Tag: weightloss

A Bowl of Pasta is just a Bowl of Pasta again.

I have such an emotional connection to pasta.

You’re probably like WTF is she even talking about, but hear me out here.

It’s the vessel that held some of my deepest secrets, darkest seasons, and periods of extreme loss and longing.

Most of us have a go-to comfort meal. For some it’s a #5 at your favorite drive-thru, or a family size bag of chips and dip, something sweet, or carby cheesy fried goodness – something that you consume in need of comforting as your own personal demons consume you.

Spaghetti. Linguine. Lasagna. Bow-Tie. Elbow.

Toss it. Top it. Layer it. Fill it. Twirl it. Swirl it.

It’s a form of immediate, but short-term relief like any other thing – spending money, alcohol, drugs, gambling, whatever vice you can think of, but once the high or the haze of it all wears off, you’re there – ashamed, with pain that is angry and raw and ready to be addressed.

And you beat it away for the moment – to be addressed at some later time, as it grows and grows and grows – sometimes into a monster that can be all-consuming.

I was miserable about how I looked because I was fat, but I was fat because I spent money, drank soda, and ate extremely unhealthy foods because I didn’t love myself.

When can I get off this roller-coaster that I’ve been on for two decades now?

And then I did.

Not slowly, not gradually, but all at once.

I ripped that safety harness off and tumbled down into the pit of my despair.

What’s the color that comes after the deepest darkest black?

That was the color of my pain, my shame, my guilt, my self-loathing, my lack of self-unforgiveness, my fury, my rage, my anger.

That is where I ran into myself – the person I had been running from all along – and I had to face myself.

If these points, steps, ounces, pounds, were going to mean anything, if they were going to stick this time – I had to face every demon I had along the way.

I journal my way through it. I action my way through it. I self reflect my way through it. I learn my way through it. I teach my way through it. I fail my way through it. I surprise my way through it.

When I took my own hand several years ago, I knew I was finally ready to do all of the work necessary.

I had arrived.

I knew the weight wouldn’t come off and stay off if I didn’t take my heart, soul, spirit, emotions, and mentality on this wellness journey with me.

There are many pounds to go, but I’m light on my feet.

I wake up with joy in my heart.

I look ahead now and get to be curious about what’s coming on the horizon for me.

Something I paralyzed myself from doing before.

I say all this to say, that a bowl of pasta is just a bowl of pasta again.

I can taste the marriage of the sauce with the veggies and the seasonings. That complex, yet somehow subtle build-up and layering of flavors.

It’s no longer sprinkled and tossed with my sadness and my pain.

Bon Appetit. ❤

–S.

Stretching in the Direction of Wholeness.

I’m grateful for how my body grew to accommodate me; more specifically, stretchmarks.

I know you’re probably rolling your eyes, but hear me out.

They showed up, I don’t know, pre-teens, I think. I say this like they just walked into the building unannounced, but they kind of did. Didn’t they?

I was always the chubbiest kid in any group. They showed up early. It seems like one day I didn’t have them, and then I did.

At first, it’s so…final. So…permanent. So…there.

I want to barter with the universe. I’ll give you back ALL the late night pepperoni hot pockets and beef ramen cups, if you take them back?

The Universe doesn’t respond.

I’ll cry! You hate to see me cry, don’t you?

The Universe doesn’t respond.

I mourn.

The Universe doesn’t respond.

And then they are so…angry. So red.
Or maybe I’m angry, so I’m projecting that onto them.

But we’ve been together over 15 years now, and it went how it usually does.

Breasts.
Arms.
Thighs.
Knees.
Love Handles.

And I promise myself…I’ll do the work. I will get it right. I won’t get ANY more.

But I got bigger. And there were more.

So, there I was. And there they were.

And….here we are now.

I hated them for a long long long time.

A deep sadness ran in me for something that couldn’t be undone.

Like their appearance diminished everything good about me. Like I was no longer a daughter, a sister, a cousin, a best friend, a friend, a college graduate, the list goes on and on.

And if someone saw them – it’d be social suicide.

But as time went on – I saw them on other people, and they just didn’t look ugly to me ON THEM, just on me.

The angry colors faded and so did my hate.

It turned into acceptance.

And eventually it was like a mole or a freckle or a battle scar.

I used to think it made my body…not soft. Not worthy of being touched.

But sometimes, late at night, right before I drift off, I run my hands over my stomach.

It made me softer.
And dare I say, more interesting.

I lived through something.
I’m still fighting it today.

But now I see fireworks, lightning, thunder striking the earth, shooting stars, hidden paths on a map.

I’m STILL me.

And if someone EVER tried to talk down to me about my stretchmarks, they’d get ghosted like the Universe ghosted me when I was trying to trade them out for something better.

One of my favorite Cheryl Strayed quotes is –
“How wild it was, to let it be.”
And honestly, it really IS wild.

I spent so much time thinking self-hate and negativity would get me somewhere GOOD.
It never did.
So, I’m trying this self-love, self-acceptance, and positivity thing…and I’m growing.

I’m watering the dirt. Flowers are blooming.

I hope that right before you drift off to sleep tonight, you take a moment and just touch your stretchmarks.

Literally touch yourself.

How soft. How magical.

How there.

How YOU.

–S.