As a kid, when I was finished with my plate, I would put it in the sink or dishwasher. When I wasn’t paying attention, the magical cleaning fairy would come around and the next time I went to use a dish it was back on top of the stack, ready to go. This was an ideal situation until I turned 18, moved out of the house and realized that magical fairy didn’t follow me. My roommate/best friend and I came up with the brilliant plan to let the house get so disgusting (whether that took a week of busy classes or one night of friends over), then we would blast Spice Girls and starting drinking mikes hard, or everclear or whatever the fuck we drank that year, until we blacked out and woke up to a clean house. This brilliant strategy stuck with me while living in six homes over five years. I would clean the bathroom with margaritas, organize my closet with Jack Daniels, scrub my floor with red wine and do dishes with mimosas.
Flash forward to my 23rd year on earth, and my second consecutive day sober in what felt like a lifetime, I set out to clean the stack of dishes in my sink. On autopilot, I opened the fridge, poured what was left from a flat bottle of $3.99 champagne, topped with a splash of oj for color and put the mason jar to my lips while I leaned over the sink. “Oh shit! What am I doing??” I quickly put the glass down while my mind spun around in survival mode. My thought process went something like this: I am not drinking. I cannot drink. But I can’t wash dishes without a drink. I don’t know how to. Is it even possible? I think not. I cannot wash dishes today. Unsure of what else to do, I sat down on my couch and stared at a wall. I might have had a panic attack, I probably went for a run. Days turned into weeks until there was not one single clean dish, cup, cutlery, pot or pan to use. I rolled up my sleeves, poured myself a la croix in a fancy cup, gave myself a pep talk and got to work. When it was all said and done, it was far less painful than I imagined.
Last week, some woowoo instagram girl told me that I should celebrate virgo season by cleaning my space. Since my home and car resembled the aftermath of a tornado from weeks of travel and fun, that was all the encouragement I needed. I planned out my cleaning schedule in 30 minute increments, saving the dishes for last. After I reorganized my car, deep cleaned the kitchen, tidied up the entire house, and pre-packed for an upcoming trip, I arrived at the sink. In the few minutes it took to wash the dishes I had the realization, what if this isn’t difficult? What if I just told myself that story? What if I, as a grown ass woman in charge of her thoughts and actions, I told myself a different story, one that works for me? What if I liked cleaning because a clean space made me feel good? What if the act of cleaning was not to satisfy someone else's standard of cleanliness, but to show myself respect? I mean, I’m talking mind blowing epiphanies while soaking a brownie pan. At that moment I realized that not only had I washed the dishes, but I cleaned the whole damn house completely sober without a second thought or the feeling of dread. There are about six years and three months separating the girl who sat on her couch and stared at the wall, and the woman I am today - playing with the idea that I might enjoy cleaning.
I write this to celebrate how far I’ve come, but also to remind you that healing is not linear, it doesn’t happen overnight, and it can be extremely difficult. If you’re talking down to yourself because you can’t do something perfectly the first time, just remember that there was a day when I couldn’t even wash a dish.
Growth Mindset
training for joy
After 10 years of private school I begged my parents to let me go to public high school and get a taste for the real world (hindsight is that the real world sucks and kids are mean, but I digress). I would only know 3 girls out of a school of 1,200, so I was determined to join as many teams and clubs as I could to make friends. This is how I ended up on the cross country, winter tract and spring track team. I learned to train my mind, push my body, run faster and win more (or at least place top 3). This constant hustle left me burnt out by 19 and I didn’t race again until I was 23. Once sober, I started committing to races to keep me accountable in my healing journey of running through the trauma. I needed to run for my mental health, I needed races to make sure I showed up. When races were canceled due to covid, I ran on occasion, without a watch and only for fun. Once I moved to West Virginia I pretty much stopped running altogether due to the inclimate weather, wet ground and technical trails. This week I created a 28 day workout routine to follow my body’s 28 day menstrual cycle (linked below). It is a playbook that tells me when I should focus on cardio, stretching or strengthening, while also considering my energy cycles occurring in my body. Today was a “sprint workout”. Now before you tell me that you’re not a runner, my sprint workout was 1.5 miles and took me 8 minutes. I warmed up for a half mile, sprinted for 30 seconds, jogged slowly for 30, repeated 3x, then cooled down for a half mile. BUT I DID IT and I felt great. Within seconds of running I had full body chills. The hairs on my head started standing up in excitement while sprinting and I had a huge smile on my face the entire time. I had this thought: What if I don’t run through the trauma, or train for races, or run to be skinny/strong, what if I run to make myself happy? If you need me, I’ll be training for more joy (you should check in with my progress when it’s snowing in October and I don’t want to go outside.)
In my private school, the middle school kids would go on a week-long trip to Deep Creek Lake in Western Maryland once a year. It was on one of these trips that I started to feel extreme abdominal pain. Like, eating too many corn dogs at the fair kinda pain. So, when my 12 year old self pulled down her undies and saw the color of old blood that more closely resembled shit brown, rather than the cherry red that came from small cuts, I very logically concluded that I had shit my pants. Now, I was 12, on a school trip and roomed with one of the cool older girls. There was NO WAY I was about to tell ANYONE that I shit my pants. I put on a new pair of undies, hid the dirty evidence and went on with my day. The next time I peed, to my disbelief, there was more shit brown color, which was crazy because I never even felt it leak out. I was shook. I barely made it home with any clean undies and no one was the wiser because I did my own laundry and didn’t tell a soul. Weeks later, the abdominal pain returned and when I pulled down my pants, there was a dark red hue in my undies. I put two and two together, then ran to my mom to tell her what happened. Later that day I complained about cramps and my mother, who had never experienced cramps, told me that my cramps weren’t real, that my belly only hurt because I thought it should, and if I just realized I was fine, I would be. This is very on brand for my mother who refuses to acknowledge the existence of anything that hasn’t smacked her in the face. Years later, during menopause she finally felt cramps and apologized for not believing me.
I have created this 28 day moon cycle guide because it didn’t exist when I needed it. I didn’t know that I had a luteal phase or a follicular phase, that I should rest (not push through) on my period, or that my camps can be managed without toxic hormonal birth control. If you have signed up for my cycle guide and are wondering where it is, bear with me, I’ve been without a working computer for weeks and JUST resolved the issue before a cluster of long work days.
Dating
the love language of gifts
To my partner,
When I said, don’t buy me anything, you gave me a mug your brother made, and it was a very cute loophole. Then I clarified, don’t give me anything. As per usual, my communication is not as eloquent through spoken words as it is written, so let me explain. What I meant was; people, who are not you, have a history of buying me something (clothes, car, jewelry, phone, dinner, vacation) and then holding that “gift” over my head to manipulate me into doing whatever they want. This is a pattern that has presented itself throughout my entire life and because of this cycle, I am “triggered’, or at least very uncomfortable with gifts. I recognize that this is another item to add to the list of things I am healing while we continue to grow our relationship. Have patience with me, maybe one day I will change my mind and contradict myself. Until then, please continue to show me love through the languages that empower me; physical touch, acts of service and quality time.
Apothékary is a plant-based farmacy providing natural alternatives to synthetic skincare and drugs. I found this brand a few years ago while studying the healing benefits of mushrooms like lion’s mane, reishi and chaga. I was too lazy to forage for these, so instead I bought some from this company that ground, blended and added other ingredients like coconut cream for taste. A little goes a long way because I still have all of the jars I bought probably 2 years ago. I usually add the “follow your gut” blend to soups or “chill the fuck out” with hot water to drink. Now, “slay all day” blend with Japanese matcha, ginseng and coconut cream will be showing up in my smoothies!
