Kat’s Musings

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  • My Journey: From Veganism to Weight Loss Success

    My Journey: From Veganism to Weight Loss Success

    A friend of mine recently reminded me about the five year stint I took from eating meat. It was from twenty-twelve until twenty-seventeen. I was vegan during this period. Eating meat again reopened my eyes. This reminds me of the many “fad” diets that I have tried. 

    After initially getting sick, I had testing to find out which foods I had an intolerance to. 

    At first, we saw a woo woo type doctor. He had me place my hands on a stone. I could do only my right one obviously. He told me that the stone showed I need to stay away from anything that comes from beef. My mother bought into everything that that “doctor” was shilling. However, my father and I had a hard time believing that prognosis. So I had my blood tested by an actual naturopath. 

    My blood tests showed that I had an intolerance to dairy and chicken eggs. I was extremely overweight at the time. So, I figured that I might as well cut out all meat and fish, as well. I did not quit because meat was too heavy, or bad for the planet, or—worst of all— too expensive.

     (Now I have a conspiracy theory that the doctors doctored those tests because I was so big and so sick). 

    Being vegan did nothing for me. It definitely was not difficult for me to give up meat; but I absolutely love sushi, ice cream and cheese.  But I knew that I could no longer overindulge in these anymore (that is the issue here— overindulgence)

    I mostly had a diet of carbohydrates during those years. This was obviously before I started my gluten free lifestyle. I could eat anything fried, doughy, and all of the pasta. And I still adhered to the diet. I also ate a diet full of beans and legumes. This ultimately made my body reject absorbing bean protein. Sigh. I do miss my hummus!—This recipe is not conducive to weight loss. 

    Now I simply eat whatever I desire. Because the second that that steak hit my tongue in twenty- seventeen everything clicked back into place. As if my body had been quietly waiting, storing up all this dumb, primal hunger. No guilt. No lecture. Just… meat. Warm, real, alive on the plate.

    Now, compared to when I decided to go vegan, I can demonstrate discipline. This change has been in effect as of twenty-seventeen. I control how much I eat. This was the major difference. How much I am consuming. As I have mentioned, I managed to lose more than one hundred pounds. 

    The body is created in the kitchen, not the gym. When I initially gained more than one hundred pounds— I killed myself in the gym and my parents had me see a personal trainer, but I kept eating more of anything and everything. That is why my weight barely budged. I was extremely unhappy and this—reflected in the mirror—and ultimately reflected in my health. 

    I have learned that weight loss and body image are based on my mental state. I finally found my voice and accepted my opinions instead of following the crowd. As a result, I got happier and met the man of my dreams. I also saw my body transform to mirror my state of mind. 

     I guess what I am saying is—sometimes you quit because you are scared. Or lazy. Or—in my case—it seemed the easiest way to lose the weight I gained. At least, I thought it was. And then one day you bite into something again, and remember: “This is why I liked it.” Not because it is fancy— although I do love that aspect. Not because it is trendy. Just because it is good. And good makes me happy. Happy equals healthy. 

  • Americana.

    Americana.

    I have lived in the tiny town of Snohomish, Washington,since I was seven years old. Snohomish is not flashy. It is not Seattle. It is the kind of place where you grow up slow. The biggest drama is who forgot to lock the barn. In Snohomish, “good morning” still means something.

    I used to hate that. I wanted to be a big city girl (ala Samantha Jones in Sex and the City). I even went away from the public school I was supposed to attend. I did this so I could dress and be a little more high class. 

    The girls who live in Snohomish pride themselves for living in a Bodunk town. “Fancy” usually means that you will sink into the muddy fields. It is not the norm.  But I did not like that. I did not want to wear pajamas and slippers to class. I wanted to wear stilettos and I dreamt of living in a penthouse. 

     None of that ended up happening. It became dangerous to even visit a city. Now I have a different perspective of this small town. It feels like living inside a postcard and that postcard smells like rain and fresh-cut grass most days. 

    This town is tiny, maybe ten thousand people. Main Street still looks like it did in the nineteen-twenties. It has brick storefronts, a hardware store that sells everything from nails to fudge, and diners. The river runs right through the middle—Snohomish River, wide and slow. Packed with sunburned locals in July. Around here, summers are for the county fair (something that I do not partake in). It is not the flashy kind with Ferris wheels taller than trees. It’s just a dusty field off Second Street, filled with goats baaa-ing, cotton candy, and sketchy ride operators. Winters are quieter. Fog rolls in off of Puget Sound like a blanket, and school buses crawl through it, headlights glowing. 

    People here do not rush. You wave at strangers because you have seen them before— since the town is so small. Everyone knows everyone’s business. They do not judge, or at least, they do not judge out loud. This was new to this little Russian girl. I left for college, came back since. The river still smells the same. The hardware store still sells fudge. And yes it rains, but it rains softly— as if this place is giving you a hug. 

    I want to share this hug with the love of my life. Convincing my boyfriend to move out to Washington state was like my experience of recognizing my hometown in the past. It is different from the postcard version I see now. 

    While we would not be living in Snohomish, small towns are so much more attractive than the big bad cities. While I do not want to dress like a slob or float down a river in the summer— I would rather that than be raped by an immigrant and encounter needles in the storefronts.  He would rather cheer for the teams that his family has always supported and not be surrounded by “aw shucks” coworkers. 

    So I do not belong in Snohomish, Washington, but I have definitely developed an appreciation for small towns. I might live in a small “Americana” town in Montana or the Carolinas. Wherever I end up, I will always waive “hello” and will not judge (out loud). 

  • Main Character Energy: Embracing Yourself Fully

    Main Character Energy: Embracing Yourself Fully

    I used to think confidence was something you either had—like eye color—or you did not have. Turns out, it’s more like muscle: you build it, you lose it, you flex it, then you flex again.

     The shift started small. I stopped apologizing for existing. No more sorry. No more shrinking when someone walked in. Main character energy. I just… stayed. Took up space. Let my voice land without flinching. That was the main challenge that showed me that I was on the right path. My voice. I started using it. 

    First trick? Fake it till you make it—except I did not have fake it. I borrowed it. Watched people who walked like they owned the sidewalk, copied their posture, their pauses. Turns out, shoulders back is not magic—it’s physics. Shrinking away physically makes you shrink away psychologically. And once you feel taller, your brain starts believing it. 

    Second: I quit collecting opinions. Not every critique needs a reply. Not every stare needs an explanation. I decided my worth was not up for vote. My worth has been at the center of my life and how it has been. 

    That alone cut half my anxiety. The real glow-up? Saying “no”. Not mean “no”, just clear “no”. Nah, I’m good. Not tonight. That is simply not for me. Especially when it comes to someone I regard as a superior. I have to stand up for myself. And I still get nervous. Still second-guess. Now, I talk to that voice in my head like it is a friend. “Hey, we have done this before. Chill.” (Life hack: this is how I know that I will recover!)

    The fear and the lack of confidence does not vanish. I still ask others to confirm that I am doing a good job. I do not just peacock around. But my lack just gets quieter. Confidence is not about never doubting yourself. It is about doubting yourself, shrugging, and moving anyway. Because the most confident person in my life? She is not fearless. She is just done pretending she needs permission. And honestly? That feels better than any spotlight ever could.

  • Coping with the Negativity.

    Coping with the Negativity.

    The first thirty minutes upon waking, program your brain for the rest of your day. I read that somewhere so it must be true. I always start my day with HIM. My boyfriend. Any dutiful woman should. 

    And because it is important that you find positivity in your life, I find it in him. My boyfriend makes the dark days brighter—even when he does not know it. There is this thing he does without trying: he turns my worst moods into something bearable. I mean— I am actually generally a positive person. I am a disabled thirty-six year old girl who still lives with her parents. I am thousands of miles away from the man I love. Given my status in this life, it would be understandable if I was genuinely down. 

    I receive plenty of criticism. People who love me, like my parents, criticize me. Also, the world at large thinks I am not living my life correctly. Everyone seems to have an opinion on how I should live my life. All I can really do is drown out all of this negativity around me. I choose to live for myself and my beautiful future ahead. 

    Right now we have to do it virtually through technology (is it really our fault that we met thousands of miles apart?) Because of the time difference (*eye roll*), he wakes me up at three every morning before he starts his day. We whisper sweet nothings to each other. He sends me videos of him making his espresso (real men drink espresso). He knows that makes me insanely happy and proud. Then I drift off to sleep until he gets to work. It’s about an hour—maybe two if I sleep in. Because that is what a committed person does— supports the person they love. 

     I do not require grand gestures or therapy-speak from him —just his being there for me. And honestly? It is weird how much that matters. I often feel alone— criticized, ignored— like no one cares about what I think or say. He does not argue. He does not fix. But goddammit— he listens. 

    At times, I do not even want to smile. But, because of him, I usually do. And suddenly the room feels less heavy. It is not that he erases the bad stuff. Life still happens—that gnawing anxiety I cannot shake. But he is like… a filter. Everything gets softer around him. 

    How he tells me to scream and cry because he gets it. I need that release. I am so tired of keeping everything in. How he entertains my passions. I go on rants about a topic that I love, and he just lets me talk. And how excited he gets for me when I achieve a personal success. 

    I know that sounds stupid. But to me it is pretty perfect. People talk about love like it is fireworks. They criticize us for not obeying their rules. But our love feels more like a lamp in a storm—quiet, steady, just enough light to see the next step. He does not solve my problems (not yet at least!). He just reminds me they are not the whole story.

    Sometimes, I worry I lean too hard on him, like I am borrowing his calm because mine ran out. He does not realize he is the reason I breathe easier. That I smile every time I wake up (even if it is at three in the morning). So here is the truth: he doesn’t fix my negative life. He just makes it feel smaller. And for now, that is enough.

  • Healing vs. Believing

    Healing vs. Believing

    I have traveled the entire world, read every book and attended countless therapies in order to heal. Through all of this experience, I have learned that if you do not want the help— if you do not believe—you will not heal. 

    Healing does not come when you chase it, it comes when you are quiet enough to listen. My parents took me all the way to Brazil to see a Seeing Eye “doctor” called John of God. John of God—real name João Teixeira de Faria—was a Brazilian faith healer who claimed to channel spirits to perform invisible surgeries without tools or anesthesia. He ran a center in Abadiânia (until the Me Too movement got him in twenty-eighteen because apparently the eighty-year-old man was sexually harassing women during his procedures) drawing thousands of desperate people—cancer patients, chronic pain sufferers, even celebrities—hoping for miracles. My parents wanted this miracle to happen for me us. 

    John of God would go into trances, say he was guided by dead doctors or saints, then operate by pressing fingers into eyes, scraping skin, or just waving hands. Some swore it worked: tumors vanished, backs straightened, pain gone. Others called it placebo at best, fraud at worst.

    I was in the placebo group and I can confirm that I was not mentally ready to take in any miracles or will his strategies to work. I was just along for the ride. Not understanding why this was happening to me but knowing that it would get better. 

    I mean— the place was magnificent.  Abadiânia is a little mountain-top village; there are no giant statues of Jesus Christ. Throughout the night, you can hear the stray cats fighting and roosters crow in order wake you every morning— as if it is an order. We had to wear all white clothing (this is best for letting in the spirit world). We wrote down our prayers/ wishes every day and stood in long lines in order to visit with John of God. We were prescribed herbal remedies and crystal “baths”— in which you lay in a tanning-like bed amongst the crystals for hours. I could not wrap my head around the fact that every single “patient” would be given the same prescription— despite their ailment. How could that help you if it was not designed specifically to your needs?

    Now I understand that it is all about intention. I can consume the same herbs as you but— for me— tumors would shrink/disappear and I would be cured of my paralysis, but others bones would be healed and bleeding would stop— with the same herbs. I guess sacred does not always mean that it is holy, because I would pray. For years, I was searching for a higher power, but I was asking the wrong questions. Healing is not always gentle— sometimes you need to be shoved. Life has shoved and shoved— now I am ready to listen. 

  • What activities do you lose yourself in?

    Experiences: traveling, fine dining and immersing myself in luxury

  • My Passion for Nutrition pt. 1

    My Passion for Nutrition pt. 1

    Let’s take a little hiatus from reminiscing about the past (it is not the easiest time of my life to relive). I want to talk nutrition. One of my passions in life. Something I can go on and on about. I already mentioned that I am absolutely enthralled by the movements being made by RFK and the current administration. One of the main targets is: glyphosate. 

    Glyphosate works by blocking an enzyme plants need to grow, so glyphosate is used to prevent the growth of invasive plants (i.e weeds)— think Roundup—plus it is an incredibly cheap product so obviously it is being used a lot throughout the country : farms, lawns, and even city parks. 

    Studies show that glyphosate can be carcinogenic when used heavily. Roundup has had to pay billions of dollars in damages because their products were proven to give users Non Hodgkin’s Lymphoma (plus caused the death of a pet!)

    This does not bode well for our farmers; as there is currently no other alternative for ridding the environment from weeds. Somehow European countries have figured out a way to grow their crops without having to deal with weeds/ needing a chemical to get rid of them. 

    So now the American people have to worry about gut bacteria, hormone tweaks, even birth defects— as traces of glyphosate are found throughout our food.  The new “trend” of gluten intolerance points to the fact it may be the substance that we spray our wheat with — not the wheat itself—as it is not a prevalent allergy in other parts of the world. Yes, glyphosate kills weeds great, but is it worth it?

    It appears as though we are only getting sicker in this country. I am no doctor or scientist; I am just a girl who has had her fair share of issues with food and I simply love “bro science” and listening to podcasts with Gary Brecka and Robert F. Kennedy jr.  

    I lived a gluten free lifestyle for years. Thanks to my Functional Neurologist, I learned that this diet was beneficial for my arm’s erratic movements. And ultimately, because I did not have any actual reactions to gluten, I chose to enjoy the food I was craving. It is not like I am about to eat an entire pizza or loaf of bread again, but goddammit, if my man wants to take me to a nice restaurant… I am going to enjoy every bite. However I acknowledge the fact that our crops and our wheat is tainted so I do opt for all organic and the most natural sources available. 

  • What movies or TV series have you watched more than 5 times?

    PRETTY WOMAN!! I basically base my life around it…

  • Shattered.

    Shattered.

    If we are going to go through the character arc of my not being good enough and the affect that it had on my life thus far , we have to further elaborate on what led me into my post-high-school downward spiral and my current health issues. 

    In high school, I tried extremely hard. After my middle school experience at being an overweight/ flunking embarrassment, I was shown how people only gave me praise and attention if I wore a size zero and excelled in my studies. So I withered away and took notes/ highlighted my books until my fingers bled. I tried to keep a social life, but eventually the obsession with my food and appearance gave way. 

    I even drove myself to school (once I got my license) hours earlier so that I could sit in the computer lab and search for homes where an adolescent can live on her own (I always thought that living on my own was the answer to my prayers!) 

    And then of course there was a boy. He was a firefighter, did not go to my school and actually showed interest in me. I was not used to this. I was deprived of romance and even though I had no interest in him, I craved his touch, his kisses and his text messages as if I had been trekking through the desert for years and he was a fresh spring of water. 

    But I never slept with him. I must have had some kind of moral code, because this would continue in university. We would do everything but as soon as it came to the actual act, I became dismissive. That did not please the twenty-year-old-playboy -firefighter, and suddenly his attention turned elsewhere. He went back to his ex-girlfriend— an easy get— fake tanned, a bit chubby and dumb as rocks. 

    My ego was absolutely shattered. My heart cracked open—like someone took a hammer to a glass jar and just let it shatter. Even though I had spent years not eating or enjoying life in order to be at the top of my class and in order to look like I was perfect—even though I made myself better than anyone else—I was once again still not good enough. My carefully curated Kate Moss-esque figure and resume quickly became crumpled trash in the midst of a “normie” high school girl. So I officially gave up. 

    I literally just stopped caring. I threw my hands up and started eating everything that I was missing out on for years. I stopped studying too. I took my tests after spending the night binging a television series (and binging copious amounts of snacks!). I would skip my classes the day that a major paper was due so that I could get it done the second before it was due.

    I gained more than twice the amount of weight that I weighed in high school. My parents were shocked when they saw me, they had me workout with a personal trainer, as if that was the issue—I simply had to move more not eat less.  However , the judgements only made me eat more. Still not good enough. 

    I reached out to some of the family friends I had grown up with so that I could have some semblance of a social life. And they helped. Invited me out. Made me laugh. But now everything felt fake.

    I was avoiding everyone from high school who knew me as the “anorexic girl “— the one who would only wear high heels and dresses or skirts instead of the jeans and sneakers of everyone around me— because I used to be better than everyone around me (or at least I believed I was). 

    Now I was ashamed. Now high heels would pinch my chunky toes and instead of flaunting my slender legs in skirts, I hid my giant slabs of meat in sweatpants and size thirty-two jeans. I avoided posting pictures of myself. I used to be so beautiful. I used to take immense pleasure in hearing my father tell his friends, “isn’t my daughter so hot?” He stopped saying that…

    Essentially the high school “breakup” did not just end a relationship—it ended me.  Once we had met, once I had tasted the attention I had been yearning for; I had built my whole senior year around him: I had started eating again (but not too much and of course I would never let myself go to sleep without working off every calorie I had eaten that day), late-night texts so that he could get more attention than my studies did, and fantasies about life together. 

    College was supposed to be freedom. Instead it felt like punishment. Instead of being lithe and studious, I was just studying myself—how to numb out, how to fake smiles, how to avoid anyone who might matter. I “slutted” around, but obviously nothing stuck. Every kiss tasted like betrayal. Every “I like you” sounded like a lie, because why would anyone like an over-two-hundred-pound girl?  I drank too much and I slept too much (making up for sleeping only a few hours every night in high school). 

    The worst part? I blamed him. For years. Like if he had never cheated, I would have gone to Yale, had a perfect GPA and had a perfect boyfriend. But It took recovering from my upcoming disability for me to realize: heartbreak does not ruin college. It does not ruin life. You do. You ruin it when you stop showing up. When you decide you are too broken to try. When you treat every new person like a ticking bomb. 

    Do not let one bad love story become the whole plot. Because the truth is, the boy who broke me? He is probably still in his mom’s basement, playing Fortnite. And I am here—yes, I do not like my current situation but I am surviving—writing this, breathing, alive and planning for a future. That is the real win.

    Essentially this entire experience taught me that everything happens for a reason— as corny as it may sound. Because honestly? The real damage was not the “breakup”—it was how I let it define me. I let one boy’s cowardice rewrite my future. I let shame decide my friends and my life.

    It is not something that I should look back on and regret, because what is really the point of that?!  If I was never made to feel like I was not good enough and thus never imploded, I would not have gone through the whole process of finding my voice and who I am, that means that I would not have started with the Twitter account full of snarky comments and controversial statements (seriously— people would constantly accuse me of either being a federal agent or a man pretending to run a girl’s account) and that would not have led me to meet the someone three thousand miles away— the man of my dreams. Maybe he is that perfect boyfriend I had envisioned finding in college. 

    Senior Year High School
    Post University

  • Coming to America.

    Coming to America.

    Growing up Russian in the heart of America felt like living in two worlds at once—one where borscht simmered on the stove while the neighbor’s barbecue smoke drifted through the window. 

    My parents landed in a quiet Montana suburb in nineteen-ninety-four, after the Soviet collapse. They brought suitcases stuffed with pickled mushrooms, a samovar (Russian wood burning tea kettle) and a stubborn belief that silence was louder than shouting. My father delivered pizzas while my mother cleaned houses while watching English speaking soap operas to grasp the language. 

    School was the real culture shock. I showed up to first grade with a thick accent and a lunchbox full of black bread and salo—pig fat, basically. Kids stared. I had a terrible time making friends. None of my classmates were wearing the clothes that mother picked out for me. Instead of ironed on puppies and monkeys from stores like Gap and Old Navy, I was wearing thick Pippy Longstocking type tights underneath short overalls and turtleneck shirts. Hot. 

    Home was different. Dinner wasn’t tacos or pizza—it was pelmeni, cabbage rolls, or whatever my mother could stretch from a single chicken. We ate together—no phones, no TV. I could not be a kid who watched cartoons, I had to attend Russian school in order to learn Russian language, writing and enhance my culture by learning Pushkin poetry. I just wanted to be normal. Going to Russian school was not going to diminish my thick accent and my weird way of speaking— I needed to watch the cartoons and I wanted my parents to shop at popular places. 

    The holidays were wild. New Year’s Eve wasn’t about fireworks and resolutions—it was about Old New Year, January thirteenth, when we’d stay up until two in the morning eating Olivier salad and watching Soviet cartoons on VHS. We would toast to surviving another year, like it was a victory. 

    But America crept in. I learned to love American food (unfortunately), begged for Halloween costumes and even made a few friends. My parents hated it. Instead of drinking hot tea in the mornings, friends would ask for some soda alongside the hot pancakes my mother made. You’re turning American, my family grumbled, watching me eat cereal straight from the box. It hurt, but eventually I laughed—because yeah, I was. 

    Because now I am in love with an American and no one can convince me otherwise. This man actually sees me for me. My Russian and my American. I tell him about how I grew up and he amazes me with stories about life in an American family. Stories that I never even thought were possible. Yes, we are different but if this country is supposed to be a melting pot then we are it. Mixed together and forever making each other better. 

    So I guess some things stuck. I did not choose to be one culture or another. Because that is what growing up Russian in the middle of America teaches you: you don’t pick a side. You just mix everything together until it tastes like home.  And I found that home.