Being a blogger who writes about my personal life (and my personal struggles, in particular) can be exhausting.

Every once in a while, after publishing one of my more honest posts, I get a vulnerability hangover and worry that I said or revealed too much about the not-so-pretty parts of my life. And despite wanting to be as open and honest as possible, there are also certain places that I have purposefully not gone in order to protect both myself and my loved ones.

When it comes to the #MeToo movement, I had refrained from joining the conversation for the aforementioned self-preservation reasons, but also because: 

1. I didn't want to come across as an oversharer who was just jumping on another honesty/emotional life story bandwagon.
   
   
2. I have never been violently raped or sexually assaulted in the straightforward way that so many women have, and I didn't want to take away from those kinds of stories.
   
   
3. I was scared to talk about my own experiences because despite my wholehearted belief in this movement, when it comes to sexual assault and sexual harassment, I, like many others, am often fuzzy about where the line is and when it has been crossed. I was afraid that I would be blamed for the things that have happened to me, so I just kept my mouth [er, keyboard] shut.

However, at this point, I've realized that it is important to share at least a little bit about my experience as a 'Woman in the World' in order to add my voice to this important cultural conversation. 

I believe that the more of us who share these stories (in our own time + on our own terms), the better, so that we can continue to remind the world and one another just how prevalent sexual assault and sexual harassment really are.

So, here goes.

............

My most straightforward, this-is-obviously-not-okay experience with sexual harassment: 

I was getting gas at my neighborhood gas station in Washington, DC. When the little gas lever clicked to let me know that my tank was full, I replaced the nozzle, got back in my car, and turned away from the pump to buckle my seatbelt.

When I turned to face forward again, I saw someone very close to my driver side window. I turned my head and was met with a man's genitalia, pulled out of his pants and so close to my window that it was almost pressed up against my car. I screamed and looked away, he ran and got back into his cab (yes, he was a cab driver).

I frantically looked around for something to write down his license plate number with, but I was shaking and fumbling and he drove away quickly; before I knew it, it was all over.

I was left feeling disgusted, creeped out, and violated.  

My most recent, somewhat more hazy, I-was-taken-advantage-of experience with sexual assault: 

I was pregnant and my family was on a ski trip in Whistler, BC. Since everyone else was skiing and I couldn't, my dad offered to treat me to a Prenatal Massage. I found a reputable place online, researched the therapists, read the reviews, and called and made an appointment.

When I arrived for my appointment, I was impressed by the spa. The place was beautiful and the woman working the desk, who I later found out was the owner, was also beautiful and pregnant, too. She raved about the massage therapist I was going to see and said that he gave her massages all throughout her first pregnancy. "He has a gift!" she said.

I felt totally at ease.

When I met the massage therapist he was pretty woo-woo but very nice and warm. Lots of hugs, lots of gentle touching as we talked, lots of love for pregnancy and the miracle of life. I'm a yoga teacher so I'm used to this kind of energy. I didn't get any weird vibes from him at all. I even thought he might be gay.

Fast forward to when he began to massage me: he started by doing a lot of chest massage. And while I felt pretty uncomfortable with where he had his hands on my breasts, he explained all of the many reasons that it was important to massage the breasts of a pregnant woman as he did so, so I swallowed my discomfort and didn't say anything/ I didn't want to make him feel like I was uncomfortable--I had a 60-minute massage to get through with this guy, so why risk making it awkward at the beginning? Plus, he was a professional! I must just be a prude. I would get through it and he would move on to the rest of my body shortly.

However, as the massage continued, he kept coming back to my breasts. He massaged them a lot. A LOT. Waaaaayyy too much. In fact, when I left, I remember making a weird joke to Ben about how I had just had a 90-minute "boob massage."

I tried to laugh it off, but I felt violated. I felt uncomfortable and embarrassed throughout the massage, as he repeatedly (and repeatedly, and repeatedly!) touched every part of my breast but my nipples, and I felt violated when I left. And the embarrassment and feelings of horror at that experience have not lessened with time, they have only grown.

Now, 2 years later, I know I was taken advantage of. I spent the whole massage questioning what was happening but not saying anything because I didn't want to make him feel weird in the off-chance that this wasn't assault and really was his technique; I didn't want to sound like a sicko for thinking that's what he was doing and I didn't want to ruffle any feathers. 

And worst of all? I tipped him when I left. I said thank you. I let him hug me when he said goodbye and wished me luck with the rest of my pregnancy. He kept me 30 minutes over my massage without giving me a heads-up that he was doing so (I mean, why would he let his willing victim go when he could continue to take advantage of her for an additional 30 minutes?) and in the entire 90 minutes of discomfort and embarrassment, I never once spoke up for myself. 

My most blurred-lines, haziest experiences with sexual assault: 

I drank too much in college. I made bad decisions a lot. I put myself in many positions that could have ended really badly, but didn't. I consider myself extremely lucky in this regard.

However, there were two experiences that stick out to me as not okay. 

1. When I was a freshman, I let a senior (who I considered a friend) walk me home one night. Without giving away any details about who this guy is, I'll just say that he had done some really wonderful life favors for me (a lowly freshman with no car on campus), and I trusted him, appreciated him, and knew him well.

On this particular night I was *quuuiiiitteee* drunk and he had offered to walk me home on his way home--with a promise to my friends that he would get me back safely. I don't remember a lot but here's what I do remember: when it got time for me to take the path in the direction of my dorm, he put his arm around me and instead, guided me towards his place. I remember him giving some excuse for why we were going there, and then later, being in his bedroom and being pressured to do something sexual that I didn't want to do.

I was not attracted to this guy and never had been. There was no part of me that wanted to "hook up" with him in any way. And yet, I let things happen the way he wanted them to. Again, I don't remember much but I remember thinking vaguely that I didn't want to be doing what I was doing, that I just wanted it to be over, but also, that I needed to do it because I 'owed him' for the favors that he had done for me.

The lines were blurry, the memory of the night is blurry, but I know that I didn't want to do what I did and somehow, he got me to do it anyway. 

2. Later during freshman year (it was my most challenging year, as it is for many people), I went to a Fraternity "Formal" with an older guy as his platonic date. Again, I was not attracted to him, but we were on the same page about this date being TOTALLY platonic and really just a way for me to join our friend group on a weekend away.

At one point during the weekend when [once again] I had drank too much and had therefore gone to bed to pass out, I woke up to him in my bed with me, attempting to do things to me that I didn't want to do and didn't remember consenting to.

It was scary, it was hard to say no, and there was a part of me that felt like I had to go along with it since he had paid money for me to attend this function with him; again, on some screwed up level I felt like I owed him something, despite making my boundaries clear before leaving town with him.

.........

In almost all of these situations but the first (the cab driver), I place a lot of the blame for what happened on myself for not speaking up. I am embarrassed that I let these things happen to me and I know that many people reading these accounts will just blame me for being weak, or assume I was promiscuous (which I was not, but even if I was, it wouldn't matter). 

But I also know that I am a product of a world that teaches women to be obliging, to feel guilty about everything, to be people-pleasers, and that says to us, "It's your fault because you drank too much, wore revealing clothing, put yourself in that position, let him walk you home, went to that event with this guy in the first place." 

Because in addition to the stories above, there are the many other small experiences that wore me down over the years and set the stage for my being used to being sexualized--the guys in high school who would grab my butt or boobs out of nowhere in the hallways (just to be funny, ha ha),the guys on the subway who would rub up against me or say creepy things when we were smushed together due to a packed car during rush hour, the male clients in NYC who would belittle me or make creepy sexual comments while at work meetings--the many small, daily indignities that eat away at us women and leave us feeling that harassment is just the norm, that it's unavoidable. 

I could probably go on and on, but those are the stories that stick out to me. And while I still feel weird about sharing them here and know that some of you will judge me, I do feel better now that I've joined this movement. 

So yeah, #metoo. 

For the first few years of my life, I wasn’t allowed to watch TV. I’m not sure we even had a TV when I was really young (although we must have, right?), and once we did get one it was seriously restricted for us kids.

At first we were only allowed to watch Mr. Rogers and Sesame Street. Eventually we graduated to being able to watch some selected movies (Mary Poppins was a favorite) but we didn’t have cable at my mom’s house until I was in middle school and I don’t think we had it at my dad’s house until even later than that.

Obviously, this was before "The Golden Age of TV" that we’re in now (so. many. good. shows.) but still, my parents were hippies and were way more into imaginative play and dress-up than they were TV shows, so even if the shows had been as good as they are now, I’m not sure that would have changed things very much

It wasn’t until 5th grade--when my parents got divorced and my mom moved us to the suburbs of Atlanta--that I realized how much pop-culture I was missing out on by not watching TV. It was also then that I came to understand that I’d better learn the names of everyone on Full House and Family Matters if I wanted to fit in with the other kids (and while I was at it, I needed to buy some clothes from The Limited Too, as well!).

At school I would fake knowing what people were talking about when they mentioned storylines on these shows, and I would never dare to mention that we didn’t have cable at home, or that Nickeloden had always been a *very special* treat reserved for visits to my grandmother’s house (SNICK, anyone?). 

Similarly, I remember the excitement at eventually being able to join in + follow these conversations once I was finally allowed to watch the TV shows that were talked about at school (the most notable being Dawson’s Creek; swoon!); I also remember watching TRL after school on the days that I didn’t have some sports practice or after-school activity and feeling so cool because after years of being clueless, I was so fully immersed in what was happening in the teenage world... 

..But as we all know, times, they have a' changed and limiting screen-time is no longer just about how much TV you let your kids watch; the issue has become so much bigger and WAY more challenging for today’s parents than it was for mine. 

Yesterday, as I was watching Charlie Mae play with our remote control, I started thinking about how different her childhood will be from my own simply because of the prevalence of screens in her everyday life and in our world.

Even if I am able to successfully keep her away from screens in our home for the first two years or so of her life, my phone is still her most desired object (as it has been for months) and no matter where we go in the world, there are videos playing on almost every surface.

I know that this is something that all parents think about and I know that I'm not making any new observations about our world here, but when I compare Charlie Mae's reality to my own [somewhat unique] screen-less early years, I find them to be in stark contrast. I also didn’t quite realize how pervasive screens were until I had little eyes that I wanted to protect from those screens--and until I saw how quickly her eyes find them, how much she loves moving lights + sounds, how mesmerizing screens are to her little brain.

One of the first truly personalized gifts that I remember picking out for my dad was a bumper sticker for his car that said “Kill Your TV.” When I saw it in the store I knew it was perfect for him--he was one of the OG TV-haters, after all--and although he now has a big-screen, HBO, Netflix, Hulu, + surround sound, I think he still believes in the sentiment behind that bumper sticker, as do I.

I love a good show and watching TV is one of my favorite ways to relax, but it's common knowledge that we could all benefit from a little less screen-time and a little more outdoor time, or conversation, or reading time, or meditation. I'm finding more and more that the idea of “killing [or turning off/silencing] your TV [or phone, or iPad, or whatever screen you watch most]” is one of the only ways to do that.  

So, I don’t yet know exactly how we’re going to navigate Charlie Mae’s relationship with the multiple screens that are readily available in our home, at her daycare, and at family + friends’ houses, but I do know that I'm highly aware that this is an issue and I want to approach it mindfully. As we all should when it comes to our own screen-time on a daily basis.

Also, I  know that I want our daughter to have a childhood that is as full of screen-less downtime and creative play as mine was, but maybe with a *little more* understanding + awareness of pop-culture. And if a teenage Charlie Mae were to ever come across a bumper sticker that said “Kill your screen,” I’d want her to think it was a perfect gift for her mom, simply because of the sentiment behind it ;) 

Over the course of my almost 33 years on earth, I've spent a lot of time pounding the pavement in rubber-soled shoes. 

These days, my pavement-pounding takes place during my daily walks with my baby and insane little dog {whose energy necessitates these long daily walks} but for quite a few years of my life, my pavement-pounding came in the form of running. 

No, I didn't run cross country or track, and no, I never ran a marathon or even trained for one...instead, my running was motivated by fear, anxiety, and often, straight self-loathing.

On a recent walk in my neighborhood, as I listened to the sound of my shoes smacking the pavement, underneath my baby's babbling and my dogs loud panting, I started thinking about another distinct memory of hearing my shoes hit the pavement, this one from my college years: 

After a fitful night of drunken sleep, I woke up around 6am. I had no idea what time I had gone to bed and the events of the previous night were hazy, but I woke up at my super-casual, not-really-boyfriend's place, so assumed that the night had ended on an okay note. 

I crawled out of his bed and found my bag stowed away in the corner of his messy room. Inside I located an empty solo cup, a neon bendy straw (of course), my phone, college ID, and luckily, some running clothes + sneakers. I may have been drunk the night before, but in my alcohol-induced stupor I'd still had the wherewithal to pack some shorts and shoes. That's how obsessed I had become.

I laced up my running shoes on the front stoop and headed out towards one of my favorite trails heading away from campus. I definitely still had too much alcohol in my system to be running and I felt sick and famished at the same time, but I kept going because working out was my addiction and I needed it. The sound of my shoes hitting the pavement was my prayer to the god of overwhelmed, perfectionistic college girls everywhere, a chance at redemption for my indulgences the night before. 

I don't know how far I ran that morning--I doubt it was long given how sick and shaky I felt--but I clearly remember getting back to this guy's place after my run to find him sitting outside, looking bewildered at the fact that I had been exercising already. I think at that point we both knew I had a problem, but we just laughed about how much I loved running and how no hangover could stop me from getting out there and pounding the pavement first thing in the morning.

When I think back on this moment now, I get really sad for that girl. Don't get me wrong--she was having a blast and absolutely LOVED college (truly, I loved it SO much!), but underneath it all, she also kind of hated herself. 

This version of me had struggled with an eating disorder and related exercise addiction in high school, and although she had gone through treatment for it and gotten a whole lot better, she then went to college. There, during her freshman year, she did way more eating and drinking than ever before (status quo), gained the freshman 15 (yep, so cliche) and had the typical college student alcohol bloat (you know, where everything is just puffy even if you aren't necessarily "overweight")...and so, over the summer between freshman and sophomore year, she had tip-toed back into her eating issues and jumped into her accompanying exercise addiction with a vengeance.  

The thing about being a compulsive exerciser is that you can always play it off as a "healthy" addiction. We all know that exercising is good for us, so how could it be wrong? And for most, it's not. But for some, it becomes a disorder of it's own, the exercise a means to an end, the drive to exercise coming from a dark, sad place. Yes, I loved running (or had grown to love it because of what it did for me), but I loved the idea of being thin even more, and that's why I did it every day. 

There were other girls on campus who I knew had similar issues, girls who I would see in the gym and on the paved trail in the local park. I could easily identify the members of my tribe; we would pass each other on the way to and from the dorms or the gym in the early morning hours, despite still smelling like the vodka we drank the night before, circles underneath our eyes.

We didn't let ourselves sleep in very often because we had too much to do, felt too frazzled, and had to get in a workout and run, too! I felt connected to these girls even though I didn't really know them, but I also felt sorry for them because I understood their inner turmoil. 

Fast forward many years later, and I eventually ran myself to the ground. My constant exercising and relentless pounding of the pavement (with my "heavy stride") led to a stress fracture in my pelvis, a bulging disc, sciatica, and constant pain. 

But this is the injury that caused me to seek out medical help, where I was finally told to stop running. This is the injury that led to the appointment where I was told that the only thing I could do from now on was swim or do yoga, the appointment that started me down the path to falling in love with yoga and beginning to heal my relationship with my body. This was also the beginning of the journey that I am still on today, the one where I began to love my body and treat it with respect as a yogi and moderate, healthy exerciser.

Every once in a while, I come across a student in one of my classes who I can tell has the same over-exerciser tendencies that I did. I saw it more frequently in my classes in DC, where there were many Type-A 20-somethings who reminded me so much of myself right out of college, but I see it here on the Cape, too, in students of all ages, sizes, and backgrounds. And when I do, I feel so much all at once; I know how they feel, I want to help them, I want them to heal, but I also know that they have to find their own way, just like I did (and am still doing). 

I can't run anymore and I haven't run more than a mile or two in at least 7 or 8 years. Running doesn't feel good in my body these days and despite my desire to be able to pound the pavement again (just every once in a while!), I think it's probably for the best that my body has shut off my ability to access this form of exercise. It's like my body knows that it isn't good for me and so it has put on the brakes, limiting me to a slower, more forgiving pace.

Every time that I feel that old urge to take off, to go run away from my feelings, ​I am so thankful for the wisdom of my body and I am so glad that it has forgiven me for all of those years of pounding it into the ground. 

As of yesterday, this Little Blog That Could is 6 years old. That means that for 6 years, I've been posting my thoughts, experiences, anxieties, simple joys, family pics, embarrassments, + more to this tiny space on the interwebs.

Although that may not seem like very long to many of you, this is definitely the longest "job" I've ever had and I'm amazed that I'm celebrating 6 years--especially since this past year was one of the most change-filled years of my life (hello, Charlie Mae!) and at times, I wondered how I could possibly keep blogging regularly.

For quite a while now I've been wanting to put together a collection of my favorite + most popular posts from over the years, and this blogiversary was the perfect excuse to *finally* get it done (with Sara's help, of course). Thus, in celebration of 6 years and in gratitude for all of you, I present my new *free* eBook, Out of My Mind: Six Years of Starr Struck. 

If you're one of my newsletter subscribers, your copy is waiting for you in your inbox (via free download code) and if you're not already subscribed, you can get your free copy by signing up for my newsletter below:

I say this in the opening of the book, but want to say it again here to reiterate my gratitude: 

​Thanks to all of you, this blog has been one of the main vehicles for many of my life changes over the past 6 years, as well as a major outlet for self-expression and an important source of community in my life. Starr Struck and all of you have allowed me to grow and change in ways that I never would have imagined back in 2011, and I live in a constant state of wonder and gratitude for the internet, social media, and YOU for allowing my life to look the way that it does today.

THANK YOU. 

Again, you can download your copy of Out of My Mind by signing up here + stay tuned for Wednesday's post, where I'll be asking you to fill out my Annual Reader Survey so that I can make Starr Struck even better in it's 7th year. 

Hope you enjoy the new book! Each and every part of it was written with love :) ​

When I received the following essay submission in my inbox, my first reaction was, "Oh no, I can't share this on the blog." The reason? It made me prickle a bit.

In some places, it throws shade at a kind of spiritualism sometimes found in yogis. It shines a light on people who "bemoan the consumerism" surrounding Christmas; which upon my initial read, I read to be people like me. 

Now let me be clear--I love Christmas SO much and I love picking out special, meaningful gifts for my loved ones. I've talked about this on the blog before. What I don't like? Just buying a random gift for someone to check them off of your list, without much meaning or thought behind it--or giving someone yet another thing that they'll just re-gift or donate in 6 months. This type of holiday gift-giving feels like a waste of time and money (and our environment!) and it makes me sad that we do this just because a holiday tells us to. That's what I don't like.

Yes, some of my friends and I have stopped doing gifts and instead, chosen to spend the time we would have spent shopping for one another hanging out together. And yes, last year, part of my family decided to donate to charities in each other's names instead of giving gifts. So yes, in some ways, I support the idea of rejecting the consumerism surrounding this holiday and I do take issue with all of the materialism around Christmas...

...Which brings us back to today's essay. Because of the above, my first read made me feel defensive. But then I re-read it a few days later and thought, "Wow. Diane [the writer] makes some really good points here. Maybe this made me prickle because there is some real truth behind it and that truth makes me feel kind of uncomfortable." 

So, I decided to share it today. It's super well-written and brings up some subjects that I think are worth pondering this time of year. Also, I really appreciate the underlying theme of being less judgmental, which is what I took away from the essay and hope you get from it, too.

Thus, without further ado, here is a short essay submission from Starr Struck reader Diane Cameron [learn more about Diane at the bottom of the post]:

Spiritual Materialism
by Diane Cameron

We’re in the countdown to Christmas with just a few weeks to go. Some of us are dashing to the stores; some are glued to the Internet, hoping that the promise of “delivery before Christmas” is true, and others are clutching copies of Hundred Dollar Holiday and smugly announcing that they’re “just not into the gift thing” this year.

It’s begun to seem that there is a trend in some circles making it de rigueur to disdain shopping and to bemoan the consumerism that has overtaken this holiday.

While I have certainly bashed the rise of the consumer culture, I’m now wondering if it’s also possible for some people to enjoy austerity a tad too much...? Yes, I am guilty of laughing at singing Santa dolls and of rolling my eyes at holiday décor that has too many plastic figurines. But I’m rethinking. I mean, where’s the fun in all white lights and no tinsel?

While I know that simplifying our lives is a good thing, I'm also annoyed with those who are disdainful of shoppers, especially when the non-shoppers cast their choice as somehow spiritually superior. It’s just too easy to point at someone with a bag full of brand name goods and label it superficial. Isn’t spiritual asceticism just as shallow? 
           
Consumerism is based on the belief that all problems have a material solution. We recognize it in the race to bigger houses, fancier cars, and the need for the latest technology. But for some people, spiritual practices or even religion can be used the same way: just another “product” to fix one’s life.

This is spiritual consumerism—keeping the value of consumption but dressing it up in higher-minded garb.

One of the ways that this plays out is in the impulse to collect spiritual experiences: things like going on retreats and pilgrimages or studying with the best-selling teachers or the coolest gurus. We become a spiritual tourist, not unlike someone who has to visit all the national parks, but who drives through each one just to check it off her list and bring home postcards and souvenirs.

By now we all know that many people use consumption as a way to build their ego; they try to change who they are by buying things to fit the image they desire. Count me in--we all do this to some degree.

But what we miss is that it’s equally flawed to create a self-image based on refusing to participate in the dominant culture or by disdaining those who do. The fundamental error is the same: it’s about trying to be special. Whether we derive our identity from consuming or from not consuming, we’re still focused on our self. 

This is one of those paradoxes: just when you start to feel superior for living a spiritual life, you realize you’ve slipped off the spiritual ground. It’s like humility: just when you think you’ve got it, you don’t.

How can thinking we’re better than others be of any benefit? A line from Wordsworth comes to mind: “Getting and spending we lay waste our powers.” And it’s also true that in judging and criticizing we waste our lives.
​
So, we’re entering the last few weeks of the year that take us straight to the intersection of spirituality and consumption. Can we be kind to those in our community whether they’re shopping or not? Can we choose peace in our hearts and in line at the cash register? 

Santa can be our guru. After all, he does have a mantra...Ho, ho, ho!

Diane Cameron is a newspaper columnist, spiritual director, speaker, writing teacher, yogi, and author. This is her second essay published on Starr Struck; you can read her first essay submission here and you can learn more about her on her website.

Do you have a personal essay that you want to share with my readers? If so, all of the details re: how to submit your personal essay for review are here. ​

Thanks for sharing your wisdom with us, Diane! And thanks for reading, bloggies ;) 

We learn how to share from the moment we start interacting with others. We're taught that "sharing is caring," that sharing is a way to make friends, and as women, we're taught that by sharing our stories and experiences with others, we're able to more deeply connect with new people and create lasting relationships.

As a blogger, you quickly learn that the more vulnerable you are, the more your writing will resonate and the more of an impact you'll make on your audience. As a yoga teacher, you're told that authenticity is the most direct way to reach your students. As a person, Brene Brown tells us that "vulnerability is the birthplace of love, belonging, joy, courage, empathy, and creativity." And who doesn't want those things in his or her life? 

As someone who lives for these things, vulnerability sounds like the right choice to me. So, I've continually tried to open myself up on the blog, on my podcast, and in my yoga classes over the years. I share posts and stories that are less-than-flattering or could definitely invite judgment. I try to share the ups-and-downs of life and when it makes sense, tell the truth about what's going on in my world. 

But sometimes I get sick of hearing myself talk. I get sick of my stories and sick of being open and I want to shut down. I take a break from personal essays and instead, share art (which still makes me feel vulnerable, just a bit less so), or other people's stories, or informational posts that don't leave me feeling as drained. 

​Over the past year, I've felt a shift on the blog and I think it has to do with starting the podcast. All of the sudden, I had another outlet for vulnerability and for sharing (or, depending on how you see it, oversharing). Anyone and everyone can tune in each week and hear me and my husband talk about our marriage, the silly incidents of our daily life, and our frustrations and issues--and people can now peek into my world and view my relationship and partner in a way that they couldn't before--albiet in an edited format. 

Because of this, I've had a bit of a vulnerability hangover all year, and I'm just now realizing it. A 'vulnerability hangover' can be a good thing, and according to Brene Brown, it is, because it means you're putting yourself out there and making yourself vulnerable; but I think there's a very fine line between being vulnerable and oversharing, and in our social media-riddled culture, it can be hard to identify which category you fall into. 

I'm not talking about the obvious kind of oversharing, like the person you have to "hide" on your newsfeed because he won't stop sharing every tiny detail of his nasty divorce, or because she posts long diatribes every morning about the past few hours with her newborn. I'm talking about the oversharing that isn't as clear: Where do you draw the line? How far is too far? When have you given too much of yourself? What is vulnerability--the good kind of openness and sharing--and what is TMI?

[A sidenote about TMI: Lena Dunham says that the phrase "TMI" is sexist because it's mostly used in a catty way to put down women when they share what someone thinks is too much information. She says when men open up people call it "bravery," and when women open up, people call it "TMI." I think this is a very interesting perspective.]  

So, how can you tell when you've shared too much? Is it when you're sick of hearing yourself talk (or write)? When you have no more energy for telling your story? When you feel you've shared everything there is to share? When you feel that you're being judged negatively for putting your story out there? It's hard to figure out where the line is...you start to think, Maybe I am one of those obvious oversharers and I just don't know it!?

Last week, I was interviewed on a BCC show focused on making lists. It hasn't aired yet (I'll be sure to share when it does, hehe), and after I got off of the phone, I started worrying about what I'd said.

It was nothing new, just the same stories that I shared on my personal podcast all about to-do lists, but suddenly, I felt really nervous about what I'd said. On my podcast, the people listening have context; they know me--even if only through my blog or from listening to past episodes of the show--and they know that while I may sound a bit insane when talking about all of my lists in that episode, I'm not actually insane, I'm just an anxious, Type-A person. But the British listeners, what would they think? Probably [definitely]: insane person.

After thinking more about this, I've come to to the conclusion that for me, what's changed in the last year is that now people have heard me sharing my vulnerabilities in my own voice. Blogging is curated, it's very edited, and I can write a post and then go back and rework every single word if I want to--until I think what I'm saying is exactly what I'm trying to say. Sure, people will read it however they want and reflect their own experiences back onto my words, but I have control over the words I put down. 

With podcasting, Ben is involved (read: loose cannon, ha!), I don't have a script, and although yes, I can edit, editing isn't as easy as it is with a blog post and when something is said in my actual voice in a recording that lives on forever, it feels different. 

So, I guess what I'm saying is that I've been dealing with a vulnerability hangover lately, and that's why I've pulled back a bit with the personal essays here on the blog. The podcast is still rolling out tons of vulnerable content (see: last week's episode on therapy and tomorrow's episode on guilt), but when I sit down to write a new post, or when I go onto social media these days, I've had a hard time continuing to talk about my experience.

Frankly, I'm just a bit sick of myself. I hope you understand and promise I'll do my best to get back to sharing more personal stories here on the blog as soon as I'm up to it, but for now, I'm just feeling used up in that department. 

Do you relate at all? Do you get sick of sharing and being vulnerable, too? Or are you the opposite--do you need a little more vulnerability in your life? I think that grappling with these feelings is just a part of living life online, but it's still new enough that I know I'm going to need more time to figure it all out... 

Thanks for continuing to read this blog and for giving me a place to share these emotions and get all of this sorted ;) 

PS. I feel weird not saying anything about all of the horrible violence that's taken place in the world over the past couple of days (and all of the discussion that these recent acts of terrorism have brought up). However, I like to stay away from current events and my opinion on current events on this blog because that's not my intention for this space.

That being said, all of these horrific tragedies have made a huge impact on me and I'm thinking of all of the victims of this recent violence + their families. My heart is hurting for our world right now. If/when I have something to say that I feel is worth adding to this conversation and/or hasn't been said in a way I would like to say it, I will certainly speak up.   

I have a loud voice and lots of opinions and ideas. Usually, if people are talking in a group and I'm a part of that group, I'm contributing to the conversation. If I have something to say, I usually want to say it, and 90% of the time, I do. 

While in Peru last week, I had an experience where I was silenced in a new way--not by my own doing or by my own feelings of awkwardness--but by my surrounding circumstances, my gender, and my inability to understand what was being said around me. 

The community leaders of the small town where my brother lives and works as a Peace Corps volunteer wanted to honor his work with a celebration. They told him that they would like to honor him when his family was visiting, so last Thursday, we had an appointment for a ceremonial lunch at the community center when we came into town. 

We hiked down into the village from a big mountain range that we'd been climbing for the past two days. We rolled in sweaty, dusty, un-showered and exhausted, and I worried about attending a luncheon in my hiking boots and yoga pants, no matter how many times my brother assured me that it would be fine. 

As we walked toward the community center, three dirty men in sandals, one wearing a soccer jersey, the others in similarly casual attire, greeted us with limp handshakes (the custom in Peru). They spoke to my brother in Quechua, and led us into an empty room, filled with nothing but stacks of chairs and a small, beat up table around which 6 chairs were placed. 

They gestured for us, the honorary guests, to sit first. 

These men were the community leaders and thus, the other guests at the luncheon. This room was our banquet hall, this table where we would feast, and at this moment, I realized that "luncheons" were very different in this small, Peruvian village, and that the dress that I had wanted to bring and change into would have been extremely out of place in this scenario. 

Inca Cola was brought out to the table along with small, plastic cups. I don't ever drink soda, but I hid my water bottle under the table so as not to be rude. 

Our first course was brought out, a soup course, and I ate slowly, being mindful not to bite down too hard; My brother recently broke a tooth when he bit down on a rock while eating soup in his village.

I'm a messy eater, so as my soup dribbled down my chin, I struggled to mop it up with my hands because there were no napkins in sight. As I used my only utensil, a spoon, to try and pull some chicken off of the drumstick that sat in the middle of my bowl of soup, I accidentally tipped my bowl into my lap, covering my legs, sunglasses, and shirt in the greasy liquid. 

No one really noticed, so in an effort to not draw attention to the fact that we had no napkins (By this point in the trip, I had learned that paper goods aren't readily available in Peru), I just patted the soup into my pants and hoped it would dry before we had to get up. 

Eventually, as the meal got messier, someone brought out a roll of thin toilet paper to use to mop up the grease, but by then my soup spill had already started to dry in the hot midday sun, leaving a hazy stain on both of my thighs. 

As the only woman at the table and the person with the worst Spanish in the room, I stayed silent. I could follow along with the Spanish conversation, but couldn't add to it and could really only smile. When the language switched to Quechua, I just focused on eating and did my best to act like I had some idea of what was going on. I felt out of place, somewhat invisible to the men, and more silent than ever before. 

When the main course came out, it was cuy, or roasted guinea pig. Head and paws still attached, a small version of the animal that we used to have as a pet was stretched across a pile of potatoes, ready to be enjoyed by the town's honorary guests. 

Prepared for this, my brother swiftly explained that his sister wouldn't be enjoying the guinea pig today, "She used to have one as a pet," he said. The men all laughed at this silly idea, and at the silly, silent woman who sat at the end of the table. I was then given a bowl of plain potatoes, a little cuy sauce drizzled over them to add some flavor. 

Near the end of the meal, the men asked my father's age, because they wanted to remark, as everyone does, how young he looks (He's 63). Then one of them turned to me and asked, "How old are you?" 

Excited that my two years of high school Spanish had prepared me for this moment, I answered, "Treinta!" 

He then asked a follow-up question, "How many kids do you have?" 

"None," I replied. 

He looked at my brother, and asked him a question that I didn't understand. 

Although I couldn't follow everything that my brother said next, I was able to gather enough to know that he had launched into quite a diatribe. I heard him say that she and her husband are both very focused on their education and careers, and then describe what I do for a living. He explained that we wanted to wait until we were financially stable before having kids, and that it's common in the U.S. to wait until mid-to-even-late thirties to have children. 

Satisfied that my brother had said enough to explain why such an "old" lady doesn't have any children, I continued silently eating my potatoes, picking around the parts covered in sauce.

The meal continued in this way: I smiled, followed-along as much as I could, and then passed on the final course, a shared beer, drank at intervals as it was handed around the table. My brother explained to the men that 2pm was a bit early for me to drink, and again, the men laughed at the silly woman. 

It wasn't until later that night, when we were going over our day, that I found out what the man had asked my brother when he learned that I was 30 and didn't have any kids. His question was much more harsh that I had previously thought: He'd asked, "Whose fault is it? His or hers?"

I know. 

Although I will never see any of those men again and they live in an entirely different world, I found myself feeling violated by this question, this judgment. My brother's immediate defense of me and my values took on much more meaning than it had before, and I became even more proud of him for starting a Women's Empowerment Group for the ladies in his village. 

I've sat through many an awkward luncheon in my day, socially and professionally, but I can say with confidence that this one was the most challenging to get through. More than ever before, I was acutely aware of my womanhood, my white skin, my height, my privilege, my inability to speak for myself, and the stark contrast between my life and theirs. 

Even as the meal ended and we were given a tour of the community center--and as we climbed a rickety ladder to the top of the building to inspect the solar panels that my brother installed on the roof, so that this community can power their lights and the few computers that he's purchased for the kids in the village--I felt the great expanse between these men's lives and my own. 

In the U.S., men and women don't have the same experience of the world, but for the most part, I feel like an equal. And in situations where I don't, I have the ability to speak up (Whether or not I actually speak up is another story). 

At this meal in Peru, I was a silent, non-child-bearing, non-cuy-eating, non-beer-drinking hermana. That was all I had to offer, and it didn't feel very good.

With this experience under my belt, you'd better believe that the next time I'm at a luncheon meant to honor someone--my water glass within reach, my fork and knife at the ready, my napkin resting in my lap (on top of the fabric of my clean, tidy dress)--I'll remember this Peruvian lunch like a hazy dream, and experience an enormous sense of gratitude for my life, my situation, and my currently childless, yet-completely-fulfilling existence. 

I received this essay submission back in October, and upon reading it, was thrilled by it's message. It's about gratitude, but it offers a different perspective on the subject--a way to flip your thinking in order to learn how to be thankful for the less-than-enjoyable (and sometimes even quite heartbreaking) parts of life. 

The author of this essay, Diane Cameron, is an amazingly inspiring woman, and she also happens to be a reader, client, and as of recently, a sometimes student of mine (she doesn't live on the Cape, but comes to visit every once in a while!).

Diane is a newspaper columnist, spiritual director, speaker, writing teacher, yogi, and has had two books published. She also works a full-time job in marketing and development while being a full-time caretaker for a partner with cancer (she writes a blog about this). She does a lot and she does it with grace and humility. Like I said, inspiring!

 So lets read her essay, shall we? 

On Thursday, many of us will be sitting down to dinner with family or friends, and gratitude will be mentioned as we offer a blessing on the meal. It’s appropriate to the day of course; we know the Pilgrim’s story of thankfulness for surviving their first difficult year in the New World.

At many of our tables someone will suggest, “Let’s go around the table and have everyone say what they’re grateful for.”  

At times like this it's easy to name the usual--good health, career success, and our kid’s accomplishments--but we often forget that some of our best gifts don’t come in pretty packages. I suggest that this year we put a new spin on this tradition. On Thanksgiving, perhaps ask your guests: “What are some of the mixed blessings in your life this year?”

Here are some examples: There was the day you were running late and therefore missed the big traffic accident, or the day you skipped church but when channel surfing heard a speaker that gave you a new outlook on life; Maybe it was the day you got lost in a new part of town but in your wandering you found a store that sold exactly what you had been hunting for. Get the idea?

Then up the ante a bit: How about when you got laid off but at outplacement you found the work you really want to do? Or maybe the person you wanted to marry didn't want to marry you, but months later you met the one you were supposed to make a life with.

You get the idea, but now push it a bit further. How about the serious illness that knocked you off your feet, but then gave you the time spent in bed to recast your life? Or maybe the struggle to accept a more permanent disability made it plain who your friends really are, or revealed a talent you didn’t know you had?

Okay, even harder now: What about the death of a loved one that devastated you, but one day in the midst of grief you felt something other than pain and you realized you were feeling joy like you had never felt, and you knew that you could feel it because the grief had cracked you open? Similarly, you may have gotten a gift from someone else’s death when you saw just how short life is and you decided to quit with the worry or fear and get on with your life.

These mixed blessings are not easy to accept or admit, and sometimes it is just faith itself that is the gift. It can be in the midst of terrible things that we’re forced to develop trust, and then we find, when the crisis is over, that our new beliefs and strengths are ours to keep.

Of course the highest level of this kind of gratitude is saying “thank you” before the good part comes. If you’ve experienced these kinds of mixed blessings, you begin to know that even when life is painful, you can find a meaning in the experience. And so we say "thank you"--purely on faith--when we’re getting hit hard.

Yes, some of these blessings come in less than Hallmark moments. Maybe it was the painful feedback from a friend that clued you in on the truth about your personality flaws, or the DWI that was humiliating and expensive but also made you face your problem and change your life. Maybe it was an emotional breakdown that allowed you to put yourself back together in a new, stronger way.

Parents teach their children to respond when they've received a gift with, “What do you say?" Can we learn to remind ourselves of this instruction when life hands us a package that isn’t very pretty?

So when “What are you grateful for?” comes around at your table this year, try not to groan, but dig deep. Name the blessings that came from pain and grief or loss and trouble.

When we can say "thanks" for both the good and the bad, for the easy and the hard times, then, just like the Pilgrims, we’ll have a real Thanksgiving.

Thank you for sharing your beautiful insights with us, Diane! And thanks for reading, bloggies.  

You can learn more about Diane on her website, and read more from her on her two blogs, Out of the Woods (a blog about recovery) and Love in the Time of Cancer. 

Do you have a personal essay that you want to share with my readers? If so, all of the details re: how to submit your personal essay for review are here. 

My younger brother recently moved to New York City. He’s accepted a job at a big law firm there, and as of two weeks ago, he has moved into a one-bedroom apartment with his longtime girlfriend.

As expected, he’s already sent pictures of his place to the family—the tiny kitchen, the exposed-brick wall, the bathroom with literally zero storage for toiletries—and as expected, he loves it.

I lived in Manhattan for 2 glorious years after college, and because of this, I have mixed feelings about my brother’s move: I’m crazy jealous, I’m super happy for him, I want to move back right now and start a little Starr family colony in his East Village building, and at the same time, I want to tell him to run for the hills and move away immediately.

I look back on my time in New York with loads of nostalgia and rose-colored glasses. Although I truly loved living there, I believe that time has softened the edges of my memories...

Yes, I lived in a 250 square foot apartment in which my tiny Ikea couch abutted my bed, which abutted my fridge, but I lived in the East Village!

Yes, I was pretty broke and could only dream of owning the items in the windows of the stores that I passed by on my way to work in Soho, but I worked in Soho! [For a few months when I first arrived…]

Yes, when walking home I would often step over human feces or vomit on the sidewalk, get harassed by a young homeless teen holding a LIVE sewer rat, and/or have to sidestep around someone passed out on my front stoop, but I was a Manhattan girl!!!

Yes, there was a guy named Fridge who rode an electric bike around the neighborhood playing “Billie Jean” from a loudspeaker at 3am, but I knew his name and it was a great New York story!

I lived in the center of the world and I could feel it every time I stepped outside. Over the guy on the stoop. Out onto the trash-scented sidewalks.  

I was happy as a clam.

As anyone and everyone will tell you, and as you may have experienced yourself, there is just something about New York that cannot be replicated. It’s the energy, the people, the arts, the culture, the architecture, the concrete, the traffic, the noise, the everything. In many ways, it’s paradise.  

But, as I’ve thought about my brother living and working there now (and for the foreseeable future), I’ve started to reflect a bit more on my time in the city and how it affected me.

On the one hand, I was really independent and energized and inspired living there, but on the other, all of the people made me feel lonely sometimes, and I often felt like a failure and a fraud (especially when it came to my art, because isn’t everyone in New York and artist and isn’t everyone more talented than you are?).

The other thing—the thing that I’ve been ruminating on most often lately, is how materialistic I became when I lived in New York.

I’ve never thought of myself as a particularly materialistic person. I like to shop as much as the ‘typical’ girl; I love a cute dress, a fun pair of flats, a unique tote bag, but I’ve never been consumed with these things and until living in New York, I never felt that I needed certain things in order to become the 2.0 version of myself.

This may not happen to everyone who lives there, but I’m very sensitive to my surroundings (easily-influenced might be a better way to say it), and I found it difficult not to covet all of the items that were constantly on display as I lived my life.

I ogled the outfits that I saw on the subway--the watches, the purses, the jewelry--and I felt lesser than those who could afford them and pull them off. More than ever before, I wanted money—not so that I could be rich or live more comfortably (or heaven forbid, save for retirement or a down payment!?)—but so that I could buy a designer handbag and maybe a watch, one that would match the others that I saw on the crossed arms in my meetings.

In a way, I loved this part of New York. There was so much to look at, to see, to take in, to strive for! But there was also so much that made me feel like I needed more. 

My friends still make fun of me for something that I said to them when they planned their first trip to come visit. They asked what they should pack, and I specifically said, “Wear comfortable shoes to walk around in, but you know, not tennis shoes or anything, something stylish.”

Who did I think I was? What did New York do to me? Or rather, why did I allow New York to affect me like that?

Since moving from New York, I’ve noticed that my need for stuff  has been on a continual decline. Now that I live on Cape Cod, over an hour from the nearest city, I’m finding that I’m becoming the least materialistic version of myself that I’ve ever been.

I’ve noticed that when I don’t see stores, clothes, shoes, and bags all the time—when I don’t pass by them on the streets or see them on the billboards in the subway or on the sides of buses driving by, I don’t think about them.  I need very little, and in fact, I am often disgusted by how much I still do have, despite drastically curtailing my consumerism.

As I recently said to someone who is moving to a location outside of a big city for the first time in her adult life, I am learning that I am a better version of myself outside of the city. I don’t think everyone is as easily-influenced by the energy of the city as I am, but I think that even the most thick-skinned of people would find it hard to ignore all the stuff-related stimulation in New York.

When talking about the lessons I’ve learned thus far in life, I often share my favorite quote by Jon Kabat-Zinn, “Wherever you go, there you are.”

But, as I’ve reflected on the various places that I’ve lived and how they’ve shaped me, I’d like to add that sometimes, “Where you go can influence who you are." I can say this because I've experienced this phenomenon firsthand.

As I grow older and settle into my fourth state of residence as an adult, I’m learning that I want to live somewhere that makes me a more thoughtful, open, and less-materialistic person, and that for me, no matter how much I love the noise and art and colors and people, New York is not that place for me.

I can only hope that my little brother will be better able to resist all of the stuff-related pressure than I was when I lived in the city. 

But if he doesn’t, I hope he’ll throw a watch or handbag my way at some point in the future...hey, a girl can dream, can’t she?

I received this reader essay submission back in August, and as soon as I read it, I knew I had to share it with you. It's moving. It's honest. It's inspiring. And it's a subject I've never touched on here on the blog, but one that has a long history in my family.  

Similarly, this essay was written by a former student, friend, and yogi who I simply adore. I had no idea that he had this story to share, and am honored that he has chosen to share it here. {And yes, I have male readers! He is one of them!} 

The writer has asked that he remain anonymous, so there will be no mention of his name before or after the essay, but if you would like to give him any feedback, you can leave your comments here and he will see them.

You can read his essay below...

I have repeatedly been asked to tell my story by writing it down, but I have always held back. I don't naturally think of writing things down as a way to record them, which is unfortunate, as I can barely remember the thousands of thoughts that run through my head on a daily basis.   

The easiest way to start my story, and to describe myself, is to say that I am an alcoholic and have been for a while. 

The good news is that I’ve been sober for more than three years and I am extremely lucky. I do not intend to use this essay to describe the miserable experiences that I've had--both physically and emotionally--because too often, we only hear about horror stories or tragedies, and I have a special fondness for stories of hope and love, specifically for the reason that I seem to hear and/or read about them much less often.

I always drank, and for the longest time, I didn’t think it was a problem. At first it seemed to me that the issue wasn't a personal one, that it was just a problem for others, so I did what I thought was necessary, and I withdrew. 

Many alcoholics do this. The last thing we want to be told is that we're drinking too much and that this drinking is affecting others. So, I withdrew. From my family. From my wife. From my kids. From friends. From work. From anything social and anything that required me to be anything but completely selfish; I was just gone.

And it got worse. Fast. 

In the span of less than two years, I lost my incredibly wonderful wife, my two amazing boys, a career with an amazing company, and a great house. And that still wasn’t enough. 

I had to lose all self-respect and pretty much any desire to live, except when it came to alcohol. My life had become small, difficult, full of depression, and very lonely. 

The best thing I ever did was throw up my hands in complete surrender and ask someone for help. When I did this, I somehow knew that that part of my life was over, and I was relieved beyond words. To this day, I’m still convinced that the greatest fear I have ever overcome was the process of restarting my life without drinking. 

I didn’t know if I could do it or if I would want to try. I don’t know what compelled me to start trying at life again, but I have the greatest amount of gratitude for the fact that it happened.

In the past couple of years that I’ve been sober, life has been everything that it is supposed to be:  beautiful, challenging, something worth waking up for, full of hugs, full of “I’m sorrys” and “thank-yous,” occasionally sad, and mostly glorious. 

Now, I am amazed by how much I feel when each and every experience comes my way. 

I have been lucky enough to restart my relationship with my now ex-wife and my two boys. It is better than it has ever been, in part, because I’m present. Life and the things that flow from it are better because words such as gratitude and joy actually mean something when I hear them--or better yet, they mean something when I take the time to think about them and feel them. 

I started practicing yoga a little while ago. This was something fairly new to me, as I had only tried it a couple of times when I was struggling. The physical aspect of it was difficult enough. The spiritual connection, at the time, was downright impossible. 

One of the biggest surprises for me has been finding myself occasionally laughing [quietly] or smiling at the end of class when the teacher reads a passage or asks us to bring something to mind to take with us throughout the day.

The majority of time this happens, it is something I desperately needed to hear at that moment. Maybe it is a reminder to be just a shade more mindful or perhaps to recognize the beauty of being able to connect with myself--mind and body--for an hour, and to be grateful for that hour. 

My mother died very suddenly almost two years ago, at a relatively young age, 61. Within a few short months, there were many moments of sadness, mixed in with laughter, and days when I just did not feel like getting out of bed because I knew, deep down, that something was missing. I imagine many people feel this way when they lose someone close to them. 

The memory I cannot get out of my head was what happened the night before she died. We had our normal conversation, and then she said, “I’m very proud of you and happy for you." 

I am amazed at how lucky I was to experience that conversation.  Not everyone gets the chance to have a moment like this with a loved one, but I did and cannot help but crack the slightest smile when I think about it.

At times, when with my two boys, I have found myself playing the role of troublemaker. Not in a bad way, but for instance, maybe we are playing catch and I purposely throw the ball further than needed just to make them run a little longer, to extend that moment of exhilaration for  five seconds more than intended. 

Why? 

Well, if I'm being honest, part of me enjoys the rolling of the eyes that I get from my kids, but also because I spent years and years running away or withdrawing from my life, and I really want to savor those extra five seconds now.

Maybe I feel that way because now, more than ever, I understand how lucky I am to be able to experience the moment of today and the joys that flow from it.  

Thank you, dear writer, for this honest story on reconnecting with life. So happy that you have found such joy in the process!

And thanks for reading, everyone. 

Do you have a personal essay that you want to share with my readers? If so, all of the details re: how to submit your personal essay for review are here. 

Last week, I received a reader essay submission that really spoke to me. As I read it, I felt like I was reading about my own experiences/past relationship with the gym, and it resonated so much that I knew I had to share it with you. 

So today, I'm excited to share this personal essay with you, written by one of my former students + fellow Tranquil Space front desk colleagues, Carolina Valle [of the blog Yoga Pants & Heels--how great is that name?]...

If you knew me in college, then you probably knew where to find me after class, most Saturday mornings, and anytime I bailed on a social activity: at the gym. 

I went at least 6 days/week, and it took something really important to make me miss the 7th day. The gym and I were inseparable. But like many real relationships, this one was a dysfunctional union founded on dependency, guilt, and negative feelings that kept me going back.

I’m sure that back then I justified my slight obsession with the gym as a way to stay healthy and release stress...but what drove me to that place every single day were really two emotions: the fear of gaining weight and the notion that not going meant I was lazy. And those are the wrong reasons, especially for this mildly Type-A perfectionist. I firmly believe in all of the benefits of exercise and it is still a big part of my life, but the environment at the gym simply wasn’t good for me. 

For starters, I had body image issues. Hanging around people obsessed with calories burned, body fat percentage, and 6-pack abs was probably not helping the situation. I also had a distorted notion of success and productivity – the idea of non-doing or doing anything half-assed was simply ridiculous to me.

The gym can be a healthy commitment for some people, an opportunity to practice sticking with a routine and working towards a goal.

However, back then, my life was literally made up of commitments and goals and I never gave myself a break. Sure, I was pretty darn fit, but I felt trapped. I hung so tightly to the things I thought I HAD to do in order to be successful that I never let go and just had fun, never experienced the guiltless, blissful joy that makes you realize that life is more than grades, resumes, and the size of your jeans. 

For me, the gym was yet another outlet for self-criticism, unfavorable comparisons to others, and pushing beyond a healthy edge.

So finally, at around age 27, after a whole-lotta personal reflection and growth, I broke up with the gym.

Today, I have a stressful job that takes up a lot of my time. I have a house and a dog and bills and all of the responsibilities that come with being an adult. With so many things that I HAVE to do, why add one more DUTY to the list? 

I love to be active, to get my limbs moving and my heart rate up, but I like getting my exercise in ways that nurture not only my body, but my mind and soul as well--a long walk in the park, a yoga class, or a game of sand volleyball with friends. I look for activities, friendships, and environments that reinforce self-love, acceptance, joy, and remind me of what’s really important. 

You can do anything, but you can’t do everything…and there are so many things I would rather do than run on the treadmill day after day.

Want to connect with Carolina? Check out her fabulous blog and/or follow her on Twitter, @doyogainheels. 

Image credit: Normanack on Flickr. Creative Commons License. 

My mom has always been different from other moms. It’s hard to sum up why, or how, but suffice it to say that where I grew up, in the minivan-ridden suburbs of Atlanta, she didn’t fit in.

My friends’ moms wore tennis skirts and clothes from Gap, and my mom wore thrift store finds, flowery skirts, and clothing that hinted at her hippie days. My friend’s moms hosted bible studies, or went to neighborhood potlucks on a regular basis, and my mom couldn’t think of anything worse. While everyone else put out signs for local Republican candidates in their yards, my mom put out a “War is Not the Answer” sign.

If it weren’t for her kids, who were trying desperately—and succeeding, I might add—to fit in with their suburban surroundings, she might have been forced out of the community and moved away, but for our sake, she held on.

When I was in 6th grade, we were on a family trip to the mountains. Coming back from a hike, driving along a dirt road in the country, we came across a huge dead snake lying off to the side of the road: it was roadkill, and it was a rattlesnake with a huge rattle and a big diamond-shaped head.  

It was scary—even from the window of the car—and although I begged her not to stop, my mom stopped the car and got out to look at it. She wanted all of us to take a look because nature is incredible and beautiful and the snake was so mesmerizing and all of that kind of stuff.

I think I may have remained in the car, although my memory of the situation might be inaccurate all of these years later, but what I do know is that after much arguing on my part—“Mom, what are you thinking? That’s disgusting!”—my mom cut off the snake’s head with her fingernail scissors (the only thing that she had handy), and decided to bring the dead snake home with us, in our cooler, which previously sat empty in the trunk.

Why, you might ask? Why would a suburban mother of three bring a dead snake home with her? Oh, simply because she wanted to skin it. You know, because it was so beautiful.

And skin it, she did. Then she laid it out on a piece of plywood, hammered the ends of the skin into the wood, and left it in the basement to dry out.

In high school, my best friend would come home from school to find new outfits, new accessories, new shoes lying on her bed, all gifts that her mom had purchased for her while out shopping during the day. I would gaze longingly at all of her cute new clothes, wishing my mom had the trendy taste, the interest, or the money, for that matter, to buy me new clothes while I was at school.

I was always jealous of how well her mom fit in, of how her mom’s outfits and makeup was always just right, of how her mom wasn’t different like mine.

But, as we all know, if there’s one thing you cannot change in life, it’s your parents.

After my freshman year of college, I came home hauling all of my belongings in bags and boxes, slightly resentful of having to leave my independence and return home for the summer, ready to reclaim my little space in the house by unpacking my life and stuffing all of my college secrets into my 12’ x 15’ room.

I lugged a few items upstairs, walked around the corner, and opened my door to find an item from my mom, sitting on the bed.

It was the rattlesnake skin.

I screamed. Horrified, “Mooooommmmmmmm! What is this nasty thing doing on my bed?!?!?!”

“I didn’t want the dogs to get it,” she replied flippantly, “And your door is always closed. “ I could not escape my mother’s weirdness.

Having just returned from college, where, for the first time in my life, I was able to define myself without my parents being a part of that definition, I had re-entered my mother’s domain, where snakeskins were a part of the décor.

The rattlesnake skin now hangs proudly on the wall in my mom’s bedroom, which is also full of my art from college, ancient artifacts and fossils that her father collected on his many trips to Mexico, and photographs of my mother and her children, which are her most prized possessions—much more important to her than a Gap outfit, a tennis racket, or a neighborhood cookout.

Recently, when walking on the beach near our new home on the Cape, my husband had to yell at me, over and over again, to stop lagging behind to pick up rocks. He couldn’t understand my fascination with the smooth edges, the unique colors, the perfect shapes created by nature.

On a recent walk with my dog, I picked up a piece of driftwood and lugged it back to the car, carrying it for the next 20 minutes—wet and sandy—because I found it beautiful and want to do a painting on it. It’s currently drying out in my studio, and I’m saving it for the perfect stroke of inspiration.

Although I know that I would never bring home a rattlesnake in a cooler, I’m starting to see that I may not be so different from my weird mom after all.

As I grow older, I’m starting to understand that we all have our own quirky rattlesnake skins in our basements, drying on a piece of plywood and waiting for the perfect chance to be revealed. 

Today, I'm thrilled to share a personal essay written by a fellow yogi, Tranquil Space teacher, and all around amazing woman, Stacey Detwiler. When I read her essay submission, I was immediately captured by her subject matter--change. [It's a doozy!] 

I always have a hard time with change, and have recently been struggling with some impending changes that may take place in my life in the coming months (more to come in another post...), so her essay really spoke to me. 

I hope that it speaks to you, too, and that it helps you to find a little sense of stillness within our constantly-changing world...

 I’ve been thinking a lot about change lately. Over the past year, several of my closest friends here in DC have packed their bags and headed off to different adventures--from Law School in Vermont, to a new job in Colorado, to a Fulbright fellowship in Germany. 

I love hearing about the challenges and new experiences they’re having; But it also makes me question whether I could use some similar changes myself. It seems that every summer I take one step towards leaving DC, and then two steps towards putting down more roots here. The push and pull of making a big change vs. trying to keep things the same is a constant challenge. 

A former dance teacher of mine used to have us stand in parallel and close our eyes. Even though you think you are in stillness, you start to notice all of the muscles in your feet slowly engaging and releasing, your weight shifting slightly, and how the breath changes your body. 

Even when we think we’re in stillness, we’re constantly changing and shifting. While change is scary, it can be helpful to remember that nothing stays the same, no matter what. I can passively wait for things to shift, or I can take charge of my life and actively make decisions. Or, as my mom simply puts it, “things change.”

This is a helpful approach to cultivate both on and off of the yoga mat--learning not to become too attached to any one way to get into a pose, or any particular attitude or way of thinking. Do you have poses that you look at and just think, there is no way I am ever going to be able to do that? I definitely do. Yet, I’ve found that working with those poses (or stages of those poses!) can provide the biggest learning experience and opportunity for growth in my personal practice. Even taking a new perspective on a fundamental pose, such as chaturanga or downward facing dog, can deepen and strengthen my practice.

In Jon Kabat-Zinn’s Wherever You Go, There You Are, he describes a meditation technique that involves visualizing a mountain. He asks the readers to imagine sunny days, wind, storms, and clouds swirling around that mountain. No matter what happens, he writes, the mountain “remains still as the seasons flow into one another and as the weather changes moment by moment, day by day. Calmness abiding all change.”

In the midst of both big life decisions and small, everyday decisions, when it feels like there’s never enough time to stop and think about where you are or what you’re doing, take a moment to think of yourself as a mountain. I’ll certainly be doing so, and trying to find some calmness in the midst of change.

You can follow Stacey on her newly-launched blog and yoga website, Edge of a Petal Yoga. 

Do you have a personal essay that you want to share with my readers? If so, all of the details re: how to submit your personal essay for review are here. 

PS. Oh-em-gee, it's October! Whaaaaaatttt? Talk about change. Happy new month! 
PPS. Life is cray-cray, y'all. 

On more than one occasion in my life, I’ve watched my Dad eat something out of a public trash can.

I’ve seen him pull a jar of salsa out of the fridge, scrape the mold off of the top, and then pour it into a bowl to enjoy with his tortilla chips. I’ve watched him smell a container of two-week-old leftovers, make a face, and then proceed to eat it. I’ve watched him use many a food product with a sell-by date that has long since passed, and a coloring that is no longer what was intended.

My Dad is not one to waste.

In elementary school, I went to the school where he taught (and where he still teaches, 35 years later). Every time that I saw him rifling through the high school trash cans outside of his office door, I would die inside. He would reach in and pull out a brown paper lunch bag, an uneaten apple, a sandwich still in its Ziploc, a bag of chips—whatever he could find—and then he’d feast.

“Dad! What are you doing? Gross!” I would proclaim. But I was used to it at that point, and was just making a scene for anyone who might be watching so that they would know that I, unlike my father, was not a dumpster diver.

On family walks, my Dad often rifled through trash cans to pull out aluminum cans and glass bottles to recycle. When I think about him, the mental image that comes to mind always includes him holding something in his hands: a dog leash, a frisbee, a notebook, a cup of coffee, or a few cans rescued from a nearby public trash can.

Earlier this year, we attended my little brother’s college graduation in Greenville, South Carolina. When we arrived at the hotel, we were hungry—we’d all been traveling for a couple of hours, and it was almost dinnertime.

My husband and I had been upgraded to a suite, and were on a special floor for “VIPs.” My Dad, forever booking the cheapest option anywhere and everywhere, wanted to see what made our floor so special. As we showed off our extra amenities, we walked into the VIP lounge, where we would get a free buffet breakfast every morning.

At this point in the late afternoon, there was nothing but leftover coffee available in the lounge. Nothing, of course, except for the open box of pizza in the trash can—with one lone piece remaining in the very middle of the cardboard square. The slice had a small bite taken out of the very end of it, but otherwise, it appeared untouched.

I saw it sitting there, all by it’s lonesome, and I cringed. I knew that if my Dad saw it, there was no chance it would remain untouched—he had been very vocal about the fact that he was really hungry, after all.

My instincts were right.

As soon as he spotted it, my Dad reached into the trash can, pulled out the slice, ripped off the tip where someone else had taken a bite, and then proceeded to eat the slice of pizza. I would like to say that I was horrified, but honestly, when it comes to my Dad, I passed horrified years ago.

My Dad hates wasting money almost as much as he hates wasting food. He’s been known to “shop” in the Lost & Found at the end of the school year. He’ll stop on the side of the road to check out an item in someone’s trash pile, and I recently caught him wearing my brother’s old jeans from early high school—some wide-legged carpenter jeans—you know, the ones with the loop for the hammer on the leg.

At one point when he was younger, my Dad had a car that my Mom called his “Fred Flinstone Car,” because the floorboards had rusted straight through, and you could see the ground underneath his feet when he drove.

He drove another car—one that he had for much of my childhood—until it would only go backwards, in reverse. He called the junkyard and asked them how much he could get for a car that doesn’t drive forward anymore, and the junkyard said that if he could get it to them, they’d pay him $80 for it. My poor dad, who hates to waste, attempted to drive the car in reverse to the junkyard!  It was to no avail—he ended up having to pay a tow truck to take that car away. And that’s not the only car he’s driven until it would no longer function.

If it isn’t obvious, my Dad not only hates to waste, he also simply doesn’t care about appearances.

Although I spent much of my adolescence being utterly embarrassed by his lack of self-consciousness (his loud singing while in line at the grocery store, his purple socks worn with Tevas and an embroidered Indian vest, his rusty cars, and the PB&J’s he’d bring to the mall—in a cooler—to save money at the food court), the lessons that my Dad’s actions taught me have stayed with me as the feelings of horror have faded.

He taught me not to waste and to take care of the earth. He showed me that you should be yourself, embrace your creative urges, and let your light shine no matter where you are. He taught me that you don’t need a nice car to be happy, that experiences are more important than things, and that having a Dad who is around, one who takes you to the mall, who drives you to school, who comes to your concert (even while wearing purple socks and a vest), is way more important than having one who is well-dressed or blends in with the crowd.

Although my mental images of my Dad are often of him with a rescued slice of pizza or a sweatshirt from the Lost & Found in his hand, he’s also laughing, smiling, telling me that he loves me, that he supports me, and that he’s there for me.

Dumpster diver or not, the fact that he’s always been there—that he’s never wasted any time not being a father—is what makes the biggest impact. And at least I know that I’ll never have to worry about him going hungry...

PS. Do you have a personal essay that you want to share with my readers? If so, I'm accepting personal essay submissions--all of the details for how to submit your personal essay for review are here :) 

We all have those memories from middle school that make our skin crawl. You know the ones that I’m talking about (or at least, I hope you do)—those moments when we thought that our life was literally over—those moments full of self-doubt, self-consciousness, complete embarrassment, public humiliation, or just misery over our current state of being. 

Sometimes these moments were brought on by others, like the time that my “so-called-friend” told my current boyfriend that I hated the bracelet that he had given me for Christmas, and in retaliation, he told everyone that he didn’t care (“Because it was a hand-me-down from my mom, anyways”), and then broke up with me at my birthday party. [Ouch.]

Sometimes we brought these moments on ourselves, like the time that I had my first kiss in a movie theatre, in front of all of my friends (I knew they were sitting behind me), and they then called me “Lizard” for weeks, because they saw my boyfriend’s tongue. [Eek!]

And sometimes, these moments were caused by forces of nature and were completely out of our control, like the time that I got my period while sleeping on the bus on a field trip, and bled through my white shorts, my sweatshirt (which was around my waist, obviously!), and on the seat cushion.

But, I think that out of all of these types of events, the worst, or the most scarring, are the really nasty things that young people to do one another.

We’ve all fallen prey to a mean middle school (or high school, or college, or dare I even say, office?) prank or rumor, or if we haven’t, we’ve participated in inflicting these types of things on others. There’s just something scary about the need to fit in that drives people to act horribly towards each other, and middle school is often the time that this comes up the most.

When reminiscing about these moments as adults they may sound silly or trivial, but often, we carry these experiences around with us throughout our lives, allowing them to color our personality without even realizing it.

For instance, one of my most scarring experiences from growing up had to do with my very favorite pair of jeans from 7th grade; It may not sound like a devastating story, but trust me, the experience was just that.

As a middle schooler, and later, as a high schooler, I was crazy obsessed with my body. Not in a cute or healthy way (Is there a cute or healthy way to be “obsessed with your body?”), but in a national-body-image-and-eating-disorder-epidemic sort of way.

I was never happy with my appearance--any of it. I hated the shape of my body, my height, the way my clothes fit, the way my freckles darkened in the sun, the way that my pale skin glowed against black fabric, and the way that my hair curled when it was raining outside. I hid behind a shield of happiness and smiles, but inside, I hated myself.

In 7th grade, these feelings of self-loathing were just beginning to take root inside of me. As a consequence of this inner turmoil, I became extremely picky about how I presented myself to the world.

I began wearing make-up, spending hours on my hair, watching what I ate, and shopping for the perfect clothes. Because my parents didn’t have tons of money to spend on clothing for three very active kids, I would do the best that I could to find stylish outfits at TJ Maxx, Marshalls, and the like. When I found something that I thought was cute, I would wear it out, often locating just one pair of shorts or one pair of jeans that I felt actually looked okay on my body, and then settling on them for the season.

In 7th grade, it was one pair of jeans that did it for me. Actually, to be clear, it was 2 pairs of jeans—but they were the same jeans, just in a slightly different wash, and if I remember correctly, I got them for about $20 each at TJ Maxx.

I would do laundry every other night (drove my mom crazy!), I would plan my outfits around these jeans, and if they weren’t clean for some impossible reason, my world would feel like it was crumbling. That’s how fragile I was in those days.

One day, some of the guys in my class—guys who I was “friends” with, in the flirty-hatey-disgusted-funny way that only middle school boys and girls can be friends—decided that they would play a trick on me.

Evidently, as I found out later, they thought that I wore the same pair of jeans every day. [Keep in mind that I kind of did, but also didn’t, really…]. Either way, these guys thought that there was only one way to find out if they were the same jeans or not: They would mark my jeans with a permanent marker and see if the mark was still there the next day. Funny, right?

That day, as I walked across the classroom to take my seat, the ringleader (George, who would later get kicked out of school, I think?) stuck out a Sharpee and swiped a huge black streak across the butt of my jeans.

I felt the tip of the marker as it raked across my backside, I heard the low scratching sound of the ink meeting the fabric, as it bumped across the grooves of the denim, and I was horrified.

As all of the guys died laughing in their corner of the room, I was melting inside. I didn’t understand why they had done what they’d done, but it hurt. Not only had they ruined one of my two pairs of jeans—the only jeans in which I actually felt not completely ugly and fat—they had also embarrassed me in front of everyone.

I hid my horror in anger, and acted really mad at these guys, “my friends.” A day or two later, one of them admitted that it was George’s idea, and explained why they had done it—to see if I actually wore the same jeans or not.

Upon finding out that their prank was caused by this belief about my clothing, I was even more shamed. I tried to defend myself—“I have more than one pair of these jeans!!!!”—but, the damage had been done: They’d created a clothing-conscious monster.

In the weeks leading up to 9th grade—the first year of high school--my best friend and I planned out our outfits for the first 2 months of school. That’s right, I said months. We would write down the clothing items by day and by week, and plan out our timely clothing swaps, to ensure that neither of us would EVER repeat an outfit, (or even a similar item), during this time period.

Looking back on this, I know it’s crazy. I cannot believe that we had enough clothing to not repeat a single item for 60 days, but I also cannot believe how self-conscious we were. Appearance simply mattered so much more than anything else at that time.

As many have said before me, I wish I could tell that young girl that she looked great in any pair of jeans she tried on—that she was perfect as she was (braces and freckles or not)—and that although she would have a tough relationship with her body for few years in there, she should hold on, because eventually, she would find peace with it.

I know those guys didn’t mean any harm, and I know that they were all just as self-conscious as I was, but it still doesn’t make the memory of how I felt in that moment any more comfortable, and it doesn’t erase the bruise that their silly prank left on my young, fragile psyche.

However, these days, when I wear my favorite pair of jeans (I only have one pair that I love, and I wear them often), I walk tall for the memory of my younger self. 

When I use a Sharpee to label a package or the back of a painting, I take in the scratching sound of the tip as it moves across the surface, I breathe in the scent, and I relish my many years of growth, and the peace that has come with those years.

Although I know that my 28-year-old body isn’t perfect, I give it thanks almost every day—in honor of all of the young, self-conscious girls who are out there, still trying to find comfort inside of their middle school jeans.

PS. Do you have a personal essay that you want to share with the Starr Struck community? If so, I'm accepting personal essay submissions--all of the details for how to submit your personal essay for review are here.