I felt full after dinner, but I got ice cream. I decided I wanted ice cream that morning.
I felt hungry, but I didn’t eat. I ate too recently.
Alcohol made my head, stomach, and skin ache, but I drank. I didn’t want my abstinence to make others uncomfortable.
I got a second degree burn on my hand while hosting a dinner party. I ran it under cold water, wrapped it in a towel, and kept cooking, swallowing my nausea and tears. I refused to threaten the joy in the air.
My thighs had an unusual burning sensation in the sauna, but I stayed. Afterwards, my legs fumed with angry red splotches.
I have a habit of neglecting my internal needs, weaponizing my mental resilience to force predetermined outcomes. As if my body were a machine malfunctioning, I put the onus on my body to adapt to its inputs instead of trying new inputs that lead to better outputs. Numerous mindfulness routines, like pilates and kundalini meditation, help alleviate my fear of the unexpected, but they also create a veil of wellness that conceals the war between my mind, body, and spirit.
When a recent three week trip in Europe disrupted my wellness routines, the veil began to drop and the war began to surface. Caught up in the joy and excitement of my new environments, that which was routine felt mundane, so I was quick to let go of my rituals. I traded my morning meditation for a Juno the bakery cardamom bun trip, my 6pm dinners for 9:30pm in Valencia, and my two glasses of wine a week for two plus a day in Aix en Provence.
Letting go of my rituals felt freeing initially. I was forced out of autopilot as I attempted to experience and notice as much as I could in the limited time I had. I was charmed by the little things I take for granted in my day-to-day at home: the beautiful flowers framing a townhome’s front door, the vine crawling up a building’s red bricks, the baguette hanging out of who-I-presumed-was-a-local’s bag.
I wanted to melt into and absorb the details around me. That’s my favorite part of traveling: to not just witness the culture, but to weave myself into the fabric. The trouble lies, however, in pressing on when enmeshing myself conflicts with my body’s needs. I still felt full from lunch but refused to sacrifice happy hour oysters at Cafe Parlotte, and I shivered at the thought of another alcohol-destroyed night of sleep but clung to my vision of al fresco dining with vino tinto. As the moments of betrayal mounted, so too did the discomfort.
I returned home feeling stuffed, physically and mentally. Joy and gratitude gave way to an eerie, creeping anxiety. My mind, uncomfortable with the uncertain outcome of so many unfamiliar inputs, tormented me with fear and guilt.
Windows offered an opportunity for my eyes to zoom in on the width of my thighs’ reflection. Mirrors signaled my hands to pull my shirt to my chest as I swiveled to evaluate my stomach and arms, comparing their size to the body in my mind. If my reflection was the same or larger, my mind filled with foods I love but must limit. If smaller, I felt relieved, like I was regaining control of my body. Conflicting comments from friends and family–”you’re so tiny” or “you’ve gained some weight”–made my thoughts spiral even further, reverberating in my mind for weeks to come.
These attacks on my body weren’t new, but without the veil of wellness, my exposed wounds became irritated and infected. Terrified and grasping for control, I ran back to the routines that kept my body the same size and shape for the past eight years: pilates, meditation, and walking.
Fortunately, my routines serve a secondary purpose: they create space to notice and observe my experiences before reacting. As my hamster wheel of thoughts slowed, my body’s screams grew like those of a child repeatedly ignored. The screams broke my heart.
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My gut swirls with anger, shame, and pangs of guilt when I reflect on how habitually I’ve ignored my body. My throat and chest tighten as tears bubble to the surface. My infected wounds are unignorable. I must heal them: by bringing my mind, body, and spirit together to act from a place of love instead of fear, navigating the world like a tall, delicate flower that freely and peacefully sways with the wind while staying firmly rooted at center.
My first steps toward healing feel very uncomfortable. As I struggle to learn and trust the signs of my body and spirit, I’m trying to release my dependence on my appearance by minimizing mirror use. My mind taunts me, planting mental images of my body with rounder thighs, a fuller belly, and thicker arms. I’m tempted to take a peak in the mirror to determine whether the images reflect reality, but a return to the mirror will only perpetuate my mind’s bullying and offer an escape from relearning my body and spirit’s language.
I’m in a gray space, trying to love and nurture my body and spirit without confidence in what they need. I hope, with time and patience, I’ll start to understand and trust them. I hope I’ll believe my body’s beauty isn’t dependent on its shape and size. I hope I’ll accept it’s okay to not be okay.
My chest tightens and tears bubble to the surface once more. I want this dream to be my reality so badly. I feel ashamed that I have to dream for what should be natural, and that something seemingly natural feels so hard.
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I’m taking little steps toward freedom.
I’m getting curious about the fear my changing body triggers. While I’m finding peace in realizing a body created and maintained out of fear may not be the body I’m left with when I act from love, surrendering my identification with my fear-born body feels hard. I’m scared to let go, struggling to trust I’ll still have worth without this identity and that other parts of me will fill the space.
I’m experimenting with relaxing my brain during body scan meditations. The intention alone offers a fleeting feeling of expansion–like a shrunken, dry sponge soaking up water–that isn’t accessible when monitoring, analyzing, and forcing outcomes.
I’m leaning into cravings and moments of hunger or fullness even when my mind rattles with fear, choosing to sit with and explore the discomfort through writing and meditation.
I’m reminding myself to nourish, love, and trust when I feel tempted to restrict, fear, and control.
The steps are proving particularly important as I road trip through Iceland this week, once again challenged by the winds of newness and uncertainty. This time, I’m swaying with the wind while staying rooted at center, treating myself more like a tall flower than a machine. I packed a yoga mat for pilates and am putting the tools for my meditation videos–my iPad and headphones–on my nightstand for easy access when I wake up. I’m being honest about my needs regardless of conflicting plans and expectations, finding more space for love and connection rather than isolation. Expressing gratitude each time I listen to and trust myself with a mental “thank you” helps me show up again the next time.
Trips are beautiful. Trips are hard. Trips, when done with intention, don’t require abandoning ourselves. Instead, they can be an opportunity to come home to ourselves.
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P.S. Each trip I take, I learn a little more about how to travel in a healthier, happier, more balanced way, so I’m creating travel guides from the lens of a passionate foodie, traveler, holistic health and wellness coach, and a believer in balancing them all. Stay tuned!