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Lessons from my Relationship with America

Lessons from my Relationship with America

I was the grumpiest one at the parade. Maybe the only grumpy one? Everyone else was smiling and laughing, all decked out in their red, white, and blue outfits. But I was having a hard time celebrating America this year. 

The last month has been heavy for me. The mass shooting in Uvalde, Texas broke and angered my heart. I was then deeply upset by the overturn of Roe V Wade and what that means for women in our country. This year, I felt like I was living in a country I didn’t recognize. 

I left shortly after the parade was over, even as my friends and my children all clamored to go to the local fair to play games and eat corn dogs. I knew I needed to engage in self-care and re-set before rejoining the day-long festivities that is our country’s birthday celebration. 

I went where I knew I would find refuge: the mountains. As predicted, after a few hours of hiking, I felt grounded and ready to enjoy the evening with family and friends.

As I hiked, I thought through my emotional experience with everything happening right now and had some important insights for myself. 

I picture our current America like a dysfunctional family. There are absolutely parts that are not going well, parts that harm people, and those things need to change. There are also many things that continue to go right. I do experience so many freedoms and live in a land, community, and country that I love. I showed up for a protest rally right after the overturn of Roe V Wade. Could I also show up and celebrate my country’s birthday as well? I asked myself to hold this complexity and nuance as I started to cook for our BBQ celebration. 

This complexity parallels so many of our relationships. Whether that’s community, family, friendships, or even our relationship with ourselves. 

It’s easy to let the scales in these relationships tip one way or the other. Maybe we focus too much on what is going wrong. Looking hard at what isn’t going right, is important. We need awareness to shine a light in dark spaces in order to know what needs to change. But only  focusing here can leave us depressed, overwhelmed, and helpless. In the week after the Supreme Court Roe V. Wade overturn, this is exactly how I felt. On the opposite end, maybe we look too much on the positive. And yes, you can look too much at the positive. This may feel comfortable, but doing so negates growth. 

Every relationship is complex and dynamic. Indeed, every human is complex and dynamic. This is part of why I love my job so much. I love witnessing and supporting humans in all their complexity. I believe strongly in my personal responsibility to hold myself, others, and relationships, in that complex nuance. 

That balance is chronically hard to achieve, and I absolutely don’t do it perfectly.  Because of that, I try to hold myself lightly in the journey. After the parade, I gave myself space to feel my sadness and distress around the state of our country. And as I allowed myself that space, while simultaneously taking care of myself, I was able to come back to the place where I could hold my own dialectical experience: the joy and pain, together. 

When I was too tilted into my distress, I fantasized about moving to Canada. I felt helpless and angry. Re-centered, I still hold my anger and distress, but I also feel compelled to show up in proactive ways. Because this is my dysfunctional family after all. When I hold my love for my country, simultaneously with my distress, I want to claim my country and advocate for change. 

 I want this lesson to deeply internalize to myself as well. When I get too down or critical about myself, I feel depressed, angry, trapped, and helpless. If I can hold myself in my complexity, which includes pretty great parts of myself too, I want better for myself. I want to show up for myself in proactive, healthy, compassionate ways. 

We are all complex and dynamic. We are all capable of growth and change. As we journey, I hope we can all hold ourselves with compassion, honoring and holding that complexity, looking hard at what we need to change, and loving ourselves enough to show up in all our dysfunction. 

Another Point of View

Another Point of View

I live in a privileged body. And while I am an advocate for Health at Every Size  (HAES) and body diversity, I know I don’t speak from embodied experience about what it’s like to live in a large body. There are many body-diverse activists out there, sharing their perspective and experiences. I wanted to add to these voices so I invited my friend, who lives in a large body, to share with us.  

Here is our conversation:

Q: Let’s start with the word “fat.” How do you feel about the word fat?

A: It depends on how you say it. It can be used as a description or an insult. I know I’m fat. That doesn’t make me less worthy. As long as it’s descriptive and not derogatory, it’s fine.

Not every fat body is unhealthy. Fat doesn’t equal unhealthy. Thin people can be unhealthy. Fat people can also be unhealthy but it’s not causal.  Being fat also doesn’t mean lazy. I worked out when I was thin and I work out now. “You’re fat and you work out every day? How much do you eat?” People assume I must binge eat my feelings. I eat normally but my body processes food differently now.

Q: You used to be thin. What are the differences you experience from being in a smaller body to now?

A: Thin privilege sucks. When I was thin I got more respect from people. Doctors treat me differently in a fat body.

Q: Can you give examples of how doctors treat you differently in a fat body?

A: One time, I hurt my knee playing handball. I stretched a ligament. A doctor told me I needed to lose weight. Whether I was thin or fat, I still would have hurt my knee. Another time I broke a finger and a doctor told me I was fat and needed to lose weight. I broke my finger and he somehow felt it was relevant to comment on my weight.

Q: How do you feel about your body?

A: I love my body. I stopped caring what others think of me. People hate when you love yourself in a fat body. It’s unacceptable. It’s radical to love myself fat.

Q: How did you stop caring about what others think?

A: I stopped caring because I want to live and enjoy my life. I no longer count calories. I like cooking. I like baking. I like to exercise. I like living. What people think of me only took away from my ability to do that.

Q: Are there still sometimes that it’s hard not to care about the opinions of others?

A: It’s hardest not to care about how my own family reacts to my fat body. It hurts when my family encourages me to lose weight. My mother is thin and struggles with her own body changes. She checks in with me about my eating and exercise habits, instead of checking in with me about how I am doing overall. I know she cares about me but when she does this, it seems like she cares most about my weight and “health.” 

Q: How is dating for you?

A: As a heterosexual, fat woman, men don’t understand why I can love myself. People don’t think people in fat bodies can be loved or be in good relationships. This is absolutely not true. When you are fat, people think you should settle for anyone you can get. “How can you say ‘no’ to propositions?” If you say “no” to someone who approaches or propositions you, they’ll say “your loss” and possibly make a derogatory comment about my size. They believe I don’t have many options so I have to say “yes” but in truth, I have a lot of options. I have dated a lot and have many opportunities. And if someone is attracted to me, thin people wonder, “Why would he want to be with a fat girl?” News flash: There are people who genuinely don’t care about my body size! But it’s hard for people to believe that.

Q: What would you like to say to people?

A: Love yourself. Don’t spend your life wishing you were a different number on a scale. Just live your life. Don’t let the judgements of others hold you back. Ever. Live your life. Enjoy it. Do what brings you joy. Eat the ice cream. Eat the greasiest pizza you want. You can also choose to eat salad. Don’t be afraid to take up space. Be loud. Be proud.

 

Invisible Scars

Invisible Scars

I got my first scar at five years old. I was playing at a friend’s house and bent down to pet their Scottish terrier. I accidentally surprised the terrier, and he greeted my advance by tearing flesh off my face. I remember warm towels and the feel of wiry stitches pulling through the skin above my lips. Today, this scar looks like a misplaced, poorly angled smile line.

​In third grade I loved playing soccer with all the boys at recess. I especially liked playing against Matt Cisek; the love of my elementary school world. One fateful day, Matt and I collided brutally on the field. His foot missed kicking the ball and connected directly to my shin instead. The strength of his kick was so forceful that it knocked cartilage off my bone. To this day, as my fingers trace my shin bone I can feel a divot left from the lost cartilage.

My stomach bears a variety of puncture marks. Some randomly scattered holes came from playing capture the flag on a moonless night when I was 17.  My best friend Robert told me to “run for the trees!” when the enemy spotted us. I ran full speed and never saw the barbed wire fence. Several people had to, literally, pick my body off the rusted coils and call my parents to make sure I was current on my tetanus vaccination.

Three other scars, right beneath my ribcage, bear witness to my emergency gallbladder surgery that took place just five days before my wedding. It turned out my stomach pains weren’t actually “pre-marital nerves.” The ER doctor told me that if I didn’t get my gallbladder out immediately, I wouldn’t make my wedding day. My stomach barely squeezed into my wedding dress later that week, still bloated from the surgical gas and wrapped in gauze.

Three more holes puncture my lower abdomen where doctors saved my life after an ectopic pregnancy burst my fallopian tube and tried to take me. These holes remind me of the miracle that is my preserved life and the life that was the twin baby safely nestled in my uterus. We both survived the trauma of emergency surgery and so much lost blood.

While scars manifest the physical impact life has on my body, my body also holds invisible scars deep inside her soft spaces. The creases around my eyes bear witness to years’ worth of smiles and laughter. The ache in my chest weeps my deep loss and empty arms. My upset stomach testifies of my vulnerabilities and yearning. The soft, gray hills inside my skull guard and protect my precious memories.

Scars and marks aren’t pretty, but they reflect truth. They reflect moments lived and the passage of time: a physical autobiography. My scars remind me that through all my living, my body has borne witness to my messy and wonderful life. My body was built for this. It was built to hold all that is me: every memory, emotion, and experience.  And isn’t that beautiful?  

 

Airplane Wings and Us

Airplane Wings and Us

 

“I just don’t let things bother me.” Ever heard someone say this?

Deep breath. I have reactions and thoughts, but first let me share a short story.

I remember one time I was on a particularly turbulent airplane ride. I had the window seat overlooking the wing. I felt frightened as I watched the wings bounce impossibly up and down. I remember worrying if the wings were going to snap off and this would be the end of my story.

The flight had been so scary for me that I called my dad upon landing and told him my experience. When I told him about watching the wings bounce with such intensity I thought they’d break off, he told me, “Anna, you want the wings to bounce. If they were too rigid, they would fall off.” 

This struck me then, and continues to be an important life lesson.

Resiliency is a big concept in the therapeutic world. Indeed, much of what I do with clients is help them build their own resiliency to life’s challenges.

Put simply, resiliency can be thought of as our ability to “bounce back” and adjust to life’s adversities. Intuitively we focus a lot on that “bouncing back” process. But equally important to resiliency is the impact in the first place.

The wind exerted incredible force on the airplane wing and the wing moved in response. The wing let itself be impacted by the events around it. This ability to move in the first place; indeed the ability to be moved in the first place, is key to its resiliency.

It is the same for us. There is no inherent resiliency in “just not letting things bother us.” There is no good life skill in this. In fact, resiliency comes from allowing events to impact us and move us. It is in these impacts that the challenge, insights, and growth happen. We need to be moved in order to grow and change. 

Glennon Doyle has wise words on this topic,

“Being fully human is not about feeling happy, it’s about feeling everything…It’s okay to feel all the stuff you’re feeling… You’re not doing life wrong; you’re doing it right. If there’s any secret you’re missing, it’s that doing it right is just really hard. Feeling all your feelings is hard, but that’s what they’re for. Feelings are for feeling. All of them. Even the hard ones. The secret is that you’re doing it right, and that doing it right hurts sometimes.”

People who have learned to “just not let things bother them” are missing out on valuable life lessons and growth that come from feeling the full range of emotions inherent in the human experience.

Those dark spaces full of struggle and intense feeling, that come from the impact of lived human experience, are sacred. They are where we truly learn who we are and what we are capable of. This is where we learn we can do hard things, which is the definition of resiliency.

 

The Longer Journey

The Longer Journey

Remember the sayings, “Rome wasn’t built in a day” and “anything worth doing, is worth doing well?” I know I, personally, haven’t heard these quotes in years…maybe even as far back as my prepubescent days.

More and more I feel surrounded by a culture that values big progress and instant solutions. The belief that radical transformation happens quickly taunts us in self-help books, podcasts, new medications, testimonials, and even therapeutic interventions. Hell, I want to try Ketamine too and see if a life-transforming “trip” awaits me.

We all love dramatic transformation. Why else did Eat Pray Love top the best seller market for years? If only we all had the luxury of abandoning our careers, families, and daily lives to go find ourselves in exotic, international locations.

But most of us have daily lives that claim us and it is within them that we do our work.

There is nothing sexy or glamorous about the changes that take place slowly, over years.

In fact, sometimes the glacial pace of hard change can feel demoralizing and depressing. Even writing about this topic feels lackluster.

One of the very first things I learned in graduate school came from my professor who was teaching us Psychotherapy Foundations. She said, “A lot of people think therapy is exciting and dramatic. People who have never been to therapy think only about the juicy secrets and trauma revealed in our confidential spaces. But the truth is: therapy is long, hard work.”

I have worked in settings that required short-term therapy models. I witnessed people change in limited time-frames. I don’t want to negate that work can happen in those spaces.

But, now I work in a place where I have the luxury of seeing clients long-term and the transformation I witness is so different. Instead of only journeying with clients for a short chapter of their life, I get to journey for a few chapters, maybe even an entire volume of their life series.

I have learned that beauty and sacredness are in the messy, painful, middle chapters. The courage required beyond big life choices.  The courage to simply get up and face another day. The courage to hope. The courage to believe that change is even possible.

I have one client that I’ve been privileged to know for 11 years. Her demons have been big and her progress hard fought. Over the years I’ve known her, there haven’t been grandiose turning points or mind-blowing insights. There have been shifts, and pivots and advances, and retreats, and breaking points and coping and medication changes, and Boost, and loneliness, and dreams and hundreds of dollars spent on scales she will throw away a month later, and fear, and vulnerability, and bravery. While there was no singular transformation, the person she is today is unrecognizable to who I met 11 years ago. She has changed herself and her life in profound ways, slowly, over time. Even though her work isn’t done, she continues to show up. She continues to work.  

The journeys of each of my clients almost exactly mirror the one I just described. Recovery from an eating disorder is long hard work. There aren’t short cuts or easy fixes. One hurdle is passed, only to be confronted with another. Progress often doesn’t feel like progress and what feels good is likely self-sabotage. The work is messy, and brave, and long.

This isn’t just unique to people working to overcome eating disorders. What about the messy, long work that confronts each of us in our lives? While crises or trials propel big growth and movement; the long, hard, lonely work, devoid of drama and fanfare, is just as transformative, if not more so. I know I struggle to value these slower and messier parts of myself and my experience. I know I can even sometimes feel shame about what feels like a lack of progress or honest confrontation around overt avoidance. Simultaneously, the work I witness from my clients reminds me to be compassionate and brave. It also reminds me to be grateful for the messy, boring, hard chapters that are part of my larger, beautiful, rewarding life.