The courage it takes to share your story might be the very thing someone else needs to open their heart to hope
 by Sarah Wahid
When I was a little girl, probably around four or five, my family took a trip to Disney World, as one does when you have a daughter who has memorized entire Disney and Barbie movies and dressed up as a princess every Halloween. When I was asked by Ariel, my favorite princess, who I wanted to be when I grew up, I said, "You. I want to be you when I grow up. I want to be a white princess."
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 By Ashley Boldt
I love to tell people that I go to a pretty amazing school. I go to a school where students stand against social injustice. I go to a school where we rally against gun violence and raise awareness for mental illness. Students are involved and passionate. I love that my friends see their educational and organizational involvement as an investment to the world, not just their career and academic resumes. I love all these things, and I am empowered by the people I surround myself with. However, despite everyone’s big plans for the world, I witness these same big dreamers succumb to the pressure of society to take be small. The other day I was at dinner with friends when everyone began the dreaded discussion of dieting. I listened to friends I had never thought to be self-conscious around food feel the need to explain to everyone how they generally do not eat that much. The conversation creeped into everyone discussing how they liked to graze instead of eating meals or how they only ever ate one huge meal a day and otherwise simply forgot to eat. I wish in the moment I could have told my friends how they do not need to explain their eating habits to others. I wish I could have expressed to each one how amazing they were, and that their bodies need adequate fuel to make them function. I wish I had mentioned how everyone is different and requires different fuel. I wish I could tell them that it is okay to “admit” you eat. It does not make you weak. It is okay to take in food and it is okay for our bodies to take up space, but I did not say anything, and for that, I am sorry. Although I could not deliver the message then, I hope these words can reach my friends now. It is horrible that so many women spend so much time wondering how we can shrink ourselves. We walk with bent shoulders. We diet and exercise to be small. We tell others we do not eat because we see this as morally superior. We agree with opinions that we don’t necessarily embody to avoid conflict. In a society where women are already delivered the message that we should take up less space both physically and emotionally, it is more crucial than ever that those of us who are privileged, whether by race, income, education, etc. take a stand to show that we are deserving. Not only are we deserving of equal pay and respect in society and the workforce, but we are deserving of food to fuel our minds and bodies. We are deserving of the right to feel confident and to feel unashamed to express our realities and beliefs. Despite how simple and innocent it seems, my little dinner dilemma may symbolize a much larger issue. However, this issue is one that I believe we can face as long as the already incredible women I know make the effort to take up the space they deserve in all aspects of their lives.  by Embody Co-Founder Colleen Daly
To the girl at Trader Joe’s, I remember watching you float through the aisles, gravitating to each item with gentle hesitation. Pick up. Analyze. Return. Repeat. Pick up. Analyze. Return. Repeat. I remember seeing frustration and fear take over your composed countenance as item after item failed your test. I remember watching you, almost in tears, venture on and out of sight. Disappointed. Angry. Afraid. I felt your pain. I too, walked these aisles in anguish, aware of the eyes following my weak frame with looks mixed with concern and disgust. I remember feeling unworthy of food, of indulgence, of compassion. I remember laying in bed, begging for sleep to come. A dull but persistent ache coursed through my body, keeping me from rest. Frustrated, I tossed out about a dozen possible explanations before I realized I had completely lost connection with my body and its senses - that the pain was hunger. I remember wasting my life away on an elliptical, stamping my insecurities deeper and deeper with each pedal stroke, trying to take up less space in an overwhelming world. I want to hug you. To laugh with you. To remind you that you are loved beyond measure. I want to tell you that your body is the mechanism by which you engage with the world - and that the world needs you. There are so many adventures that lay before you, if you could pry free of doubt, of shame, of anxiety, of the voices that scream that you are NEVER ENOUGH. You are always enough. You always were. I want to sit with you and commiserate. People just don’t get it. I want to cry and laugh and yell, throw our heads back and roar. I want to hold your hand as you walk into your first therapy appointment. I want to sit through “scare food” meals together, and catch your tears as you hold strong through the anxiety that follows. I want to remind you each and every day that you are inherently and innately worthy, simply for being. But I do none of those things. I watch you fade away. I wish I prayed. I don’t know you. I don’t know your story. But I know that you are strong. You will recover. I know you will. I have to believe you will. It has been 8 years since my eating disorder first burrowed deep in my brain. He robbed me of my happiness, my relationships, my health, my dreams, hopes, and desires. Determined to step off the treadmill and run my life based on my dreams and desires for the world, I fought like hell. I fought and I fought and I fought. Recovery feels like a treacherous journey. You’ll climb out of the pits of your disorder. You’ll leap out of your comfort zone. You will fall - over and over and over. But you won’t be alone. You’ll have people around you who love you. They’ll be there to pick you up, brush you off, and follow you every step of the way. And when you get to the top, you’ll take in the view, and know freedom. Over the last 8 years, I have felt the disorder slowly fade away. I can barely remember the sound of his whispers, the harshness of his voice, the roughness of his clutch on my shoulders. I don’t believe him anymore. I listen to my body. I move it in ways that are beautiful, meaningful, and fulfilling. I eat foods that nourish my body and bring it joy. I live. You will too. Intuition is freedom. Recovery is possible. Fight for it. |
