From the moment I could dream, I wanted to be a princess. Not just any princess—This was not a fleeting childhood whim; it was the quiet heartbeat of my entire life. Even now, as an adult, that little girl inside me still looks at the world through tinted glasses. She hopes for magic and rescue. She dreams of a love that feels like it was written in the stars.
Ever since I was a little girl, fairy tales were never just bedtime stories. They were blueprints for how life should feel. I grew up listening to different princess stories than you. I mean every culture has its own rendition of Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, and Snow White. I devoured these stories. I was captivated by the princesses’ grace under pressure. Their kindness eventually led to their happily ever afters. I did not just want the happy ending; I wanted the entire experience. I longed for the gentle spoiling by a doting prince (and life itself). I yearned for the soft protection from the world’s harsher realities. I craved that undeniable sense of being seen and valued.
I craved being spoiled by life in the sweetest ways. Surprise flowers would delight me. Someone remembering my favorite coffee order on a bad day would lift my spirits. I cherished simply feeling like the universe had my back. Beside my desire for abundance and delight, I also deeply wanted to be saved. I longed to be rescued from sadness and loneliness. I yearned to escape the weight of carrying everything alone. I wanted arms that would wrap around me and say, “You don’t have to be strong right now. I got you.”
This is not about laziness or entitlement. It is about yearning for a softer existence. One where my vulnerability is met with strength and my sensitivity is celebrated rather than criticized.
Of course, every good fairytale needs its villain, right? In my story, my cousin first played that role. I affectionately refer to her as my “evil stepsister.” Growing up, her teasing and bullying left deep marks on my young heart. She was seemingly perfect and she made sure I knew that I was not perfect. Her actions portrayed her as the ideal antagonist in my personal fairytale. I continued to question my worth throughout my life because of it.
Essentially, those experiences did not break me—they shaped me. They reinforced my identity as the misunderstood princess waiting for her turning point. I learned to retreat into my imagination, where I could be graceful and worthy instead of awkward and overlooked. I built emotional walls disguised as daydreams. I always held out hope that one day my real story would begin. To this day, my mother loves to tell me that I live in lala land.
Looking back, I see how that dynamic taught me resilience, even if it hurt at the time. But it also cemented something deeper: my tendency to frame my entire life around the “damsel in distress” archetype. (Thank you Pretty Woman!)
I have basically organized my whole existence around this identity, and I am finally okay admitting it. I love romance that feels epic. I adore knights in shining armor who make me feel protected and adored. I thrive when life offers little sadness and provides moments of pampering. But unfortunately it is not all sparkle and glass slippers. It means I feel emotions intensely—joy like fireworks, sadness like storms.
I have had moments where I wondered if this part of me was too much. I have turned to my boyfriend with wide eyes and asked, “Am I simply too much?” His responses have been patient and loving. They remind me that wanting to feel cherished is not a flaw—it is a feature. I am not terribly spoiled. I do not demand the impossible or throw tantrums when things do not go my way. I just carry this princess heart. It believes life can be kinder. Relationships can be more. I deserve to be treated with tenderness.
This identity has influenced my career choices (or lack thereof), my friendships, and especially my romantic life. I seek connections where I can be soft without being seen as weak. I want to give my all to someone who sees my sensitivity as a gift, not a burden. And yes, I still believe in being saved sometimes. It is not because I am helpless. It is because partnership should include lifting each other up. And I know that I inspire/ motivate him.
The older I get, the more I realize that being a princess does not mean waiting in a tower forever. It means wearing the crown despite the life limitations that are around me.
I still want the magic. I still hope for grand gestures and quiet moments of being adored. But I am also writing my own story now. In this story, the princess has agency—does not just lay down. She attracts people who match her energy rather than just rescue her from it.
So here I am—still that little girl at heart, but with bigger dreams and a stronger sense of self. Proving that wanting softness in a hard world is not weakness and craving love that feels protective and spoiling is not childish.
Life has not always been a fairytale, but I am learning to create the chapters I always wanted. And who knows? Maybe my prince is already here while still leaving room for a little magic.
Tag: love
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The Princess Within: Embracing My Damsel in Distress Heart
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Defying Disability: My Daily Act of Rebellion
Every single morning, I whisper sleepy sweet nothings to my man. After that, I rise with fire in my veins. I spend the entire day fighting against the disability that constantly tries to drag me down.
I push this stubborn, trembling body to its absolute breaking point. I lean hard against the bathroom counter while brushing my teeth. My legs shake as I take selfies for him in the mirror. I refuse to let weakness win. In the kitchen, I grip the edge of the counter. I make my espresso with gritted teeth. My knees threaten to snap back beneath me. I refuse to constantly sit in a wheelchair. I refuse to strap on those ugly, soul-crushing leg braces that would mark me as conquered.(Only HE is allowed to do that!).
A physical therapist once looked me dead in the eye. She suggested I stop relying on my mother to drive me to appointments. She calmly recommended I call a WHEELCHAIR VAN! It would pick me up and drop me off. She acted like I was some fragile invalid. The words barely left her mouth before I shut that shit down. I was not feeling it. The idea of being loaded and unloaded like cargo made my blood boil. The thought of sitting in a wheelchair instead of the seat of a car was infuriating. I told her no, thank you, and never went back. Now I get down onto the floor everyday and do my own exercises, No van needed. I refuse to give in. I refuse to let anyone reduce me to a scheduled pickup in a van built for surrender.
Life keeps trying to force me onto my ass. There is even a goddamn chair sitting right there in my shower like a permanent joke . Most days I have no choice but to sit under the hot water like a broken doll while it cascades over me. But the only time I truly get to stand—proud, naked, water streaming down my body—is when my man steps in behind me, his strong hands gripping my hips as he holds me upright so I can clean myself. I love the way he steadies me, the way his hard body presses against mine, keeping me vertical through pure possessive strength while steam fills the air. In those heated moments I feel rebelliously alive, even as my legs scream and tremble beneath me.
I face that humiliating chair and the endless war with gravity everyday. Yet, I reject every medical enhancement. I refuse every synthetic crutch and modern healthcare. I do not believe in any of it. If it is meant to be, it is meant to be. If sickness is coming for you, it will find you. It does not matter how many pills, injections, gene therapies, or experimental treatments they invent. All the advances in medicine are nothing more than dressed up as progress.
I will not be synthetically made better.
I refuse to be rebuilt, patched, upgraded, or artificially propped up like some defective machine.
Only the natural way.
Only the forever way.And my hands? That is another story. For over fifteen years now, I have had the use of only my right hand. My left hand is dead weight, a silent traitor that sways useless at my side while I fight like hell. I have mastered one-handed shoe tying, buttoning, and zipping. I have learned to handle my personal hygiene with stubborn grace. However, some cooking (chopping, etc) and deep cleaning are still slow and frustrating for me. They are nowhere near as efficient as I demand of myself. I practice longer to get better physically. I refuse to accept the limitation. My ultimate goal is to do it all for my man. I want to cook his meals with these one-and-a-half hands. I want to deep clean our home until it shines, all for him. I want to serve HIM. I want to care for him. My broken body can still rise up and give him everything he deserves.
This is my daily mantra. It is my middle finger to disability and to weakness. It defies a world obsessed with comfort and “fixing” every imperfection. I choose to feel every tremor, every ache, every exhausting victory on my own raw terms. I lean on counters instead of rolling in chairs. I am held up by my lover’s grip instead of cold metal and plastic. I struggle one-handed. I am eager for the day when I can entirely care for the man I love.
In a society that worships ease and vulnerability, I stand as a living, breathing, unapologetic rebellion. My legs may shake and threaten to give out. My left hand may be useless dead weight. However, my spirit is lava. I will keep going every single day. I will keep whispering filthy sweet nothings into my man’s ear at night. I will keep fighting with everything I have left.
This is how I love.
This is how I fight.
This is how I remain fiercely, provocatively, alive. -
Finding Balance: Nature vs. Modern Medicine in Healing
The TV series Lost (2004–2010) was not just some island survival drama. It was a raw showdown between science and faith. It pitted sterile reason, lab coats, and control freaks against destiny and miracles. It involved surrendering to something far bigger.
Jack Shephard, the spinal surgeon and control-obsessed leader, was the ultimate “man of science.” He demanded explanations for everything. He worshipped logic and scalpels. He refused to believe in anything he could not cut open or medicate. Fix it with your hands, your drugs, your ego. That was his religion.
John Locke? The paralyzed guy who stood up and walked after the crash. Pure “man of faith.” He saw the island’s hand in everything. The crash was not bad luck (like my brain bleed!)— it was a calling. He followed signs, intuition, and the island’s will instead of bowing to sterile facts and scientific predictions.
Fast-forward to today: We are drowning in quick-fix pills, billion-dollar diagnostics, and Big Pharma.
Count me out.
A growing number of us are waking up. We feel the deep, primal pull back to nature — the real healer. Trust your body’s ancient wisdom. Use plants, sunlight, and real food. Enjoy fresh air and embrace lifestyle changes. Do this instead of letting white coats experiment on you like lab rats.
Why stay a compliant “normie,” swallowing whatever the white coat cult prescribes? Modern medicine celebrates its success in eliminating smallpox. Thus, allowing it to quietly poison generations with chemicals, side effects, and dependency.
Nature does not even need a patent. It does not need clinical trials funded by the same companies that profit from keeping you sick. The Earth was not designed for our failure — it already holds every answer we need. We do not require priests in lab coats to “discover” what has been growing in the dirt and shining in the sky for millions of years.
Pill over-reliance is a scam. It ignores obvious issues like shitty diets, chronic stress, toxin overload, and living like disconnected zombies. Modern medicine is decent at trauma and emergencies — sure, sew up the wound, stabilize the crash victim. But for everything else, it is a meat grinder. It treats humans like broken machines on a conveyor belt. It completely misses the soul and the root.
This is not an innocent debate. It is a war for your ability to speak out. Especially after the Covid shitshow exposed how “science” can be bought, censored, and weaponized by institutions that value power and profit over truth and lives.
Funny thing: many “miracle” drugs started in nature — aspirin from willow bark, penicillin from mold, chemo from plants. Then science got hold of them. It isolated the “active ingredient” and patented it. Then it jacked up the dose (and the price). This process thus turned the remedies into slow-acting poison.
Humans healed themselves with herbs, diet, movement, and connection to the wild for thousands of years before any lab existed. Traditional systems around the world knew this instinctively.
Today, herbal medicine, acupuncture, forest bathing, and raw primal living still work. They are not fighting your biology — they are working with it.
I will say it plainly: I want the caveman life. Sun on my skin, dirt under my nails, real food, real movement, no plastic toxins, no endless prescriptions. Get me as close to that ancestral truth as possible.
Science even admits it when it is not busy gatekeeping. Time in nature drops stress hormones. It lowers blood pressure. It also supercharges your immune system with measurable results. People feel empowered when they take control through nutrition, sleep, and exercise. They benefit by rejecting environmental poisons instead of sitting passively. They stop waiting for the next diagnosis and pill.
The island is still speaking.
Are you listening… or still waiting for permission from your doctor?
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Embracing Life’s Chaos: Finding Meaning in Pain
There was a time when I saw life as nothing more than a chaotic tangle of random events—senseless pain. I spent years fighting against the current, clenching my fists at the universe, demanding answers for every unfair event. But one day, exhausted from the resistance, I finally let go. I stopped fighting the detours and started tracing the threads that connected them. What I discovered surprised me deeply.
Every heartbreak, every closed door, every tear-soaked “why me?” moment… none of it was an accident. They were (gluten free) breadcrumbs scattered along a path I could not yet see.
The misery was not punishment. It was preparation — raw, necessary preparation for the woman I was becoming.
I think about the guys who chose other girls over me. At the time, the rejection felt devastating, like a statement that I was not good enough. It cut deep. But looking back now, I see how those experiences were teaching me something important. I had been shrinking myself. I dimmed my light and apologized for my ambitions and my desires. I did this just to fit into someone else’s limited version of love. I hid who I truly was with certain friends. I also did this with family members to keep the peace or earn approval. Those painful rejections became the jumping off point that forced me to stop. They motivated me to stand taller. I reclaimed my voice. I refused to apologize anymore for wanting more. I wanted real, deep, reciprocal love and respect.
Because I finally stopped shrinking, I created space for something better. Now I am with a man who does not just tolerate me — he truly sees me. He celebrates the parts of me that others overlooked or asked me to tone down. The beautiful truth is that I can accept love now. I finally learned to see and value myself first.
The brain injury was terrifying. Those life-altering chapters turned out to be crucial. It became one of the most important turning points of all. It felt like the universe hitting the brakes on a car speeding toward disaster. Without that sudden stop, I honestly do not know. I would have ever slowed down enough to notice how far off course I had drifted.
I was heading down a dark, exhausting path— chasing things that were never meant for me, ignoring the universe’s warnings. The injury forced me to pause. I had to seek the help I had been avoiding. In that healing process, I met the real me. This was the version of myself that had been buried under layers of fat: pain, expectations, and survival mode.
Rediscovering myself changed everything. This version of myself found the courage to take a completely different path. This path eventually led me to the man I now share my life with.
I do not know exactly what the future holds. I feel a deep sense of trust and excitement as we step into it together. The universe has surprised me before, and I believe it will again. I am ready to see what beautiful, unexpected chapters it has planned for us — for our forever.
It is not magic, though sometimes it feels that way. It is a pattern — one I can finally recognize when I look back (20/20 right?!)
Every “no” was a redirection, gently (or sometimes forcefully) steering me away from what was not mine. Every scar I carry has become armor. I have plenty of those scars now, and I wear them with pride instead of shame. The universe never handed me a neat script or a perfectly mapped-out plan. It simply kept nudging me — through joy and through pain — until I stopped resisting and started listening.
So yes… I truly believe everything has happened for a reason. Not because some distant cosmic puppet master was orchestrating every detail from above. But because I kept showing up, kept moving forward even when it hurt, and kept choosing growth over bitterness.
Somewhere along the way, without me even realizing it at first, the chaos began to transform. The random, messy pieces started falling into place. What once looked like pure disaster slowly revealed itself as something far more elegant. It was a kind of dance. A dance I was always meant to learn, step by imperfect step.
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Spring Awakening and Manifestation
March twentieth, twenty-twenty- six : the vernal equinox arrived at 10:46 a.m. Eastern. For one perfect moment, day and night were in perfect balance. The universe seemed to hit pause, exhale deeply, and whisper, “Okay… new chapter.”
Astronomers see it as simple celestial mechanics: Earth’s tilt finally neutral, the Sun crossing directly over the equator. But astrologers know it as the real New Year. The Sun slips into Aries—the bold, head-butting ram—and the message is loud and clear: “Let’s fucking go.”
No formal resolutions. No champagne (unfortunately). Just raw, fiery momentum.
Winter has finally stopped sulking. Everything is waking up. Bulbs are cracking through the soil, birds are screaming at dawn, and your skin is already aching for the sun. It is not random. The planet is rebooting. The energy is higher, sharper, alive.
This is the time to release the old baggage—the heavy thoughts, the stale patterns that have been holding you back. Aries energy does not do polite. It is fire. It is passion. It says: “do it now.” (Almost as if it was a Nike slogan).
But here is the secret: balance comes first. Equal light, equal dark. Plant your intentions slowly, deliberately. Manifest, yes—but then get to work. The universe does not hand out rewards for wishes alone. It responds to movement. It rewards those who prove they are worthy of what they are asking for.
Me? Tonight I will be sleeping with my crystal under my pillow—not to beg for wishes, but to show gratitude. I have learned the hard way that desperate praying and bargaining usually pushes what you want even further away. The universe rarely delivers on a silver platter exactly as you pictured it. Instead, it shows up in its own clever, roundabout way.
Last year’s mess was just fertilizer. Spring is not only about flowers (though I do love me some flowers). It is living proof that nothing stays buried forever. The cosmos do not do accidents—the universe does cycles. And right now, we are standing at the starting line.
So grab your coffee, step outside, and feel the shift. This year feels brand new—not because the calendar flipped, but because the stars say so.
We are also in the Year of the Fire Horse. In the Chinese zodiac, the same animal sign returns every twelve years. For example, my mom and my boyfriend are both born in the year of the Dog. However, they are not the same age. They are just twelve years apart. And 1990? That was the Year of the Metal Horse. Which makes this my year. I am a fiery horse!
Everything happens for a reason. There is no such thing as purely negative—only upside waiting to be uncovered. Maybe the year itself does not even matter that much. What is meant for you will find you one way or another. I choose to believe that the universe is on my side, though.
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In My Marilyn Monroe Era.
Sophomore year of college, I finally felt like I was finding my groove.
I had made a new friend I planned to live with the following year, and I was starting to get ahead academically after a rocky freshman year. That year, I roomed with a Russian girl from the university’s swim team. We clicked almost immediately and became genuinely close friends.
I was slowly gaining confidence in my new, more voluptuous body, even if I still struggled with it. We had a surprising amount in common, and she helped me adjust to living on my own while everything back home continued to unravel. We met in a Russian language class. I signed up thinking it would be an easy A. Even though, I was basically fluent in Spanish in high school. But, I was burned out and did not want anything too demanding. Because she was still very new to the U.S., I got to play guide, showing her the ropes of American college life.
She only lived with me for one semester. When the swim team at Syracuse was cut, she moved out. But I kept thriving (*exaggerating*) and it was all thanks to that Russian class. Through it, I met another girl — an American — who quickly became one of my closest friends. She lived off-campus in a chaotic house full of eccentric roommates. The place was straight out of *Fight Club*. It was filthy. Everything seemed to be broken. I vividly remember waking up on the couch one morning to see a rat-size cockroach scurrying across the coffee table.
Every weekend, I would take the bus and then hike up the snowy hills just to get there. I loved it. I loved the weird mix of characters who lived in that house. Looking back, I know they were mostly low-class, pot-smoking losers, but at the time, I finally felt needed. And God, I needed that feeling more than anything.
One weekend, they threw a Valentine’s Day house party. That’s where I met him.
He was very attractive, and he gave me real attention. We ended up spending the entire night together. No, we did not sleep together, but… we did everything else.
At that point in my life, I was still deeply disgusted with myself. My new friends were helping rebuild my self-esteem, but I still could not stand looking at myself in the mirror. Every time I saw the size on my clothes tags, a wave of shame came over me.
I always struggled to understand how overweight people can genuinely seem happy and confident. I see it all the time. There are plus-size celebrities and popular friends of skinny people. These individuals are living their lives without apparent shame.
Even now, I sometimes feel bloated or insecure about my body. I tell my boyfriend he can cheat on me. He always reassures me that he would never and says I am just being a silly little girl.
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Now, back to the guy I met over Valentine’s weekend in 2009.
Through my new chaotic houseful of misfits, I quickly learned the truth. The guy I had holed up with was in a very serious relationship. His girlfriend was just out of town that weekend.
But he kept texting me. Kept reaching out.
So I made a decision. If I could not be the one someone chose, I would settle for being the other woman. My experience with love was limited. Up to that point, it had already convinced me I was unlovable. I felt unworthy of anything real. Being the secret side piece felt like the best I could hope for. I felt like a modern, broken version of Marilyn Monroe. I was the girl you have fun with, but never marry.
I leaned hard into the role. I started dressing more provocatively—low-cut shirts, fishnet tights stretched over my thick thighs. We made plans to keep sneaking around behind her back. I even stalked his girlfriend on social media, studying her life, picking apart what I thought I was missing.
Sexualized Me (3rd from the right ) It did not take long to realize he was just another loser misfit with a habit of cheating. But the thrill was still there. The secrecy. The danger. I went home and bragged to everyone that I was “the other woman” (okay, I may have white-lied about actually sleeping with him). I even made plans to finally give in to him during junior year.
Fate, however, had other plans.
I never made it back to Syracuse University. I never got that apartment with my new friend. And thankfully—thankfully—I never became the other woman.
(I still love Marilyn Monroe, though.)
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Debunking College Myths: What Really Happened
I remember the first day of college. I thought I would rebel. I imagined I would transform and emerge into a much stronger, skinnier, and beautiful person. This was post high school downfall.
I moved into a dorm. It smelled like old pizza and someone else’s regret. My roommate was an atheist/ anarchist.
People talk about college like it is this crucible—late-night debates, soul-searching walks across campus, professors who become mentors. These people did not know how emotional I was/ how much I would overreact.
Thus, it was mostly lukewarm coffee, group projects where one guy did everything, and a syllabus I skimmed once. I did not even get the degree. I got the debt though. But formative? Nah.The big moments—the ones you are supposed to remember—felt scripted. The boys? The parties? If I wanted to drown my sorrows, they were easy enough to find. Dumb drunk boys are always willing to canoodle with a sad fatty. And it was college… Cheap beer is always available. Whether you are lonely or a in a group of friends, Natty Light is there.
Philosophy 101? I nodded along while thinking about lunch— I was always thinking about lunch. There even was a bit of heartbreak as I briefly got involved with a guy who had a girlfriend. I did learn how to fake confidence. I also learned how to survive. Another skill I picked up was how to dodge eye contact in the dining hall. As I basically lived there… Useful? Sure. Life-altering? Not really. I was just a broken person—slightly more caffeinated, slightly more cynical, but still emotional and down-bad me. College was not a plot twist. It was background noise. The real stuff happened after. Outside the quad. No cap and gown required.
The myth says it has to be epic. Reality says: it is just school.
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How Pretty Woman Shaped My Understanding of Love
I want to elaborate on this post. Pretty Woman was one of the first movies that I watched in America. I was four years old. I did not speak any English. But I understood it completely.
To me, it is not a story about a sex worker. This contrasts with the Oscar movie Anora, which I was told was a modern version of Pretty Woman. It is a story of a woman who needs saving. So I spent my entire life aspiring to be a damsel in distress.At four years old, I was not sure what I would need to be saved from. I knew that Vivienne also saved Edward. So, I aspired that I would need to be a savior to my own man.
Ultimately, this is how I have arranged my own life. I am strong enough for him but I need him to save me from..myself? And everything that have been through. Women are not supposed to be “I do not need a man” strong—and while I do not blame anyone or anything that has happened to me— I simply should have reacted differently.
Therefore, I need some saving. I need my man to save me from overreacting and overthinking everything that happens.
I guess that is what I admire about this character and this story. Vivienne did not simply demand a check or cash to cure her status in life. She needed a man who actually cared enough about her and gave her guidance to achieve a better life. She also showed him that there is more to life than the money and status that he was chasing. She helped him overcome his fear of heights etc. overall, this movie is a beautiful fairytale for girls of all ages.
After viewing this fairytale throughout the years, I now know what is happening in the dialogue and the story. While Vivienne is definitely sharp and witty, she is a character who I am proud to have embodied as an influence -
Discovering Strength Through Pain: A Journey
I used to think that my father was the strongest man. I never see him cry and I never see him ask for approval. But when I was at Syracuse University, my mother dismantled us. I have always been a “daddy’s girl—“ you hurt him, you hurt me. Instead we were made to feel like something was wrong with us. Like we were just broken.
I hated to see him waive the white flag. I thought love was to be safe but instead I went into a tailspin. You hurt my father, you hurt me. So I went even deeper into my downward spiral. I kept eating my feelings. One year later I would end up in a coma and I would be disabled.
The worst part is that my mother had rewritten the whole story to make her the hero. She made excuses so she could be seen as the victim. I remember calling a good friend of mine (she has too much Ukrainian pride now though) sitting on the ground outside of the county jail in tears. There is no hero in this story. This was the moment when I broke down even more
So I turned to the manosphere accounts on Twitter (RIP). The manosphere gave me solace. It taught me about the manipulation that caused my father to fold. It also evidently taught me to hate on women. I know this is not exactly the right way to live. However, you will never catch me screaming about girl power and glass ceilings. I love men. I think that they are the greatest people on the planet. I also felt like I was being broken and betrayed by a woman. And I took it out on her. I took it too far.
I was already spiraling (because), but now I went down even further.
I learned how strength and weakness are not just physical— but instead strength is spine. Being able to say “no” instead of the quiet surrender I witnessed. I know that I should forgive. Holding onto pain only hurts you. But you cannot forgive when they keep taking. It is not pain and it is not hate— I do not have the energy for that.
We were dismantled. I was dismantled. It lead me towards rock bottom— but now I only have energy for progress and achieving my goals and desires.
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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.
Kat’s Musings 