Finding Your Footing

I have been finding my footing lately. The other day, I attempted to recreate a very hipster SuperCutePinterestPost; it was a resin coaster made from a wooden mold. As you can see with the wooden-resin-seashell conglomeration I have pictured, the end result did not turn out as such.

Finding my footing is just as messy as this Pinterest fail.

I had another epiphany regarding my toxic dependency on the world surrounding me; the demands of work keeping my mind busy, the approval of others keeping me disciplined, the reliance of college papers always giving me something to do.

Now I don’t have ANY of that. However, there is a silver-lining.

I am grateful this hit now instead of 3 years ago. If a world-wide shutdown during an unprecedented pandemic would’ve happened at the height of my anorexia, body-shaming and disordered eating thoughts would’ve ruled my world. In the highest gear of fight-or-flight mode, I would’ve latched on to the mirror and the scale like the slave I was. Not anymore.

I have taken off all the bandages. Three weeks ago, I became sick of being numb. I made the bold risk of removing all substances from my life; medication, weed, alcohol. All of it.

What was the result? The return of mind-numbing anxiety, memories of every single traumatic experience (why can’t brains latch on to the good experiences with just as much gusto?), and paralyzing fear of the unknown. But what also came back? My creativity. My love for running. My love for nature and all things wild. My desire to be the best version of myself. My yearn to kiss the cheek of god by grooving to the perfect beat. My hunger and fullness cues (instead of playing sick mind-games on myself). My self-discipline (still working on the self-compassion). My ability to read and pay attention to my soul.

Throughout regaining my soulful self, I have been speaking up and speaking out against the wicked world of diet culture, and anything that could enforce eating disorders. However, speaking out makes me sick and uncomfortable and squeamish and unsure of what to do next and sweaty and clammy and gross. Did I say uncomfortable? Never before would I imagine launching myself in the line of fire by criticizing how another lives their life. Because what if that supermodel doesn't like what I have to say? What if they disagree? What if they truly believe living their lives for their appearances is the most fulfilling way to live a life? What if THIS is what they think young girls will find inspirational? What if they deny the very fact that what they are doing is perpetuating a world of unhealthy habits and body shaming? Worst of all... what if they don't like ME?

Still yet, speaking out has made me feel so bold. Because what is the alternative? Remaining a perpetual child, at the will of everyone else's commands.

Regaining my soulful self has reminded me of a quote I never thought I’d be brave enough to live out loud:

“Never trade honesty for relatability.”

Because relatability connects us to each other. Gossiping about other friends behind their back, band-wagoning onto a certain political candidate’s supporters, manipulating your body into a certain sculpt or style or diet. There’s something rejuvenating and innately human about abandoning one’s inner-pull for the immediate connection with another.

However, abandoning the inner psyche has not been nourishing for me since it began. Whether it be cheating on a math assignment in first grade school because the cute boy with freckles asked me to, or gaining social acceptance from the KOOL KATS because I was on the school’s dance team (that was actually abusive), I traded my honesty to relate to those around me. Wanting to belong to something outside of oneself is natural and happens to all of us fleshy humans. However, at some point, maturation makes ignoring one’s soul impossible to do any longer. That is when we must delve into individuation.

In my untrained, unprofessional opinion, everyone makes the journey of individuation throughout their 20’s; that is, the work of figuring out who oneself is, separate from their parents, separate from the surrounding culture, separate from one’s peers. What I’ve been finding is that journey is pretty fucking lonely. Speaking out against crowds of xenophobic racists through my job at Amnesty, or unfollowing all of my old friends who have fallen into toxic habits, or calling out my own family members for saying unhelpful nonsense. For me, relinquishing the childlike desire of being accepted instead of being true to myself goes hand in hand with practicing recovery. It means taking off the false shoes I was given by society at large, and replacing them with ones that nourish my soul instead.

No one can define the woman I am, besides me.

Finding my footing and wearing shoes that actually fit me is exhausting. But these shoes support me for longevity. I’m in it for the long-haul.

I love what Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estes reminds all of us wild beings:

“The symbol of shoes can be understood as a psychological metaphor; they protect what we stand on-our feet… feet represent mobility and freedom. In that sense, to have shoes to cover the feet is to have the conviction of our beliefs and the wherewithal to act on them. Without psychic shoes, a woman is unable to negotiate inner or outer environs that require acuity, sense, caution, and toughness” [Emphasis not originally added].

Find your shoes, fellow wild creatures. No matter who we are, we are all just walking, and walking, and walking, and we will all make it to the mountaintop one day. Make it there proud.