mindset.

Sometimes, I'm forced to go through these mental exercises again and again, fervently praying, taking medication, working out and doing all in my power to tip the scale back to balanced brain chemistry.

And so the struggle continues.

{image}

Hope and faith

I recently received a very thoughtful email from a reader. I've been mulling over it for several days now, composing an answer in my mind until this morning, when I realized that the subject is important enough that I wanted to address it here.

First, part of the email:

I am the daughter of a wonderful woman who has struggled for much of her adult life with weight issues. She did not struggle because she was actually overweight, her struggle was with her internal tape that told her time and time again that she was fat and ugly. She voiced these insecurities and self-criticisms often and I heard them loud and clear. She never once made a comment about my weight--she always told me how perfect and beautiful I was. But when I heard her talk so destructively about her own body, I began to wonder whether I should feel the same way about mine. I never told her that what she was expressing was affecting me and I firmly believe that had she known, she would have stopped. She never would have wanted me to struggle the same way she did and I know you never want your daughter to struggle with body and weight issues the way that you have.

I spent many, many years hating my body. I have finally come out the other side thanks to therapy and yoga and I finally see myself for what I am: a healthy woman blessed with a powerful body that can move and hopefully sometime soon carry a child.

So my caution is simply and lovingly this: be very, very careful about what you say infront of your sweet little girl. You are her mom, her role model and she will begin to internalize your insecurities as her own. You can't protect her forever, this I know--she is probably already exposed to plenty of media that tells her that her goal ought to be to fit into a Size 2. I'm just imploring you to please, don't be yet another voice in her head delivering the same message.

I hope for you and your family joy, love and peace. -M

M, I completely agree. My husband will tell you that when we started having children, I was ready to have all boys. The thought of trying to raise a grounded, confident, healthy young girl completely terrified me. So naturally, the Lord sent her to me first. :)

I've struggled with self-image for as long as I can remember. I'm not sure why. My mother did her very best to show me how warped my thinking was. I recall at one point, she became outraged at the media bombarding women. She pointed to a fashion magazine and told me that the majority of models were thin, white, blonde haired and blue eyed. They represented a vast minority of the population. "You," she said, "are thin, white, blonde haired and blue eyed and these images still make you feel inadequate. What about all the girls out there who don't fit into such a narrow category? Are they not beautiful? Instead of believing that there's something wrong with you, I think you need to start believing that there's something wrong with the message being sent here."

I don't want Little Miss C to struggle the same way I have for so long. I'm careful not to talk about it in front of her. But I know how these things go: kids are perceptive. I worry that she'll pick up on it anyway, the same way I worry that all my children will somehow attribute my depression {and the expression it always produces on my face: anguish hidden behind irritation} as a result of something they've done, too young to comprehend things like chemical imbalances.

I worry.

I worry until the worry is overwhelming, and I become paralyzed as a parent, afraid to take a step for fear it's a misstep. And that's where hope and faith come in.

I hope she sees those times when I'm at home in my skin. I hope she sees me fight my demons and learns that there's a nobility in never giving up. I hope she sees me leaning on the Lord, enduring pregnancies and otherwise trying to do right despite my insecurities. I hope that she sees the joy I'm able to find in my body. The freedom of running, the exhilaration of dancing, the honesty of hard labor, and the peaceful exhaustion of holding my children. I hope she grows up to be as exuberant and confidant as she is now. I hope she's better than me, stronger than me and more at peace than me.

But I have faith that the Lord will make up for all I lack as a mother. I have faith that he sent her to me for a reason, and that if I try my best it will be good enough. I have faith that she will discover her divine worth, and come to know how much she is loved unconditionally. I have faith that she came to earth at such a difficult time because she is noble and strong and will be able to emerge at the other end better for it. I have faith that despite whatever trials she will face, the Lord loves her and will guide her through. I have faith that it's all going to be all right.

I know I'm an imperfect parent, but it's hope and faith that get me through. If I can teach her to have hope and faith as well, all else will fall into place.

{image}

Pencil Skirts

In the past, I've worn ratty pajamas, workout clothes, and baggy maternity wear as I struggle to lose baby weight. I was convinced that I had to be a size 2 before wearing my favorite pencil skirts became an option.

I've changed my mind.

I bought two lovely high-waisted pencil skirts {in *ahem* a size 8} and have told myself that I can look put together no matter how much I weigh. Remarkably, it's done wonders for my self esteem! I still plan on whittling myself down to my pre-pregnancy size, but for now I am no longer dressed like a bag lady.

And, for the first time in my life, the numbers on the scale actually seem like just numbers. Surprise, surprise!

{An even bigger surprise? I bought these at JC Penny {on sale!}, a store I haven't set foot in for over a decade. Thanks for the tip, Steph!}

Edit: a pair of Spanx really helps as well.

Guess who isn't coming to dinner...

This morning I found this image of a burned out, abandoned house covered in snow...... made out of Legos. Yeah, it's amazing. {see more photos of Mike's work here} It reminded me that there is beauty everywhere and in everything, a message I needed to hear today.

Yesterday, I took the kids to Target. We have a dinner with extended family this weekend due to Conference, and it will be the first time I've really seen people since having the baby. It's one of those events that I can't avoid, but simply thinking about going makes me anxious and weepy. I figured that having something new to wear might help.

"What do you think of this?" I asked Little Miss C, holding up a wrap dress from the clearance rack. She looked from the dress to me, then made a face that clearly conveyed skepticism.

"You still look like you're going to have a baby," she said, as if surprised I was considering wearing 'regular' clothes.

We had to leave the store before I burst into tears.

When she saw she'd hurt my feelings, she tried to apologize, "I'm sorry that I said that out loud!"

{Um, obviously, that didn't help much.}

It's strange: I remember being about her age when I said something that hurt my mom's feelings. I remember the look on her face and being so surprised that it was even possible to hurt her. After all, adults are supposed to be above all that, right? So as we fled the store, I kept telling myself to be above all of it. But it still hurt, because she was just echoing my own thoughts. Only, I had hoped that I was just being hard on myself, that it wasn't that bad.

Anyway, there's beauty in everything, blah blah blah.

I'm so not going to dinner.

Succumb

I can honestly say that I've never liked photos of my {pregnant} self until now.

My sister-in-law hAha took these in just a few stolen moments during the baby blessing brunch, and I'm floored by her talent. She always has such a thoughtful approach, concentrating on concept and symbolism and letting inspiration seep in from all kinds of sources. She's completely inspiring to me, and I'm so grateful she took the time {just a few days after having a baby, no less!} to surprise me with a photo shoot.

Take a look at the rest over at her blog, lil mO hAha, and be sure to sing her praises!

{Love ya, girl!}

This is not my beautiful house!

On the way home from the gym yesterday, I couldn't even count the number of joggers I passed. Mercifully, my medication kept my emotions from spilling over into one of those embarrassing, blubbering scenes which always force me to reassure my children that, "Mommy just gets sad sometimes", but I still couldn't help resenting the jogger's blissful athleticism as I drove by.

It's so strange to be stuck in this body.

It's strange to think this body instead of my body, as though pregnancy mutates me into nothing more than an incubator; something lent out to an unborn child. I feel no ownership over this swollen abdomen and these thick appendages. I'm used to thinking of myself as a runner, a marathoner, not someone who gets winded carrying kids up the stairs.

I find the same Talking Heads song playing over and over again in my mind and think that Freud would be proud.

But what can I do but tell myself the things I always tell myself? Just a few more months. Grit your teeth, get through it. It'll be worth it. And then you can lace up your sneakers and run to your hearts content.

It'll have to do for now.

{image}

Can't they just HAND me the baby?

After a week of hard workouts, I rose from bed one morning and grimaced as all my muscles let their presence be known. Standing in front of the mirror, I grimaced even more. Catching my expression, J asked, "You do know that there's a baby in there, don't you? You can't just exercise it away."

"I know," I sighed. "I can't help it. Every morning I wake up and feel shocked that this is what I look like."

I don't think I'll ever get used to pregnancy. It makes me feel like a stranger in my own body--that it's betrayed me in some way. I miss knowing that if I eat healthy food, I'll feel healthy and energetic. If I go running, I'll feel a little stronger every day.

Pregnancy negates all that.

If I eat healthy food, I still feel tired. It doesn't matter how diligently I go to the gym, every day I get a little bigger, a little more cumbersome. I often think that this must be what I'll feel like when I'm old and my body can no longer keep up with the desires of my heart. How discouraging.

Where giving birth is emotional, empowering and raw, being pregnant is a trial of mental endurance. In true avoidance fashion, I turn to denial to help me cope.

I have no idea how many weeks along I am.

My midwife retired and I don't have a replacement yet.

I haven't seen a doctor or had an ultrasound.

I act as though none of this is really happening.

Sometimes that works. Other times, it just results in me waking up confused and outraged at the expansion of my belly. {What?! When did this happen?} At least the baby has started kicking hard enough that the kids can feel it. And we've got a few names we're bandying about, which helps convince me that it is a baby and not some evil alien growth overtaking me.

Still. I think I'm in for a long pregnancy. Better pray for my poor husband.

{image}

Be Positive

This weekend, I officially traded in my pencil skirts for dresses that are a little more... free flowing. My figure is expanding far more quickly than I am comfortable with, and while the fact that this is my 4th pregnancy {not counting miscarriages} may be to blame, I have to acknowledge that I have never been happy with changes in my body, no matter how gradually or quickly they occur.

I've been meaning to write out a list of New Years resolutions, but find that my focus seems to be on one thing only: be positive. It's so easy for me to get wrapped up in feeling sick, fat, tired, and inadequate, but that kind of thinking does me no good.

Instead, I'm trying to tell myself to be positive about my changing body.

Be positive about being sick. It's part of having a baby, which some people struggle for years to have.

Be positive, be positive, be positive.

And when this is all over, I'll let myself indulge in as many pencil skirts as my heart desires. :)

{image}

Not Fat. Again.

For a while there, the combination of nursing the baby full time and marathon running changed my body. My hips were smaller, my bust larger. I'd finally rid myself of that ubiquitous 5 pounds. But it was short lived. Though I'm still running, my body has settled into what I'm forced to admit is it's natural shape-- a pear.  

I suppose it's human nature to want what one cannot have. The grass is always greener and whatnot. I'm no different. It's been difficult to resist discouragment. 

I've found that it is much easier to accept and embrace what I have been given when I wear clothes that are fun, lovely and fit properly. {A fabulous dress hides a multitude of sins.} To that end, I've let out a few of my skirts rather than starve myself into fiting into them again. It's all mental. 

A {bit of} shopping has becomes a healthy necessity, not a vain indulgence. :) While I suspect they'll be too expensive for me, I still can't wait until these dresses from Mona & Holly are available for purchase. Black, white and yellow continue to catch my eye.