For Love

In one month, I'm doing something crazy; I'm running a 200-mile relay race.  The Ragnar Del Sol team recently sent a post out to all runners asking, "Why I Run?"  Those with the best stories may just get featured in the race magazine.  And while being featured in a magazine doesn't actually make the list of why I run, self reflection and making meaning of experiences is right up my alley, so I thought I'd give it a shot.  So, here is why I run:

January 1, 2012.  I had never run more than a mile at one time in my more than three decades of life.  Most of those runs were in high school when my gym teacher was clocking me for the Presidential Fitness tests, and I was consistently one of the last to finish.  Health, wellness, weight.  These were all things I struggled with from childhood to adulthood.  In March 2010, I decided to start a journey into a healthier life.  Slowly, but surely, I began to lose weight, and with every pound I lost, I also lost a little bit of the fear I had of exercise.  I would find myself crossing the threshold into the rec center at work and climbing onto the bike or the elliptical with a little more confidence each time.  I'd get on the treadmill and start to walk, sometimes even cranking up the pace to run for a minute or two at at time.  I specifically remember the day that I ran for 15 minutes straight.  I couldn't believe I had it in me.

So on January 1, 2012, a year and a half into my wellness journey and 100 pounds lighter, a friend asked me if I wanted to join her team for a local 5k for charity.  I laughed and told her that I don't run, and she assured me that there was no pressure to finish it quickly.  She said I could even walk it.  Not wanting to miss out on a fun morning with my friends for a good cause, I signed up knowing that I could easily walk 3.1 miles.  I began doing more runs at the gym to prepare, all the while knowing that I would walk most of this race.  And on the morning of the 5k, I started to run.  And around two and a half miles, I felt tired, so started to walk.  I took three steps when I thought to myself, "Briana, you're almost there.  You can do this."  And I did.  I picked up the pace and started running again.  And I haven't stopped.  That was January 28, 2012.

On January 5, 2013, I ran my second half marathon.  This is the first race of a year that I've dedicated to running, with the main event being Ragnar Del Sol, which takes place four days before my birthday.  I've gathered my closest friends and family members to congregate in Arizona for a weekend of running to celebrate how far I've made it and how much further I can go.  Because when I run, I feel free.  I feel free of the weight that held me back for so long.  I feel free of the insecurities that stopped me from taking on many adventures.  And I feel free of boring workouts where I am staring at the same TV or spot on the wall too long.  I run because it heightens my love for the people in my life who are sharing this experience with me.  It heightens my love for being outside as I get to watch the world as I pass through it rather than it passing me by.  It heightens my love for myself because with every run, every step, I am reminded of what I can accomplish if I just keep putting one foot in front of the other.  And anything that can fill your heart with that much love is worth running toward.

Too Soon

The calendar tells me it's been one year. And since this was a leap year, that makes it 366 days. 527,040 minutes.  31,622,400 seconds.  The larger that number gets, the further away it may seem from her last day, but for me, no matter how big that number is, it's too soon.

Too soon.  My mom was barely 60 years old on the day she passed away.  Just a few weeks earlier, we had gathered around the dining room table, a place where we had celebrated so many birthdays before, and we celebrated her.  We sang.  We smiled.  We laughed.  And each one of us, despite what we said aloud, wondered if this would be our last time to celebrate with her.  Things had changed so quickly.  Wasn't it possible they could change back just as fast?  Wasn't there some doctor, some treatment that could bring our lives back to normal?  It was too soon for this to be her last birthday.  She had so much life left to live.

Too soon.  Once we accepted that our time left with her was truly limited, it was terrifying how quickly it went by.  Every day, hospice told us to expect it at any moment.  So we didn't take any moment for granted.  We sat by her side.  We told stories.  We sorted through memories.  We each took turns having some alone time with her and sleeping by her side.  We never left her.  The nurses told us she would go when she was ready.  So we waited for her to be ready, something we knew the rest of us would never truly be.

Too soon.  It was before midnight when I fell asleep holding her hand, but the clock read just past 3 a.m. when suddenly I was woken up as if someone had tapped me on the shoulder.  It was a gentle awakening, but I immediately sat up and grabbed for her hand; I had let it go in my sleep.  The house was silent.  My brother was curled up next to her in bed.  Kayla and Lindsay were both asleep on the couch.  My dad and uncle were asleep in the living room.  It was just me and her.  Her breathing was slow, and I knew it would only be minutes.  I didn't dare leave her side because I didn't want her to be alone.  I told her I loved her.  I told her we'd be okay.  And after just a minute or two more, she took her last breath.  I sat holding her hand, watching that last breath and silently crying because it was just too soon.

Too soon.  So much of the past year has been such a blur.  The weeks that followed that last breath were full of details that I never dreamed I would deal with so soon.  My brother and I choosing funeral arrangements.  My dad and I learning about survivor benefits.  My grandmother and I transferring power of attorney.  So many details.  Health insurance.  Wills.  Life insurance.  Social security.  All I could do was breathe.  And think of her last breath.  It came too soon.

Too soon.  When I went back to work, it felt too soon.  When the holidays came, it felt too soon.  When my birthday passed without hearing her voice, it was too soon.  Every time the phone rang because someone wanted to check in or share a memory they had, it was too soon.  None of it felt real.  Would it ever feel real? 

So, as today grew closer, the realization that it would officially be one year washed over me.  It should have been no surprise that it felt too soon.  But my anxiety about this day has only grown, and I've been trying to figure out why.  And the more I thought about it, the more I realized it's because it IS too soon.  I'm not ready for what a year means.  I'm not ready to be in less pain.  I'm not ready to be in less of a fog.  I'm not ready because the pain hasn't lessened and the reality hasn't set in.  I'm not ready to give away the remainder of her belongings.  And I'm afraid that once a year passes, the world will expect me to be in a better place.  And the truth is, I just don't know that I am.  Because I still miss her with every breath.  I miss her through every second.  And it all feels too soon.

But here it is.  One year.  How did that happen?  So much has happened.  So many times I've reached for the phone to call her just to remember all over again that she is gone.  So many times I've caught myself thinking, "I can't wait to tell mom," just to remind myself that I can't.  So many times I've needed her advice and sat in silence waiting to find it within myself.  Each of these moments leaves me thinking of all the moments she won't be here for in the future, and I crumble on the inside.  It's just too soon.  And while I know that she is still here with me - that she is with all of us - it just isn't the same.  It will never be the same.

And while it's not the same, I know I need to continue forward and honor her life.  I dare say that no one knew my mom better than me, so I know how she would want us all to shape our daily lives.  She would want us to live each moment to its fullest.  She would want us to embrace love and continue to enjoy each day.  She would want us to believe that she is still with us, even though she is not here.

So, today, I hope you will all join me in a toast to my mom:

"I wish you could have been there for the sun & the rain & the long, hard hills.  For the sound of a thousand conversations scattered along the road.  For the people laughing & crying &; remembering at the end.  But, mainly, I wish you could have been there."

Mom - I miss you with every breath, I love you with every heart beat, and I wish you could be here for every second.  And though you were taken too soon, thank you for leaving this world and our lives a better place.  Thank you for being the voice in my head that guides me through each day.  Today and every day, I celebrate you and the legacy of love you've left behind.

When it Rains, it Pours...

...And sometimes the rain is just what the garden needed.

After taking a risk and sharing my reflection yesterday, I have received an overwhelming amount of messages with some of the most kind and humbling words I could ever imagine.

Some of the comments I received:

"I am so proud of you.  Proud of you for setting a goal and reaching it and proud of you for being vulnerable enough to share with all of us."

"Every word of that was amazing!!!"

"Even though I was only fortunate enough to know you for a short period of time, I sincerely hope you know that you really inspired me.  A lot."

"What an incredibly brave woman you are.  Thank you for being so generous with yourself.  I have certainly been enriched by reading your story."

"You are a great example of the pursuit of true health, something we should all be striving for."

"But please know that by sharing, you probably not only got a (figurative) weight off of your chest, but are showing other people that it's okay to not be perfect, and that there is nothing wrong with struggling."

And while I am so moved by these words of support from all of the wonderful people in my life, I am more amazed by what they have chosen to share back:

"'How does Briana know so much about me??!' I can't tell you how much your story aligns with my own.  Afraid?  Hell yes, I'm afraid."

"And just so you are aware and know us 'skinny kids' have all the same emotions and fears from being skinny!!"

"I know how hard it is because my constant companion, fear, is always by my side."

"I think lots of people, myself included, can relate whether it's weight or a different hang up."

"I myself finally accepted going to therapy about a year ago instead of fighting it which I did for years."

"I don't think there was really a particular day when I decided that I was 'too fat,' but sooner rather than later having a few extra pounds turned into not really being worth anything as a person."

As I spent a great deal of yesterday reading these amazing messages, I couldn't help but think about how much we are all experiencing similar things as we sit in silence juggling the world around us.  And I began to wonder how something as seemingly small as 1900 words of honesty could make a difference in the world around me.  So, again, I felt it was time to share some of the love and returned honesty I was feeling, because now was not the time to be selfish.  Now is the time to continue the momentum.  So today I leave you all with the following encouragement:

Take a moment.  Reach out to someone.  You don't have to open yourself up to the world, but open yourself up to someone.  Be honest with what you are feeling.  Be vulnerable.  See what you get in return.  You might be amazed that it is just the push you needed to make it over the next hurdle.  And maybe the next time it rains, you'll ditch the umbrella and dance in the puddles instead.

100 Pounds Later

I've been staring at this screen...staring at this keyboard...for days...even for weeks, trying to find the words to express what I'm feeling right now.  There is so much happening in my life currently, so much that I want to talk about and process, but I know that I can't let this moment go by without giving it the reflection and the credit that it deserves.  Two and a half years ago, I started on a journey to find a better and healthier version of myself, and today, I can sit here and state that I am officially 100 pounds lighter than the day that I started.  Actually, in fairness, I am a 102 pounds lighter...but who's counting!  It's such a big achievement, but as I said, I'm having a hard time finding the words to express what this means to me.  Usually, I'm able to find a creative and articulate way of stringing together words to tell the story of my emotions, but instead, today, I am going to let myself babble my way through this.

Weight.  For as long as I can remember, weight has been a major issue in my life.  As a child, I spent a lot of time thinking about the concept of "baby fat" and wondering when mine would melt away.  As a teenager, I shrunk behind each extra pound, and felt more and more "broken" because somehow I couldn't overcome being heavy.  Food provided comfort for every mean thing another kid said to me or every time I felt sad.  Both of those things happened frequently, so food became my only comfort.  It was safe.  It never made me feel badly about who I was.  And it helped fill the void of being lonely and having no self-esteem.  As a young adult, in college and in my early twenties, these trends continued.  But they were compounded with life stresses, like choosing graduate school, writing papers, the loss of friends, paying bills.  And through all of this, I was drowning in a sea of no self confidence or self worth.  Not to mention, for a person who was fairly successful academically, I was completely uneducated about my own body and wellness, and how so many factors are connected.  So all of this, combined with a few health issues that exasperated the issue resulted in me being a fat kid...both physically and mentally.

What does it mean to be fat physically and mentally?  Well, physically, it's quite obvious.  I was overweight.  I've been 5'4" since the sixth grade (that's 1990 for all of you out there who weren't even born then!  Yikes!)  But as my height stayed the same, my weight continued to grow.  I was carrying around way too much weight for my frame.  So, physically, I was fat.  But being fat mentally is a whole different thing.  It's a part of your identity.  I've been fat for so long, that it's difficult for me to think of myself any other way.  Even today, 102 pounds lighter & 34 years wiser, my trainer called me skinny and I cringed.  Skinny?  Me?  Not possible.  I'm a fat kid.  I'm a kid who sat in the Ralph's parking lot crying last night because of other life things, who ended up walking into the store to buy cookies.  And yes, while I bought Newman-O's instead of Oreo's (organic, whole foods), and I only ate three of them instead of a whole sleeve, I still turned to food when my emotions were saddest.  102 pounds later, I am still mentally a fat kid.  I've come a far way, but many of the things that led me to being fat still linger in my mind.  They are still a part of my identity; a part that will take a lifetime to change.

And change isn't an easy thing to come by.  I've had many people ask me over the past two and a half years, as I've slowly but surely made this change in my life, "how have you done it?"  And the simplest answer I have for them is, "It's been a lot of hard work."  Because it has.  And the work hasn't been just about eating and exercise (though that is a big part of it), but it's also been the work on the inside of me as well.  As I tell my students and staff all of the time, I am one of the  most openly private people around.  That means while I am not likely to tell you every detail of my life, I am pretty open about sharing the overview of my struggles and triumphs.  Part of that is therapy.  Therapy is a part of my life.  A permanent part.  It took me 26 years to get myself to swallow my pride and overcome the taboo from society to get myself to a counselor.  And while my journey into therapy could be a whole other reflection, I would be remiss if I didn't mention it here because it has been a big part of the work that I've done in losing the weight and getting healthy.  It has been the exercise and adjustment to my diet for the mental fat kid, not the physical the fat kid.  It has been key in helping me get to a point where I can come face-to-face with my fears, and be strong enough to sit down and share these thoughts with all of you.

Let's be clear, fear is a big part of this.  I can feel the fear all the way to the tips of my fingers as I type these words.  I keep asking myself, "Am I really going to share this?  Can I really put myself out there like this?"  And, thanks to years of therapy, I am able to ask myself, "What am I so afraid of?"  I'm terrified to admit out loud that I am a fat kid.  I've made plenty of jokes at my own expense over the years, but in typical fashion, those jokes were meant to deflect attention.  To send a message to the world, "Yea, I know I'm fat.  You don't have to make the joke; I'll do it for you."  So to actually put it out there to the universe in a serious way feels very vulnerable.  It's like taking my guard down and letting folks see the real me.  And I'm afraid of failure.  It took me two and a half years to lose this weight, but I've previously lost weight before (never this much, but at least part of the weight).  And each time, I put it back on.  So, admitting to my world that I've lost the weight makes me terrified of swallowing these words in the future if I should put the weight back on.  I'm not planning on doing that, and I do believe that this time is different for many reasons, but the fear is still there.  What if I fail?  What if I really am a permanently fat kid?  What does that say about me?

But fear be damned!  As terrified as I am, I have promised myself to make this reflection public because if I've learned anything over the years it's that if we share our stories openly and authentically then we help each other out in ways we can never imagine.  I work my butt of on a daily basis in my job, and the best feedback that I get from my staff and my students is that I have helped them just by being genuinely me.  I remember the first time a student told me that; I think I laughed.  How could I have helped them just by being me?  Me?  I'm a mess!  But the truth is, it's owning my mess and owning my journey through life, and this realness apparently has more impact on the people with whom I work than any program or learning outcome I could ever develop.  Because of this, I look fear in the face, and I know sharing my path is important.  Maybe it's the reason I'm here.

I also think it's important to share my story because there are a lot of people who have helped me along the way.  And I truly believe in giving thanks to those in your life.  Over the past few weeks, as each pound has melted away, I knew this day was coming.  And as I started to think about all of the people who have helped me, I became overwhelmed and humbled.  There are some people, like my family, who I could detail how each day they were by my side helping me along.  And there are some people who would be shocked if I reached out to them to thank them because they might not even recognize that they helped me along the way.  Maybe it was a smile of encouragement or a compliment on a bad day.  But whatever it was, however small that gesture might have seemed to them, to me it has made a world of difference.  And while I could probably not capture every person and every gesture, the ones that come to mind are important to me to recognize.  So, to each of you, big or small, thank you.  From the bottom of my heart, I am so thankful to each of you.

But I can't wrap up without directly thanking two people who every day go above and beyond to be a support in my life.  The first is my best friend.  He is more than a friend; he is my family - like a brother.  He has been there for me at my worst and at my best.  He holds my hand when I am crying and comforts me when I am sad.  He challenges me when I am pouting.  He has cared for me when I am sick and fought with me when I am mad.  Besides my actual brother, there is no one else in the world that I can have fun with and fight with with such unconditional love.  Every day, I am reminded how lucky I am that life brought him to me.  I am a handful and yet he still is by my side.  He truly has taught me what friendship is about.  The second person is my mom.  There's no one in my life who doesn't know what my mom means to me.  This is a woman who is literally my heart.  There was never one day of our life together that she didn't demonstrate to me what it means to love whole-heartedly and live life to its fullest.  And regardless of how amazing she was, as her daughter, I know there were times when I was a pain in the ass.  There was no one I fought more with or took my bad days out on more than my mom.  And there was no one I called more to share my triumphs and happiness with than my mom.  Even this morning, when I got off the scale, I reached for the phone.  There is nothing else I wanted more in the world than to hear her voice and tell her about this milestone.  To her, I will forever be thankful for so many things, and especially helping me through becoming healthy.

So, what have I learned through these 100 pounds?  If I had to sum it up, I'd say that I've learned that I'm worth it.  And that I am so thankful to have people in my life who think I'm worth it, too.

Night Swimming

As always, my mind has been spinning with thoughts these days.  I wake up in the morning with a ton of things on my mind, and this continues until I am laying in bed at night trying to wind down.  With every breath, I'm considering things that need to be done at work, the path in which my life is headed, steps I can take to be a better version of me, ways in which I can help my friends, items that need to be checked off my to do list, places that I want to visit, people that I want to see.  The thoughts are endless.  Many times a day, I begin to "write" some sort of reflection or observation to share, but before I get time to sit down and put those thoughts into a coherent sentence, I'm already bogged down by my next thought and too tired to muster up the energy to sort back through my mind to recreate the ideas that I was so excited to process.  So instead, I lay in bed wondering how another day went by without allowing myself some space to write, to talk, to get out of my head.  Which might be why I have spent so much of life externally quiet and internally loud.  I haven't quite found a time, place or person to let me take the time and just release some of what is floating around in this brain of mine.  And sometimes, I am swimming in it.

UBC: What it Meant to Me

You truly never know where your day is headed.  When I woke up this morning, I knew a few things.  I knew I had to attend a webinar that would likely be boring.  I knew I had to sit through three hours of duty protocol training with the RDs.  I knew I had a lot of work to do that was making me anxious.  Aside from that, I had no idea what would fill in the gaps to make today unique.

And when Anthony called...four times in a row...I immediately assumed something important was happening that needed my attention.  What I didn't know was that I was right and wrong at the same time.  No, AJ wasn't being rushed to the hospital.  Instead, Anthony was just excited because he was hosting the first Unique Book Club (UBC) meeting, and he wanted me to attend.  I laughed when he asked me; first because in the split second before I was scared of what was wrong, and second because I could hear Anthony's excitement through the phone.  Only Anthony could get so excited over a book club that had one unique feature: everyone reads their own book.  But his excitement is hard to resist, so though I knew I wanted to take a walk, I headed to his apartment.  And instead of a walk, I took a leap.

What I leapt into was an evening of sharing, learning and rejuvenating that I could not have foreseen.  As I sat there and listened to the stories of my co-workers and friends, it occurred to me more than once that I had stumbled into something so much more than a book club.  I stumbled into a circle of people who provided me with support, entertainment and encouragement in just a few short hours.  Imagine what could happen by meeting on a regular basis?  This was about so much more than reading; this was about living.  What a unique book club, indeed.

What's in a Vision?

Close your eyes.  Think about your life.  What do you see?  Where do you see yourself?  What are you doing?  Who is by your side?  How are you making a difference?

Since I was a little kid, I've done this a lot.  I used to lay in bed, dreaming of what my life would be like when I was an adult.  I had a vision.  And now, when I lay in bed as an adult, I think about that little kid.  She had a healthy worry about what the future held, but she also had hope.  She was excited.  She believed in what she saw when she closed her eyes.

Somewhere between then and now, that little girl grew up.  Along the way, she learned that time alone wouldn't just make those dreams come true.  But for whatever reason, despite her best efforts, even her actions couldn't make those visions come to fruition.  And now, as an adult, I wonder about that intersection between hope and reality.  When the two collide, what happens to those visions?

What am I Fighting for, Anyway?

I've spent a lot of time recently thinking about what's coming next in my life.  For a number of years now, I've been pretty sure that I wanted to pursue my next job opportunity at LMU, or the very least, in LA.  But, as of late, something has shifted.  And while personally, I am still drawn to staying in LA, professionally, it no longer feels like a fit.  And somehow, the dissonance between the two is making it much more difficult to figure out where my path is leading.

I've learned so much and gotten so much from my six years in my current position.  And while LMU has felt professionally like home, there's always been a part of me that has felt like I was chasing something.  While I think I've embraced my time at LMU, I don't know if LMU has embraced me back.  At least not fully.  I've been fortunate to have had amazing connections with my students and have definitely felt like I have made a difference in their lives.  And this is truly why I do the work.  But sadly, all work has politics, and there's something about the politics that has never embraced me.  Maybe it's because I ask questions or challenge ideas.  Maybe it's because I am not a "yes man."  But regardless the reason, I've come to realize lately that I feel like I have continuously been a child seeking affirmation, and that affirmation never seems to come.  So it's brought me to the same thought over and over again: "What am I fighting for, anyway?"  I no longer think I have a good answer to this question.

And slowly, there are many opportunities opening up in other places.  Opportunities where I might find a great deal of satisfaction professionally.  These doors are opening just as opportunities at LMU are finally opening.  As I explore all of these options, more and more, the disconnect with LMU grows.  I keep wondering whether I have the energy to keep fighting for something that would likely not fight for me in return.

But professionally is only half of the battle.  Because leaving LA would meaning leaving my personal happiness.  My family...the family I've created for myself.  My support system...those who lift me up when I fall.  My weather...that which keeps me from drowning during cold and gray days.  My sunsets...that which reminds me of the beauty of each day and the promise of tomorrow.  How do I leave all of that behind given that it's taken me six years to build it?  How do you choose between personal happiness and professional fulfillment?  How do you figure out what's worth fighting for, anyway?