Growing Pains & Making Gains

They tell you when you hit your 30’s, something changes within you—you really start figuring things out, learning your true self, and a sense of self-acceptance begins to settle in. But here I find myself (rapidly) approaching the midpoint of this decade of my life, constantly checking my watch, waiting for this cosmic shift to take place and … *tick tock tick tock* … nothing.

The truth is…the past two years I’ve been struggling. The grief over the loss of my pregnancy and of my furry soulmate, the year-long anxiety of doing a TV show (that I still feel I had no business doing), the depression over our ongoing infertility struggle—not to mention the trauma from this goddamn global pandemic—all have taken a toll on me mentally, emotionally, spiritually…and physically. Now, I should preface this by saying that being thin has never really been a goal at any point in my life (which is good, because tbh it’s just not in the genetic cards for me). My weight and size have fluctuated since middle school, and I’ve just ridden that wave and accepted every version that my body has presented over the years. But lately…I’ve felt like a stranger in my own skin, finding it nearly impossible to recognize my reflection or feel good in anything I put on my body.

“So I checked my bullshit with the bouncer, got myself a drink, and hit the dance floor with my friends.”

So you can imagine when the idea was proposed that we go out clubbing one night while we were in Vegas recently, I immediately dove headfirst into my private pool of self-pity. But I poked my head up out of the water long enough to feign an excitable “OK, let’s do it!” and proceeded to painstakingly pick something (anything) to wear that I would feel remotely good in. When we arrived at the club, I was quickly made aware of the key demographic—it was impossible to not notice the abundance of 22-year-olds in their tiny, sparkly dresses, 6-inch heels, and Insta-Influencer-level faces. Did I look cute? Sure. Was I still a tad (read: super) self-conscious at this point? Definitely. But…I made the decision right then that I was going to let all that go and just enjoy myself. So I checked my bullshit with the bouncer, got myself a drink, and hit the dance floor with my friends. And then, something amazing happened…

“I remember the days of my earlier years where I constantly felt like I had something to prove—like I had to be the prettiest or funniest or smartest or some combination of those things in order to stand out in a crowd.”

All of a sudden I found myself dancing…and laughing…and having the time of my life. And then I started to look around at these young women that had initially triggered my own insecurities and began to almost feel sorry for them. I watched as they teetered around in those ridiculous heels, pulling at their dresses, fussing with their hair, eyes shifting from one woman to the next as if they were taking some kind of hot-girl-inventory and doing the impossible math in their heads to determine how they stacked up against them. I recognized it because I used to be them.

“…not only is life better when you let go of your insecurities and allow yourself to fully and shamelessly experience the joys life has to offer but also when you do that, other people can see it and feel it.”

I remember the days of my earlier years where I constantly felt like I had something to prove—like I had to be the prettiest or funniest or smartest or some combination of those things in order to stand out in a crowd. And in that moment—as I sweatily twerked to Megan Thee Stallion—I realized that none of that mattered. In fact, we had several people approach us wanting to dance with us and buy us drinks with one man literally saying, “You are giving off a vibe that none of these young gals could even touch” (which he later followed up with a highly inappropriate and awkward marriage proposal, but that’s neither here nor there). But this isn’t about throwing shade at all the 20-somethings of the world (y’all continue living your best young-folx’ lives!) nor is it about seeking validation from strange men in a club (although words of affirmation are my love language, ijs). That night didn’t necessarily affect how I felt about myself, rather it validated the idea that not only is life better when you let go of your insecurities and allow yourself to fully and shamelessly experience the joys life has to offer but also when you do that, other people can see it and feel it.

It was also that night I realized that sure, maybe I’ve recently gained (ahem) a few pounds, but in the past two years I’ve also gained: emotional stability through consistent therapy, a stronger marriage and closer relationships, my own business and a passion for what I do, a great deal of wisdom and several life lessons, and 10 whole inches of hair (I mean, I’m allowed at least one frivolous gain, right?). Not to mention a body that has carried me through all the trials and tribulations I mentioned earlier along with countless others. Can I say that I have “officially arrived”? I wouldn’t just yet. But…I can certainly feel the c o s m o s s h i f t i n g, inching me closer to the next best version of myself—a version who fully accepts herself as-is, who experiences joy unabashedly, and who can still drop it like it’s hot…in sensible shoes…and I can’t wait to meet her.

All I Wanted for Christmas Was You

Since the dawn of its creation, music has always had an incredible way of evoking our deepest emotions. As someone who is an extreme empath and an owner of #allthefeelings, I have always found empowerment, connection, and solace in music. When I was younger and my level of angst was unable to be expressed through my own limited vocabulary, I turned to the songs of the emo-est of bands (picture teenaged Lisa scream-singing MCR and Yellowcard whilst scribbling madly in her diary—bless her). When I went through a horrific breakup, I sought refuge in the melancholy lyrics of the sappiest singer-songwriters (shout-out to Jack Johnson and T-Swift). And when I need a serious mood boost (or a dance party of one), I immediately crank up the show tunes or some '90s-'00s hip hop (if you've seen my curated playlists, you get it).

But have you ever had a moment in your life—a new milestone, a big move, a messy breakup—that caused a song that you had heard a thousand times before and mindlessly sang along to all of a sudden truly resonate or take on a whole new meaning?

A few days ago I was on my way to the gym and in an effort to get myself pumped up and excited about working out at 6:30 AM (which is truly a monumental effort) I queued up my favorite Christmas playlist. Because I love all things Christmas and am no fool, “All I Want for Christmas is You” was the first song up. I was singing and bee-bopping along per usual until I was about a minute in and then something shifted. I started honing in on the words, unintentionally at first, and it was like I was suddenly hearing them for the first time. And then I felt that all too familiar feeling...a meltdown was coming. And boy did it. I finally parked the car and sat there in the gym parking lot, letting the feeling wash over me like a catastrophic tidal wave.

“Every month I have quietly prayed and hoped that this month would be the month it would all change...and every month I have silently wept and cursed when it was made clear that it wouldn’t.”

I’m sure by this point you’re probably thinking, “How could (arguably) the greatest Christmas song ever sung by one of the most iconic voices of our generation cause you to lose it like that?” And that's a completely valid question. I know the intended meaning of the song is wanting to be with the one you love for Christmas so desperately and not needing anything else but that. And on a very deep level—deeper than I even realized—that’s exactly what I was (well, am) feeling. But it’s not a significant other I’m longing for. The thing is...I have just begun my twelfth month of 2020 still not being pregnant.

By now most of you are aware of my experience last year, but I haven’t really spoken about it again until now. I honestly don’t like to, or frankly want to, talk about it—not because I’m ashamed or feel it shouldn’t be a topic that is openly discussed (it should!) but because it makes it that much more real for me. Before my miscarriage last year and even until recently when the subject of if we were ever having kids came up, I would say, “Ehh...if it happens, it happens” in the most nonchalant tone I could muster. That has been my chosen response because saying what I really feel hurts too much. In my mind admitting out loud that we have been trying (and trying...) and knowing that it isn’t happening makes each passing month feel like one giant failure after another. That my body is failing me. That I’m failing us. Every month I have quietly prayed and hoped that this month would be the month it would all change...and every month I have silently wept and cursed when it was made clear that it wouldn’t.

“In true Enneagram 9 fashion, I have always struggled with moving outside of my comfort zone and taking risks. Not for fear of judgment or of being vulnerable, but of failure.”

And until my therapy session this week (can I say, “Thank god for therapy!” enough?), I don’t think I realized just how important this is to me. I believe that a part of me has tried to convince myself that it doesn’t really matter if I ever have kids as some sort of a defense mechanism because admitting how desperately I want to be a mother would somehow make the pain and reality of it not happening that much deeper and truly unbearable. This has been a constant theme in my life—doing everything in my power to not get my hopes up over something for fear of the (in my mind, inevitable) let down. In true Enneagram 9 fashion, I have always struggled with moving outside of my comfort zone and taking risks. Not for fear of judgment or of being vulnerable, but of failure. And this just feels like an extension of that.

And here we find ourselves, at the end of what has undoubtedly been the most dumpster-fiery year in recorded history chock-full of immense tragedy and shared trauma. This holiday season will look and feel so different for almost all of us. I know for me that this time last year I was almost certain that we would be celebrating our best year yet and our first Christmas as a (human) family of three. But like most things in 2020 that, too, was tossed into the dumpster fire. And although seeing others getting to live out that experience—precious family holiday cards, cute kiddos unwrapping their gifts, festive pregnancy announcements—will undoubtedly cause a pang of envy in my heart, I also know that there is no shortage of love and joy in my life. I have the most phenomenal partner in my husband, an incredible support system in my friends and family, and (IMO) the world’s greatest therapist—and I am so ridiculously lucky. And grateful. Because I know there are so many others who are having to navigate a similar journey that may not have some or any of those same resources. But moreover, I am hopeful.

I hope if we have learned anything from this godforsaken year, it is the importance of human connectivity, the need for more empathy, and how truly resilient we are as people—individually and collectively. I hope this year has forced us to understand what’s really important in this life—not beautifully wrapped boxes under a tree but our relationships with those we love most. I hope that even though we are all going through shared and personal struggles, we can find a moment or two to appreciate what we do have—not just focus on what we didn’t get. I hope that for myself...and I hope it for you. So Happy End of 2020, friends! We may not have gotten all that we wanted, but we made it here. And that is truly a gift in and of itself.