Fashion-Able: How We Can Push The Fashion Industry to a More Accessible Future.

I have loved fashion for as long as I can remember. I loved how the feathers looked up against the plastic glitter of my “Princess Jasmine” slippers. I wanted an “Old Hollywood” party when I was eight so I could wear a velvet dress and bright red feather boa. I always knew I wanted to pursue a career in fashion. I have loved it for all my life- but it has seldom loved me back.

It’s hard to realize how inaccessible fashion and clothing is until you experience it firsthand. When I was young, we spent hours in shoe stores trying to find sneakers that would fit my leg braces, but didn’t look like you’d find them walking around a retirement home. I remember crying when the only sandals I would wear were bright blue Birkenstocks with a sunflower print (which jokes on me, because I am SURE they’re sold at Urban Outfitters now).

When I had my biggest surgery in 2007 and wore an external fixator for nine months, one of the largest challenges was getting dressed. Imagine being in pain, struggling to move, and spending energy being concerned with finding underwear, or having to wear a skirt in the dead of winter, because you couldn’t find pants to accommodate your device. My mom and I went to great lengths to create our own version of accessibility.

I couldn’t pull underwear up over my fixator. My mom bought pairs and pairs of cotton underwear, cut them all at the side seam and fastened with a safety pin. For 9 months, I had that hard metal pin digging into my skin, poking me every time I had to unfasten them to use the bathroom. We bought men’s 4XL pants and cut them up the side, I wore skirts with 2 pairs of leg warmers in the winter. I had to buy two different pairs of shoes, because my left foot was so swollen, it was three full sizes bigger than my right (Nordstrom was the only store that eventually started selling me single pairs of shoes, I will never forget that). During the first few months, I just wore a blanket over my leg at school, because as someone who had always loved getting dressed, I was embarrassed by my attire. How you present yourself to the world isn’t about clothes. It’s armor, it’s story-telling, it’s a courageous sign of self.

When I started to get more mobile with my external fixator, I started to regain a bit of my fashion identity-which at 16, felt like my entire identity. I found big voluminous skirts, swing coats with big circle hems, stretchy maxi dresses. It wasn’t easy, and this was before the time of mainstream online shopping – buying my Prom dress off the internet was a HUGE DEAL. (IT’S OFFICIAL. THAT SENTENCE MAKES ME OLD!) It should have been easier. It has to be easier.

In the past few years, accessibility in fashion has come a long way. More startups are dedicated to apparel that accommodates a range of differently abled people. Zappos Adaptive has been at the forefront of shaping the industry, working with designers to create accessible pieces as part of their production plans. Shirts with magnetic or velcro closures instead of buttons, the single-shoe program, and yes! Underwear that fastens at the side. The models featured have a variety of disabilities, which has also been nice to see an uptick in for retailers like Nordstrom, even Gucci. But it shouldn’t be novelty. It shouldn’t signify if a company is “good.” It should be the standard of retail.

TH Magnetic Closure Trench

Slick Chicks Side Fastening Underwear

Nike FlyEase

Port-Accessible Top

The accessibility market in fashion is about function- and rightfully so. Getting dressed while disabled has to be about pieces that make life easier, more manageable. But as I experienced as a child, this usually means functionality over fashion, and many items are left looking bland, not lending a hand to expressing personal style. Stylized pieces, even luxury items often cater only to able bodies. There is virtually no vintage market for people with disabilities. For many, including myself, it can be a real hunt to find clothing that meets a standard of accessibility, all while being able to possess a personal style.

It comes as no surprise that I feel a real pull to shift my career from traditional fashion to accessibility and diversity in the industry. While I plan for the future, what can we do right now to push fashion forward?

• The most simple is to take note when you are in a physical retail store. It is an ADA requirement that stores be fully accessible to wheelchairs and other handicap devices. However, I can’t tell you how many stores I have entered in a wheelchair, only to not be able to make it past the first set of racks. If you go out to shop, be aware. Could a wheelchair easily maneuver through there? Would it be hard for a person with a walker to get by? Is there available seating for someone with a cane? Could a blind person walk through here with a walking aid? If not, write to the company, call the manager (insert a “Karen” joke here). We all can help make shopping a more accessible and enjoyable experience for everyone.

• Support businesses that offer accessible options, even if you’re not someone who needs them. I love shopping on Zappos not only because they have an accessible department, but because that department is integrated into their regular retail site. It’s not an extra, not another web address I have to go. It’s an inclusive shopping experience. Target now features accessible options, and brands like Tommy Hilfiger and Nike have accessible lines of product. Etsy also has a great community of accessibility-focused small shops.

• Personally, I will be reaching out to my favorite online retailers to offer “accessible” filters on their site. For instance, The Real Real could curate an accessible section of the app, easily found by filtering for it. This could be as simple as curating items without buttons, stretch clothing, magnetic closure tops, seated and sensory friendly clothing. Especially in resale/vintage, there is next to no accessibility. An entire group of people should not be excluded from a sustainable way of shopping because it’s harder to curate. The work should fall the companies, not on the consumers.

• Large brands can adjust existing items to make them more accessible. A longer back on a shirt is ideal for people in wheelchairs, underwear can be offered with a side fastening, jackets with Velcro for those with mobility or sensory issues, shoes that are pre-laced. Zappos Adaptive is the perfect example of a retailer working with its existing brands to create accessible offerings. More brands should follow suit, not because it’s great marketing, but because it’s right, and it’s long overdue.

Accessibility in fashion has come a long way since I was growing up. But it has so much further to go. It doesn’t matter if I’m not in a wheelchair right now, or if I don’t need accessible options at this time- I know the pain of being excluded from something you love. This industry cannot just revolve around the notion of being fashionable. It has to be about being fashion-able, and it has to be now.  

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.

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?

In Repair

After a rough stretch of days, I officially declared myself in a “funk”. You know the feeling- you don’t quite feel like yourself, every emotion and feeling seems to be heightened. My first memory of this feeling was when Marissa Cooper died in The O.C….BUT THAT WAS DIFFERENT! A “faux funk”, if you will. A real, adult funk is hard to shake, surrounded by feelings of self-doubt, uncertainty and unworthiness.

I have very little reason to be anything less than ecstatic these days. We just closed on a house, we have a cute new puppy to love (and to chase around the house when he steals my underwear from the laundry and puts it on his head. MY GIFTED SON!), we just got back from a vacation, I’m healthy, and I actually like going to my job.

But for the past few days, I just haven’t been feeling it. I have felt removed from myself, my routines, my usual character. I’m not going to be too hard on myself here- these periods happen no matter what your life looks like in that moment. But I knew I had to take back my humanity. I’m not a runner, I don’t “find myself” with yoga, I can’t “sweat it out!!” with boxing. Over the last year or so, I’ve had to find activities and practices to put in my arsenal that bring me back to myself. My personal practices include:

-Going to the library and finding a new book (cookbooks are therapeutic to me, even if I never make anything from them.)

-Sipping my coffee in the morning at home, not from a to-go cup in my car (great news for my cup holders, which are usually espresso stained)

-Reading outside

- Going to Trader Joe’s and perusing every aisle, grabbing all the snacks that look good (and usually opening a box of something in the car to eat on the way home…maybe I should be taking better care of my car)

-Baking something (this week it was a cherry tart, which I overcooked but Michael said it’s the best tart he’s ever had. 1000 POINTS TO MICHAEL!)

-Buying flowers that I will most likely kill within 3 days but that first day…they are healing!

Even writing this right now, outside with a glass of wine (blame any errors on the Pinot), is a therapeutic action in repairing myself. I take these mundane, somewhat daily things and I put them on priority. Some may call it “self-care”, but it’s more than that. It’s the practice of reminding myself that I am worth caring for.

We all require healing. Maybe it’s once a month, or once a week. Maybe it’s massive work (I firmly believe therapy is the greatest gift you can give yourself), or just a tune-up. To heal is to be human.

In my favorite book, Heart Talk , Cleo Wade says “It does no good to think about running a marathon when you still have a broken foot”. Take the time you need, put priority on your practices, your “self-activators”. Find your way back and remember, you can never be truly lost if you know who you are.

dust

Don’t worry- I’m not going to start this post with an “I’m back after a little hiatus!” bit. I’ve played it and it’s gotten old. The truth is, I just stopped writing. Not because I didn’t enjoy it or have anything to say, but simply because life got busy. Right after I published my last post in November, I finally got a job in Nevada. A job I love, and I decided early on I would give it my all. I put all my focus not just into my job, but also my marriage, which was finally back on the ground after a difficult move, and immersing myself in our new community. The last few months have flown by, and it’s almost a year-to-date that we found out we were leaving Detroit. And guess what? I’m happier than I’ve ever been, and it completely snuck up on me.

In all my contentment, I still I felt an itch to put pen to paper again (I write all my posts in a notebook before typing. Eat your heart out, Shakespeare!!!) Every day when I would walk into my closet, I would pass a framed copy of “The Nines” logo that my friendly so sweetly made me for my birthday one year. I would walk by it, think “I should write soon”, and then just go in my closet and get distracted by a sweater. But yesterday as I walked past it, I noticed all the dust that had accumulated around the frame, and it hit me. I was letting the dust collect around something I loved. I gave up on something that was supposed to be growing. And in true “Carrie Bradshaw” style (even though she is THE WORST, don’t get me started) , I had to wonder “When being content stunts your growth-is it really such a good thing?”.

No-one made me stop writing. It was actually the opposite. My husband would ask if there was anything new to read, my boss said she really enjoyed my writing. I feel supported by the people around me. But I used all the things going on in my life as a crutch to avoid doing something that was enjoyable, but required a lot of effort. I was so busy with life and happy with just-the-way-things-were that I forgot that growth requires doing. That in order to have a voice, you have to speak. I neglected the piece of me that loves to talk about women’s rights and skincare and how not needing a bra until 8th grade ruined my self esteem- we’ll get to that later, OH WILL WE EVER!

This post isn’t about “being back, guys!”. It’s meant to serve as a reminder that if you have let dust collect around something you love, something that makes you who you are-you can always clean it off and pick it back up. You can also hire a cleaning company. That has no double meaning- the dust was so alarming that we literally hired a cleaning company. Talk soon. xx