Dear Internet,
Apparently I have sucker written across my forehead in bright red letters because I got roped into playing on a broomball team this season. For those of you who have no idea what this fine sport entails just go outside and throw yourself down on the pavement a few dozen times. Then get up and try to hit a ball with a stick while on ice in your regular shoes.
Yeah. I know. I can hear your screams from here.
I do it once a week. And I suck at it. Seriously. I'm terrible. And the worst part is I can't even look cute while playing, like say if it were roller derby, because you know we are outside. On ice. In the middle of stupid cold winter. Fishnets and mini skirts aren't really an option. But I swear to God they would help. Seriously, if you are going to routinely fall down you need something to pad your ego.
But I don't have that luxury. All I got is ripped up snow pants, old rollerblading pads, and my terrible terrible athleticism.
At this point a big glaring, "But why on earth are you doing this Sara you suck at team sports especially ones that require hitting things with other things remember?" might come to mind. Don't worry I've had that same thought.
And the only rationale I can come up with is I enjoy torturing myself and I must be The Valedictorian of Everything. Including asinine sports invented by people before there were things you could do to entertain yourself during winter that don't require falling down. Like say watching New Girl. Inside. On your couch. While wearing footie pajamas and drinking chai. And possibly doing your nails.
Except there's one major flaw in this rationale. Unless some miracle happens and my hand eye coordination exponentially improves, I'm not going to be the Valedictorian of this "sport" anytime soon. This of course drives me mad. So mad that every Tuesday morning I wake up with a knot in my stomach wondering just how much of a complete fool I'm going to make of myself. How many times am I going to fall down? Miss the ball? Cause our team to lose? Etc, etc, etc until I've fallen into a shame cycle so deep the only solution is that I am a completely worthless human being undeserving of the very pads that protect my fragile posterior. My poor performance later in the evening just solidifies it, I'm unworthy of love. Clearly. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
I worked myself into such a tizzy this week I almost feigned sickness in order to get out of going to our game. But I committed and have a team and they are blah blah counting on me blah blah (although they'd probably be happy if I actually did quit). But being the solider on kinda girl I am, I got in the car and went. Brian, bless his heart, gave me his best dad taking his kid to a soccer match pep talk, and it made me realize I might need to reevaluate this whole broomball cycle of shame. I mean the sport was originally played with duct taped brooms. Why on earth attach my self worth to something as stupid as that? And since I seriously doubt I'll get that miracle, I need to quit beating myself up. The ice does a good enough job of that and plus there are lots of other things I am indeed good at. The Valedictorian of even. Someone else can have broomball.
So instead of hardening. Of contracting. Of getting so worked up about how bad and terrible and awful I am. I tried to let go and just have fun during our game. To laugh every time I whacked at the ball and missed. Or tripped over my own feet. Or landed spread eagle on the ice for no apparent reason. Because we all need to play sometimes. To do something just for the sake of doing it. To let go. To open ourselves. To fling ourselves headlong on the ice.
Because if you can drop your ego. Forget perfection and winning. And Valedictorian. Even if just for a second. You get an amazing taste of possibility. Of space and openness and joy and love and laughter and connection. And that feels so good it doesn't matter that you landed on your butt. Or that you looked stupid doing it.
But don't take my word for it, "Play energizes us and enlivens us. It eases our burdens. It renews our natural sense of optimism and opens us up to new possibilities," Stuart Brown, MD and play expert.
I just hope my next possibilities don't cause so many bruises.
Love,
Sara
Dye Job
When I was in 7th grade my science teacher called my parents to let them know he was concerned about how I was dressing. "Did they know my sweaters were too big and that I had a Nirvana T-shirt?" "And that if I kept it up I'd be banished to hell because heaven only accepts good little girls who wear twinsets and pearls thank you very much."
Ok, so I added that last part. But I'm sure I'm not too far off, as we all know black lipstick and flannel are gateway drugs that lead to a life of sin and whoredom. And heaven forbid altering your body in any way. So, when Brian (also known as the reason I'm now "in a relationship" on Fb, and yes I just threw up in my mouth, and yes Dara I don't have a nickname for him) announced that he was dying his hair blue my breath caught in my throat.
Blue? Blue hair?
Flashback to 1998. The night before our annual church play. Chrissy Walter's bathroom. One jar of Manic Panic Purple Haze.
You can guess how well that went over. Earned me a year long spot on the prayer list. And the silent treatment from my mom for a week, "because what would everyone think?!?"
At the time I remember thinking, "Why is everyone getting their panties in a wad about this? It's only hair. It'll grow out. What's the big deal?"
But last Sunday in Brian's bathroom I had my mother's thoughts, "What will everyone think? About him? About me? About us?"
Because we don't look like the couples I was brought up to admire. We're not clean shaven and traditional. Nary a stitch of khaki can be found in our closets. And I'm fairly certain that man has no idea what a button-up is much less a real tie-it-yourself bow tie (although he does rock the hell out of a fedora).
I teach yoga. He works at the hill. We both have tattoos and piercings. Things I was taught were a fad. Something kids did and grew out of once they had rebelled enough.
But there we were dying his hair like it was 1998. As it turned from brown, to blonde, to a shocking shade of blue I thought back to Samson's story about the jacket that just fits. And I realized I was taught (and not just by my family, so please don't think this is another it's all their fault post, but by society, and culture, and the tiny town I grew up in) that there are more acceptable jackets than others. That your jacket must look a certain way. Must cost a specific amount. Who cares if the thing actually fits. The important part is that you look good wearing it.
And how pray tell was I going to look good wearing a boyfriend with blue hair? I may be out West but I'm still just Southern enough to care. To have images of polos and boat shoes as being what "together forever" wears. What adult, stable, real relationships look like.
So when he asked me if I liked it, I blurted out something like, "No, I don't, why don't you grow up already are you just going to sit around and work at the hill forever blue hair isn't just blue hair and could you please wear something besides T-shirts all the time you're so immature gah."
Being the solid mountain man he is, he wasn't the least bit fazed by my lengthy response to his simple question. He sweetly listened to me overanalyze the meaning of Panic Manic. Reassured me. Comforted me. Said my opinion mattered. That I wasn't crazy. That I deserved adult, stable, and real whatever that looked like to me.
And in that moment I knew Samson was right in a whole new way. It's not the color, or the size, or the style of the jacket. It's the fit. How it feels. Because when a jacket fits. When you love it. Really love it. You wear it with everything whether it matches or not. Whether it's faded or torn or says something stupid (or dyes its hair blue).
You keep it on because it's your favorite jacket and you don't really care how it looks. And people may make fun of you. They may judge you. They may laugh. You may want to take it off at times because it can be hard, and hot, and annoying, and others look so much more inviting. But you don't. Because it fits and it's yours and you love it.
And the rest of that stuff. That size and shape and color and what will everyone else think and why did you do that. That's manifestations of ego. Of lack and concern and worry and separation. And there's really no room for any of that when your jacket fits.
Plus, I'm living proof that stupid decisions eventually do grow out.
XO,
Sara
Ok, so I added that last part. But I'm sure I'm not too far off, as we all know black lipstick and flannel are gateway drugs that lead to a life of sin and whoredom. And heaven forbid altering your body in any way. So, when Brian (also known as the reason I'm now "in a relationship" on Fb, and yes I just threw up in my mouth, and yes Dara I don't have a nickname for him) announced that he was dying his hair blue my breath caught in my throat.
Blue? Blue hair?
Flashback to 1998. The night before our annual church play. Chrissy Walter's bathroom. One jar of Manic Panic Purple Haze.
You can guess how well that went over. Earned me a year long spot on the prayer list. And the silent treatment from my mom for a week, "because what would everyone think?!?"
At the time I remember thinking, "Why is everyone getting their panties in a wad about this? It's only hair. It'll grow out. What's the big deal?"
But last Sunday in Brian's bathroom I had my mother's thoughts, "What will everyone think? About him? About me? About us?"
Because we don't look like the couples I was brought up to admire. We're not clean shaven and traditional. Nary a stitch of khaki can be found in our closets. And I'm fairly certain that man has no idea what a button-up is much less a real tie-it-yourself bow tie (although he does rock the hell out of a fedora).
I teach yoga. He works at the hill. We both have tattoos and piercings. Things I was taught were a fad. Something kids did and grew out of once they had rebelled enough.
But there we were dying his hair like it was 1998. As it turned from brown, to blonde, to a shocking shade of blue I thought back to Samson's story about the jacket that just fits. And I realized I was taught (and not just by my family, so please don't think this is another it's all their fault post, but by society, and culture, and the tiny town I grew up in) that there are more acceptable jackets than others. That your jacket must look a certain way. Must cost a specific amount. Who cares if the thing actually fits. The important part is that you look good wearing it.
And how pray tell was I going to look good wearing a boyfriend with blue hair? I may be out West but I'm still just Southern enough to care. To have images of polos and boat shoes as being what "together forever" wears. What adult, stable, real relationships look like.
So when he asked me if I liked it, I blurted out something like, "No, I don't, why don't you grow up already are you just going to sit around and work at the hill forever blue hair isn't just blue hair and could you please wear something besides T-shirts all the time you're so immature gah."
Being the solid mountain man he is, he wasn't the least bit fazed by my lengthy response to his simple question. He sweetly listened to me overanalyze the meaning of Panic Manic. Reassured me. Comforted me. Said my opinion mattered. That I wasn't crazy. That I deserved adult, stable, and real whatever that looked like to me.
And in that moment I knew Samson was right in a whole new way. It's not the color, or the size, or the style of the jacket. It's the fit. How it feels. Because when a jacket fits. When you love it. Really love it. You wear it with everything whether it matches or not. Whether it's faded or torn or says something stupid (or dyes its hair blue).
You keep it on because it's your favorite jacket and you don't really care how it looks. And people may make fun of you. They may judge you. They may laugh. You may want to take it off at times because it can be hard, and hot, and annoying, and others look so much more inviting. But you don't. Because it fits and it's yours and you love it.
And the rest of that stuff. That size and shape and color and what will everyone else think and why did you do that. That's manifestations of ego. Of lack and concern and worry and separation. And there's really no room for any of that when your jacket fits.
Plus, I'm living proof that stupid decisions eventually do grow out.
XO,
Sara
The Perfect Fit
So I finished the find your husband book, flew south for the holidays, and changed my relationship status on Facebook. None of these things are connected (well at least not like that) so don't get any ideas. My ring finger is still empty, my yoga dorm room built for one, and my Mrs. degree incomplete. The only difference? I'm 100% completely and totally satisfied with that.
Back when I was a lowly counseling intern one of my beloved colleagues decided to ask his girlfriend to marry him. Being the inquisitive child that I am I couldn't help but ask, "How did you know she was the one?" A question I've posed to most people I know who are married because I am southern and have previously desperately wanted monogramed towels and a big white dress (ok maybe not the towels but most definitely the dress).
He said, "You know that feeling you get when you go buy a jacket and you try a lot on and none are quite right. Then you put one on that fits. And you can't really explain why. And it may not even be the color or style you were originally looking for but it's the one. It just fits. Well it's like that."
And since I have an insane love affair for odd metaphors I instantly thought this was the most brilliant and not totally throw up in my mouth sappy way to describe "The One."
Which brings me to the book and that whole idea of "The One." There's no One. There are better Ones than others. Jackets that, like he said, fit. That are easier to wear. More versatile. More apt to weather fads. To hang in your closet long after their original purchase date. But ultimately you have to decide. You can't take them all home. You have to pick. To choose either the red one or the blue one.
In the past couple of weeks I've made that decision. Not about my life partner but about my life. It finally just fits. I'm wearing the jacket I'm meant to. I'm living the life I'm supposed to. And that feels better than any ring, any relationship, any One ever could.
And the magical thing about it-when you slip on the life you are meant to wear. The one that feels the best. Looks the best. Is the best. You stop clutching. Stop lusting after other jackets. Stop needing people to tell you how amazing you are. Because you know. Because you realize you are full and complete and whole just as you are. You don't need any One because you are One.
And that my friends is what gets your Facebook status changed. Not a book, not a pretty dress, or the perfect body. No. Being the best. The most authentic you is what does it. What allows you to find that One-whether that be a husband, a dog, a child, or an amazing life in Driggs.
I hope you all know how perfect you are. And how much you deserve a life that fits.
Much love,
Sara
Back when I was a lowly counseling intern one of my beloved colleagues decided to ask his girlfriend to marry him. Being the inquisitive child that I am I couldn't help but ask, "How did you know she was the one?" A question I've posed to most people I know who are married because I am southern and have previously desperately wanted monogramed towels and a big white dress (ok maybe not the towels but most definitely the dress).
He said, "You know that feeling you get when you go buy a jacket and you try a lot on and none are quite right. Then you put one on that fits. And you can't really explain why. And it may not even be the color or style you were originally looking for but it's the one. It just fits. Well it's like that."
And since I have an insane love affair for odd metaphors I instantly thought this was the most brilliant and not totally throw up in my mouth sappy way to describe "The One."
Which brings me to the book and that whole idea of "The One." There's no One. There are better Ones than others. Jackets that, like he said, fit. That are easier to wear. More versatile. More apt to weather fads. To hang in your closet long after their original purchase date. But ultimately you have to decide. You can't take them all home. You have to pick. To choose either the red one or the blue one.
In the past couple of weeks I've made that decision. Not about my life partner but about my life. It finally just fits. I'm wearing the jacket I'm meant to. I'm living the life I'm supposed to. And that feels better than any ring, any relationship, any One ever could.
And the magical thing about it-when you slip on the life you are meant to wear. The one that feels the best. Looks the best. Is the best. You stop clutching. Stop lusting after other jackets. Stop needing people to tell you how amazing you are. Because you know. Because you realize you are full and complete and whole just as you are. You don't need any One because you are One.
And that my friends is what gets your Facebook status changed. Not a book, not a pretty dress, or the perfect body. No. Being the best. The most authentic you is what does it. What allows you to find that One-whether that be a husband, a dog, a child, or an amazing life in Driggs.
I hope you all know how perfect you are. And how much you deserve a life that fits.
Much love,
Sara
Imperfectly Perfect
Arm balances happen to be my nemesis at this point in my life for a variety of reasons. One because they require that you hug like holy heck into your midline and fire up your core. And this Southern girl doesn't have the rock hard six pack abs of a mountain girl (yet). Mine are more like a loaf of bread. Granted they've changed from fluffy white bread to day old baguette, but still I'm not crushing cans with them anytime soon.
So the idea of lifting my rather large bum off the ground and coming into Eka Hasta Bhujasana then to Astavakrasana seemed laughable this morning in class. It's this for those of you who don't speak Yogi...
As Bridget walked us through the pose, I winced and struggled and managed to hover about a centimeter off the ground before collapsing into a heap. Then she did something even more laughable than me getting into the pose, she called on me to demo.
I took a deep breath. Said a little prayer. Drank in the love coming from the 20 odd people in the room. And just like that my hips lifted. My legs crossed in front of me. And while I couldn't quite maintain the pose long enough to fully rotate. I rose higher than I ever had.
Was it perfect? No. Was it even the full version of the pose? No. It was messy, and silly, and all over the place. But it was deeper than I had ever gone. And it was only that way because I was demoing. Because she picked on me. Because she challenged me. Because people were watching. Were counting on me. Were supporting me.
It's like what your family does. What significant others. Brothers. Sisters. Aunts. Uncles. Grandparents. Parents. Best friends. Do. They see where you are weak and they challenge you. They press into your tender spots. They may even cause half of them. They may annoy you. They may hurt you. They may be mean, and horrible, and ugly. But that's all part of being human. Cracks are where the light comes in.
And how great is that? How great is it that we all have our own built in Bridgets? Our own crack makers? People that will call you out in front of the class. That will force you to woman up and get your butt off the ground already. And maybe the way they do it isn't as gentle as you'd like. Maybe you have to spend countless hours and hundreds of dollars in therapy to rise above the damage they can sometimes cause.
But without them you'd be huffing, and puffing, and struggling. Your butt firmly planted on the ground.
And as much as I can complain about my own family, without them I'm wouldn't be here. Wouldn't be making the changes I am. Wouldn't have had the courage to pack up and move across the country. To excel in school. To work hard. To be bright and shiny and brave. I learned all those things from my family. And yes, I learned some neurotic things too.
But it all comes out in the wash. Because ultimately I know it's all of that. The good. The bad. The ugly. That's gotten my butt off the ground so I can soar.
It's what's let the light in. And there's so much light.
I love you and miss you even if I do whine about you.
XO,
Sara
So the idea of lifting my rather large bum off the ground and coming into Eka Hasta Bhujasana then to Astavakrasana seemed laughable this morning in class. It's this for those of you who don't speak Yogi...
As Bridget walked us through the pose, I winced and struggled and managed to hover about a centimeter off the ground before collapsing into a heap. Then she did something even more laughable than me getting into the pose, she called on me to demo.
I took a deep breath. Said a little prayer. Drank in the love coming from the 20 odd people in the room. And just like that my hips lifted. My legs crossed in front of me. And while I couldn't quite maintain the pose long enough to fully rotate. I rose higher than I ever had.
Was it perfect? No. Was it even the full version of the pose? No. It was messy, and silly, and all over the place. But it was deeper than I had ever gone. And it was only that way because I was demoing. Because she picked on me. Because she challenged me. Because people were watching. Were counting on me. Were supporting me.
It's like what your family does. What significant others. Brothers. Sisters. Aunts. Uncles. Grandparents. Parents. Best friends. Do. They see where you are weak and they challenge you. They press into your tender spots. They may even cause half of them. They may annoy you. They may hurt you. They may be mean, and horrible, and ugly. But that's all part of being human. Cracks are where the light comes in.
And how great is that? How great is it that we all have our own built in Bridgets? Our own crack makers? People that will call you out in front of the class. That will force you to woman up and get your butt off the ground already. And maybe the way they do it isn't as gentle as you'd like. Maybe you have to spend countless hours and hundreds of dollars in therapy to rise above the damage they can sometimes cause.
But without them you'd be huffing, and puffing, and struggling. Your butt firmly planted on the ground.
And as much as I can complain about my own family, without them I'm wouldn't be here. Wouldn't be making the changes I am. Wouldn't have had the courage to pack up and move across the country. To excel in school. To work hard. To be bright and shiny and brave. I learned all those things from my family. And yes, I learned some neurotic things too.
But it all comes out in the wash. Because ultimately I know it's all of that. The good. The bad. The ugly. That's gotten my butt off the ground so I can soar.
It's what's let the light in. And there's so much light.
I love you and miss you even if I do whine about you.
XO,
Sara
With Our Powers Combined
Gulp. Err, hi everyone. Sorry about the silence. It's just taken me a few days to find my feet since being completely knocked outta my socks by the out pouring of love I received on that last post.
Seriously, I am blown away by everyone's kind emails, messages, FaceBook posts, and comments. Thank you, thank you, thank you. It really does take a village to raise a child, and only because I have one of the most amazing villages surrounding me was I able to radically transform myself.
I'm also saddened a little because it shows just how much the, "love and take care of your body," message is missing in our culture. How we beat ourselves up. Struggle against who we are. Are disconnected. Discouraged. Disheartened. Dull.
I never would have thought that all the events of my life would converge and I, big/fat/unathletic/ me, would be becoming an "expert" and inspiration for healthy, well living. But it seems to be where my life is heading.
Sara McKeown, Licensed Professional Counselor and Wellness Coach.
I know this because of you. Because you had the courage to tell me that what I wrote resonated with you. Because you shined my light back to me. And frankly that's a little intimidating because you guys have such big, amazing hearts. And seeing that reflected back to me blinded me. Makes me question whether I really do know what I'm talking about, if I can be a Wellness Coach, if I have anything to offer. Because really me? Are you sure, God?
It calls into mind that Marianne Williamson quote everyone knows, "Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?"
And that Internet is currently where I'm stuck. I am terrified of stepping out of my comfort zone, hanging up a shingle, and taking the risk of sharing my knowledge. Of being brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous. Because what if no one listens? What if people point and laugh and make fun of me? What if I fall on my face? What if I hurt someone? What if I hurt myself?
But the quote goes on, "Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It is not just in some of us; it is in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others."
So, I keep trying to shine. I call the Idaho Board and get the ball rolling on my license. I buy a domain name. Write programs. Drink my green smoothies. Commit to what it is that I'm called to do. Even when it's scary. Even when it's hard.
Because ultimately I want all you guys to shine, to be liberated. And I can't do that if I'm not practicing what I preach. We're all in this together after all. And when we shine I imagine it's like the Care Bear stare, darkness doesn't stand a chance in the face of our radiant hearts.
So stop playing small. Take a risk. Shine your light. Because you never know when your light will light someone else up.
It sure has given me the courage I needed.
I love you and am so incredibly grateful for your beautiful hearts.
XO,
Sara
PS-I would like to send a huge shout out to my lovely friend Dara who just took a giant, bright, shiny step by quitting her day job to teach yoga full time. If you live in Columbia, SC please check her out!
Seriously, I am blown away by everyone's kind emails, messages, FaceBook posts, and comments. Thank you, thank you, thank you. It really does take a village to raise a child, and only because I have one of the most amazing villages surrounding me was I able to radically transform myself.
I'm also saddened a little because it shows just how much the, "love and take care of your body," message is missing in our culture. How we beat ourselves up. Struggle against who we are. Are disconnected. Discouraged. Disheartened. Dull.
I never would have thought that all the events of my life would converge and I, big/fat/unathletic/ me, would be becoming an "expert" and inspiration for healthy, well living. But it seems to be where my life is heading.
Sara McKeown, Licensed Professional Counselor and Wellness Coach.
I know this because of you. Because you had the courage to tell me that what I wrote resonated with you. Because you shined my light back to me. And frankly that's a little intimidating because you guys have such big, amazing hearts. And seeing that reflected back to me blinded me. Makes me question whether I really do know what I'm talking about, if I can be a Wellness Coach, if I have anything to offer. Because really me? Are you sure, God?
It calls into mind that Marianne Williamson quote everyone knows, "Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?"
And that Internet is currently where I'm stuck. I am terrified of stepping out of my comfort zone, hanging up a shingle, and taking the risk of sharing my knowledge. Of being brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous. Because what if no one listens? What if people point and laugh and make fun of me? What if I fall on my face? What if I hurt someone? What if I hurt myself?
But the quote goes on, "Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It is not just in some of us; it is in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others."
So, I keep trying to shine. I call the Idaho Board and get the ball rolling on my license. I buy a domain name. Write programs. Drink my green smoothies. Commit to what it is that I'm called to do. Even when it's scary. Even when it's hard.
Because ultimately I want all you guys to shine, to be liberated. And I can't do that if I'm not practicing what I preach. We're all in this together after all. And when we shine I imagine it's like the Care Bear stare, darkness doesn't stand a chance in the face of our radiant hearts.
So stop playing small. Take a risk. Shine your light. Because you never know when your light will light someone else up.
It sure has given me the courage I needed.
I love you and am so incredibly grateful for your beautiful hearts.
XO,
Sara
PS-I would like to send a huge shout out to my lovely friend Dara who just took a giant, bright, shiny step by quitting her day job to teach yoga full time. If you live in Columbia, SC please check her out!
Skinny Jeans and All
When I was 20 and getting ready to ship off for Paris my mom took me shopping. Among the things she bought me was a ridiculously expensive pair of jeans. Jeans that made my butt look amazing. Jeans that hugged me in all the right places. Jeans that perfectly skimmed the pointy toe flats that were all the rage then.
I loved those jeans. I wore them all around Paris. Drawing in the Louvre. On dates with a very handsome French man. Out to Giverny. I was beautiful and young and I had the wardrobe to prove it.
Then my mom got sick, then she died, then I dated some truly awful men, then had some fallings out with friends, then got a soul sucking job, then etc, etc, etc. Life wasn't so beautiful and I was no longer so young.
Instead I was this... and only because I love you and want to help you am I willing to share this most god awful photo.
It was an incredibly painful time in my life. And instead of womaning up and dealing with it, I crammed my face. I put on a protective layer. I insulated myself against the hurt.
It was easier that way. To numb myself with refined sugar and carbs. To create five minutes of bliss as a whole carton of Ben and Jerry's passed between my lips.
Everything else was so outta control. So awful. So tragic. And I didn't have the voice to express my true feelings.
So I didn't. I ate them. And ate them. And ate them. And with each bite I started hating myself. Because look at me. That spunky, beautiful, creative girl. That girl who ran away to Paris, who pierced her nose, who modeled nude for figure drawing classes, who was bubbly and charming, well she was no where to be found.
I squashed her and most anything I sat on.
All the while those jeans. Those pretty, skinny, amazingly perfect life girl jeans sat at the back of my closet. For awhile they mocked me, "You'll never wear us again. Look at you."
But I kept them. Mainly because they reminded me of a time when life was good. When I was happy. When I was myself.
They fell outta the top of my closet when I was packing my stuff to move here. And while I had shed some of my dead mommy weight, I still couldn't button them. But I tossed them into my bag anyway because I was moving West. And you never know. And I'm sentimental.
As most of you know, not only did I get them on AND buttoned the other day, I discovered they're slightly too big.
I wish I could answer all your, "how did you do it," requests with a simple diet and exercise plan. But I can't. Because my transformation has been much deeper than that.
Yes, I started drinking green smoothies. And doing a heck of a lot of yoga. And cutting out carbs and sugar. But none of that would have worked had I not done the hardest thing of all.
Loved myself.
Loved every extra part of me. Every roll, protrusion, and wrinkle. Every feeling. Every thought. Even the bad ones. Even the ones I had tried to eat away.
If I hadn't loved all that. Hadn't completely unbuttoned myself. None of that other stuff would have worked. It would have just been a crash diet. A fad. Something to try. Another way to regulate my feelings. And ultimately another cycle of success and failure and self loathing. Like all those cookies.
Because it wouldn't have been genuine. Wouldn't have treated the underlying problem just the very large symptom.
But when you reach down and deal with the yuck. When you give yourself permission to be you no matter what the scale says (no matter what other people say for that matter). When you really love you. Taking care of your body is easy. You don't need plans and diets and regimens. You just naturally want to honor, and love, and nourish it. Because that's what you do when you love something.
Is it harder this way? Yes. Does it take longer? Yes. But my gosh it's so much more rewarding. Because this way of being lasts a lifetime. And is independent of what the scale says. Of which jeans fit. Of who died. Or broke up with you.
Although I gotta admit, sliding back into my skinny jeans feels amazing. Mainly because I know I'm sliding back into my true self.
I love you no matter what size you are but I want you to love and care for the body you're in.
XO,
Sara
PS-If you truly are interested in weight loss, spirituality, yoga, green smoothies, and the "plan" I used I'm in the process of creating The Embodiment Project: Six Weeks to a More Vibrant Mind, Body, and Soul. It will be jammed packed with tips, tools, and support to began loving yourself and the body you're in. I'll keep you guys posted as I move forward with the project in case any of you want to sign up.
I loved those jeans. I wore them all around Paris. Drawing in the Louvre. On dates with a very handsome French man. Out to Giverny. I was beautiful and young and I had the wardrobe to prove it.
Then my mom got sick, then she died, then I dated some truly awful men, then had some fallings out with friends, then got a soul sucking job, then etc, etc, etc. Life wasn't so beautiful and I was no longer so young.
Instead I was this... and only because I love you and want to help you am I willing to share this most god awful photo.
It was an incredibly painful time in my life. And instead of womaning up and dealing with it, I crammed my face. I put on a protective layer. I insulated myself against the hurt.
It was easier that way. To numb myself with refined sugar and carbs. To create five minutes of bliss as a whole carton of Ben and Jerry's passed between my lips.
Everything else was so outta control. So awful. So tragic. And I didn't have the voice to express my true feelings.
So I didn't. I ate them. And ate them. And ate them. And with each bite I started hating myself. Because look at me. That spunky, beautiful, creative girl. That girl who ran away to Paris, who pierced her nose, who modeled nude for figure drawing classes, who was bubbly and charming, well she was no where to be found.
I squashed her and most anything I sat on.
All the while those jeans. Those pretty, skinny, amazingly perfect life girl jeans sat at the back of my closet. For awhile they mocked me, "You'll never wear us again. Look at you."
But I kept them. Mainly because they reminded me of a time when life was good. When I was happy. When I was myself.
They fell outta the top of my closet when I was packing my stuff to move here. And while I had shed some of my dead mommy weight, I still couldn't button them. But I tossed them into my bag anyway because I was moving West. And you never know. And I'm sentimental.
I wish I could answer all your, "how did you do it," requests with a simple diet and exercise plan. But I can't. Because my transformation has been much deeper than that.
Yes, I started drinking green smoothies. And doing a heck of a lot of yoga. And cutting out carbs and sugar. But none of that would have worked had I not done the hardest thing of all.
Loved myself.
Loved every extra part of me. Every roll, protrusion, and wrinkle. Every feeling. Every thought. Even the bad ones. Even the ones I had tried to eat away.
If I hadn't loved all that. Hadn't completely unbuttoned myself. None of that other stuff would have worked. It would have just been a crash diet. A fad. Something to try. Another way to regulate my feelings. And ultimately another cycle of success and failure and self loathing. Like all those cookies.
Because it wouldn't have been genuine. Wouldn't have treated the underlying problem just the very large symptom.
But when you reach down and deal with the yuck. When you give yourself permission to be you no matter what the scale says (no matter what other people say for that matter). When you really love you. Taking care of your body is easy. You don't need plans and diets and regimens. You just naturally want to honor, and love, and nourish it. Because that's what you do when you love something.
Is it harder this way? Yes. Does it take longer? Yes. But my gosh it's so much more rewarding. Because this way of being lasts a lifetime. And is independent of what the scale says. Of which jeans fit. Of who died. Or broke up with you.
Although I gotta admit, sliding back into my skinny jeans feels amazing. Mainly because I know I'm sliding back into my true self.
I love you no matter what size you are but I want you to love and care for the body you're in.
XO,
Sara
PS-If you truly are interested in weight loss, spirituality, yoga, green smoothies, and the "plan" I used I'm in the process of creating The Embodiment Project: Six Weeks to a More Vibrant Mind, Body, and Soul. It will be jammed packed with tips, tools, and support to began loving yourself and the body you're in. I'll keep you guys posted as I move forward with the project in case any of you want to sign up.
Don't Fence Him In
I often use fairly odd metaphors to describe my dating life (hula hoops for healthy boundaries, trains for my future husband). So it's not really surprising that I found striking similarities between love and a story about raising wild geese for foie gras.
The traditional method of procuring this delicacy involves strapping the goose down and forcibly shoving copious amounts of corn down its gullet. Which of course, is like surgically attaching yourself to your mate and forcing him to love you. The image of Elmyra Duff exclaiming, "I'm gonna hug you and kiss you and love you forever," while squeezing Furrball to death comes to mind. There's a reason why gluttony is a seven deadly sin and why all the animals were terrified of Elmyra. No one likes to have copious amount of anything shoved down their throat. Not even love.
So a man in Spain decided there had to be a better way toskin a cat fatten a goose. One that wasn't so inhumane and torturous to the animal. His method required removing the tubes, setting the geese free, and ignoring them. This was so remarkable most people in the culinary world didn't believe it to be true. No way could you get foie gras like this. Because how, without forcing the geese to eat, could the livers possibly grow into the Nerf football size necessary for true foie gras?
The answer? Because it's in their nature. In their very DNA. In order to prepare for winter, geese will naturally stuff themselves. The only catch? They have to believe they are wild. They have to believe they are free. If they do not believe this. If they are fed. Or fenced in. Or in anyway domesticated their nature will not kick in and they will not gorge themselves. Their livers will not triple in size.
So the farmer in Spain doesn't do any of the things a traditional farmer would. There are no fences. No feeding. No protecting. The geese are free to go wherever they want. Eat whatever they want. Be whatever they want. They are truly free. And because of this, they eat and lounge and don't fly south for the winter. That's right. These geese do not fly south for the winter. Let me say that again. THEY DO NOT FLY SOUTH FOR THE WINTER. Because and I quote, "Their DNA is to find the conditions that are conducive to life. To happiness. They find it here."
By allowing the geese to be fully what they are without interfering, this man produces the most highly prized foie gras. The best tasting. Most humane. Award wining. Delicacy. He keeps them by letting them be free.
Now I think you can all guess where this is going. In the past I've been that traditional farmer. I've built fences, had expectations, clung to my deargoose boyfriend, begged for love. For attention. For affection. For his liver him to do exactly what I wanted.
And well that's worked out exactly how traditional foie gras has. I've created a lot of fat unhappy geese. Myself included.
Now imagine. Imagine if you loved without forcing. Without clutching. Without needing. If you just let your partner be. If you gave him a wonderful space where he could truly be himself. Well then he might never leave. Might never fly South.
Imagine then if you did this for yourself. If you just let yourself be. If you gave yourself a wonderful space where you could truly be you. Well then you might just be able to start your own gaggle. Because birds of a feather flock together. And when they find happiness right where they are they create the best tasting relationships.
Just ask the farmer in Spain.
Love,
Sara
The traditional method of procuring this delicacy involves strapping the goose down and forcibly shoving copious amounts of corn down its gullet. Which of course, is like surgically attaching yourself to your mate and forcing him to love you. The image of Elmyra Duff exclaiming, "I'm gonna hug you and kiss you and love you forever," while squeezing Furrball to death comes to mind. There's a reason why gluttony is a seven deadly sin and why all the animals were terrified of Elmyra. No one likes to have copious amount of anything shoved down their throat. Not even love.
So a man in Spain decided there had to be a better way to
The answer? Because it's in their nature. In their very DNA. In order to prepare for winter, geese will naturally stuff themselves. The only catch? They have to believe they are wild. They have to believe they are free. If they do not believe this. If they are fed. Or fenced in. Or in anyway domesticated their nature will not kick in and they will not gorge themselves. Their livers will not triple in size.
So the farmer in Spain doesn't do any of the things a traditional farmer would. There are no fences. No feeding. No protecting. The geese are free to go wherever they want. Eat whatever they want. Be whatever they want. They are truly free. And because of this, they eat and lounge and don't fly south for the winter. That's right. These geese do not fly south for the winter. Let me say that again. THEY DO NOT FLY SOUTH FOR THE WINTER. Because and I quote, "Their DNA is to find the conditions that are conducive to life. To happiness. They find it here."
By allowing the geese to be fully what they are without interfering, this man produces the most highly prized foie gras. The best tasting. Most humane. Award wining. Delicacy. He keeps them by letting them be free.
Now I think you can all guess where this is going. In the past I've been that traditional farmer. I've built fences, had expectations, clung to my dear
And well that's worked out exactly how traditional foie gras has. I've created a lot of fat unhappy geese. Myself included.
Now imagine. Imagine if you loved without forcing. Without clutching. Without needing. If you just let your partner be. If you gave him a wonderful space where he could truly be himself. Well then he might never leave. Might never fly South.
Imagine then if you did this for yourself. If you just let yourself be. If you gave yourself a wonderful space where you could truly be you. Well then you might just be able to start your own gaggle. Because birds of a feather flock together. And when they find happiness right where they are they create the best tasting relationships.
Just ask the farmer in Spain.
Love,
Sara