Tag Archives: Confession

Ink Stains and Paper Cuts


Writing is an extremely personal experience. It can be raw and naked and embellished with scars of history and lives’ past that bleed and crack against the bars of lined paper. When I began my experimentation into this practice it was in the pages of forgotten notebooks; pages strewn with formulas and highlighted notes torn free to leave 20 of the 200 paged leaflet to home my hesitant scrawl. There were letters penned to friends and family that would never be read, sentences of words laced together that sounded delicious on my tongue and stories. Many stories. Stories that jumped and back-peddled in formats more closely akin to poorly edited essays with jumbled descriptions and themes than anything remotely passable as a tale. I’d shock myself with a paragraph constructed with what I thought was beauty and depth and not have the confidence to continue, so there were constant beginnings but never ends. Words I liked to write and loved to say blotting page after page in a loop I couldn’t divert from. A circle I wasn’t planning to end or escape because this was all so new and freeing and so, so mine.

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The Day I Woke Up Fat

It’s a cruel truth that we get complacent with ourselves. Our looks, so easily noted by others, remain unchanged to our easy eyes. That mirror doesn’t have notifications that flash across its screen at the slightest change and so we watch, unknowingly, as our bodies morph.

Then there’s this trigger that happens.

Maybe it’s the subtle squeeze of old jeans or the shock of a picture your friend has taken of you in that bathing suit. All of a sudden, you know. You’ve gotten bigger. There are rolls where there weren’t before and you scrutinize yourself, offended for not having noticed the weight creeping onto you. You battle against this realization, asking ‘how’. You run through all the stats: My routine hasn’t changed in over a year.
But I did move, and quit my job.
I haven’t changed my eating habits in longer.
But now I cook for two.
I still run, work out, or do yoga throughout the week.
But I allocate more of that time to writing now.
Yes, I eat dessert once in awhile, but not religiously and i tend to avoid most sugars.

How? Why?

It’s scary. My body has never turned on me like this, and now I panic.

Isn’t that ridiculous? A body image scaring me. Pounds gained around my middle and thighs inducing panic. We try, as a society, to fight the expectations of media. We cheer Dove for their beauty campaigns that stand in proud contrast to the otherwise picture perfect models everywhere else. Yet, individually, we still unconsciously (and sometimes consciously) yearn to cheer in bodies that more resemble the models on Vanity Fair. It’s hardwired into us.

It’s embarrassing to care; to admit that my aversion to swimming is rooted in the body I hide under my clothes. It’s embarrassing to doubt myself, especially when mine is a body that’s hiked, trekked, canoed, kayaked, won soccer championships and competed nationally in figure skating competitions. My body is strong. My body has been pushed and has surprised me again and again. It hasn’t let me down, and now I sit here scowling at it as though it were a foreign disease. I’m still beautiful. I’m still strong. And I’ll get even stronger. And I’ll get more happy with what looks back at me from the mirror, because I’ll work for it. I can step up my game.


I wrote most of this post a month ago. Back then, I didn’t know how to end it. And I was embarrassed by the truth of it all. It’s been over 4 weeks now. And I have stepped up my game. I’m more fit now than I was all summer, and I can feel it. I don’t have to scrutinize a mirror image in search of the inches I’m wishing will fall off. My runs have gotten longer, I’m covering more miles in a shorter amount of time, and I feel great. There’s still so much more I want myself to accomplish, but it’s finally about what I want of myself rather than how I want myself to look.

Sometimes it takes waking up fat to wake up.

Dr. Clark?

I got accepted into Vet school.

Over ten months ago.

I didn’t tell anyone, and deferred for a year in private.

For months prior I poured over MCAT study guides that made dictionaries look like child’s play and accumulated a insensible amount of knowledge. I worked painstakingly hard to prepare myself for the test that could determine my future, and when I finally wrote it and received my score, I was more satisfied than proud.

Scoring in the top 97 percentile was a milestone that left me more fulfilled than my actual acceptance to the doctorate program. I took that as a sign and decided to keep my acceptance letter and orientation package a personal achievement as I explored the opportunities that were being offered to me.

Do I want to commit to years of intensive schooling again? Am I ready to revisit student life? Is this a career I want to dedicate myself to? Is this really what I want?

These questions demanded months of my time and in secret I debated, weighed and strongly considered each answer. Without the influence or pressure of those around me, (including my parents and Sam), I came to the slow realization that I wasn’t going to become a vet. I love working with animals. I love the idea of helping the ones in need. But, I’m not a doctor. I’m not passionate about the medical aspect of biology and I can’t justify fulfilling a position in a program that I’m not nearly as winded about as others. There is someone out there what has wanted this every day for their whole lives…and my casual acceptance would be an insult to them.

This is not my path to walk.

I am committed to furthering my career and being the best of me, but I’m more committed to being true to myself. That trumps the potential pay raise in the end of the day. I need to follow my heart, and trust.

Cheers to a year of keeping track.