Christmas Mourning

The best Christmas selfie of the 2013 season

I've been waiting for this moment for a long time. The moment I freaking flip out internally over what I have to face this week; tomorrow. Tonight I was leaving work, and I decided to briefly stop in the Bath & Body Works across from my office. As I was standing in line to pay, I started panicking. My breathing quickened. I got that push, that pressure, behind my eyes. I wanted to cry, but I held it together. I don't know if it was the fact that I was surrounded by upbeat, happy people who are expecting a warm and fuzzy holiday. I really don't know what drove the feeling. But it continued as I walked to my car and on my drive home.

For the first time in my life, I'm not exactly looking forward to Christmas. I'm not dreading it either, but I simply do not feel the spirit. Christmas used to be my favorite time of the year, but now I'm kind of numbed by my loss. I've tried really hard to feel it. I've decorated, I've baked cookies (actually when I baked cookies I jammed angrily to Led Zeppelin), I've listened to the appropriate music, watched the right movies. But I've realized I'm just going through the motions. Don't get me wrong, I am so excited to give to my family and be with them, but it's the loss that hurts so much. My grandfather had this amazing way of making me feel like I belonged, and now I have this fear that I will never feel that way again. Again, my family is fantastic. Especially my Mamaw, and I really hope that for the sake of us both that I can make this holiday really special. But Papaw had this indescribable way of making us feel loved. It had nothing to do with presents and all to do with presence.

I've always been that girl- the one who loves Christmas for the warm and fuzzies. Sitting by a Christmas tree at night, laughing with family is essential. The atmosphere has always been what I rave about. I love the crispness of the air. I love the lights, and I love the sounds; however, this Christmas, the music has been like nails on a chalkboard. I can handle Paul McCartney and Chuck Barry, but anything else makes me want to impale myself with a candy cane.

I'm so over the food. Food has been an awful struggle in the wake of Papaw's death. I have a hard time being hungry, and I rarely crave anything. In fact, I'm so over the food, that I'd like to take a pumpkin pie into the back alley and beat the hell out of it with a baseball bat. Yeah I said it.

I have every right to feel this way. I've always said that I don't care what I have, as long as those I love are with me on that day. But they won't be. And it sucks. So it's perfectly okay that I feel violent toward pumpkin pie.

Grief is a big b*tch. And she doesn't stop for the holidays.

Annual Unconventional List of Thanks

I’m thankful that I’ve learned to respect myself by cutting out toxic people who are bad for my mental health. 

I’m thankful for all the setbacks, the less-than-ideal jobs, the rejections. Negative news and situations are always hard to fathom, but I trust that I am being directed to the right place.

I’m thankful for the rude, entitled people that I sometimes have to interact with for teaching me how NOT to act or treat others.

I am thankful for my self-therapy. Sometimes my eating disorder sneaks back up on me as a coping mechanism in times of distress or pain. I use it to gain control over my life. THEN I realize that is not coping- it is self-harm. And I go back to my real activities that make me happy: playing an instrument to soothe myself, or taking a run to clear my mind. I’m thankful that I can acknowledge what is healthy for me.

I’m thankful for my friends and family who do not sugar coat anything. I love when people can be honest and realistic, but not hurtful.

2014 has been the year of the friend. I think that’s because my friends and I have finally reached the age that sometimes family members don’t understand our problems because of generational differences. I love that I have found so many friends from differing backgrounds that do not judge; they only support.

I’m thankful for the hardships in recent years that have revealed my true friends. Thanks to that, I no longer need to waste time or energy on people who do not care.

I had so many friends, near and far, cheer for me during the marathon. They celebrated with me in spirit. I had friends, near and far, cry with me when Papaw died. Some of these friends didn’t even know him. But because they love me, they felt my pain too. Those are the best friends.

I’m thankful for the friends that I consider my brothers and sisters.

I am thankful for my siblings. In my life, I’ve questioned a lot of things regarding my family life. But I’ve never questioned how much I love my siblings. I know they look up to me, so I think twice when making decisions. They make me a better person.

I’m thankful for my cousins that could easily be my siblings. Cousins are great. Mine are at least. I’m so grateful for their loyalty.

I’m thankful for my high school teachers that I still continue to teach me and help me grow. I still have relationships with my music, theater and English teachers. I’ve actually shared with them some of my most private pieces of writing that I’ve never shared with anyone else. That is how much I trust and respect them.

I’m thankful for the Knowlton School of Architecture and The Ohio State University. These institutions have given me some of my best and weirdest friends a girl could ever ask for.

I’m thankful for my Uncle Ray (“Gunkle”) who has had to break a lot of bad news to me in my life. He was the one to tell me that Ethan needed heart surgery, that Papaw had cancer; that Papaw had days left to live; that Papaw had died. Every time he had to deliver this heart wrenching news, he cried with me. I really appreciate that. He never pretended that it didn’t hurt or that it was going to be okay. He acknowledged with his tears that he is hurting too and that we can hurt together. 

I’m thankful for my Mamaw. When I come home, she makes me food, does my laundry, buys me random necessities. I don’t need her to do that. But that’s exactly what Mamaws are for, and she does it perfectly. She also fills the roles that I do need. She listens to me cry, whether that is over the phone or at the dining room table. (And that can’t be a pleasant job. I am such an ugly crier.) Mamaw is definitely one of my best friends.

Finally, I’m thankful for the time I had with Papaw. Twenty-three years was not enough for me, but I’m grateful for what I did get. He taught me how to face life with laughter. Thanks to him, from now on, whatever I do, I will do it with all my heart. He would not want me to wallow in self-pity. He never did that, even when he was dying. Even though my heart aches every day, I am taking the steps I need to live a happier and healthier life. I am thankful for his motivation.

A Small Speech for a Big Heart

"How lucky am I to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard?" This is a quote stated by the beloved childhood character, Winnie the Pooh. I read this quote months ago, before any of this was on our minds. But I think that's exactly why I stumbled across it. God has been preparing my heart for this a long time.

I read it one night while browsing literary quotes.

"How lucky am I to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard?"

I immediately thought of Papaw. How lucky am I? How lucky are all of us in to have known, loved, and been loved by such a wholesome and giving heart?

A few years ago at Ohio State, there was a special dinner for grandparents, and of course mine came. I surprised Mamaw and Papaw by giving a speech about them during the dinner. I asked a friend to film the speech just so I could have it, and for a moment she moved the camera on to my grandparents, watching me speak. That was the first time I had seen my grandpa cry outside of a funeral home.

I discussed how honored I am to belong to them. How lucky am I? These two really put the grand in grandparents. Their love for each other and their family is larger than life. I have learned so much from their love, kindness, dedication, and willingness to give. I truly hope that I can spread as much charity and positively impact as many lives as my Papaw has.

In the past few days I have been reminded of his charity many times. I have been really touched by people telling me stories about him. So many people have gone out of their way to tell our family how much Ray meant to them. At the funeral home last night I spoke to a woman that he hired at Logan several years ago. Through my sadness I thought, "Wow. This is really cool to hear these stories. How lucky am I?"

I was also reading the condolences on the funeral home website, and one that stood out to me the most was from a co-worker. She said, "Ray was a very kind man. He taught me a lot, but one thing that stands out to me most about Ray is that he never thought less of anyone when they did not know something, he just helped us learn." I will take that with me for the rest of my life and try to be a patient leader like my grandfather.

Something I realized a long time ago is that I will never be able to pay Papaw back for what he has done for me and this world. The best I can do is pay it forward-- I aspire to live and love as he did; as a friend, parent, coach, mentor, volunteer and servant.

I also learned from Papaw that even though you may be suffering through the hardest and darkest time of your life, that you can still find joy and peace in daily life. I will really miss him in that aspect. I will miss the simple things... Like going to Sam's Club and eating all their samples. I will miss his company when I make outlandish statements to strangers, just to see their reaction. I will miss his reactions to my outlandish statements to him. Once I asked him, "What would you do if I dropped out of architecture school to become a comedian?" He said, "Well... I'd laugh at you."

On a side note- this is kind of unrelated, but a fun story I love to remember: When I was a high school freshman, I had a crush on two brothers that were seniors. Papaw knew this. Once at a football game, one of the boys was walking in front of us, and Papaw turned around and grinned at me. In my soul I was like, "No Papaw Please, no. Just no." And then he did it. Papaw tapped on the boy's shoulder, and he turned around. Papaw said, "Excuse me. My granddaughter thinks you're hot." Although inside I was mortified, I would not give Papaw the satisfaction of embarrassing me, so I looked at the boy right in the eye and said, "Yes. I do."

Anyway, getting back on track here- Among other comments people have made to me, a popular one has been, "He was one of a kind." Speaking of boys, the other day Mamaw told me that I need to "find someone like Papaw." That's a nice thought, but I think I have better chances of finding Bigfoot.

But the comment that stands out the most to me is, "He put up one heck of a fight." That's the thing. He fought so hard. But the catch is that he didn't lose. Sometimes you work so hard for something that God gives you what you deserve. Papaw deserved a beautiful life, one more beautiful and perfect that what we could have given him on this earth. And that is what God gave him.

What My Tattoos Meant to My Grandpa

For many years I knew I wanted a tattoo. A lot of people do. A lot of people want one just to have one. Most people talk about it, but never go through with it. I knew in my heart, when the time was right, that I would do it. I even discussed it with my grandparents. Not the tattoo I ended up getting (lol), but other tattoo ideas. I knew they were disturbed, but they also trust me with my decisions about my life and my body.

In the summer, my family got the devastating news that Papaw's cancer was likely back. I really struggled to cope with this being so far away from my family. Of course, their love will always be in my heart, but I wanted a physical reminder of their love that I could see on a daily basis. What a better reminder than permanent ink? ;)

On one of my drives south, the moment happened. It was a beautiful, sunny summer day. The windows of my car were down and I was listening to The Beatles. And the song, "In My Life" came on. I love that song with all my heart. I played and sang it at a Mother's Day event once (I rarely publicly play and sing simultaneously, so that is me proving how important the song is).

Suddenly, by the grace of the creativity gods, I had an idea! What if I got my grandparents to write out the lyrics of "In My Life" for a tattoo? That is just what I did that weekend. I took Papaw the piece of paper first. Without telling them what it was to be used for, I asked, "Papaw, will you write, 'In my life'?" He was a bit confused, but complied. He even asked me, "What am I doing this for?" I giggled and said, "You'll see." His first go was a little messy, so I asked him, "Could you maybe write that a little more neatly?" His second attempt looked like it was written by Walt Disney, so I used the original. <3 p="">
I took the paper to Mamaw next and asked her to write, "I love you more."

It took me a few weeks to figure out the placement. When I had that figured out, I picked an artist that I liked and made the magic happen. I originally was going to wait until I got home to show them, but I'm really bad at hiding anything so I called them right away and told them. This was the manner in which I broke the news to Mamaw: "Hi Mamaw. Do you know how much I love you?" "Aww I love you too." "No, you don't understand. I love you so much that I got your handwriting tattooed on my body." "What?"

Heehee. The rest of the conversation with Mamaw was pretty normal. She wasn't too upset or disturbed and neither was Papaw. They were both mostly concerned that I had hurt myself or that I was going to get a disease.

The moment of reveal to Papaw, though, was one of the most touching moments I've ever experienced. Two weeks later, I was able to visit home, and I made the drive right after work. I was wearing long sleeves, so when I got there I had to change. (I had to add some drama, right?) I approached Papaw, who was in his chair (a place he spent a lot of time while sick), and asked, "Are you ready?" I leaned over him, showing him what I had done. He read it slowly, "In my life... I love you more." I watched his face as he read my arms. Then he looked at me. I really do not know how to put into words the expression on his face. It was just full of love. I could tell that he was extremely honored that I went to those lengths, not only to prove my life for them, but so that I could have a piece of them forever. I will never, ever forget the look on his face.

A few minutes later when I had moved on to other things (like convincing Mamaw that I'm not diseased), he approached me and gave me a hug that seemed to last a lifetime. He also told me he loved me. He was a loving man, but he never just "did" things that emotional. I could tell that he was still thinking about my tattoos and the meaning behind them.

Ray Thomas Redman

Ray Thomas Redman

07.31.2948-11.07.2014

Ray Thomas Redman, 66, of Mason, WV, went to be with the Lord on Friday, November 7, after a courageous two-year battle with pancreatic cancer. Ray was born on July 31, 1948 in Mason, WV, to his loving parents, the late Tom and Eulah Johnson Redman. He is survived by his wife of 46 wonderful years, Joyce Long Redman, son daughter-in-law Ray and Mandy Redman, daughter and son-in-law Lori and Wally Hatfield, grandchildren, Jamie Bailey, Mackenzee Redman, Nathan Redman, Allison Hatfield, and Ethan Redman, a special great-grand cat, Maggie, brother-in-law and sister-in-law Jan and Susie Long, and several aunts, uncles, cousins, nephews, and special friends. He is preceded in death, beside his parents, by grandson Ryler Redman, father-in-law and mother-in-law Lewis and Dorothy Long, and a special cousin Linn Ward. Ray had a successful career and was employed by Logan Corporation. He was an avid golfer and a member of the Mason United Methodist Church. As a follower of Jesus, Ray loved serving his community. He enjoyed supporting his grandchildren in their athletic and musical activities. Ray was deeply loved by his family, widely respected throughout the community and will be greatly missed.
Visitation will be Tuesday, November 11th, from 6-8pm, at the Foglesong-Roush Funeral Home in Mason. The funeral will be Wednesday at 11am at the Mason United Methodist Church.

26.2

I fought hard yesterday. My body is reminding me of that in my every movement today. I could feel it in my sleep when I tried to shift positions. I hesitated at getting out of bed and standing up, knowing it would be a struggle. I hobbled to, in and out of my car and across the parking lot, into the building in which I work… all with a goofy, satisfied grin on my face. I am so, so happy to have this pain. I am a grateful victim of the Champion Shuffle. That’s what I call it at least. As you know, I got the shuffle by running the 26.2 mile beast. This is the story of what it took to conquer it.

The first half felt so strong. I maintained a consistent pace and fed off the crowd support. I purposely did not listen to music the entire first half so that I could enjoy the supportive spectators. There were some touching moments and some funny moments during the first half. One of the first powerful moments I experienced occurred early around mile 4. One of the wheelchair racers was struggling to make it up a hill, and every single runner who passed him cheered for him, including myself. It was instinctual. I have no idea what I yelled, but I do remember something encouraging spilling out of my mouth at a volume I could not control. It brings me to tears to think about. Not because I felt sorry for him—I can barely run up a hill, let alone wheel myself up one—but because I was so humbled to be among such supportive people. We were all in it together, and we were all cheering for each other, regardless of ability.

The second moment that jarred me was inspired by a character named Bryer. I had seen runners with shirts that said, “Bryer’s Song.” I gathered that it was a team name, likely inspired by a person, quite possibly a child, who had passed away. Around mile 6, I heard a woman shout, “Bryer was strong! Be strong like Bryer!” Although at the time I wasn’t certain who the angel named Bryer was, I could hear determination in the voice of the encouraging woman. I researched before writing this post, and sadly my guess was accurate.  Bryer was a former patient champion* who moved on to the angel mile this year. <3 p="">

There were also moments of sheer goofiness. As I began to pick up the pace in mile 11, I passed a man in a pink bunny suit. He was running a half (or maybe even full) marathon in a bunny suit, so I’m assuming he was doing this for a higher reason. I did my best not to laugh at him. In my defense, it was just a pretty ridiculous sight. I also saw a couple holding a sign referring to the Beyonce song, “Flawless.” I threw my arms in the air and shouted the word at them as if I had just learned to read. But they loved it and cheered for me in return. Some of the signs that made me laugh the most were, “Run like Ebola is chasing you,” “Run like her dad walked in,” (that one took me a second), and “PENIS.” I only thought that was hilarious because the man holding it was extremely creepy, which just made the whole scene. One of my favorite characters on the course was a person in a monkey suit and mask with a sign that said, “You are all bananas. I love bananas.” He/she was ringing a bell and, not even kidding, making monkey noises at the runners. I laughed so hard at that one, it hurt. I had a few great friends along the course that were holding signs for me. I will forever be grateful for that support. Thank you, Elise, Matt, Renee, Jack, and Nathan.

I knew I was approaching the halfway mark, and I still felt strong. I also knew I would be seeing my aunt and two cousins soon, so I was getting quite eager and probably running a little too fast. Shortly before I saw my family, I saw a couple MIT coaches. MIT is my training group, Marathoners in Training, and I have acquired a second family simply by joining this group of people. The head coach had a camera in hand, as always, so I smiled as I flew by. I was easily identifiable because I was wearing the official MIT shirt, so throughout the entire course, I had cheerleaders. (A HUGE perk I was not expecting!)

When I saw my family, I was flooded with pure joy. It’s always special to see your family on the course, no matter how many times you’ve raced. I sprinted over to Ethan, my three-year-old cousin (I often call him my nephew) who lurched toward me. I thought he was going to chase me. I’m actually kind of sad that he didn’t. His Mom would have had a heck of a time catching him in a marathon. I laugh just thinking of the possibility. Anyway, I grabbed his tiny face and kissed his little cheek. He was wearing his signature, ornery grin, and I could tell that he was just as happy to see me as I was to see him. I could also see the pride and happiness in my aunt’s face, and, well, I can easily make myself cry thinking about that—I love you, Mandy! Mackenzee was there cheering as well, and she also made her support clear on social media. She coined one of the best hashtags I’ve ever seen if I do say so myself. That would be #badassbailey   Heehee.

My grandparents were unable to make it due to my Papaw’s current health conditions, but throughout the race I reminded myself whose blood runs through my veins. I also looked down at my tattooed arms if I needed any inspiration. I especially thought of my grandparents in the “ungodly miles,” miles 18-on. When I was tired or wanted to give up, lie down, cry, lose my freaking mind, all of the above, I thought of my grandparents and how strong they are. <3 p="">

Speaking of the ungodly miles, when I hit mile 22, the finish seemed so close, yet so far. At mile 23 I realized, “Wow. I’m doing this. I’m actually going to finish this thing.” I also thought of you, Adrian Bolin! You’re a fighter! When I hit mile 24, I realized I was almost done prayed for the next mile marker to come quickly.

By the time I got to mile 25, I felt like I was flying. I wanted to finish as quickly as possible. There was a small group of MIT cheerers, and about half a mile from the finish they saw me and shouted, “GO MIT, this is your last big push!” I thought the finish line was around the corner, so I really picked up the pace. It was not. Devastated, I continued the fast pace and turned another corner. Yet again, I could not see the finish line. At that moment, I distinctly remember thinking to myself, “Where the **** is the finish line?!” Finally, a last turn and there it was. It was such a glorious moment, and I was trying to take in the last few seconds of my 4:13:09 journey. The end of the Rolling Stones, “You Can’t Always Get What You Want,” was playing, and if you’re familiar with it, there is a really uplifting piano riff with a choir of what sounds like angels singing on top of that, “You get what you need.”  It was almost movie-like. I could see the crowd, and although I could faintly hear some of the people reading my bib and yelling out my name, I was in my own world of euphoric achievement.

I threw my arms into the air as I crossed the finish and then it finally sank in. I had done it. That was the moment I had been dreaming of since I could remember. I was already breathing hard from pushing that last half mile, and then I started choking up. With that combination, there was a terrifying thirty seconds that I could barely breathe. I wiped my tears from my salty face as a volunteer placed a medal around my neck. A girl who could see that I was struggling a little bit- bless her heart- read my bib and said in the most genuine voice, “Congratulations, Jamie. Good job.”

Someone wrapped me in a space blanket. Someone snapped my picture. I tried to eat a bagel, but everything was a chore at that point. That includes walking. It was so painful. I found my family, and I could tell they were so happy for me. I still felt drugged, so I had a difficult time expressing how thrilled I was by the finish and the presence of my family and friends that I consider family. This whole marathon business has made me realize how truly blessed, lucky, and loved I am. By the end of it I felt like a zombie that crawled out of hell, but you all made me feel like a rockstar. Thank you for believing in me.

It has been four months of chaos, uncertainty, dedication, planning, and ultimately triumph. And I cannot wait to do it again.

*The Nationwide Children’s Hospital Marathon hosts a “Patient Champion” at each mile marker so that the runners can be inspired at every mile. The Marathon also hosts an “Angel Mile,” remembering and celebrating the lives that are lost too soon. 

Abuse Is Not Love

I have personally not been in a violent relationship, but for a large portion of my life, I was a first-hand witness to a very unhealthy, abusive relationship. That is the reason I have become so dedicated to spreading awareness about this type of violence. In the winter, I wrote my first feature-length screenplay (hopefully it will make it to a theatre near you and truly educate those who need it most!), and it featured a character who had been deeply affected by domestic violence. During my writing process, I consulted some amazing women who told me about their experiences with their abusive (and ex!) partners. I already knew the warning signs, but their input educated me on a whole new level.

With all that being said, this is an odd thing for me to include in my writing, but I'm going to do so anyway. If you are reading this because you are trying to figure out what relationship scarred me or if you are trying to figure out who I interviewed to write my script, then you can stop now and kindly go back to middle school where you belong with your maturity level. If you are here to support the fight against domestic violence, carry on! I love people like you!

The United States Department of Justice defines domestic violence as "a pattern of abusive behavior in any relationship that is used by one partner to gain or maintain power and control over another intimate partner.  Domestic violence can be physical, sexual, emotional, economic, or psychological actions or threats of actions that influence another person. This includes any behaviors that intimidate, manipulate, humiliate, isolate, frighten, terrorize, coerce, threaten, blame, hurt, injure, or wound someone."

What most people, including victims, don't know is that one form of domestic violence can easily snowball into any or all of the forms listed above. What may start as a boyfriend who tells you to lose weight or occasionally calls you nasty names may turn into a husband who completely isolates you from your family and tricks you into being financially dependent. This is why knowing the warning signs is SO IMPORTANT. I will list them below!

It starts with obsession and intensity. The abuser will become fixated on you and insist on moving in together or getting serious or married very early in the relationship. Constant texts, phone calls, emails and Facebook messages are also a warning sign. There is a difference between gestures of love and straight-up obsession.

The abuser will easily become jealous of you and exhibit this jealously with irrational behavior or accusations. An abuser will become easily angered when their victim experiences positive changes such as a job promotion or something that may give the victim independence. (Whereas a normal, loving partner would be dang happy for you!) The abuser will also behave irrationally and resentfully when you spend time with friends and family. It's all about control.

Your abuser may sabotage you by making you miss an important event, critical to your success or well-being or maybe just happiness in general (a doctor appointment, job interview or friend's wedding). Your abuser may also sabotage you by hiding your money, keys, or personal belongings that give you mobility or freedom from their behaviors.

An abuser overreacts to the smallest of events. Maybe you burned dinner or forgot an item at the grocery store. A normal person would get over it. An abusive person will make your life a living hell over that small detail and may even become angry or violent at the "mistake." Which brings me to my next point. These are not "mistakes." The abuser makes you think that it's your fault that he overreacted or became violent. He will criticize everything you do, down to how you vacuum the rug. Nothing you do will ever satisfy his critical, abusive nature.

When the abuser does overreact or become violent, he will try to blame you or guilt you for what happened. Sometimes the abuser will try to lead you to believe that you are crazy.

I am here to tell you that none of this is your fault. If jealousy, anger, control, sabotage, criticism, and anger are core characteristics of your relationship, you deserve better. You deserve love. Abuse is not love.

If you are in an abusive relationship, and you feel the need to take action, please contact the National Domestic Violence Hotline.
1-800-799-SAFE (7233)
1-800-787-3224 (TTY)

If someone you know is in an abusive relationship, please exercise caution with their situation. They are in much more danger than you are, so please do not do anything that makes them feel uncomfortable or threatened. Educate them and support them, but know that ultimately, leaving the abuser is their choice.

You Are a Survivor

You are the most beautiful line from your favorite book
You are the prettiest characteristics of your favorite season
Colorful and clear as autumn
Crisp and bright like the winter
Hopeful and fresh as spring
Sunny and free like summer

You are not what has been taken away from you
You are what you give to everyone else
You are not a long night of crying
You are your biggest smile and your hardest laugh
You may be in pieces, but you are still a whole

You are not your treatments or your medication
You are not a test score or a GPA
You are not a number on a scale
You are not a measurement at all
You are not even a degree or a medal
You are effort and will

And damn it, you are what you eat because food is great and so are you

You are not your scars
You are your ability to heal.
You are not only where you have been, but you are also places you intend to go

You have cancer
You are not cancer
You have an eating disorder
You are not an eating disorder
You have depression
You are not depression
You have an addiction
You are not the drug
As long as you have the will to fight
You are a survivor

Meeting Meb

As you may know, this weekend I was able to meet 2014 Boston Marathon winner and Olympic Silver Medalist, Meb Keflezighi at the Columbus RunFest. Tonight my fellow MITers and I were able to interact with him on a more personal level since he so graciously attended our speed workout. No worries, he did not actually run with us. That would have been terribly embarrassing. He did, however, give us a pep talk before we tortured ourselves for over an hour on the track.

In my post on Saturday I referred to him as an "awesome American" because that is what he is. Keflezighi was the first American man to win Boston since 1983. Some would disagree. Look at his name. Look at his skin. Listen to his accent. Bullsh**, whatever, etc. Some of America's residents seem to forget that this was founded as the "land of opportunity;" home of THE dream, the American Dream. I would love to communicate Meb's story because tonight he reminded us ALL of our potential as citizens in this country, as long as we are willing to give it our all.

Meb was born in war-torn Eritrea to a family of six kids. His father walked over 125 miles to Sudan where he worked multiple odd jobs until one day he made connections with the manager of a particular company. When the manager found out that his employee had a wife and six children at home, he gave him enough money to help the entire family escape. The family moved to Italy as refugees, and tried to move to Sweden first and then Canada but were rejected from both countries. Thankfully the good ol' US of A accepted them, and they made the move when Meb was 12 years old. His father made him and his siblings study the dictionary every day since none of them could speak English very well. That is some serious dedication. To the people who complain about immigrants who do not "speak our language": Have you ever studied a dictionary or made it a goal to speak your native language properly? Have you ever thought of how it may feel to witness and escape war, starvation, or genocide to get to a country only to experience discrimination? (This was not exactly part of Meb's story. I'm just throwing it out there.)

Meb began American school as a sixth grader and excelled in sports immediately. He ended up running at UCLA (holla) and won 4 NCAA titles as well as maintaining impressive academic standards. What is so beautiful about his story is how naïve he was when he moved here. His middle school gym teacher told him he would be an Olympian, and as a twelve-year-old who had just escaped a war-torn country where there was no running water, Meb had no idea what the Olympics were. Later on in his career when he did know about the Olympics, he was debating on which distance to train for, and he did not know how long a marathon was. Sometimes I really wish I could go back to the days that I was naïve. When I moved to Ohio State from my tiny hometown, I had no expectations. I was fearless. Meb reminded me of that tonight.

He also said some really bold things for a successful athlete. The first and obvious thing is that he was a Silver medalist in 2004, not Gold. He said, "Of course I wanted Gold. That's what everyone wants. But you can't always get what you want. Sometimes you just have to do your best and that is enough." I found that particularly inspiring as a self-motivated athlete. I don't have a personal trainer or a strict diet, but I am competitive. I do not aspire to win Boston, but I would like to qualify. I do not foresee the Olympics in my future, but I would love to win a 5k. If I can achieve those things, maybe that will be enough.

And finally he narrated his Boston Marathon race and win from this past April. His story is powerful enough already, but this just topped it off. He talked about his strategy to start at the front and stay there. He talked about each mile, and how he started to become injured around mile 16. He also talked about his competitors who started catching up with him around mile 20. He said that he really wanted to win Boston for AMERICA, and asked himself leading up to the race, "What can I do for the victims [of the 2013 terrorist attacks at the finish line]? What can I do to help the USA near the anniversary of that time?" He wrote the victims names on his bib. He said that around mile 22 he didn't think he could make it, and he asked God to send the spirit of the victims through him so that he could finish strong. I thought that was pretty powerful. Most athletes make everything about themselves and their own personal strength, but when you're a runner you know every other runner has a story. Every single person who has run a marathon reports of some "divine" experience around miles 20-22 once the wall has been hit. I am so glad Meb shared his selfless story because honestly, it takes guts to share personal stories. It takes guts to discuss your spirituality with a group of runners who may not share the same beliefs as you.

What I found so refreshing about Meb Keflezighi is that he is beyond grateful, and he is not afraid to share his past. If you don't know where you're going, just remember where you've been!

"Run to overcome," and that he did. Thanks, Meb!

Confessions of a Runner: Marathon Training Week 1

It was a 31-mile week. That's right. In seven days, I cranked out 31 miles. I've been studying my training schedule, but not once did I add up weekly mileage. When I passed the 25-mile mark last night I was already surprised, but this morning's trail run put the icing on the 30+ mile cake. Sorry for that metaphor. I really want cake.

That brings me to an already noticeable difference in my body. This heavy week of mileage has already messed with my metabolism. I swear I have done nothing but eat this week. I am constantly hungry!

Mostly this week was just hard because I was mentally and physically exhausted. Actually, exhausted feels like an understatement. In my new training plan, I run for four days straight, Wednesday through Saturday, with no rest. The stretch of days starts with a speed workout on Wednesday (always the toughest) with an active recovery day, a "light day," then ends with a distance day on the trail. The Wednesday workout went so well. I ran my fastest mile since I don't know when- 7:19! Sorry, I have bragging rights! But Thursday I received some unfortunate news about the health of a loved one. Honestly, that's what made the week so hard. After hearing the news on Thursday, I pushed through my run and came home and eventually went to bed with a splitting headache that I still had when I woke up four hours later.

Both Thursday and Friday I started having my doubts. Why am I even doing this? Then two very subtle events happened that changed my attitude. First, Friday morning I went to get my allergy shot. When I was in the clinic, I stopped by the hospital café to grab some breakfast. I was grouchy because I was hungry and my legs hurt so, so bad. In fact, I was feeling discouraged because my legs were so beaten up this week. Every morning I was so sore when trying to roll out of bed. But then at the café, I ran into a young man in a wheelchair. Even though I beat him to the counter I felt like I had gotten in his way. He let me go ahead, smiling at me sweetly. Then I felt like such a jerk for being whiney about my own healthy, perfectly-working legs. That night at the Actors' Theatre performance, I encountered one of our house managers who is also in a wheelchair. She does her job just as well as anyone without a wheelchair! She was wheeling around, taking up donations and giving out fliers. Yet again, I felt like a huge baby for being so hard on myself. Those people have a "disability" (FYI, I could write a novel on how I hate to use that word) but they had the greatest attitudes. Meanwhile, I'm training for a huge, exhilarating moment in my life and all I can focus on is pain. That whipped me into shape in no time. I sucked it up and rose at 6am this morning to hit the trails with my running family by 7:00am.

The second event happened this morning, post-run, at Ethan's tee ball game. This has been the first game of his I have been able to attend, and he was super thrilled to see me there. My favorite parts of the game were when he took the plate to bat and when he ran home from third, which he got to do several times. Each time he ran home, he turned to look at our family in the stands, grinning from ear to ear. I realize this is exactly how I look when I get to see my family at a race. I smile so hard because I am overjoyed with happiness at their support of me. After the game Ethan came out of the dugout, and I congratulated him on his great game. He was so pleased with himself. He jumped up in one very excited leap and exclaimed, "I did it. I did it!" He will never know just how inspiring that was to me. His happiness is my happiness. His accomplishment and pride brought me an ecstatic happiness that I could not receive from anyone else. This is what I want to do with my marathon. It is ultimately a journey that I want to share with my family. I also want them to feel proud and accomplished when I cross the finish line. It may be my journey, but I could not have started if it weren't for my family.

Week 1 of training has been strenuous already, and I know I have a long, hard road ahead. But thanks to some strangers and a three year old, I feel freshly motivated and ready to take week two. That's my plan. To take it one week at a time, but always keep the finish line in the back of my mind.

Role Model, Not a Supermodel

Since I’ve been in my twenties, I have put a lot of thought into how I interact with children, especially young girls. In the past seven years I have volunteered at Bible schools, instructed band camps, and coached a middle school track team. As scary as it is, I do realize that little girls look up to me. I am not an angel, and I don’t strive to be; however, I do want to be a good role model for kids since I know I have no choice, especially when I am instructing them. They learn by example, and I have come to learn that I need to be that example.

Which brings me to my attitude toward growing girls. There is nothing more delightful than a child who has not been tainted by the evils of the world yet, especially the body image world. Ethan, my three-year-old cousin, has helped me learn so much about myself by seeing through his innocent eyes. When I interact with young girls, instinctually I want to babble on about just how pretty they are; “Hi, pretty girl!” “Happy birthday, gorgeous!” etc. But I resist the urge. They hear that enough. And it’s not that I don’t believe in giving compliments. I find a lot of joy in letting my friends know how beautiful they are. When I compliment a little girl, I try to focus my positive energy on something other than how she looks. She has been told numerous times how cute she looks in her flouncy dress, but has anyone told her she has a unique and charming taste in fashion? I’m sure the word “darling” has been used to describe her 78978454 times, but not daring or bold or brave.

I do believe that all children should occasionally be reminded of their inner (and outer) beauty, but honestly, when you tell a child over and over that she is pretty and focus only on the physical, she is likely to grow into an adult who expects the same compliments and attention. Speaking from the adult point of view, I do enjoy a good compliment (even though I will usually argue with every word you say..it’s something I’m working on), but I don’t expect someone to bow down to me and call me stunning on a daily basis. I’m not freaking Kate Middleton. I’m Jamie Bailey. I’m much cooler.

Reflecting on my childhood, do you know what I do remember? The fact that as a six year old I aspired to be a doctor. Not only a doctor, but THE one who created the pill to make you live forever. My back-up plan was playing in the WNBA. No big deal. I also remember winning the Young Writer’s Award at my elementary school when I was in the second grade for writing a story about a girl who went to the circus. (I hadn’t even been to a circus yet!) I remember getting my award and being treated to lunch by my school principal, a woman I respected. Those are the memories that mean the most to me.  Yeah, I have vague memories of people ranting and raving about how cute I was at church and in weddings and at piano recitals. But those are vague. My memory of my writing award is vivid.

 

I am just thankful that I did not grow up (aka hit puberty) in the age of social media. What a painful time that would have been. Facebook/Instagram/Twitter are bad enough, but now we have to factor in all the special days of the week: WCW (Woman Crush Wednesday*), MCM (Man Crush Monday), Throwback Thursday (AKA the day of the week everyone posts a picture of themselves in which they look really hot. It could have been just last week or two days ago, but damn it, it’s an excuse for a “throwback").  And don’t forget the TBH (To be honest) and “Rate” posts where kids give the other a rating, typically based on physical appearance and their likelihood of dating the subject. I know several kids who are younger than the age of ten who have these accounts, and I already worry about what this does to their confidence.

So the last thing I do is rave about how pretty one of my runners is, even if she is. I don’t coo about my young flutist’s appearance, even if she is absolutely beautiful. There will come a time, when I am no longer her teacher, when I will let them know of those feelings. But now, as I am their role model, I want them to know that they are capable, strong, smart, and especially a wonderful student of whatever it is that I am teaching them.

*Woman Crush Wednesday makes absolutely no sense to me when a male posts a picture of his crush. Unfortunately we are still in the day and age that it is assumed that you are a heterosexual male; therefore posting a photo of your crush can happen any day of the week, not just Wednesdays. WCW is for presumably heterosexual females to post a photo of their crushes and not appear to be “gay.” Same goes for girls and MCMs.

Save Yourself

I am the poster child when it comes to frustration. I get frustrated with people, situations, and even myself. But I had an epiphany this evening. I get frustrated the most with people who refuse to be saved. You can take this many ways. Saved  from Satan, from an eating disorder, from an abusive relationship, from an addiction. I just get so annoyed because I have once been in a few (not all, Praise God) of the previous situations. I have been, and still am, a sinner. I have had an eating disorder, and I am in recovery despite the fact that I still have “bad” days. Being saved from all of the above is not so simple, but it all starts with one thing: a decision.

Here is a simpler analogy: I love to travel. I desire to travel everywhere, and I’m itching to get outta this country once more, or.. at least to the West Coast. I understand that’s not something that everyone wants. But when I share my stories, my adventures, people escape for a moment. For a moment, the audience, be it my grandparents or a room full of friends, are on that adventure with me. And it sounds fun to them! Soooo why don’t you want it for yourself? Do you think you’re undeserving? Not bold enough? I just want to say, “Like, what’s the issue?”

Which… Is exactly why I get so frustrated with others. For a long time, I spent my life in such a dark place of hatred and anger. At the time it was not particularly easy to see the “light.” But one day I had enough. I was tired of starving myself. I was tired of hating every part of myself. After a long road of living with my own unhappiness, I realized that I had enough, and that my confidence had literally dissolved. I was going nowhere. I actually believe that my relationship with God is what saved me from my disorders. He loved me when I hated myself. I am so thankful that long before one simple decision to save my body that I had made another simple decision that saved my soul.

That’s how I feel about aforementioned burdens. It’s such a simple decision, but certainly not an easy process. But do you know what that simple decision holds? Promise. Promise for eternal life and love if you accept Jesus Christ into your heart. A healthier, fuller future if you choose recovery from an eating disorder or an addiction. A happier, more independent road if you choose to free yourself from an abusive relationship.

I know that people of all faiths and walks of life read this blog. I’m not telling you what to do because quite frankly, I can’t save you. You can only save yourself. What I am telling you is that if you’re struggling right now, I beg you to consider these simple decisions. What do you want? Make that decision and tell someone, and the rest will fall into place.

The Perfect Diet: What will you lose when you learn how to properly stay “hungry?”

I wish that actual published magazines would advertise tips like the following that are infinitely more beneficial to our health, happiness, and quality of life. On that note, I would like to add that I would rather obsess over movies, glasses, and running shoes than food. I would rather be described as bold, fierce, hilarious or kind than skinny. If you’re with me, this diet is perfect for you!

I have the perfect diet to help you lose pounds… of burdens, fears, unhappiness, and it all boils down to staying hungry! For life that is. ;) When I say “stay hungry,” I mean, don’t ever be content; don’t settle. There is always room for a little improvement; whether that is education, experience or growth! When you stay hungry this is what you will lose: insecurities. Your growth and change will make you feel invincible. That comes in handy when you encounter those sprinkles of hardship too. Your boredom will shrink and practically melt off when you adhere by this menu! Your productivity and energy levels will rise because you are burning off all those extra doubts. However there will be TEMPTATIONS in this diet. You will be tempted by negativity, and you will want to make decisions based upon other people and not your own feelings. You will be tempted by laziness, but when you finally pull through you will realize it was all worth it. Here is the perfect recipe for staying hungry:

A lot of charity

It kills me to see perfectly capable people waste their time and talents by being indifferent about a cause they claim to “care” about. Something as simple as running (OR walking) a 5k can raise great awareness AND funds for said cause. I suggest 5Ks because I’m a runner, but there are so many other types of charity events out there: fashion shows, dances, car shows. Pick one or have one yourself!

In the past, I’ve helped to coordinate the Columbus NEDA Walk. That is a little different because I had a whole organization planning and preparing with me. More recently I’ve taken on a carwash/bake sale for the American Cancer Society, and although I have familial and local support, it’s still scary because it was my brainchild; my idea; my planning. It could be huge. It could also be a failure. And let me sum up how I feel about that in an illustration of my favorite Lana Del Rey lyric:

(exhibit A)

A burst of confidence

Speaking of trying, I love a good leap of faith. Recently, my bff beasted her graduate school applications with acceptance into many top-notch schools, but namely the good ol’ Harvard. I had no doubt that she would do well; she’s a hard worker, organized, and goal-oriented. But do you think she would have applied if she didn’t have an inkling of hope that she would succeed? I am so happy to be friends with such a deserving and brave individual. I am so glad she went for it! I hate to think of others who do not “apply” themselves because they’re afraid of failure. Again, if you experience this failure, see exhibit A. Oh and try, try again.

A pinch of contentment

Stay content long enough to long for adventure again! Contentment leads to that indifference I was speaking about earlier.

A sprinkle of hardship

I don’t actually wish you smooth sailing because then you would be spoiled and much less compassionate. I have grown to be thankful for all the bad situations I have encountered because without the struggle, there would be no victory. And the good times wouldn’t be nearly as sweet!

A spark of anger
While you shouldn't be angry all the time, I hope you have just enough anger so that a fire is lit under your rear and motivates you to take care of business! As Tina Fey says, "Bitches get stuff done." And that is correct.

Discomfort

If you don’t leave your comfort zone at least once every month-ish, then you’re not even giving yourself a chance to grow. Comfort is different for all of us; therefore being uncomfortable also has different meanings. For some, hopping on a plane and flying to Norway would make them uncomfortable. For me, that would be freaking awesome, let’s go! For others, simply approaching a stranger may cause discomfort. Maybe singing at karaoke sounds horrifying to you. Personally, wearing a bikini is kind of disconcerting, especially after my little wardrobe malfunction on vacation last year, but I do it. What am I going to do? Cover up because I’m afraid people are judging me? Am I going to wear a wetsuit for the rest of my vacations? I still have “fears” that my eating disorder tricked me into thinking I have, but I know that if I don’t face my discomforts, that I am not really healing anymore.

Silliness

Enough said.

Stay hungry, my friends!

 

I Had No Idea

I Had No Idea

that what I was doing was self destructive. I thought that it was normal to record every detail of every meal I ate into a calorie diary. I thought it was normal to eventually reduce my diet to a bagel in the morning, a smoothie in the afternoon.. I thought it was okay to calculate the number of calories I consumed so that I could go to the gym for hours to work it off.

I had no idea that I had anorexic habits until I moved to college.

My bad habits began when I was a junior in high school. I was a perfectionist. I had to be the best at everything. I had to be at the top of my class, president of everything, and queen of everything musical. My eating habits appeared to be normal because I was always on the move. I was rarely at home, and I was seventeen. I fainted in the band bleachers at a football game toward the end of my junior season, and somebody had to go get my mom so that she could take me home. The fainting at that point was from "anxiety" according to the doctor. Not that I was 5'8" and less than one hundred pounds. That year I was given a pill to take when I felt "anxious." Thankfully I thought that was a load of bull, so I never took the pill.

The next year, my senior year, I felt more pressure than ever to be perfect. I was applying to college, schools my friends were not applying to. As I received acceptance letter upon acceptance letter, I felt more pressure to make the right choice. After visiting twice, I fell in love with the architecture program at Ohio State, and accepted the invitation to attend and participate in the Architecture Scholars Program. In the meantime, I sought after first chair flute in the District 17 Honor Band while trying to choose the most outstanding solo piano piece for my final recital. I was attending practice for "The Wizard of Oz" while also participating in our high school's variety show and preparing for auditions for a summer musical. Looking back, I literally don't know how I didn't implode with stress. I had no idea. I thought that was normal.

When I got to Ohio State, my hatred for food grew to the extremes. I was in a new environment with no one to supervise my habits. I began to reduce and reduce my food intake. When I did indulge, I hated myself. My family would visit and take me to dinner, and when the damage was done I would cry about it. My self confidence was at its lowest despite my typically upbeat attitude. I owe that to the great friends that I made in the Scholars program.

I realized that my obsessive behavior was destroying me when I attended a FYE (First Year Experience) class about eating disorders. Every single characteristic applied to me. When the instructor asked the class to write down ten things I liked about myself, I could not come up with one. I was ashamed of my body. My self.

I had no idea that I was so unhealthy.

And neither do thousands of other young women and men like me. These behaviors are normalized by radical diets, unrealistic photoshopping, the ever-thinning models on the runway and in magazines. And those examples are only the beginning. We internalize the need to become smaller. To take up less space. To disappear.

That's why I am here. To raise awareness of this nasty mental illness that consumes the beautiful minds of so many women and men. Eating disorders do not discriminate. They effect people of all sexes, races, religions, socioeconomic positions. If you are struggling, I urge you to tell someone. In the beginning, I was scared. Only a few people knew. But the more I share my story, the stronger I feel. Having an eating disorder does not make you weak. You are stronger than the disorder.

I pray you find the peace that you deserve.