A BIRTHDAY GIFT FROM ME, TO ME

I started writing my memoir in the weeks leading up to my 30th birthday. The 3 years since then have been a journey of self discovery I never could have anticipated. It hasn’t been easy, but over and over again life has shown me that vulnerability is the key to the kind of growth I’m seeking. And, over and over again the people in my life have shown me that in the midst of my vulnerability, I am loved and supported unconditionally.

I’ve done a lot of work on my own, but I’ve never felt for one second I was in it alone. I can’t express how empowering that knowledge has been for me. So, thank you all a million times.

While I feel like my days have now become consistent episodes of over-sharing, there’s one key element of my story I haven’t been able to speak freely about. It’s in my head and on my heart every day, but I prefer to avoid it. I’ve felt more compelled to bring it to light recently and I guess I finally feel brave enough.

There was something about that milestone birthday that woke me up to the war I had waged on my body for almost 20 years. I was in denial about the extent of my issues with food and body image until it all hit me at once like scenes in a movie I could no longer unsee.

It was devastating to finally recognize the truth of my struggles, but oddly enough there was something intriguing about it to me. It was the first time I looked at myself with more compassion than shame. I wanted to know what had happened to cause it.

I wanted to know how someone like me with a loving family, strong friendships and a charmed childhood could end up with decades worth of suppressed emotions and how to keep my own little girl from going down the same path. I initially thought I was writing to protect her, but creativity taught me the best thing I could do for anyone I love, was write to heal myself.

I can’t say there are no more hard days, but I can see my complexities for exactly what they are now. It’s not about weight, or vanity. It never was although I did a pretty good job of convincing myself otherwise. It’s always been an outward expression of what’s going on inside, and I finally got tired of feeling out of control and hollow.

I don’t want to be empty. I’d like to be full of everything that’s good in this world- love and gratitude and laughter and pain and light. I’ll take all of it now. I want to take up the space God intended me to with every part of who I am. I want to extend the same love I give to others to myself. I want to own the pieces of my story that aren’t perfect, or pretty.

At 30, I decided to start giving myself a birthday gift each year. I quit smoking, I finished my book, I ran a half marathon- each an act of self-love to remind me I’m far stronger than I’d been giving myself credit for...new reasons each year to be proud of exactly who and where I am. Opening up about my struggles with food is harder than anything I’ve overcome in years past, and already indescribably rewarding. Already, I feel the lightest I have in years.