A Sunday Morning Blog

What I Wished For

Whenever I feel despair or hopelessness, I turn to Pinterest. I search for quotes that will resonate and encourage me, and I’ve even built an entire board of more than 1,000 of these pinned quotes. The majority of these quotes come from pre-June 2015, before I met my husband and was fairly love lost and hopeless. I’d scroll through the site, looking for words to reassure me that I wouldn’t forever feel this way.

There is one particular image that stuck with me over the years. Not because it was what I had hoped for (although it was), but more because it is what happened.


Ethan and I came back from our dream honeymoon a few days ago, and I’ve been in denial about it. The end of our vacation means the official finale of the holiday break, and in just a week, I will go back to school. I’ve got a new job and a freelancing gig, and I am already starting to worry about balancing them in addition to my classes (and, being the overachiever that I am, I decided to take an extra class this semester). Plus we are still working through the challenges of a major life change. Back in reality, thoughts on my short comings and not being enough are lining up to zap out any bliss I gained while sipping fruiting cocktails poolside in Costa Rica.

We were supposed to drive down to southern Illinois today to pick up our dog, who has been with Ethan’s parents in Tennessee for the last three weeks, but those plans have been derailed because of snow. And, since I don’t go back to work until tomorrow, I was given an extra day to catch up on errands, work on the freelance stuff, do all the tidying projects around the house that I promised myself I would do over the winter break.

Instead, though, Ethan and I slept in, which is a huge treat since my new bakery job comes with a 5 a.m. wakeup time, and even on my days off, Annie starts making noises around 6:30 demanding to be fed. Not on this gloomy Saturday. We laid in bed snuggling and reading, before I got up to make us pancakes and coffee, which we brought back from Costa Rica.

And, as the quote says, everything was alright. For a few hours, I forgot about my to-do lists, what I should be doing, where our bank accounts is, how many pounds I gained on vacation, if I will ever get published, if I am doing enough for the world, if I am doing enough creatively, if I am being a good friend, and all the other worries that keep me up at night.

Sitting there, eating pancakes and drinking coffee with my newish husband as the snow came down, I remembered that this is the life I had dreamt about years ago, and it doesn’t seem to right squander it away with worries that it could be better. What’s the point of wishing and hoping for things if you won’t enjoy them when they arrive? Yes, I wish our circumstances were a bit different, and my days weren’t so full, but there is so much good still pulsing through our lives.

With a new year upon us, I’m making the intention to find more good in the present rather than going hunting for what is missing or how it doesn’t compare to what other’s may have. I realized that I need more joy in my life, and the only way to get it is by recognizing what is already there.

So, I sip my coffee, watch the snow come down, write, and be so thankful that what I had long wanted is now mine, giving me reassurance that I all is, and will be, OK.


Just a Job


When I was evacuated from my first Peace Corps service, in Niger, I went home to live with my parents for a few months, where I planned to get my bearings straight and decide what to do next. I figured I would get a low-stress, no-stakes job, so once I passed the initial devastation of my service ending, I started looking around for gigs. I went to the local ice cream shop, a bar, a couple of retail stores. No one wanted to hire me, probably because I didn’t have much experience in those industries. The place that did want to hire me, though, was the local newspaper, and so I took the job and immediately became one of the more veteran reporters on staff. A few months later, the Missouri River Flood of 2011 happened, and while I won an award and produced clips that I used to get jobs a few years later (after a second Peace Corps service), it was not the stress-less job I had hoped to have.

I’ve been very fortunate that I haven’t had to work many service, minimum wage jobs in my lifetime. My first real job, outside of babysitting, was lifeguarding and teaching swimming lessons, which I did all throughout high school. In college, I interned and freelanced for newspapers and made most of my beer and rent money working in the marketing department of a scoreboard company. Outside of short stints at Blockbuster and a pizzeria housed in a gas station, I have always held jobs that were linked to my field of choice. I never folded clothes at a Gap, made a latte, or waited tables. I am lucky, I know.

When I made the choice to quit my job to go to school it was with the idea that I would probably get some part-time work down the road. With my grad assistantship to cover my tuition, loan money to cover my rent and extra school fees, a willing husband to cover more costs, and a fairly decent savings, I didn’t need a job right away but that didn’t stop me from obsessing over our bank account and feeling guilty for not contributing more to the household expenses.

Initially, I thought that this would be through freelance work. I could do some writing, editing, and marketing work on the side, creating my own hours and bringing in a bit of cash. When I left my job, though, I didn’t want to start putting out the feelers right away because I needed a break. Plus, I wanted to adjust to my new life as a student. I did apply for a few positions from postings online, but I knew that the best way to get work was reaching out to connections. Part of me put off looking for this kind of work because school hadn’t quite ramped up and I didn’t know what kind of time I could commit to a side gig, but also because I wasn’t ready to dive back into that work just yet. And because writing those “Hey, I am looking for work” emails isn’t the best way to spend an afternoon.

Then, one day, while returning home from the gym where I just swam tens of laps to get rid of my anxieties about money, I decided to stop in at a health foods market in my neighborhood. The market is attached to a restaurant and cafe that has been in the neighborhood for 40-some years and is known for its vegan, vegetarian, and gluten-free options. The store’s items include produce from an organic farm in Michigan, sustainable coffee, vegetable versions of chips, and natural beauty and cleaning products. I had been in there a few times to browse their vegan section, and while I couldn’t afford much, it was the type of store I often dreamed about shopping at exclusively. Locally owned. All organic. Kombucha on tap.

I’ve often been scared to go up to a business and ask if they are hiring, as if I am the first person to ever think of such an idea, because of the possibility of instant rejection. On this day, though, I would risk that fear because the worry over money was greater, so I walked up right to the counter and asked if they were hiring.

The woman wasn’t sure. Maybe, she said. I told her I wasn’t looking for many hours, just one or two shifts a week. I didn’t know if this would hurt or help my chances, but it was actually the answer she was looking for. They could use a filler here and there, and even better that I was willing to work weekends, almost exclusively. I didn’t flinch saying ‘no’ when she asked if I had retail experience, but she gave me an application to fill out. I returned it later that day and was hired the following week at Heartland Café.

Generally speaking, the job is easy. Checking the produce, make inventory notes, answering the phone, and taking to-go orders. It can get stressful on a Sunday morning when I have several online orders that need to be sent to the kitchen and a line full of customers waiting to be checked out, but other than that it is low-stakes. Whatever fire ignites is easily put out in a few minutes. I was overwhelmed at first, not knowing how busy a kitchen can get and terrified to ask the chefs to make special accommodations on orders, but then I found my groove and identified my little role in this business.

Some have said that the worst part of jobs like these are the people. Rude customers, unlikeable characters, strays from the neighborhood. And, it’s this unknown of who is going to come in the door that has kept me from jobs like this in the past, but it’s actually the people that are my favorite part. I love the regulars who come in for the same thing each Sunday or whose order I can predict before their open their mouth. I love helping people find something that they can’t get at other stores. I even like the uncomfortable situations, where someone comments about how high the prices are or how the business has gone down in recent years, because it’s great training for a counselor who will be in all kinds of awkward scenarios.

What’s best about this job, though, is that it is just a job. I don’t have to think too much, except when counting the cash, and it gets me out of my own head for a few hours. I work just a shift or two a week making minimum wage, but even that is enough to soothe some of my money worries. Plus, I’ve always loved grocery stores and it’s an easy two-block commute from my house.

And, it’s low stakes. I don’t have to be here forever. I don’t have to work my way up. I don’t have to prove to everyone that I am good at what I do. I can just show up, do my job, and then go home. The key, for me, is to keep out the stress. In my last position, I spent so much time worry about where I was in the organization and what others thought of me (they often were not thinking about me) that it diluted my experience. Much of the time, I was more stressed than I needed to be. In fact, when I left, one piece of advice someone gave me was to just relax. This market job is a way of reclaiming my passion and my energy. I want to succeed and do well at school, but work is actually a break from that. It’s just a job, and at this moment in my life, it’s exactly what I need.

Just when I started to really enjoy this just-a-job job, I lost it (after I had written 1,300 words about it). The Heartland announced that it was closing because the building had been bought (by developers, cue the eye roll). Both the restaurant and café will close tomorrow evening, December 31, without a new home, although the owner hopes to be in a new Rogers Park location by the spring, but nothing is confirmed.

At first, losing my job was a kick in the teeth after some already unfortunate events Ethan and I were handling. Second, I am losing my strongest connection to the neighborhood. But most of all, the neighborhood is losing, as many customers have told me, an institution. Over the last few weeks, people have poured into the store, telling me how they started coming there three years ago, 15 years ago, 35 years ago, when they first moved to the area. It was their first home, they tell me. They are sad for me, but mostly for their neighborhood.

It’s very interesting to be at a store as it approaches its end. Some people are sad, saying they love this place, but admit they haven’t been there in years. Other people are very pumped about the discount on market products and buy baskets full of stuff when they wouldn’t have bought anything if there wasn’t a sale. It reminds me of a radio piece I heard several years ago, about the 2008 recession, and how some customers were upset that either something was discounted further or they no longer had what the shopper wanted. Most people are generally upset about the Heartland closing, but there are some who just want a good deal. It makes me sad.

For a while, I wasn’t sure what I would do. Maybe I would actually try freelancing this time, because we do need the extra income, or I could get another part-time job. Either way, I told myself that I wouldn’t bother with that until after Heartland closed. Till then, I would work my shifts and say goodbye properly.

One thing that is nice about working at a locally-owned business is that other locally-owned businesses want to hire those employees. A few places reached out to the owner about some opportunities and he passed them on to those who were interested, myself included. Before Heartland closed its doors tomorrow (I’m working the morning shift that day), I’ve already worked two days at my new job. It’s at a bakery, not too far away, and so far it’s as cute and as quaint as you would think baking at a bakery would be.

I will miss Heartland, but it was my threshold to just-a-job jobs. I needed that foundation of doing something unfamiliar yet low stakes to help me through school. Getting through my master’s is my main focus right now, but these jobs shows me sides of myself that have yet been cultivated. Now I know I can have just a job and be perfectly content.


Holiday Magic


One of the things that I love most about the holiday season is that it comes with a strong connection to what was and what will be. Time slows down just a tad and we’re able to soak up all the magic that comes with the season. From family traditions passed from generation to generation to classic Christmas carols sung by musicians long gone, the holidays allow us to step into a different world for a few weeks. We eat more than normal, we spend a little extra, we smile more. We remember what it’s like to be a kid, and we believe in the impossible.

But, life does not stop in December, not with trees and menorahs, not with anything, and our hardships are even accentuated among the festivities. What can’t be afforded, who is no longer with us, the stability of last year, the “if only” slamming against what is. As the author Brené Brown wrote: “The gremlins don’t go on vacation. Checks bounce, chemotherapy appointments are scheduled, interventions are planned, relationships keep unravelling, being alone feels even lonelier, parents negotiate who will have the kids on Christmas morning, and the ‘never enoughs’ are in full swing.

Each fall, my eyes turn toward creating the best ever holiday. With baked treats, buffalo plaid, and several strands of white lights, I hope to conjure not just the Christmases of my past but also the ones in my dreams, and this year was no exception. A few weeks before Thanksgiving, life threw a curve ball at my husband and I, and our worst fears became reality. Our lives were paused and our plans pushed back. I was bitter and angry, like my throw-my-fists-into-my-mattress angry. Why us, I pleaded with God while filled with tears and rage. The uncertainty of what was next not only occupied most of my thoughts, it made me physically sick. This path of hardship will end at some point, but it’s quite unclear as to when and what other trials we may endure before we get there.

Not only did life give as an unfair set of circumstances, but the timing right before the holidays felt especially cruel. They are happy holidays, and sad ones, and the holidays joined an increasingly growing list of things we could no longer enjoy. Everywhere I turned I was reminded that our Christmas will not only not be the Christmas I had hoped for, but it would be more depleted others in recent years. No holiday cards, fewer presents, and less holiday magic. Maybe none at all.

That Brené Brown quote continues on: I will find my holiday magic in the mess. I will practice love and gratitude with the special group of folks who keep showing up and loving me, not despite my vulnerabilities, but because of them.” The thing about the magic of the holidays, though, is that it is present for all of us, no matter what struggles we are enduring. We just have to be willing to receive it.

I realized that the only way that I could continue on each day without being full of rage and tears is to stop focusing on the darkness and find the light with gratitude. Each day, I made myself write down five wonderful things that happened that day, and overtime I started to notice that while the list of what we don’t have is long, the one with what we do have is longer.

This is not the holiday I had envisioned, but it is our first as a married couple. I spent many Christmases wondering if I would always be alone, and now I have this wonderful man who grabs me by the shoulders, tells me that he doesn’t know how but it will all be OK, and then kisses me on the forehead. It’s all the reassurance I need. Also, we have incredible families who have promised they will not let us fall and wonderful friends who have made us feel loved and supported, even if they might not know what’s going on. Then there is school and finally doing something that I love, and running is finally back in my life to soothe my ailing heart. We are healthy, our basic needs are met, and there is so much love bundling us.

We are enduring a tough time, that’s for sure, but I do recognize that we are not alone. Many, many people I know also are not having the Christmases they wanted—with loved ones past, medical diagnosis threatening what they know, and deep pain from other struggles—and yet they still have much to celebrate. So do I, and while I refused to see it at first, I do now. I am very loved, blessed, and lucky right now.

Just a few days before Christmas, and I feel that magic. It captured me after all, and I know that I have absolutely everything I need right now. While I hope the new year brings new beginnings, I hold on to the beauty our trials have revealed, because it is all more than enough.

Wherever you are, whatever you are dealing with, I hope you can find your magic. A merry and bright holidays to you all.


December 13, 2018


December 13, 2017, was another day at the office. Not a particularly bad day, but also not a good one. I didn’t have many good days anymore, just slow, uninspired days, sometimes with bright spots. For weeks, the dread of going to a job that was unfulfilling flattened me. I felt it every morning as I quickly scanned my emails, before I was even dressed, to anticipate what fires may erupt when I got to the office, and every Sunday when I wondered if everyone else felt so stuck in their careers. And, I felt it in this moment, sitting at my desk, between morning meetings and sending out holiday-themed pitches.

I opened up the journal that I take almost everywhere with me. I hoped that a few minutes of writing could snap me out of my fog so I could focus on finishing my tasks. When the pen reached the paper, I did not exactly what words it would produce but the pen moved quickly.

I promise, my scratchy writing read, that by December 13, 2018, I will no longer be in this job.

It’s not like me to make such bold predictions, and on the surface it seemed foolish, but deep down I wanted it to be true. I maybe even believed that it could be. I didn’t know how or why or where, but I had the ambition to start searching for those answers, and I guess that was enough.

Well, it’s December 13, 2018, and I am not sitting in an office that is too cold responding to work emails. Rather, I am on my couch, with my dog at my feet, and enjoying the site of my small Christmas tree. Not a terrible place to be at 10 a.m. on a weekday morning.

One year ago, I didn’t have a specific plan to apply for schools, but the desire to become a therapist had been brewing for about 10 years. That little note was a permission slip to take a chance on a dream and myself, to make big sweeping changes for a shot at being happy. Over the next few months, I began doing little tasks that lead me to where I am now, a graduate student in clinical mental health counseling.

My first semester of graduate school was, simply, wonderful, and life as a student comes with some nice perks, like a six-week holiday break. My classes pushed me to levels of uncomfortable that are necessary for professional and personal growth, and I started to my swim in an identity outside of the one as a communications professional. Many times, specifically when I was practicing my counseling skills, I felt a deep reassurance that I made the right decision, that I was going to be a good counselor someday.

However, leaving my job has not come without repercussions. We’ve endured some setbacks this fall that did make me think for a second that this dream chasing was foolish, that maybe I should return to the 9-5 with stable paychecks and benefits. I could suffer through a job I didn’t like if it meant that I didn’t have to worry as much.

Except, I couldn’t. I worried a lot back then too, so not do what I want and just try to keep the worrying at bay? I tried that, and a year ago I vowed to never let myself get that stuck again. Even though I love being a graduate student and working towards becoming a therapist, things are not perfect, but they never will be. Instead, I have to focus on all the good that I have, and when I look back at where I was last year, I feel so grateful. I took a risk on myself, and it was worth it.

A new year is coming, what permission slip will you write for yourself?

A Year in My Body – A Year Later


I started writing “A Year in My Body”* about a year ago while sitting on my couch, my leg locked into a machine that moved it back and forth. My body and I have been through a lot together, from throwing up meals on abandoned street corners to running for seven hours in the African foothills. However, it seemed like that one year, from my 32nd birthday to my 33rd, held some of its greatest ups and downs, so I wrote down those moments, being as brutally honest as I could in hopes someone else could relate.

Following the final posting, I had hoped to write a long, nuanced blog about what has happened in the last year, but, to be honest, I don’t really have the time for that. Between school, my graduate assistantship, and the part-time job I picked up, time dedicated to writing has diminished. Even so, I wanted to give you a quick wrap up as to what has happened in the last year during my recovery and finding a new normal in my body.

So, from my 33rd to my 34th birthday, here is “A Year in My Body: The Condensed Version”:

  • I was on crutches and in a body brace for a month. In that time, I worked mostly from home, and spent most of the time on the couch. Ethan was unemployed at this time, and although we had just got engaged, it was a really low moment for both of us.
  • In December, I went wedding dress shopping. I could have lost 20 pounds, and still not had the body I wanted for this activity. Going into that weekend, I knew that the hate I had for my body would likely try to dampen the experience, which I didn’t want to happen mostly for my mother. Buying her daughter a wedding dress is something my mom has waited decades for, so I tried to put behind any feelings of grotesque I held toward my body as not to ruin this for her. In the end, it was a great weekend and we found a dress that complimented my body type well.
  • At the beginning of the new year, I bought a fancy gym membership and went four to five days a week. The goal was to shape my arms and whittle my thighs through strength exercising. I was biking and using the elliptical, with the blessings of both my surgeon and physical therapist. I even got the green light for a few minutes of running and yoga.
  • My hip pain disappeared for a week, but then came back with fire. It could have been the running, or a yoga class, or even an intense water aerobics class. Whatever it was, it set my recovery back two months. I had to start from the beginning.
  • The person I saw the most, outside of my husband and co-workers, was my physical therapist. I know about her dating life, she knows the details of my wedding. She is a wonderful therapist, and I like our chats, but I desperately wanted to stop seeing her. A few friends have small injuries that need PT attention; and I was jealous that their stints with the therapist are so short.
  • I did not run on my wedding day. It’s May, It always seemed natural to me that before I slipped into my white dress, I would put on my running shoes and take one last jaunt as a single woman. But, because the hip pain was persistent, that could not happen. I cried for days. In losing running, I’ve lost a friend.
  • My friends took me to a psychic for my bachelorette party. Before she gave me the reading, she asked me to think of things I must know. I had three questions: 1) Am I marrying the right man? 2) Should I quit my job and go to graduate school? 3) Will I ever run again? Yes, yes, and no. She told me I am done with running and I should focus on water sports.
  • To tame the pain, my PT used dry needling. In front of the other clients doing exercises and waiting their turn on the table, she stabbed me with small needles, repeatedly. She said this releases the muscle and tissue tension. It hurt, and I made faces of pain, but it worked. My hip pain lessened with each session.
  • Swimming is not running. I know that I was a swimmer before I was a runner, but it is the not the same. The basement pool at my fancy gym is nice, but lonely. I do not have the same feelings of strength and belonging in the pool that I do while running. I did a few swims, but I can’t commit to it. Then, one day at the gym, I learn that there is a rooftop pool that is open for lap swim. Maybe I will try that.
  • I woke up wanting to swim. I sometimes can’t sleep because I am so excited to get back into the pool. In the early mornings, I took a bus from my house to the gym so I can swim in the rooftop pool. Something about being outdoors in that tiny pool reminded me of summers at the Pierre City Pool when I first fell in love with swimming. I love the way the light hits the water, the site of my stroke as I turn to breathe, how my body still knowns how to do a flip turn after all these years. I feel strong in the water. I feel like I belong.
  • Two weeks before my wedding, I cut out carbs, sweets, alcohol—basically everything but vegetables. I lost eight pounds, reaching a weight I haven’t seen high school. It is a crash diet, and I regained all of those eight pounds after the wedding, but I did not care. I just needed to look a bit thinner for my wedding day. Not too thin that I get sad each time I look at my wedding photos, but just thin enough. My wedding day came, and it was OK that I didn’t run. I spent the morning drinking coffee and chatting with my friends. And, when I put on my dress, I felt stunning.
  • I moved my swims to Lake Michigan. On Saturday mornings, when I would have been doing long rungs, I did long swims. I entered the lake at the beach near my house, in Rogers Park, and then swim until I see Loyola University. It’s a mile and half, maybe two. Maybe it’s dangerous to be out there alone, but I love it. Me and the water, spending time together under the sun.
  • In August, just as I was running out of appointments that my insurance will cover, I have my last with my PT. She gave me the clear to start running again.
  • It’s been a year since my surgery, and I wanted to acknowledge this day, I am running again and feeling good, so I decided to run eight miles to celebrate how far I’ve come. The last time I did that was in February 2017, and it was after that run that I understood someone was really wrong with my hip and made the appointment to see my doctor. So, on a Saturday morning, I set out on eight miles. At one point, I consider 10, but decide against it. I no longer do things just to see if I can. I have to listen to my body if I want to make sure running stays around. By mile six, I was happy with the eight, because while my hip feels great, my fitness is lacking. I can run the miles, but not fast. I finished tired, but there was no hip pain.
  • On the morning of my 34th birthday, I was a bit sad with feelings of insecurity around my relationships. To shake it off, I went for a run. Four lovely fall miles. My mood brightened; running can still lift my soul from the depths of anxiety. Thinking back to last year, spending most of my birthday in pain, it’s already a better birthday. I have a new husband, a good family, close friends, a new career path. And, I have running again.


*Read the first, second, third & fourth, and fifth installments.  

A Year in My Body: Part Five


This two-piece essay is from a five-part series about the emotions, challenges, and events surrounding my body, from my 32nd birthday to my 33rd. Read the first, second, and third & fourth pieces in the links. 


My surgery is in a few weeks and I am trying to run as much as I can before I am forced to take a break for several months. I recently adopted a puppy, Annie, and she and I run up and down a stretch of four blocks near my house. I have never liked running with someone else before, but Annie is not judging my pace. She cares only about the array of smells around her. She couldn’t care less that I am there, and that’s why she is my favorite running partner.

These are not real runs, rather slight jobs with my dog up and down our streets. No, I lost running this year. In the year that I should be running for a marathon, my body has decided to quit on me. Entire Saturday mornings spent on Chicago’s Lake Shore Path are gone. So are the dreams of running another ultra marathon in the Pacific Northwest and maybe one day qualifying for the Boston Marathon. For years, I pushed my body to go further, to be smaller, to be better. I was never the fastest or thinnest runner, but I was the one who could run for seven hours without walking or stopping. I was the one who ran the races others couldn’t and wouldn’t. It was my edge over other people, what made me special, and now my body has taken that from me. It’s broken, aging, and sad.

My body also stole from me the only thing that made me feel beautiful. Even though I often treated running as a punishment for eating too much pizza the night before, running never made lose a great deal of weight. Rather, it made me strong and resilient. When I hit my stride and my legs were moving faster than the rest of me could keep up, I felt bolder and more courageous than any kind of mantra, yoga, or religion. Running was my spiritual practice.

Now, I don’t have it. I feel ugly, empty, and scared that I might never get it my back. My body has failed me.

I’m nervous about my surgery. I have never been under anesthesia before. I have been blacked out from drinking, but I doubt it is the same, and for some reason, this feels scarier. I am nervous that I will gain weight from lounging around the house and eating whatever I want. I am annoyed that from now on, when at the doctor’s appointment, I will no longer be able to speed past the medical history section. I worry that I am taking too much time off of work for the procedure but also not enough. My worst fear, though, is that I will have to ask for help. I will not be able to shower or put shoes on my own. I will need someone to bring me food and water. I will be forced to ask friends to come over to my house to socialize instead of meeting them where they are. I will be an inconvenience to people.

Two weeks before my surgery, my boyfriend of two years purposes. He takes me to  dinner then we walk along the beach, stopping at a bench. He tells me he wants to go on adventures forever, and then grabs my hand. Crying, I say yes. He then takes me for ice cream where a bunch of my friends from Chicago are waiting. I will order as much ice cream as I want, thinking to myself that this is the perfect night to indulge. I get a free pass for the extra scoop of double chocolate, everyone will say..

My friends snap a few photos of the evening. My face looks happy, but I am distracted by the girth of my waistline. No matter how loose my jeans feel or how small my profile looks in a slanted mirror, pictures always bring me to reality. I am definitely not thin, and it’s foolish to ever think I was. Losing weight before the wedding is a fresh worry planted into my head.

The following week, I attend yet another wedding of one of my friends Peace Corps. During two years as a volunteer, I wasted journal pages with emotional dribble about being the fattest in my group and grand schemes to get thin. Each time I met with my Peace Corps group, I waited for people to tell me how thin I had gotten in the last few months, for them to recognize that I was really a thick girl hiding under pounds of stress and discomfort in being an unfamiliar place. That was four years ago, and I have lost some weight since then, but not enough for pride. I had a specific weight number in mind that I wanted to be at that for this wedding, for no other reason that I didn’t want to be the fattest one again. I have not hit that number.

At the wedding, a couple of people do compliment my looks, saying I look great. “Oh, I am probably just losing muscle mass from not running.”

I drink before a full year of sobriety is up. Knowing that I would be heavily medicated with serious opioids when my birthday comes around, I flirt with the idea of ending my year-long sobriety at the wedding.

The wedding weekend kicks off with a welcome party at a brewery. My boyfriend and I show up late because of a delayed flight, so by the time we got there, I am so excited to catch up with my friends that I end up not ordering a drink. I wasn’t sure if I was going to (I decided to make a game-time decision), but seeing my friends seems more important than the drink.

The next day, though, when I am offered a glass of prosecco, I take it. I have another glass of wine at the wedding and then three beers. Five drinks in all.

Drinking again is underwhelming. I don’t feel changed at all after a year of sobriety. I feel guilty, sure, but mostly because I worry what others may think of me since I didn’t technically make it to the full year. Also, there is less joy in drinking than I remember, but I didn’t go as hard as I usually would under those circumstances. I guess there lies in the change.

What does one wear to surgery? I bring sweatpants specifically for the procedure and then I debate about which t-shirt to pair with them. Part of me wants to wear a race shirt from one of the marathons that I’ve run, to prove to the nurses that there is something special about me. But, most of those shirts are tighter than I probably need for surgery, so I select an old swimming shirt. When the nurses and doctor assistants ask how I tore my labral, I say running but immediately regret it. I don’t feel like a real runner who does so many miles she tore a tissue in her hip.

The nurse sticks an IV in me, and I tell the doctor that my pain is at 2, when it’s really a 5. My hand hurts with the IV, and I can’t stop thinking about how this is only the beginning of several painful months.

Eventually, I am wheeled into the operating room and the doctor’s assistant, the nurse, and the anesthesiologist surround me like I am something they are dissecting, and I guess I am. The anesthesiologist puts a mask over my face and tells me to take in big deep breaths.

“Think of a warm paradise,” she says.

I think of an old tree that was near my village in Peace Corps. I’d pass it when I was walking to a nearby village for supplies or to collect my mail. I always dreamt of sitting under that tree and reading a book or watching the clouds, but I never did. I never had time to acknowledge its beauty, or rather, I never took the time.

The next thing I remember is the nurse bringing me back to consciousness. I asked her about her ring and then I tell her that I am recently engaged. I am disappointed in her lack of reaction. She brings my body back to the real world, first by feeding it crackers and lemon tea, then by dressing me and finally putting me on crutches.

At home, for the next few days, I move from the couch to the bed. I strap an ice machine to my body to prevent blood clots. I put my foot into a machine that slowly moves my leg for four hours a day. I need my boyfriend to help me get up from every position. I am not strong enough to make myself a sandwich. I lay in my bed, getting more sleep than I’ve had in months.

Three days after my surgery, I watch coverage of the Chicago Marathon from my couch. There is less emotional pain than I thought there would be. I am not sad. My hip feels OK at this point, and after 11 months of pain, I start to think about what pain-free running would be like. Maybe I will run again. Maybe not marathons, but other races. Maybe my body and I can find that love we had for each other in physical movement again. Maybe I can remember running as something I did for my heart and not my waistline. That’s what I want more than anything.

It’s my 33rd birthday, and my goal for the day is to leave the house for the first time since the surgery to get a hot meal and ice cream. But, instead, I spend most of the day on the toilet. A rough bout of constipation leaves me in a weird limbo. I go to the toilet hoping for movement, and after an hour, move back to the bed where I sit in a fetal position. This lasts seven hours. I am nauseous and in pain.

In the next year, I will worry about my weight and the flubber of my arms as I prepare to walk down the aisle. I will try to return to running and yoga, but with persistent hip pain. There will not be a marathon, or even much running for me, in this year. Rather, my body and I will need to come up with a new agreement. I will push it and it will respond with pain. I will decide the only way to enjoy my body is to love it, and that takes way more acceptance of and kindness towards my body that I know how to give.

At the end of the day, my body no longer aches. The pills worked their way through my system and all the waste has exited. I pick at the sushi my boyfriend brought home for me, but a few hours later, I devour it. I crumble into bed like a soft cheese. My mother and boyfriend prepare me for sleep by strapping on an ice machine that inflates with a cooling water to my back. They then force both of my feet into styrofoam boots that are then fastened to a large cylinder with strips of velcro, all of this to keep me from turning on my side. I’m exhausted, mostly from trying to do normal things people do with their bodies every day. I fall asleep easily.

I am 33 today.

A Year In My Body: Parts 3 & 4


This two-piece essay is from a five-part series about the emotions, challenges, and events surrounding my body, from my 32nd birthday to my 33rd. Read the first and second pieces in links. 


The sports medicine doctor, who was referred to me by my primary care physician, is very careful not to leap to any conclusions about my mystery hip pain. She is cognizant of costly medical exams and procedures and decides on a conservative approach. “Let’s start with physical therapy,” she said. “Three to four weeks, and if the hip pain doesn’t improve, then we’ll try an MRI.” She tells me my hips are weak, and I silently argue that I ran a 35-mile race with these weak hips, but I don’t say anything because at this moment I can’t run more than three.

I hate physical therapy. It’s a place for bodies that are aging and broken. Mine is neither. My body needs a real workout, one that will shed fat and tone muscle. These simple kindergarten exercises are not cutting it. It’s a waste of time, and I can’t run until my doctor and physical therapist approve, so I bike and swim and do yoga, but my heart aches to run again. Other types of exercise don’t give me the same freeing feeling, nor are they doing anything to help me shed those seven pounds. My weight hasn’t budged in the first few months of the year, and I tug at my leggings during PT to hide a slight bubble of flesh over the waistline. I go to PT and do the exercises, believing that my hip will be OK to start training for the marathon soon enough.

After a few weeks, my pain has waned and I am allowed to start a slow return-to-running program. Other times, I ignore these instructions and run too much too fast, but, the want to make it the marathon finish line is so strong, that I move forward with caution. Three minutes of running, one walking. I do this routine up and down the city blocks, staying away from my old running path until I am record more than two miles. Participating in the Chicago Marathon is still not out of the question. I may not reach the time goal I set when I registered for the race, but I am running again and my hip feels OK. My pace in those three minutes picks up slightly as I envision moving past crowds two or three people deep through The Loop and Lakeview. I make plans to motivate myself through mile 18. I envision myself crossing the finish, knowing I beat whatever this is.

Suddenly, one day, the hip pain returns like it never left. There is no sign of improvement after weeks of PT, rest, and precaution. It’s back, which means it’s time for the MRI.  

I own two copies of Geneen Roth’s “Women, Food and God”, but have not read the book until now. While I am commuting on the train to and from work, I try to hide the cover from other passengers. “That woman needs help,” they will likely say to themselves. It’s true, though, I do. I need help losing weight. I need help not turning to food in every crisis or celebration. I need help feeling like a normal person with a normal relationship to food.

Geneen suggests to eat with awareness, but it’s unclear how to do that. Who has the time for awareness? I eat while I am rushing to the train, at my desk, while scrolling through social media, sometimes over the sink because I am too lazy to get a plate.There is no room for awareness or the uneasy recognition that food is often the only way I can endure.  

Food is my greatest utility against shame, guilt, and self-deprivation. It’s really my only tool, with alcohol now removed from the roster. At dinner, when I would have ordered wine, I always get the side of fries over salad. I suggest ice cream to my boyfriend after particularly emotional couples’ therapy sessions. I go back for seconds and thirds of chips and dip at a party because my anxiety is pulsing through my veins and I need to keep my hands busy. I will consume every last morsel that I ache for because I am sober and I have no other relief. I deserve it.

At eight years old, I was called fat for the first time. I remember that moment vividly the way other women remember their first kiss. I remember who I was with, what I was wearing, the shame I felt.

It happened at dance class, while we were gathered in one corner of the studio to change from our ballet slippers into our tap shoes. Another girl in the class sat down next to me and asked if I had a pillow under my leotard, indicating that my stomach was not shaped like the other girls. It was the first time I understood that my body was different, and not in a good way.

A couple weeks later, in catechism class, another girl asked why I was so fat.

For the next 24 years, my body and I will not get along. It is the barrier between the life I have and the one I want. It will never be what I want it to be, and for that, I harbor a lifelong sadness.

“You see where there is an unevenness of the labral tissue?” my doctor says, pointing to an MRI image of my right hip. In the picture, my body was stripped down to white shapes and unfamiliar shadows. I do not know what she was talking about, but I nod yes anyway. “That’s a tear. You have a labral tear and hip impingement.”

She gives me two options. I could see a specialist to get a cortisone shot and hope that it, along with some core work, will be enough to keep the hip pain at bay and train for the marathon. Or, I could meet with a surgeon. Surgery is the only way to repair the tear.

Again, my doctor is careful not to input her opinion on what I should do, even though I desperately want it. I have had exactly one broken bone in my life—a left cheekbone that fractured when I fell out of a (slowly) moving vehicle. Even then, it healed on its own.

I discuss the matter thoroughly with my parents and boyfriend, and I opt to get the cortisone shot from the surgeon. It’s best to exhaust all paths, and hope one could still lead to the marathon finish line.

I take a break from sobriety during a 10-day jaunt to Europe that starts with my friend’s Italian wedding. This exception was built into vow of sobriety from the start, but I am not entirely sure if I will take it. Even after we land in Italy, I debate the pros and cons of staying off alcohol throughout the trip up until I am handed a glass of Prosecco at a pre-wedding social. I consume it with caution, then down two glasses of water before ordering another. I split two bottles of wine with others at dinner, and then drink a beer at a nautical-themed bar. My head is dizzy at the end of the evening, but I am not drunk. At the wedding, I reach a nice level of buzzed without tipping into inebriation. By the time we leave at 4 a.m., I am fine enough to drive (even though we walk home). This seems like a healthy way to drink, but I worry that people will think of less of me, that I won’t get the full effect of sobriety with a few days indulgence, and back in the U.S., I reclaim sober status.

At the end of the trip, I conclude that there is not much of a difference between drinking and not drinking, except the agony over not drinking.



My surgeon is the team physician for the Chicago Bulls, Chicago White Sox, and Chicago Fire, which I suppose adequately qualifies him to examine my silly torn labral. Our appointment is quick as he asks me to lay on my left side and raise my right leg. I was afraid that he would be pushy about surgery, but he is not. He tells me that an operation is an option, but only if I think that my pain is inhibiting my quality of life. Now I question if my discomfort is really that bad, of I could live with it for a few more years.

I express my interest in getting the cortisone shot, and he orders his assistant to start preparing me for the the injection. Before he rushes out the door and on to his next patient, I ask him the only thing I want to know.

“Do you think that the cortisone shot will allow me to run the marathon?”

“When is the marathon?”


It hits me at this moment that the marathon is in four months, and I haven’t run more than 12 miles a week in the last six months.

“The cortisone shot is a quick fix,” he said, using his arms behind him to prop his body against the desk. “I do not think that the pain relief will last that long. If you were running the race in a few weeks, I’d say, ‘yeah, let’s get you to the finish.’ But if the race isn’t for a few months, you have a lot of training time in there and the cortisone isn’t meant to last that long.”

The doctor’s PA leads me to the x-ray room where they take pictures of my hip and stick a long need into my bone. Pain sears through my body, and I can barely walk for the rest of the day.

Three weeks later, when I see the surgeon again for a follow up, I schedule a hip arthroscopy surgery for four days before the marathon.

I will not be at the finish line this year.

Two of my friends from when I was a Peace Corps volunteer get married at a summer home in northern Michigan with unlimited dancing and booze. I, of course, don’t drink, although I am tempted when we first arrive to the ceremony and see everyone else grab dewy cans of beer from a canoe. I debate making a second exception for this wedding, but shame rights me back onto the alcohol-free path.

A few of my friends ask me about being sober and say things like, “Good for you, I could never do that,” and “That’s so incredible of you.” They are being polite, I know, but I feel foolish. I fear that they take my decision to stop drinking as smug. People often think that your own personal decisions are a judgement of theirs, like how meat eaters feel personally assaulted when you say that you are vegetarian (which I have am). Some of my friends have wondered if my decision to be sober reflects their own drinking habits. “I don’t think you drank too much,” they tell me. “You drank as much as I do.” I don’t like talking about my sobriety, mostly because I don’t know how to do so eloquently. I tell stories about my wilder drinking days—going to the bar five nights a week in college or drinking four quarts of beer in one sitting while a Peace Corps volunteer—to show my painted past with the bottle. I also feel it necessary to say how hard it is, and it is, but it is not a prolonged difficulty.

At the wedding, the urge to drink throbs for 20 minutes, and then it slows to a soft murmur that I ignore without difficulty. Throughout the evening, the other guests get progressively drunker while I stay the same. My Peace Corps friends are probably my greatest drinking buddies, and we have dozens upon dozens of drunken stories. They all know how smashed I can get and even named my drunken persona; Sherry, they call her. They miss Sherry, they tell me, as they twirl and stomp into the night, their eyes drooping and speech slurring. Many a time during Peace Corps, I was the drunkest, but tonight I am the sober one. I like my new-found role. It feels like I have stepped out of some restricting shell of my former self and into one less defined. Even though I do not have alcohol’s loosening powers, I feel more myself without a drink than with five.

After the wedding, I make a plan to go on a 30-day vegan, gluten-free, sugar-free diet. The idea is hemorrhaged from leftover thoughts of Geneen Roth’s book, and I figure I could eat with awareness if I am limiting most of the crap that I typically scarf down. My weight has changed little since the winter (I stopped wearing the FitBit once my hip pain reduced my workout capabilities and the static numbers made me feel worse about myself), so a drastic diet will have to be what gets the number on the scale to budge. I am not pleased by these circumstances, but not doing this diet doesn’t occur to me.

I am obsessed with restrictive challenges, like one year of sobriety or giving up nearly all foods for 30 days.That’s how I became a vegetarian nine years ago, on a dare with myself that I couldn’t eat meat for a year. I’ve imposed this limits since I was a kid, telling myself I could only watch four hours of TV a week or eat ice cream stand just once a month. I often instate them as a quick fix for something, most often losing weight.

This extreme diet seems like something that women with inspiring fitness Instagram accounts practice all-year long, which is actually a selling point for me. These are the type of women that I aspire to be: toned arms from daily yoga, calm minds from constant meditation, and 5 a.m. wake up calls that involve macha green tea. I’ve done all these things at one time or another, but they are not habits. Maybe an intense detox can lead me to that righteous spiritual path. I will give up whatever I need to be someone better than I am.

My mornings start with green smoothies, and sometimes yoga or running, as much as my hip can handle. For lunch, a salad with a homemade tahini and lemon dressing with no cheese or croutons. I snack on carrots and almonds between meals, but my big treat of the night is a frozen concoction of banana, almond butter, almond milk, and coco powder. After a couple of days, when all the sugar is out of my system and my palette has forgotten what it tastes like, this blended treat is heavenly. In sugar-free clarity, I claim it’s better than ice cream.

Like any detox, the first days are difficult and I am tired and run down, but my body adjusts. By the second week, I start to feel strong and light, like several pounds of have already disappeared. I vow not to look at the scale during these 30 days, so as to save the big loss a surprise. My stomach looks less lumpy in the mirror and my skin firmer. This diet might be just the key.

However, that high vanishes after just a week. My sleep and energy levels, after a spike, return to normal levels and I feel unchanged. I still haven’t ditched food as a coping mechanism, so after long days, I try to binge on non-junk junk food. I can eat blue corn tortilla chips and homemade guac, and nearly every night I stand at my counter, too bothered to get proper eating utensils, and gobble handfuls of chips with inches of guac until whatever worry I have is tucked away.

While on this crazy diet, I read Roxane Gay’s remarkable memoir, “Hunger.” I understand that our bodies are different and that I am offered more advantages because mine is of normal size and white, but I do relate to her disgust of her body and the idea that no one will understand. Even though I do not know what it feels like to be in her body, I do know what it feels like to be in mine. My body is a trap, an unfortunate draw, one that I can live with but not happily. I wish I didn’t have to go on this incredibly-restrictive diets, but I do. That’s the kind of body I was given.

“This is what most girls are taught — that we should be slender and small. We should not take up space,” Gay writes. “We should be seen and not heard, and if we are seen, we should be pleasing to men, acceptable to society. And most women know this, that we are supposed to disappear, but it’s something that needs to be said, loudly, over and over again, so that we can resist surrendering to what is expected of us.”

I want to be so small that I stand out and disappear at the same time.

Eating outside of my home is tricky. The world is not kind, nor short of judgement, when you are breaking from the Standard American Diet. We are bred to believe we should be thin, but also indulge on the fatty, salty, sugar foods of vices. “Enjoy life,” they say, while also judging the woman ordering curly fries instead of the salad. Over the course of the month, I have to decline invitations to ice cream, baked treats in the office, and pizza offerings. At brunch with friends, I ordered the most bland items on the menu: a spinach salad with berries and nuts, oatmeal with berries and nuts, or a fruit plate for $7.99.

Even though the benefits have waned in the final week, I still have high hopes that I have lost a good chunk of weight. But, I am nervous that it’s so many pounds that I will have to adopt this diet full time to stay slim. Again, there is not another option.

On the morning of Day 31, I weigh myself for the first time in a month. I take my time brushing my teeth and putting in my contacts. I have so much riding on this number that I want to take the process carefully. I step one foot on and then the other. Waiting for the number to calculate.

At first, I don’t believe it. Maybe something is wrong. But I blink hard. The number is the same.


Thirty days of no sugar, dairy, alcohol and gluten and I lost just three pounds. Three fucking pounds.

The Price of Peace of Mind

El embarcadero

There are many reasons I am lucky to have my husband and his unending support while I am pursing my master’s degree, but one nice perk of marriage is shared health insurance. Obviously, I lost my health insurance when I quit my job, but because Ethan and I had recently gotten married, I could be added to his plan. This is a big blessing because my university does not offer health insurance for students not living on campus, and many of my classmates hold full-time jobs for the insurance.

Recently, Ethan’s company made a change to their plans, so all employees had to re-enroll. While there was one option for coverage, now there were two. (Side note, I can’t believe how expensive it is to add a spouse or a child. It’s like the health insurance industry doesn’t care about humans.) One had a higher premium and a lower deductible, while the other premium was $87 more a month with a deductible that was five times higher. Do we save money month to month and hope we don’t have any major medical expenses? Or, do we figure out how to deal without that extra money in our daily savings and not cringe every time a medical bill comes in the mail?

When I was signing up for health insurance at my last job, I also had the decision between two plans: one with a higher premium but covered more or lower premiums and higher out-of-pocket stuff. At the time, I was pretty healthy, but I really hated that feeling of going to the doctor and being more worried about how much it was going to cost compared to getting better. I went with the more expensive plan, and considering I needed major surgery a year later, it was a good choice.

We can’t predict the future. We may get pregnant in the next year, we may not. My other hip may give out, it may not. One of us may get in accident, we may not. We are still young and relatively healthy, but that doesn’t meant that could change in any moment. Money is tight for us, and a major medical bill could wipe us out. That wasn’t something I was willing to risk, so we decided to go with the higher premium, lower deductible plan. In the end, the premium wasn’t that much more expensive to have a deductible that was thousands of dollars lower.

It was a peace of mind purchase. Now, either one of us can go to the doctor without fear of it coming with a bill we can’t pay. To us, $87 a month was worth it.

I made another peace of mind decision this week and decided to take a second job. As I’ve written before, money is tight for us now that we are down to one income, and while we have a budget and a plan that’s working for us, it hasn’t stopped me from worrying about every purchase. The other day, I spent an extra $4 dollars at Walgreens and worried about it for hours. I love having dinner and drinks with my friends, but fret over how much we can afford to spend for days leading up to the event. I avoid using my credit cards by making my own coffee at home, always taking the CTA, and packing enough snacks to get me through the day. I don’t mind living frugally – it’s what I know – but it would be nice to have a bit of extra cash so that I can have dinner with friends or buy a needed item without the extra pressure.

One day, when I was having a standard panic attack about money, I stopped into a market near my house. It’s a cute healthy foods store, kind of like a co-op. They sell quinoa, essential oils, kombucha from the tab – even bottled pickle juice. I asked the woman at the counter if they were hiring, and she said they actually may need a person to do a shift or two a week, a filler. They called me for an interview this past Monday, and then offered me the job Wednesday. I start Saturday.

Immediately after I accepted the job, I was a bit panicked. Do I really have time for a second job (in addition to my graduate assistantship)? Shouldn’t I be focusing on finding some freelance work to keep my marketing and communication skills fresh? Was the standard retail pay worth the time and energy?

Yes, because it will reduce some of my stress about money. Oh, I will still worry, but the new job is an extra paycheck and that brings a bit of peace of mind. I also couldn’t ask for something more idea: two blocks from my house, nothing too taxing that will deplete my energy to do school work, and I finally get to work in health foods store like I’ve always wanted.

Sometimes we  make choices because of the peace of mind it will bring us. We see there may be extra challenges, but go that route anyway because, in the long run, we will feel better about whatever ails us. And, I think that’s a very vaild reason to make a decision. For me, my quality of life will increase because my financial pressures are just a bit lower, both with the new job and the better health insurance. And I value peace of mind, so I am willing to work a little bit harder for it.

A Year in My Body: Part 2

Silhouette of woman jogging at sunrise or sunset

This essay is from a five-part series about the emotions, challenges, and events surrounding my body, from my 32nd birthday to my 33rd. Read the first part here


My alarm goes off at 5:15 a.m., but I hit snooze twice because I have worked in the extra 10 minutes to allow this ritual, which feels like stealing candy. It’s above 20 degrees, and although I can run outside, I dress in two pairs of pants, a thermal long sleeve undershirt, a fleece zip up, and a scarf that covers my mouth. The exhaustive layering takes time that I did not build into the schedule.

This pre-dawn date with the gym does not happen every day. Some mornings I am up working on a book that will be rejected by 30-some literary agents later in the year while others I stay hidden under a pile of blankets until the last possible minute that I can without being late to work.

But, today, I am running before most people are awake, and I feel superior to everyone else until I see a middle-aged woman, with her lunch under her arm, stomping off to the bus stop.

At the gym, I peel off my clothes and do rounds of lunges and curls and other weight exercises that I either remember from my high school weightlifting class or examples torn out of women’s fitness magazines under headlines such as “Get that beach booty” and “Nail your vacation bod.” I know nothing about training but I have high hopes that these gym sessions will be what kick starts my weight loss, and subsequently, marathon training.

Being sober has done little to my waistline. It could be all the chocolate, ice cream, and fries that I have green lit into my mouth because “I deserve it,” or it could be that I am not doing enough physically to burn the calories. A piece of me is resentful that I gave up such an accommodating vice like alcohol and my stomach haven’t seen the benefits. “Have you lost any weight?” a friend asked, and when I said no, she replied, “Well, that doesn’t seem worth it, so I am not going to stop drinking.” I’ve been sober for three months, and the scale doesn’t reflect the absence of empty liquor calories nor the handfuls of tortilla chips I eat in a drunken stupor. Still, I hold out hope that the weight will go at some point. It has to.

My runs to the gym are slow, but I am OK with that for now. When I am running 20 miles in the dead heat of August, I will think about these mornings and remark how the hard part is long gone. My newer body, which will be quicker and faster, will reward me with that reassurance.

My day-to-day life is digitized into sets of numbers. I have goals of how much water I should drink each day (two liters), how much sleep I should get (eight hours), how many calories I should eat (1,500), and how many steps I should take (10,000). These goal numbers were cherry-picked out of articles on sites like MindBodyGreen, Popsugar and Elle. I have no reason to believe that I can’t hit them daily. All of these targets were made to get me to a specific number on the scale.

For a couple of years, I stopped weighing myself as an attempt to forge a better relationship with my body, and it worked. With a long history of distorted body image, the scale determined myself worth. Down a few pounds? I could eat an extra slice of pizza and feel good in my tank top and jeans. But if I was a pound heavier than the day before, I ran an extra mile and spend most of the day looking at myself in the mirror to assess how bad it had gotten. Then, one day at a doctor’s appointment, I broke down in tears because I hadn’t lost as much weight as I thought I should while in the midst of marathon training. The nurse tried to assure me that my weight was fine, but I was so angry with myself that I wanted to scream. Hours later, after I had calmed down, I decided that I was no longer going to give power to the scale. I refused to buy one, and whenever I went to the doctor, I closed my eyes and asked the nurse to write the number down without telling me. Not knowing the number was bliss. I no longer had numeric evidence of my shortcomings, so I could no longer berate myself.  

When I moved in with my boyfriend last year, he bought a scale to curb his own weight gain. I stayed away from it at first, but like an addict, I thought just one reading wouldn’t hurt anything. I’ll only do it once, to see where I am at, and then go back to ignorance.

We’ve had the scale for four months, and I check my weight most days. It’s 147. My goal is to lose seven pounds, make it an even 140 and match the number on my driver’s license. There isn’t anything unhealthy about trying to lose seven pounds—my boyfriend does that in a month just by avoiding fast food. I bet that that I can even get down to 135, (which I haven’t seen since high school) if I am really careful.

A hand-me-down FitBit keeps me in line for my daily goals. The first thing I do when I wake up, is look at how well I slept. Too many thin blue and pink lines indicate restlessness, which predicts that it will be an arduous day. The black bracelet on my wrist reminds me to get up from my desk every hour if I want to hit my step number. Sometimes, I excuse myself to the bathroom and pace back and forth from one end to the other in an effort to add another 500 steps. I catch my image in the mirror as I strut. There has never been a mirror, window reflection, or shadow that I haven’t checked my shape in. I need to see how my belly protrudes forward and if the thickness of my waist has changed in the last 60 minutes. I do this over and over throughout a single day, for reassurance or justification or habit.

Below the fitness tracker, I wear a Garmin watch to track my runs. I need to know the exact distance of my runs and the mile splits. After each run, I upload the workout to both the Garmin app and Strava so I can proudly spout off my workout to a listening audience and judge my exertion and pace against others’ workouts.. On the Garmin app, I check my heart rate, which I’ve also been trying to acknowledge using the factory built-in heart rate monitor on the gym treadmill. My watch also tells me that heart rate is higher than it should be, indicating that I am pushing too much, but I won’t slow down. My mile times, even in these foundational runs, need to be quicker. I can only race quicker if I run faster, and I bury the voice in my head that suggests this kind of exercise could lead to added stress and strain on my muscles and joints. I don’t care, though. My body will be fine.

It’s 60 degrees in Chicago in February. It shouldn’t be this warm, we all know, and yet we can’t help but feel giddy with the tease of summer. In the Windy City, it’s a sin to waste a nice day, so I plan to run five miles after work before meeting a friend for dinner. I am supposed to ease back into a consistent running schedule before I ramp up to 30-mile weeks, but the nice evening and the eagerness to get to a higher mileage plants the idea that maybe I could run eight this evening. I tick off one mile then two and three, knowing I should turn around, but I only do so after the fourth mile so that my final total is eight. I keep going, even if the light hip pain I’ve had on my right side is throbbing now. The glory of telling my friend, who is far more fit than me with the toned arms of Jennifer Aniston, screams more than the pain.

At dinner my hip hurts so bad that I cannot sit without wincing. It feels like there is a  needle stuck inside my joint that the doctor forgot to take out. I have an appointment with my primary care doctor in a few days, and I will bring it up to her. I am confident that this will be my like my knee last year, when I did tests and saw a physical therapist but no conclusions were made. It’s probably fine.

I take off a few days of running, and my hip still hurts. I sit down, it hurts. I stand up, it hurts. I feel pain when I get out of the car, when I am sleeping at night, when I am walking the dog. The pain haunts me.

It’s nothing, I tell myself. It’s nothing.

A Year in My Body: Part 1


Last year, I wrote this 8,100-word essay about the thoughts, feelings, and events surrounding my body, starting on my 32nd birthday and ending on my 33rd. I worked on this essay for months and then pitched it to anywhere that accepted such long essays. It was not picked up, so I decided to post the essay here in five parts, and I will eventually post the entire piece in one spot. My only request is that if you like this piece, if it speaks to you, please share it. You can email it to a friend, post it on a twitter, whatever. Thank you. 


I am 32 today, and age is already marking my still developing body. My back aches from no specific cause. Wrinkles burst from my eye creases and wave along my forehead. Hangovers and colds can keep me in bed for days. Yet, 32 is closer to 35 and my mind is not ready give into the years. I’m still young-ish.

The first day of my new year is spent with my boyfriend, taking a boat ride along the river, and in a vegan café with a dear friend. It’s a good day, but not without want. The Chicago Marathon was yesterday, and because I ran it the year prior, I had hoped to spend my birthday basking in the smug glory of running 26.2 miles and indulging on whatever fried and sugary foods I wanted. Due to a pestering knee pain, I did not make it to the start line.

Overcorrecting, I make big goals for the year ahead. My knees are magically better, I declare that I will run a marathon at 32, and to help me get in my best shape yet, I will go the entire year without alcohol.

The idea to give up drinking for so long came about a month before, when at a friend’s birthday party, I drank three 6.4 ABV beers in 45 minutes and then continued to pound drinks throughout dinner. It was unnecessary for me to get that drunk, and yet I did.

I could stand to quit drinking for a while, I thought to myself. Maybe a month? Two? How about a year? In a 30-second conversation with myself, I decided to abandon all beer, wine, and spirits until my next birthday.

This is cause of celebration, though, because my body won’t be the same going out of this year as it was coming in.

I want a damn drink.

Work today was bullshit. My entire weekend, planned out by the hour with errands and social obligations, is bullshit. All these voices in my head, telling me that I have so many problems because I fall short in everything I do, are bullshit.

Giving up drinking for a year is bullshit.

I am walking home on a Friday evening and my first real urge for a drink slams into me like a car meeting an object in the middle of an intersection while running a red light.

The first week and a half of sobriety was a breeze.I convinced friends to meet up for tea instead of wine and there were no fall-flavored beers in my fridge to tempt me into a nightcap. But, 11 days in, and my anxiety and low self-esteem are raging and all I can think about is that, without alcohol, I do not have armor in this fight.

Why am I doing this?

The main reasons are to lose weight and save money. After the bender weekend with the birthday party, I was humiliated the next day assessing how much I spent on those drinks and what snacks I scarfed down when I got home. My head hurt, my stomach bloated, and my bank account diminished. Sobriety could fix that, though.  

All of my major life choices are based on two specific goals: feel comfortable with the numbers on the scale and in my bank account. Hopes of achieving the ultimate thin-rich combo underscores all big moves in my life. Moving to Africa to be a Peace Corps volunteer didn’t do it. Graduating college and relocating out of state didn’t do it. Ditching small towns and settling into a major city was also unsuccessful. But, a year with our beer could. Think about it. Sustaining from happy hours and nightly glasses of wine would remove those $30 bar tabs from my credit card statements, and I would skip the drunken junk food binges that give me the most next-day shame. Not drinking for a year seems pretty easy, even if a bit awkward at first when I have to explain it to friends (I prepare myself for a year of saying, “No, I am not pregnant’), but a thinner waist and thicker wallet are worthy rewards.

Plus, being sober is hip now.  I’ve read books, essays, and Instagram accounts about how sobriety can change a person’s life, and I want my life changed. Across every fitness, spiritual, and millennial website glamorous profiles of women who decided to abandon their fake party girl personality for one who wears bohemian bracelets, turmeric kale smoothies, and practices yoga on beaches and mountains. These women seem to easily abstain from alcohol and will tell you that they are better for it. I’ve gone searching for that ease and assurance in diets, morning rituals, and clothing only to find the same broken me at the center. Ditching alcohol feels like the right path to the better version of me.

A smaller voice, one that I am trying to hear without specifically acknowledging, tells me a break from alcohol is probably a good idea for more reasons than losing weight and saving money. It reminds me about the night a few months ago when my boyfriend was away and I drank an entire six pack by myself, my feet dizzyingly moving to the fridge for another. Or, how I consumed nearly half a bottle of wine while nervously waiting for guests to arrive at my housewarming party. Sometimes I think that if my boyfriend were to leave tomorrow or I lost my job, I could outlive the heartache with alcohol’s aide. I wouldn’t need to restrict myself to just one bottle of wine, rather I would be given a pass to drink endlessly. Part of me wishes for devastation just to have that much freedom in a liquor store and know that no one would blame me. It’s not considered abuse of alcohol when you can justify it with matters of the heart.

But none of those reasons seem very good in the midst of a craving. I want a drink to soothe my anger from terse emails with coworkers and calm my nerves for the party I have to attend tomorrow. I need a drink to help me drown out all the insults I am throwing out myself. I have to have a drink because it’s the only way I know how to work myself out of this funk.

My legs pick up speed until I am at home. All I can do at this point is try to outlast it, so I sit at the computer and write down strands of thoughts that are buzzing through my head. I pound on the keys for an hour, writing words I have thought but were too afraid to bring into the world. I keep going until I am physically exhausted.

When I do stop, the craving is gone. I outlasted it.

On Thanksgiving morning, I am back in my hometown to spend the holiday there for the first time in seven years. This is my favorite celebration, and I have high hopes of recreating the Thanksgiving from my memories. However, too much has changed. The annual parade of lights is now during the week, after I’ve already returned home, and the family friends we’ve spent this day with for years have splintered off and now have their own traditions. It’s also my first sober holiday, and my family is unsure what to make of me not drinking. I am often the one slugging back wine on Christmas morning or climbing onto a roof to watch fireworks after three or four beers.

The only thing I can tug from the holidays I remember is a causal turkey trot. My brother and I both decide to run it, and we show up early with the suggested donation of canned goods for the local domestic abuse shelter. We start off fast, despite other runners laughing and chatting throughout the fun run. This is the second “light” race we’ve run together this year, and neither started with an appropriate casual 5K pace. My brother is less experienced in running than I am, having run two marathons, but I am not particularly fast so I turn up the gears more than I should to be a step ahead of him. We pull back and forth for the first mile, and I am only slightly ahead of my brother at the turnaround. By the second mile, my legs settle into the quick pace and I pull away. I keep pounding hard as if something more than a cookie awaits me at the finish line. A few young men pass me, but that’s it. I finish ahead of my brother and the majority of the other runners, which makes me feel proud and then foolish for feeling so proud.

The next day, I go for a casual run, and I feel a sharp pain in my right hip. This might not be good. Maybe it’s nothing. I finish my run and try to ignore the pain for the next two days.

A week later, I receive an email announcing that my name was selected in the lottery and I’ve been accepted into the Chicago Marathon.


Photo found here