It’s the little changes

by Amanda on January 27, 2012

via Pinterest

It’s true what they say about the little things adding up. It’s also true that the little changes go a long way. It’s almost five weeks into my Lifestyle Overhaul and I’ve gotta say, the changes are worth some of the sacrifices. Sure, I try not to eat or drink processed sugars. I don’t eat fast food. I usually forgo meat in favour of veggies galore. (Although this isn’t always the case.) Kale has become my healthy best friend.

But, even with all of these diet changes, I’m not quite where I want to be in terms of activity. I don’t exercise as often as I know I should be. I often opt for a few more hours of work in the evening instead of heading to the gym that’s in my building.

The truth is that I’m just not a treadmill kind of girl.

And I’m not a “do this exercise” kind of girl, either.

But I am a yoga kind of girl. Inviting in health and happiness for my body and soul? Well, who can say no?

Starting next week, I’m starting yoga at a studio in downtown Vancouver and I’m bringing company.

(Not so) Trivial things I’ve noticed

My jeans are starting to fall off.

I have a boatload of extra energy, in spite of the fact that my son is seven months old and very active. It’s not to say that I don’t get tired — because I do get tired, often — it’s just to say that on average, my energy lasts from 10am to 1am. Seriously. Maybe I’ll nap during the day but not often.

I’m way happier.

I have a clear head, most of the day.

And, according to Mike, this is the most vital I’ve ever been.

Things that haven’t really changed

My sugar addiction. Seriously. I gotta fix this. Even if I’m not consuming processed sugars, I’m still using honey and stevia in practically everything.

My love of coffee. I still have my one cup a day, even though I’m aware that I don’t need it.

My palette. It’s still… lacking. I still don’t like some veggies and some tastes. I’m assuming that it’s just… acquired. And so, I’m determined to acquire.

Next week, I’m going to try even more new recipes. Onward!

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Redesigning my relationship with food

by Amanda on January 16, 2012


via The Well Travelled Woman

‘Tis the season for resolutions and a setting of intentions. It’s part-way through January, after all. And, since I have all of this extra time (yeah, sure), I’ve been doing a lot of soul-searching about what it means to eat well and be well-fed.

I spent the entirety of my childhood and adolescence eating wonderful food, prepared with love. I would often pine for the more expensive junk food because the other kids’ parents could afford them and we couldn’t. I was irritated by it. So when I graduated and moved out on my own, I bought all that expensive junk and reveled in their entirely tasty but deceptively horribleness.

It wasn’t until I got older that I realized the damage I’d done.

And that my mother had been right all along. (Yeah, like we didn’t all see that one coming. She’s wise, that woman.)

On top of my stupid — oh yes, that’s the word I’m looking for — food decisions in my early twenties, my relationship with food in any form has been toxic since the day I bought my first Vogue magazine. (For the record, I don’t blame Vogue. They’re a magazine. A biznez like any other.)

It was May 2001. I walked into the local convenience store and put down my five dollar bill on the counter. The model’s windswept blonde hair was dazzling. Her figure: flawless. And that red cutout knit swimsuit? Oh goodness, what I would’ve given to have that swimsuit look the same on my fourteen-year-old body.

I must’ve pored over that magazine for days, clipping my favourite advertisements and pasting them in my secret sartorial notebook. I pulled out the perfume samples and stashed them all over my room. For months, when I walked into my bedroom, it smelled like a heady mixture of Calvin Klein and Chanel No. 5.

During one of those analytically charged evenings, I walked into the main bathroom. The girl in the mirror blinked back at me — large, hazel eyes. Haunted. But not. I shrugged out of my clothing — sweater first, fading blue jeans, underthings. Naked, I examined what had gone largely unexamined.

A collarbone, starkly jutting out against porcelain skin. Broad shoulders. Shapely flesh and fat. I stopped myself.

Fat.

I couldn’t look like the beautiful blonde. I had fat on my body. I was muscular, sure, but there were pockets of baby fat that I hadn’t grown out of, yet. I initially told myself that that’s all it was. That I’d grow out of it before I knew it.

Hips.

Fat.

So I stopped eating. Well, not entirely, but certainly in a normal way. I didn’t want to eat. I’d end up an Old Maid, living with a million dogs (because I hate cats) in some dark house in the middle of nowhere. So, I didn’t eat more than I had to. Just enough to survive. Just enough.

The pounds melted away. I could see ribs. Hipbones. Cheekbones. I became a hungry, haunted teenager.

But now, I was beautiful and everyone could see it.

That’s when the stomach problems started. When I ate, it was painful. My stomach ragefully rejected any nutrition. Each bite seemed like agony. I would suffer for hours after any meal. I talked to my doctor but failed to mention that I only ate once a day. He couldn’t find anything wrong with me, other than I was looking a bit thin.

110 pounds is a lot of weight on some frames. On me, it was too little. My skin looked like butter spread over too much bread. Stretched. Taut. Odd. It wasn’t until I noticed a clump of hair on my pillow that I realized I had a problem. No one really noticed (except my parents) when I started to rehabilitate my eating habits. And my body, for that matter.

I struggled (and continually struggle) against that nature of “You’re too fat. Stop eating, fatty.” It destroyed my metabolism. It strained an already tenuous hold on my sanity. I stopped looking at food as, “Beautiful, delicious. A celebration of flavour.” It became my enemy. And when food became my enemy, my body became the battlefield.

Since 2001 — almost eleven years — I’ve been fighting those food demons. I fought anorexia and instead plunged into unhealthy eating habits. I fought those unhealthy eating habits with more attempts at anorexia, without the “results” this time. I stopped respecting my body. In October of 2011, I had my gallbladder removed because my body just couldn’t cope with fatty foods anymore. I spent four unexpected days in the hospital without my little boy. I took the time to rest and to examine why I was in there in the first place.

At the beginning of January, we all make resolutions, even if we resolve to resolve nothing at all. We seek to better ourselves and our lives. Many of us decide to say, “Hey, this year I’m going to go to the gym and eat better.” Many of those many stop midway through January because it’s too hard to change.

Let’s face it. Change is hard.

At the end of 2011 (ten and a half years after buying that first Vogue), I made the decision to change my lifestyle. Not just “go to the gym” or “eat healthier”. But actually sit down, draw up a plan, and make it happen. I learned different recipes. I budget to buy my fruits, veggies, and lean meats from organic sources.

Partway through my twenty-fifth year, I’ve resolved to redesign my relationship with food.

And, by proxy, my body.

For the remainder of the year, I’m going to take Mondays to write about rediscovering my appreciation for my body and redesigning my relationship with food. Perhaps it’ll be a picture. Maybe it’ll be a recipe. Could be an anecdote. Whatever it is, this is going to help keep me committed to this healthy lifestyle overhaul.

For the first time, I’m not interested in “skinny”. I really, truly, and completely believe that my body is capable of being healthy, no matter what that healthy happens to look like. Or what number is on the back of my jeans.

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My Accidental Book

by Amanda on January 8, 2012

Photo Credit: Me (via insta.gram)

My whole life has been a dress rehearsal for this moment.

The blocking was easy — going through the motions and remember where to stand, both in and out of the limelight. Learning the lines came next — there was always someone to convince of something. (Even if that someone was me.) I’ve spent years honing the many facets of my personality and various, interconnected talents. When I let these pieces click into place, the universe drew the curtain.

Sharp breath. Deep breath. Exhale.

Hunched against the corner on a rain-soaked bus, my mind wandered. (As it often does.)

It wandered into the familiar places of my psyche.

I thought about my son, sitting at home with his father, no doubt building that new furniture we bought last night. I thought about my husband — a deeply grounded, energetic man — and the dreams he’d whispered in my ear all those years ago.

I thought about my family. My brother, in his retail job on the other side of the bridge. My mother and father, back home. I thought about my clients; daydreamed about their online spaces and how to make sure they looked and functioned the best they could.

I eased myself into thinking about… myself.

Clarity spoke to me sometime before the new year. It came in the form of a trusted friend’s voice reminding me of why I do what I do. I let the clarity rattle around in my skull before writing it on paper, allowing it to manifest in my biznez by deeply acknowledging it. Superb, wonderful, beautiful people found me through Clarity.

Deep breath. Exhale.

Someone yelled from the back of the bus about the slow traffic. A couple pressed their heads together and smiled — ah, new love. The bus stopped suddenly and fought to catch my balance.

Balance. I used to be balanced. I used to put my thoughts and energies into doing a little bit of everything, with abandon. The joy of the challenge. The industrious nature of conquering something new and exciting. The impetuous glory of flipping off the universe.

Yeah right, like you can stop me. 

I angled myself to look outside at the glass skyscrapers. Baptism by rain — pieces of the city reborn by coastal storm.

We came to a stop outside of the train station. I stood outside, gazing upwards at nothing but sky. I felt… unwound.

I sought a lonely seat on the far end of the train, unaware of my impending epiphany. We gracefully arched forward, the wind whipping outside, rainwater threatening to break the glass and drown us all. Unsettling. Calming.

The book in my hands tore a painful hole through my practicality. It usurped the place where I put my fear. The little dictator that called herself Myself cried out as she fled from this improbability. Of course, I thought. Why didn’t I see this before?

But I had seen it before. I’d seen it my whole life. I’d seen it from the first time I picked up a yellow Number Two pencil and started scratching it against a piece of paper. I’d felt it from the first time I pieced together something resembling a narrative. (It currently resides in a box in my parents’ basement.)

All the pieces were falling into place. Rapidly. Painfully. Where had I been for the last seven years? In school? Pretending to be something I’m not? Pretending to be something I wanted to be? And now, the gears are shifting and the only speed I can go is fast.

I have to hold on.

The curtain is drawn. The butterflies I’m all too familiar with bubble up into my mouth and flutter their imaginary wings. I remember this feeling. I remember this stage. I know this play.

This is Act One.

Big thank you to Danielle LaPorte for making me believe in my writing once again. I’ll send you an advance copy.

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