For as long as I can remember I have hated my body. I was always the fat kid in elementary and the unlovable fat girl in high school. These views of what my body was always upset me because I worked out everyday, my diet was healthy, and I couldn't figure out what I was doing wrong. Why could society not take this label away from me? Well, it took a mission and a few years at college to figure it out, but I figured it out nonetheless. I was looking at myself all wrong. It is SO easy to look at the Body Mass Index and categorize myself according to its standards. What the BMI doesn't do is take into account what my body can do.
My body hiked 5 miles yesterday. My body swims twice a week. My body walks and takes me everywhere I need to go. My body bikes for fun. My body climbs 6 flights of stairs in an average day. My body can give a hug. My body can smile and help bring a little bit of happiness to someone else. My body can do anything I train it to do. My body is more than what it looks like. My body is powerful. I am strong. Not just physically, but emotionally and spiritually as well. THAT is the kind of standard I will hold myself to. Not just how my body looks, but with what I do with this body.
Let's be a little kinder to each other and to ourselves. We all need it.
Friday, October 2, 2015
Saturday, September 12, 2015
Being a Survivor
One of my all-time favorite songs is by Reba.
"I was born 3 months too early
the doctor gave me 30 days.
But I must of had my momma's will
and God's amazing grace.
So I guess I'll keep on living even if this love's to die for.
Cause your bags are packed and I'm not crying
You're walking out and I'm not trying to change your mind cause I was born to be.
The baby girl without a chance
A victim of circumstance
The one who ought to give up
But she's just too hard headed
The single mom who works two jobs
Who loves her kids and never stops
With gentle hands and the heart of a fighter
I'm a survivor."
In my random dreams of trying out for American Idol, my first song is ALWAYS this song. Maybe I'll actually do it someday. Who knows?
I feel like this song describes me. I've never been a mother, but I was born 2 months too early. I have no kids of my own, but I have the heart of a fighter.
I've always been proud and stubborn. These were traits that I had developed and that I had carefully guarded, but there was one night in my life when that pride was shattered. I still remember his face and everything that happened that night. I remember how dirty I felt. I remember the vulgarities that he spat at my insecure teenage body. I was so disgusted with everything that happened that the first time I told anyone was 3 years after the event as I was preparing to serve a full-time mission for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latterday Saints.
I remember crying.
I remember the guilt.
The guilt for something that was never my fault, but that I blamed myself for.
I remember the belittling and crippling addiction I had developed as a way to attempt to understand the pain my heart and body was feeling.
I remember feeling like I had no one to turn to.
Healing from this kind of situation is different for everyone. For me it has taken years and the emotional scars are still visible. I cannot count how many times I have wanted to write this post only to delete it later. I wanted to share a snippet of my story in hope that there's someone else who is hurting, who needs help that I could possibly reach out to, but I was scared of sharing this deepest part of me. Scared of the ridicule that might come, terrified of the judgments that might head my direction, and then I realized that all my fears were selfish. All my fears were geared to protect my cherished "pride".
This is a post for the survivors. This is a post dedicated to admitting that it is OK to not be OK. These are words begging for other survivors to not keep silent. In a world that's torn apart by selfish desires, I hope that we can band together. No matter our race, belief system, or any other distinguishing factor we may use as a societal box, we are all human. We need each other. We need less fear of disrespect, judgment, and ridicule for being our entire selves. As cliche as it sounds, we need a lot more love for each other. I'm not talking about the conditional kind of "love" either. I'm not talking about the "love" that comes with a price. I'm talking about pure love. The love that is constant and is consistently looking for the other person's best interests.
This is a post for survivors. May we no longer feel like we're just making things work from minute to minute. May we no longer feel like we are obligated to a certain emotion. May we not feel obligated to stay survivors. I hope that we can feel that we're allowed to feel unceasing joy. Sometimes I feel like my emotions are in survival mode, for whatever reason that day brings, when instead I need to seize the day.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xv9JOVkR5PQ
"I was born 3 months too early
the doctor gave me 30 days.
But I must of had my momma's will
and God's amazing grace.
So I guess I'll keep on living even if this love's to die for.
Cause your bags are packed and I'm not crying
You're walking out and I'm not trying to change your mind cause I was born to be.
The baby girl without a chance
A victim of circumstance
The one who ought to give up
But she's just too hard headed
The single mom who works two jobs
Who loves her kids and never stops
With gentle hands and the heart of a fighter
I'm a survivor."
In my random dreams of trying out for American Idol, my first song is ALWAYS this song. Maybe I'll actually do it someday. Who knows?
I feel like this song describes me. I've never been a mother, but I was born 2 months too early. I have no kids of my own, but I have the heart of a fighter.
I've always been proud and stubborn. These were traits that I had developed and that I had carefully guarded, but there was one night in my life when that pride was shattered. I still remember his face and everything that happened that night. I remember how dirty I felt. I remember the vulgarities that he spat at my insecure teenage body. I was so disgusted with everything that happened that the first time I told anyone was 3 years after the event as I was preparing to serve a full-time mission for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latterday Saints.
I remember crying.
I remember the guilt.
The guilt for something that was never my fault, but that I blamed myself for.
I remember the belittling and crippling addiction I had developed as a way to attempt to understand the pain my heart and body was feeling.
I remember feeling like I had no one to turn to.
Healing from this kind of situation is different for everyone. For me it has taken years and the emotional scars are still visible. I cannot count how many times I have wanted to write this post only to delete it later. I wanted to share a snippet of my story in hope that there's someone else who is hurting, who needs help that I could possibly reach out to, but I was scared of sharing this deepest part of me. Scared of the ridicule that might come, terrified of the judgments that might head my direction, and then I realized that all my fears were selfish. All my fears were geared to protect my cherished "pride".
This is a post for the survivors. This is a post dedicated to admitting that it is OK to not be OK. These are words begging for other survivors to not keep silent. In a world that's torn apart by selfish desires, I hope that we can band together. No matter our race, belief system, or any other distinguishing factor we may use as a societal box, we are all human. We need each other. We need less fear of disrespect, judgment, and ridicule for being our entire selves. As cliche as it sounds, we need a lot more love for each other. I'm not talking about the conditional kind of "love" either. I'm not talking about the "love" that comes with a price. I'm talking about pure love. The love that is constant and is consistently looking for the other person's best interests.
This is a post for survivors. May we no longer feel like we're just making things work from minute to minute. May we no longer feel like we are obligated to a certain emotion. May we not feel obligated to stay survivors. I hope that we can feel that we're allowed to feel unceasing joy. Sometimes I feel like my emotions are in survival mode, for whatever reason that day brings, when instead I need to seize the day.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xv9JOVkR5PQ
Saturday, August 29, 2015
Being the Old Case Tractor
Since I can't sleep due to someone banging cymbals and the fact that I'm flat out restless tonight, I figured I would finally get started on the promised Facebook post about the Old Case Tractor. For the sake of my thought process, I'm going to write this as if I am the Old Case Tractor. Just a reminder: I'm not a writer or a poet, I just wanted to write my thoughts. (This means to not expect meter or rhyme)
Since the day I came to be I've been sitting in this yard full of other tractors. It's rather boring just sitting here, but the days go by rather quickly when I listen to the stories that other tractors have to tell. Most of them have experience, about 100 hours or so, of farming, moving earth, and who else knows! They tell me the joy of working outside in the blazing sun. They say it's hard work, I'll wear out belts, brakes, and other such parts, but these experienced tractors also tell me that there's no better feeling when the day is done.
Day after day passes in this yard full of tractors, when suddenly a whisper goes through. A wise farmer is coming for a new tractor! The experienced ones sigh with remorse, knowing that with their hours they're no longer "new". They've heard of this farmer, that he's kind and hard-working, and everyone hopes that they'll be the lucky tractor to go home with this man. Every tractor waits with bated breath as he comes into the yard, takes a quick glance, and (I can't believe it) he comes straight to me. He looks over my engine, my backhoe attachment, and smiles. "Yes," he says "this is the tractor I need." He goes back inside, puts $2000 dollars on the table, and drives me to his home farm.
It's just like the experienced farmers said! The days are long and hard, I don't just work in the summer but in the winter as well. Hot, cold, sleet, shine, the days are great with this farmer, his kids, and I. It's a joy to watch the kids grow older, and I love when they get to learn how to drive, move the earth, and work the land with me. It seems though that after awhile though the kids move away and they rarely come back. I start getting used less and less. Until one day I'm parked.
They say my rusty spots come from the rain, but they really come from my tears. They say my tires are sun rot, but it's just because I've lost hope. I've lost hope that I'll ever be useful, I've been parked here at least 20 years. The closest I've come to hope is when the Wise Farmer's granddaughter accidentally flipped the ignition switch for a few seconds while playing in the 'junkyard'. Maybe I'm just too old. Maybe I was never good enough. Maybe the Wise Farmer never really needed me.
I mope as the bigger and newer tractors drive by. "Why," I lament "why could I not be one of them?" I sit in this graveyard of tractors once thriving, but now broken. "But I'm not broken! Why can't I be seen? Wise Farmer, where are you now?"I cry at the heavens, feeling unheard.
Slowly the Wise Farmer pulls up to the other Case 590, the one without backhoe attachments. I look over cautiously, is it really him? He turns around and I see his face, still the same gentle face albeit a few more wrinkles. He smiles and turns to his grandson, "This is the first tractor I ever bought new. A great racing tractor, I'll bet that old sweetheart will outrun most of those new tractors we have now. Let's see what condition that Case is in." Sweet music to my ears! Is he really coming my direction? Is this really happening. Once again I feel like that young tractor sitting in the yard, the same excited feeling deep down in my carburetor, I nearly fly when the Wise Farmer comes to me. He checks my engine, my tires, and then my PTO hydraulics. My near flight suddenly crashes down when I realize that I'm leaking oil. I cry, "Please, I know that I'm leaking, but please fix me. I want to go to work so badly. I'll go through whatever I need to!"
The Wise Farmer speaks up, "That's not hard to fix." He turns to his grandson and says, "I'll race you to the shop." Oh how my heart smiles again! I'll be able to work in the Wise Farmer's fields yet again.
Lo and behold, the shop was not what I expected. I don't understand what's going on. The Wise Farmer's grandson-in-law chopped off my backhoe attachments with the oxy-acetelyne torch. What good am I without my backhoe attachments? Maybe the Wise Farmer is just using me for spare parts! NO! I wanted to work! I have so much I can do! Please don't just chop me apart! The heat is torture and it's ripping me apart! As my metal cools down, so do I. But all I can do is cry. There are no words. Just the raw emotion of feeling useless, beat up, and now broken.
I wake the next day to feeling the Wise Farmer's hand on my hood. I look up with tear stained headlights. He smiles and says, "You've been a good tractor, reliable and true. I know that the loads you use to carry might be a little much for you now." His grin grows wider and he says, " But between you and me, I can't keep up either. I have a job for you now where you'll teach my grand kids about work, how the dew feels when it's coming off the hay, and how important it is to look deeper than the surface because you, my little friend, are more than what you seem."
His simple words send my little carburetor into flight! All that I've been through now makes some sense and I get to teach the kids once again. The Wise Farmer hooks me up to a new-fangled contraption called a fluffer and sends me on my way with his granddaughter on my back. The same granddaughter that accidentally flipped my ignition switch 20 years ago. After she finishes the field, she gets off, looks at my rusty old paint, and smiles. "Thank you," she says, "thank you for reminding me that I'm worth more than what I seem."
I smile and feel that my work isn't done.
Since the day I came to be I've been sitting in this yard full of other tractors. It's rather boring just sitting here, but the days go by rather quickly when I listen to the stories that other tractors have to tell. Most of them have experience, about 100 hours or so, of farming, moving earth, and who else knows! They tell me the joy of working outside in the blazing sun. They say it's hard work, I'll wear out belts, brakes, and other such parts, but these experienced tractors also tell me that there's no better feeling when the day is done.
Day after day passes in this yard full of tractors, when suddenly a whisper goes through. A wise farmer is coming for a new tractor! The experienced ones sigh with remorse, knowing that with their hours they're no longer "new". They've heard of this farmer, that he's kind and hard-working, and everyone hopes that they'll be the lucky tractor to go home with this man. Every tractor waits with bated breath as he comes into the yard, takes a quick glance, and (I can't believe it) he comes straight to me. He looks over my engine, my backhoe attachment, and smiles. "Yes," he says "this is the tractor I need." He goes back inside, puts $2000 dollars on the table, and drives me to his home farm.
It's just like the experienced farmers said! The days are long and hard, I don't just work in the summer but in the winter as well. Hot, cold, sleet, shine, the days are great with this farmer, his kids, and I. It's a joy to watch the kids grow older, and I love when they get to learn how to drive, move the earth, and work the land with me. It seems though that after awhile though the kids move away and they rarely come back. I start getting used less and less. Until one day I'm parked.
They say my rusty spots come from the rain, but they really come from my tears. They say my tires are sun rot, but it's just because I've lost hope. I've lost hope that I'll ever be useful, I've been parked here at least 20 years. The closest I've come to hope is when the Wise Farmer's granddaughter accidentally flipped the ignition switch for a few seconds while playing in the 'junkyard'. Maybe I'm just too old. Maybe I was never good enough. Maybe the Wise Farmer never really needed me.
I mope as the bigger and newer tractors drive by. "Why," I lament "why could I not be one of them?" I sit in this graveyard of tractors once thriving, but now broken. "But I'm not broken! Why can't I be seen? Wise Farmer, where are you now?"I cry at the heavens, feeling unheard.
Slowly the Wise Farmer pulls up to the other Case 590, the one without backhoe attachments. I look over cautiously, is it really him? He turns around and I see his face, still the same gentle face albeit a few more wrinkles. He smiles and turns to his grandson, "This is the first tractor I ever bought new. A great racing tractor, I'll bet that old sweetheart will outrun most of those new tractors we have now. Let's see what condition that Case is in." Sweet music to my ears! Is he really coming my direction? Is this really happening. Once again I feel like that young tractor sitting in the yard, the same excited feeling deep down in my carburetor, I nearly fly when the Wise Farmer comes to me. He checks my engine, my tires, and then my PTO hydraulics. My near flight suddenly crashes down when I realize that I'm leaking oil. I cry, "Please, I know that I'm leaking, but please fix me. I want to go to work so badly. I'll go through whatever I need to!"
The Wise Farmer speaks up, "That's not hard to fix." He turns to his grandson and says, "I'll race you to the shop." Oh how my heart smiles again! I'll be able to work in the Wise Farmer's fields yet again.
Lo and behold, the shop was not what I expected. I don't understand what's going on. The Wise Farmer's grandson-in-law chopped off my backhoe attachments with the oxy-acetelyne torch. What good am I without my backhoe attachments? Maybe the Wise Farmer is just using me for spare parts! NO! I wanted to work! I have so much I can do! Please don't just chop me apart! The heat is torture and it's ripping me apart! As my metal cools down, so do I. But all I can do is cry. There are no words. Just the raw emotion of feeling useless, beat up, and now broken.
I wake the next day to feeling the Wise Farmer's hand on my hood. I look up with tear stained headlights. He smiles and says, "You've been a good tractor, reliable and true. I know that the loads you use to carry might be a little much for you now." His grin grows wider and he says, " But between you and me, I can't keep up either. I have a job for you now where you'll teach my grand kids about work, how the dew feels when it's coming off the hay, and how important it is to look deeper than the surface because you, my little friend, are more than what you seem."
His simple words send my little carburetor into flight! All that I've been through now makes some sense and I get to teach the kids once again. The Wise Farmer hooks me up to a new-fangled contraption called a fluffer and sends me on my way with his granddaughter on my back. The same granddaughter that accidentally flipped my ignition switch 20 years ago. After she finishes the field, she gets off, looks at my rusty old paint, and smiles. "Thank you," she says, "thank you for reminding me that I'm worth more than what I seem."
I smile and feel that my work isn't done.
Saturday, July 18, 2015
On to the Posting!
Sorry y'all. I meant to get on this a lot sooner, but lo and behold farming happened. And then surgery happened and now I have little better to do than to get caught up on this blog. And write wedding thank you cards, but that can wait a moment.
The main goal I wanted to accomplish with this blog is to capture moments of bravery. What bravery is and examples from my life that emulate that quality that encompasses the mixture of fear and overcoming fear simultaneously. The first type of bravery I wanted to talk about is from my grandpa. It takes a certain level of courage to change. Change is a terrifying word especially after 70+ years. However, my grandpa has done it.
Now, my grandfather has never been a bad man. In fact, my grandfather is one of the greatest men I know. Whenever I've made stupid mistakes on the farm, he's always been beyond patient with me. In fact, I only remember raising his voice at me once and in complete honesty I deserved it. He helped me restore the old Farmall H that was sitting in the yard for years. He taught me how to recognize when the dew came in. He taught me what it meant to be a good person.
Recently my grandfather made a dramatic change. He decided to make covenants with our Heavenly Father and with his wife. My grandpa decided that he wanted to be with my Grandma for eternity. In order to do this my grandpa had to make a lot of changes. My grandpa became a church going man for the first time I could ever remember. My grandpa quit drinking coffee. I'm not going to share all of my grandpa's story, because it is completely his. Suffice it to say that my grandpa taught me a lot about what it means to change. He has taught me an important lesson in humility and trusting in our Heavenly Father.
It would have been so incredibly easy to say, "I'm too old" or "You can't teach an old dog new tricks". Instead he looked heavenward and said, "Not my will Lord, but thine be done."
I have the best family ever.
The main goal I wanted to accomplish with this blog is to capture moments of bravery. What bravery is and examples from my life that emulate that quality that encompasses the mixture of fear and overcoming fear simultaneously. The first type of bravery I wanted to talk about is from my grandpa. It takes a certain level of courage to change. Change is a terrifying word especially after 70+ years. However, my grandpa has done it.
Now, my grandfather has never been a bad man. In fact, my grandfather is one of the greatest men I know. Whenever I've made stupid mistakes on the farm, he's always been beyond patient with me. In fact, I only remember raising his voice at me once and in complete honesty I deserved it. He helped me restore the old Farmall H that was sitting in the yard for years. He taught me how to recognize when the dew came in. He taught me what it meant to be a good person.
Recently my grandfather made a dramatic change. He decided to make covenants with our Heavenly Father and with his wife. My grandpa decided that he wanted to be with my Grandma for eternity. In order to do this my grandpa had to make a lot of changes. My grandpa became a church going man for the first time I could ever remember. My grandpa quit drinking coffee. I'm not going to share all of my grandpa's story, because it is completely his. Suffice it to say that my grandpa taught me a lot about what it means to change. He has taught me an important lesson in humility and trusting in our Heavenly Father.
It would have been so incredibly easy to say, "I'm too old" or "You can't teach an old dog new tricks". Instead he looked heavenward and said, "Not my will Lord, but thine be done."
I have the best family ever.
Tuesday, June 30, 2015
Now and on the Surface
Now, I am healthy.
On the surface I'm okay.
If you ran into me right now, on a street somewhere you wouldn't find anything out of the ordinary. I'm very average looking. Well, I'm average looking if you consider greasy jeans and hay dusted hair average. I'm a farmer by birth and a student (at the moment) by trade. I have an amazing husband that I've been married to for a month and he has been my best friend for six years. Through the week I work all day long and on Sunday my husband and I teach an amazing group of 9 year old kids. I'm a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latterday Saints. Not a perfect member, but I'm okay with that.
For a long time I've had a living turmoil inside of me. I've done an excellent job at hiding the turmoil from the world. I know for a fact that I am not alone in this endeavor of keeping myself hidden. Although you would think that after twenty years of living I would learn to move on. In a way, I have moved on. The pain is no longer so urgent. The anger is absent. However, the nightmares still haunt my sleeping hours.
I'm not a writer by trade. In fact, I despise writing. The stories I have after 20+ years are bottled up inside of me and and are practically writing themselves. If no one reads this blog, that is perfectly okay. This blog is for me. I'm tired of the nightmares and I'm ready to completely move on. I'm writing this to gain an understanding and to invite my Savior to help me overcome.
My hope is that someone else might have the desire to make this journey with me. That another might see a resemblance of their life in my words and have the strength to move forward a few more baby steps. Life is sweet, precious, but incredibly difficult. My story is not much different from others, but that doesn't change the fact that it is completely mine.
That is me and I'm trying to get a little deeper than the surface.
On the surface I'm okay.
If you ran into me right now, on a street somewhere you wouldn't find anything out of the ordinary. I'm very average looking. Well, I'm average looking if you consider greasy jeans and hay dusted hair average. I'm a farmer by birth and a student (at the moment) by trade. I have an amazing husband that I've been married to for a month and he has been my best friend for six years. Through the week I work all day long and on Sunday my husband and I teach an amazing group of 9 year old kids. I'm a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latterday Saints. Not a perfect member, but I'm okay with that.
For a long time I've had a living turmoil inside of me. I've done an excellent job at hiding the turmoil from the world. I know for a fact that I am not alone in this endeavor of keeping myself hidden. Although you would think that after twenty years of living I would learn to move on. In a way, I have moved on. The pain is no longer so urgent. The anger is absent. However, the nightmares still haunt my sleeping hours.
I'm not a writer by trade. In fact, I despise writing. The stories I have after 20+ years are bottled up inside of me and and are practically writing themselves. If no one reads this blog, that is perfectly okay. This blog is for me. I'm tired of the nightmares and I'm ready to completely move on. I'm writing this to gain an understanding and to invite my Savior to help me overcome.
My hope is that someone else might have the desire to make this journey with me. That another might see a resemblance of their life in my words and have the strength to move forward a few more baby steps. Life is sweet, precious, but incredibly difficult. My story is not much different from others, but that doesn't change the fact that it is completely mine.
That is me and I'm trying to get a little deeper than the surface.
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