National Eating Disorders Awareness Week: My Journey

A few years ago my cousin introduced me to Post Secret, a movement created by a very compassionate individual by the name of Frank Warren who created an outlet for people to anonymously mail secrets to him. The secrets can be funny, ridiculous, serious, sad, and anything in between. Every Sunday, he posts new secrets that millions of people read. Every Sunday, I am one of those millions of people that do. It’s a way, I think, for people to feel connected with others around the world. Sharing these secrets is a way to let go as well as bringing people together. It’s a relief know that there are others who are going through similar things or thinking the same thoughts.

Last Sunday’s secrets really hit home for me. They revolved around eating disorders. Here are a few examples:

(Probably the one that was the most personal and relevant for me.)

National Eating Disorders Awareness Week brings into light a very personal matter for a lot of people. It doesn’t just affect a certain weight, gender, age, or nationality. It affects a wide ranged of people for different reasons. It mostly is about a sense of control or the desire of being this ideal image or weight, but those aren't the only reasons.

I remember becoming extremely offended when this fight of what ‘real women’ look like started. Suddenly, naturally slender women were subjected to scorn in the media. I have friends of various height and weight combinations, and they are all exceptionally beautiful people. They have shown me that there is no one-size-fits-all aspect of beauty.

One of the things CK told me (and that I love him for) is that there is no such thing as the fairytale relationship. And so, this past weekend, he asked me a very hard question: “So then, why do you demand for the fairytale body?” This applied not only to my appearance, but also my health. It was one of those questions that not only broke down everything I tried to ignore, but once I let it out I couldn’t stop.

I don't refer to having had disordered eating as an eating disorder  because I believe the term 'eating disorder' places blame on the person suffering. Disordered eating is also more inclusive and, in my opinion, something you can rise from and have the power to change. Disordered eating has traveled with me like a codependent ally, needing me to need to control what I ate, when I ate, and how much. When I went to college, I lost a lot of weight. In total, my weight loss journey resulted in over 40 pounds. Most of it was due to changing my eating habits and preferring healthier options and exercising more. But when I became ‘thin’, I was deathly afraid of gaining it back. I’ve had panic attacks in the past because it was so terrifying to me to go back to that time when my body was a prison to the wonderful person underneath.

*Photos are from 1990 - 2012.

The evolution of my disordered eating habits became more about earning and deserving food than not eating. To be fair, I didn’t decide one day to be anorexic my sophomore year in high school. I just felt I didn’t have time to eat in the mornings and simply wasn’t hungry for lunch (and believe me, the food options in the cafeteria were not appetizing). So I would go almost twenty hours without eating, snack when I got home and then eat dinner. I drank hot tea in the mornings with lemon and sugar, but that was it. By the end of the first quarter, I was under 140 pounds, a first since I started puberty.

And then I got sick and began vomiting blood. The trip to the ER showed stomach ulcers from drinking tea (which is extremely acidic) on an empty stomach, and put a slight hole in my esophagus. I called this experience the time I was “accidentally anorexic”.

By college, I went gluten free (soy free and cane sugar free came about a year or two after). I started eating healthier and exercising and was rather happy with where I was at body image-wise. I changed my appearance often, even cutting my hair in a pixie cut. My exercising, however, became something I had to do and a way to cut calories. I would do the math and think: “Okay… I’ve burned a certain number of calories, enough to have burned off breakfast, and maybe that smoothie I want to have later.” (This is also known as exercise bulimia and a very common form of disordered eating.) I looked at my body more critically, wondering why I wasn’t getting the body I wanted. At one point I tried to survive on 1200 calories a day. I guesstimated my intake, so I’m sure I ate more than that. But it still stands that, while I was active and walking to class, I wasn’t eating enough. I think I even blacked out while driving at one point on my way back to campus housing for lunch.

When I started this blog, the first post began with me being hungry really early in the morning. The echoes of healing are apparent in many posts and recipes I’ve published in the last three years. Seeing a holistic nutritionist (Cheryl Harris of Harris Whole Health and Gluten Free Goodness) probably saved my life. She encouraged me to take small steps, read Johnston’s (2000) Eating in the Light of the Moon: How Women Can Transform Their Relationship with Food Through Myths, Metaphors, and Storytelling, and I slowly changed how I perceived eating and food. My self worth and image built itself up and, in increments, stopped focusing on calories and focused more on what my body needed and when.

Being diagnosed with hypothyroidism in 2011 also changed by body image and eating habits, and it really helped in knowing my struggles with weight weren’t entirely my fault. Yes, I could have eaten healthier and exercised more, but growing up with an underactive thyroid literally makes you the underdog. Not only does your metabolism suffer, everything does. How could I be healthy when I was sick all the time? How could I get better if it was my body that wasn’t working?

Since receiving treatment, I’ve noticed my body doesn’t get sick as often or as easily. And the slow change of feeling like I have to exercise to wanting to exercise as well as removing ‘good’ and ‘bad’  as labels for food (also called orthorexia, or a fixation of only eating what the person believes is healthy or ‘good’ food) really helped transform my mindset toward loving my body. I still have old paradigms rear their ugly heads when I’m stressed or feeling vulnerable, but I know where I am right now is a pretty awesome place to be.

The last thing that really changed everything for me was doing the Insanity Challenge. I went from 125 lbs to 142 lbs, eating up to 2500 calories to maintain efficiency. I started learning how to take cues from my body, and was absolutely fascinated how I became more solid, but didn’t get bigger. In horror, I realized just how much I denied my poor body nutrients in the name of fairytale beauty. I knew in theory that not eating enough will actually keep you from losing weight because your body is trying to keep you alive. But after completing the Insanity Workout, it finally resonated.

Even today, while I have moments (and they are fleeting, I’m happy to say) where I think I’m not pretty enough, smart enough, thin enough, whatever enough, I have a fantastic support system and I am dulling the words of that harsh Inner Critic we are all capable of having. I cook and eat because food nourishes my body and my soul. I exercise to see how my strength has improved physically and mentally. I have learned to treat myself with compassion and empathy, and am learning what situations open the door for negative thoughts (usually sleep deprivation, sickness, or getting stuck inside my own head for too long).

The one thing I really hope the world comes to realize is that people who suffer disordered eating do not do it for attention, and telling them about how there are people without food in other parts of the world do not help. And while it helps to receive reassurance (because I admit to needing reassurance from time to time), the only thing that will change their outlook on themselves and the need of control is their desire to change it. It may mean getting professional help (as I had), changing the environment that encourages this disorder, and taking as well as celebrating the little steps. And while I believe it is most certainly acceptable to change yourself to feel better health-wise, I have learned that seeking perfection is impossible, mostly because there is no such thing as the perfect person. It's okay to be any weight that makes you feel comfortable, so as long as you don't risk your health or happiness to get there. It's also okay to have a 'type', but just remember that the other types out there are equally awesome.

It also means looking at body shaming as it is: a form of violence and bullying. We need to stop focusing on beauty as a surface phenomenon and looking to create the word to mean something that is all-inclusive. Let's stop comparing ourselves to one another and looking for acceptance based on what the scale says or what the media tells us. We need to stop diminishing someone's worth based on their appearance, and STOP STOP STOP saying someone isn't beautiful in order to make someone else feel that they are. It is NOT okay. And the first step to achieving this is inward.

I am so grateful to my family, friends, and partner for changing my life. And thank you all who were so brave as to sharing their stories, with me personally, and on Post Secret. And for those who are still suffering, are recovering, and everywhere in between, I want to say this to you:

• You are beautiful in the present. At this very moment, you are the perfect you and you are on the path you need to take.
• You are the ideal you.
• You matter.
• You are loved, honored, and appreciated for being yourself.
• No one’s opinions of what you should look like or be like is important. The only thing that matters is how you feel.
• It does get better. I promise you.

I made this recipe as a way to honor those struggles, and to reach out to others. Following this recipe are some stories about disordered eating and body image. I cannot express to you how much I appreciated the bravery of these individuals to share their story. It will be updated throughout the week, but feel free to leave a comment also.

Mashed Potato Biscuit Hearts

420 g mashed potatoes*
75 g Garbanzo bean flour
100 g ground almonds (i.e., blanched almond flour)
65 g Brown rice flour
60 g Flaxseed meal
120 ml Whole milk
1 Large egg
1 tsp. Sea salt
3/4 tsp. Baking soda
3/4 tsp. Cream of Tartar

Preheat the oven to 375°F/190°C.
Mix together the wet ingredients (potatoes, milk, and egg) in a large bowl and add the dry (the dough will be a bit tacky).
Let the dough sit for five minutes.
On a floured surface, take a handful of dough** and flatten it to about an inch thick.
Using a heart-shaped cookie cutter (or any for that matter), press through the dough and place the cutouts onto a greased baking sheet (or parchment paper).
Continue to do so until all the dough has been formed, and bake for 30 minutes or until golden brown.
Remove from the oven and let them cool for about 10 minutes before eating.
Can be served hot or cold.

Makes 11 or more biscuits, depending on cutout size.

* I used the potato ricer to make the mashed potatoes and didn't add anything to them.

** I found it easier to take a handful of dough at a time than to just roll it out and cut.

Other's Stories (Coming Soon)

Story 1: The Legacy
The Influence of family: My first negative body image messages came from my own mother when I entered puberty. She made me self conscious about my weight gain. (Replaying the messages from her own mother about her struggles with weight gain. To lose weight that she gained during her own puberty, she ate only mayonnaise sandwiches for an entire summer. She did some severe dieting after each of her children to lose the baby weight, which affected her mood and energy levels.) I also remember my father making comments that 125 lbs was an ideal weight (for my mom) so that was a weight goal I strived to attain. No matter that I was actually 3 inches taller and actually looked ghastly at 125 lbs. As a result, I went through puberty and early adolescence (in the 1970’s)  “knowing” that I was “fat” and unattractive. As a result, I became anorexic in my mid-teens, something that was acerbated by a bout of mononucleosis.

The influence of media and product advertisements: Dress size, body weight, body image, attractiveness and perceived sexual desirability have always been interconnected. No matter that I actually felt my best when I weighed a certain amount. In order to fit into certain styles of clothing, I had to be a certain size. In order to accentuate my eyes and my cheekbones I needed to have a certain contour to my face (achieved only by dieting). The mirror: It lies. What I see is not what others see. As a result I have to use a tape measure; it doesn’t lie.

My regrets: I hate how I look. I have always hated how I look. Once in a while, when some time has passed and I see a picture of myself, I think, “Wow! I look really great in that picture.” But, if I think back to when the picture was taken and how I felt about my looks, I would say that I felt ugly or at least not attractive.

Legacy: I have watched helplessly as my own daughter has struggled with this amorphous monster, wondering what I could have done that I didn’t do; how I could have better protected her from the jaws of this gaping beast. I tried to offer unconditional love and support as she has struggled. I tried to keep my own self criticism and self esteem issues to myself. I tried to make every effort to not taint her with the family legacy of toxic messaging. I have tried to be her best cheer leader. But, as evidenced by her very public struggles with disordered eating, love isn’t enough. This dis-ease is insidious. It’s in our wiring, it’s in our cells…

The Truth is Somewhere in the Middle

Warning: may contain less than pleasant descriptions of bodily functions and words of ranting, needing advice, and strong-ish language.

Ever have those moments where you perceive that everything is happening at once and time is moving faster than you can handle and run-on sentences suddenly make sense and your body is exhausted and your mind keeps going and then… BAM! You hit a wall.

Yeah, I absolutely “adore” those moments too.

As mentioned in my last post (an astonishing two weeks ago), I’ve had tummy troubles. This term is an understatement, but I try to keep the content of this blog as family friendly as possible. I was so terrified of my symptoms and the pain that I scheduled two ASAP appointments with a gastroenterologist and an urologist. Add the fear of the unknown with emotional/hormonal upset in the form of body image obsession… My two weeks MIA from MWM have not been all rainbows and free hugs. But goodness, I wish it had been.

For a week it seemed like I was balancing a number of plates in the air with spectators looking on, ready for a good laugh. I wanted to do so much, be so much, in a short time frame. And instead, when everything was expected to crash down, porcelain shards littering the floor, some spectators were kind enough to join the act in assisting. Some plates were added and others removed, but little by little I could balance the aspects of my life. And while I was overwhelmed by it all, it isn’t as bad as it was.

If I could list all the plates I have been balancing based on their importance and priority and my focus of them, it would be thus: Health (includes all aspects), Grad school, Future, Miscellaneous obligations, Work, Family and Friends, Meals with Morri, and so on. The overall feeling of crappiness health-wise bled onto the other plates, and I was so exhausted and so stressed out and internally so toxic it started to physically manifest in the form of bloating and red bumps around my eyes, hands, and elbows.

I waited and waited and waited until I couldn’t take it anymore. The pain was terrible, the Google searches foretold impending doom, and the inner dialogue was scattered and anxious. Doctors’ offices were called and appointments were made. And if there is one moral in this story, people, it is the following:

“The truth is somewhere in the middle.”

The gastroenterologist I met with is an esteemed practitioner in his field of practice. Mama Dazz even visited him back when she was in her early twenties and recommended his expertise. With appointments like this I tend to be nervous. I lose all sorts of control and power when presented to doctors in general, so it was nice to have her come with me. I walk into his office and the usual questions are asked: Why are you seeing me today? How long have you experienced these symptoms? What have you done thus far in regards to treatment, management, etc.? What additional medications are you taking? What does your diet look like…?

The last two questions resulted in him essentially going into a tirade about how as far as he could see, a healthy young woman did not need hypothyroid medication and most certainly should not be on a gluten/soy/refined sugar free diet. From this conversation I was shaken to the core. This person did not know my history and had only one doctor-patient meeting to go on. He did not know how much better I felt eating the foods I ate, or how the Armour Thyroid did indeed affect my life positively. I felt so small leaving his office. I began to cry when the discussion turned to possibly having to incorporate gluten and soy based foods in my diet for tangible analysis in future blood work, to stop taking my hypothyroid medicine, and to think about a colonoscopy in the next couple of weeks (his recommendation, but not something I plan on doing right now).

Upon reflection, I realized I was given a broader image of what ethics and values the health industry contained. The majority of my health providers (such as Hurlock and Harris) are holistically based. They tend to focus on the intangible evidence and have a more qualitative outlook on healing. The gastroenterologist, however, as I perceived him is a man of numbers and facts, needing tangible evidence to satisfy his quantitative logic. My other grievance was, along with his strong opinions about my life, he didn’t really provide me with any answers, only diagnosing me with terms I’ve had been labeled with all my life. He mentioned ASD (anxiety stress disorder) and IBS, but I knew that already. What I didn't know was how I could fix a lifetime of adrenal fatigue and self-imposed stress and how my symptoms tied into it.

The urologist, another esteemed practitioner (who reminded me of the stereotypical grandfather image giving advice while on a fishing trip) was a little softer in his quantitative logic and needs for tangible evidence. Instead he listened and pondered and asked questions when appropriate. His practice was in no way what I’d consider an alternative practice, by his demeanor was. I felt no judgment as we talked about possible reasons as to why the UTI and other symptoms were happening now, and if his options matched my values and ethics. I was reserved at the thought of being on low dose antibiotics and very powerful antispasmodics for the next three months, but I do feel the difference after a week of treatment. 

The truth is somewhere in the middle, and for me that means joining the two logics and needs for evidence to see the bigger picture regarding my health. I can’t help the world sick. It’s as simple as that.

I end this long and non-recipe based post with a request. I am currently looking into other ways of stress management and anxiety diminishers. If anyone has had any experience similar to what I’ve gone through, from mindfulness exercises to probiotic recipes to balancing the antibiotic’s side effects, I’d love to hear from you.

To Be Cool as a Cucumber

I’ve been rather flaky with things in my life: missing appointments, missing hang out opportunities with people I care about, and simply not feeling as awesome as I could be. Love Your Body Week gave me perspective, but there were times where I was feeling “blah” about myself. My new fitness regimen, or possibly a stress I’ve yet to identify, has me craving fats like crazy. Peanut butter, almond butter, coconut oil, cheese… I can’t get enough. That, and I was waking up ridiculously early this week, one day as early as 3:20 a.m., and that’s thrown my appetite out of order. 

But it’s Sunday now. It’s the end of the old week, or the start of the new week. Whichever the case, I’m moving on to new experiences and a better tomorrow. For now, I want to share a new way of eating one of my favorite foods.

Regardless if you call it a fruit or a vegetable, the cucumber is an amazing food. There are quite a few varieties, but the English cucumber is the species I most enjoy. The have a thinner skin and are nearly seedless, and it is said that they are easy to digest. Unlike some other popular varieties, you don’t need to remove the skin to enjoy it.

I have had it sliced on top of salads and dipped into sauces. I’ve had it juiced and blended into gazpacho. I’ve never baked them into “chips”, and I’ve never pickled them myself. 

Seeking new ways to eat one of my daily foods, I looked in my Mama Dazz’s cookbook collection for a new recipe to try for my beloved cucumber. I found Jeff Smith’s (1990) The Frugal Gourmet on Our Immigrant Ancestors: Recipes You Should Have Gotten from Your Grandmother. It lists the different immigrant groups that came to the United States over the years, providing a brief history of their culture, the people, and most importantly, the food. I reveled in the amazing stories of the Basques and the Swedes. I rejoiced in the recipes of my ancestors, the Irish and the Dutch. He talked about the beauty of the American Indian and South American cuisines, whose food was soon traded and seen all over the world.  But living in such a diverse neighborhood where I grew up with families from Bangladesh and El Salvador as close neighbors, things like papusas and curry were normal to me. But the recipe I found I wasn’t used to, and of course I had to make it for myself.

So I made cucumber namasu (p. 239, Smith), from Japan. It’s the kind of recipe I tweaked slightly to fit my needs. And like most pickled foods, its flavor enhances the longer it marinates. Since I used sea salt, I do not recommend using as much as the book recommends, i.e., one tablespoon. Even two teaspoons was a bit much, so I used stevia to balance it out. It worked beautifully. And since it was the first recipe I photographed with my new lens earlier this week, I was ecstatic with its success.

Cucumber Namasu

518 g English (seedless cucumber), quartered and thinly sliced
1 – 2 tsp Sea salt (I used 2 tsp. and thought it was a bit much, so taste as you go)
60 ml Unrefined apple cider vinegar or Rice wine vinegar
2 ml Coconut aminos (or CGF Tamari for those who aren't soy free)
1 tsp. Ground ginger
1 tsp. White sesame seeds
1 tsp. Black sesame seeds
Stevia, to taste (optional)

Place the cucumber slices in a large mesh strainer over a bowl and sprinkle the salt on top.
Lightly toss and let it sit up to an hour for all of the liquid to drain.
In another bowl, combine the remaining ingredients except for the sesame seeds.
When the liquid from the cucumbers is gone, drain the bowl and use it to toss the dressing with cucumbers.
Sprinkle and mix the sesame seeds throughout the salad, then chill for another hour before serving.

Makes 4 servings.

Bacon & Gouda Stuffed Chicken Breast

Before I give you the easiest stuffed chicken recipe you will ever make, I want to talk to you about my dream last night. If you don’t already know this about me, I have a prodigious fear of zombies (Though, surprisingly, I dug Zombieland). It isn’t quite so much a phobia that gives me panic attacks and fainting spells, but I do have vivid nightmares about them. Not only are they extremely terrifying, they are also reoccurring.

It all started my first year in college, around the time school was letting out for the winter holidays. I went and saw my first ever zombie movie at the AMC Tysons Corner 16. It was Resident Evil 3, and it was only the beginning. At first the zombies looked like your typical human being in my dreams. The post-apocalyptic landscape was industrial and familiar, only without cars and them walking down the highway, staring straight ahead with vacant eyes. Whenever I walked near one they seemed to come out of their trance and would tell me to get away or they’d bite me. They knew what they were, and although they looked like any average Joe or Jane I’d meet on the street, I knew what they were also.

After three years, they’ve progressed and evolved into different images. Sometimes they were rotting and bloody, and I would usually have something to defend myself with. Sometimes they looked demonic and beautiful; they were sentient, articulate, and even more horrible to deal with. It’s the conscious, unearthly looking ones that terrify me the most, and they’re the ones that are often the zombie part of the zombie nightmare experience.

(c) Link

For a while I thought they symbolized my need for control of my own life and destiny, or not wanting to become part of the crowd that followed everything I was against. This morning's took on a new feel to it that was different from the others. I was uprooted from my home, because they could easily go in and out of buildings as they pleased. There was a secret government agency involved, where technology was exceedingly developed and they were about as helpful as a griddle skillet for a soup recipe. I spoke with them and I ran from them in this vast hotel with many halls, windows, and rooms. I was alone against the world, and I woke up with my heart thudding so hard against my chest and tears in my eyes. It took a few minutes until the pounding in my ears subsides. At least it was light enough I could see my room clearly with the morning light, and since my stomach was telling me it wanted pancakes with its grumbles I figured it was time to get up anyway.

As I was preparing and eating my first delicious creation of the day, I started thinking about my latest nightmare, and I was struck with such an enlightening realization that there was actually a very logical explanation to these dreams.

I was hungry.

The dreams started when I began exercising and losing weight, and they became more graphic the more restrictive I became with my lifestyle. I think it was my subconscious telling me that it was wrong for me to go to bed hungry, that these awful nightmares were a way of encouraging me to give what my body wants and to nourish its most basic need. Zombies are particular and picky; only the freshest human will do. Although it is very clear I’m eating more throughout the day (and not gaining weight, despite my constant fear of doing so), it still isn’t enough to satisfy my body completely, whether it’s feeling contentedly full at that moment or not.

And I think it does have to do with self-control, if only a little. I think I was (or still am) afraid of giving in to what I wanted and needed, and that my body had more control over me than I believed it should. But really, what is the distinction? The Body isn’t a separate entity from the the Mind and Spirit, and I shouldn’t be treating it like it is. It should be nourished, loved, and respected just as much as the other two without criticism, exceptions, or regulations. The amazing thing about the physical body is that it knows what’s what before anything else that is a part of you. Everything else beyond the five senses can be physically manifested because even your own mind knows that before You do. Fascinatingly confusing stuff, am I right? Hopefully my future dreaming endeavors, whether they are zombie-filled or not, will be brighter, gentler, and kinder from now on.

Until then, here is a recipe anyone can do and do it well. Stuffed chicken breast is such a versatile dish in how it’s prepared, what it’s stuffed with, and how the overall dish will end up looking on a plate. I like to stuff it with various cheeses and greens, and serve it over a bed of rice with another vegetable as a side. But you can stuff it with apples or other fruits also. You can bread it, glaze it, marinade it, and possibly fry it. You can top it with a sauce or crust it with herbs. This is such a great dish for those who want a nutritionally balanced meal without compromising flavor... and their wallet.

Bacon & Gouda Stuffed Chicken Breasts

4 Chicken breasts, butterfly-cut and pounded out
9.5 oz Pork belly pieces (or bacon), thinly sliced
4 oz Smoked Gouda (or 4 deli slices), thinly sliced and halved into crescents
4 Garlic cloves, coarsely chopped
1 tsp. Herb de Provence
Olive oil, for greasing the pan

Preheat the oven to 350ºF.
Place the large skillet over medium heat, add the olive oil and cook the pork belly until it is crispy with a satisfying crunch.
Remove the pork belly pieces from the pan and allow cooling until they can be safely handled.
Add the cheese and bacon to one side of the butterfly-cut chicken breasts and sandwich the stuffing with the other side.
Lay the chicken breasts next to each other on the pan and evenly garnish with the garlic, remaining bacon pieces, and Herb de Provence.
Back for 45 minutes and serve hot.

Serves 4.

Loving Yourself: Chicken Pot Pie for One

I’ve been considering body image lately. Since last week I’ve pondered why there’s such an obsession with having the perfect body. I was sitting with Mama Dazz, talking about typical mother-daughter things until I spied old photos of me on her computer desk. In one photo, I must have been in fourth grade the time it was taken, as I was wearing the P.E. uniform for the school I had transferred to when my parents had separated. I was giving the peace sign along with two other kids in my class, and noticed something interesting. Despite my rounded face, I was similar in body to the fairly skinny girl on my right. The other photo was of me in fifth grade, with short hair and eating party sweets. That was the year puberty hit, and I was slightly fuller than the year before, but I wasn’t that big.

In a way, people are like cats...

“I wasn’t as big as I thought I was,” I mused, “and I was rather cute.”

“Oh, you were beautiful, Morri,” Mama Dazz replied. “You always were.”

Different breeds = different kinds of beauty.

Enter the flashback of my puberty years: Mama Dazz comforting while I cried, thinking I was ugly, fat, and stupid. She had this mantra that she would tell me every time this happened. She would hold me and tell me “It will get better… It will get better.” I tried to believe her, but it never set in, not really. I thought I was going to be fat and ugly and stupid forever.

I looked down at the photo of the smiling fourth grader that was me and I say out loud: “What happened?”

True, I wasn’t the healthiest kid. I was sick often, disliked exercise, and was a picky eater. But when puberty hit, and I was seemingly the only girl in class that was rounded and developing differently, I began comparing myself to the others. As far as I was concerned, if I were thin I would be liked. If I were thin I would be pretty. If I were thin the boys would ask me out. If I were thin I would be smart.

This is not how a fifth grader should be thinking.

Mama Dazz pointed something out to me that I thought was fascinating. From her generation to now women are more inwardly critical than they used to be. Meaning, we are more accepting of other women and how they look than we do with ourselves. What’s more, what we see in the mirror isn’t what other people see. Our reflections are so distorted that it takes a photograph from years ago to point out just how beautiful you actually were.

I for one believe there is no such thing as the ideal body type. From the toned and angular athlete to the curvaceous plus-sized babe, from the lanky gamer to the Buddha with a cherub face, there is beauty in every person.

True beauty is loving yourself in every sense of the word, making sure you are happy, healthy, and whole. You don’t have to squeeze into a size 2 to be considered attractive, or have muscles bulging through your clothes. 

I admit I have these relapses where I look in the mirror and nitpick at my “imperfections”. I sometimes say to myself, “Just a few more inches… Just a few more pounds… If only I were taller… If only…” Why, just this morning as I was shopping for skirts and dresses for the spring and summer weather, I ended up putting the majority of back because of this type of thinking. And though I felt I looked amazing in the things I did buy, I was frustrated because I didn’t find what I was looking for.

Clothes don’t make the person, and neither does the flesh or fat. The frustration I was experiencing wasn’t in regards to the skirts I tried on; rather, it was because I was timid and uncomfortable wearing them. For years I’ve been balancing what it meant to be a woman in today’s world, for if I was too feminine I wasn’t strong and if I was too masculine I wasn’t a woman. I chose masculinity for power and strength and muscle because it was the safer route. I could compete with men in a way that I couldn’t with women. As a result, I lost a part of myself. And that part of me rather liked dressing up in frilly things.

So ladies and gentleman, I cannot stress this enough. It is time to take a stand and revolutionize the way we look at ourselves, and the way children and adults alike feel about their bodies.

If someone hasn’t told you this today, let me be the first: You. Are. Beautiful.

Chicken Pot Pie for One

For the filling

3 Frozen chicken tenderloin pieces

5 Heirloom tomatoes (or 5 cherry or 1 Roma), halved

1 Carrot, cut into smallish chunks

1 Celery stalk, coarsely chopped

1/2 Small white onion, finely diced

1/2 Orange bell pepper, sliced thinly and cut into chunks

1/3 c. Frozen petite peas

2 Cloves garlic, coarsely chopped

1/4 tsp. Sea salt

1/4 tsp. Pepper

1 tsp. Arrowroot starch

For the crust

1/2 c. Cooked Arborio rice

1 Egg

1/2 tsp. Baking powder

2 tsp. Glutinous rice flour

Preheat the oven to 350°F.

Put the ingredients for the filling (not including the arrowroot startch) into a saucepan over medium heat with water just skimming the top.

Once the chicken is just cooked, cut into small pieces and place back in the pan.

Cook for one hour on medium-low heat.

Drain all of the liquid from the pan (there shouldn’t be a lot, but I recommend saving it for another recipe), and use 1/4 c. of the stock to make a rue with the arrowroot starch.

Pour back into the pot and cook on medium-low for fifteen minutes.

While that is cooking, add into a mixing bowl the ingredients for the crust until thoroughly combined.

In an oven-safe bowl (one you won’t mind eating out of), pour in the filling first and then add the crust on top.

Bake for thirty minutes or when the crust is completely cooked through.

Serves 1.