I hate my body.

Not in the My-thighs-rub-together or the I’m-too-fat kind of way.

Perhaps hate is too strong of a word.

I treat my body like a trash can.

That is too strong.

I don’t treat it like a trash can. I mean, do you fill your trash can with fresh mozzarella, red wine and chocolate when you are not pouring coffee, beer and red meat into it?

Didn’t think so.

You eat that stuff. Do you know why?

Because it tastes amazing and makes you feel good.

Unfortunately, good does not always equal healthy.

I don’t do moderation well. I went to the doctor last week. I have gained 10lbs in the past two months. If there were a show called The Biggest Gainer, I would own every contestant and go home with big money. I also had to admit to how many alcoholic drinks I ingest during the week.

Well, I admitted it minus like – half.

He’s a doctor not a priest, yo! I ain’t gotta tell him nothin’.

I also feel gross. I am constantly tired and lack discipline. I drink a glass of water daily. If I am lucky, I can add a few cups of tea to that. I eat out more than I should and I never go for the healthier option. I work out too much for that.

Well, guess what?

I do not work out too much anymore. I bruised a tendon in my knee and can no longer participate in most of our roller derby practices. I probably bruised it when my chocolate, red meat body infused with wine hit the ground too hard. Trust me. It wasn’t the water weight that did me in.

I overeat, over drink, don’t sleep and now, my workout routine is like a lover who is stepping out on me with 50 other women.

I am so jealous it hurts. Every time I bend my knee and it hurts, I am reminded that I still can’t play. I still can’t hit people without the risk of injuring myself further.

And I really like to hit people. It has become my emotional release. Now, I release nothing and eat it all.

So, while away this weekend, I ate it all. The cheesecake, the mozzarella balls, the stir fry and, the pizza. I drank all of the wine and had a couple of beers. I drank tea and coffee too. I realized I was out of control and needed a time out.

So now, I am cleansing for a while. And by “a while”, I mean 35 days.

I consulted with my crazy yoga friend, Emily (crazy good) and she gave me some information on a Ayurvedic cleanse that she did earlier this year. Click here to check it out if you’re curious. Below is week 1.

I already regret the loss of butter and cheese. So far those are the cravings that get my attention. I feel like a love letter to cheese may be coming. That’s how badly I miss it after half of the first day of my 35 day cleanse. Fudge.


I feel gunky. I feel like things are out of control. This is me, hitting the famous reset button. I am listening to what my body needs today. I am open to this lasting two days or forty-five.

I am listening to a body usually ignored and cajoled into eating just one more, or staying up just a bit longer. Rest and reset.

So, please, if you see me on the street, don’t wave a stick of butter in my face or I might charge. You have been warned.

Suffering a cheddar withdrawal,


PS – Have you ever cleansed? Got any helpful tips you’d like to share? Leave a comment.

Week 1 (at least 3-4 days): Pre-cleanse

During this time, eliminate your personal vices from your diet. Cut heavy, congesting foods out of your diet (meat, dairy, wheat, sugar, nuts) and keep snacking to a minimum; let there be 5-6 hours between meals. Oh, and don’t even think about caffeine or alcohol. When the body cleanses., it deserves to relax. No stimulants allowed.

There is a long list of things to incorporate during this time:

  • Add lots of warm water into your diet. Cold water is a shock to your system. Start off the day with warm water with lemon to flush the liver.
  • If digestion is slow, fresh ginger can be eaten.
  • Try to eat more whole, unprocessed foods.
  • 15-30 minutes before a meal, drink a cocktail of 1 tsp apple cider vinegar, 1 tsp honey and 4 ounces of warm water OR a slice of ginger with rock salt and a squeeze of lime juice.
  • begin eating one beet a day, easiest when juiced.
  • sip digestive teas after meals (like chamomile)

You will also need to change your schedule in order to honor your needs while cleansing, whether it be waking up earlier to meditate or making time to practice asana. Begin to also incorporate self-massage (abhyanga) into your routine.

Most important: spend time in silence every day. Be more introverted and set intentions for yourself.


I Blame You.

I am going to do something incredibly selfish.

I am going to tell you the whole truth.

I know that you have your expectations of me. When you see the link pop up in your feed or in your inbox, you hope for something funny, even if it is darkly so.

I am positive that I still have a few laughs still in me.

However, over the past two weeks, I have not been laughing. I have been dealing.

Well, okay. I still laughed. You know me so well.

The “dealing” was not pretty.

In the process of writing, I had this memory that I unzipped and climbed into like a jacket. I pulled it close to me and smoothed the fabric over my body. I pulled up the collar around my ears and peered down into the darkness. I saw things I couldn’t explain and I single mindedly searched for answers.

I interviewed my mother about six times in one weekend. I googled. My friend Suban googled. I cried…but only a little. I wrote a bit and then it came.

This wave of anger and indignation.  I am not even sure if anyone could see it radiating off of my body like heat waves on concrete. Under anger, there is always something else.

It was sorrow and lamentation.

The interesting part about this cycle is that when I first began this journey nearly 17 years ago, it was about forgiveness. It took me an entire year of prayer, meditation and angry fist shaking at the sky but I did it. I forgave my father.

Jokes on me. Forgiveness for something like this comes and goes like those waves of anger. You forgive and then you realize you have to deal with this other issue that was stirred into you as a little one. Then you get angry again which of course is all sorrow and lamentations. Then you forgive.

Again and again and around and around it goes.

The difference this time is that I went looking for it. I attacked my past with a machete. I poked it a little at first and then I hauled off and started whacking at it like I was trying to break open a coconut.

I realize now that I kind of was trying to break open a coconut.

Over breakfast with my derby wife, I realized something in talking to her.

Every time I remember a secret and tell it, I feel vindicated. I feel empowered. I feel like my story is mine again and not his. I feel like he doesn’t just die and get away with it.

I feel like he doesn’t get to die and destroy me. I feel like I win.

I feel like I wrap the tiny girl that I was in a blanket, hoist her up near my chest and climb out of the grave he dug for us. It is not an easy climb. The grave is huge and we are both injured but now is the time to do it.

When I was 15-years-old I could have never even attempted a journey like this. Nor could I at 22.

Someone told me recently that God allows you to remember things forgotten about trauma when you can handle them.

I blame you.

Okay. Maybe not you specifically.

I blame the people who love me.

I blame my husband for not thinking I am crazy. I blame my family for answering my questions and believing that somewhere in their answers, I will find my own. I blame my friends for checking in on me,making me laugh and hearing me out.If I were not completely drowned in their incredible love, I would not be able to go down this path. It is only through their love and confidence that I keep climbing.

I didn’t even know it but this is the perfect time to tell this story.

Finally, at the end of two weeks of anger and menacing dreams, it all turned to sorrow and I sobbed. I cried harder than I can ever remember myself crying. My husband held me and I just lost my shit. I thought I was going to have a panic attack and I didn’t. I just fell asleep and woke up with swollen eyes.

I dealt with it. I faced it. I survived.

This weekend, I will write that chapter and shut it.

Timing is everything.







Jelly Belly

I have never been a slim girl. I take that back. Not since the age of ten have I been a slim girl. I have always been what some may call thick, Phat, pleasantly plump or my favorite, chunky. I have always had a bit of junk in my trunk, a honky tonk badonk-a-donk and a bit of a jelly belly. If you are starting to get queasy in reaction to all of the ridiculous nick names for a woman who is average in size, I concur completely.

To say that I do not wish to be thinner would make me Un-American, an anomaly in the masses of women that sign up for gym memberships, buy diet pills, pay for liposuction, tummy tucks and stomach staples. I have been on the inside of a changing room, that I would swear was the ninth gate of hell, where nothing fit except for the one shirt you thought would be “huge” on you. I have looked at a pair of jeans and thought those are too big and the legs are too short only to realize they fit me perfectly. Nice.

I would miss my curves. I love my hips and my breasts. I even love my thighs when no one is looking. Or maybe it’s when I am not looking at anyone else. If I were to get my wishes, made out of ridiculous malcontent, I would probably be devastated. What I want is to be healthy, fit and toned. I don’t think that is too much to ask.

So every day, for about two weeks, I schlep out my work out gear, videos and a baby gate and sweat. I do squats, push-ups, crunches and aerobics. My children stand at the door and knock and I tell them to get lost. I believe my exact words were, “If you get in my way or touch me while I am working out you’re going to be in big trouble. I never have the time to do this so I am going to make the time and you are going to go find something to do without me.”

Don’t worry. After reading this parenting book, you will all be as well versed in child development as I am.

I make healthy choices one meal at a time. I even sabotage my own weak will power by quickly rinsing the brownie batter down the sink so I don’t lick the bowl clean like a crazy chocolate deprived woman. I have never been deprived. I try to stick with the veggie tray at most of the parties, sans the dip. I even pay attention to my serving sizes.

For me, this is the hard part. I work out, sweat, put away my gear, take a shower and then realize that it didn’t work. I still have freakin’ stretch marks! What the hell did I do all of that for. I get confused every time I work out and forget that healthy, fit and the (someday attained) tonality I long for looks nothing like the American ideal of beauty. I have to reset my expectations and find joy in my accomplishments two pounds at a time.

Again, I guess I will just have to be Un-American. Bummer. I kind of like it here.