The Fight

As I stepped outside today I couldn’t help but breathe in every ounce of cool air that my body would allow. Focusing on breathing in the new season and exhaling old ones. For the last few months I have been dreading fall. Yes FALL, my favorite season of the year. And yes, Theo is about to turn one and that has my mommy heart hurting and jumping for joy at the same time, but it’s more than that. 

Did you know that smell is one of the strongest memory triggers? 

For me, fall is filled with the smell of crisp air, fallen leaves, sweater weather candles, and pumpkin everything. They were the smells I waited all year for (and on occasion broke into out of season because they brought me a sense of calm.) I fell in love with my husband in the fall, I got married in the fall, and perhaps most importantly I welcomed my little boy to the world in the fall. But what happened once he arrived was something I couldn’t have expected. 

No textbook, doctor, seminar speaker, or veteran momma could have prepared me for what postpartum would feel like. 

So when I say that I worried my first breath of fall air would fill me with unwanted emotions I meant it. I never did publicly share much about my postpartum journey. It always felt so heavy, something I could carry but that didn’t need to weigh others down. Something that weighed me down so much at times I struggled to raise my hand to tell my story. 

As we enter into a new season, and a year has passed and my precious baby is about to turn one, even though I am still fighting my postpartum illness and mental health everyday, I feel that sharing my story is a way for me to gain closure on those emotions. It is my hope that sharing my experience can help me feel all of the joy, relieve the pain, and help me to let go of any regret I may still hold. 

Most of you already know about my birth story. 38 weeks with gestational diabetes, 36 hours of labor, 1cm, c-section, 5lb 9oz baby, blood sugar concerns, a short NICU stay, tongue ties, lack of milk production, difficulty latching, etc. 

When I was preparing for labor, birth and motherhood I really tried to keep my expectations clear and conservative. I knew some women had trouble breastfeeding and as much as I told myself “if you can’t that’s okay” deep down I knew that if I couldn’t it could break me. I wanted that so bad for my baby, and for myself. Through my struggles I had to adapt and that was something with the surge of hormones I was not strong enough to do without falling apart a little. 

Lactation appointment after lactation appointment in the hospital and following ended in tears. It ended in disappointment, fear it would never work, exhaustion, and resentment of my birthing journey because I truly believed that the early delivery and the c-section made it near impossible for this to work. But still I tried, every two hours to feed, then pump, then sleep, then feed, then pump some more. 

My body was responding horribly to the pain medication I was convinced it was causing more harm than good so I stopped taking it pretty soon after coming home from the hospital. While in the hospital during a breakdown when they took my baby away for the longest I’d been away from him in 9 months, I couldn’t sleep and wouldn’t eat. The nurses tried to prescribe a Xanax but I refused. They ended up giving me Benadryl just so I could sleep. Medication was not something I wanted to rule my day, but I’d just had major abdominal surgery and a large part of me was delivered leaving what felt like a very empty space. It didn’t feel like he was ready and I felt guilty for having GD and having to deliver him early. Eventually I asked the doctor for a Zoloft prescription and they obliged. 

If there was one phrase that was constantly in my head and in my heart through these difficult moments it was “you have to take care of yourself in order to take care of your baby.” Of course once I got home I wanted to be sure that I wasn’t just experiencing baby blues and that taking Zoloft was the right option. I’d heard it could affect milk production and I was already struggling so much I didn’t want to add that to the docket as well.

Little did I know I was in for an even more shocking discovery that would send me into my spiral. 

During my lactation appointment soon after I returned home the pediatrician came in to deliver news that my baby’s newborn tests had revealed that he had a genetic marker for Cystic Fibrosis. My heart stopped for a moment and I couldn’t even hear what she was saying beyond that- all I could do was hug my baby and pray it wasn’t true. It didn’t matter that there was only a 5% chance he had it, it broke me in a way I’ll never forget.

Catatonic.

After that I became catatonic. My husband wasn’t with me when I received the news and I had no idea how I was going to tell him that our perfect boy could have a life altering condition. A condition in which he had known closely and had recently buried a friend who had the condition. (Thankfully we learned later in our journey that he did not have CF)

I remember is lying on the bathroom floor after throwing up and crying and wondering if my mom and my husband should take me to the hospital. My body didn’t feel like my own, and my heart was breaking in a million ways, I was trying to rationalize to pull myself out but nothing worked. All my old tricks to pull me from the depression didn’t work. Even today, as I feel like that person was not me, as I feel like I was having an out of body experience, I’ll never forget that feeling. The feeling of absolute disillusionment, of feeling like I had no control over my thoughts, my emotions or my body. I remember being forced to sit at the kitchen table, take my Zoloft and eat. One piece of lettuce at a time. I had no appetite, and I was drowning in fear that these emotions would never let up.

One thing I always held onto was my absolute love for my child. My love for my husband, and my love and gratefulness for the people who went out of their way to help me through. 

For the next few days I waited anxiously for the Zoloft to begin working, but I felt like I was moving through mud, every moment consumed with fear and my thoughts completely controlling me. Intrusive thoughts controlled me, and my tears felt like they were never going to stop. I could burst out crying at any moment for no reason, or maybe reasons I wasn’t ready to vocalize yet. My mom stayed with me that week, my husband constantly going out his way to get me things he knew I enjoyed, and me wanting so badly to want those things-but falling short everytime. I had this feeling of inadequacy and sadness that I couldn’t respond to his efforts better. 

As I moved through the overwhelming sadness I found that I couldn’t take naps during the day because I’d simply wake up to panic attacks and even in the morning it would take every ounce of strength in me to get up and to move from the bed to the chair. 

And I remember all these things in sadness but I also remember the things that pulled me out of it. Yes of course my husband but honestly? More than that, it was my baby. He pulled me out of every panic attack - all I needed was for him to lay on my chest, the slow breathing of his sleep, the calmness of his demeanor, and his weight on my chest seemed to break up all the panic. I remember begging for him in the middle of the day becauae when I was the most broken, his mere presence put me back together. And that is something that is truly the most beautiful thing I’ve ever experienced.

I never thought I would get through that time I remember praying that if I had to go to the hospital that there would be a drug, or a shot of hormones that would stop me from feeling this way. And I now know the only way to get through is to hold your baby close, squeeze them tight and pray. Pray for strength, pray for good weather to help you get out of the house, pray that support comes to you in ways you may not expect it. 

I don’t know that I’ll ever stop fighting postpartum. 

Because postpartum is not just the moments after birth and that first incredibly difficult week. It’s not just the fourth trimester. It’s not just filled with fears of being enough, or providing well. It’s not just the feelings of letting go of the way you thought things were going to go and holding onto the things that have to be and that are best for your baby. It’s not just baby blues, or bursting out crying, it’s not the pain of post labor, it’s not the waiting for the milk to come in, or the waiting for answers, or the paralyzing anxiety that kept me awake at night praying to God not to take my precious baby in the middle of the night. It’s not JUST feeling like you could do absolutely everything right and you could still lose your child. 

No that’s not JUST what postpartum is. 

Postpartum is felt in every transition your child makes. From the first time they smile, to learning how to clap, roll over, crawl, stand. It’s in every laugh, tear and bumped head. I don’t know what the future holds, but I know that my journey is not over just because he turned one. I know I will continue to feel everything as if it’s a first time feeling. I will continue to fight my anxieties and try to calm my fears. As he begins talking and walking I will remember that my body created this extraordinary human and everything I put into my life from here on out will influence him. 

So for my sweet boy I promise him this. I promise him that I will continue to fight my postpartum anxiety without losing sight of my love for my postpartum journey. I promise never to feel broken but that if I ever do, to remember one hug from him can put me back together. I promise him to never have regrets from my fourth trimester to remember that the moments we spent together, contact napping, feeding, playing, cuddling created this unique connection that I will cherish forever. But perhaps most importantly I promise to always be present for him,always be here for him, and to never forget that he saved me. 

A Woman Who Took a Leap

The last time I wrote was October 7, 2016. Today, it is January 26, 2022. There have been so many times I have come back to my desk, opened up my computer yet no words came to me. Sure, there were times when I could sit down and start a few sentences, and get three paragraphs in and realize, I really have nothing to say- and if I do, no one really wants to hear it. Writers block is an interesting thing. Combined with imposter syndrome, depression, and anxiety - 

It's a writers prescription for disaster. 

I found small moments of clarity in the last 6 years. A Facebook post that just flowed out of me, or a speech that I found incredibly easy to write. But I missed the empty space. The space that allowed my mind to wander freely, where I wasn't worried about 'drawing' outside the lines, being bold, or vulnerable. I have been living in fear that the new experiences I was having weren't universal enough, or weren't painful enough to share. You can tell from my blog that I have exclusively written what I knew, which often times was pain. I wrote when I was feeling lost, or forgotten, or hurt. Of course those emotions are going to drag out some very heart filled entries. 

But what happens when that "Woman on the Edge" I had been writing about all this time, finds herself? What happens when she jumps off the edge and into a world of happiness and love? For me, that meant losing the part of me that dug into the quiet recesses of my soul to bear vulnerability across a blank page. I was thrust into a world that moved so quickly I could barely keep up, much less give my mind time to nest and my soul time to create. 

Less than a month after my last post, I met the love of my life. Of course I didn't know he was at the time I met him. But the world suddenly shifted for me. I threw myself into this love. I took my soul out of the dark place I left it after being buried in hurt.

And, I let him heal me. I let him love me. 

The burden of a blank page never seemed quite as important to me as living in the moment. Adventuring through life with the man who would come to be my forever love. I had jumped off the edge, and never again would I find myself standing on an edge again, too paralyzed by my past to take the leap. 

But, like any great story, mine was not finished writing. Love takes us to incredible places, but the darkness that plagues us is never really gone. It's always waiting under the surface. 

You will hear, through my story, that I married the love of my life. As I sit here writing this story, I am happily married to a wonderful man that treats me like I am the best thing in his life. And I feel love in a way I have never felt it before. We have learned to not only love each other unconditionally, but we have learned how to suppress each others demons. Demons that, no matter how much you are in love, how happy you are, how incredibly blessed you feel every single day, still plague the darkest parts of you. 

My demon, as it turns out, was anxiety. 

A demon that followed me around, likely for my whole life, but that really made itself present to me in the last few years. You'll hear more about how anxiety affected me in later entries, but for now - it's important to know that this anxiety affected everything I did, how I acted, and who I was at my very core. You will hear that my anxiety made me a nervous person, you will hear how it was exasperated by a toxic work environment, political unrest, and ultimately just the everyday terror that living in America brings. However, you will also hear about how my anxiety made me a better communicator, a better listener, and ultimately a better partner. 

My demon, an instigator of complex emotions. A rampant disease you have to know how to tame. But that, on days when you can't - overwhelms every piece of you. 

I have taken the time to love my demons as much as I love my angels. To live in the basements of my emotions, as much as I breathe in the fresh air at the ceilings of them. I have found a way to live with the constant urge to shut down, and I have decided to be brave. Even if you can't possibly be brave every single day.

So rather than talking about that Woman I once was. Standing on the edge looking out into the world, I look forward to talking about the woman I am now, living in that world. I look forward to describing in every distinct way, how my demons affected me in the last 6 years, and how I overcome them today. I look forward to sharing experiences, and not just thoughts and emotions. I look forward to seeing the ways that vulnerability has changed who I am, how I write, and how I share my life on this platform. But most of all I look forward to filling these pages with the words of a woman, who finally took a leap. 

No longer a woman on the edge looking out, but a woman flying fearlessly. 

You'll be Worth Something Someday

Remember when we were younger? Our parents used to buy us a toy and say "Keep it in the box, in pristine condition, that will be worth something someday." And so we do, and we wait and wait, and we give up moments in our life to hope that someday, that little toy bobble head is worth enough to keep us comfortable.

I feel like that's a little bit like my life has been. I grew up in this Snowglobe of comfort, where everything is made to seem like I am living in a box of pleasantries and I am staring out into this big world of opportunity with anticipation. My parents did a really good job of keeping me in that box for a while, I was a timesake, a collectible to society. 

There was this reflection of myself staring back at me in the 

cheap plastic that guarded me from the world that was telling me. 

Stay in there - it's not so great out here, Stay in there and you'll be worth something someday. 

I think sometimes we are taught that we will only be worth something if we stay tucked away, in a chest of memories that become forgotten over the years, but where we wait to be worth something. In a box keeping us clean and pristine from the dust that only collects around our box rather than being like the pain that collects in our hearts. 

We are taught that the scratches of time from hate and misunderstanding will create an image of insignificance. We are played with, as all toys are. We are passed around and spoken about. We are dropped and lost. We are taught that dust only settles for brief moments in time but eventually you slowly make your way to the back of the shelf, a cycle of forgotten importance that creates voids of worth.

I have, from time to time, missed my box. I've missed that smell of familiarity combined with that embrace of certainty. I miss looking at the world through rose colored glasses and feeling like I will be safely tucked away, not forgotten but protected, from the cruel world we live in. And even in times of clarity where I know that the scratches and scuff marks and constant flurry of dust mean that I have lived, there will always be that small voice in the back of my mind, bringing me back to a place of love where my own reflection told me:

Stay in there- It's not so great out here
Stay in there and you'll be worth something someday. 

Take the Next Step

There are times that we dwell in, these times that are meant to consume us. There are also times where we thrive, and that deliver us from the pain of the times that consume us. There are times of passion and realization, but also times of disenchantment and confusion. It's been about 4 months since I have written anything. Call it whatever you want, writers block, mental pneumonia, or a rut. 

All I know is that these last few months have been a whirlwind mixed in these times. Clarity has yet to present itself. Although I can feel myself moving towards some sort of answer. Going through the motions doesn't cut it anymore. I ache for something more, something real to me. 

So it got me to thinking, why do we, as humans, risk so much of ourselves doing things we don't find happiness in? If we truly understand ourselves, why do we feel the need to constantly gravitate away from ourselves daily? 

Is it comfort and familiarity? Or, is it fear? 

From what I have learned? It's a little bit of both. 

I don't think we ever fully comprehend who we are, and there is a lot of beauty in that. Because we are constantly learning who we are, we have this innate ability to keep surprising ourselves. We have this fantastic opportunity to transform ourselves everyday. However, when it becomes difficult for you to progress that transformation, or the obstacles seem to hold you back, that's when you know that something has to change. 

I grew up in a world where you did not give up. Quitting was never an option. You pushed until you succeeded. But one thing wrong with that methodology is what happens when we reach that success? Just because you are successful at something, doesn't mean that it is what you are supposed to live your life by. Success creates this false sense of security. It is why failures are so important too. 

I look at my life now, and the things I am really passionate about. 

Writing, Fitness, Nutrition, Hospitality, People 

Of the things I have mentioned, I am not afraid to admit that I have failed, time and time again. I still fail to this day at some of them. But, the combination of these things, along with the other smaller pieces of my reality make up who I am. And, at the end of the day, my heart truly gravitates towards a life where I can hold each of these pieces close to me everyday, and not feel like they are a million miles away. 

Living on Sunday night anxiety because tomorrow is Monday and work calls, is no way to live your life. It is not the way that I will continue to choose to live my life. The things we are passionate about, these large and small pieces of our reality that connect us to our true identity? These are the pieces of our life that we will truly be successful in, if we give ourselves the chance to pursue them. 

This is why, tonight I make a promise to myself, and you should as well. To stop letting success be a crutch to stay in a position you are not happy in. To stop letting our fear and relinquishment of ourselves to familiarity be the obstacles that keeps us from pursuing our dreams. And to, everyday, move towards the life we know will bring us happiness, and away from the life that only holds the straps to the straight-jacket we allow to strangle us.

Lower your Expectations, Raise your Standards

Everyone is in your life for a reason. That is what they say, right? It's an interesting concept.

We are on this constant journey to understand ourselves. To think outside the box. To understand the choices we make, to understand the things that have happened to us, and to understand why God put that one person in our life that made us forget who we were.

I am not saying I have it all figured out, I certainly do not. Hell, I don't know if I even have it partially figured out. I have bad days, just like everyone. I have days where the pressure becomes too much and I break into a pool of frustrated tears. But I also have good days. I have days where the weight of the world seems to give me some relief. Often times, in that relief I find revelation and understanding. It is important to me to take note of the realizations I make, so as to not forget that I am moving.

What is more interesting to me than the concept that everyone is in our lives for a reason is the fact that one person, as insignificant as they may seem to the outside world, could be the one person that makes you fall apart and come back together all at the same point simply by coming into your life at the right time. And, how that person can do all of this for you, but still not be the one. Confused yet? Let me explain.

The last two years have been hard. And towards the end of last year, months of sedated understandings came to a head and (pardon my french) shit hit the fan. Shit hit the fan so hard that I didn't know if I would ever be able to trust myself ever again, much less trust anyone else. So coming into this year, I had a plan. This year, is MY year.

Well as if "like clockwork" wasn't already my motto, someone came into my life that just had to have my attention, and although I resisted, I eventually gave in, and for as messy as it got, and for as terrible as it was, it was the best thing that could have happened to me. This person will probably never read this, but if they do, I hope they know that they don't deserve me, not because I am better than them now, but because I want to be a better person for the future. I hope they know that they did impact me, and it might have been in the most significant way possible. I hope they know that they did disappoint me, that they could have been so much more, but they should also be disappointed that they couldn't be that.

This is not a perfect formula. But, I do think it is about timing. And I don't think this person was ever meant to be in my life for long. I think they were here for a moment. They were meant to be a tool for me to learn by, not a tool for me to live by. I don't want it to seem like I am heartbroken, I certainly am not. But I think it is important to note that I wouldn't be who I am now without this person, and the insensitivity he always seemed to approach me with.

That's right, I am not who I am because he treated me well. If anything he forced me to look at who I was, and create a progressive identity crisis for myself.

*He told me I didn't know who I was, and in that, I realized I did. I realized I wasn't the person I was   trying to convince the world I was. I was much different.  
*He treated me like I didn't mean a thing, and in that, I realized I meant a whole hell of a lot.

I began focusing on fitness and nutrition, and I have seen things in a brand new light. My head is clearer than its ever been. I would have never re-prioritized had it not been for him. My clear head has me in this weird fog of clarity, an irony in itself.

What parts of the person that I have been telling the world I am, still apply?
Which parts of me have I suppressed out of fear?
What parts have I hidden as a result of pain?

I am swimming in constant questioning about my true identity, and how to be that person again. But, in a lot of ways, despite this identity crisis, my life makes sense again.

I want to be fixed, doesn't everyone? I have come to terms with disappointment. I have let it sit on my couch, as opposed to being snug into my head. I have questioned it, I have befriended it, and I have belittled it. It is so easy to let disappointment take over, and to lower your expectations of yourself, your life, and the people around you.  And maybe to some degree that is necessary, but there is a fine line between lowering your expectations and lowering your standards.

So, here is the point. Everyone is in your life for a reason. And, if they don't stay in your life, the reason is a matter of reflection. Be disappointed, adjust your expectations. Be upset, but don't lower your standards.

But clarity comes in waves. It's supposedly what keeps life interesting. Right now, I find comfort in my journey both physically and mentally. Remembering that my demons will never be stronger than my will to overcome them.

The truth about being "fat"...from a girl who has always been considered it

Stick to what you know. 

I think I have always approached my writing this way. But constantly sticking to things that didn't put me too far out there. Things that didn't show too much of me.

Stick to what you know. 

I finally get it. You aren't supposed to stick to the things that are easy, or the things that feel good to write about. You're supposed to write about the hard stuff.
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If there is one thing I know. It's being curvy.

When I was younger, it defined me. Not that I meant for it to, but when girls on the playground are laughing at you because you have a belly, or telling you that you aren't pretty because your larger than them. It inevitably defines you. I grew up around a constant string of questions.

Why her? Why is she the one bullied?
Why her? Why does she have the health issues?
Why her?

There were years at a time that I remember thinking I was so big, and looking back? I just don't see it. But I was always considered it.

There came a time in my life where I just gave up. I decided that this was who I was, and I did what I could with what I had. Yeah, I mean I did what I could with my body. But more so, I did what I could with my brain, with my quick wit, and with my perseverance. The truth is, growing up fat didn't enable me to be lazy, or to be unmotivated. It caused me to be self conscious, yes. It caused me to be insecure? Of course.

But it never stopped me from doing anything.

Now, I am 27 years old, and there are probably still people who would consider me "fat". And that is okay.  The interesting thing is, that when I get up in the morning, and I leave the house, I see so much more than my body in the mirror. I see a story.

My body tells a story, and it's not one that most people will take the time to get to know.

They'll never know that I see my love handles as something to love, and my smile as something to cherish. They'll never look deeper to see that my eyes are a token of peace, and my height and strength as a sign of perseverance. I will continue to see the softness of my features and imagine the youth I still carry with me, I'll look down at my hands and remember my motivation. More than that though, most people will never know the dedication represented in my mouth, or the hope I hold in my heart.

In some ways, the hardest part of being "fat" isn't even the side glances or hateful words. The hardest part is acceptance. It is accepting your story, knowing that no one can change it. Most importantly though, and something I just recently became aware of, was loving that acceptance, but not allowing yourself to find comfort in it.

So as I have begun my journey towards a healthier lifestyle, I don't wish to "lose weight" or "erase my canvas and start new". No, I don't feel bitterness towards my body in the way that it curves, those curves are a formation of my life, hardships and all.

I am on a journey, but I am transforming more than just my body. I am adjusting my expectations everyday. I am transforming my perception of acceptance. At the end of the day, the story my body tells will have a past, but much like in life, I realize it can also have a future. And I can do it for me.

It is possible to love your body as fat. And its possible to love it as fit. It is your story.
It transforms in all the ways you see it, not how the outside world does.

What story does your body tell?

Weight off my Shoulders

Or weight on my shoulders, depending how you look at it. For those of you who have never read my work before, my name is Chelsea. I got into writing at a young age, but didn't discover my joy in it until much later in life.

So often I find my writing on my blog surrounding the same things.

We are all, constantly, throughout our life, trying to figure out who the hell we are. Some days are better than others, am I right? Some days we know who we are and where we are going, and some days we just look around wondering how the hell we ended up so lost and confused. So this blog has always been about my journey, generalized.

This year I made the decision that I had things I wanted to change in my life. I knew it wouldn't be easy. Hell, I didn't even know if it was possible. I mean I have been doing the same thing for years now, and coming out with the same results -- which is the definition of insanity right? I have refused to believe that I had any control over things in my life, and the situations that I find myself in. Because, if I admitted that, then I would have to admit that I was not doing everything I could to be happy. But this year, I finally admitted it to myself, and have taken steps towards change.

It is easy to tell someone what it means to be a changed person, but its much different when you are the person doing the changing to understand what it means for you, individually to be changed. Everyone evolves in different ways, the pressure they are placed under transforms them into different gems. We all move at different paces, and are motivated in different forms. This is what makes us all so unique. This is what makes us all capable of our own form of greatness.

I can tell you right now that there are a lot of things I am realizing about how I have subconsciously dealt with situations both past and present, but that is a story for another time, and not the reason I am here.

My point with this post is that as I was talking to a friend the other day, I had mentioned it had been a while since I had written. Being a writer herself, she took interest in the reasons I hadn't. My response was simply that I felt I wasn't in a place to make advice to someone about how to reach their goals, or how to be who they were, or how to evolve; if I, myself, didn't have it figured out.

She gave me the best advice.

You're not supposed to write about the destination, you're supposed to write about the journey. With that, I realized that even if I wasn't where I wanted to be, I still had a story to tell, I still had lessons to share, and I still had a voice to be heard.

With that, I hereby commit to never forgetting that we are all just trying to tell our story, one way or another. And the way I express mine, may be different than the way you express yours. My story is more than just the fire in my eyes when I feel passionate about something or someone. It is more than passing glances, and meaningless phrases. My story is in the way I move about life, carefully calculating every move, hidden spontaneity buried deep inside. My story is told by my actions, it is told by my words, it is told by my hardened exterior softened only by my fingers gently tapping a keyboard.

My story will be heard. Maybe it will be passed down. 

Maybe it will be told in deep conversations with the people I love. 

Maybe it will be interpreted from words sprawled out on a screen. 

Maybe it will be told in narratives around a Family Christmas that I have long since attended.

How will you tell yours?