corinthians and converses

September is thyroid and childhood cancer awareness month. However, I can’t start this story from the beginning because that isn’t where it begins. This whirlwind of events began when my aunt had her two children. First was my cousin Aza. My aunt was on bedrest by week 27 due to blood pressure issues. She says “Imagine that with no internet, computer, or smartphone!” During labor, my aunt’s blood pressure was out of control, and she had an emergency C-section. Next was my cousin Jack. Yet again, her blood pressure was very unstable, so bedrest began at week 31. The issues continued during this entire labor process as well. She almost didn’t survive this childbirth.

Eight days after her procedure, she was still in unbearable pain. Trusting her gut, she insisted her doctor take a further look. Thank God he did because our lives were forever changed. They took her in for an ultrasound and thought there was a spot on her liver. That spot turned into a rare tumor that was actually on her adrenal gland called a pheochromocytoma or “pheo” for short. This spot was the explanation for all her issues during childbirth. This tumor makes your heart race, gives you random bursts of adrenaline, and makes you feel crazy because it completely jacks up your body’s epinephrine and norepinephrine. Years later, she would participate in a study to know that out of the five women who were pregnant with this tumor, only two babies would survive… my cousins.

With her diagnosis, her brain back-tracked recalling her dad had the same tumor. Mind you, about two out of every one million people are diagnosed with a “pheo”, so having TWO people in one family was not a coincidence. Genetic testing was completed, and they found out that my grandfather actually had a gene mutation that causes multiple endocrine neoplasia type IIA (MENN IIA). Only 500-1000 families have this worldwide. Lucky us! This rare mutation causes tumors on the adrenal glands (pheochromocytomas), medullary thyroid cancer, and parathyroid hyperplasia or overactive parathyroid glands. These glands snuggle up to your thyroid. Now this is a dominant mutation, so every child my grandfather had had a 50/50 shot of getting this said mutation. All four of his children were tested. Only my mother and her sister had the gene. Each sister had two children who in turn had to be tested. I can still remember each night laying my small head down and praying for Aza and Jack’s tests to be negative. Prayers were answered! They were negative.

However, my mother is a pediatrician. So when she received the results for me and my sister, she had them redrawn and retested.  The same results were laid before us… I had the gene and my sister didn’t. So within three months, my mom, my aunt, my grandfather, and myself ALL had surgery. Thyroidectomy’s, pheo removals, parathyroid removals and re-implantations.

Fun fact: the surgeons took one parathyroid gland and placed it in everyone’s arm muscle. They said they sowed it like a kernel of corn in their forearm. It worked for my mom and aunt but not for my grandfather. He still has hypoparathyroidism to this day.

Because I only had the beginnings of the cancer cells, I only had a thyroidectomy. They also placed titanium clips placed on my parathyroid glands, so they could easily be shown from a scan for future reference. This clips were placed out of curtesy of my aunt, who they had open for hours hunting for the last parathyroid gland that was embedded. This paralyzed one of her vocal cords permanently. Imagine not being able to read your small child a bedtime story because you cannot speak. Each year, I am screened for the parathyroid hyperplasia and the pheo. So far… nothing, but I continue to follow-up yearly with an endocrinologist to prepare because I am not an optimistic person, and you’ll see why as this story continues.

Fast forward 21 years later, and I have a son. The most blissfully amazing thing that has ever happened to me. Throughout my pregnancy, I was monitored to make sure my Synthroid or artificial thyroid hormone was enough for both me and my child. We also had in-depth ultrasounds throughout each trimester to ensure he was growing according to scale.  When he turned one, I was filled with a sense of dread knowing we had to test my baby before the age of two. The first sample was not enough according to the lab, so we had to stick multiple times. As a neonatal nurse… I stick babies often, but holding your own child down is another level of trauma that’s burned in your brain. Of course, six weeks later when the test returned, it was positive.

I had prayed and cried out to God, since the day I found out I was pregnant that my stupid, stupid gene would end with me. Spare my child, I can handle me, but spare him. The unrealistic guilt I feel hits me in waves. No one really understands it other than my mom and my grandfather, as they’re the only two who passed it on. No matter what you convince your brain of… it’s still there. I’m in a constant war in my mind– Is it selfish to want a house full of babies knowing what I know? Knowing I can give it to the next child too?

When I was little, my mother hid LOTS of this information from me, but now I see why. It was heavy. Knowledge is power, but that doesn’t mean that the information doesn’t come without pain. In medical school, they taught my mom that hearing hoofbeats normally means think horses, but in my case it means to hunt for the zebra or the rarity in medical cases like my family. So, we made a trip this year to MD Anderson Cancer Center in Houston to see Dr. Waguespack, the expert on our type of cancer. He advised us to return at age four. We will then do more lab work to search for the increase in calcitonin levels (our tumor marker), which is something the thyroid tumor excretes. They will also perform some scans and ultrasounds. He said our goal is not to prevent the medullary thyroid cancer because we already know that will occur. Our goal is to prevent the metastasis of said cancer. So…we wait.

Birthdays are supposed to be happy times, but I feel like a little bit of my joy is stolen knowing we creep closer and closer to our next appointment, and closer to having to put him under anesthesia for the removal of a gland that will cause him to take medication for the rest of his life. Until then, I try to make September a good month. I try and forget that I gave this ugly thing to my son. I try and forget that my aunt has had to have two dissections of her neck because her cancer just keeps returning; her numbers never returning to baseline. She wears her necklace scar with grace as do my grandfather, my mom, and me. They may be reminders of the pain, but it also reminds us that we get to see another tomorrow. I hold fast that, God-willing, I’ll live a long, full life, meet my grandchildren, and become old and grey with my husband. This cancer may have touched us, but it doesn’t get to win. Give cancer the bird for me. I’ve got a few words for ’em!

Guilt. What is it? Where does it come from? “Feeing responsible or regretful for a perceived offense real or imaginary. Can be part of the grief reaction.“ We all have it. The special type geared to mom’s or parents aka: MOM GUILT. I like to call it the delicate balance in between needing a break and missing my kid.

I have a full time job as a nurse. When I work night shift, the guilt is overbearing because I have to sleep half of the next day that I’m technically “off”. I just feel like so much time is wasted just sleeping.

In the remainder of the year after I had Wade, I went to the gym, TWICE. I used to go almost 4 times a week. But now? I feel guilty for going because it’s time that I could be spending with my child.

Society is so concerned about “self care” but not too much… because then you’re a “bad mom” who never sees her child or spends time with them. I guess when you become a parent, “self care” just looks a little different. Like letting my husband go cook with his friends, while I curl up with wine and a book after Wade is asleep or going to the grocery store alone instead of doing Walmart pickup. Running errands without packing and unpacking a kid over and over.

If we look at guilt as part of the grief reaction, maybe we can see that mother’s grieve their old selves. Part of what is lost. You’re so proud of the new version of yourself that you’ve become, but you still miss the person who got to sleep until 9:30 on Saturday, make pancakes from scratch, and watch the country top 20 countdown.

The problem is most times our mom guilt comes from the “imaginary” factor that gets in your brain and digs in its claws. Society, social media, and the judgement of others tends to make us feel guilty for things that really aren’t guilty offenses. Such as going to the gym, getting your hair colored, getting eyelash extensions, going hunting, getting a mani/pedi, going to dinner with your friends, having a date night with your husband.

One of my favorite tiktokers Lindsey Gurk shared an interesting fact with the social media world, and it resonated SO well that she created shirts and hats with the slogan with on it. It truly helped me wrap my brain around my mom guilt and try to come to terms with this new phase in my life. Flamingos lose their pink coloration while raising their young because it often takes all of their energy to keep their chicks alive. Eventually the flamingo gets their coloration back overtime as the chicks become self-sufficient. The point being is… we all lose ourselves in our children, but only for a little while. The first year has been not only the greatest and most rewarding time of my life, but also the most challenging, draining, and difficult. It pushed my mind, my body, and my self esteem to the absolute limit, but here I am finally starting to get my pink back. No longer will I allow the guilt to crush and consume me. This year it’s not “new year, new me”. It’s just me earning the color back to my feathers and working hard to get to know this new version of myself. It’s me just working on getting my pink back.

Link to her gear: https://shoplindseygurk.com/

Easter now takes on an entire new meaning now that I am a mother.

My friend was holding Wade and silent tears rolled down her face. “I’m sorry. I just get emotional holding babies.” I still think about that moment months later. I think we get so overcome with emotion as to how babies are so “beautifully and wonderfully made”. Their perfect little lips, tiny fingers and hands, and long lashes. I know Mary thought the exact same thing as she held Jesus in her arms for the first time in the middle of the most holy night. She probably cried tears of joy; overwhelmed with how “beautifully and wonderfully made” her son was in the exact image of his Heavenly Father.

I also sit here and think about how motherhood has been lonely at times. Friends stop checking in or offering to stop by. You’re emotionally and physically exhausted from waking in the wee hours of the night, feeding, rocking, and putting a child back to sleep. I know how lonely Mary must’ve been telling others that a Holy Spirit brought her a child and formed him in her womb. I can hear them now “sis people don’t get babies from spirits that’s not how the birds and the bees work.” She was ridiculed and outcast, and slowly her friends probably stopped coming by and offering to help, but she knew and she held him anyway.

Mary went through the temper tantrum years. She went through the teenage years. The “I know more than you” years. She raised him and watched him grow into a man. As he became a man, her thoughts probably grew dark as she knew that one day he’d have to carry thousands of pounds of wood and walk the hardest journey of his life. Be beaten and scourged and ridiculed. How lonely she must’ve been. In her pain. In her loss. Knowing that her beautifully and wonderfully made child would hang on a cross for hours in agony. How lonely she must’ve been to know her one and only son would die for people she didn’t even know.

So this Easter, it means more than it ever has before because I can empathize with Mary. Flesh of your flesh. A love so deep and wide that it completely consumes you. I cannot imagine the shear helplessness and despair she must’ve felt as he was ripped away from her slowly. But she knew and she held him anyway…

So to all the mothers this Easter who can empathize or even sympathize with Mary, who can relate to her pain. I pray for you that you’ll find peace in knowing that one day you’ll have your Easter Sunday too. You’ll hold your beautifully and wonderfully made child again. It’s only because of his ultimate sacrifice and Mary’s agony that we have the promise of an eternal Easter for us all.

I hear this all the time… “Just wait until you’re up all night with a screaming newborn and a million diapers to change ” or “just wait until you go into labor and they can’t get the baby out so they’re pushing on you in all the worst ways” or “just wait, you won’t be able to get a moment alone much less a date night.”

Instead of letting these comments cause me anxiety. You want to know what I’m waiting for? I’m waiting for that first bath in the sink, where he may pee all over me as soon as I get him undressed. I’m waiting for when he takes his first steps and reaches for his daddy’s hand. I’m waiting for the day when he learns to spell his name. The day that he learns to throw a baseball or run a football or strum an instrument. I’m waiting for the day where he pulls out of the driveway for the first time.

I feel like as a society, everyone tries to create so much worry and fear for new parents that they forget to tell them about all the joy and fulfillment that comes with raising someone that’s a tiny version of you. They forget to tell them that yes colic is horrible, and you will barely sleep, but what about her first bike ride? Yes the terrible twos are literally one of a child’s most defiant years, but what about his first suit rental for prom? Yes birth is scary and your body will never be the same again, but what about her smile the first time she shows you the dance she learned at ballet? What about the time you watch her pick out the most expensive dress you’ve ever bought, but it’s worth every penny to see that train walk down the aisle to her husband. The time you couldn’t go on that trip with the girls because he wanted a new rifle to go hunt with his daddy that season. The time where she hugged you so tightly that you didn’t think she would let go, and you hear her quietly whisper “I love you”.

“Just wait”…I will. I’ll wait for the sleepless nights, the defiant teenage years, the sacrifices, and the hard decisions. I’ll wait for those, so that I can reap the rewards of watching someone that me and my husband created, with some divine intervention, of course, become a person all of his own. So I’ll sit back and ” just wait” to realize, how blessed am I to have loved more than one person much more than myself.

I am a crazy person and began hunting for Christmas gifts back in October. As I shopped for little things to put in my husband’s stocking, a thought hit me… every Christmas my stocking is so full it about falls off the hanger all because of my mom. My sister’s stocking and my dad’s are the same way, but my mom’s remains hanging on the mantle… empty.

As I helped my mom address my baby shower invitations, she ran out of the room all excited and came back with a new stocking in hand. “Look what I found at an antique store today. These kind are so hard to find and now Taylor has one of his own too!”

Mom’s are always so consumed in keeping the magic of Christmas alive for everyone around them that they hardly have a second to think about themselves. After 25 years of Christmases, I finally remembered that the most selfless person on Christmas should have a full stocking too.

Honestly, I think the little things I’ve purchased to go in her stocking have been the most fun to buy this season. So here’s a list of what I’ve found thus far:

1. The new Adele CD because my mom is old school and still uses the CD player in her car regardless of its Bluetooth capabilities. The first time I heard Adele’s voice was because of my mother, so I thought I’d return the favor.
2. Some fuzzy socks because of all the qualities my mother and I share, she did bless me with Raynaud’s disease which causes poor circulation to the extremities AKA cold feet.
3. Her favorite gum because that lady always pulls out gum after every meal and asks the entire carload of people if they want some too. It truly makes me wonder exactly how popular she was in high school just because she probably carried a pack of gum around.
4. Malted milk balls that I bought from One of a Kind on Main Street with cute little Santa wrapping. I saw them at the counter and was immediately reminded of all the times I have seen her eat Whoppers.
5. A Sweet Grace car air freshener, also from One of a Kind. She LOVES this scent, and by loves it, I mean has the candles, air fresheners, and sachets laying all around her house.
6. A Gemma and Jane gift card will also be placed in her stocking because this woman has to have EVERYTHING Hannah Junkin posts!
7. Assorted jelly beans…yes she has quite the candy obsession. She loves all the flavors except the licorice flavored ones because just…YUCK!
8. A Mississippi gold stamped notepad from Rise & Shine on Main Street because if I learned one thing from my mother, it’s to write a to-do list. Not only do you feel more accomplished once you get to throw that thing away, but you won’t forget anything if it’s all written down.

I am still hunting for little things with each store I go in, especially if I’m with her. I just hope that when her stocking is full for the first time this Christmas, she experiences a little bit the magic that she’s been providing for me for 25 years. So ladies, gentlemen, kids of all ages, whomever is reading this blog post, think about your mom, grandmother, wife, or mother-in-law this Christmas. Because as sad as it is for me to say, it took 25 years for me to remember to fill Momma Doc’s stocking.

The girl who showed up late to the party with no makeup.

Maybe the dad who picked their kids up 20 minutes late in coveralls covered in grease.

Or the driver who won’t push the gas 0.5 seconds after the light turns green.

The mom who has dry shampoo powder in her ears.

The aunt with dark circles under her eyes who keeps nodding off at the PTA meeting.

The dad who can’t stay to help you pack the dinner plates for RCIA, but hey! at least he brought the dessert!

The dad who doesn’t get to feed his kids dinner or read them bedtime stories, but gets to tuck them in and kiss their foreheads.

The grandmother whose car has a THICK layer of dirt on it because she just can’t get to the car wash this week or any other week before that.

The friend who keeps blowing you off saying they just can’t meet you for dinner or even JUST drinks.

Be kind to these people…

Maybe they work two jobs and sleep four hours a night just to provide for their family. Maybe their grandparent just passed, and they really just can’t make it to dinner because they aren’t ready for a public outing. That mom who has dry shampoo matted in her hair–just couldn’t find time to wash it because she’s too exhausted; that thirty minutes more of sleep outweighed her clean/dry hair. The dad who is covered in grease forgot it was Wednesday because he’s working overtime because his wife left him last week.

Or maybe it’s me… who shows up 10 minutes late to mass with wet hair because I woke up at 5 am every morning that week to make it to the kennel to feed. Then after a quick shower, went to substitute at the school. Then babysat the rest of the afternoon and made another trip to the kennel that evening. Only to come home, do laundry, cook dinner, and shower to start all over again.

So now, after being spread thin, I’ve learned not to judge by appearance or circumstance because sometimes, some people, are only held together by a ponytail…

We had a VERY long weekend packing up my childhood home, but now as I’ve come to reflect on my 23 years at 107 Arlington Avenue, I realized that this wasn’t just a house.

The stairs were attached to the bannister my sister and I used to race down on Christmas morning.

That bannister is the same one I hung onto when I tried to walk down in heels to my dates for prom.

That clawfoot bathtub was where I used to make parachutes with my washcloths.

That bathtub was also were I soaked like a prune with a stolen bottle of wine when I had my first heartbreak.

The piano room was where Santa would leave all his goodies unwrapped under the tree, and my mom would sit and watch with coffee and camera in hand.

The bathroom around the corner was where I cried in my mom’s arms when I found out Santa, the easter bunny, and the tooth fairy weren’t real all in one day.

That hardwood floor was what I ran across when dad was hollering that we were late for school.

It was also the floor that I had to tiptoe across when I had sleep overs because my room was directly above my parents.

The creaky fan in my room that drove my friends insane had a pull switch that I made at jewelry camp one summer.

It was also the fan that held my wedding dress so it wouldn’t get wrinkled the week of my wedding.

The side yard was the one I crossed to meet our neighbor Jackson for the first time.
It is also the yard that I pulled my sister out of the bushes in her Barbie jeep, where I learned to ride a bike, hit a softball, and then finally a golf ball.

The den is where my dad and I would snuggle on the couch and watch golf on Sundays.

It was also the couch I cried on as I made Susu’s memorial slideshow.

It is the house that I got grounded in, the house I prayed in, the house I learned to cook in, the house my sister and I became best friends in. It is the house that my parent’s purchased 21 years ago that will forever hold a place in my heart. With each memory, each board of wood, every nail and chip of paint, it all made up the house that built me.

I had a plan…

I was going to graduate nursing school, pass the NCLEX, get married, and then blissfully celebrate all of my accomplishments in Mexico…God laughed.

I didn’t tell anyone I took the NCLEX at the end of January because I didn’t want the embarrassment of telling people I hadn’t passed. So, I took it. ALL 145 questions and I failed. If you know me, I don’t deal with failure very well. I asked God why? Was this just another MCAT? Just another standardized test I wouldn’t pass, so that MY plans wouldn’t see the finish line?

Hindsight is 20/20, and now I know exactly why I didn’t pass was 100% completely and utterly my fault. I thought I was superwoman and could hold four part time jobs, plan a wedding, and study for a licensure exam. Typing those words out REALLY makes me feel insane, so now I know why God laughed at my plan.

After I got the results, I made a promise to myself to just start telling people that I was waiting to test until after the honeymoon. It wasn’t really the WHOLE truth, but mentally I couldn’t keep ripping off the bandaid over and over of my failure. I just hurt my feelings again and again by telling so many people that I didn’t pass on my first attempt.

So, I got married. I went to Mexico. I started telling some of my part time jobs “no”. I read a book. I slept in. My new husband put up some porch swings, and I sat, and I contemplated why on earth I had let myself fail. Why did God set me back? Why did he let this happen to me? Then it hit me… “For everything there is a season, a time for every activity under heaven“. It just wasn’t HIS time.

Taylor likes to joke and say that God wanted me to be a Brantley before I became a nurse, but really He just wanted me to slow down. Take some time for myself. Put myself first. Study to achieve what I had been working towards for over 5 years.

I told people that I took my NCLEX yesterday because no matter the outcome, I’m not scared of failure. I had already conquered that before, and I wasn’t going to let fear lie to me this time and convince me that my second attempt would be no different. I had prepared and was confident that I had the knowledge to pass this time. I experienced such an overwhelming sense of peace as the test cut off at 75 questions because I had given all my anxiety, my fear, my doubt, and worry to the one who holds the clock for every step in my life.

Speaking of timing…ya know people really don’t wait very long after you’re married until they start to ask THE question--“When are y’all having kids?” I’ve decided that every time I make plans God always finds a way to forge His own, so from now on my answer is “whenever He wants me to”.

So today or tomorrow or sometime next month, you find yourself asking when or why, just remind yourself that it isn’t your time that you operate on. It’s borrowed. The one who spins the hands has the exact moment that you are so anxious for already planned out for the perfect hour, minute, and second. So just like that moment you’re praying for, I’ll become a nurse “whenever He wants me to”. I’ll become a mom “whenever He wants me to”. I’ll do and become whatever God has planned for me “whenever He wants me to”.

As I was substituting at my elementary school, I glanced over at the monkey bars and thought to myself “Man, those things are TINY!” Flash back to grade school, I remember those monkey bars were like climbing the empire state building. I was terrified to climb to the top for fear of falling or embarrassing myself in front of my friends or my hands slipping off the rungs. Now I sit here, arms crossed, laughing at myself for even being threatened by them.

Currently, I face some pretty MAJOR life challenges. I’m taking my state boards to get my nursing license. I’m getting married next month and becoming a WIFE. I will get my first full-time job and start a career. I will travel out of the country for the first time without my parents for guidance. As the dates get closer, my anxiety grows stronger. Like those gigantic monkey bars, I am terrified of falling–not passing my boards, not being a good enough nurse, a good enough wife, and not having my parents’ advice while planning out each day in a foreign country.

In March of 2020, I will cross my arms, look back at those “monkey bars”, and laugh for ever letting my anxiety get the best of me. Until then, I will climb the ladder rung by rung, and I will continue to stick out my hand and swing to the next one.

With whatever challenges you currently face, you will get to the other side! When you jump down, don’t forget to thank whoever helped you have the courage to keep swinging–your parents, your fiancé, your priest, your sister, your oldest or newest friend. In this new year, let God be the whisper in your ear that carries you across the monkey bars. He got us across what we thought would be the worst year to exist. Have faith that He can get you across whatever hardship you are facing as you read this.

I pray that as we look back one day, the obstacles that we are confronted with in our day to day lives, in our state, in our nation, will all seem so small.

As many of you know, last summer I competed in a body competition, and for the past year, I have been competing with myself. August 25, 2018, I had a rockin’ bod, but something else has also been rocked further north of my abs… my brain. After my competition I ate everything in sight. I’d go into a store and grab something simply because I’d never eaten it before and now could. For an entire three months, I couldn’t have anything outside of a very strict diet. No food I didn’t cook myself, and EVERYTHING was measured including the fluids I drank down to the number of sticks of gum I put in my mouth. I was spending 30 minutes doing cardio and 60 with weights. I turned into an angry tiny hulk without the green pigment, and I hated every second of it. I was snappy, exhausted, and as my mother said “a miserable person to be around.” I got to cheat 3 times, but I was cheating myself out of so much more: my mental stability, my love for exercise, and my self-image.

It took me months of hating the gym, food, the scale, and mirrors for me to realize that something wasn’t right. I literally would leave restaurants and cry in my car because I felt crazy for being so obsessed with food. I couldn’t have candy in my cabinet because if I knew it was there, it scratched at my thoughts until I got up and ate some and not just one piece like the whole damn bag. I made excuses not to go to the hot tub or pool with my friends because I didn’t want to get into a bikini. I gave away all my clothes that were a little too tight, and started dressing in things that hid my body because I hated it. I never had felt so much animosity toward myself, so I started a cleanse. I deleted my competition folder on my computer. Then, I headed to instagram and unfollowed every IFBB pro and competitor that I had gawked at for the past three months. I sold my suit, jewelry, robe, slides, and shoes. I threw away my NPC membership card, my wrist band, and unfriended the show photographer on Facebook (no he didn’t do anything, but the pics HAD to go). A few months ago, I was at the happiest place on earth (yes Disney). I ate myself so sick that I went to the bathroom and stuck my fingers down my throat trying to relieve myself. I knew then something was horribly wrong.

I wanted to tackle what I was wrestling with in my brain before it became something I couldn’t control. I decided to see a therapist… yes, I said therapist. Shocker was that she soon revealed to me that she had also competed and understood exactly where I was coming from, yet her experience was completely positive. After I spilled my guts the first thing she said was “thank you for coming in before the consequences of your actions forced you to be here sharing with me”. I discussed with her my fears about the outcomes of this post. She said to me “if you get to the long list of your ‘what if’s’, and the good outweighs the bad, the repercussions don’t outweigh the benefits, and most of all it helps you heal, then you can decide whether or not to hit the publish button”.

During my competition prep, I received LOTS of attention both uplifting and negative, but the negative still stings. You’re too skinny. You can see your spine.” “Your nails are too long.” “Your pictures are not modest nor Christ-like.” ” I wonder what your dad and boyfriend are going to think when you walk across stage in that tiny suit.” The worst part is…. it didn’t stop after my competition. “Do you still have an amazing body?” “I remember when you first started working here your arms used to be so ripped.” “Do you still have a six-pack?” “Do you still diet and exercise like you did?” “Are you competing again?” No, no, no, and no. Here’s what I am doing though: learning to love the gym, food, scales, mirrors, and myself again. Learning to take my homeostatic body weight and wear it like I should—proud. I even contemplated this post for about a month now due to the attention I may receive, but here I am, writing to you because I want to reach someone. Reach someone’s heart and encourage them to go and talk to someone so their therapist can thank them too.

The last task given to me by my therapist was explained to me like this– “for so long you’ve hated everything about competing and talked about everything it took from you, but what did it give to you? You see, diamonds are put under pressure to become the way they are, so tell me this, what is your diamond?” I think it gave me many, many diamonds, but these are things that I continue to mine out. They help me heal. For example, I now know what limits my body can be pushed to. I have gained so much patience. I can now empathize with eating disorders, depression, and anxiety. I judge less, and most of all, I now understand when the skinny girl calls herself fat.