Once upon a time, I was 22 years old. It was winter. It was winter and I was, like most people tend to be in the winter months, miserable. I don’t know if I was depressed, I just know that I was always tired, always crying and more often than not, I was thinking about how my life was turning out to be a disappointment. I had graduated six months prior, taken a few internships to keep myself busy, and a part-time nannying job for a three year old girl and a two year old boy, to begin paying off loans. I was living in Rhode Island with my boyfriend, James. We had met in college, dated for two years, and upon my graduation, moved into an apartment together. To say I was hard to live with would be an understatement.
You see, I had always been two things: insecure and comfortable. I say this because I need you to grasp exactly who I was – I wasn’t one thing. I wasn’t the other. I mean, for an insecure person, I actually liked myself. I did. I thought I was pretty. I thought I was smart. I thought I was a leader. A sensitive soul. A thinker, a helper, a doer. All my life, I had belonged. But, and here’s where the insecurity comes in, whenever situations arose where I felt I didn’t belong, I panicked.
I was 22 years old, and if there’s one thing that happens when you’re 22 it’s this: you stop belonging.
I felt that I had lost my anchor. I was not a student, nor was I employed. I was too old to act like a child, and not ready to be a mother. I couldn’t identify with anything, and so I cried.
Once the anchor was gone, I finally was forced to look inward. And inside, I didn’t like what I saw. I was realizing that the distractions that come with school or work or crowds of friends, get you by, but don’t leave much room for self-reflection, and ultimately, growth. But solitude – well it pushes us to live with ourselves, distraction-free. I believe that solitude arrived to save me, but it had to break me first.
I cried when James and I moved in together. I cried when I got my period three weeks a month. I cried when James didn’t tell me I was pretty. I cried when James told me I was pretty because I was sure he was only saying it now that I had instructed him to. I cried when I broke out. I cried when my friends all got jobs. I was in an anchorless boat, with nowhere to go. And so I cried.
Between tears, I decided to start a blog. I had always been passionate about words and paper. About sitting and writing exactly how I felt. I would write a piece, reread what I wrote and nod, yes, yes, that’s exactly it. That’s exactly how I feel. It always brought me comfort.
It had been awhile since I had written, and I needed to get things out of my brain and onto the paper. My little sensitive head couldn’t take it all staying inside, so out the thoughts went and better I felt.
Meanwhile, I had been becoming a firm believer in the connection between food and emotion, allergies and hormones, eating and life. A healthy belly equaled a healthy system, which equaled a healthy balance of hormones, and thus, created a happy mind. I wanted all of those things.
I wanted clear skin. I wanted to live longer. I wanted to feel healthy. I wanted to regulate my periods so that I wasn’t a hormonal nutcase all month. I wanted to be able to handle tough situations. I wanted to be a leader again. So a journey began.
This blog was born in the winter. In the dead of one of the worst winters in years. The winter of 2010-2011 when it snowed and snowed and snowed. Each month since, I’ve cleared some of that snow out. It’s been a process. It’s taken moving out and moving back in. It’s taken four jobs, and one lay off. It’s taken funny stories, delicious recipes, cute outfits, lots of adventures and so very much self-reflection.
I’m 25 now. Welcome.
To learn more about me, visit my FAQ page.