Originally posted 2016-10-29 08:34:36.
Originally posted 2016-10-29 08:34:36.
I am so sorry for my absence.
I say this as if I know people read this. It may just be my mom. But in any case, I have been absent from my blog.
I have been struggling. When I say struggling, that is a true understatement. Between moving, gaining weight, battling anxiety and depression, and feeling insecure in every aspect of my life, I was drowning.
I worry that sometimes I have to hide that side of me, the one who feels lost at times. The one who still has darkness. The one that constantly doubts herself.
Over the last year, I have been on an amazing journey of self realization. This journey I have documented on social media. And in most aspects, it has been an absolute blessing. I have met amazing women, made amazing connections, and learned more about myself and others than I ever dreamed I could.
But I have often times felt out of body in this amazing, incredible, emotional experience.
I have made an effort to share my story. Raw. Open. Vulnerable. Scary.
And it has been amazing. It has led me to strength and courage and bravery.
But I am not always strong. I am not always courageous. And I am not always brave.
The last few months, I have been sad. I lost focus and motivation. I truly felt like every move I made was an act. And for me, that was hard. I am not one to hide my emotions. I have never been in a position before where people are looking to me for support and inspiration. What am I supposed to do when I can’t figure my own shit out, let alone help others?
But, I have spent time working on myself. I have been focusing on how I want to feel, not how I want to look to others. I have spent time eating and working out and treating me right, not on looking a certain way on social media. I have dedicated my time and thoughts to not impressing and inspiring others, but inspiring me. Because I had lost my fire.
I want to say, to all of you, that it’s okay to be lost. It is okay to feel like you are in a dark room with no exits. It’s okay to feel alone and scared and not enough. Everyone has been in that dark room. Everyone has doubts.
It’s what you do with them. I am not a perfect person. I do not have answers for everyone. I barely have answers for myself. But I have a heart that wants to help. I have a soul that wants to share. I have a drive to make changes for myself and others. And I have a will that cannot be shaken.
So I have been down, but I am not out. I may not have an amazing transformation before and after picture, but I have a story to tell. And so do you. So share your story. The good. The bad. The ugly. The everything.
Because you are enough. I am enough. We are all enough. And we need to remember that our stories, good or bad, ugly or pretty, help others know they aren’t alone.
I’m back. I am so back. Here’s to kicking ass and taking names.
Originally posted 2016-10-23 17:45:16.
While shopping yesterday, avoiding adulting and trying on all Target’s clearance had to offer, I heard in the dressing room next to me two girl’s voices. They were no older than 14.
At first, I heard them laughing and talking about some boy. And then the tone flipped quick and I heard one say, ” I’d look so much better if I was as skinny as you. You suck. I just won’t eat tonight” And her friend didn’t object. They just kept on talking. As if saying not eating to fit into clothes is acceptable conversation. Or it was so normal in their lives it wasn’t even second guessed. It was as easy as saying, ” I’ll have fries with that.”
My heart sunk. I used to be that girl. Somedays, I still am that girl. All of a sudden as I stood half naked, mom bod in all it’s glory, I was overcome by sorrow. It was like I was 14 again. Back then, I would stand in front of a similar mirror, pinching and wishing away all my perceived imperfections. All I wanted was to be as ‘skinny’ as someone else. My sister. My best friend. Kelly Kapowski. ( I also wanted her boyfriend ) Anyone else but me.
Skinny became my obsession. And eventually that goal lead to my struggles with disordered eating. I spent most of those precious years meant for first dates and driver’s licenses consumed in depression, hating my body, and deflecting all my shortcomings onto others. I didn’t care about myself, so I destroyed others. I’d do anything it took at the expense of anyone or anything to be 1 pound less. This rageful, angry girl was actually dying inside, literally and figuratively, hiding it behind a charade of angst and ‘behavioral problems’. I was slowly self destructing, one uneaten calorie or one binge at a time.
When I realized people could probably hear me blubbering and were bound to bust down the door to the sight of my bare ass and last night’s mascara running down my face, I got my shit together. Me, being the fixer I have grown to be, quickly planned a powerful, life changing intervention. I imagined it saving her. Maybe, just maybe- she’d eat that night. Maybe she would not succumb to the pressures we all feel to be and look a certain way. Maybe, this hot mess express could be the catalyst to propel her away from the rabbit hole of self hatred. I wanted to be the person I needed back then.
[Tweet “I wanted to tell her how unimportant skinny is. Skinny doesn’t get you into college. It doesn’t make you friendships ( not the kind you want, anyway.) It doesn’t make you a better person. It doesn’t make you more lovable or liked. If just makes you skinny. That’s it.”]
I wanted to tell her how unimportant skinny is. Skinny doesn’t get you into college. It doesn’t make you friendships ( not the kind you want, anyway.) It doesn’t make you a better person. It doesn’t make you more lovable or liked. If just makes you skinny. That’s it.
I wanted to go into that dressing room and point out anything beautiful about her other than her size. I wanted to drive to her house and throw out her scale. I wanted to take her to lunch without all the numbers and counting and planning of how to rid your body of it immediately after. Just eat. And talk. And learn all the things that make her beautiful, none of them having to do with whether her pants fit or the number reflected back at her.
I said nothing. I froze. Whether it was from my own sadness, or something else. I ugly cried on the way home, regretting it. Wishing I could have just grabbed her hand and looked in her eyes. Maybe more for me, than her. Maybe for my daughter, who I worry I will pass on my old habits to. I thought about how just the other day, I walked in, and saw my two year old doing the scale dance. Get on. Get back off. Get back on. And the guilt set in. Sh*t. That was taught. She’s doing what she sees me do. Without even knowing it I was setting her up to disapprove of herself. You can’t just preach it. You can’t just say it. It’s not enough. You have to show them how to love themselves. And the best way to do that is to be an example of what it looks like.
She’s counting on me. Right then, I vowed to work on breaking the self hatred cycle. I will be an example of what loving my body truly is. Some days I may be faking it. I will still fight the mirror. The scale. The bitch of a voice inside my head that creeps in and tells me I am not good enough. And I worry it will always be there. But I will not let my daughter grow up believing her worth is determined by whether or not she fits into a pair of target jeggings.
When I got home, I hugged my daughter so tight, and thought about the girl at Target. I may not have been able to help her. But this girl in my arms, is all on me. I picked her up and we sat at my mirror. We had a fake tea party and ate REAL biscuits. We planned adventures. We danced. And as she caught her reflection, she exclaimed,
“Meme pretty like momma. Pretty happy mommy.”
And I was. And that’s who I will be, for her. Always.
Originally posted 2016-05-04 10:22:50.
I may be dating myself by saying this, but the closest I had to social media when I was in high school was AIM. ( I had some killer away messages, let me tell you.) I was messed up enough in those socially formative years. I can’t even imagine if I was worried about how many followers I had or if someone was sending my high school boyfriend Colin DM’s on Instagram. In my younger years, I was impressionable. Hell, 3 years ago I fell for the whole “I have to tell you it works in the brand name to overcompensate for the fact that its just Saran Wrap and water weight you’re losing” bit. So yea, it still lingers. (News Flash- if they have to name it ‘ this shit really makes you lose weight’ or something similiar, it probably doesn’t)
It’s human nature to want to put your best self out there. It’s ingrained in most of us from birth to succeed. Win. Be liked. We are raised idolizing celebrities and sports stars that get paid to run and throw a ball or lay in bed and take a perfect selfie. But this idolization has grown. It isn’t just mainstream celebrities or limited to your 8pm shows or drive to the work on the radio. Hell, Kim Kardashian makes millions for… do we even know yet? Has this mystery been solved? (Seriously though- what the fuck does she do? )We strive to obtain the social norm of perfection.
In a day where everyone is constantly connected and flooded with pretty square pictures or the most craftily stringed together words the 140 character limit will allow, everyone wants to be popular. Get one more like. Gain one more more follower. There is article on top of article telling you what you should believe and what you should wear and how you should eat and when you should blink. Everyone has become a fitness expert. Everyone knows how to tell you what you are doing wrong and what you can improve and why you aren’t good enough. We spend our days comparing. It’s hard not to. But, my friends, comparison is the thief of joy.
So when I talk to younger girls, my heart breaks. I am on the last leg of my 30th year, and I still have to dig deep to find my self love and confidence every morning when I wake up. Then dig even deeper throughout the day. I’m like the archaeologist of digging for that self worth, yall. (Minus the degree and ugly brown get up they wear. Or is that just in the movies?) Not only are they worrying about what to wear, remembering their dance team tryout dance or their speech for student council, but they are constantly connected. I can’t imagine how I’d find ways to love myself, if every morning I wake up to my Instagram feed to perfect bodies. Or stepped away from my computer to, you know, LEARN at school, and came back to 2398 tweets, DMS and Facebook messages. I get overwhelmed when I set my phone down to go fill up my wine glass and have 2 notifications.
This is a recipe for self worth destruction.
So when I get asked,
“Why are you so real? You really put EVERYTHING out there. You’re brave.”
I usually smile or emoji politely and simply say,
“I strive to be an example of a real woman in a real world. That’s all.”
But the long hand version of that answer is this:
This world is scary. Especially for young girls. Especially today. I was one of those young girls. Cutting out the Victoria’s Secret swimsuit pictures and putting them on my fridge to stop me from eating. Buying the same outfit as Tonya, the cool girl, so people would like me more. Thinking I needed better boobs to be pretty. Now today’s it all about butts, who knew? But my point- No one is as perfect as their social media feeds. They all wake up with morning breath. And wear leggings on days they are bloated. And cry. And struggle. They just don’t show it. And it’s a shame. A damn shame. I needed someone to show me my mess wasn’t abnormal. My body was like 90% of other women. I needed someone to show me what it’s like to fail. I needed examples of women who have gone through some shit. Some really hard, down in the gutter, dark and twisty stuff- and survived. Because that’s all any of us are trying to do. Survive. Feel less alone. Accepted. Supported. And I don’t think you have to be a size two, living in suburbia former high school cool girl who married the hot guy to feel that. So here’s to the girls who don’t have their shit together. The ones who have cried in a bathroom. The one’s who have fought battles no one knows about. The one’s who keep working on themselves. The one’s who aren’t afraid to show the real them. The non highlight reel. Because those are the examples we need to see. That’s who fills my feeds. Who runs in my circle. Because real is so hot right now.”
So to you, the girl who just picked herself apart after endlessly scrolling your feeds- Stop. Stop this. Stop right now.
Unfollow anyone who doesn’t make you feel good about yourself. Online and in real life. Rid yourself of the obnoxiously unattainable “perfect”. Because, you my friend, kick ass. So go out into the world and keep doing that. Every. Damn. Day.
Originally posted 2016-03-19 19:07:05.
So I just finished my second Dietbet.
Spoiler alert: I didn’t win.
But that’s okay. You want to know why?
I stayed motivated because of it. I lost 5 of the 6 pounds I was supposed to lose.
It connected me with other women dealing with the same issues as me.
And I created a new one to start April 1st. (That way if the number is scary on the scale we can just say April Fool’s Fool! Just kidding, health is serious. So is my desire for King’s Hawaiian rolls sitting on my counter. They are so damn delicious. Longest side track thought ever. I digress.)
Because I am team Screw the Scale. (I need a shirt with that one it!) But it’s the motivation factor I enjoy. I stay a lot more accountable when I know 12,000 people are peeping my progress. And when I put money into it. I want my money back.
So tally so far:
January dietbet-0 Shelby-1
February Diet bet-1 Shelby-0
April Diet bet- I’m coming for you. And I will lose those pounds. And the Hawaiian rolls I just ate while typing this. We are all human, right?
If you want to join, come on down!
Originally posted 2016-03-14 14:09:55.
Oh, Monday. How you mess with my emotions. I usually like Mondays. I am the weirdo who thinks of them as a fresh start. Everyone always starts something new on a Monday. A diet. A workout routine. A new job. They quit a bad habit.
Because, Mondays are our fresh start. It doesn’t matter what you did before then- they are your fresh piece of diary paper. Rewrite your story. Starting now.
So for me, Monday’s rock. Because when I slip up, and I do- alot- I can start fresh.
But today I was just not feeling it.
I had a great weekend. But it was filled with all the really bad stuff that is so delicious. Beer. Mexican food. Staying up too late. Skipping the gym. NOT skipping the queso dip. Cookie Crisp at midnight, because WHY NOT? You get my point.
So waking up, I was the epitome of bloating. Not even my leggings were having it. Try again later when you’re not filled with salt and poor life decisions. We ain’t THAT stretchy girlfriend.
I felt exhausted. My body hurt. I regretted all the fun choices I made. And then I remembered it was the half way point of our Dietbet.
Shit. I have to take my progress pictures. What am I going to wear? I think the internet would frown upon a pantsless progress picture.
So I found the stretchiest pair of leggings I owned. I talked myself up.
It doesn’t matter what you look like, girl. It matters how you feel.
Oh right. I feel like shit.
I’m not doing this. I’ll take them later.
And then I immediately said
Get your ass in front of that mirror.
I was not going to put off progress pictures today. Because I am going to own every part of my journey. The good. The bad. And the bloated.
And let me tell you, I stress all the time don’t overthink what you see on the internet. Especially when it comes the weight loss and fitness pages. All those girls you follow on instagram? They took 2348235 pictures before finding that perfect lighting, perfect angle picture.
The results of my progress pics? Not great. But, not bad either.
I took them, took a quick glance at them, and then put my phone away.
I refuse to pick myself apart anymore. I have stretch marks. I have excess skin and fat pads. I have flaws.
But I also have things that no one can see in that progress picture. I have self love. I have self forgiveness. I have self acceptance.
And those things, are more important to me than how I look half naked after too many tacos.
So with that, I put on my running shoes, I turned on my gangsta rap, and I got outside. Sunshine is the cure for so many things. It’s my crack. (Crack is whack, kids.) It energizes me. Makes me happy. Makes me feel like I get accomplish anything.
I woke up not wanting to move off my couch let alone work out. But I changed my perspective, and put in 5 miles.
So here’s to Mondays. To fresh starts. To starting new. Starting over. Starting over AGAIN. Here’s to fresh diary paper. Here’s to forgiving your past, and focusing on your now, while moving toward the future.
Originally posted 2016-02-29 12:38:52.
Hi, I’m Shelby and I’m a recovering habitual quitter.
Well that felt good to get off my chest.
am was the girl who quit. My older sister was pretty and popular. My younger sister was smart. And I was the quitter. It was my thing.
I quit Daisy scouts before even going in because I was too afraid to go in the classroom filled with blue vests. I quit dance team one year because I felt like I would never be as good as the other girls. I’d quit jobs. Quit relationships. Friendships. I was a full blown quitter.
And once you get labeled something, you almost feel like people expect it from you. So many times I would want to sign up for a new activity and my mom would say,
“Now Shelby, if I pay for this, you’re not going to quit again, are you? ”
Well yes, mom. I probably will. The minute it gets scary or I feel inferior, I’m gone.
“Of course not, Mom.” Rolls eyes.
Two weeks later I quit.
I mean it’s like riding a bike. Once you have quit something, it gets easier and easier.
And I am not just talking about jobs or relationships or daisy scouts. I quit on myself.
Maybe it was because I was insecure. Maybe it was because I didn’t like myself. Maybe because I was scared.
But for whatever reason, I couldn’t stop.
When it came to my health, I was the typical yo yo dieter.
Try this magic shake. *Drinks one sip and checks if i’m skinny* Shit, this doesn’t work.
Do this workout dvd. *Can’t breathe or jump or move my body* Screw it. This is a joke.
Calorie restrict for 2 weeks to fit in a dress. *Dress doesn’t fit* Eat the entire kitchen.
See it’s so easy to give up. But eventually, you get tired. You get tired of people expecting you to fail. You get tired of failing yourself. You get tired of starting over. It’s just fucking exhausting.
It wasn’t some grand epiphany. Nothing significant or monumental happened to make it happen. But one day, I just got tired of my own bullshit. I thought to myself,
What will happen if I stop quitting on myself? What if I forgive myself for my mistakes? What if when a lightbulb burns out in my house of life, I don’t try to burn the whole thing down?
And I just stopped giving up on myself. It didn’t happen overnight. It was tiny choices and decisions made each day, each hour each minute.
*You can finish this mile, Shelby. Move your ass*
*Answer your damn phone. Your anxiety is not winning today.*
*So you didn’t lose this week. But you feel better, don’t you? You are not stopping.”
*So you ate a whole cheesecake? That doesn’t mean you don’t get your ass up and work out. You fell down. You aren’t staying down.*
*Share your story. Don’t let the people who don’t understand it make you stop sharing your heart.*
And just like that, I started realizing how strong I am. Strength truly comes from within. Proving the nasty mean voice in your head that tells you you aren’t good enough, wrong.
I am making big changes in my life. I am pursuing my dreams of helping others in their health journey-mentally and physically. I would have never in a million years thought I’d be 3 weeks away from completing what needs to be done to do that. I would have been on the wine wagon drinking away using the unused study flashcards as a coaster.
I am not perfect. I have a past. I have my failures. My flaws. My shortcomings.
I am a lot of things.
But I am NOT a quitter.
Originally posted 2016-02-26 14:32:09.
Telling your story is healing. My battle with disordered eating has been something I have fought to overcome for so long. And in a way, I am still healing. But in a day and age of being constantly ‘connected’ in a place where social media is bombarding you with photoshopped false illusions of ideal, it can aggravate and bring to the surface insecurities. Even the fitness and health pages of ‘normal’ people are constantly showing you their highlight reel, perfect angle, best lighting and posed images giving women the idea that their normal isn’t correct. I feel it is so important for anyone with social media influence to keep it real. In a space that’s so often filled with false illusions, unrealistic images leading to unrealistic expectations, and a 20 billion dollar diet industry preying on the vulnerable, we need more voices of what real and healthy is. Healthy is not being perfect- but loving yourself anyway. Healthy is working on you, for you. Not to fill someone else’s ideal. Healthy is knowing that your worth isn’t dependent on the size of your ass, the curve of your backs, the space between your thighs, the number on a scale. Healthy is measured in how much you value your body for what it can do, not what it looks to everyone else and not by how many likes you get on instagram.
My ED story
The first time I heard my infamous title, I was 14 years old. It was the first day of high school. I walked the already scary, overwhelming halls, and heard it.
“Oh look! S has a little sister. They look so much alike. Except she’s the fat one.”
Were they talking to me? Why are they looking at me like that? I ran into the bathroom and hid in the bathroom stall until I heard the warning bell-crying.
My sister and I had always been compared. In dance, in school, in life- but never in looks. And now I knew and had confirmation for all the things I already felt. I was the ‘fat’ one.
I couldn’t think of anything else the entire day except how fat I was. I was starving from not eating dinner or breakfast from first day jitters. But I wasn’t going to let them see me eat. So I skipped lunch.
This became my thing. Skipping breakfast and lunch and starving all day. And coming home and eating everything I could touch.
And then one day, the purging started.
It took over my life. My life was based on when I could binge and finding ways to cover my purging. My life was based on whether there was a bathroom close enough to where we ate out to purge immediately after. If there wasn’t, I wasn’t going.
No one noticed until it was out of control. It’s not their faults, really. My mom was working 60 hours a week, raising 4 girls all while carting us to and from dance and activities.
I was hospitalized and in and out of treatment centers my entire junior year of high school. I wish I could say it helped, or that I got better. I didn’t, just smarter.
I spent years going in and out of states of half ass recovery and relapse. I’m talking all the way up until I got married and had my first child. That little bitch in my head kept calling myself ‘The Fat Goodrich Sister’. That’s all I was sometimes. Still am on bad days.
I’ll spare every detail. It took a big scary life changing event to wake my ass up. In 2011 I almost lost him. My only saving grace. My son.
My son was diagnosed with a scary, life threatening disease. All of a sudden, my world just changed. Nothing mattered except that little boy. Over the course of a year I spent 67 nights in the hospital bed with him. SIXTY SEVEN days on the hem/onc floor of that children’s hospital. For once, I realized how unimportant all my selfish bullshit self destructive behavior was.
Wake the fuck up, Shelby. This child? Loves you. needs you. Sees your beauty. And he needs a strong, healthy mother. Mentally, physically and spiritually.
I know the point is to rewrite a happy ending. Well, my life is a happy ending. I’m blessed. My son is in remission. I have a beautiful family. I have faith. I have friends. I have a healthy strong body.
And I have an eating disorder. It doesn’t go away. It stays with you, whether it’s rearing its ugly head or not. ” the fat sister” lives in my head. But she has a new sister in there, telling her to ‘ Shut the fuck up, get over your own bullshit, and see all your amazing blessings.’
Originally posted 2016-02-22 08:36:05.
Oh, hey friends! Look who was a big girl and got her hair done (since the first time in September)? This girl right here.
I am so picky about my hair. I am not that obnoxious client. But I have had my share of hair traumas. You know, the kind where you say, ” I don’t care what you do as long as it’s not red!” And you walk out of the salon with fire engine red hair.
So after moving, I hesitated. Hesitated is too light of a word.
I avoided completely finding and trying a new hair girl.
Until I met my girl, Corbin. She’s in my facebook PCOS group. We met for what was supposed to be a big Georgia girls meetup and turned into me and her day drinking wine and eating calamari.
That’s a story for another time but I now call her one of my BFFs.
So I spent the day driving up to see her to get my hair done and have a girls night.
I went from this.
(If anyone is in Hiawassee, Ga and needs a good hair girl- let me know and I’ll get you in touch.)
What has everyone else been up to?
My son is off school all next week so I will spend it meal prepping and blogging and starting our dietbet. ( Cheat meal going downnnnnn tonight.)
I’ll be back soon!
Just had to pop in with this bomb dot com hair!
Originally posted 2016-02-14 11:05:28.
I’m gonna hit you with all the feels right now.
In our PCOS FB group, we’re doing a #positivitypause to take a break from all the sad and fill our wall with happy.
And I feel we need some perspective.
God knows I do lately.
I haven’t felt good. I have 2 cysts causing a lot of pain. And when I’m in pain, I’m a mean grumpy carb eating, not so nice words saying troll.
And I know it. But sometimes it’s hard to reel in. You get caught up in the negative. The pessimist mind set. Moaning. Complaining. Blaming others and life for all your misery.
And then last night, as I rolled my eyes and said something not so nice under my breath, which then made me star crying as I noticed my son watching my terrible behavior, he said to me…
” It’s okay momma. Just be brave. And be kind. ”
That was it.
My snap back to reality breaking point to get me out of the chunky dunk funk pool I was swimming in.
You see, I I haven’t yet talked on this blog about my sons health struggles, but if you follow me on Instagram or are in the Facebook group you’ve heard my sons story. The health struggles he’s endured. The life threatening condition hes lived with and handled with grace and dignity of an old soul is an amazing thing for this mama bear to see.
Throughout the rough years, the blood transfusions, the hospital stays, the fear- I was clueless. I didn’t know how to make his world better. And he’d ask me with his little 2 year old voice ” momma what do I do? ”
So I just kept telling him “Just be brave. And be kind. That’s all that ever matters”. And it’s become my mantra to him.
Over the last six years, I didn’t think he was listening.
They’re always listening.
And sometimes it takes your six year old to remind you to get your shit together, suck it up, life can be a lot tougher. harder. Scarier.
So today I will remember to just be brave and be kind.
Because, in the end- that’s all you ever need to be.
( This is one of my favorite pictures. Not just because of his damn chubby cheeks from lots of steroids. But because it reminds me if he can be that strong, GOD damn it- I can, too)
Originally posted 2016-02-09 08:28:11.
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