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I had a not so nice moment with my body in a dressing room recently. I said in this Instagram post, “I went shopping today. Put my body in front of mirrors. It was quite soul crushing. I’m reeling with the hangover of my 52-year-old body.” This mental place of self-hatred is a familiar abode…
It occurred to me this morning that I am either hopeful or I am hopeless at any given moment. Am I dreading my day or looking forward to it? And in that very answer is the truth of my life’s outlook. My perception of who I am and how I have value to add to…
When my son was little, if I saw he was doing something that would hurt himself intentionally, I’d say, “Don’t hurt my friend”. I say this to my daughter as well. The idea is that I care about them as much as I would a friend seems to be not as obligatory but a choice…
It’s a thing, this pattern of not enough, of body fix. I hate my bloated belly. I can’t lose the weight. Even when I did, it wasn’t enough. An addiction to self-hatred is what I say. The no compromise standards that keep us right on the other side of the fence of liking ourselves as…
I was rolling around doing housework and listening to a chatty DJ the other day. He spewed some statistics on how women get upset when they even think about trying on bathing suits. Well yeah, duh. And then he read the definition of the objectification of women. “To reduce somebody, or something that is complex…
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