My first experience with therapy

"Talking to a therapist, I thought, was like taking your clothes off and then taking your skin off, and then having the other person say, "Would you mind opening up your rib cage so that we can start?" -Julie Schumacher

 I started middle school just after my parents announced they were getting divorced.

For awhile, my relationship with both of my parents was pretty much nonexistent, while I tried to figure out how I felt. Growing up, none of my friends parents were divorced, so I didn't ever consider it an option for my parents. Until it happened.

I don't remember who was in touch first: whether it was my mom with the school guidance counselor, or her with my mom. But somehow the pair ended up working together in attempt to get me to talk about my feelings.

"I don't want to."

"Brianna Kwasnik to the guidance office," I heard over the loudspeaker one day during class.

I rolled my eyes, and told my teacher I would go in between classes, as an excuse to get out of it.

I would have hall passes written for me and sent to my class to excuse me, but I would crumple them up and throw them in the trash.

The next day, one would came laminated. And I threw that out, too.

When I finally went to the guidance office, I stared back at the woman like she was speaking in a different language. She told me all of the things she was supposed to say to make me feel safe, like how her office was a safe space, and everything I said to her would stay between us.

I felt like I was wasting my time and hers, because I didn't feel like I was old enough to have any real problems. I didn't want to talk about my parents divorce, because than that would make it real, and I didn't want it to be real. When my parents first got divorced, it was a lot of back and forth with both my mom and dad trying to vent out their frustration with the other one, and me being the soundboard for those frustrations. I felt exhausted. I wanted to love them the same as I did when they lived in the house. I didn't want to think of them different or see them any less. I didn't want it to be real. But, I didn't want this stranger to know that. I didn't want anyone at school to know that. I didn't want anyone at school to know what was going on at home, it was none of their business, I thought.

I was really concerned about being seen walking out of the guidance counselor's office. I grew up with a stigma of sorts surrounding therapy, that talking to someone made you 'crazy' or weak, and I didn't want to be that, because I knew that wasn't who I was.

My dad was against it completely, and didn't want me talking to a stranger.

Eventually, I had warmed up to the idea, and when something would happen at home whether it be my dad talking poorly about my mom, or my dad not answering my phone call, or when he moved out of the house, I couldn't wait to tell someone about it and get it off my chest.

My school guidance counselor had sent my mom a list of therapists that I could see outside of school. I think her referral was a combination of not wanting to take me out of class anymore, and seeing how much my parent's divorce really affected my spirit and confused me.

It's always weird when you switch therapists, and you feel like another person knows your whole story, and this new person should just pick up where she left off. Like what do you mean I have to start from the beginning? Where do I begin? How far back do I go?

At first I did not want to talk to a new therapist. I never do, and usually spend the first two sessions having them prod me with questions and me giving generic one or two word answers, and nothing more. When I started going to counseling for the first time out of school, I had my mom sit in on every session. I wanted her there as extra support.

Once I felt comfortable enough to open up and talk about how I felt about what was going on with my parents divorce, it was like a faucet that wouldn't turn off. An hour came and went, and never in my life had felt shorter. Every week I didn't know I had so much to say.

The great thing about therapy, is that the person isn't there to judge you, but to help you make sense of a certain situation with an outside perspective.

If I was talking about my mom, maybe she would be able to help me see things from my mom's perspective. Maybe she would be able to give me advice on how to work things out with my mom. If I was talking about my dad, she might be able to point out a pattern in his behavior that I couldn't see.

In time, I was able to take her analytical skills, and when I would talk about things, I would share, then cut her off, already making my own inference about why things happened the way they did, or why I reacted in a certain way.

It quickly became a relief for me to get my feelings out and not have them pent up inside of me. I wasn't carrying around burdens that weren't mine to bear, and if they were mine to bear, I can put them down in her office, and move on. My therapist and my mom encouraged me that if a bad feeling came up that I wouldn't stew in it, I could open a journal, write about it in the moment and release those feelings on paper.

Between therapy once a week and writing in my journal, which I could do whenever I needed to, it felt like a purge. It felt like the feeling you get after an intense workout and the happy endorphins are released. You feel lighter, at ease.

Like anything else, everyone's experience is different, but I'd say therapy is always worth a shot. It's important to research therapists in your area- see if they take your insurance, maybe you prefer a female therapist over a male, or the other way around. If you're currently in school, see your guidance counselor or school therapist, most colleges include therapy in the school insurance plan- use it to your advantage! And most importantly, develop your own opinion on the topic and don't pay any mind to what other people think. If someone is putting down the idea of therapy, they could just not have a lot of experience with it or know a lot about it. If it helps you, that's all that matters.

Trying on clothes post-recovery

Like everything else in my life post-recovery, I have a complicated relationship with shopping.

Through mainstream media and fashion, we are sold the idea that a size zero or size two equates to happiness: the best clothes, the hottest men, etc. 

For awhile, I bought this idea, too.

I worked hard to lean out my normally size eight body. I always ate well and exercised hard, so I couldn't understand why my body naturally gravitated and felt comfortable at a size eight.

That's too big, I told myself.

As I fell down further of the path of restricting, the weight started to slip off my body. Fast.

One would think this would have made me happy, but I was more uncomfortable than ever before.

Trying on clothes, I wasn't sure what to do. I have always preferred my clothes to fit me loosely rather than tight. It's a combination of the fact that I live in Florida, and want lighter, and looser fit clothing in the heat, with the added factor that I have always been uncomfortable with my femininity. Having what I deemed a 'larger' body, i.e a bigger chest, bigger legs, etc. I didn't want to show that off. 

I was always sold the message of small, and to do what you can to make your body smaller, take up less space. 

Now that my frame was smaller, I thought I might try on smaller, tighter clothes. Having a distorted perception of my body, I thought I looked good and wanted to show it off. 

But I was still unhappy. 

My body started to feel like a shell. An overworked, under-nurtured shell. There was no longer anybody home. No one inside.

As I looked in the mirror trying on clothes, I would begin to get upset as bones replaced where skin once protected what was inside.

I looked away before the tears started to fall.

I was sold the idea that a size zero would make you happy, you would look your best, feel your best, etc. However, having strayed so far from where my body felt naturally comfortable, I was anxious all of the time. This wasn't my body. 

I would throw the clothes over my head quick enough to tell if it fit, than I would take it off just as fast and decide whether or not I would make the purchase. 

I need to have something that fit.

I was going through clothes fast, and I couldn't stop.

Even my underwear began to slide off my body inside my shorts. 

It was too big. Nothing fit.

It felt like a direct daggar to my heart to watch my moms face fall as she watched me go into the fitting room with the smallest women's size in the store, and come out with three fingers in the side of the jeans, demonstrating it was too big.

My mom cried, and I returned to the fitting room so I could, too.

When the doctors told me that it was no longer safe for me to exercise, I gathered up all of my activewear from my closet and hid it in a drawer in the corner of my room, that I knew I wouldn't open and have to come face-to-face with on a regular basis.

It hurt me to see them. It tempted me to see them. I wanted to exercise.

Living in South Florida and being dangerously underweight, I spent most of the year, and all of summer in over-sized sweaters. I was always cold. 

I will never forget the feeling of immense shame when my mom had to take me to the kids section of Walmart in order for me to find clothes that fit.

I was just released from the hospital and desperate to get out of my clothes from the hospital closet. I wanted to throw them away, and never think of them again.

My mom picked out a few T-Shirts, and long sleeves from the boys section in various colors, and two sweatshirts to keep me warm.

As we walked, I held up my underwear with one hand to keep it from sliding down into my pant leg.

I was embarrassed to admit to my mom that I needed underwear that fit me. Having to hold it up throughout the day was making me angry and filling me with shame that my body was disappearing more and more everyday.

I whispered to her, and without a second thought my mom went over to the girls section to look for a pair that might fit me.

A 21-year-old woman should not have to be shopping in the girls section for clothes, let alone for underwear.

As a group of hot guys my age passed, my mom held up a pair of Halloween underwear with cat ears on them,

"how about these honey?" 

I looked at the boys and in that moment hung my head and wanted to sob. This was anything but sexy.

My once curvy body has been diminished to that of a six-year-old girl, and to add shame to the already blazing fire, it had cat ears and glitter.

As my body healed and I began to recover, my body started to fall back to it's natural weight, where it functioned best and felt healthiest finding clothes that fit again became a source of stress.

Luckily for my budget, I hadn't thrown away my old clothes before I had gotten sick, but in some way, it felt like a loss as they started to become less and less loose on my body.

My mom helped me accept the fact when she said, 

"just remember, these clothes [referring to the smaller clothes I had purchased] were never supposed to fit your body."

Rather than becoming disheartened when the smaller sizes didn't fit, I took my mom's advice and stopped trying them on. They were never my clothes. That was never my body. 

I rounded them up in a bag for GoodWill, and donating them, almost as if disposing the evidence that they had ever existed in my closet. They were never intended to be mine.

When it came time to purchase new clothes, I reunited with my old enemies- the fitting room, and the mirror. 

I tried not to look at the sizes of clothes past the point of picking them off the rack. 

If they fit and I felt comfortable, I would buy them, if not I would simply return them to the rack and try again.

To this day, I hate trying on clothes, but I take a few steps to make it easier mentally on myself.

First, I try not to judge my body. Which is the most difficult of all. If I am feeling bloated, I opt not to go into the fitting room at all, knowing the disordered part of my brain will have a field day dissecting my flaws and reminding me of them. In relation with this, once I feel that disordered part of my brain start to pick, I take it as a sign that it is time to stop. Shopping is no longer fun, and it is time for me to call it a day and do another activity.

Second, I don't focus too much on the size. I choose the size that I feel most comfortable with, which is a larger, looser option, and if it doesn't fit, I don't berate myself on why I can't fit into that given number. Every store has a different cut of clothing, so in some stores, you may be a different size than in others. In some stores, the clothing runs small or runs large. 

Third, I'm trying to put in practice more to stop following trends and what I see in magazines, and stick with what I know I like and feel comfortable in, that way the pieces will have longevity for me, and will be a staple in my closet.

For me, I like activewear, leggings, shorts, and T-Shirts when I'm at home, when I'm working, I like a loose blouse with pants, or a dress and cardigan. Those are my staples and what I feel best in. It works for me, may not work for everyone else. It's not supposed to. That's why they call it personal style.

I think given my past of distorted body perception, trying on clothes will always be a source of stress for me. But, I'm slowly realizing that it doesn't have to be. There are steps to make it easier and a more pleasant experience. 

My Best Day in Recovery

"What progress, you ask, have I made? I have begun to be a friend to myself." Hecato

          "I finally think I understand it now," my mom said. 

          She had just arrived for her daily hospital visit. I was tired and restless. I have been in this bed for at least the last four weeks, and I was craving sunshine. Every day she would arrive, I would ask her what it's like outside. Is it sunny? Does the weather feel nice? What's it like?
          I could watch the weather on the news, of course. But it wasn't the same as feeling the cool air kiss my skin, and looking up to the sky and squinting as the sun reflected in my eyes. The last time I've been outside was the brief moment I was rolled on the stretcher from my hospital room to the waiting ambulance and transported to a new hospital across town better suited to treating patients with eating disorders. 
          The window from my room had an obstructed view. I could tell if it was light or dark, but not much else. 
         As my depression worsened and rapidly manifested itself as an eating disorder and a severe fear of food and properly nourishing my body, I was desperately searching for the words to explain to my family what was happening to me.
          "I don't feel good," I said. "I'm not happy," "It hurts," "It's not my fault."
          "Just eat," they pleaded.
          My sister reminds me now the saddest thing I told her while I was deep in my struggle, searching for a way to explain to them what I was going through.
          "It's always been like this," I told her. "Just now how I felt on the inside is starting to show on the outside."
          My sister cried at the thought, finding it morbid. But to this day, I still think it's the truest explanation. 

          I remember the first day I felt I physically could not eat my lunch. It was not like me to skip a meal. Actually, in university, it was my favorite part of the day, because it allowed me a break from school and work, and just an hour of downtime to sit with my friends, or in front of the TV and enjoy a meal, without the pressure of thinking about anything else.
          I didn't feel hungry, but I knew I had to eat, as I had to head off to work in less than a half an hour. I was happy that the cafeteria was serving sweet potatoes that day, one of my favorite foods. I pulled my chair closer to the table, and looked down at the plate in front of me, and I cried. 
          I was stressed out and had a lot on my theoretical plate, and my mind. 
          I don't know how much of my reliance on food restriction was a conscious choice, or how much was just instinct, a feeling that I had control over some aspect of my life. But, at the time, it felt good that I didn't feel hungry. I felt superior over the demons I was fighting. I felt like I could have everything: classes I loved at school, work I was proud of and co-workers I was happy to work alongside, but I didn't need this. Maybe other people did, but I was sure I didn't. 
          
         
          "The part of your brain that is refusing to allow you to eat," my mom said, "that's not you, that's not my Brianna- that's the bad Brianna."
          This was something my mom pondered about before. I've been through a lot in the past four weeks of the hospital. I showed little progress and hadn't been able to gain any of the weight I lost back, but every now and again I would show signs of hope that I would get better. That was the hope my mom held on to- that maybe, just maybe, I would come out of this alive, with minimal long-term damage to my organs.

          The first day my mom arrived at the hospital, I didn't know she was coming. I had been admitted the night before, because my heart rate was dangerously low- in the 40's. I was almost immediately checked into the Intensive Care Unit to be monitored over night, because the situation would be dire if my HR were to drop any lower. 
           Nurses wrapped me in blankets hoping to preserve my body heat and avoid any further drop in HR. Before I fell asleep, the nurse asked me that in the event of an emergency, would I want the doctors to do everything they could to revive me and save my life. 
          I told her no, and signed my name on a "DNR." 
          I was 21 years old, labeled a 'fall risk', having my heart rate closely monitored, and told the nurses that if anything were to happen overnight, to let me die peacefully. This is what I wanted, I was sure. I signed my name on the line. 
          When I woke up in the morning, I was told my mom was on her way, a four hour drive from where she lived to the hospital. 
          The nurses said they didn't believe I was making decisions that were in my best interest, so my mom was now in charge of making all medical decisions for me, and she should be here within the hour.
          

          When my mom arrived at the hospital, she rushed to the side of my bed. I could see the worry in her eyes, but if I were to have seen mine, I don't think there would have been much reflected in them. They were empty, just like I was.
          She hugged me and kissed my forehead.
          "Why are you here?" I said. "You shouldn't have come."
         I was angry that the right to make decisions for myself were taken away, and I was taking it out on my mom, who only wanted to help me, who only wanted me to stay alive. 


          I had sent back several of my meals already at the hospital, and my nurses and doctors were quickly becoming fed up with me. I had already been diagnosed with delayed gastric emptying, so even a little quantity of food would make me feel so full that I felt physically ill. I felt like I couldn't take in any food, even if I had wanted to. 
          The doctors threatened a feeding tube.



         As visiting hours came to an end, my mom was getting ready to leave, and I grabbed her hand.
        "Mom, do you have to leave?" I pleaded with her. 
           Even though I initially questioned why she was there, she knew that wasn't coming from me. She knew it was the disorder lashing out at her, because she was trying to save my life, and the disease was doing everything in its power to attempt to take over my mind, and break down my body. 
          Knowing that I would probably get a feeding tube placed that night, I was scared. I didn't want to be alone. My concentration was poor, and I wasn't able to hold a full conversation, because I was tired all of the time, I wanted my mom's company and the safety she provided me that somehow, everything would turn out OK. 



          "It's like there's two Brianna's," my mom said, "There's the good Brianna, that's my sweet girl, that she cares for people and loves school and work and wants to live and beat this, and there's the bitch Brianna, the disorder that's trying to take your life."
          I was so relieved when my mom made this connection, that she showed signs of understanding what was taking place in my mind, why it wasn't as simple as "just eat" or "do something that makes you happy." What was going on in my mind was bigger than me, and I needed some help. After searching so desperately for months for the right words to explain what I was going through, what I was dealing with, and ending with both of us getting frustrated and upset, my mom was finally getting it. We were on the same page and would work to beat this together, whatever it took.


          When my mom had that change in mindset, I had one, too. I was willing to accept medication to get well, accepting that what I had been fighting for the majority of my life was bigger than me; it was bigger than natural remedies, it was bigger than going out in the sunlight, getting exercise and eating right, it was greater than anything I had tried to heal myself. It was beating me, and I wouldn't stand idly by and accept it. Now that my mom and I seemed to be on the same page, I didn't feel alone anymore. We both knew what we were up against. 



            I had always been reluctant about taking medication, because of the possible side effects. But at the point I was at, I figured, it couldn't possibly be any worse. I spent a lot of my day sleeping, laying in bed with my knees tucked into my chest and crying. I couldn't sit up and hold a conversation without losing focus, needing a nap, or wanting to cry. The hardest thing for me was losing my faith. Being a strong believer in Buddhism, I couldn't read the Buddhist texts I once loved, I questioned everything. 



          After about three days of regularly taking an antidepressant, I felt well enough to sit up in my bed and have a heart-to-heart conversation with my mom for the first time in probably three months. I was so happy. We went for a walk up and down the hallway in the hospital. Being on the same page, she understood how hard it was for me to get through a meal, and how when the nurse delivered my meal tray, I would black out, riddled with anxiety. She would try to distract me with conversation, but I just couldn't seem to get past how afraid I was by the amount of food that appeared on each tray. My mom remained patient, and she sat with me during each meal, ensuring me that she was there when things got difficult, and we talked through it. We took it day by day, meal by meal, and I couldn't have gotten through the rough patches without having her on my team. 

         From that moment when my mom proved to me she was starting to understand what I was going through, we encountered many challenges in my road to recovery, but I didn't feel as frustrated by setbacks, because I felt confident in knowing that I had a team of people on my side who were rooting for me and my recovery. I knew I had people counting on me to pull through. There were times when my mom would become frustrated by my lack of progress or if I experienced a setback. I had told her that for us, recovery would look a little like swimming as one vessel; if she could kick, I would try to move my arms as fast as I could. We were both tiring out, but ultimately, we were moving forward, and that's better than nothing in my eyes. 



          

#LiveForTomorrow Photo Challenge Day 7: I am Grateful For

"Gratitude turns what you have into enough."

 One of my favorite grounding exercises at the end of the day is to spend five or so minutes to slow down and sit with my gratitude journal. This time allows me to step outside of my cluttered mind and recall all of the things I was appreciative of throughout the day.

This process helps me during the low points when my depression threatens to resurface, leaving me feeling drained, empty and alone, to remember how much good is already in my life that I have been turning a blind eye to.

"Is it simple? Can you not see it now? We are worth it all." -Tyler Knott Gregson

 

 

Here's just some of what I found:

 

-The ability to get a quality education and further my knowledge in a subject I love, while honing my craft through extracurricular clubs on campus. Overall, I am always grateful for opportunities to learn something new, whether it be through reading, a formal class, conversation, a documentary, or actual experience.

 

-Going to work every morning and feeling like I have a sense of purpose, genuinely enjoying what I get to do every day, and coming home with a feeling of accomplishment that my work has the potential to make a difference in my community and many individual lives.  

 

-Fresh flowers at the farmer's market

 

 

-Unplugging and going on long walks

 

-Reading a good book

 

 

-Spending the day with my family

 

 

-When the cooler night air takes over the Florida heat

 

 

 

-Lazy afternoons

 

-Sleeping in, and waking up to the sound of the rain bouncing off the windows

 

-Swimming on a hot day/feeling the sun kiss my skin

 

 

-A strong cup of coffee or tea

 

 

-Holiday/nature scented candles

 

-Having meaningful conversations

 

-Sharing a meal with friends

 

 

-Seeing a rainbow on the drive home after a long day

 

 

-Hearing an old song on the radio that I used to love and singing it at the top of my lungs

 

-Not waking up to the sound of the alarm on the weekend

 

-Feeling present, like I am exactly where I need to be

 

 

What are you grateful for? Join me for the remaining three days of the #LiveForTomorrow Photo Challenge, leading up to World Suicide Prevention Day on September, 10.



#LiveForTomorrow Photo Challenge: Day 5: Beauty in My Community

I've decided to jump on the bandwagon halfway through the #LiveForTomorrow Photo Challenge from To Write Love On Her Arms.

In this case, just like many others, I say: better late than never, especially when the message is so incredibly important.

According to a recent study conducted by the National Center for Health Statistics, suicide rates have steadily increased from 1999 through 2014, up by 24% than the rate in 1999.

The Live For Tomorrow Photo Challenge encourages participants to celebrate life from September 1-10, leading up to World Suicide Prevention Day on Sept. 10. This year, TWLOHA's theme is: "And So I Kept Living"

Day 5: Find Beauty in Your Community

Self-care tip: buy yourself flowers! They not only brighten your house, but also your mood. Plus, you deserve it!

There is beauty everywhere we go, if only we could open our eyes a bit wider, put our phones down a bit longer, and silence the rambling thoughts simultaneously ravaging our minds long enough to appreciate it.

Regardless of what city you live in or your current circumstance, challenge yourself to go on a walk and look around.

Use your five senses while you walk, this will help you appreciate what is around you in entirety and encourage you to notice things that have been in front of you all along that you have been overlooking.

Here's some ideas:

-Walk barefoot through the grass... how does it feel rubbing against the bottom of your feet? Is it rough? Is it soft enough to lay down on?

During one of my walks, a mother duck ran in front of me, leading her baby ducklings back to the lake. 

A quiet walk in nature is a great way to reconnect with your surroundings on a deeper level without all the white noise we are often bombarded with throughout the school or work day.

-Do you hear the birds as they fly from their homes up in the trees? Do you hear the neighborhood dogs barking, waiting impatiently to go on their afternoon walks?

Stepping out of the car allows you to slow down and notice things you wouldn't normally notice on your morning commute, as you become accustomed to your surroundings, you tend to take the beauty you pass on your everyday route for granted.

-What flowers were planted in your neighborhood? How do they smell? This is a great way to appreciate the changing seasons and all the wonderful smells that come with it: fresh cut grass in the summer, fruits and vegetables at the farmer's market, freshly planted tulips in the spring, etc.

I drive by this bush of flowers every day on the way out of my apartment complex, but have never appreciated the sheer beauty until I got up close, and leaned in to smell the fresh aroma. 

I make it a habit every night to look up at the sky as a grounding exercise. I close my eyes, reach up to the sky, take a deep breath in, then open my eyes to experience all of the beautiful colors the sky has gifted me with at the end of a long day.


What beauty can you discover in your own community? Get outside and take a walk; you'll notice it's all around you. 
Join me for the remaining five days of the #LiveForTommorow Photo Challenge to raise awareness about World Suicide Prevention Day on Sept. 10. 
For more information on TWLOHA's mission, visit: twloha.com/blog/welcome-to-national-suicide-prevention-week-2016/

Quitting Conditional Happiness and Living Now

Over the past few weeks, I've been engaged in a lot of new blogs and inspiring TED talks and YouTube videos that I'd like to share.

You may notice all of these links, though from different sources share a common theme: conditional happiness. 

Via Flickr/ Asja Boros

Placing conditions on our happiness is when we find ourselves wrapped up in the never-ending array of excuses that start with, "I'll be happy when..." 

When we put conditions on our happiness, we take away the potential for happiness in the here and now, which is already possible. By saying we can only be happy when, we take ourselves out of the present and project ourselves in a time that may or may not come. 

If we can't be happy now with what we already have, it's unlikely that anything materialistic or physical we obtain in the future will present us with what we've been seeking. What we're seeking is already inside.

All of these links serve as a gentle reminder that happiness is possible now. We have every condition we need to be happy in our bodies and in our current circumstance. The only thing standing in our way is ourselves and our own mindset. 

Let go of the conditional belief, and grab the reigns of the life you have always wished to live and start living it now. 

TED Talk: Living Without Shame: How We Can Empower Ourselves

-Whitney Thore, star of My Big Fat Fabulous Life talks about her lifelong struggle with shame surrounding her body image, which started when she was a mere 10-years old. Sound shocking?According to News Medical, statistics show 81 percent of 10-year-olds are afraid of being fat, while 72 percent of 7 year-olds are dieting. 

-Where is this fear coming from? Even if the diet industry is primarily targeting adults, these habits, behaviors, and products that are being marketed are being passed down to our children, who are observing all of our behaviors and attitudes towards our bodies and our food. 

-Whitney recounts her belief that when she got thin, she would finally be happy. Despite her work allowing her to travel the world, she said, "All of these experiences that should have been so wonderful were tinged with that disgusting and insidious shame that sucked the life and the color out of my memories and left me nothing but black and white, and a never-ending wish to be thin so I could really start my life."

-As she continued to gain weight, people began making assumptions that she was lazy and unmotivated, in turn causing her sense of self-worth to plummet. The decline in her sense of self-worth led her to quit her favorite activity of dance, and fail academics. 

-"I'd do anything to avoid going out in a world that didn't want me."

-It wasn't until she made the conscious decision to not allow other people's opinions of her to affect her sense of self-worth and stop her from living the life she so desperately wanted, and the one she deserved to live.

The Blessing of Living Unfinished

"We don’t get started on our priorities because we’re always trying to finish something else first. We live under the illusion that the to-do list will shrink and, once we’re done doing, we’ll get to start being."

• I love Dr. Kelly's honest approach to each topic he covers. He writes in a way that is aligned with the Buddhist philosophy that says we're not independent, but interdependent. Regardless of what we're going through, others are either going through it or have been through it and survived. 
• We spend so much time creating conditions for our happiness and making excuses for why we keep putting off what we really want to do in life. Dr. Kelly reminds us that our time is limited, so why wait for conditions that might never come to start living the life we truly want? Why not start now?

Not So Little Mermaid

• Plus size vlogger, Loey Lane recalls a time she was at Disney, and the park allowed kids to choose princess names. After writing "Ariel" on her name tag, a bully crossed it out and changed it to read Ursula. She recalls the damage it had on her self esteem that the closest character that resembled her body was considered a villain. 
• If we expect these characters: princesses, barbies, superheroes, etc. to reflect the characteristics we want our children to grow up to encompass, it is extremely important that these characters also reflect the diversity of our children in terms of body size, shape, race and ethnicity. 
• Going back to Dr. Kelly's blog post, we cannot and should not have to wait for 'ideal' conditions to start loving ourselves and our bodies. We need to set the standard that it is perfectly acceptable and encouraged to love the bodies we are in in this given moment. 

Barbie's Running for President, Too

• Continuing the trend of having role models for young girls and boys (dolls, princesses, superheroes) reflect our diverse physical appearance, Barbie has now furthered the initiative to include our diverse characteristics and career aspirations.
• No longer does Barbie simply reflect all the glitz and glamour that we see come out of Hollywood, but the new Presidential Barbie, available in six different skin tones encourages girls to aim as high as they wish with their dreams. The new Barbie encourages shattering glass ceilings. Because what we were once told was impossible, is becoming more and more possible with each passing year. And yes, that includes the possibility of a female president in 2017.
• The new Barbie shifts focus away from physical appearance towards aspirations, dreams, and creating effective change in the world. The box features encouraging sentiments to young girls like, "Are you interested in making the world a better place?" and "Nowadays there are more women running for public office at all levels."