Tuning Out the Noise.

As all three devoted readers of this blog will know, this past year has been the "Year of Dani": a year of self-care, of becoming more comfortable in my own life and my own skin, and concentrating on what has meaning for me and makes me happy, healthy and whole.  I'm still a work in progress, but I feel like I have made some important steps forward and made changes in my own thinking that made a real difference to my own sense of well being and self-worth. 

No small part of this has been working on accepting myself for who I am, at the size I am.  Weight has been an issue for me since I was a kid. I can't pinpoint when exactly I started to feel different and unworthy because of my weight - it goes that far back. I remember being called fat by kids in elementary school.  I can remember my mom and I out walking when I was younger and some stranger yelling at us that we were two cows who SHOULD go out for a walk.  I don't remember a time when I didn't know in the core of my being that fat was bad, that I was fat, and therefore I was bad.  Naturally, I equated not-fatness with goodness.  If only I could just be thin, life would go my way.  I wouldn't feel different, or like an outsider.  I first went on Weight Watchers when I was 13.  I went back to WW a number of times, and have tried numerous other fad diets over the years, sometimes with tremendous success.  Dr. Phil's crazy Texan diet + running 5K every single day for five months = 60 pounds gone.  Dr. Bernstein + heartbreak + obsessive CrossFit = 90 pounds gone.   Dr. Bernstein (again) +  hot yoga 6 days a week = another 75 gone.  I've lost my own body weight probably multiple times in my life, sometimes by very unhealthy means.

Part of this year's focus has been on living in the present.  I quickly came to the realization that I couldn't genuinely live in the present without accepting myself for who I am in the present, all of me: the double chin, the chubby arms, the Size 16 clothing - every last large, chubby, round part of me.   I didn't know where to begin that acceptance, I really didn't.  I have been so conditioned to believe thin is good (for me - ironically I think most other people look good a little chubbier) that I had to start with a very narrow focus.  I found I liked myself more and could look at myself proudly in the mirror when I had cooked myself a healthy meal that day.  So that went into the rotation: healthy cooking.  I also noticed that I felt better about myself when I exercised -  I liked the way I looked in running clothes, and I liked how it felt to run.  OK, so it was time to start running more regularly.  I liked going to the pool - I bought the cutest vintage swim caps you have EVER seen and went and did Aqua-Fit with the old ladies at the Y.   I liked lifting weights - time to join an exercise crew - my dear friend April had told me about her sister-in-law's bootcamp program for plus size women, Body Exchange , so I started doing that two to three times a week, in addition to my running - and you should see me swing a kettlebell now.  

No small part of my growing acceptance and the beginning of falling in love with who I am, right now, came from the growing movement online that celebrates bodies of all sizes - including plus size bodies.  Models were a big part of that - seeing someone like Tess Holliday get on the cover of People Magazine in May was a big thing - but it was Ericka Shenck on the cover of Women's Running in August that made me literally howl with joy.  YES!  I am a runner! She is a runner! We are runners!  I cannot tell you how empowered that cover made me feel.  All I can say is my running laps at bootcamp that week were extra-fast, and extra-proud.  

I also discovered a whole world on Instagram of plus-size fashion beyond the two messy racks in the corner of H & M and the senior-citizens approved plus section of the Bay.   There were young professional women like me posting OOTD on IG, rocking fierce clothes that I needed right. now. There were even people I knew setting an example, like local amazing supermodel Ruby Roxx, looking so damn heart stoppingly sexy that she puts Victoria's Secret to shame.  Thanks to this social media takeover by beautiful, empowered, healthy, fashionable, smart, successful and LARGE women, plus size was becoming, for me, the new normal.  Finally, at 35, I felt normal.  I felt more deserving of being healthy, loved and beautiful - because here were these examples of women being these things, doing fabulous things, that I could look at everyday.

Cut to yesterday.  I was inundated, on TV and radio, with news stories relating to this study co-authored by Brent McFerran, a professor of marketing at SFU, saying that acceptance of larger body types in media (such as the now-iconic Dove campaign) result in greater consumption of food and less motivation to exercise. In other words, showing people images of fat people made them fat.  It made them lazy, and it made them eat more.  They refer in their conclusions to "overly large" bodies as "unhealthy" but do not refer to overly thin bodies in the same way.  They conclude that it would be "optimal" for people's well-being for marketers to use images of people of a "healthy weight and refrain entirely from drawing attention to the body size issue."  They suggest we ignore the elephant in the room - even if that elephant is me.  Or you.  The authors of this study seem to be fretting that we can't "normalize" people who are overweight, even though it's well established that the average woman in North America is a Size 14, and also well established, in the work of experts like Dr. Yoni Freedhoff, that dieting isn't working.  People are not getting smaller.  Bigger is the new normal.  Instead of suggesting that the media show healthy bigger bodies - show people that they can love themselves and be good to themselves at any size, and show them how to be healthy at any size, the authors of this study suggest that we be erased from the picture.  

To make matters worse, in giving publicity to this study, the media once again opened the floodgates for people to make judgments about others (as always, like they needed an invitation) based on size. On my way to bootcamp with my large lady-friends last night, I heard the following public comments on the CBC radio show On the Coast:

1)  Obesity is an epidemic, it is unhealthy and costs the taxpayers money so let's not celebrate that.

2)  I have fat friends and when I hang out with them I do eat more and I do make poor choices so I try to encourage us not to just go out to dinner when we socialize.

Imagine comment number 1 starting like so:

"Islam is an epidemic."

Or comment number 2:

"I have gay friends and when I hang out with them I do feel more homosexual."

 You may think, "Oh hang on Dani, being fat isn't the same as being Muslim, or gay.  People can't help being Muslim or gay."  And I am telling you, based on personal experience and the experience of many others I know, that the psychology of weight and our relationships with food, not to mention genetics and hormones, make it as difficult for some people to change their body shape as it is difficult to change the colour of your skin.  I have 35 years of obsessive exercise, diets, cycles of starvation, and more self-loathing than you can even imagine to prove it.  The fact that the study didn't even start to address that complication shows just how flawed, and harmful, it is.

In making a huge, oversimplified news story out of a controversial study that does not even scratch the surface of the psychology of food, weight, body image and media influence,the media is once again giving voice and validation to judgement, bigotry and shaming as legitimate opinion.

And I won't stand for it.  

Seeing myself reflected in the media over the past year has made me feel worthy: of love, of admiration, of health.  OF HEALTH.  Shaming me into trying to lose weight by only making clothes up to a certain size (I'm looking at you, Abercrombie & Fitch and Lululemon) didn't make me feel those things.  Publishing glowing articles about Gwyneth Paltrow's latest cleanse didn't make me feel those things.  Fat jokes on YouTube by dude comedians didn't make me feel those things.  It was seeing myself, or someone who I could identify with, on a cover, in a story, in an Instagram post, that made me want to love myself.  And doesn't everybody deserve that?  Shouldn't our media reflect who we really are, whether that's thin, fat, tall, short, able-bodied, or 

not,

cis or transgendered?  And every colour under the rainbow?  And wearing a hijab, or a burqa, or a turban?  

So,

TL/DR:

1.  I am a hot, sexy, athletic, healthy, plus sized woman who can do more push-ups than you and has the most fierce style ever EVER.

2.  Magazines, TV and marketing couldn't shame me into loving myself, the only way that happened was by seeing myself reflected in the media: by showing me that I existed, was worthy of depiction, and could be part of the story.

3.  Size shaming appears to be one of the last acceptable forms of prejudice disguised as health concern-trolling, and it's not OK.  Just as we won't let Donald Trump's hatred make a comeback, we won't let shaming of people for

any

aspect of their body go unaddressed.  

4. Fat is not contagious.  Nor is it monstrous, or deserving of being "othered."

5. Diversity is good.

6.  Health is good, and we need to celebrate and applaud those actions we take for our health, which can come in many different packages.

7.  Don't let stupid hateful people be on the radio.  This includes Donald Trump.  I'm tuning out the noise and focusing, in the immortal words of Crystal Waters, on

100% pure love

.  

The Work of Being Happy.

Back in January, I decided this would be the year of self-care.  The year of not setting ambitious goals or striving outrageously to accomplish things.  The year of being a bit kinder to myself.  I was so so tired.  I was tired of feeling disappointed in myself when I didn't achieve superstardom, unlimited wealth, Olympic-level fitness, true love, a family, and professional accolades.  I was tired of feeling like I was struggling to succeed - when really by most people's standards I was doing just fine.  I figured there had to be an easier way to live.  Or, maybe there wasn't, maybe I was/am a perfectionist for life - but at least I could make peace with that way of living, if I spent a year being "ordinary" and still couldn't be happy.  Maybe the struggle would be sweeter if I knew I was happier struggling than going with the flow.  Weird, but that's what I was thinking. 

I did (and did not do) a number of things during this "Year of Dani."  They were, for the most part, seemingly small "no brainer" things to me, really - basic life skills that I had just forgotten to do in my pursuit of "greatness".  

I moved, to a neighbourhood less bustling than Gastown, where I could sleep, and read, and go for walks on tree lined streets.  I started cooking at home and taking my lunch to work.  I didn't audition for shows I didn't want to be in (sounds easy, is actually hard, when you are desperately afraid of being forgotten).  I said no to volunteer opportunities I was presented with if they didn't make my heart sing.  I stayed at home and read books - real books, from the library, with pages, rather then e-books on my Kobo.  

I went for walks, and sometimes I ran. I gardened on my little balcony.  I didn't shop when I was sad or lonely (because shoes make you less lonely!), I wrote it down in my journal, or admitted to someone that I was sad and received a flood of support in return.  I went to yoga, but not obsessively, as I have in the past.  I meditated.  I napped.  And I made one gigantic life decision: I changed jobs, leaving a job I loved and was completely emotionally invested in, to one with a shorter commute and a less frenetic workday pace, where I became responsible for a smaller portfolio of work, that I could leave on my desk at the end of the day rather than carrying home in my heart.  

These lifestyle changes have been accompanied by really hard work in terms of changing my attitude.  In smothering my negative inner voices, in actively choosing a different way to be, every day.  In choosing not to be critical of myself, in taking one day at a time, in choosing love over negativity. In convincing myself I am entitled to be happy, even without the perfect career, the perfect body, the perfect wardrobe, the perfect house, husband, baby.  It's a conversation I have to have with myself every day.  That I am wonderful as I am.  That every day is wonderful exactly as it unfolds.  That I am exactly who I am meant to be, and exactly where I am meant to be.  I write these words to myself on post-its at work, that only I can see.  I set my alarm on my phone for random times of the day, so that when the alarm goes off, I repeat these loving thoughts to myself.  I say them out loud to friends, who respond with resounding celebration when I say "I deserve to be happy."  

Now, as we head into the last months of the year, it feels like all of the very tiny incremental changes that I have been making over the year are crystallizing into one great gigantic big ball of happiness.  It's actually kind of magical.   Work is going well and I am valued for my contributions.  I saved enough money to buy my first home, a quiet place on a street lined with trees that looks out onto the Fraser River, which will be mine in November.  I've lost enough weight (20 lbs, give or take) that I notice, even if no one else does.  I'm singing as much as I want, with the people I want, when I want.  I sleep well.  It's work, absolutely, but the weird thing is, when you put in the work, things feel...effortless.  I can't explain that paradox, but I understand it now.

The other day, my mom said to me, "It's like you've said, 'Oh, sod it.  I am going to try happy.'"  And it's true - in trying to be happy, I've made myself happy.  It is so much work, every single day, but I'm happy.  Imperfect, sometimes frustrated, sometimes lonely - but happy.  I'm choosing happy.  I can't wait to see what miracles unfold as we head into the close of this Year of Dani.

Imperfect, unremarkable, happy me, at this very minute.

7:26 pm.

It feels like it's been a long time since I cried.  Yet this month seems to have been filled with a lot of tears, both of hurt and happiness, but also when the beauty of something has been too much to bear. 

I feel things.  

Sometimes too many things.

But I am feeling them, without fear.

It feels raw, and I feel like I should flinch to avoid being hurt.  I need to find some resilience.  Or find some peace in that fragility.

It is dusk, and I am sitting alone and content, the last vestiges of sunlight pouring in from all sides.  The doors are wide open, and Currie is perched on the deck outside, staring intently at me as I write.

"What are you doing?" I ask her, when I look up to see her yellow-green eyes fixed on me.  She meows a reply, then yawns, stretches, and steps back inside, and past me.  

We are happy here, in this moment. 

There is still so much hurt.  And sadness.  And loneliness.  But it is accompanied by a visiting peace, and a growing awareness of moments of joy.  And grief in the moments that have passed without it.

This is Sunday.

I can't tell you how sweet life is in my new home.  I thought myself a hardcore urbanite: I loved the grit and colour of Gastown, the mix of upscale, industrial, hipster and downtrodden that made up my neighbourhood of the last five and a half years.  And then I found my little oasis in the middle of not-so-glamorous Marpole, and suddenly none of the cool coffee shops, bakeries, clothing stores or bars that surrounded me mattered anymore.

So it's true - most of the restaurants and cafes that surround my new home are...not great, or else not designed to be that welcome to Canadians of the whitey-whitebread persuasion such as myself, with all-Mandarin or all-Cantonese menus and staff that don't really speak English (that being said, I have ventured into a few anyway and found a number of gems).  But I have a wonderful dining room that has light that streams in from the east, and with another window that opens up onto views of trees and mountains to the north, so it's not a hardship to eat at home.

Yes, it's a fact that the only speciality food store near my new home is Safeway.  But I have a kitchen that I delight to spend time in, and since I moved in January I have spent many happy hours cooking away on my new stovetop.  True, I haven't visited a "hot" restaurant in...well, months really, but I have re-discovered my cookbook collection and found some new recipe blogs that I adore.  There's no good coffee, true - you can't count the Starbucks at 64th and Granville - but I have a perfectly good machine to brew my own, not to mention a well-loved Bialetti stovetop espresso maker that Edy and I purchased in Rome years ago.  

I worried when I moved out of Gastown that the new neighbourhood and the lifestyle (or lack thereof) that it presented would not be "cool" or "exciting" enough for me.  Instead, I've found that I nest more - I've looked inward rather than outward to develop a home life.  I'm happy to spend a quiet Sunday at home, as I'm not exhausted from waiting for the bar underneath me to close at 4 a.m. in order to get some sleep.   I don't mind waking up to hear lawnmowers and birds singing (OK, I like the birds more than the lawnmowers, it's true).  I love being able to hear the rain on my roof.

Cornmeal-Raspberry Pancakes, homebrewed coffee, the Georgia Straight on the table and Michael Enright on the radio.  The new Sunday.

So, yes.  It's been a good move for me.  A very good one. When I started looking, desperately, in November, I was trying to escape a situation that I think my body and my heart knew were no longer healthy for me - that I needed peace, and refuge, no matter what my trend-loving, hipster-admiring brain told me about living in Gastown.  I felt like I was in flight from terrible anxiety and unrest. So I'm content that today my day will consist of throwing some meals together for the week to come, brushing Curriecat's coat out on one of our two balconies, sitting in my living room and staring at the rooftops, cherry blossoms and mountains that make up my view, perhaps going for a walk in Fraser River Park, and then heading to Granville Island for a rehearsal.

Maybe I'm mellowing, I don't know. Would it be nice to have someone here to mellow with?  Sure.  But if this is what 34-almost-35 looks like, I think I'm OK with that.

Home Is Where the Heart Is.

When I moved to my new place in Marpole, my bedroom was an extremely important consideration.  Gastown had always been loud and bright. Over 5 years there, I learned to ignore the lights in the courtyard outside, and the lights of SFU Woodwards across that courtyard, which remained on all night.   But I never got over the noise, from the Charles Bar, crazy people or drunk people shouting outside, and the hum of air vents on the many buildings close by.  I have never been a great sleeper, but over the past few years it's become even more difficult for me to have a good sleep.  In the past years, 2 -3 sleepless nights a week has become the norm rather than the exception.  It wasn't unusual for me to be up and awake until 4 in the morning on a regular basis.   By the time I moved, I was desperate for quiet, and for somewhere I thought I might be able to sleep.  I chose the north facing suite, which faces into an alley and residential backyards, rather than the south, to avoid even the little bit of street noise you could hear in the south suite from West 70th Avenue.  

In my past few apartments, my "colour" theme has been turquoise and yellow: bright versions in the living areas, more muted shades in my bedroom.  But for whatever reason, when I moved to my Marpole place, I suddenly decided I wanted my room to be red.  My spare room in Gastown had been red, full of bright artwork and a graphic poppy-printed bedspread (when one of my movers saw my bed he said "Wow! It's Remembrance Day up in here!" - maybe not the most sexy thought), and that's what I decided I wanted in my bedroom. I've since picked up another red-themed bedspread (isn't it always nice to have two - one for when the other's in the laundry?), but continued on this "red" path.  

When I was young, my parents let me choose the decor for my room in our house on Winchester Road, where I grew up.  I asked for red and white hearts, and they wallpapered half my walls in crisp white wallpaper with hearts.  My bed had a red and white striped quilt (which my brother and sister-in-law have on their bed now).  When my grandmother, my Dad's mom, passed away, I inherited her four poster bed, which my Dad painted white, with tiny red wooden hearts affixed to the headboard.  My dressers were painted white with red drawers.  Every Valentines' Day, another item with red and white hearts made its way into my room.  And I loved it.  It stayed that way until I was at least 16 and too cool for hearts.

As I began picking up bits and bobs for my new bedroom here in Marpole, I found myself drawn to stuff with red hearts again.  It occurred to me that I really liked the idea of a throwback to my childhood sanctuary.  Not to be a kid again, or to have a wish to go back, but to move forward with some connection to the "me" that was a kid in that bedroom.  To connect to the home I grew up in, which I sorely miss - this somehow made me feel closer to my family, who aren't around on a daily basis.   My dressers were already a throwback - they were also my Dad's mom's, and sat in my own parents' bedroom on Winchester.  My dad repainted them for me when I came home from London with no money and no furniture.  

Then I started to find things I already had, that I wanted out  and visible, because they made me feel even more connected to family, and to that essential sense of myself and where I came from.  I put vintage pillowcases on the bed, which my Mom noted had lived in Marpole before, in the home she grew up in a few blocks away on 62nd.  They had belonged to my grandmother, who lived her whole life in this neighbourhood, but who I never met.  I put out some vintage glass dishes, which I remembered sitting on my grandfather's bathroom counter when I was a kid, one filled with soap and one with cotton balls, but which my mom told me her mom used to store her hairpins in.  

It's all Valentinesy up in here.  Curriecat doesn't care as long as her pink blankie is on the bed.

The heart that started it all.  This was an Opening Night gift from my director, Rick Tae, when I performed in "A…My Name is Alice."  It hangs on my bedroom door.

The "doggie dishes."  The only thing I asked for from my Grandpa's house when he passed away, I remembered fishing out cotton balls and little hotel soaps from these as a kid.  My grandma Annette used them for her hairpins.  That's her on the left.

My dad thinks all the hearts are "too foufou".  That may be so.  I am unapologetically foufou.

That's it, that's all.

When I showed my parents my room on FaceTime, my dad grumbled that it was too girly, that no boy would like red hearts.  "It's too FOUFOU," he said jokingly-but-not.  ("

YOU'RE

FOUFOU" I shot back.  Great comeback, Dan.)   But the reality is, no boy lives here.  It's me, it's my room, and the connection to home and to family, and the feeling of belonging that it gives me, are worth the risk of a boy not liking it.  Of course it's not to everybody's taste.  It might not always be to mine.  But things can always change, and for right now I need my room to be a place I feel cozy, safe, and connected.   Home is where the heart is.  Literally.

On Mindfulness, Balance and Being Deliberate.

2014 was one of the busiest years on record.  I spent almost three months total outside the country.  I learned tons about my job and the company I work for.  I laid on a few different beaches, and visited the Houses of Parliament in Westminster. I went through a shitty breakup.  I went to Disneyland.  I acted in three productions, one of which was a super top secret non-rehearsed full-length musical.  I put a painful professional chapter behind me once and for all with respect to a bad business arrangement.   I staged Evita in my living room with my friends for my birthday (of course I played Eva, don't be silly).  I sat on three boards, helped organize a shoe-themed fundraiser, and met my first nephew, the darling Charles Alexander, known as Cal.  I saw a dead body (really).  I climbed a giant mountain in Wales.  I dyed my hair green, and then purple.  I sang karaoke in front of my work colleagues.  And then, in the last days of the year, I moved house.  

As crazy/fun/wondrous as my year was, it was also draining, and kind of disorienting.  I was tired all the time, and things that had been fun, suddenly weren't.  Due to structural issues and neighbourhood noise, my home no longer felt like a safe place to be.  I felt like I didn't sleep - all year.  By the time this autumn came around, my workload felt unsurmountable, my free time felt chore-ridden, and I wondered if I would ever not feel exhausted again.  I never read anymore - ME! The English major with walls and walls of books lining her home!  I felt like being busy was keeping me from - something, I didn't know what - but it wasn't making me happy.

There are a couple of things that I have learned over the past year.  The first was that I can't do it all.  I really can't - and (surprisingly) I don't want to.  My approach over the past few years has been to throw myself into everything I'm asked, head first, and it has not served me well. That's what makes me tired.  And tired leads to sick.  And sick leads to sad.  I have learned that I can have a very little bit of everything, but not the whole lot - and maybe that's OK, to only have a little bit.  The second was, it doesn't have to be perfect.  I'm still working on that one.  The "it" is every aspect of my life really - from the roots of my dyed hair to the Curriecat fur that occasionally sweeps across the floor, to my really really really slow running and my sloppily cooked dinners.  It doesn't have to be perfect, but for the things that matter: my work, my art, my health, my friendships - it does have to be the best I can possibly do.   And sometimes it has to be the best I can do right at that moment.   

And so, the things I am focusing on this year reflect these lessons.  The goal is to help me put these ideas into practice every day.  Just because I understand what I just said above - that I can't do it all, that "it" doesn't have to be perfect - doesn't mean that I'm comfortable with those truths, or that, when I am lonely, or tired, or insecure, I don't revert to the manic business and accomplishment-collecting that have characterized many years of my life.  While some people may say, "This year, I'm going to get out of my comfort zone,"  my promise is that this year, I will stay IN it.   I will not take on everything.  I will say no.  I will build in time for nothing.   I will take the time to think through what I'm doing (there's the mindfulness for you), and make deliberate choices about what I can do, what I'd like to do, and what I'd NOT like to do.  I will reflect on the people I surround myself with, and how I'd like to treat them and be treated in return.   

In December I made a scary but so-far-wonderful decision about where "home" is, and am having fun creating an environment for myself that is comfortable, relaxing, somewhere I can bring my friends, somewhere I can be  be still, and quiet, when I need to be.  Somewhere I can sleep.   It's not trendy, it's not hip, but it is filled with sunlight, fresh air, calm, and Curriecat, which is all I need, really.  

It's not going to be easy, this being easy on myself.  It's very very disorienting and uncomfortable at times.  To say, "Today I think I will go to work, come home, make dinner, read a book, and go to bed.  And that will be enough.  That will be OK."  To say, "I think I've done everything I can on this work assignment, time to put it away for now.  And that's OK."  To say, "It's OK to just go for a walk."  It's scary, to think that at the end of this year I might not have a laundry list of things to say on Facebook, or Twitter, or this blog, that I've done and been and seen.  But I keep telling myself that's OK.  I'm OK.  And OK is just fine.  

Authentic Dani.

As part of the personal journey I'm on that started with this

post

, I'm taking

Brene Brown

's online course that accompanies her book,

The Gifts of Imperfection.

  Each week a reading assignment is provided along with an art project of some kind.  

This week, the topic is authenticity.  Brene says authenticity is something we can all consciously practice - she calls it "

the daily practice of letting go of who we think we're supposed to be and embracing who we really are

."  That really resonated with me after the day I had today.   

First, I should say by way of disclaimer, it was a wonderful day, filled with family and the opportunity to practice my art by performing onstage.   My parents were here to see my show, and we went for brunch.  My nephew Cal was born on Tuesday, and as new grandparents, my Mom and Dad are obviously excited.  My aunts and uncles are excited.  Our friends are excited.  Our acquaintances are excited.  It seems that darling Cal (and he really is darling - I'm not allowed to post pictures yet or OH, I WOULD) is the main topic of conversation and enthusiasm in our family circle and in our extended circle of friends.  It's very hard for me to not imply and internalize a message from that: the message that it's good to be settled, it's good to have kids.  It's very hard for me to not feel like "less-than" because I do not have these things.  It's very hard not to think there's something wrong with the way I'm living when it feels so different from that of my brother, my cousins, my parents' friends' kids, the ones I grew up with, who were my contemporaries.

So this idea to be authentic - to be who I really am and

let go of who I think I'm supposed to be

- felt really powerful to me today.  I think I'm supposed to be somebody's wife.  I think I'm supposed to be somebody's mom.  I think I'm supposed to own a house by now.  Weigh less.  Feel more balanced, calm.  The fact that I'm not, or that I don't,  really does make me feel like I am not a whole person, a lot of the time.  I feel like these are badges of honour that I'm missing - visible signs, that LOOK! SOMEBODY LOVES ME, or I HAVE STUFF - and that the absence of these symbols means something about my worth as a person.

I know it's insane.  It's just how I feel.  And so the idea that I should try to let go of those feelings - the idea that those feelings are WRONG - and that (to link back to Brene's initial lesson) I'm imperfect but still ENOUGH - well, that message was received today, somehow. It might not stick, but it's there today, which is a big deal.  

The art journaling exercise today was to find a photo of myself that reflects who I really am - to wade through old photos to find images that provide emotional resonance for me (rather than photos where I think I look good or cool).  That was a tough exercise, because I self-censor so much - there just aren't photos of me that exist if I don't think I look pretty, or less fat, or cool.  Anything where I think I look weird, goofy, chubby, stupid - those pictures just don't exist.

I won't tell you which of these photos won the contest as revealing my authentic self, but these are the photos that made the shortlist, for what it's worth.  These are photos that remind me of times in my life where I have felt truly myself, felt permission to be exactly who I am, nothing more, nothing less.

(A

pologies Dad for the hungover (?) sleepy Pops picture - and RIP Blue Pierre Cardin Bathrobe, 1979 - 1994

.)

Again, apologies Cathy - but we were

both

making silly faces...

Letting Go of Perfect.

My name is Danielle, and I'm a perfectionist.

I feel like for those who know me well, this statement is not a surprise.   It is a surprise to me.  I dislike enough things about myself to believe that everyone reading this will scoff, "You're clearly not a perfectionist - look at you!"  

Well - yes.  Look at me.  I am looking at me.  And that voice that criticizes myself, that dark corner of my heart that despises so many things about myself? That's the perfectionist.   It's the perfectionist who loudly declares how RIDICULOUS I am, that everyone can SEE that, what a JOKE.  The perfectionist does not see the lawyer, scholar, singer, writer, actress, world traveller, volunteer, devoted kitty-mama and friend.  The perfectionist sees a loud, ugly, fat, obnoxious loner who doesn't own a house, doesn't have a husband, doesn't have kids, is too old to continue auditioning for musical theatre, and isn't as good a lawyer as she pretends to be.  That perfectionist voice is the last one I hear before I go to bed.  It's the first one I hear when I wake up in the morning.    

I've been chasing perfect for a long time.  For every A I got, there was an A+ to be had.  For every degree I got, there was another one I had to reach for (I'd still be going if the money hadn't run out).  For every law firm I got a job at, there was another, BIGGER law firm to get a job at.  For every show I got to perform in, there was another one that I really needed to be in.   When I've got a night to myself at home, I beat myself up about not going out.  If the house isn't perfectly tidy and doesn't look like a magazine, no one can come over, and I can't relax and read a book.  If people come for dinner, that better be the most perfect, Martha Stewart-inspired party you've ever seen.   I've falsely confused perfection with being loved, and being loveable, even to myself. 

My perfectionism doesn't come out of some extreme self-love, a desire to strive for the best because I'm worth it.  I know this because the flip side of my perfectionism is shame. I strive for perfection to outrun the shame, but because I can never achieve that perfection, I spend much more time mired in the quicksand of shame than celebrating my successes.   For everything that I  have "failed" at, whether that was true failure or just failing to meet my own ridiculous standards, I feel a deep, deep shame and dislike for myself.  My weight yo-yo's are the perfect example of that.  Gained a pound?  Well, I'd better give up then, because I failed.  Pass the cookies, it's all over.  I'll punish myself by eating another one.  And maybe another.   The vicious cycle continues.  I hate myself for not being perfect, so I eat another metaphorical cookie, I become further away from perfect, I hate myself some more.  Dating, too.  I've put up with horrible treatment from horrible people that I would never introduce to my worst enemy, because I think that's what I deserve, because I'm so horribly flawed.  I have not dared to let myself love people who I think I do not measure up to.

Criticism, even from people who have no business being critical, or whose opinions we should not care about, becomes deeply wounding to perfectionists like me, because we attach a sense of shame and blame to having "failed" to measure up to some real or imagined standard.  

I don't know where this idea that I had to be perfect came from. I do not blame my parents for some deep dark wrong they did to me as a child.  I was a difficult kid - I hear those stories a lot - but they also loved me so hard it hurt.  And yet somewhere along the way, I heard and internalized the message that to be loved by myself and others, I need to be perfect.  I love other people whole-heartedly, flaws and all, but myself, no.  

Perfectionism is an insidious thing.  It means that when I accomplish, I must accomplish more.  It means when I fail, I feel a shame so deep I feel embarrassed to be around others, and would gladly avoid myself if possibly could (that's not a suicidal thought, mind you, just a desire to not be me).    

But lately, I have started to ask myself, what is the end goal of my being perfect?  What's at the end of the rainbow, that unattainable goal that I keep striving for?   Where am I killing myself to get to?  What is it that is so worth being so terribly hard on myself every step along the way to obtain?

It's love.  Being loved.

I'm not talking just romantic love (although that's always nice).  I feel loved by my friends, and my family.  I have felt loved by romantic partners.  But the key ingredient that's missing is loving myself.  Not only do I keep thinking I need to be perfect so someone else will love me - I need to be perfect so I can love myself.   

And that's the tragedy of it.  I will never be perfect.  And unless I seriously start thinking about how I think and feel, and changing some of these damaging thoughts and behaviours, I'll never love myself.  And that's a really, really sad place to be.  

So I'm letting go of perfect.  I have to.

I have zero idea how to do this. Honestly, I don't.  I have no idea how you put aside something that you feel in the very core of your being and choose to feel something else.  We as a society cannot explain what makes us fall in love with other people, how the hell can we explain or teach how to fall in love with ourselves?  So I know this is going to be a long, long, difficult, sad, frustrating process full of demons and discomfort and roadblocks. I don't know where the road even starts, but I know that much.  I also know that I am so very very tired of aiming for perfect, and failing miserably, and feeling such shame at my own existence.  There is so much beauty in the world, and it is so, so sad that I don't let myself be part of it.  

It's a big thing for me to be this honest on my blog.  I have always limited myself to humorous, witty posts about "perfect" moments in my life - world travel, cooking adventures, theatrical endeavours, and other accomplishments that make me appear very together, a real whole person living a fabulous life.  I have a lot of fear around putting these words out into the world, admitting that Oz the Magnificent is nothing but a facade.  But I also feel like I have to give voice to some of the things I'm struggling with, so that I can benefit from the wisdom and understanding of the people in my life who have maybe been in the same place.  Or the people who are already able to be their own best friends, who can teach me the tricks of the trade.   I'm committed to living with the discomfort.  There's really no other choice.

I'm letting go of perfect, and settling for loved.  Let the journey commence.

Secret Allies.

I'm in Orlando for work, and heading to Atlanta tomorrow.  As I was heading to my hotel room tonight, I passed a teenage girl with the same green hair as me.  We gave each other the secret cool-green-hair-girl salute.  Her mom gasped and insisted we take a picture together.   Afterwards, I told the girl a secret: "I'm a corporate lawyer.  Please remember, you can be whatever you want to be, it doesn't matter what colour your hair is."  I hope she remembers.  She promised me she would. 

On Belonging.

I've been thinking a lot lately about what makes us feel like we belong.  As a single person, it's often easy for me to fall into the trap of thinking that I need a significant other in order to not feel alone.  That I just need to belong to one person, and that'll be enough.  It's common that I find myself reflecting that "If I just had someone, I could…(fill in the blank)."  But I've had to start speaking to myself sternly about this, because there is so much evidence in my own life that this idea is incorrect.  There are so many other ways for us to belong: to our families, our co-workers, our friends; to theatre companies and sports teams and charities and churches.  I think that if I choose to feel alone (which I admit, I do often), it is because I am not actively reaching out to those communities that I actually do belong to, saying, "I feel lonely," or "What are we up to tonight," "I could use some company," or, and probably more importantly, making things less about me: "How can I help?"    "How are

you

doing?"  "Can I pitch in somehow?"

It's tough sometimes, though.  It's tough to always feel like I'm the only one to make the effort, that my social life is at the mercy of my much-more-important friends with spouses and/or families.  It's easy to retreat into my own solitary world, look at my phone longingly to see if someone has texted or called, hunker down with Curriecat and commit myself dramatically to a solitary existence.  This despite having wonderful friends, family and colleagues.  I can't walk two blocks in my neighbourhood without bumping into a friend to say hello to.  

So, yes -  I realize that the only reason I feel like I don't belong is me.  Because I do belong.  I care about people and they care about me. And it's up to me to reach out and ask for what I need and to more importantly ask what I can give back.

I belong to this crazy, loving, sometimes infuriating family. As the only "out of towner," I forget that sometimes, and feel left out, but it only takes 5 minutes (and a matching apron) to remember.

Vancouver has some really great community events, including the Dragonboat Festival, which I've missed since I moved to London.  I've decided next year I'll have to put a team together - I miss paddling.  Yes, even early morning winter practices where your hands can barely hold the paddle, you're so cold.  So it's definitely time to get back into it.

Events like Streetfood Fest really show that Vancouverites do have a desire for community, to get together and hang out.  Every Sunday we bask on this little astroturf "beach," play pingpong, and line up 30-deep at the food trucks circled at Olympic Village.

Even when I'm alone, I'm not really.  As I type this a grey cat is curled up with her tail on the computer screen.  

My Earliest Memory.

I carry a very vivid recollection with me:

A split-level house in Richmond.  Spring sunshine is streaming through a crescent-shaped window in a white front door, falling on golden wood floors.  Footsteps echo loudly; the house is empty.  

I am sitting on the front stairs in the hallway, sticking my short stubby legs out in front of me to admire white sandals.  I smooth my pink bunny - a combination of blanket and puppet - over my knees, touching the soft satin of his ears.  An adult, whose face I can no longer remember, sits on the stair below, and asks me how old I am.

I hold up two fingers, and pronounce proudly, "Two."  Then I correct myself.  "Two and a HALF."

There are other snapshots that are linked to this memory: of dancing on the wood floor, to hear the clatter of my own feet.  Of staring at blue and red wallpaper in an empty bedroom, printed with the smiling faces of Raggedy Ann and Andy.  

This is either my first real memory, of our move from Richmond to Victoria, where I grew up, or it's something I've imagined, based on stories I have been told.  That's the funny thing about memory, though - it can feel as real as right now.  And maybe that's all that matters, is what feels real to us.  

Police Incident.

On Saturday I met my friend Rosie for coffee at 49th Parallel Coffee Roasters.  It was a beautiful day and since it might be one of the last beautiful days we have in Vancouver until, well, May,  we decided to sit on the patio.  About 10 feet away from the patio, on 13th Avenue, there was some police tape, and the alley behind the cafe was cordoned off, with some police officers standing by.

On my way into 49th Parallel, I had noticed a crowd gathering by the police tape.

"What's going on?" I asked one bystander.  They explained that there was a man barricaded in a house in the alley, who had apparently set the house on fire the night before, and was now refusing any entry by the fire department or police officers.  He was waving a knife around.   At that point I counted about 15 police officers, some in tactical "SWAT" style gear, and figured they had the situation more than under control. 

We were sitting on the patio talking when all of a sudden I started sneezing uncontrollably.   Then, while Rosie was staring at me quizzically as I sneezed again and again, she started sneezing too.  Then we started coughing.  And everyone around us started coughing and sneezing, and choking.

"Oh god," I choked.  "I think they're gassing him out!  Quick, get inside!"

The crowd gathering on 14th and Main to watch what was going on.  They had a better vantage point than we did on 13th.  Photo credit: Georgia Straight. 

As we gathered our stuff and made our way into the cafe, Rosie looked over at the cops manning the police tape.  They were outfitted with masks, and stood watching us, arms crossed, and laughing.  They were

laughing

.  

That was it for me.  It would have taken not even 5 minutes for them to walk over, say, "We'd like to clear this patio, please get inside," or ask 49th Parallel's staff to do so, and close the garage doors to the patio.  Not only did they

not

do that, but they laughed. 

I have been very sympathetic to Vancouver police officers.  I see the beat some of them walk in my neighbourhood every day.  I watched them clear street after street of drunken hockey rioters.   But they lost some support from me in the way they handled this incident.  They would have compromised nothing by asking us to go inside.  It wouldn't have been a red flag to crazy knife wielding guy in any way whatsoever.  They wouldn't have even needed to tell us why they wanted us to go inside.  It was a simple gesture that would have saved a number of us a very uncomfortable afternoon and evening (and even day after) of sore throats, itchy eyes and runny noses.  This was a communication fail and an absolute disregard for affected community members.

So, now I've been tear gassed.  I can cross that off my bucket list, I suppose.

On another note, 49th Parallel is one of my favourite cafes in town.  Beautiful coffee and amazing ambiance - just beware the chemical weapons. 

The amazing Venezualan Latte at 49th Parallel.  Ask for it without the tear gas, and with extra foam.