I'm originally from the Midwest (MN) so I come pre-packaged with an excellent work ethic and an easy to get along with personality. But, don't mistake my "MN niceness" as innocence and naivety. I have a fiery spirit (and now red hair to match), and I don't give in or give up easily.
My first real attempt at dieting was around age 13, when I made a homemade "Deal a Meal" kit (who remembers those Richard Simmons infomercials?). I thought it was going to be the answer to my prayers.
Boy, was I disappointed when it didn't work.
I eventually lost the weight I wanted (and more), but did it in an unhealthy way that would plague me mentally and physically for years. Perhaps if I'd only learned more about the secret of female fat, I wouldn't have been in such a predicament.
Dr. Sylvia Tara (great name, doc!), author of The Secret Life of Fat: The Science Behind the Body’s Least Understood Organ and What It Means for You, recently joined HER Radio host, Dr. Pam Peeke, to explain what really is going on with the fat in our bodies, collectively and individually.
When it comes down to it, we are all unique. Your best friend might be able to regularly indulge and not gain an ounce, while you pack on pounds just by looking at a decadent dessert. Some part of that phenomenon may be genetic, but it may also have to do with your past weight loss efforts. Once you've lost fat, it becomes very difficult to maintain the loss.
Why? Because your fat serves much more of a purpose than preventing you from zipping up your skinny jeans. It's actually an endocrine organ that makes and releases necessary hormones.
For example, fat creates leptin, the hormone tied to metabolism and satiation. When you lose fat, you lose leptin. You become hungrier and your metabolism slows. You now have to eat less to maintain your weight. Ghrelin, the hormone that increases appetite, goes up.
It may seem like a lose-lose situation, but it doesn't have to be. Dr. Tara has some suggestions.
Testosterone busts fat. Women have less than men, putting them at a weight loss disadvantage. But, regular exercise helps increase testosterone levels.
Really play close attention to your intake of carbs and sugary foods in order to keep your insulin levels lower.
Growth hormones help bust fat, and intermittent fasting increases these hormones. Extend the time between meal periods. Stop eating at 5 pm each night and don't eat again until 10 am the next day.
Improve the health of your microbiome by adding more fiber to your diet.
Use your emotions as fuel. Anger can actually keep you on track.
Finally, understand that your motivation to lose weight has to hold greater power than the food on your plate. That motivation may be as superficial as wanting to fit into a stunning dress or as serious as a dire medical diagnosis. If you're not passionate about your goal, you will not succeed long-term.
Dr. Tara is incredibly wise, and I'm not just saying that because we share the same first name. I highly encourage a listen to the episode.
As adults, we often struggle with stress, fatigue, sleeping problems, issues with focus and concentration, headaches, even extreme substance use.
I mean, how many times have you finished off that bottle of wine because you had a bad day at the office?
Guess what? The teens and kids of today are also dealing with those same issues, including substance use (and abuse).
It doesn't seem fair... your childhood and teenage years are supposed to be the "good times," full of play and learning new things; maybe even falling in love for the first time. Not so much in today's society.
So, the sooner we can get the younger population interested in addressing these stressors in a healthy way, the better. You can literally shift a child's trajectory from obesity and chronic illness to a long, healthy life.
How? Nada Milosavljevic, JD, MD, author of the book Holistic Health for Adolescents, recently joined Naturally Savvy hosts Andrea Donsky and Lisa Davis to offer some guidance for using holistic methods to help your kids through the tough times.
Guided meditation, even if your child isn't fully paying attention 100 percent of the time, can be wildly helpful.
Aromatherapy utilizes essential oils derived from plants and can provide calming and relaxing sensations in the body and brain. Find a scent that is pleasurable to you and your child, and make sure you're using fully natural oils of high quality.
Teas such as chamomile and Valerian root are also useful for a calming effect.
Yoga can help bring about focus in provide opportunities for "being in the moment."
The important part is to find the most effective tools specifically for your kids so they can deal with stressors as they arise. Stockpiling them will only lead to diminished mental and physical health.
Dr. Nada is one super-smart woman (a lawyer AND a doctor) and she has some really helpful advice. I encourage you to take a listen to the episode for all the info.
Mental illness is a grave concern in our society. Some people who suffer from mental illness harm themselves, some harm others, and some do both.
That's not to say mental illness equals violence; an oft-misunderstood connection that's propagated by the media.
In fact, the large majority of those with a mental illness are not, nor will they ever be, violent. But, there are some that will resort to hurting others if they do not receive the proper care.
The 2012 shootings at Sandy Hook Elementary in Newtown, CT, spurred blogger Liza Long to pen the essay, "I An Adam Lanza's Mother," a narrative that quickly went viral. Liza's son has struggled with mental illness for much of his life; but, unfortunately, was put through what Liza calls "diagnosis roulette," never receiving a proper diagnosis until just recently.
Liza recently joined RadioMD's Naturally Savvy host, Lisa Davis, to bring awareness to the stigma mental illness receives.
Actually, Liza says, it's much more than a "stigma," but rather blatant discrimination. Many families dealing with mental illness unfairly suffer in silence because of that discrimination. Think about it... would you judge a child who was diagnosed with cancer or some other potentially life-threatening disease?
The discrimination goes beyond the child, too. Families are often neglected in the community, because others don't know how to deal with or react to that kind of "disease." And, parents are often blamed for their children's illness.
But, says Liza, treating a family with a mental illness the same as you would with a physical illness brings understanding and awareness for everyone. Ignoring the public health crisis of mental illness hurts all of us.
Her way of putting a humorous twist on the distinction is by advocating "casseroles." No one brings casseroles to your house if your kid has bipolar disorder... but, perhaps they should.
That understanding and awareness also needs to come from a shift in perspective. Too often attitudes surrounding mental illness are reactive- and crisis-based instead of proactive- and wellness-based. So many of these children could grow up to be healthy, happy, successful adults if given the right treatment and opportunity for well-being. Instead, many times they end up in prison.
Liza speaks so eloquently and so openly about her family's struggles, but she also provides hope. If you know someone who is dealing with mental illness, this interview is a great resource. If you don't know someone, it's an even better resource, as it sheds light on such a pivotal topic in today's world.
In today’s world, a “good day” is often hard to come by. We have stress, pressures, obligations. Whatever you want to call that thing that makes us contemplate the struggle of either crawling back into bed and giving the world the middle finger or getting out there one more day and just fucking get it done.
My victory was, in some people’s eyes, a small victory. In my world, it was like winning a gold medal. Or, winning the emotional lottery. I finished first in the race of Sylvia.
What I’m about to tell you is probably not going to make sense to the majority of you. In my rational brain, it doesn’t make sense to me.
In my irrational brain, the brain that rules my hatred of self, of body image, of weight and everything that comes with the word “weight,” this victory had been seemingly insurmountable… until now.
It’s such a profound realization, I’m torn between keeping it to my own celebratory self and shouting it to the world.
I guess I’m shouting it to the world.
I went to the doctor last week. In the past few years, whenever I go to the doctor and the nurse has me step on the scale (that awful bastard of a machine), I’ve closed my eyes and pre-warned him or her in this way: “I don’t want to know what it says, so please don’t say it out loud.” They always comply, and I leave the office feeling at least a bit less self-judgmental.
What you don’t know won’t hurt you, right?
This time was different. I’m a different person lately. I give fewer fucks (in all reality, zero fucks). Things that used to bother me profusely (rumors, particularly) make me laugh in their stupidity. I’m allowing patience in situations where I wouldn’t have before. In a scenario where I normally would have been a raging bitch, I ask myself this first: “Is this bump in the road really going to change your life?” Obviously, the answer is almost always “no” (okay, always).
Cut to me entering the clinic’s examining room. The nurse says cheerfully, “Go ahead and step on the scale.” Something she probably says, what, 10 times a day? Twenty? Thirty? (It’s a busy clinic).
She doesn’t know what impact those words have on me.
She doesn’t know that the number that pops up can have a debilitating effect on my ability to function. She doesn’t know that as soon as she leaves the room, the chances of me bursting into tears is 120 percent.
Fuck it.
I get on the scale. It takes a second to register (torture, if you’re someone who has body image/eating disorder issues). And, then, there it was: ...
It registered in my brain as this: “Grrr… that’s disappointing.”
And, then, it came out of my mouth as a JOKE: “Huh, that’s disappointing.”
We both had a good laugh.
Here’s how I knew that number was no longer keeping me prisoner… the fact that I was willing to joke about it. That let me know that it was okay. While I was not completely thrilled with the number, I did not let it affect me as it normally would.
I just let it… be.
My very good friend recently said something to me that made me pause (and, simultaneously, break into tears). Her words of wisdom: “You can’t beat yourself up for wasted time. You’ve been working on yourself all this time and probably haven’t even realized it.”
I was worried that all this time of being concerned about what others think of me and not focusing on my own happiness, that I’d basically gifted those years away to the doubters, the judges, the whisperers.
I couldn’t comprehend that in all those years, there WAS growth. There WAS happiness.
In the end, I’d been gifting myself.
With knowledge. With experiences. With strength.
I’m really looking forward to the next few years of gifts that I’ll be giving to myself.
*This post was inspired by an interview from the radio show I work on, Naturally Savvy.
Photo courtesy of RadioMD.com
Stories can be fun. They can be conversation starters, or ways to reminisce at family gatherings. They can provide bonding and create fond memories for your kids and grandkids.
Stories can also be a detriment, especially the ones you tell yourself... over, and over, and over again.
Those types of stories can be filled with regret, anger, sadness, self-deprecation, anxiety, even depression. None of those feelings represent the picture of health, whether mental, emotional or physical.
I'll give you an example of one of my stories that I struggled with for a long time (and sometimes still do).
A while back, I made a huge life decision to pursue something that would make me happy and give me fulfillment. I didn't know how it would turn out; it was literally one of those "now or never" moments.
Part of that decision involved moving to Los Angeles and leaving my husband behind in MN. We're still together and manage to make the long-distance marriage work, much to the surprise (and sometimes dismay) of our family, friends and community.
My husband has supported me, for the most part. But, for a very long time, I suffered with extreme guilt. I was stuck in a story where I kept telling myself, "You are hurting others. You're being selfish. You need to be there for everyone else. Putting yourself number-one is unacceptable. What the fuck are you thinking?"
The rumors that swirl around and around about me back in MN only made it worse. "Sylvia moved to L.A. because she was doing drugs and it's easier to get drugs in CA." Or, the most recent and flabbergasting one, "Sylvia is in porn and prostitution, and that's how they get their money."
WTF?
As ridiculous as those rumors are, I let the negativity and anger of others infiltrate and exacerbate the corruption of the story I was telling myself.
And, for a very long time, I never let myself fully believe that the decision I'd made was the right one... even though I'd experienced true pockets of happiness. REAL happiness. I still put others first, just under the guise of my new-found "freedom," and I kept the sad story alive.
Recently, though, I've been stepping out of that story. I've cleared those pages and am writing new ones; pages filled with happiness and creativity and love. I'm attempting what Kim Schneiderman, author of Step Out of Your Story, advises: "by choosing a version that values life lessons and meaningful personal victories, you can redirect your energy and narrative toward your desires and goals."
Once in a while that old sad story will creep back into my mind, but I know I have the love and support of dear friends who will help me re-shape and re-tell it the right way. Plus, it's OK to revisit the pain now and again. Schneiderman says it's essential to value the growth (and grieving) that occurs when you go through difficult life events.
This has been a difficult life event.
What stories do you tell? Are they keeping you from goals and dreams? Or contributing to happiness and success?
So, I was fortunate to attend the Life Through Art Foundation Red Party last Saturday night (February 20) at the Madame Tussaud's Wax Museum in Hollywood. Wow! What a party. From the red carpet, to celebs, to yummy free cocktails . . . it was not to be missed.
I was also fortunate enough to bid on (and win) some really cool items in the silent auction. And while the guitar signed by Pat Smear of the Foo Fighters (and Nirvana, and The Germs), which came from his personal collection is exceptionally cool . . . there were two more items that I feel really lucky to have "won."
Allison Heutsche is a jewelry designer (check out her website at www.artasan.com), and she had generously donated two pieces of jewelry: a necklace and a bracelet. Both handcrafted, both one-of-a-kind pieces.
That was enough to make me feel "special" . . . until I found out the story behind the bracelet.
I had emailed Allison, just to let her know that I now had her "art" in my possession, and also to thank her for donating such beautiful and amazing pieces. She wrote back almost immediately, and after a few more exchanges I found out the heartfelt story and event that prompted her to create the bracelet.
See, Allison's dear friend Alma was killed in a car accident. And by chance, Garrison Keillor, famed author and performer, happened to be standing on a bridge in Santa Monica, witnessing the aftermath. He was so moved, so touched by the event that he wrote an article about it. From that article, and from the bridge on which he stood, the idea for the bracelet was born. It is truly a one-of-a-kind, and I am so unbelievably honored and blessed to have it.
See below for the article, and above for a picture of the piece . . . both titled "A New Appreciation of Life."
A New Appreciation of Life By Garrison Keillor
I was in Santa Monica for a day last week, sampling baked figs at the farmers’ market on the Third Street promenade, a sweet sunny day that makes an old Midwesterner like me a little nervous. We fear seduction. Some days in California are so tender and delicious that a person could abandon all commitments and wind up living in blissful stupor in some cult devoted to the worship of the sky.
I have work to do. I haul it around in a black case the size of an anvil and when an hour or two opens up, in an airport or hotel, I dig in. I don’t lie on beaches, looking up at the sky. It’s blue in Santa Monica. You don’t have to look at it for long to figure that out.
My hotel was on the beach, so I headed back that way, crossing the Pacific Coast Highway on a pedestrian bridge. And there, 50 yards south of me, police cars and flashing blue lights. The northbound lanes of the PCH had been closed. A car sat in the middle lane, its rear end smashed in brutally. And south of it, a yellow tarp spread on the pavement. A body lay beneath it.
Then eight cops and emergency medical technicians lined up on either side of it, like pallbearers, and then they spread out a long white sheet which they held as a screen while the yellow tarp was pulled away and a police photographer took pictures with an enormous camera. A man in a dark suit bent over the body, studying it closely. The eight men stood quietly, hardly moving, and they looked straight at each other. They did not look at the body. It was a still-life scene, except for the flashing lights and the southbound traffic passing: eight men standing at attention, guarding a body, and two men moving with great delicacy around it, gathering evidence.
A blue sky over Santa Monica and on the beach, people lay on towels, sunning themselves. A few swimmers in the surf. Rollerbladers out on the sidewalk and joggers, grunting about the presidential campaign. A day in which you’ve witnessed death takes on an aura of fragile loveliness. You breathe the salt air and you savor this on behalf of the dead and note the pencil-line delicacy of the long cane poles of the Japanese fishermen on the pier, the two triangles of white sail taut with wind on the distant boat, the skinny boy in blue trunks swinging high on the flying rings on the beach and soaring to the next set of rings. You see the portly man wade into the water and shudder as the water touches his testes and you feel it, the shudder of mortality. And visions of the fallen one stay with you.
A few hours later, online, news that the victim was a woman, 44, whose car had been rear-ended, that she had gotten out of her car and stood waiting for help to arrive and was struck and killed by a third vehicle. Her name was Alma and she was from Los Angeles.
The day goes on and though you don’t keep in mind the sight of the pallbearers around the body, the death attends you wherever you go. You imagine the woman’s plan for her day, maybe lunch in Malibu and a meeting at her kids’ school and supper and a movie afterward, a simple day in sunny L.A., and you abandon your own plan to work and instead you walk around looking at the shining world on behalf of Alma who died on the highway.
You buy a mango/papaya smoothie and a cafe mocha and in the face of death they are spectacular. You sit at a table in the brilliant sunshine, the light splashing off the stone facades and aluminum moldings. She was standing by her car waiting for help to arrive when she was struck by another vehicle and killed, and 30 minutes later men were standing at attention around her. It would be intolerable not to know the name of the woman. Attention must be paid. She trails alongside you as you walk into a bookstore full of art books and you pick up one with pictures of California beach houses, all whites and yellows and pale blues, sun-drenched rooms, bowls of flowers, cotton curtains, and the sea beyond. A beautiful world, Alma, and every day is a gift. I’m sorry you had to leave early.
Tribune Media Services Garrison Keillor is a radio host and author.
So, yesterday was Thanksgiving, for those of you who don't live on planet Earth. It was my third Thanksgiving in L.A., and I had planned on spending it the way I've spent the last two . . . with me, myself and I.
That was the plan.
I was totally OK with it, too. Don't get me wrong. I wasn't planning on holding some sort of pity-party for myself, complete with party hats and favors. No. I was actually looking forward to a day of quiet. No one needing me. No one calling me. No one emailing me asking me for something. It was going to be grand.
It started out that way. I slept in . . . OK wait, side note. When I say that I'm going to "sleep in" it doesn't mean that I sleep until 9:00 or 10:00, people. Sleeping in for me means 11:30, at the very earliest. So if you know that I'm going to be spending the morning, "sleeping in" please do not call or text - or if you do, don't expect me to respond.
OK. Moving on. I slept in, went for a fabulous run at the Balboa trail, did some cleaning, a little laundry. And then I sat. And suddenly I didn't want to spend the day all by my lonesome.
So I called up good friend, Sandra. She had invited me to come over for a visit. No big party, just her and Jordan, sans Beka. "Sure!" she said, "Come on over." So I did. We shared white wine spritzers (yes, Sandra is bringing them back), a little gossip, and some laughs.
Next up? The party house. I arrived a little after 8:00, and when I got there the group was playing Catch Phrase. I joined in, and although I didn't do much to help team #2, it was a grand time. Then on to Apples-to-Apples, another game that I had never played before. Again, a grand time was had by all, or most anyway. Knowing that I had to work in the morning, I said my goodbyes rather early, and headed home to bed.
The point I'm trying to make here is that of all the things that I could be thankful for, I am the most thankful for yesterday. For friends, who have become my family. For being able to feel just a bit more comfortable in my skin, my L.A. skin. For it being OK to reach out and not feel like I'm asking too much, or needing too much. Some of you who will read this know what that means, and how much that means to me.
I cannot convey enough, so I'll just say, "Thanks."
