My s_x is broken

I worried about postpartum sex while I was pregnant. Like, when will there be time for sex? or, will my partner think I am me sexy? As soon as I popped this kid out, it became clear that my body and my relationship to my body and my sexuality–to the very wonderful deliciousness that created this child in the first place–had dramatically changed.

There are many better written accounts about the physical trauma of birthing (Chrissy Tiegen or the Body Full of Stars book). What most of them have in common is the shock, the, “Why didn’t anybody tell me about this!?” No sane person would (should?) share with a pregnant woman anything bad that happened to them. And no sane pregnant woman would want to hear about them either. There’s also shame, stigma, and the solitude of going through something hard when it seems everyone else has it easy (which, really, we should know by now is never the case).

I am still not sure what exactly–what information, what mentoring–would have helped me prepare for the bleeding that continues for weeks (like, where does it come from? and why won’t it stop?); the way your breasts feel when a hungry mouth attaches to them, especially one that has a physical challenge and leaves bleeding, achy nipples, and oh man, that sensation when your milk comes in and suddenly you are carrying two solid, heavy stones on your chest; the medical staff demanding a stool from you when the last thing you want if you gave birth vaginally is to feel ANYTHING coming out that route; the actual ripping of flesh, that can rip in many different ways and in different parts and that needs to be sewn up and might be sewn up wrong; the impossibility of sleeping when tired or eating when hungry; the heart-stopping, all-consuming precipice of postpartum depression.

After 6 weeks, when I went to see my OBGYN (because that’s when the medical establishment has decided postpartum “ends”), she said, “all good” and I was super excited for sex– nervous too–and exercise, and to resume tiny bits of pre-baby life.

That night I pounced on my partner as soon as the baby was asleep (for a few hours at least). We fumbled, like newbies, like we’d never had has sex before. But it quickly became clear that something was actually wrong. Not only did it hurt like hell–I sort of expected that–but it just seemed impossible that it would actually go in. As if the space for it had closed. As if there was no hole. We stopped to regroup and figure out if maybe we were doing it wrong. Maybe we forgot how things worked? We tried again. No, for sure for sure, it was physically improbable that anything was going to go in.

Am I the only one who thought that birthing a multiple-pound being would result in stretching rather than tightening?  

I asked all the moms I knew: “Did sex hurt?” All but one said, “oh yeah it hurts;” a lot, for a long time, more than a year. For some, the pain didn’t start until later, when they thought they had been spared. Some tried it once and never again. Some just never tried. A dear friend told me to keep trying, through the pain and discomfort. But who on earth enjoys sex when it hurts?!

I wrote to my doctor: “Sex isn’t working.” “Is this normal?” “How do I fix it?” My next appointment revealed that the sutures to close the gash left by my baby’s exit had healed in such a way that they created a barrier of entry. When she showed me in a mirror, it looked like the little bit of tissue that connects the bottom of your tongue to the bottom of your mouth. Like it could be plucked, like a guitar string.

“We can cut it, if you want. Or you can just try stretching by yourself.” Urgh. I was certain I didn’t want another intervention. Also, breastfeeding dries up all the nature moisture from the vagina, so she prescribed an estrogen cream (which I bought but never used because a side effect is cancer).

She referred me to a vagina therapist for the internal pain. Ok, that’s not what they are called, but they should be. Pelvic floor therapists focus on the pelvic floor, the muscles, ligaments, and nerves that hold up, like a hammock, your bladder, uterus, vagina, and anus, and help them work well (and like, not fall into one another squishing pee and poop out without your control). In some countries, like France, you get pelvic floor therapy after birth simply because EVERY WOMAN benefits from it (even if there are some sexists reasons why France does it). In the US, though, they make you go through an insane process to “figure out” what is wrong, through loops and loops of paperwork and appointments to find out why sex hurts and why you pee when you sneeze, despite the fact that pelvic floor dysfunction is extremely common, well-studied, and easy to fix through therapy, and incontinence affects 1 in 3 women! They should teach you this when you are a teen, and when you get pregnant, and it should part of postpartum care. WHY IS THIS NOT THE CASE? I read an article from the UK that said that in countries were pelvic floor therapy isn’t common there are tons of products to help women live with incontinence (pads, weird tampon thingies) while little is done to fix this super fixable problem. I wonder why… hmm….someone is making money off women’s suffering.

My vagina therapist said my pelvic floor was just dandy. She said she’d never seen such a productive and strong kegel in a woman who just gave birth (hey, I’ll take a compliment wherever I can get it). The outside tissue had great spring to it, as she depressed it, inch by inch, with a q-tip to test its response. I thought, “Yay!” But a little secret of postpartum (and parenthood in general) is that things might be fine at one point and then not fine at the next. Like, your kid might sleep through the night until 9 months and then something happens and he doesn’t anymore. Your pelvic floor is a living, thriving part of your body and if you are not actively working on it and engaging it, it will slack and make you leak and live in pain. Being fat, having bad posture, my hip and hamstring congenital issues, not working out the muscles that support all of the pelvic area, AND not having rested completely in the first few weeks of postpartum (but really, I want to punch anyone that said that to me, because not everyone has the luxury), all contribute to a further deterioration of the the pelvic floor that results in more pee and more pain. The good news is that, like the rest of our body, it can be improved through exercise and therapy.

The vagina therapist’s assessment of the bad sutures was that I needed to let them heal longer. She said the inside and the outside had healed, but not the middle (she provided no mirror for me to see). She also said that a little stretching would help. “If you bleed, you’ve gone too far.” I really should write to her and ask what she meant by “too far,” like, is it good or is it bad, because that’s what happens every time. 

Pain and discomfort make sex undesirable but they aren’t the only challenges to a healthy sex life post-baby. I mean, they are probably the most impactful, given that almost 50% of women with some kind of pelvic floor dysfunction–be it incontinence or pain–avoid intercourse. But besides being so bone-tired that nothing seems sexier than sleep; Besides the soft folds that have taken permanent residence everywhere, and especially my belly, and make me feel unsexy; Besides the mood-killing raspy snores of our baby in the crib at the foot of the bed. Besides all that, sometimes, often, it feels like I just can’t put the right cassette in, or the right CD, or whatever the hell is the millennial equivalent of putting the right tune for the right moment. I just can’t switch in and out of mommahood, and definitely not suddenly. When your boobs are food, it is hard to shift them back to being part of the sexual menu. I can’t be cleaning diapers and praying my child has an easy time going to sleep and then, just like that, become a sexual maven. Quickies, and going from zero to action, are out of the question.

I am struggling to switch the sexy on.

Even masturbation has been a challenge. We live in a tiny studio, so “me time” isn’t a thing in our household. And now, this personal experience feels just a tiny bit icky. How can I muster kinky thoughts and sensations with my child nearby? And asking my husband to take the baby so I can “do” it, just feels wrong. Both my OBGYN and my vagina therapist told me I should be doing lots of self care (and it is among my favorite kinds of sexual expressions), but I just can’t muster the sexual energy. And when I do, it feels almost like cheating to use it up rather than share this energy with my partner. I asked my husband if he could just help me masturbate, that way we could both be together (it counts, right?), but I know that when we make it happen, I will feel so guilty that it will not be fun. Feminist sexual liberation comes to mind–I should focus on my pleasure first and always–but sex is relational to me and it is an important part of our marriage and relationship.

And let’s not forget also about how married sex isn’t the same as fun, single sex. And how sometimes, despite all that he does–and it is a lot–I resent that I bear a bigger burden in child rearing than my husband. And how when we both feel misunderstood and overwhelmed, nobody really wants to have sex. And how birth control can eff your libido up, and even though we use it correctly, I am constantly terrified that I could pregnant. And how we both wish sex could happen without any effort from either one of us.

So what now? Sex impacts our overall quality of life. For me, it is something that has heavily influenced my identity and which made me a mother (I mean, I became a mother by CHOICE because I wanted to and I could, but sex was the vehicle by which that happened).

My plan is first to deal with the physical stuff and then figure out how to deal with the relationship part. Got to strengthen my pelvic floor with squats, clams, hip raises, and yes, kegels. Also, lots of stretching from the video “Down There.” Every day, 3 times a day. I gotta stay focused on exercise, focusing on strength not weight loss because I need my own sexy on. And I gotta get back to acupuncture, massage, and chiropractic work. Perhaps igniting regular, long-standing babysitting relationship would extra helpful now. Therapy might be good, but honestly I don’t have the energy to initiate the process again (go to my OBYGYN, wait 2 months to get an appointment with 1 of 2 therapists in the whole Kaiser SF system dealing with tons of women facing the same issues (again why is this not basic, routine care?), have super long sessions with my child in the room because I wouldn’t have any other way of going). And there’s also some resentment towards a medical system that through it all–pregnancy, birth, and postpartum–has never put my best interest first (and don’t get me started with how badly they were dealing with postpartum depression). I did research pelvic floor reeducation machines, a smaller version of what they use at therapy, and I might get myself one.

The relationship stuff–making the time, channeling the right sexual energy at the right time, waking up the kink–those seem a bit harder to solve, or at least not as well researched and fixable as the physical stuff.

Patience, compassion, honesty, and love will help.

Talking about it feels like a good start.

 

There will no more milk stains on the floor

I nursed my baby for the last time, uneventfully, on the morning of the first day of spring, just 2 week shy of 4 months.

I cried all day.

A new bout of mastitis had put me on my back for 2 days, my 3rd one. The fever and the pain–pain that reached back into my spine every time my son nursed–and the swollen lymph node on my armpit convinced me to call the clinic. I’d thrown everything it at it: raw garlic, honey, lime, cayenne, echinacea, probiotics, apple cider vinegar, lecithin, vitamin C, heat, massage, cold, pumping, ibuprofen, Happy Ducts, belladona. You name it, I was taking and doing it all. Finally I decided to get a 3rd and more aggressive course of antibiotics. This was going to be last one I was going to take.

Nursing was never easy for us, my child and I. It was downright traumatic, physically and mentally.

I was originally going to write about why. To justify somehow to you, to myself, and maybe even to my son when he reads this one day, why I made this decision. I was going to write about his 2 tongue tie releases and 1 lip tie release, and the 3rd, deeper, tie that we didn’t get released because we just couldn’t handle it. And about the long list of supplements and therapies I took to help with supply and fight mastitis; about how keeping up supply and fighting mastitis became my entire life and they were so fragile and vulnerable and too easy to screw up. And about how my husband and I spent over $1,500, between specialist and treatments, just to be able to feed our child from the breast. And about how my nipples were dotted with fat, shiny blisters that ripped my body in pain every time I nursed, or hugged, or showered, and how a week after not breastfeeding at all they still haven’t healed up completely. And about how my breasts didn’t respond well to pumping, and about how when I tried to exclusively pump I got mastitis. And about how my baby’s body would tense up, and how his jaw was so tight, and how his palate was domed, and how he had a gag reflex that prevented him from taking more of the breast. And about how many people helped and supported us to be able to nurse and how thankful.

I want to whine, complain, compare, and tell you just how hard I tried. I want you to believe me. 

But at the end of the day, I made a choice and it was quite simply the right choice for me.

There will be no more milk stains on the floor anymore. But there will also be no more ripping pain, no more infections, no more crying in frustration and pain, for me or my son.

I am proud of having fought so hard to give you the best, my cacahuatito, and also proud that I finally figured out when the best might not be what I imagined.

 

I am mother

I had a list of affirmations for the birth of my child. At the babyshower, people wrote them on big cardstock so I could hang them up as a banner when it was time. But when I got home that evening I found a new affirmation, one that I didn’t write or expect, and that really rattled me: “I am mother.” Nope. Not going on my banner.

I wanted my pregnancy to be low key. People all over the world, across the entire expanse of time we’ve been a species in this world, have had babies and continued their normal lives. That’s what I wanted. I kept going to the gym, eating how I normally ate, doing basically all the same things (except no alcohol and yes prenatal pills). I wanted to feel “normal.” I wanted the transition to feel easy and uneventful.  

With my mom’s Alzheimer’s progressing and the beginning of my own new role as a mother, I felt sandwiched between grief and a need to assert my motherhood as very different than my mom’s. Calls home became fewer and more traumatic; my dad demanded I focus on my mom’s sickness and I refused to talk about my pregnancy but demanded to be treated gently as I was knee-deep into the throngs of its hormone-induced madness. I wanted to pretend everything was fine, nothing to see here: no sick mom, no loss, no fear.

The birth experience was both what I expected and planned for. I thoroughly believed and continue to believe that this is what our bodies are made for but it also left me feeling powerless; not because of anything external, but because the very nature of labor is the loss of control and I resented that. Hypnobirthing helped me work through the opening and effacing. I could see the muscles working, the baby working his way down as he should, the cervix opening and disappearing to make room. I was proud that I was able to manage the waves with focus and strength. What I didn’t expect, and I guess, how could one, was the viscerality and vulnerability of pushing the baby out. Natural, my ass. How did we evolve to push a creature through tissue that isn’t flexible, past bones that can only move a little, ripping, bleeding, burning?

And then he came, my beautiful child. I don’t remember much about this moment with him, because just as he was placed on me, the resident plunged her hands deep inside me again to stop what my midwives called “significant” bleeding and sew me up. It’s all very vivid in my memory. More vivid than the birth. Lots of things were lobbed at me right at this moment: that I was diagnosed with gestational hypertension late during the labor, that my baby was small and was phlegmy, that I ripped a lot, that they used a lot of material in the sutures, that my baby couldn’t latch (later we learned it was because he had several tongue ties). My nature is to focus on the negative and this was no different. Where was the avalanche of “happy hormones” washing over me, making me love everything and everyone? Wasn’t that why I worked so hard for an unmedicated vaginal birth?

The hospital stay was a whirlwind. Every single person that came into our room had totally different advice, different concerns, different bedside manners but everyone pretty much magnified our ineptitud and scared the crap out of us. Every new worry built up from the previous one until it felt like we had entered a new reality filled with dangers and no sleep. Somehow everybody feels it is duty to inform you that you won’t sleep for a while. Each time the effect was to make us feel like we were fucked.

At home, we were zombies. Despite “knowing” what we should do –nurse, change, bounce, skin-to-skin– this little crying baby baffled us. The baby blues, 3 skips into full postpartum depression, got a hold of me. I was consumed with the permanence of this change, the inmensity, the feeling that, despite what my brain was telling me, it would always be this tough and we would always be so bad at it and that it would never improve. Sleep deprivation fucks you up.

One night, I woke up in the middle of the night to a crying baby that I had to feed with my aching boobs. Sitting on the toilet to pee before I set myself up with every pillow in our apartment, I looked down at my right boob, lovingly called Sofia, which was throbbing, and, panicked, I thought the boob was my baby. “I lost my baby’s mouth! I lost his nose! How will he survive!?” It took me a full minute to realize that Sofia was just a boob.

There’s so much I thought I knew about breastfeeding and none of it mattered. I had no idea what supply meant, when my let down happened or how it worked, and how to “stuff the nipple like a sandwich” into the baby’s mouth. I cleaned a good portion of our hardwood floors with my breastmilk, chasing the random droplets on the floor until I realized they were coming from my body. I tried all kinds of positions but it was gamble every time; sometimes it was ok, sometimes it wasn’t. Baby cried a lot a lot, and it turns out that it was because despite spending hours and hours on the boob, he wasn’t getting enough milk. His tongue couldn’t really do the motions. He had a tongue tie.

Depression hit me hard between week 1 and 2. My sister Tere held me softly as I cried and cried, sorrowful tears of loss and fear and… was it despair? I know that doesn’t match up with what was expected of me. I should be joyful. I should be thankful. I should feel magical, lucid love. But I didn’t. When Elkin returned from the gym one day, he found me gripped with such an immense depression that we both got really scared. This was not normal. I stopped taking my placenta pills. I made an appointment for acupuncture the next day. I am still immensely thankful that Elkin was willing to stay with our son, alone, for my hour-long visits to the community clinic.

Postpartum surprised me. Like breastfeeding, it is built on perfect scenarios that at least for me were basically impossible to meet. You have to be nailing the breastfeeding for one, and somehow be able to do it lying down so as to not put pressure on your hoo-ha. Nope. Your partner has to know how to care for the baby with an expertise they never had before and which is nearly impossible to acquire alone. So, nope. You have to eat “right” and drink tons and tons of water when you barely know what day it is, who you are, or how to get food, not just how to get it into your home but how to get it into your belly –we barely had time to physically get the food into our mouths and in a world of competing priorities, sleep was significantly more important than food. Another no. You have to somehow be able to rest when there are way too many things to do (many, many more than your partner can do) and your mind is going a mile a minute trying to grapple with everything that’s happening with the baby and to you. And you’re supposed to stay at home even though the most import element of your depression self-care is to get sunshine and fresh air, and to exercise. And then there is the bleeding; for weeks on end – where is all this damn blood coming from? You are told that if you don’t rest completely, which it’s already clear is simply not possible for you, you will have incontinence and get mastitis. You get mastitis, mostly because you do not understand breastfeeding; possibly because you didn’t rest enough. Nope. Nope. Nope.

Then things did start to improve. Improve in some way and become more challenging in others. I always laugh when people say it gets better at x weeks; and then you get to x weeks and it isn’t better and then they say, “it gets better at x months.” Always later and later until you realize, it doesn’t quite get better because “better” is actually just “different.”

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But the most important shift to make things better for me was in fact already taking place. I realized that while I expected motherhood to be epic and life-changing, I actually believed that things would go back to normal; that I would go back to normal; that I would go back to being Miri, Miri plus, now as a mother, but still very much myself. And the truth is, there is no such thing. There is no going back, there is only moving forward into a new identity, alongside this new person who I am getting to know and love. I grieved that change because that is just how I relate to the world, in constant grief. And because the feedback loop with my child, my very sensitive, vocal child, isn’t there yet; he doesn’t yet hangout or laugh. But the end of the day, as my sense of self shifts, becoming both larger and smaller than my previous identities, I am, rather slowly, embracing this new one: I am mother. I am mother. I am mother.

 

A planned surprise: Pregnancy!

I misread the pregnancy test.

The 2nd line was so faint that I assumed it was an error: the test had expired a couple of years earlier (my older sister gave it to me); I peed in the afternoon instead of in the am, when it is recommended; I thought I was infertile.

So out we went for margaritas.

In wee hours of the night I woke up with a thought: could that faint line mean something? I dug up the test from the trash and got googling. It turns out, lots of women misread their pregnancy tests. Not only, as you might assume, because we are dimwits, but also because it takes time for pregnancy hormones to show up on a test, and you might not be expecting the news, and tests do sometimes fail. So I jostled my poor husband awake and told him the news–he was groggy and confused but supportive, and patted me sweetly on the belly before going back to sleep. I proceeded to stare at the ceiling in terror.

Oh.my.god.

When I was 15, a respected–and expensive–gynecologists in my hometown in Mexico told me, point blank: “You are infertile.” He based his “expert” opinion on the fact that my period wasn’t regular (which is common in teenagers, as you would assume), I had polycystic syndrome (which does cause fertility issues but is treatable), and my uterus was slightly tilted (which is a common variance that has no effect on conception). I have no faith in Mexican doctors, and was on birth control most of my adult life, clearly believing it was necessary, yet I still harbored the idea that pregnancy wouldn’t be possible for me.

When my husband and I decided I would go off the pill, it was under the belief that it would take a year to get pregnant, if it was possible. I even transferred into his health insurance plan because, unlike my work one, it offered infertility coverage. We didn’t check what it covered for labor and delivery.

As luck would have it, I got pregnant the very first month we tried.

There’s an expression in Spanish that really conveys how I felt and continue to feel: “sentimientos encontrados.” The comparable expression in English would be “mixed feelings,” but to me, the English expression means feelings are all jumbled together, bleeding into each other, fighting, conflicted. The Spanish expression is more like these feelings all meet up in the middle, cramped into a tiny space right at the mouth of the gut, and are looking at each other in shock. Glee, sadness, fear, love, panic, excitement, confusion.

How did we get here?

The first people I told about my pregnancy were people who I knew could and would recognize, accept, reflect, and support the complexity of what I was feeling rather than oversimplify it. I am also lucky to have as friends so many of my co-workers, and to work in an organization that develops many incredibly useful, and women-centered materials on reproductive health, pregnancy, and birth; they were all supportive, helpful, and compassionate. Both the people, and the books.

As an existentialist, nothing would catapult me deeper into a crisis than knowing I was having a boy. In addition to all the common fears–money, where to live, daycare, a body that didn’t feel mine anymore, labor, romance and sex now and after birth, family, global warming, health insurance, chemicals, virulent anti-facts movement, racism, name–suddenly I now had to worry about machismo, male role models, challenges towards equal fatherhood, rape culture, the Principito complex, toxic masculinity, violence, emotional maturity and language, Latino homophobia and misogyny, penises…

I was taught. and have taught my nieces, to fight the system. But, could I help create a new one by raising a feminist son, alongside my husband, in a toxic male-dominated society?

Perhaps what scares me the most is ceasing to exist to others as myself and now existing solely as a mother, in relation to another being. It is similar to why being introduced as someone’s wife also annoys me. As a fetus grows inside of me, I am now a vessel, solely responsible for everything that happens to it, seen as a bad mother for accidentally walking into cigarette smoke without noticing or because I drank when I didn’t yet know I was pregnant or because I really, really want an ice-cold michelada or 2 right now, and because I am now supposed to think and pray and worry only about it, and then me, but only in relation to it.

When I was getting a couple’s massage with my husband last week, one of the masseuses asked us to breathe into the part of the body that was most ailing us. My lower back was rocking me–I have 2 herniated discs on one side and sciatica on the other–but before I could send my sweet, sweet breath there, now bunching up, impatient, in my belly, the masseuse said to me, “you, send your breath to your baby.” It took me by surprise, but I sent it to where I was hurting anyways.

I am also deeply annoyed at people’s beliefs about pregnancy and the utter, fantastical mythology and misconceptions many hold, an obvious and emblematic symptom of deeply entrenched misogyny, particularly in Latino culture. For an experience that every human goes through (we are all birthed), and which such a large percentage of humanity endures (women make up 50% of the population and many will be pregnant at least once), it is shocking how little we know and how easily we believe in crap and repeat things that cannot logically happen to every woman everywhere. I’ve been in circles of mothers who shout out absolutes: “All first borns come late!” “All boys make round bellies!” “Fat women don’t show early!” “All of this kind of food is good/bad!” “If you do this/if you don’t do this, you will have a painless labor!” while in their very next breath they share something from their own personal experience that completely negates what they just said. All I keep repeating is: the one constant is that everybody is different.

With a “geriatric pregnancy” and as an “obese” woman I also have to deal with a bunch of other stigmas, many, coming directly from my doctor’s office. I was told I shouldn’t gain more than 11 pounds (5 kg), but wasn’t told why this was going to be such a carefully measured and guilt-inducing metric (though thanks to Emily Oster’s Expecting Better, I understand the debate a bit more). While we all can agree that gaining 50 lbs, pregnancy or not, isn’t healthy, and there is some data showing that staying within the the Institute of Medicine’s recommended ranges (11-20 lbs for my BMI)–though there is still lots of debate–has the best outcomes for mom and baby, the best approach would be to focus on helping pregnant women figure out how to increase nutrition-dense foods, water intake, and exercise,  rather than emphasize a number on the scale or pushing women to count calories, as my OBGYN recommended for me. The whole medical system should be better adept at providing support and guidance that reflects knowledge and compassion of the person’s habits, reality, capabilities, and desires–not a blanket, one-size-fits-all recommendation.

I am also convinced the scale at the hospital is off, so I am keeping a photo and journal record of my weight gain. Every time I’ve been weighed at my doctor’s office, I am 2-3 pounds heavier than what I recorded just the day before at the gym (and I wear my lightest clothing and shoes when I go to the doctor). Body and weight-shaming rarely work to promote healthy weight and can actually harm pregnant women’s sense of well-being and esteem. Harm all people, really.

While many will judge me for choosing to refer to the product of this pregnancy as a fetus (which it is, factually-speaking) or because I am not tripping over words like “blessing” and “my all” and “god’s gift,” the reality is that pregnancy, labor, and parenthood, and all the feelings, thoughts, and expectations associated with it–in addition to the irrefutable reality of how it plays out for us–is a unique and individual experience, while also one of the most central to our humanity. There are smug mothers, and mothers with a certain economic and social status that will tell you how it should be done; there are ones that read all the books and ones that don’t; there are ones that collapse inward and others that reach out to connect to the collective experience; there are ones that dreamed of being at this stage and ones that never imagine it.  There is no right way, no single way, no perfect way to experience this.

As a sense of fierce determination begins to develop inside of me, born from a gamut of what I can only call “pregger harassment,” I welcome the supportive, compassionate, and loving and I reject the unhelpful, butting, uninformed, ill-informed, judge-y, sexist, unkind, and unaware.

For now, let me get back to my grapefruit and rockaleta cravings.

 

 

“Are you excited?!”

I’m getting married in a week and I still haven’t figured out how to answer the question: “are you excited?”

Well, when I’m alone with Elkin, we are both giddy, like little kids, as we count down the days; him with a twinkle in those mischievous chocolate-brown eyes; me, a little hysterical.

And then I look at the to-do list and I feel equal parts dread and fear. Dread that there’s so much to be done still that, because of who I am (and Elkin is too), is getting done at the very end. Then the fear rolls in: will it be like I imagine? Can I figure out how to communicate exactly what I want? Do I even know what I want, and how combine it with what Elkin wants? Can he figure out how to communicate his dreams and desires? Will people be happy? Will we be? Fear that my apparently insatiable need for romantic expression will not be met: that the ceremony will be a mess; that the vows will be insipid; that the blessings will be superficial; that the love given will not be sufficient; that I will miss my mom too much.

Thinking of my family and Elkin’s family and our friends makes feel guilty. I’ve loved the sweet expressions of connection and also love gifts overall. But wedding-related gifts just feel too much, like I want to buy an equally generous gift card for every person who gave me one. It feels like a hot potato that I don’t want to hold on to for too long. I’ve also asked for so much from everyone around me, to hold me up and support me, despite their challenges, that it feels like I’m running a credit for which I don’t know the interest rate.

At the same time, I’m holding some deep and nasty grudges, even if I can clearly see that they are neither helpful nor healthy (or fair). I’m mad at the people who haven’t been there for us and I’m especially mad at the people who haven’t been there for him — the ones that he supported and loved through their own love journeys, but who didn’t and won’t reciprocate. Mad at all of those who bemoaned our relationship, and continue to do so, for the most narcissistic of reasons: because he doesn’t drink and party as much; because we lives so far; because he has found passion in his politics and backs them up with facts; because he wants to include me in decisions that affect us both; because he chose a passionate, opinionated, and educated feminist as a wife; because he isn’t the “same,” despite the fact that we all change with age and wisdom, and through the magic and madness of relationships.

Then sadness occupies its honored space. Sad that I am missing out on having my momma’s wit and love and strength, alongside her body. Yet grateful that my boyfriend and his family and my own family have allowed me to do this crazy tiny wedding in this tiny little town, so we can have Mary be part of this union, as she is and who she is now. And also sad that I cannot fix the hole left by my boyfriend’s missing friends and family.

I’m also just surprised that this is happening and to me. That despite my terribly dramatic outlook in life, somehow I’m getting this magic. Not the wedding, but the love, the expression, and the ritual.

Then there’s doubt: Do we have what it takes to build a strong and long-lasting marriage? Will we be one of the stats? How good are we and will we be at surfing the waves of life and at “reinventing” our relationship to withstand the challenges ahead? Will our vows glue us together when we are so easily rattled by our own individual challenges?

And sometimes, in the quiet moments I have this strange, sweet nostalgia. So much of my young adult and adult life have been spent looking for someone; getting ready, dressing up, and going out to find someone; having my heartbroken and healing and having hope to fall in love again; and searching and searching for the very thing I am so lucky to have now. It is letting go of an era, happy to welcome a new one, but still…it was quite the adventure!

And at the very top of it all, I feel extremely happy and joyously thrilled to marry a man whom I love so much, who loves me back in equal fervor;  a great friend and fantastic lover, the best kisser, who has opened up my world to new things, just like I have done for him. Even if I feel vulnerable feeling so happy, because, well, it isn’t always happy, right? We are unique people with different ideas about pretty much everything, and a laughable ineptitude at adult communication –he gets all grumpy and distant and I dissolve into a pool of tears and hide in the closet, not unlike my 3-year old niece C.

Yet here we are, about to get married, and all I’m trying to do is to be open to all these feelings, letting go of expectations and demand and needs, and to focus purely on what matters: you and I. 

So… am I excited? Hell yes!

How to go back to giving zero f**ks

One day I look at my body, and its luscious voluptuousness makes me feel powerful and sexy. The very next day, the exact same body only makes me feel ashamed.

That ever happen to you?

I don’t know when things switched for me, when I went from a woman who gave zero f**ks about fitting a certain size and looking a certain way and being approved-of, to now, worried all the time about it, see-sawing between being hyper-aware and hyper-sensitive of every comment meant to shame and needing to punch some faces.

The last memory I have of being totally free and happy with myself was in the Ngorongoro crater in Tanzania in 2001, 20 lbs heavier than I am now, with a giant nose ring, shaved head, wearing Maasai clothing, and not ever seeing a mirror. That sense of non-body-specific self-worth lasted me a few years.

Until Korea; it wrecked havoc on my sense of worth, with the most intense and nasty body-shamming I’ve experienced in my life. I wasn’t singled out for my size; body-shaming seems to be a national sport.

And then Mexico, where women are required to spend all their energies to “look pretty” and to fight tooth and nail against aging,  lest they actually do become old or, worse, fat, or even worse, liberated.

As it turns out, from the latest stint in California and joining a whole new Latino culture, this pressure is less country-specific and more of a regional, probably worldwide, disease — equating womanhood with vanity, women’s value with how they look.

For all that I want to hold on to my narrative of chingona, badass feminist, totally in control of her identity, I’ve found that these constant messages about worth = weight, a game I am clearly losing (but don’t get me started — I am, above all, healthy (great numbers) and strong), slowly seep into my soul, crushing it.

Oscillating between “Why don’t you just lose the weight?” and  “Why are you ashamed of your body?” is  a never-ending rollercoaster that I have to ride, again and again, not by choice, but because someone has decided that being fat is the ultimate failure, worse than being selfish or uncaring or unfaithful.

I want to go back to giving zero f**cks but I am struggling. What works for you? How do you hold your tender self in all its glory as you walk in the minefield that is this fat-shaming world? And how do you, perhaps with equal tenderness, guide your loved ones towards a place that allow them to see and love you no matter your size, your defects, your soft cushiony beauty?

Who decided it was bad to have a little extra this, a little lumpy that?

 

 

 

Teary bride

I’ve cried more in the 2 months since getting engaged than ever before in my life.

Don’t get me wrong: I am thrilled to be marrying my fiancé. He makes me laugh everyday, believes in me even when I don’t, and has made me understand how amazing romantic love is and should be — how it could be. And he is hot, kind, smart, and bilingual…I could go on.

The flood of tears  comes mostly from one of the most emblematic aspects of marriage: family; figuring out how to honor and respect both of our families and their and our dramatically different perspectives about marriage, love, weddings, and commitment; how all of that looks like to them and to us,  what “counts” and what doesn’t, while also validating the hard times each one is going through.

My mom’s Alzheimer’s and that all-compassing and pervasive mourning has played an important role in all the waterworks. The waves of loss and guilt wash over me again and again, and I still can’t tell the story of how I got engaged without crying.

I remember having brunch with her in my favorite spot in Berkeley 6 years ago, eating those lovely eggs Benedict, the idea that her smart, witty self would be lost someday far from our thoughts, and she said:

I don’t envy you young ones. Before it was easy. You chose someone. You moved to wherever they were. You made it work.

And she did. She fell in love with my dad, 3, 500 miles away, and decided to move to Mexico to be with him. Drove herself from Milwaukee in a little Opal with all her belongings, clutch-less hundreds of miles before arriving, calling him only hours before rolling into Mexico City. And then she stayed. She made it work.

My parents have the most amazing love story. Still do: the fervor of my dad’s love towards my mom, as the disease robs her of her capacity to reciprocate, is absolute and an impossibly high-bar to strive for.

I miss my parents so much.

Selfishly, I miss the role my mom played in my life and mourn the void she leaves in the puzzle of my wholeness. I miss her consoling me, and the power she wielded  in my favor as only a mom can do.

During my last visit, my dad arranged a sweet moment with her when we listened to Lorena Mckennitt, the music she loved and loves. For a few moments, as she saw me cry, she held and consoled me, like I needed and like I couldn’t do for her. And she said:

Why are you crying, baby?

And I cry and cry because I also miss my dad and the partnership and bond we’ve shared all my life, now so fragile.

And I cry because I miss my brother, his sense of well-being and self-agency depleted by his role as caregiver and by falling prey to herb and barley demons.

And I cry because I don’t know how to have a wedding that can truly matter to me without my sisters, and they too are dealing with all kinds of issues that bring them heartbreak.

And I cry because my need for authenticity and romanticism, to seriously and reverently take this step, collides with my fiancé’s desires for simplicity or at least some recognizable traditionalism that makes it easy and comfortable.

And I cry because it is hard for his parents, far away from him, seeing him to evolve to a Colombian 2.0. 

Perhaps I will cry enough that when  October comes, I will not burst into tears at our family-only ceremony in Mexico; and be dry, dry, dry for our wedding party celebration 6 months later, on the day we got engaged.

As my oldest sister said today to me: “You were always so sentimental.”

She knows me, and loves me, well.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Colombia

1a parada: Bogotá

Bogotá es una ciudad hermosa, el verde de las impresionantes colinas que abrazan la ciudad es la mejor bienvenida de un largo viaje y llegar en domingo es maravilloso porque puede uno ver la ciclovía mas larga del mundo deslizándose por toda la ciudad; por las avenidas más importantes, junto a la carretera, por el centro, fomentando la idea de que la ciudad, todas las ciudades, son y deberían ser de la gente.

Nuestra visita a Bogotá seria muy corta y como buenos y andantes viajeros, teníamos ya planeadas todas las horas de la estadía. Rechazando mi inclinación natural por quedarnos en La Candelaria, el centro colonial de Bogotá que está resurgiendo en un apogeo turístico pero sigue aun manchado por su historia vándala, nos quedamos en el “Guetto Gourmet” de la zona de Chapinero en el norte.

De ahí es muy fácil montarse en el Transmilenio, que cuesta solo unos cuantos pesos y es la vena central del transporte público. Nuestros familiares y amigos, no siendo de la ciudad, nos inculcaron un miedo enorme del Transmilenio, pero nosotros nos montamos sin pensarlo dos veces, sin mapa ni dirección, solo las instrucciones entrecortadas de la recepcionista del hotel, rumbo a Zipaquirá donde está la Catedral de Sal.

Llegamos sin problemas a la terminal norte para tomar una buseta, dentro de un mar de ellas, que identificamos por los gritos de ¨Zipaaaaaaaa¨ ¨ZipAAAAAAA¨del conductor. Una hora y una pestañeadita después, nos botaron en el centro del pueblo de Zipaquirá donde nos toco caminar, montaña arriba, por 20 minutos, por el camino de la sal.

Seré la primera en admitir que el largo viaje y la caminata difícil me hicieron un poquito gruñona y empezamos el recorrido de la catedral en discordia. Pero tan pronto entramos en la refrescante oscuridad de la mina de sal, cambio todo. La Catedral de Sal no es antigua ni tiene preliado, pero hay algo estupendamente maravilloso e inspirado de la forma en que se narra el viacrucis, no con figuras humanas, sino con el diseño y arquitectura de las cruces, talladas en la sal. Aun con tantos turistas, se siente quietud y asombro, y las profundidades no exploradas, y no visibles,  emanan cierta seducción.

De Zipaquirá no es muy lejos el pueblo de Chía, nuestro segundo destino, y con direcciones que más o menos eran ¨tomen un taxi a la central y busquen una buseta que diga Chía¨ terminamos apretujados en una buseta que se paso más de una hora atorada en tráfico.  En Chía se encuentra el mega restaurante Andrés Carne de Res, que es el mejor lugar para hacer una rumba, pero no en domingo ya noche. Pero igual la pasamos bien.

El día siguiente salimos temprano hacia el centro para hacer el tour de graffiti. Resulta que en Colombia el graffiti no es penado, por lo que hay una amplitud de artistas de arte callejero; no solo de pintura, sino de escultura también, y de arte de otros tipos. El arte callejero dentro de la Candelaria no es político – ese está en todas las demás partes de la ciudad, pero el tour sin duda fue de los tours más informativos, atractivos, interesantes y bien diseñados a los que he ido.

Después de comer el famoso ajiaco en la Puerta Falsa, lugar afamado que además cuenta con un sin número de imitadores, fuimos al museo de Botero y a bebernos una cerveza Bacatá (nombre original de Bogotá) finalmente regresando al hotel agotados por el esfuerzo y el calor agresivo que dejaría secuelas en mi cuerpo por el resto del viaje. La visita imprevista con un amigo culto y bien viajado, completó el día hermoso y ajetreado.

2nd parada: Popayán

Popayán esta al suroeste del país con un centro blanco, exaltado en una pintura de Botero que reside en su museo bogotano y el renombre de ser la primera ciudad en haber sido nombrada por la UNESCO como Ciudad de Gastronomía.

Llegamos en fiestas decembrinas para visitar a la familia y los pocos días de visita revolvían alrededor del año nuevo. Degustamos cosas interesantes como la carantanta, que es el asiento de la cocción de la arepa, que queda en capas planas como chicarrón (de piel no de carne) y se refríen hasta quedar crujientes y suntuosas. Probamos también los tamales tolimenses, que son más guisado que tamal, con pedazos generosos de pollo y tocino sin ahumar, zanahorias, papas, y hasta arroz, envuelto en hoja de plátano. Y los desayunos con tazas enormes de chocolate humeante.

Fue en Popayán que tuve mi primer experiencia con un “estilista” colombiano: 4 horas de confusión, dolor y una toalla usada para todas las clientas. Nunca supe qué producto me pusieron en la cabeza, mi corte de cabello duró exactamente 20 segundos (puse la cabeza entre mis rodillas, me volteó todo el cabello y me cortó las puntas: tan tan) y trataron mi cabello como si estuvieran lavando trapos en el lavadero, jalando, estrujando, frotando, exprimiendo, como si no estuviera conectado a mi cabeza.

Y dónde, caminando por el verdoso paisaje que alguna vez fue parte de la legacía de la familia, aprendiendo del linaje familiar de inmensa opresión hacia hombres y mujeres por igual, tuve mi primer, pero no último, roce con el machismo todopoderoso que existe en Colombia, heredado quizás de la violenta dominación española y perpetuado tristemente por una cultura que acepta como irrefutable lo que sabemos es aprendido y no genético; que ha educado generación tras generación de colombianas y colombianos con la limitante filosofía de que los hombres son solo buenos para “coger, beber y pelear” y tener hijos y que las mujeres están para aceptar, aprobar y justificar acciones y situaciones que las mantienen estresadas, celosas e infelices y que las ponen en riesgo de violencia física y sobre todo emocional. El machismo es un problema mundial, y su cara colombiana está visible en las familias complicadas con padres compartidos e infantilizados, que nunca maduran, y que se han convertido en la norma no la excepción.

El año nuevo lo recibimos en el campo, en familia, con botella tras botella de aguardiente, un lechón enorme. Escribimos nuestros propósitos para el año por venir en papelitos amarillos con la intención de quemarlos, y terminamos compartiendo papelitos con toda la fiesta, pequeños incendios emanando en cada rinconcito de la carpa. Al pasar la noche, los invitados empezaron a desaparecer, unos por tomar demasiado, otros por que estaban aburridos, la mayoría porque estaban cansados, pero la fiesta no acababa y la música seguía ensordecedora. Ver a todos los invitados apiñados dentro de la casa bajo cobertores y abrigos, aceptando sin tapujos que 3 borrachos iban a determinar la noche para más de 30 personas, fue suficiente para que a las 6 de mañana yo perdiera los estribos. Cuando ya no hay fiesta, ¿porqué deben de sufrir todas y todos por el machismo de un minúsculo porcentaje de los invitado?

Nuestro primer día del año nos encontró dormidos y, luego, adormilados, y después, peleados y reconciliados. Dentro de los más poderosos de los sentimientos del mundo, esta el sentirse como parte de un equipo, con un lenguaje secreto, y una actitud de “nosotros en contra el mundo” y cuando lo recuperamos esa noche, ese primer día del año, fortalecimos tremendamente nuestra relación.

3ra parada: Manizales

Atravesando 3 estados y un sin fin de climas, el viaje hacia Manizales desde Popayán fue de los más lindo, probando todas las ricas frutas del centro del país, bebiendo jugo de uva recién hecho, y los más fabulosos panes de bono que he comido. Lamentablemente, descubrí que en ninguna otra parte los hacen como en este restaurante especializado en ellos, que los hace como paos de queijos, airosos por todo lo que los demás son pesados.

A Manizales la abrazan  montañas de follaje robusto y tiene un clima placentero. Es una ciudad conocida por su café y aguardiente, sus mujeres lindas y su legacía española. Dos emblemas de la ciudad representan con precisión lo que Manizales valora. Primero, una catedral gótica, construida por un equipo de extranjeros, con materiales importados mal adaptados al clima húmedo y que, en solo unos años de haber sido construida, ya se está deshaciendo. Y segundo, un himno de la ciudad que pone a la “juventud” como el mayor de sus tributos, empezando así, “Manizales, beso tu nombre, que significa juventud”.

La visita no era al azar. Estábamos ahí para disfrutar de la feria de Manizales, una feria que gira, más que nada, alrededor de la experiencia ecuestre y taurina. No apruebo del maltrato animal, que indudablemente es y siempre será este tipo de “tradiciones” y al parecer tampoco estoy sola en mi entendimiento, siendo que un gran número de activistas en Colombia han logrado que se prohíba esta práctica barbárica en varias partes del país. Esta entrevista con Alvaro Múnera, un torero colombiano que ahora está en contra de las corridas, ofrece un buen contraargumento a las justificaciones de esta violencia y es una interesante lectura para este contexto cultural.

Como antropóloga y más que nada como invitada de la familia de mi novio (¡ahora prometido!), me sentí afortunada de poder vivir esta experiencia con él, y de entender el gran valor que tienen las corridas en su identidad colombiana y más que nada para su padre y familia paterna. Armada con un el más certero relativismo cultural que pude reunir, asistí a las corridas y aprendí todo lo que pude de la corrida, todo el simbolismo y el ritual: tomar de la bota, aventar la chamarra de piel cuando el torero torea bien, abuchear y gritar con cada movimiento y todo lo que ocurre después de la corrida: el ir a comer los increíbles chuzos de la esquina, ir a beber al barcito antiguo, que era un lugar increíble en su apogeo pero ya no lo es, y después, el debate de que a cuál carpa ir, porque hay música de todo tipo en todas partes y para todos los costos.

Al principio de nuestra estancia yo no entendí que todo revolvía alrededor de las corridas, puesto que los primeros días turisteamos por aquí y por allá, y por eso le había dicho a mi novio que solo me gustaría ir a 2 corridas (de 7), pensando que haríamos otras cosas los demás días.

Esos primeros días nos levantábamos temprano para ir al estadio; tan lindo que es entrar en un estadio tan verde y limpio y ver a la ciudad disfrutar de este espacio público. Luego tomábamos jugo de mandarina, recién hecho, para después comer buñuelos colombianos riquísimos. Yo estaba obsesionada con los buñuelos desde que descubrí que eran tan radicalmente diferente a los que tenemos en México. Por todo lo que los buñuelos mexicanos son delgados discos fritos hasta crocantes y chorreados con miel dulce, los buñuelos colombianos son esferas perfectas, dulcesaladas, fritas hasta que el pan se cocina pero manteniéndose esponjosas. Con un chocolatito o un café son de lo más placenteras.

El dueño de los mejores buñuelos de Manizales, es un hombre emprendedor que un día, hace 10 años, trato de complacer a sus hijos haciéndoles buñuelos, y descubriendo que no es tan fácil. Como yo también hice buñuelos recién, sabía perfectamente lo que significaba que explotarán las bolitas en el aceite. Me compartió un poco de su historia, de su receta y hasta hablamos del tipo de vacas que producen la leche que se usa para hacer el queso que produce los mejores buñuelos (Jersey)  aunque aquí solo hay vacas Holstein.

Un día fuimos a pescar, otro día a las aguas termales, luego a caminar por el centro, hacer el tour de la catedral, hasta vimos una peli en el cine llamada ¿Usted no sabe quien soy? que me dio un muy buen vistazo de la familia colombiana.  Comimos rico todos los días, siempre había familia, y música y todos los días planificados a plenitud.

Mi novio fue anfitrión, confidente, amigo, guía turístico y caja de resonancia mientras trataba de entender la cultura colombiana, y los choques que tenía con ella. He viajado a 21 países en 5 continentes, y este viaje a Colombia presentó un reto interesante para mi; de querer entenderlo todo, recordarlo todo, integrarlo todo y de imaginar lo que significaría ser parte de esa cultura de una forma mucho más real que en ningún otro viaje. Al fin y al cabo, mi vida esta permanentemente entrelazada con este hombre maravilloso de descendencia colombiana con el que pienso casarme, y quiero saber y analizar todas las formas en que nuestra vida juntos será influenciada por Colombia, de la misma forma que me imagino el ser pregunta o analiza cómo la cultura mexicana o la cultura norteamericana de mi familia influenciarán, tanto de forma positiva como de forma negativa, nuestro futuro.

Y en este papel de mi todo durante este viaje, mi novio quedó con la impresión de que el viaje me traumatizó. Sin embargo, este viaje lo que hizo, más bien, fue despertar en mi una sed por conocer la Colombia poco convencional, la que esta afuera de la fiesta, y el aguardiente, y la infidelidad y la rumba que nos presentan los colombianos como su identidad nacional; lejos de esa Colombia de “Pablo Escobar” que han permitido se convierta en léxico popular al negar su existencia y dejar de ser agentes de su propia historia. Quiero saber los origines de la arepa, y de los grupos indígenas en todo el país, y del movimiento sindical tan fuertemente reprimido que ha hecho que Colombia esté entre los 10 lugares más peligrosos para las trabajadoras y los trabajadores en todo el mundo, y su arqueología (al parecer con uno de los sitios arqueológicos más antiguos del continente) y su flora y fauna y de las miles de cosas que hacen maravillosos al país y a su gente.

Pero algo sí quedó para siempre arruinado para mi durante este viaje: la rumba. Detrás de ella yace, no la desenfadada felicidad que pretende profesar, sino los monstruos que asedian esta cultura: el alcoholismo incontrolado; la violencia y agresividad;  el machismo; la poca responsabilidad de los hombres que glorifican la infidelidad, denigran a todas las mujeres y parece permitirles ser su peor persona. Por más que parece ser equitativa, la rumba colombiana causa un desasosiego impresionante para las mujeres e hijos de estos hombres colombianos, que son víctimas del descontrol alabado por la rumba.

El último día teníamos planeado pasarlo en Bogotá, pero un mal cálculo de nuestra parte en cuestión de los vuelos y una racha de mala suerte con el clima, terminó manteniéndonos en Manizales todo el día hasta casi salir para E.E.U.U.

Y ya acá la vida vuelve a algo más normal, más controlado, más responsable, menos machista.

Hasta que nos veamos de nuevo Colombia.

 

 

 

How’s that Fitbit working for you?

 

Every time someone asks me how my Fitbit is “working for me” I say the exact same thing: “Well, it helps me prove that even my fat ass moves.”

Usually, people don’t know what to do with that. They expected a “I walk a lot more now!” but that would be a lie. Having a Fitibit allows me to track what I do normally and come up with some really awesome numbers. It gives me tools to shut up the people that feel the need to constantly comment about my weight.

So many people around me think that fat people can’t possible be active, strong, flexible, and fit, because, the thinking goes, if they were and did all those things, they wouldn’t be fat.

But they’re wrong.

Like, Sport England’s “I jiggle, therefore I am.”

Like Tess Holliday (@tessholliday) and many of the fine women and men behind effyourbeautystandards, highlighting the “stigma that surrounds plus bodies” exercising.

Like yogis sharing their practice online, shattering the belief that larger women can’t do this or that, and inspiring and supporting so many of us to get moving.

And like the newly minted Sports Illustrated Swimwear Cover Girl, Ashley Graham.,

For so long—all my life—I have held this belief that I should exercise to lose weight; eat to lose weight; relentlessly dress to look slimmer; hate the way I look; hide the pudge and double chins; and never ever feel proud and happy with how I look and feel.

Draining my self-esteem and inner power has only set me out to fail: why do any of those things if I never really commit to them to see results?

My slim, athletic friends just don’t understand this mentality, because they don’t experience wellness through a lens of battle and negation. They already know the amazing benefits of exercise beyond weight loss, such as stress-release, better agility, improved brain function, better sleep, reduced risk of all kinds of diseases (no matter if there is weight loss or not), better sex, happier hearts, stronger souls. They know that you aim to eat nutritious food most of the time, but aren’t on a diet.

And why shouldn’t we, larger people, not enjoy the same benefits, regardless of weight lost?

Join me, in making even the smallest change towards improving you wellness. Don’t be bogged down by what you should look like, what you should be wearing, why you should be doing it for, and what those around you say should be your goals.

You get to determine what wellness means to you and you get to be your amazing, wonderful you throughout.

For me, wellness has stopped meaning a number or a width. Wellness now means being able to run to BART when I am late without suffering too much; it means making dinner with lots of colorful organic veggies; it means showing up to Nike Training Club and figuring out ways to do the exercises without comparing, shaming, or belittling myself; it means speaking kindly to myself and seeking those that do the same, no matter my goals.

Let’s get moving!

 

 

 

13-minute mile (did it!)

I did it, ya’ll!

I ran the Berkeley 5K (3 miles) with an average pace of under 13-minutes a mile.

 

There was no acid-reflux (I ate a little bit an hour before the race). My plantar fasciitis was not acting up (lots of rest and icing). My knees and back felt good (expertly tapped up). I slept enough.

The race started  and I felt solid, my sister and I had a good rhythm together. The people rushing past me, stronger and faster than me, didn’t intimidate me this time; not the old folks or the parents pushing strollers or the young ones who were so damn fast. When my legs and lungs began to burn, my usual panic and defeat were replaced with determination.

I lost a few minutes at the very end, trying to make my bib number visible, because I had pinned it to my jacket and that had come off early on the race. Without a visible number there would be no race pictures, and I wanted those pictures!

When I crossed the line, the timer read 41:05 minutes.

What? I was so confused. I looked at my Fitbit and my Strava and at the race app. Each one registered a different time and a different distance. From 12:34/mi to 13:07/mi and from 3 miles to 3.28 miles.

Which one was the “right” one?

Since Strava and Fitbit track my entire run with GPS, I trust them more than the race app that only tracks on the mile and was confused with my sister’s and boyfriend’s times.

Strava reminded me that I ran this last year, so it was a much more useful reference point.

Last year I ran it in 41:42 minutes. This year, I did it in 40:33.  Next year? Under 40!

As this blog series draws to a close, I was looking forward to have at least one good picture from the race to share. It was a bit tough to find pics of me without my bib number, but when I did I was a bit bummed.

For all that I felt strong and athletic, I looked like a blob. I didn’t even look like I was making any effort! In one, I am exhaling heavily because I am tired, but it looks like I am just walking and making “oh” sounds.

Without a doubt I am stronger and faster this year than last. And I am confident that I will be stronger and faster next year. But as I strengthen my body, I am going to have to pay closer attention to my self-esteem and perception of myself so that at the end of it all, whether it is a race or a personal goal, I am not vulnerable to the destructive and hurtful narrative that defines my value by what I look like and not by how I have grown and improved.