Categories
Mom Life

Living with that Mom Belly

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A woman’s weight. You’d think we’d be over this obsession, this thought that it is more than her worth, that it makes up her worth, and yet…

There’s nothing like putting your body through an absolute wringer. Getting pregnant, watching as your belly swells and all kinds of crazy shit happens to your body. People compliment you, tell you how beautiful you look, how you’re absolutely ‘glowing’. They cherish your body, worship it for bringing life into this world. And then, the birth comes and a month or two passes and it’s no longer beautiful. It’s no longer worshipped for bringing life into this world. It’s viewed at as disgusting, as lazy, as the thought that the ‘wife’ let herself go, that her husband must be just beside himself with disappointment that his partner’s body has not ‘snapped back’ yet.

There is so much that happens to your body when you’re pregnant, it’s wild. From organs rearranging themselves to your uterus expanding, to your brain, basically, short-circuiting itself, it’s a wonder why anyone would call pregnancy, and the days after birth anything but extraordinary. The fact that my body makes actual food is insane. Bodies are like that. They’re mind-blowingly extraordinary and wonderful.

We need to start thinking of our bodies in those terms. Extraordinary. Wonderful. Think about what your body has done for you today. Think about everything it has done for you in the past, whether it’s getting pregnant and birthing a whole damn human, or you’re participating in a triathalon. Bodies. Are. Extraordinary.

Unfortunately, the mass media and social standards we have adhered to for decades thinks otherwise. Yes, there seems to be a pretty big shift in how bodies are viewed nowadays, as people become more comfortable in their skin, but we’re not there yet. We’re not in the place where we can sit and love and our bodies unconditionally, never worrying about stretch marks (which happen to everyone, whether or not you’ve gotten pregnant), never worrying about cellulite (anyone remember the early 2000s? As a teenager — a fucking teenager — I was using anti-cellulite cream on my thighs so as not to look dimply), never worrying about a soft belly and a belly button indent showing through a skirt, dress, or shirt.

We have fallen in love with women of all shapes and sizes, and yet, when it comes to our bodies after birth, we revert back to those stupid social standards we’ve obsessed over. We wonder why our body is so squishy, as our baby nestles happily in our arms, laying their soft little head on our soft big bodies. We look at our breasts and remember when they used to sit upright without any help at all, as our baby finds nourishment. We lament the stretch marks, coating ourselves in creams and butters and oils that tell us everything will be alright again, that our bodies will go back to exactly how they were before, even though they are nowhere near how they were before.

We don’t want to give our bodies time to heal, time to nourish our babies, time to nourish ourselves. We want to look how we did pre-pregnancy. We want to wear the clothes we used to fit, and want them to fit just as comfortable as before. We want our partners to lust after us like they did before, even if they are still lusting after us; we assume everything has changed. Because that guilt creeps in. That idea that we need to look a certain way. That this celebrity or that celebrity has the most perfect body you’ve ever seen, and she just gave birth three months ago, all the while forgetting that said celebrity has money to throw at every problem that arises, has help around the clock so they can work out until their bodies look how they think they should look, how media tells them to look, starting the vicious cycle all over again.

So where do we go from here? We stop hiding what our bodies look like. We start to love what our body has done for us, everything it can do. We stop attacking ourselves, attacking our bodies, just to look a certain way. We start realizing that a little bit of a mom belly isn’t the end of the world. When dad bods are trending, it’s time to take a step back and wonder if we’ve really just fallen off the map as people. Because if a dad can not have birthed a human being but still have a belly, still be a wonderful person, still love his children, and still be sexy to not only his partner, but to others? Then moms can, too.

Categories
Travel Stories

The City That Calls to Me

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Why is it that everyone wants to write about Paris? That artists, both from Hemingway and the Fitzgeralds to Jay Z, flock to the area? Is it the artistic glamour that is found all over the city? The calm that washes over you as you sit in café, sipping a café au lait, people watching or gazing out into the Seine from your perch on the banks? The awe felt at the dedication to keeping history preserved and integrated into daily life (even if that preservation pays off in millions of tourist dollars pouring in) with their apartments from the 1500’s?

Or, maybe it’s the fashion, the alcohol, the food, the undertones of glitz and glamour in this city. There’s something about Paris: you can be in the dirtiest part town and see someone dressed impeccably well and feel that they are well-read and well-versed in life’s affairs.  It’s the idea that anyone can look beautiful in Paris, no matter the budget.

A Parisian woman can save for years to buy her first Chanel bag, channeling an inner beauty with her black cigarette pants, loafers, white blouse, her hair slightly a mess and no make-up (save for maybe a little mascara or a bit of rouge). Her look is simple, most likely cheap (minus that Chanel bag) with a lot of her items bought at the Monoprix down the street, and yet, it’s an iconic look. A look that millions of women all over the world will spend thousands of dollars trying to replicate. But, replicating something pure and beautiful is never possible.


The fashion and understated glamour is an undercurrent running through Paris, but for those who have been there, you know it’s more than that. It’s a decadent lifestyle that seems to take little effort. The tiny, cramped apartments are more than just a funny story to tell friends back home, more than that stereotypical lifestyle that is so prominent in movies. It’s part of the yearning for something more than just material, more than large homes and clutter.

Living in a minuscule apartment while owning Louis Vuitton, Dior, or Chanel is something of a Parisian right.  Spending liberally on high quality items, be them cheeses, chocolates, wines, or clothing is always the right move with Parisians. It’s always the desire that is important, the need for the purest form, the creativity unleashed in every mundane aspect of the city; you’re always dressing for lifestyle in Paris, never for comfort and ease.

The most splendid apartments are large and baroque in their finishings with gilded gold throughout, but they’re not of the monstrous mansions you will find in L.A. or the many-leveled marbled apartments in New York. Even the most decadent things in Paris are simple.


So, that’s it, right? Artists, although they may not all admit it to themselves, love the decadence. Why else would you sit in front of a computer, a notebook, or a typewriter, banging out the ideas in your head? There’s something so egotistical about being a writer, an artist, that it’s nearly comical. We say we hate the spotlight, we’d rather be on the sidelines, and when it comes to showcasing our work we can be as shy as a preschooler on her first day. But, the glamour of life gets to us. The royalties come in, the attention is doted upon us, the drinking until 4am isn’t just to survive anymore – it’s to celebrate.

What is more decadent than putting your thoughts onto any type of medium, bringing a little bit of you, piece by piece, into the spotlight and thrusting it into viewers faces – making them wonder over which character is the true novelist, what part of the painting is the artist, and if that song is the beginning or end of a great love felt by the singer.


When I look out my window I see trees. Trees and the great expanse of a prairie horizon. There is no glitz and glamour out here; instead, I find myself the most attentive to my actions and the most calm and meditative when in nature. There’s something soothing about being amongst living things that have lived for millions of years, surviving each and every type of apocalyptic problem. Growing back after the atrocities and becoming even stronger. The freshness to the air leaves a crisp feeling both inside and out.

But, the sound of the Parisian streets beats in my heart, the laughter, chatter and tinkling of cups and plates in a café coarse through my bloodstream. The city calls to me, to my inner artistic ego. There is a yearning, a strong and faithful plea to come back to the city that makes me feel the most alive. A burning desire, one you can compare to that of missing a lover.

Although I feel far-removed from it all and this is where I’ll stay, the glitz and the glamour, the ability to wear an absolutely breathtaking outfit no matter the time of the day, gets to me. The belief that any type of artistic dream is possible when you are within the city’s borders. The hope is alive, much like for those actors still slinging coffees in the local Starbucks in L.A., clinging to the hope that one day, maybe, they’ll be able to reach the Stars and live amongst them as an equal.

Categories
Life

Are you Afraid of Success?

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It’s what we’re all reaching for: success. It’s why we make goals, why we #hustle everything, why we need the fancy desk because we’re all going to be #bossbabes. Sorry, I cringed when I wrote out that hashtag, probably as hard as you cringed reading it. Whatever you call yourself (hey, maybe just boss instead of boss babe?), you’re gearing up for success. It doesn’t matter what success looks like to you. 

Except, what if you keep stopping yourself? What if you make out all of these plans, plan out all of these goals, start working on them, and then just run head first into a wall? This keeps happening to me, time and time again. I feel great, I do great, I’m chugging along and eating up those goals like Ms. Pacman on a bender. And, then I stop. Something inside of me stops me before I can go further. I claim it to be laziness, but I’ve gotten this far with my laziness, so why can’t I go a few extra steps? A week behind schedule is just fine, right?

Not when that week turns into two. Then, turns into a month. Then, turns into a year — or more. If you’re continuing with other activities, other projects and hobbies, then it’s not laziness that’s keeping you rooted to the spot, it has to be something else. Are you afraid of success? I sure as fuck am. 

We scream at the top of our lungs, happy and joyous for anyone meeting their goals. We hammer home how important it is to keep to-do lists, to check up on them every so often, make sure you’re still on track. We tell everyone that tweaking goals is essential to growing. It’s what we all want, what we all aim for, but it can seem daunting to actually make it. To be a success. To reach those goals and dreams you dreamed up long ago. 

If there’s one more thing you could be doing to reach your goals, to get you closer to your dreams so that you can snatch them out of the sky, would you actually do it? What’s stopping you from going that extra mile, or hell, even a few steps? You’ve come this far, so what gives? The fear of failure far outweighs the fear of success. Because, isn’t that why we’re afraid of success in the first place? We’re all just afraid we’re going to go for it and fail?

We probably will fail. We will fail a time or two, as only the Chosen Few don’t. It’s okay to fail. It’s okay to make mistakes. All you have to do is get up, brush the dirt off your knees and go around that mistake. It can take years and many mistakes to make it to where you want to be, and that’s okay. It’s okay to take our time and learn and grow. It’s okay to be vulnerable and put ourselves out there, even as we worry that people will laugh and point and judge us as we make these mistakes. It feels like the whole world will be laughing when you declare your dreams and they declare them a pipe dream, rolling their eyes in your face. It will feel like you’re being cut down before your prime, before you get to even move towards your prime, and if you stay where you are, that’s exactly what will happen to you. 

Having a simple life is well and good. I yearn for a simple life. A simple life full of lavish vacations and a killer wardrobe, and delicious food, but a simple…ish life nonetheless. Wanting to stay where you are because you like where you are is so different from staying rooted to the gound because you are too afraid to move. 

I’m not sure how I’ll work past this success fear of mine. Perhaps, I’ll go at it a day at a time, a small goal at a time, going a little slower than anticipated, but moving in the right direction. That hasn’t really been working for me all these years, though. Maybe it all comes down to self-love and realizing that you’re worth the sacrifices you sometimes have to make, that you’re worth chasing your dreams and being happy. Maybe you have to ignore the end goal and just keep working until you stumble upon it one morning. Most likely, it’s all of the above. 

I know that I’ll still be afraid, afraid to push myself to the next level, afraid of what comes next. What if I become too successful and turn into an asshole? What if I make it and realize that I’ve made a horrible mistake? What if there is too much change and, being someone who can’t handle change, I become anxious and too stressed to enjoy my success? These are all too many ‘what ifs’ with far too many variables. There’s no way I can control all of them, no matter how hard I try. 

I’ve still felt success, even though I’m not successful in the grand scheme of things, even though I’m not successful in the eyes of the world. I felt that success when one of my favourite writers commented on my work. When I made my first penny (literally pennies) on my work. When a stranger got excited about the ideas I put out there. Those are all successes, and I came through unscathed. I made it. Perhaps it’s about time I let go of all of these silly ‘what ifs’ and think of my big goals as the same as those stepping stones to get there: a success I can handle. 

Categories
travel

It’s Okay to Eat McDonald’s Abroad, I Promise

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A lot of people think that they have to stick to the local food when traveling; else they give the type of tourist vibe where you’re only in town for the cheap souvenirs and sights. These are the travelers, or rather, trip-goers, that locals hate; the ones who wear fanny packs (who doesn’t hate a person wearing a fanny pack, though?) who never try to speak the language and bulldoze their way through the country like they are the only people who matter. These are the people who eat at McDonald’s and who will only go into a Starbucks for a coffee because it’s familiar. Those of you who have eaten at either of these two establishments while abroad may be hiding your faces in embarrassment, while others who have yet to explore far and wide are recoiling in the horror that anyone would think you’re a tourist. I’m here to tell you, it’s okay.

I used to hate being seen as a tourist, and a large part of me still does (see: fanny pack and camera around your neck), but I’ve come to terms with it. I’ve been mistaken for a Parisian on more than one occasion (something that warmed my heart and made those $200 heels worth it) and yet I’ve eaten in McDonald’s numerous times while out and about exploring the world and I’ve sat down in a Starbucks, or two, with my caramel maachiato in hand reading happily in a less-than-crowded café. Sometimes, it’s not the fact that you’re afraid to try new things in new restaurants in a foreign city, but it’s because you’re just worn down and tired and can’t even think about trying to order something in another language, butchering the words as you fumble through.

I’ve high-tailed it to Subway, McDonald’s, Starbucks, all because I’ve been too tired to try to speak a foreign language I should have learned more of before my trip. Because I don’t know how to ask for a to-go cup and am confused if every establishment will actually have one. Because I’ve become embarrassed at how often my conversation will always switch back to English making my wish for just one moment that I can just say a combo number or tap a screen, pay, and only interact with someone to pick up my food, handing out the obligatory perfected ‘thank-you’ in every language. Or, it’s because I’ve just been away for too long, am missing my own western customs (does sitting down and waiting 20 minutes for a coffee, then being rushed out really need to be a normal thing?), and just want that damn Starbucks in my hand like I usually have every morning.

Walking down cobbled streets in the early morning, knowing which side streets to take because it’s quicker and seeing the same shop owners opening up for the day, makes your ‘westernized’ and ‘mundane’ scene of getting a Starbucks that much more beautiful and wonderful. Mixing the beauty of being in a new world in an intoxicating culturally rich atmosphere (as it seems nearly everywhere besides home always is – what is it about the grass being greener?) with a little western ease makes your trip, somehow, feel a little bit more real. It’s easy to get swept up in all of the intriguing customs, all of the beautiful cafés, all of the picnics in parks and hikes through mountains, knowing that your time here will have to end. There’s something surreal about being in a foreign city and time just seems to stop or glide by in a slow and tantalizing way. Grabbing a little something that is familiar to you (even if you don’t eat McDonald’s on the regular) ties your two lives together; your home life, which you live every day doing the boring things like work and chores, and your traveler life where you explore and nourish and feed your curiosity.

There’s nothing wrong with missing the normal things you can find back home; besides, grabbing a McChicken and fries in Cannes and looking out into the blue sea and mountains is a lot more grounding than you’d think.

A lot of people think that they have to stick to the local food when traveling; else they give the type of tourist vibe where you’re only in town for the cheap souvenirs and sights. These are the travelers, or rather, trip-goers, that locals hate; the ones who wear fanny packs (who doesn’t hate a person wearing a fanny pack, though?) who never try to speak the language and bulldoze their way through the country like they are the only people who matter. These are the people who eat at McDonald’s and who will only go into a Starbucks for a coffee because it’s familiar. Those of you who have eaten at either of these two establishments while abroad may be hiding your faces in embarrassment, while others who have yet to explore far and wide are recoiling in the horror that anyone would think you’re a tourist. I’m here to tell you, it’s okay.

I used to hate being seen as a tourist, and a large part of me still does (see: fanny pack and camera around your neck), but I’ve come to terms with it. I’ve been mistaken for a Parisian on more than one occasion (something that warmed my heart and made those $200 heels worth it) and yet I’ve eaten in McDonald’s numerous times while out and about exploring the world and I’ve sat down in a Starbucks, or two, with my caramel maachiato in hand reading happily in a less-than-crowded café. Sometimes, it’s not the fact that you’re afraid to try new things in new restaurants in a foreign city, but it’s because you’re just worn down and tired and can’t even think about trying to order something in another language, butchering the words as you fumble through.

I’ve high-tailed it to Subway, McDonald’s, Starbucks, all because I’ve been too tired to try to speak a foreign language I should have learned more of before my trip. Because I don’t know how to ask for a to-go cup and am confused if every establishment will actually have one. Because I’ve become embarrassed at how often my conversation will always switch back to English making my wish for just one moment that I can just say a combo number or tap a screen, pay, and only interact with someone to pick up my food, handing out the obligatory perfected ‘thank-you’ in every language. Or, it’s because I’ve just been away for too long, am missing my own western customs (does sitting down and waiting 20 minutes for a coffee, then being rushed out really need to be a normal thing?), and just want that damn Starbucks in my hand like I usually have every morning.

Walking down cobbled streets in the early morning, knowing which side streets to take because it’s quicker and seeing the same shop owners opening up for the day, makes your ‘westernized’ and ‘mundane’ scene of getting a Starbucks that much more beautiful and wonderful. Mixing the beauty of being in a new world in an intoxicating culturally rich atmosphere (as it seems nearly everywhere besides home always is – what is it about the grass being greener?) with a little western ease makes your trip, somehow, feel a little bit more real. It’s easy to get swept up in all of the intriguing customs, all of the beautiful cafés, all of the picnics in parks and hikes through mountains, knowing that your time here will have to end. There’s something surreal about being in a foreign city and time just seems to stop or glide by in a slow and tantalizing way. Grabbing a little something that is familiar to you (even if you don’t eat McDonald’s on the regular) ties your two lives together; your home life, which you live every day doing the boring things like work and chores, and your traveler life where you explore and nourish and feed your curiosity.

There’s nothing wrong with missing the normal things you can find back home; besides, grabbing a McChicken and fries in Cannes and looking out into the blue sea and mountains is a lot more grounding than you’d think.

Categories
Life

Let’s Talk About our Obsession with Weight

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There are people at work who exasperate you with their stupidity, there are people at work whom you love, and there’s always, always that one woman who counts calories and wants the world to know it. Recently, a woman at work and I were talking about cake. Seems innocent enough. Cake is delicious and is usually brought out to celebrate, so what could be the problem? She was wondering why I didn’t head into the lunch room to grab a slice of cake. I stated a simple ‘not wanting anything sweet right now’, hoping that would be enough. It wasn’t. Obviously. This is a work place and even throughout a pandemic, people are continuously forcing cake onto you, and wondering just what in the fuck you’re thinking not taking any.

I went through my whole spiel on how I’m not having any because sugar is a huge cause of my migraines, so I try to cut down on all junk foods. She then launched into how she has cut out breads and sugars from her entire life and now cannot eat her yogurt and berries tonight because she had a slice of cake today. Let’s ignore the part about her not being able to eat plain yogurt with berries for a minute, just because she ate some cake. It’s absolutely ridiculous, since berries and yogurt, if not loaded with sugar, are actually very good for you, but not the point that is most annoying.

The part that really stuck in my craw was the one that she’s often stressing out about: food. Or, rather, the idea that food is the enemy. Which, isn’t true as I’ve learned on my migraine journey. I’ve been using food to heal myself, instead of thinking of it as something to be angry with, to avoid. It’s changed my whole viewpoint on certain foods and made me wonder how we fell down this rabbit hole of hating the very thing that fuels our bodies.

After she finished her spiel on how she constantly ‘falls off the wagon’ and is always losing and gaining that same 25 lbs over the years, I was ready to get back to my work. But, feeling like this was a teachable moment on how food ISN’T the absolute worst thing to be feared, I told her how I don’t cut anything completely out of my life and that’s how I’ve been able to eat far healthier than I ever have before without suddenly turning into an all-consuming monster of junk food and snacks for months on end.

I’m no doctor, but I can guess the reason why she was constantly having trouble with her weight: starvation. I saw this woman, someone who is old enough to know better, bring an egg to work for lunch most days, then eating it in the morning because she skipped breakfast, then only to go out and buy lunch. Then, only to complain about how hungry and tired she was all the time and how she wasn’t losing the weight she wanted to.

Oh, really? I never would’ve guessed that working out obsessively and starving your body would lead someone to be tired and feel like absolute crap.

Until recently, this woman never stated she was doing any of the above to be healthy, but because she was fat. Don’t worry, she still thinks she’s a monster in size, but she’s just trying to be healthier this time around. This woman isn’t fat by any type of standard, except the own insanity in her own mind. I’m sure she was out of shape and not eating properly, but fat? Naw, we can’t state that. Instead of eating a balanced diet and exercising, she went full tilt, which always leads to rebounds. One of my favourite nutritionists on Instagram (Bonnie Roney, RD (@diet.culture.rebel) • Instagram photos and videos) always posts about how diets have been around for so long, and yet, everyone isn’t perfectly skinny and healthy and happy.

Because they’re just not sustainable.

Rebounds happen. You call your ex. You can’t make it through Sober November. You eat an entire cake and then a whole sleeve of cookies after not eating any sweets for weeks. It happens.

Our obsession with how much we weigh, instead of how healthy we are, and our negative thoughts about ourselves, our physical appearances, has gotten out of hand. While #bodypositivity is trending and slowly changing the landscape, it’s still not enough. Mainly skinny women telling everyone to love the bodies they have, it’s more of a kick to the teeth than an emotional hug. Skinny women, of course, should be proud of their bodies, and they do receive a lot of flack for promoting body positivity, which isn’t fair. But, when all you see is someone in great — or relatively good — shape telling you that bodies are beautiful, it’s frustrating as all hell.

When these perfect looking models promote body positivity, they’re met with a lot of praise from most people. Yes, you should love your stretch marks! Yes, all scars are beautiful! Yes, cellulite and pimples happen! Except, flip this. Put a fat chick in there and the internet goes buck fucking wild. She’s promoting unhealthy choices. She hates skinny women. She’s telling girls that being fat is okay, even if you’re unhealthy.

Which is total, complete, bullshit.

Our weight doesn’t automatically mean that we are healthy or unhealthy.

Let’s talk about BMI, something my co-worker also brought up in this talk that put me over the edge, shall we? Body Mass Index has been around for awhile and is a tool used to measure just how healthy or unhealthy you are. And, sure, if you’re weighing over 300 lbs, you’re most likely not doing too well health wise, depending on your frame and muscle mass and all that good stuff. But, there’s a HUGE but here…and maybe a huge butt…we’ve started to use this as a way to tout how healthy skinny bodies are.

We’ve also just kept on using it as a way to determine this even though it is highly, highly flawed.

Which, again, is total, complete, bullshit.

Skinny does not automatically mean healthy. I’ve got two examples where we can call bullshit on skinny equaling healthy. Let’s start with my father-in-law. Now, this man is hella healthy. He can outrun, outbike, outswim, out-fucking-anything-athletic me. Even if we swap my body out for the body I had when I was in tip top shape, he could still go toe-to-toe with me today. He is 40 years older (rockin’ his 70s). He eats incredibly well, and has for years. My husband complains about how they were forced to eat tofu for suppers, and rarely had boxed meals or sugary cereals. He looks like the poster-person for healthy living, right down to his skinny body.

But…this man has extremely high cholesterol. So much so that he has specific plant sterol margarine that he buys and avoids a lot of foods, or can only eat very little of them. Looking at him, you’d think ‘damn, this guy has to be as healthy as they come’, and he is for the most part. But, it’s not as eclipsing as everyone claims skinny people are/should be. I’m sure his BMI is perfect, although, I honestly can’t say I know for sure.

Let’s move onto my second example. Surprise! It’s me! Or, rather, high school me. I remember, quite distinctly, getting our BMI measured in high school. Thinking I was going to nail this, I didn’t bat an eye when the measurements were taken. I walked a lot, I went for runs, I played sports, I ate…okay. My parents fed me relatively healthy meals, also without boxed or sugary cereals most of the time, but I was 15, so McDonald’s was a delicious treat instead of a fail (now, I’ve learned it’s still a delicious treat and not a fail, but damn, did it take me years to get there). The measurements were taken and I was declared…obese.

I almost cried. Maybe I did later, thinking about being shamed about my body, who can remember. I do remember feeling shamed that my BMI was too high and that I was considered obese. My stomach was flat, I was in incredible shape, what more could I do?

Fucking nothing.

Because BMI, and your weight, is complete bullshit as the sole indicator on whether or not you are a healthy human being.

At the time I wrote this, I was the largest I’ve been, give or take 5 lbs. I’m not obese by any true standards, I still fit a size 12 pants/dress, which doesn’t put me into the plus sized section, but I’m sure my BMI would be so high that doctors who only believe in such bullshit would faint. I also get some exercise (though I’m working on adding more to my routine. Turns out, you can’t just jump into high intensity cardio after years of 5–10+ migraines a month), I eat pretty fucking healthy, and have cut junk food out of my life. Not fully because I’m not a psycho, but I don’t eat a bag of chips to feel better, or nom on chocolate bars just because I’m bored, and I can say no to free cake at work just because I don’t feel like it anymore.

Right now, I feel healthy. I feel amazing. I feel the best I ever have. And yet, by society’s standards, I’m a fat piece of garbage that should be dying from health issues. Because of what I look like, what that scale is telling me. My neurologist once told me if I lost weight I could have less migraines. Well, I haven’t lost much weight and I’m having less migraines, so could it be that the actual weight — and not the healthy choices made — doesn’t 100% matter?

My step mother-in-law moved a scale into the cabin bathroom because she, apparently, wants us all to hate ourselve while we laze and hike and sun away our troubles at the lake. I made the mistake of stepping onto that scale one weekend and I’ve been horrified ever since. Horrified of a number that doesn’t mean much if my blood pressure is good, my heart is happy, my body is full of vitamins from healthy veggies and fruits, my brain feels great, and everything is working like it should. Yet, I feel like my body isn’t worthy of this amazing feeling because it’s chubby, it’s flabby in areas and just okay in others.

Let’s change the perception that fat people are unhealthy simply because they are fat. Let’s start talking about healthy choices, healthy foods, and exercise. Let’s talk about how food isn’t the enemy and having those chips, when you’re craving them, and having those sweets, when you’re wanting them, is okay. Let’s put away the starvation diets, the cleanses, really, the anything diets. Let’s start loving our bodies and accepting their flaws with the good bits. Let’s start being nicer to ourselves and ignore what a number on a scale says. We’re better than that.

Categories
migraine life

What Happened When I Stopped Meditating and Practicing Yoga

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I would’ve been the first to tell you that yoga is boring and meditating is garbage. But, the last couple of years brought on such severe migraines I was willing to try anything – if you told me that buying a pig and rubbing its belly every day would cure me, I’d do it. So, I looked into some de-stressing methods and more ‘holistic’ things to do for migraines and I found meditation and yoga to be at the top. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not for holistic medicine as a cure-all. I still take precautionary medicine to ward off migraines, but by using some of these tools in everyday life and making small changes, I could take the migraines from 15+ a month to 8 a month to 3 a month to ‘hey, I haven’t had one of those death days in a while’.

But, just like all good habits and good situations, they usually come to an end, or at least a pause. And, that’s what happened to me about a month ago. I was unemployed, I was practicing yoga every day, I was meditating before and after each practice (even if only for a few minutes) and I was getting things done. I was writing non-stop, I was cleaning the entire house, organizing and making it sparkle, I was taking on projects and crafting like an old lady. It was magical. And, then I felt lazy one day so I didn’t do my yoga. No biggie. But, then I felt lazy the next day and was busy so I skipped it, again. And, the next day was getting a bit crazy, so I said just some neck stretching. Then, I got a cold (for a day) and didn’t want to do anything. So, for over a week I barely did any yoga, zero meditation and started to eat junk food.

Now, eating at McDonald’s every once in a while isn’t going to cause your body to shut down, but eating tons of sweets and salt and all things terrible for you – even just for a week? It starts to do the body harm. You don’t need to be a doctor to know this; you can feel it. It was Christmas: the time to celebrate sweets! I shouldn’t feel guilty! So I indulged. Or, rather, overindulged. I’m not a nutritionist or a doctor, but I could feel my body rejecting my new lifestyle. I felt bloated and fat, I began to wonder why my make-up looked so terrible and if it was all the light’s fault in my bathroom …until I realized it was because I was puffy from the sodium I had been inhaling at top notch speeds.


I stopped writing, could barely get a word out, and all creativity felt like it had left me. I felt drained and exhausted and bored and restless all at once. And yet, I had no desire to do anything I once found so soothing and entertaining. I just wanted to sit and watch TV all day. Sure, there’s no harm in doing nothing but bingeing TV all day and night, it’s therapeutic after a long day, but an entire week where you do nothing all day but binge Hallmark Christmas movies and Korean shows? It doesn’t feel so good.

Finally, after over a week of nothingness, I decided to do some yoga. Because, I didn’t want to feel this gross and look puffy in every holiday picture out there. And, yes, those thoughts still jump into my brain all the time even though I’m still for body positivity. But, I could barely do anything. Happy Baby was basically just me rolling around on the ground grunting. But, the little movement my body did that night did me good. Because the next day I woke up earlier, I felt inspired.

I got to writing and planning and goal setting and I even did a yoga session. Albeit the writing was small, the planning and goal setting was quick and not as creative as it could’ve been, and the yoga session lasted about 20 minutes. But, I did it and felt great afterwards.

As I was ending my practice with a quick 30 second meditation (let’s not jump into this so hard right away), I could feel my mind wander and ideas come to me, words formed into sentences and into inspiration for stories to come. I wasn’t back to being content, I still felt restless and bored, but I could feel it bubbling up. This found-again excitement obviously didn’t just come from one and a half yoga practices and a minute of meditation. But, the calming of the mind helped quiet everything around me so I could hear that inner voice and listen to what it was trying to tell me.

Categories
Life

Social Media Led me to a Breakdown and it’s All my Fault

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By nature I’m a really angry person. Lots of things set me off, some of them big, a lot of them small. I’m a big believer in the ‘no worries and move on’ type of attitude, only if it doesn’t fuck with my plans. I’m basically an old man, swinging his fist at youths who dared to step onto my lawn. But in better clothes.

Often, my angry stems from the massive amounts of anxiety I have every day. Luckily, I’ve a great therapist to help me with this. I’m often trying to get my anxious thoughts under control, I’m trying to throw logic at my obsessive and obtrusive thoughts, which usually means I’ve little patience for anything to go wrong.

Usually, I can tamp that anger down, only snapping at those closest to me. The ones I can easily apologize to and explain why I’m so angry. The ones who will forgive me much more easily than anyone else. You know, how we all do. Like the assholes we are. A few weeks ago I couldn’t keep it in. I could barely handle everyday tasks, as any fuck up made my blood pressure spike.

As an educated perfectionist who is judgey as all fuck and too hard on herself, I can’t stand stupidity. Not stupidity in that someone just hasn’t learned something yet, or is taking a while to understand something. There is nothing wrong with trying to educate yourself or trying in life. Those people do not make me angry, they make me hopeful for the future.

I’m talking about the kind of stupidity that makes you question how humanity got so far in life. The type of stupidity exercised by the ‘Karen’s’ of the world. Of the ones who read headlines and form an opinion, screaming it into the internet world at the top of their lungs. Of the stupidity that comes from total ignorance in everything around you.

I’ve done some stupid things in life, and I’m sure I’ve been ignorant a time or two (or 10 or 50). The difference is that I don’t comment in hate-filled tones, degrading anyone around me. I leave that to my brain to whisper to myself, or confiding in my friends and let them tell me I’m being ridiculous or need to take a step back and re-evaluate. That’s the thing about growing up before the internet: I know how to not use it just for hate.

I’ve long been a comment reader on social media. Whenever I see a juicy headline, I excitedly read through the article, knowing of the fresh hell that will await me in the comments section. I can’t wait to open those gates to Hades and see what all the idiots out there have to say.

To say that gleeful obsession with ignorant and hurtful comments isn’t healthy is an understatement. I understand that I shouldn’t care, that I should move on with my own opinions, perhaps writing about them in a well-researched article, or at the very least, an article that isn’t riddled with such anger it muddles my vision and logic.

The last few months* have proven how awful humanity can be. It’s also proven how wonderful it is. Unfortunately, the awful part sticks out far more than the wonderful. Like everything else in my life, my brain started to obsess on these haters, these trolls, these douches. I needed to read their comments, follow their journey, watch as others easily took them down with eloquent wording and *gasp* facts and logic.

I got too far into it, reading too many comments, reading too much fear and anger and hatred out there. My brain started needing more while feeling like it couldn’t take on another grain of stupidity. I found myself angry at everything. I found myself wondering why humanity existed, why any of us should continue to live. I found myself wondering if life was worth it in the grand ol’ scheme of things, if this was what life was like.

Though not suicidal, the thoughts were dark enough to snap me into reality. Because, living for the comments section — even if only to see a troll being taken down — isn’t reality. It’s fucked up nonsense that we, as an entire society, have begun to obsess over.

I couldn’t handle reading anything, anymore. I didn’t want to talk to friends in case I became irrationally angry. I looked for therapists to help me with my anger, yet had to wait for far too long to find one. I had broken down because of social media. Not only did that make me angry, but it made me sad. There wasn’t any reasoning for it. It was something that could easily be controlled in my life, that I didn’t have to look at, but was obsessively scrolling through.

The simple thing to do would be to just stop reading. Stop reading the news. Stop reading the comments. Take a little break. Which I did. I am a BIG fan of a news cleanse every so often. But, when you’ve already lost faith in humanity it’s hard to crawl back to the surface, to the light.

I’ve stopped engaging in social media or looking at the comments on news outlets. I slip up a time or two, my hands getting jittery when I read an exceptional piece from one of my favourite news outlets. But, I’ve learned my lesson. Nothing good can come of it and life isn’t a comments section, filled with hateful people. Rarely, are facts or reasoning found there. The poison is out there, bolded and in italics, because they’re louder than the rest.

I’ve learned my lesson that some people can be the absolute worst, but that I don’t need them in my life. Of course I’m still angry at stupidity, but in a much more sensible way. Now, when something infuriating happens, my brain doesn’t feel like it’s about to explode. I can take a breath and look at whether it really matters in the grand scheme of things, or if it’s just time to smile and move on.

*Fun fact: I wrote this a while ago. Turns out, humanity just keeps getting more and more awful as we revert back to the ‘good old days’ of absolute terror and awfulness.

Categories
travel

My Kinda Paris

I talk about Paris A Lot. I think about Paris even more. 

There’s a lot that’s associated with the city and me. It was the first place I went to on a really big trip away from my parents, my friends, my country. It was where I met my high school boyfriend that led into University, and later, our separate ways. It’s where I always seem to be around when there’s some sort of protest going on. Although, it is Paris, so there is always some sort of protest going on. After visiting a handful of times, it’s a place where it feels like home. Where I know my favourite restaurants, streets, and shops. It’s the feeling I get as soon as I land in the airport, like all of the weight of my stresses melt away. 

A lot has changed in the city I first visited and a lot has changed with me. That first time, we stayed in the raunchiest part of Paris in a tiny hotel that looked like how mould would feel. The elevator was so small that we had to send our luggage up without anyone and meet it on the floor above. Don’t worry, this hasn’t changed. But, to a 16 year old who hadn’t left North America yet? It was crazy to think about. The stairs were so narrow that there was no way we could lug our giant suitcases down. But, we sure tried. It’s one of the things I remember most about our stay: trying our hardest to carry our suitcases down the tiny stairs while making sure we didn’t miss the bus.

The rooms were so tiny that, when I hit my friend’s foot in the middle of the night, she, not knowing how to tell time on a 24-hour clock, thought it was time to get up and get ready for the day, confusing us both in the process. Seeing a friend of yours brush their teeth and put on deodorant in the middle of the night doesn’t automatically make a 16 year old think that your friend is confused, it makes you wonder if you should be doing the same thing and if you’re gross for not doing it. Sometimes, the thoughts of a teenager are a little strange. Or, maybe it was just me as a teenager. 

I remember thinking how awful this place is and I couldn’t fathom loving it. It was just another city I could visit and tick off my list. I can still see the one homeless man in the street, rows of empty Heinekens beside him as they puke up one still going down. I can still see that guy bathing in the fountain, not a care in the world about who is watching. It was my first time witnessing something so bold, so disgusting being done in broad daylight without a thought about covering it up. It sticks with me even to this day when I’ve seen far worse.

But then I also saw the architecture, the beauty in the streets mixed with the putrid air of urine that has always been a problem in Paris, filling the cavernous tube of the Metro, and your nostrils. The dirty, dusty streets call to me with their charms, both hidden and boasting. Now, the raunchiest neighbourhood, the lower-class Red Light District where you can get a hooker for cheap, is my favourite. While I absolutely love and adore Saint Germain des Pres, it’s in the 2nd arrondisement, the textile district, that holds my heart. 

It’s filled with history, of greats once visited, of delicious restaurants, and is adjacent to the famous marketplace: Les Halles. The ladies? You get used to them, lined up in a row in front of the Sephora; the younger ones in yoga pants in doorways along the walk to the Metro, alone and working constantly, the groups taking precedent in front of the stairs leading down to the Metro, their legwear and boots always on point. And, the older ones, walking about in their furs and their gloves, whom I like to affectionately think of as the matriarchs of the 2nd. They’re there to remind you that Paris isn’t just Instagram shots of your latte or cappuccino. It’s the grimy, seedy history that is still strutting about.

I used to dream of Saint Germain, heading to Deux Magots every single day, ready to be like Hemingway, like the greats before us all. But, art and life isn’t like that. You have to find your Deux Magots, your own place to sit and contemplate and drink and laugh. Sure, I still visit the café and bar every trip, but I’ve my own kind of place. It may not be a place for whiskeys and late night chats, but late nights have never truly been my thing. Early mornings and contemplative afternoons, that’s where my money lies. 

So, I wake early, head out of my apartment or hotel and take the quick metro over to the Tuileries. It’s my home away from home, where I truly feel at peace. Those green metal chairs call to me as I sip on my café au lait not from one of the cafés dotting the park, but taken from home or from a Starbucks I had to go out of my way for. My favourite time is before any of the cafés open, before anyone has settled in for the day, before the tourists have arrived or have even started lining up at the Louvre or L’Orangerie.
My greatest treasure about being in Paris? I’ve already done it all; I’ve taken in the tourist attractions, waited in the lines, and now I can relax and take in the city’s true self.

Categories
migraine life

Tracking my Near-Chronic Illness Made it Worse

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For years I just assumed I’d have to live with migraines; they were there every so often, would knock me down into bed, and would leave for a few day, maybe if I was lucky, a few weeks, giving me respite from the spirit-breaking pain. Eventually, I landed in the ER where I — finally — made an appointment with a neurologist. After running a bunch of tests, I was put on a preventative medication and told to track my migraines.

It was simple to track them in terms of pain; all I had to do was write down 0, 1, 2 every day, depending on what type of migraine I had. My notebook was filled with 1’s, too many 2’s, and only a small handful of 0’s. Upon noticing this, my neurologist upped my preventative medication (something I never actually followed through with) and gave me a prescription for vitamins.

We never talked about other ways to get rid of my migraines, like triggers or the use of healthy, good-for-you-and-your-brain foods. He threw out exercise, something I still couldn’t do properly since I was in pain nearly every day. Taking matters into my own hands, I downloaded a migraine tracking app (Migraine Buddy) and set to work finding out my triggers.

This app is extremely useful if you’ve no idea what’s going on with your body. You can track everything you did that day, from activities to things you ate, to possible triggers. You’re supposed to track every single day, everything you did, and when a migraine pops up, it can pull up your possible triggers. It even has a link to weather, giving you alerts if the barometric pressure changes in either direction.

It sounded perfect and exactly what I needed to rid myself of these monsters once and for all. Happily, I set to work trying to find triggers, cutting out everything that seemed to fall under the trigger category. Unfortunately, recording everything you do every day can get a bit obsessive. I’d start to feel better, watch as the hours grew to days, then weeks, without a migraine, only to fall once I slid back into my old routines.

I’d feel as if I had failed myself. That I failed some sort of a test. I was tracking my migraines to see what was the problem (later, I’d realize a few other triggers on my own, and the biggest one: retreating back to the habits that bothered me in the first place once I felt better, assuming I was ‘cured’ and could do whatever the hell I wanted), but I was using it as a way to feel better about myself. I would get a surge of happiness, of accomplishment, anytime I would go a week, or longer, without a migraine. I’d feel like I had made it. Of course, that wasn’t the case.

As soon as I felt that tell-tale pain come on, I’d drown in instant stress. And, of course, exacerbate the migraine, making it way worse than it could’ve been. I felt like my body had let me down, that I had let myself down for hoping too hard. Instead of celebrating the small successes and learning from each attack, I would wallow in self-pity. I’d refuse to include any small migraines that would last only a few hours as they didn’t seem to count; if they didn’t count, then my track record would still look good.

This mindset does absolutely nothing for getting better. It just stressed me out and caused me to lose sight of the whole reason I was using an app in the first place: to find my triggers and slowly get better. When I saw that notification that I had been migraine free for a whole week, it was like the finish line was in front of me. When the notification that I had been migraine free for a whole month, I could feel myself crossing that line to cheers and applause. To reset the clock felt like I had been given the gold medal only to have it ripped away for technical reasons.

After a few months of feeling too stressed about a potential migraine, thus giving myself a migraine, I called it quits. I deleted the app and just listened to my body. I packed my fridge full of nutrient-rich foods, I tried a little more exercise, I didn’t think twice if a migraine hit. Eventually, they became fewer and far in between. I can’t say, exactly, what my longest stretch has been, but I do know that I’ve been able to do more and I’m feeling so much better. Which was the point of tracking in the first place.

Once I found the triggers, it felt easier to just read my body every day, listening for clues of an impending attack, of the blah feeling that can turn into horrendous pain. Instead of feeling like I lost, I now acknowledge the migraine, and turn to my devices and foods that help rid me of it. Health is more than looking good on paper, of your track records, of your Instagram account. We all need a little reminder as to why health is important and what it really is. It’s simply feeling better.

Categories
Life

Before you Reach for Those Greener Pastures, Make Sure They’re Actually Greener

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There’s been a sudden shift in the way people are viewing housing and lifestyles. We seem to be either going completely urban, easy to walk to everything, no need for a car, tons of nightlife, or we go the complete opposite and leave for bigger skies. A mad exodus from clogged up cities for small town living and country skies. You know, living the simple life. Which Paris and Nicole taught us isn’t so simple.

For me, it has been that simple. I love it. I love that people are waking up sleepy towns and making them thrive again, but is it actually right for them? For you?

It’s always the small town that wins over the heroine or hero in romance novels or blessedly typical Hallmark Christmas movies. The city is portrayed as the villain, the busyness of life worse than death. The picturesque towns look inviting and like it would win you over thousands of followers on Instagram in seconds, but there is a reason why people leave them for the city.

Living outside of the city comes with way less of those conveniences city life will have you accustomed to. It means no delivery, no app ordering, limited internet (until Elon Musk changes it all), and quiet — very quiet — nights.

For some, this sounds like a blissful oasis that they get to call their home. I’m that some. But, it was a huge adjustment to go from just picking up a little something on the way home to realizing that there arne’t too many options close by and I have to — gasp! — actually eat what’s in my fridge.

Country living, or even suburban living, isn’t for everyone. It takes a while to get home, there’s a lot less to do right around the corner. The lots are bigger, which means yay the lots are bigger! But, also means boo that’s more work.

No, buses dont run through (but they really should).

No, you won’t have a great grocery store, or one to begin with. It also means you won’t have a fancy cheese shop, a bakery (but plenty of old ladies who will be willing to teach you how to bake!), or a nice wine store.

Yeah, there may only be one bar and only a couple of restaurants.

Yeah, it may take you 5 minutes to drive through main street of town — and that’s hitting all the lights.

If that sounds like a nightmare, why move? Small town living has been romanticized, but it’s still the same as it always was. Boring, quiet, gossip-filled. That’s not going to change, even if people leave the city in droves for an idyllic life set amongst rolling hills and grazing cattle.

If you love open spaces, tractor meet-ups and jams, and crave slow mornings without Costco parking lots, small town living may be for you.

If you don’t care about clubbing or fancy restaurants or much of entertainment than the old dive bar and maybe a movie theater, if your town is big enough, then small town living may be for you.

But, if you’re going to miss these things, miss them from your regular weekend nights (taking the pandemic out of the equation), then why move? Why leave the things that make you most happy?

Maybe, instead of moving and looking for that simpler life, why not strive to live a simpler life where you still enjoy things? You can go simple by making changes to your life inside the city. You can get back in touch with nature with a garden, even if it’s small and hanging off a balcony or a windowsill. You can learn how to bake and cook, and go ‘old school’ with your way of thinking. You can take the things you like about country living, which might be the slow living bit, and do that from where you are. Live a little simpler, live a little slower, enjoy the little things. Make your life what you want it; you can do this without uprooting your whole life. Because that may not be the best option for you.

The same goes for jobs. We keep changing and switching things up, looking for better places that fit our needs, and that’s great. We should be trying to find the right fit for ourselves, we should be paid what we deserve to be, but what if that greener grass is more of a browny green? What if it’s filled with weeds and is kind of thorny? What if it looks good on paper and seemed great when you first went in and now it’s starting to feel a bit…blah? Are you still looking for even greener grass? Are you looking for that perfect, over-use of chemical golf-course green?

We keep pushing for things to be perfect, looking for that perfect work-life balance that we aren’t thinking about how to make it happen in our own worlds. Maybe living a simpler life is best before moving you and your whole family outside of the city. Maybe staying at the same job can still work if you asked for a raise or broach the subject of working from home. Maybe it won’t. But, it’s better to try living the life you want, where you are right now, before you reach for something that you’ve romanticized into a fairytale.

Why are we always chasing better things? Are they actually better? To some, of course they are. Just like to me living outside the city is much better than living inside, for a lot of people who move outside of the city for that ‘country living’ hate it. Because it’s not like the movies, it’s not like you would expect it to be. Everything isn’t necessarily better, it’s just different, and that’s what makes it better for some and worse for others.

Better for a lot of people means more bike paths and walking paths. While others would rather have roads fixed so that their drive isn’t a bumpy mess. I guess it’s why we don’t get to decide, exactly, where our money goes when we pay taxes. I would want to pay for different things than my friends and neighbours would want to pay for and they would want to pay for different things than their friends and neighbours would want to pay for. We’d never get anything done because we would be arguing too much about it, allocating too small amounts of money to each issue.

Moving to another city may be the perfect change for you; you may have gotten a better job, you may like the vibe much more, you may have better access to community events. It could also mean it won’t be good. And, that’s okay. People’s lives look different from one another’s, people’s interests are different from one another’s. We don’t all have to be chasing greener pastures; we can just sit here and realize that we, probably, have it pretty damn good where we are.