My Disability Story

I have sat down to write this piece countless times in the last year. It’s hard to write a story that has been playing out since I was born, a story that’s still being written. I keep having trouble figuring out how to start this, when really, I know exactly how it needs to begin.

I am disabled.

I don’t know why that’s a sentence that in my adulthood, I struggle with. I’m not ashamed or sad, not embarrassed or trying to hide it. It’s not a dirty word. I think sometimes I feel like I don’t deserve to say it. I spent years trying to disprove it. I tried out for teams for sports I knew I couldn’t play. I’ve walked further than my known limit and spent the next day bedridden, only because I didn’t want to speak up. I hesitate using my handicap sticker most days. When you’re growing up, you just want to fit in. But everything about my physical being was designed to stand out.

I was born with severe clubbed feet. It’s a condition in which feet are twisted out of shape or position. For me, rather than facing forward, my feet were positioned inward. Clubbed feet can be extremely debilitating and affect how your whole body moves, especially a growing body. I had serial casting as a baby to try to correct it, but it didn’t take. I spent years in physical therapy, having my feet painfully manipulated. I had a few procedures, I was never without a leg brace, ankle brace or foot inserts, all fitted to my bulky orthopedic shoes. I wanted jelly sandals more than anyone should ever want jelly sandals.

In fourth grade, I underwent two tendon transfers, one on each foot. By moving the tendons, doctors hoped my feet would have more flexibility and a full range of motion. I spent most of that year in a wheelchair, recovering from each procedure. It was incredibly painful, both physically and emotionally. I could barely do anything on my own. Two of my classmates, Laura and Clarence helped me day-to-day. They pushed me in at my desk, back-and-forth to different classes, and out to the sidewalk at recess. I mention this because I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the responsibility put on two other children to help me, and it brings tears to my eyes.

After getting the cast off from my second transfer on my right foot, I was elated to gain some of my freedom back. I was excited to walk around the halls, and learn to move with my new feet. About two weeks later, I asked my teacher if I could use the bathroom. Walking back to class, I tripped over my new bulky sneakers. I tried, but couldn’t get back up. I crawled back to my classroom. My mom took me back to the doctor the next morning, I had snapped the very tendon they just fixed. I had an emergency surgery the following morning, and was back at school in my wheelchair within a week.

Fourth grade was the beginning of a youth filled with surgeries, doctor’s appointment, pain. The clubbed feet had been mostly corrected, but I had a plethora of other orthopedic issues. I developed Osteopenia from all the time off my feet and in hospitals. My bones were weak, my feet and legs usually in pain, making walking still difficult. In middle school, I would fracture my ankle, get stress fractures in my feet. I had more procedures, more physical therapy, still no jelly sandals.  My mom, sister and I trucked along and all of this became our normal.

By the time I was a freshman in high school, I had started dislocating my knees. If you have ever dislocated a knee, you know the pain is incomprehensible. It’s excruciating and bizarre to feel your kneecap in your thigh. The second time it ever happened, my friends and I were throwing a summer party in my friend Leah’s backyard. We sent out handmade invites, had food and planned games. We were playing capture the flag when I stepped to turn around and felt it immediately. I started to fall to the ground, and my boyfriend at the time caught my head from hitting the pavement. I was screaming for someone to call an ambulance, and heard my friend Sara panicking to call one. When one arrived, they started an IV right in the driveway, in front of all my friends. I was mortified and in unbearable amounts of pain. By Monday, I was at school in a wheelchair again with a stiff full leg brace. Both my mom and I knew I couldn’t live like this.

Sophomore year of high school, my mom and I traveled all around trying to find a doctor to diagnose my pain, to figure out why my knee kept slipping out. We went to clinics in Grand Rapids, drove to Shriner’s Hospital in Chicago, flew to New York for the day to see a specialist. We went back to my old doctor who had done my original tendon transfers, who looked me in the eye and told me my best option would be to amputate my feet as this point. I was sixteen. I cried, and I’m sure my mom did too.

Now a Junior, we were referred to a doctor at Providence Hospital in Michigan, Dr. Michael Mendelow.  We were exhausted from trying to figure out this painful mystery. My mom came with a big shopping bag of medical records, X-rays, doctor’s notes. He examined me and said to leave him with the overflowing bag. About three weeks later, he called us to come back in. After studying my X-rays, he found that the bones in my leg were turned in at an angle of about 25-30 degrees, a normal leg is less than 15. The angle of my leg, now fighting the position of my feet, were constantly fighting one another, causing my knees to dislocate. My legs and feet were working against one another.

He said I needed a tibial and femoral osteotomy- cutting the bones in my leg, repositioning them, and setting them with an external fixator so that they grew back at the proper angle. When I look back on it, I didn’t ask a ton of questions (My mom did, I probably just played Snake on my flip phone). I don’t even think I knew what an external fixator was. I just chalked it up to another surgery. We scheduled the surgery for my left leg (my more troubled leg) for right before Christmas.

I barely remember being in the hospital after the operation. The only thing I recall, is asking my mom to move the blanket so I could look at my leg. She hesitated. She pulled it back, and I could not comprehend what I was seeing. My left leg had a Sci-Fi looking device coming out of it. Not on top of it or covering it, but protruding out from my skin. I had eight metal rods going through my bones, sticking out through my skin, set with big black bars. It started at my ankle and went up to the top of my thigh. I also had a cast on my foot, as another surgery was done to correct the tendon by my big toe. I couldn’t move. They sent me home on Christmas morning — I had to be taken home by ambulance. When we got home, I couldn’t stand up, let alone go up the stairs. I slept on the couch in the living room, my mom frantically ordered a hospital bed for our living room, and Frank, my mom’s partner, set up a wheelchair ramp on the front porch. I was in an excruciating amount of pain, clouded by multiple medications. But I can’t imagine what my mom must have been feeling. To see your child in such agony, incapacitated and crying, she had to have been hurting, exhausted, and in pain herself. But still, I think I only heard her cry once, when my friend Sara came over and held her in an embrace in the kitchen.

Once the hospital bed came a few days later, our living room became my room. My mom removed the couch, and taped Jonas Brothers posters on the wall among get well soon cards from friends and classmates. I ate all my meals in that bed, and quickly embraced humility as my only way to use the bathroom was with a bed pan. A physical therapist came to the house every other day to get me to stand up. I couldn’t return to school, so a teacher came over to deliver all my assignments. My friend Brittany came over to tutor me in math. I cleaned my incisions every morning and night, wanting to throw up every time I looked down at those gaping holes in my leg, each filled with a metal pin. I lost too much weight, unable to keep most food down from the pain medications.  My sister would make me milkshakes made with ice cream, “Boost” and girl scout cookies. Just when I thought I had met my pain threshold, I got kidney stones from the lack of movement and was rushed back to the hospital. I got bed sores, had sponge baths and missed my friends. Come February, I was moving more. I could get up with the help of a walker and get to the bathroom. My mom would make me get up and try to dance while we watched “America’s Best Dance Crew.” Friends were coming to visit, my boyfriend came over for Sadie Hawkins and we ate take out in my living room. By March, I wanted to go back to school. I was assigned a school aid who would take me from class to class (Brenda, if you’re reading this, I love you). For the first few weeks, my mom would have to leave work to come help me use the bathroom (one of the only perks was being allowed to use the staff bathroom, which I was amazed had lots of lotions and cool stuff in there). A handicap accessible bus would take me to and from school every day, my mom or Frank unloading me back into bed when I got home. By the time summer came, I started walking again, and I was doing great in physical therapy. I bought big voluminous skirts to cover my pins, wheeled around the mall, went to a Jonas Brothers concert, and even went to student government camp (I don’t think my mom breathed the entire 5 days I was gone). While my external fixator was only supposed to stay in for a few months, my bones weren’t growing back together as quickly as they’d like, and four months turned into nine. This was our new normal, and we got really good at managing it. I went back to school for my Senior year and got my pins out in September, right in time for Homecoming. Getting the external fixator out was relatively painless. I used a cane for another 6 months and told my mom I couldn’t imagine getting the right leg done any time soon (more than 10 years later, I still haven’t).

Maybe you’ve noticed that sprinkled throughout this long story, I’ve mentioned people who have helped me. The handful or so that I’ve mentioned doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface of the kindness I have received throughout my life. Kids were rarely mean to me. There was the occasional inquisitive, rude remark, but nothing scarring. Classmates would offer to push me in the halls, and help me get my lunch. Sara would come over almost every day after school with a bag of junk food and catch me up on all the gossip. Brittany would come over to watch “Gossip Girl” and help me with math (I am still horrible at math- Brittany could only do so much). My friend Mike took me to Winter Ball, where he and my friend Gerald danced around my wheelchair (Gerald now dances in Lady Gaga videos) all night. When I went to ACT practice, two boys from my class carried me into the tutor’s home because she didn’t have a ramp. My mom and my cousins would rent a wheelchair van for the day so we could go to the movies. My sister’s boyfriend would come over to help wash my hair. Her friends would prank call me pretending to be Christina Aguilera or Britney Spears wishing me well. There are endless examples. What I’ve gone through was no doubt hard as hell. There were some days I didn’t know how I could keep going, but looking back, I rarely measure it in pain. I measure it in unassuming, pure kindness.

I haven’t had a surgery since 2007. I’ve been managing my disability for over 10 years. I’ve been battling severe arthritis and chronic pain in both feet that can be debilitating some days. I can’t walk long distances, and I usually can’t stand for longer than 15 minutes (which is why I use a wheelchair when we travel or go places that require a lot of walking). I can’t run, or do any activities that could risk my right kneecap popping out (which it did, four months before I got married). I’m often limping around and some days I physically cannot get out of bed without holding onto walls. My husband has become my best advocate, encouraging me to always speak up about my limits and my pain. Reflexology has helped me immensely.

I spent most of my youth trying to fight the different orthopedic limits that made me different. But as an adult, I’m accepting that those things, while painful, are a part of me. My disability isn’t an add-on or something that happened to me, it’s something that is me. I am proud of how far I’ve come, knowing how low I’ve been. I am proud of my family, who tirelessly supported me and never made me feel like burden. I’m proud to have friends who are always aware that when we go out I may need to sit down, or they’ll map out if a walk will be too long for me. I’m proud of my husband, who has pushed me in a wheelchair around the world and has held my feet while I cried. But what I am most proud of, is that I am finally accepting who I am. I am disabled, I am fighting, I am happy, I am okay, I’m just beginning.

A Day in The Life: (Almost) 24 Hours with Me!

Most all of us have read a version of “A Day With… ” or “24 Hours in The Life of …” in a magazine. They’re a personal favorite of mine, I eat up every word. I am well aware that each one is typically filled with unrealistic expectations of every day life, like “6:00am: I drink a pitcher of hot water with lemon for one hour, until my trainer shows up and my chef cooks me an omelet”. They’re usually a fascinating look into the lives of the rich and famous, but often leave me wondering “why doesn’t my life look like that? What am I doing wrong?” My brain completely omits the part where I don’t have a chef, I don’t even have a lemon.

I thought I would share a true look into a day in my life (let’s assume this is a day off/weekend). It’s part parody, but 100% reality at the same time. Does this mean my life is a joke? If so, I can think of no better time for a laugh. Enjoy one at MY EXPENSE!

6:15am: My alarm starts to go off, I set it early so I could get up and workout. In an attempt to stop the ringing, I accidentally knock my phone to the ground, deem I need a break due to this inconvenience, and go back to sleep.

7:30am: I finally wake up, make a mental note that I’ll work out tomorrow (lol). Michael just fed Maple, who now is running up the stairs to do his morning routine of jumping up on the bed, sitting on my chest, and burping in my face. I truly did not know dogs could burp. What a gift. I’ll spend a few minutes talking to Maple like an absolute idiot, then get up and get going.

7:45am: I throw my retainer in some denture cleaner, rinse my face with water and spray it with fresh rose water. Just kidding, it’s Mario Badescu that I picked up while waiting in line at Nordstrom Rack. Also the nozzle broke and it sprays everywhere so I have to apply it like I’m having a seizure.

8:00am: I put some coffee on, and I drink a full glass of water before having my first cup of coffee. It’s not for health reasons. It’s something to distract me so I don’t drink it all right out of the pot. I have two cups while I answer emails, leaving myself feeling nice and jittery. I think shaking is another word for it, but tomato to-mato.

9:00am: By now I’m showered, dressed and begging Michael to make some eggs so I don’t faint from all the caffeine. He says he will, but then we discover we only have one egg. I eat four “cuties” instead and complain that this wouldn’t be an issue if he let me build the chicken coop I’ve always wanted.

10:00am: Michael is in the shower. I say I’m going downstairs to read a book. I actually spend 25 minutes trying to teach myself how to “throw it back” from instructional videos on TikTok. I pull a muscle in my back. I tell no-one.

10:30am: I call my mom and we talk for thirty minutes about absolutely nothing. Michael asks me what we talked about after, and I truly couldn’t name a thing.  But it was nice and necessary to the schedule of speaking to my mom a minimum of 5 times a day.

11:00am: We take Maple for a walk through our neighborhood, where another dog violently barks at him from behind a fence, and I call it a “demon ass B”. Turns out the owner was right there, I don’t know if he heard me, but just to be safe, we will never walk that way AGAIN!

12:00pm: I come to the realization that if I don’t eat a proper meal, I will die. So we make grilled cheese and tomato soup for lunch. Michael mentions that we don’t have any dairy-free cheese so I can’t have one. I tell him to mind his business and I slap two more pieces of bread in the pan.

12:06pm: I rush upstairs for a mysterious reason. It is unrelated to the grilled cheese.

12:30pm: I throw some laundry in, clean up the bedroom, bathroom, and the mess I made yesterday when I tried to make a pampas grass arrangement I saw on Pinterest. In retrospect, I should have done it outside. Or just not at all.

2:00pm: I lay down on the couch to catch up on this week’s “Grey’s Anatomy”, because I’m trash. There’s a guest appearance in this episode that I KNOW I’ve seen in another movie recently. I come to realize it’s Beanie Feldstein, so I spend the next three hours watching “Neighbors 2”, again, because I’m trash.

6:00pm: Oh, the movie ended but I fell asleep on the couch, a deep mouth-breathing sleep. Time well spent.­

7:00pm: We eat dinner, pour some wine and decide on a movie to watch. I spend the next 2.5 hours of “Ford vs. Ferarri” refreshing Twitter/Instagram/Facebook/TikTok/The Real Real. Basically, I do anything but watch the movie. I read an article on it once, I feel like I know everything I need to know.

9:30pm: We get ready for bed and I chug a glass of water. I realize I never put my retainer back in the whole rest of the day, and have no choice but to lie to my dentist next week when he asks if I’ve been wearing it.

9:32pm: Michael has fallen asleep. I lie awake until about 11:00pm, when he violently rolls over and accidentally punches me in the neck.

1:14am: I wake up to go to the bathroom. Most people would know it was the water. I do not correlate the two, so I fall back asleep making a mental note that I should call a doctor about my bladder. All in a day’s work!!!

Confessions of a Recovering Girlboss

I’m all for female entrepreneurship. I support women in businesses big and small, I’m all about “leaning in” and “taking up room”. This is an exciting time to be a woman! We’re owning more businesses, gaining more seats in government, and fighting for the rights to our bodies (which is insane that we even have to do so in 2020). But lately there’s something that has quietly taken up a resistance in my brain. It was something that when it started, I couldn’t get enough. I read books about it, put stickers on my computer, I might have even had it in my Instagram bio for a week.

But now I’ve had enough: I don’t want to be called a “girlboss.”

The term girlboss caught like wildfire when it first left the lips of millennial women. I was one of them! The notion that women were rising up, taking charge, being bosses of our own lives and in the work place. How could that ever be a bad thing? Maybe I’m being sensitive, but to me, the phrase has taken new meaning. It feels as though it’s been weaponized to make women feel inadequate, that we aren’t doing or achieving enough (we already get this from seeing 22-year-olds on Instagram making six-figures from selling tea. WE GET IT!).

The term “girlboss” has been transformed into a cover to convince women that we need to do more. How dare we have free time! Pick up a side hustle and get RICH! If your hobby doesn’t make you money, what’s the point? It’s become a suppression of true feeling. I don’t know one woman who hasn’t felt like she isn’t far enough in her career, or feels behind in life, bills, dating, etc. We’re in a rush, and now we have lists like the “Forbes 30 Under 30” to remind us to hurry up (Because as we all know, after 30, you die). Does “girlboss” act as a blanket to conceal the behind-the-scenes struggle that comes with success, to make it seem like we have it all together? When did a “brunch in bed” photo or “pretty girl eating a giant burger” become inspirational? Who are we trying to fool?

No man is going around calling himself a “boyboss”. If they did, we would never take them seriously. It also sounds like the title of a bad 90’s Disney Channel Original Movie (which I would watch anyway, because I never miss a D.C.O.M). They don’t need to label their power, because no one questions or fears it. It doesn’t need to be dimmed or softened to make it more digestible. Boss. No gender. My friends are bosses- literally and figuratively. They manage departments, teach classes, volunteer. They are moms, single women, married. They are honest about how they feel and don’t try to mask it for the sake of a title made by a woman, for women, to ultimately sell us notebooks and necklaces with the phrase. On second thought, maybe keep the necklaces. I would pay good money to see one of my old bosses wear a “boyboss” pendant.

If being a “girlboss” inspires you, I don’t want to diminish or take that away from you. But I hope we can become comfortable enough in our own power to not have to justify or label it. Women are powerful, period. We can be motivated by the sole fact that we all have a purpose, and will get there when we’re supposed to. Lizzo is 31, Nancy Pelosi is almost 80. It’s not a race, success does not look the same to everyone. Our power as women is reaching new heights, it has no limit. And if we have no bounds as to what that power will achieve, it can’t be labeled. And it definitely can’t fit on a sticker.

ASK ALEX: "I'm Dating all Duds"

“How did you and Michael meet? I’ve been on so many dates and they’re all duds. I’d be curious to know how you met ‘the one’.”

I quite frequently get messages about Michael, my husband. People want to know where we met, how we started dating, or if he’s left me yet for constantly hiding behind things, attempting to scare him (Nope! Still here!). We have been together for seven years, married for two of them. It’s truly a marvel how we found each other but I think the most important thing to know is that if we had met even a week earlier, we may not be together today.

Going into college, I had just been dumped-via Gchat one night when I was studying. I was heart-broken and vowed I would spend the next four years focusing on my myself and my future. I did some ~light~ dating in college. Meeting guys at parties, going on dates (and getting stood up on them! Three times- TWICE THE SAME GUY). I did end up dating someone in my Junior year that I truly cared about and had feelings for. But something was off, it didn’t fit. I felt so fed up by dating and meeting guys that just weren’t right. I started to notice a pattern that any guy I had ever dated, I sacrificed a personal belief or personal need to be with them, and the lack of those things always caused our demise. It could be something as simple as believing in empathy, or as big as our spiritual and beliefs. I truly set myself, and the man, up for failure every time (don’t get me wrong, sometimes they were just jerks. Like the guy who told me he didn’t want a girlfriend, and the next night at a party…I met, HIS NEW GIRLFRIEND).

After breaking off a relationship and realizing my pattern, I sat down on my bed and wrote down five things that were my non-negotiables. The five things I needed in a partner to feel that this could be for the long-run. And these weren’t shallow, or surface necessities. I didn’t need him to drive a nice car or have Ryan Gosling’s abs. When I met Michael, I was driving a Saturn station wagon and my most major food-group was the Subway $5 footlong. It’s unfair to judge anyone by looks or what they have at the time. It’s human-nature to get caught up in what the outer world world sees, and those things are truly the most unimportant factors.

These five things were deeply personal. They were things that I needed a partner to have inherently. I couldn’t date another guy with no empathy or understanding, or someone who was more interested in playing games than being with me. These five things changed my perspective of what I needed in a partner, and the kind of partner I wanted to be. I wrote down my little list, tucked it away and then said I was “done with men and dating” for a while. The literal next day, I met Michael.

Will show our kids these pictures from 2012 and let them know it was the year of love, and the year of Four Loko. The two are not related (probably).

One of my closest and oldest friends, Jenny, had come over for drinks before going to Central Michigan’s most ESTEEMED social activity, “Pint Night” at The Wayside. She noticed a piece of mail stuck to our fridge, belonging to the name “Michael Ayaub”. She asked why we had it, and I explained that it had been was mis-delivered, and we were all too lazy to walk it down to the proper address. She said that she actually knew him from class, and that I should bring his mail to the bar (a great idea definitely motivated by Smirnoff RASPBERRY) and talk to him. I threw on my pleather DSW boots and stuck his mail in my Coach wristlet and off we went.

When we got to the bar, Jenny introduced us, and I handed over his mail. It had actually been a paycheck he had to report missing, so we were off to a great, romantic start. We talked for a bit, and to this day, I swear that as soon as we met, I felt a little “ping” in my stomach, almost as if it were telling me to pay attention. It also could have been that we were drinking $2 Coors Lights, but the romantic in me will say it was a sign. The more we spoke, the more I liked him. I accidentally dipped my hair in a beer, and he made me feel better by saying he was sweating. College romance is really a beautiful thing.

Michael offered to drive me home (he hadn’t been drinking, he is still always the most sensible person in the room). He dropped me off at my door...and didn’t ask for my number. I was devastated. I thought we had a great time, me with my hair soaking in beer, him with the sweat. The next day, Jenny and I devised a plan for me to see him again. The following weekend, a group of us went to a baseball game, Michael included. I bought a last minute ticket, grabbed my “Lauren Conrad for Kohl’s” leather jacket (I’m really trying to establish a visual time-period) and was ready to make a move. At the game, Michael finally asked for my number, “in case we got lost in the stadium”, and asked me out to dinner the next day.

We started dating quickly, and after a few months, we knew this was the real deal. It just felt like a given that we were supposed to be together. That doesn’t mean our relationship didn’t come without hardship. We had disagreements and arguments, usually stemming around our needs, and how we can adjust to one another’s. I really feel that people are too quick to end relationships. They see one fault, and walk away. No one, and no relationship is perfect. You aren’t looking for the perfect partner. You’re looking for someone who is willing to work on themselves and the relationship because they love and value you. I had to change a lot of habits, as did Michael. The things I needed to work on to fulfill Michael’s emotional needs, made me a better person, and vice versa.  It was about growing together, not letting our imperfections tear us a part. Of course if you’re dating someone truly horrible, you can’t change inherently who a person is. The whole “I can change him!” approach is one that will always set you up for failure. It’s not your responsibility to change your partner- they have to want to grow with you. When someone shows you who you are, you have to believe them. Who knows you better than you?

About three years into our relationship, I was in a dark place. I had no real direction, felt stuck and depressed at my job, I felt simply lost. I questioned everything, and I told Michael I didn’t know if I could be in a relationship. I asked for two weeks without talking or seeing each other so that I could think. After two weeks, we could assess our relationship. Michael respected my space, but towards the end of the 14 days, he made a small gesture solidifying that no matter what, he was the thing in my life, maybe the only thing, that I was sure of.

One night, Michael sent me a picture of myself. Unbeknownst to me, he had taken a picture of me at another baseball game. It had been raining, I was wearing a giant plastic rain poncho and my hair was matted down to my face. I was face deep in a jumbo hot dog, ketchup on me like makeup, mouth wide open and ready for Ballpark Frank bliss. It was followed by the simple message “I will love you no matter what”.  I laughed so hard I cried, then I just cried. I knew then that what I was going through, would pass. But Michael was a constant.

I don’t have the hot dog photo (Michael has all rights to it) to share with you, but here we are in the ponchos, enjoying a rainy, disgusting time!!

It’s been 7 years filled with happiness and love and laughter, but also hardships, compromise and learning. I’m just going to say it: marriage, and serious relationships, aren’t natural. Someone can be your absolute soulmate, and it’s still hard as hell to mesh to another person’s needs and every aspect of their personality. All relationships are a continual give and take, saying “I’m sorry” (which I am the WORST at), and learning how you both can be better. These moments of frustration and disagreement are going to be a given. What makes the difference is if you feel the person you’re going through it with is worth the internal work for change, and if they’re willing to do the same.

Make your list. Know what you need, and be a champion of it. Be open to listening what your partner needs- it might just make you a better person, and your relationship something of dreams. Like the kind that has you crying over a picture of yourself deep-throating a hot dog at 2am. Who said fairytales aren’t real?

ASK ALEX: "I'm in a Job Rut".

“Does this filter make me look wise??”

It’s been tough for me to write lately. I feel like every time I put pen to paper, something angry comes out. With the state of our nation, it’s been difficult to care about much else these days than the atrocities that are taking place at the hand of our own government. It feels like everything I have to say comes back to the fear and heartbreak I feel for our country.

Last month, I asked you guys on Instagram what kind of advice you were in need of. I got a multitude of answers, ranging from how to find the best sunglasses for your face shape, to help with getting rid of toxic people from your life. I’ve sat down a few times to start writing my answers, but every time I got sidetracked and ended up on more of a tangent than a talk. But last week- something shifted. After the El Paso & Dayton shootings, and the round-up of undocumented immigrants in Mississippi which left a dozen children without their parents, I felt a burning helplessness to do something. And I realized the quickest way to do something was to start spreading kindness, compassion and empathy. And I know I can do so with my words. I also bought a stranger a cookie last week- only to find out they “don’t EAT COOKIES”!! So, here I am, back on my computer!!

So, without further ado, here’s my first article with “Ask Alex” or “Advice from Alex” or “Talking Out of Her Ass, it’s Alex!”- whatever we want to call it- I’m answering your questions!

“I’m in a job rut. I’ve been with my current employer for a few years, and I really hate my job and want to look elsewhere. How did you end up finding a job you like?”

If you would have asked me a few years ago (hell, even a few months ago) to dish out job advice, I would have laughed and then gotten in my 2001 Saturn Station and popped in a Jonas Brothers CD. SIMPLER TIMES! But I didn’t start out very strong in the job-scene (does anyone?). My first job, I diverted away from fashion, which I had gone to college for. I took a job that paid well-enough and gave me experience and I was grateful- but I was miserable. It wasn’t for me. And I remember in that time, everything felt so final. I felt like I had chosen my course and I let my job dictate my moods and my life. I never shut the job off, I came home every night riled up and angry.

Eventually, I left that job and got back into fashion, working for Linda Dresner. Out of college, I had pretty much stalked Linda, emailing and calling her store until she agreed to meet with me. At that time, she didn’t have any work for me. But I offered to come in and help with sales and whatever else she needed, and we formed a relationship. Three years later- she called me and I left my job to work with her. I worked with Linda for almost three years- and it was one of the greatest learning experiences of my life. Linda brought life back into my goals.

When we moved to Las Vegas, I was convinced I would never find a job in fashion here. I was applying for anything and everything, sitting in coffee shops almost everyday firing off my resume. After about 5 months of nothing, I took a seasonal job working in the Zappos Call Center. I had really wanted to work for Zappos, and I felt this could be a good foot in the door. The hours weren’t ideal, I sat 8 hours a day in a call center, fielding customer service calls. I surprisingly enjoyed it- but I think more-or-less I was just happy to be working again and talking to actual people, not just yelling wrong answers at Alex Trebeck.

Three weeks into the 8-week program, I got an email from Chloe Gosselin. I had actually applied for a job to work for her husband, when she came across my resume. She was also looking to hire someone for her business, and we met for coffee. I left the call center and starting working with Chloe two weeks later.

Here’s the thing- sometimes luck just has something to do with it. But it wasn’t without hard work. For five months, 4-5 days a week, I was actively applying for anything that sounded remotely interesting to me. I reached out to companies that didn’t even have job postings. This leads me to my best job-hunting practice:

You do not have to wait for a company to have an opening. Think of what you want to do. Is it marketing? Advertising? Tech? Research a company that you admire or are interested in and find someone who works in the related department-or, if it’s a super small company, reach out to the owner. Many times, I would just send a cold-email, ask if I could come in and meet with that person over coffee because I admired their company or wanted to learn more about it. You would be shocked with how generous people can be with their time. Don’t get me wrong- 8 times out of 10 I got no response. But the other two times, I made valuable connections and was on their radar if an opening did arise- that’s how I got the seasonal work with Zappos. I emailed a recruiter asking to have coffee and learn more about Zappos- a few weeks later, she emailed me about the Customer Service role. I immediately went to Whole Foods and bought a lunch box, I was back in business, baby!!

Never think that a job or task is beneath you. I can’t tell you how many women I’ve talked to, fresh out of college, who thinks they should be able to skip “entry-level”. It’s not what you see on Instagram. You have to work and be willing to do it all. Sometimes you take a new job and feel like you’re taking a small step back. But one step back, to ultimately take five forward? I was terrible at math in high school but sounds good to me!!

If you are currently in a job that sucks the soul out of you, you have to do everything you can to not bring it home with you. Leave work at work. I used to sit in my car for 15-minutes after a certain job I had, just to decompress and shake it off. I was letting the misery of the job take the joy out of the rest of my day, and I didn’t want to give it that power.

If you work with people who are intent on making you miserable, remember that flowers still grow among weeds. Or in simpler terms, don’t internalize the bullshit happening around you that stunts your growth. That was the hardest lesson for me to learn, and the hardest habit to kick.

In terms of applying for jobs- making my resume was truly the bane of my existence. I thought I had a killer resume- until I sent it to a few friends who kindly roasted it into oblivion. My experience was strong! But my resume might as well have been written in Comic Sans. It had a lot on there, but it said nothing. The best tip I ever received was that every sentence should have a result. So instead of:

“Responsible for all e-mail marketing initiatives”

It should be:

“Responsible for all e-mail marketing initiatives, leading to a 33% increase in active subscribers”.

And while we’re at it- delete your objective sentence. Delete it like your racist Uncle from Facebook. It takes up valuable property on your resume, and it tells the employer what they already know- that you want that job, CLEARLY!!!

It also helped me to buy a resume template off Etsy- it took the hard work out of designing my resume so I could focus on the content of it.

I think we’ve been fed a myth about the “Dream Job”- and we pressure ourselves to find it as fast as we can. We tell ourselves we’ll be happy when we have it. In those five months that I wasn’t working, I realized that I had associated my happiness with work, and the jobs I had. If my job sucked- I was miserable, even when I wasn’t there. I had gotten completely dependent on my job to dictate the other parts of life. I struggled to find things that could fill me with joy and purpose the way I had told myself a job should make me feel. In those five months, I had to learn that my happiness came from other outside factors. I had to focus on how to create a “Dream Life”, instead the illusive “Dream Job”. And it wasn’t this poetic, romanticized journey people sell- sorry but that’s only for people who don’t need MONEY!!! It was challenging and stressful as hell.

I’m not a job expert, I’m really fortunate to be in a position now where I enjoy going into work and feel respected and happy. What I want the takeaway to be is that while your job environment is extremely important to your well-being, it can’t be the sole factor of it. If you’re ready to be onto the next thing, start putting yourself out there, be willing to get a little uncomfortable. The amount of cringe-y emails I sent (I actually put “Hello, Is it Me You’re Looking For? as the subject of an application email. GOOD TIMES!) and unanswered calls discouraged me at times, but all it takes is one. Again- you might be in weeds, but you are a flower (one of those cool, Instagrammy ones) and growth requires action.

One Year.

When were engaged, Michael and I heard from so many couples: “the first year of marriage is the best of your life!”. But what we rarely heard, was the honesty of all the changes that come with being a newly married couple. Instagram photos and tributes to our spouses can be deceiving, so today, on our first wedding anniversary, I wanted to write my version of a love letter to my husband.

One year ago, Michael and I got married. It truly was the happiest day of our lives. I didn’t think I could love him any more than in the moments we exchanged our personal vows. We went on our honeymoon in Hawaii, embraced in marital and tropical bliss. Our first Christmas together was magical, and I loved ringing in 2018 with a bottle of champagne from the comfort of our own couch. The marital rumors were true- I was happier than I had ever been.

In the Spring, Michael and I started to get restless. We had been living in our rented condo for almost two years at this point, and were looking ahead to the future in terms of our careers. We knew it was time to start making moves. We imagined staying in the area, buying a house, getting a dog, or FIVE! Or maybe we would move to a big city and live the life for a few years. It was on my lunch hour one day in March that Michael called me and said he was put up for a great new position in Las Vegas. Through the decision to take the job and move, our marital bliss slowly faded away. When faced with a big, life-changing decision- that’s when our marriage got real. By April, we packed up the condo and moved our things across the country. I moved in with my parents, and Michael commuted back and fourth between Detroit and Las Vegas. Tensions were high, the situation was less than ideal. Michael loved his new job, but I was weary of a new home and career uncertainty.

We finally made the full move in July, and while things have been exciting and new, some days have been a struggle. It isn’t this cinematic picture of marriage, romantically eating pizza on the floor surrounded by moving boxes. The image I had in my head of what marriage should look like wasn’t matching our reality. It made me wonder if we were failing in our first year.

Looking back on the past year, I now can see with full clarity, that my marriage is perfectly real. In the times that we struggled, that was when we decided how we will be as husband and wife. After every serious talk or disagreement, my husband showed me beautiful comfort and unconditional understanding. I gave him compassion and unwavering faith. I truly feel that we both emptied ourselves for one another in this year, in the most wonderful way possible. Here today, in a coffee shop on the other side of the country, I can honestly say that I love Michael more today than I did on our wedding day. There is no Instagram tribute or Facebook post that could explain how closely I will hold this year to my heart. I will look back on the days I came home crying (didn’t have to look back very far, as it was probably last week), losing faith in myself and my career, only to be laughing an hour later, feeling completely renewed by viewing myself through my husbands’ eyes. 

There is no perfect marriage. You’re going to argue, disagree, maybe even slam a door (I’m an Italian Aries, sorry!!!). Life is great when it’s moving smoothly and seamlessly. House, dog, steady job. But if you’re lucky, it’s in the moments of change, the moments of complete uncertainty and risk, that you really realize how wonderful love and marriage can be.  It was in the struggle that I truly saw how beautiful our life will be together. Not because we’re perfectly married. But because for the first time, I feel that we both gave each other absolutely everything we had. And in return? We made a life, together. When they say “the honeymoon is over!”, good. That’s when the good part really begins.

In our vows, I told Michael that he is my greatest gift. It’s never been truer than it is today. Happy first anniversary, Michael.

Viva Las Vegas!

That's right- the Ayaubs are moving from Detroit to the desert! We are living the dream of being closer to Celine Dion...OK, OK, Michael got a really great job, too. This summer, Mike and I will be moving to Henderson, Nevada to pursue the next stage in our careers. 

When Mike initially got a call about a job in Las Vegas, I stubbornly declared that I could never, ever move to Las Vegas. I had images of someone handing me naked-lady cards on my way to get coffee, or running into one of those giant "Elmo" characters on a morning walk. And although this new job sounded like this would be a great opportunity for him, what about my job? We are both two very career-driven people, and I got overwhelmed with the thought of not finding an opportunity for myself out there, too. 

When we flew into Las Vegas for his interview, we drove about 25 minutes from The Strip to Henderson. I was ready to hate it. I told you guys- I'm horribly stubborn. We toured around the town and even looked at a few apartments. My ego was displeased to find that I didn't hate it at all- I actually loved it. It was nothing like the flashing lights and endless buffets that The Strip boasts. It was very comparable to our life here in Birmingham, just with more palm trees and a bigger "Whole Foods" (put that near the top of our "pro" list). We saw an apartment we loved, and now we had a decision to make.

When we got back to the hotel that night, I completely shut down. We cancelled our dinner reservation. We got room service and I cried. The overwhelming sadness of leaving all our friends and family behind hit me like a true Vegas hangover. I couldn't imagine not being able to call up my parents and meet them for breakfast on a Sunday. I couldn't fathom not being able to drive 10 minutes to my best friend's house, or meet my sister for a pedicure, or visit my in-laws for dinner. And what about my job? What was I going to do? 

I realized I was using the word "I" in my thoughts far too much. I wasn't in this alone, I had my husband, who had this really exciting opportunity, and I cried all over it. I will say, I haven't quite mastered some parts of marriage yet. This isn't to say we aren't happy. Being married to Mike has been my favorite 6-months ever. But anyone that says this is easy, is probably lying. It's not just about you anymore, there's two people that need to be considered in every single situation. You have to compromise, work together, and always keep in mind that it is the two of you fighting against the problem. Not fighting against each other. You work on these things everyday, and sometimes you fall short.

When we got back to Michigan, I felt calmer, more excited about this next step in our lives. I knew moving was the right thing to do, and so did Mike. We applied for the apartment and started calling moving companies.  We came to terms with the fact that our parents won't be a drive away for dinner, and we will go a while without seeing our siblings and friends. But we thought of how fun it will be when they visit, or we road-trip to California to meet up with them for vacation. This is going to be a huge change for us, and not every day will be butterflies and swimming pools (ok, we will have a bomb a$$ swimming pool though). But change is just a part of life, and we can choose to panic or embrace it. 

I am going to miss the hell out of Detroit. I tear up just as I type that, because I have grown to love this place after complaining about it my whole adolescent-life . I'm going to miss our neighborhood in Birmingham, and walking to get our favorite coffee. I'll miss driving downtown to a cool new restaurant, or store, and experiencing the thriving, beautiful culture of Detroit. I'll miss movie night with our friends, brunch with my girlfriends, Mediterranean food-binges with my sister, seeing our parents almost every week. I'll miss the people and places that made our life here so hard to leave. 

But I am excited- WE are excited! I can't wait to find a new pizza place together, decorate a new apartment, not experience winter (sorry guys), see Celine Dion more often (sorry, Mike), walk outside and sit by the pool with a book in January, experience all the ups and downs of change with my husband. I'm excited to see what's next for my career, while watching Mike's take incredible steps forward, too. 

We don't know how long we'll be in Nevada. Or if we'll move to California next, or London, or Idaho, or back to Detroit. We are taking this all as it comes, and I can't wait to see how it all turns out. 

To the desert!