Us

 I could write about our love story all day long. Because it's so random, because no one thought it would last, because we were so young, just because. 

18 year old Lauren and 20 year old Eric had never met until we went to Providence Rhode Island with friends to a dance club hilariously called Club Hell. I was with the most random group of girls from high school, and technically had a boyfriend at the time. When Eric asked me to dance, I said yes despite funny looks from the rando-group. I remember him being a "respectful" dancer, keeping his hands appropriate unlike most guys in clubs. At the end of the night, he caught me outside and asked for my number. My friends couldn't believe I gave it to him, hence said boyfriend, but I was young and he was nice. When he texted me with his, I added him to my contacts as Club Kid Eric.

At-the-time-boyfriend found out about this little number exchange, and decided to save the number himself so he could be a macho-man and give him a ring. When Eric received the call, he was on a playground with a friend at the beach in Fairhaven, MA - a place I had never heard of and never knew I'd one day live. Eric, being all macho-man himself, responded to the call by saying that if he were keeping his woman satisfied she wouldn't be handing out her number. 

So that was that. Onward with said boyfriend and goodbye to Club Kid Eric.

Fast forward one year later, boyfriend and I break up. I was in Maine with two friends, planning our next Club Hell excursion. Young, immature Lauren always needed to have the next move in play, so I thought "what are the chances?" and scroll down my contacts to Club Kid Eric. I said something along the lines of "Hey, you may not remember me, we met last year at Club Hell; I'm the one who's boyfriend called you...anyway...heading back to Providence this weekend with friends and wanted to see if you wanted to meet up". Little did I know, he was in a relationship and his girlfriend had his phone when this text came through. His response was a short "Sorry, I have a girlfriend". Damn. Delete.

Life moved on. Rebound Lauren found someone new, and Eric and his girlfriend broke up. He also deleted my number, but his break up sparked an interest to contact me. He had to go through old phone records to find it, and succeeded. By the time he messaged me I was in a relationship, but we found each other on AIM (if you know, you know) and social media. He got back with his girlfriend, and I got pregnant, but we cordially stayed in touch; especially when I was up all hours of the night with a newborn and he was working late shift electrical jobs. 

When the time came for me to admit that I was unhappy in my relationship, I confided in Eric. He actually encouraged me not to leave (which he now jokes was reverse psychology) - because he believed families should stay together. But my happiness was important not only for myself but for the mother I would be to my daughter. I left.

Soon after, Eric started asking to hang out. I was an ass about it. Or a good mother. I told him I was not ready for a relationship, that I would not ditch my daughter to hang out, that meeting up would mean going for a run, or joining us at the playground. Cue our first "hang out" where he drove the hour and a half to my mom's house, after my daughter was asleep, where we drank Mike Hard Lemonades and ate all the food my Italian mother had spread out for us. No running. No playground. One super awkward teeth-clanking kiss goodbye. 

Playground hangouts ensued, where I told him the next person I officially dated would be the one I'd marry. I was ashamed of myself for having a child with someone I didn't want to spend my life with, and wanted any "dating" I did to really teach me about what I wanted and what I could give. My famous line to Eric was "I am going to go one 100 dates before I commit to someone" - I agreed to be his girlfriend two weeks later. 

No one thought it would last. That there was no way a 23 year old Eric would be tied down to someone with a baby. That this was just another rebound for Lauren. Dates continued to be trips to the zoo (Eric's first birthday gift to my daughter), stroller walks, at-home dinners. 

Then Lauren gets pregnant again. Even through two forms of protection, it happened. This turned a new, fun relationship into an "oh shit, do we really want a life together?" (I'm painting such a lovely picture of myself in this story, aren't I?) A few days after working up the courage to tell our parents, I started bleeding. The pregnancy was ectopic and I had to have emergency surgery to remove it. I'll never forget calling Eric into his Mom's back bathroom where I discovered the bleed; he went to sit in his Step-Dad's office, in the dark. When I went to check on him he had one thing to say: I want to marry you. 

This was just four months into our relationship, but being forced to make the decision of whether we were together for a pregnancy or together for love made us realize the ladder. Eric went to my Dad's house to ask his permission and receive the ring my Grandmother had left me, and less than a year later we were Mr. and Mrs. Dorschied. 

I have to admit, to everyone that told us we didn't know what we were getting into, that marriage is a life long commitment that can't be based simply on love, that it takes endless hard work - you were right. We had to learn through some hard years exactly what that effort meant, and we are so lucky we did. 

Looking back on all of this is absolutely wild. Club Kid Eric, who I met at age 18 with a boyfriend, who I gave my number to on a whim, is now the father of both my beautiful daughters, and providing our dream life in North Carolina. We always say that if there was ever a meant-to-be, we are it. If we don't work out, it doesn't exist. If one of us didn't go out dancing that night, if I didn't give him my number, if I never reached out a year later, if he didn't go through those phone records...

12 years together today, and I wouldn't change one thing. 

12 Years Ago

 

I remember this day so clearly. I was sitting at an oversized dining room table in my very first apartment, having made the tough decision to leave Lyla's biological father. So many feelings of guilt and failure plagued me. Though my pregnancy with Lyla was unplanned, and I was so young, I wanted to make it work. I didn't want to have a broken family, I didn't want to be a cliché, I didn't want to be judged. I remember telling my dad, randomly, on his back deck while Lyla splashed in the turtle kiddie pool. I put on such a good show of happiness that he seemed blindsided by the news. 12 years ago in that apartment, tears streamed down my face with each friend or family member I told, and sweet 10 month old Lyla crawled up to me, cuddled me, and gave me her binky. I was sad for her, but in that moment I also knew I was doing the right thing. 

Her father was not mean, he was not negligent, he wasn't a bad father. He simply wasn't the one. It took 9 months of pregnancy and 10 months of Lyla's life for me to see that the happy ending I desired would not be with this man. I had moved out of my childhood home at 19 to gain independence with my new family, and moved in with my mom at 20, new mom, lost. I don't remember how I told her bio-dad, but I do remember standing in Lyla's nursery with him, staring at her perfectly hung, tiny articles of clothing, us both crying. No matter how unhappy you are, it sucks to hurt someone. Even worse when that hurt means breaking up a little family. His hurt turned ugly and cruel, but that first night Lyla and I settled into my mom's condo, I knew it was the right decision. I could breathe, and she was happy. 

As I reflect back on that time 12 years ago, I am proud. What a messy thing to have to do at such a young age, but even that young, I knew that the best mom I could be was a happy one. I deserved that, and so did my daughter. When Eric came into our lives, they changed forever. My marriage is the thing I am most proud of. We work hard, we love hard, we have fun, we work things through; what an example to set for our daughters. An example I could have never given if I stayed with someone else for the wrong reasons. A love I would have never experienced if I never left. I'm here to thank that young, scared, but strong new mom from all those years ago because her decisions are the reason my life is so blissful today. 

I could have let the embarrassment of what others would think or say get the best of me. I could have continued to post a fake happy life on Facebook and deeply yearned for more every single day. I could have "done the right thing" and marry that man for the sake of a baby, and came pretty darn close. I could have kept telling myself that he doesn't hit me, that he financially supports us, that he's a good person, but man - am I glad I didn't. I had every excuse to stay, and I didn't use a single one. My girl and her binky, 12 years ago...we changed our lives by choosing happiness. 

F*!# Comparison

I was initially going to post this as a Wellness Blog but it ended up being more of a "Lauren's Story" kind of vibe. So here we are. 

Freaking comparison. It can be a good tool in some instances, but for the most part it makes us feel like shit and prevents us from accepting and loving who we are, how we are, and where we are. 

As a new-to-competitive-running 9th grader, I had no idea my running form was different. I had never seen myself run in a video or mirror, and my funky-form was never pointed out by parents or peers. I found out in a hurtful way when I overheard my coach telling other teammates I ran like the Scarecrow from the Wizard Of Oz. I still didn't know what that meant, other than that I was, in some way, different. I noticed it "for real" by watching my brother - who has similar wonky form - run by me one day. I remember asking my dad if that was how I ran, and he said yes, but that mine was slightly worse. Great. The good news was that the fact that my hips rotated in a way to create a windmill-like leg kick-out made me pretty damn fast. The bad news was it also caused me to be constantly injured. And also, fuck that coach for not even trying to help me in the slightest way. Anyway - I think this was my first taste of true comparison; beyond wanting to buy Abercrombie because everyone else was, but wanting to change something about my body. I started noticing everyone else's legs that didn't bow in or their feet that didn't angle out. I noticed their beautiful running strides that didn't cause them hip or knee pain. I got so down on myself that I relished in every slight "injury" I had and didn't finish a single Cross Country season beyond 9th grade. 

I got back into regular running after having babies, and mostly forgot about my windmill legs - perks of not being able to see yourself when you run. After a short time, running became something I truly loved and relied on, and so when people did notice my stride and decided to comment on it, I realized I had a choice: quit once again, or own it. I chose the ladder. I will be the first to introduce myself to you as "the one that runs funny", and even though there are still times I wish I were different, or times I get insecure meeting new people to run with, or feel that hurtful sting when people point it out to my husband, it's me. And it's how I was born and built. (I wrote my college essay titled "Born To Run, Built To Break"). The only way I am able to keep up with running is by letting go of comparison, because it won't change a damn thing. And thank goodness I did, because running has brought me some of my absolute best friends. 

Onto lifting. CrossFit bodies are AMAZING. I could watch badass women lift serious weight all day, totally in awe of what their bodies can do. Years ago when my husband started CrossFit himself, I was smacked with some serious insecurities I didn't know I had. Society had always told us to be thin, and this born-runner nailed it without effort. But suddenly my thighs that didn't touch were nothing compared to these other muscular masterpieces. An injury prone, lanky runner was not made for CrossFit, despite dropping into a few classes with the hubby. Having a funky running stride but still being able to run was one thing. Not having thick thighs or any upper body strength and not being able to do something totally sucked. I wanted so badly to be a part of this kickass world that I started lifting on my own and insisted on calling myself a "CrossFit Dabbler". Not even close. Sure, I was lifting, but hella light weight, super slow, and no where near CrossFit status. I'd look at what others were lifting, or how often, and feel terrible about myself once again. Damn comparison. But, I loved the way I felt when I lifted. I loved feeling myself get stronger. I loved the way my body looked with the miniscule amount of muscle I put on. And so once again, I had a choice: stop lifting because I would never be a CrossFit girl with a CrossFit body, or simply do what I could. I am no where near the PR's of some of my badass friends or influencers, but I'm also so much further than when I struggled with an empty barbell. Shutting out comparison and focusing on the body I was given and it's abilities - even the limited ones - has been freeing. 

Letting go of comparison in these two situations wasn't easy. But it was so worth it. Accepting myself in my own fitness world has spilled over into so many aspects of my life, allowing me to live in an intuitive manner. When you feel good about yourself and the choices you are making, you are a better person - trust me. I am kinder to myself and in return kinder to everyone around me. These are two examples of oh, so many, where comparison can be evil and dictate your life if you don't shut that shit down. So I'm here to say hey, I'm Lauren, I run funny and love to lift weights. And I hope you conquer any comparisons you are struggling with, because we will never be anyone but us.  

Ouchie

We are lucky to be able to say that those we are closest to are still alive; our parents, our siblings, our close friends. Because of this, we've yet to experience that true, heart-wrenching loss that takes your breath away. So, when we put my sweet, 15 year old mini dachshund to rest yesterday, it hit me with a pain I didn't know existed. 

Mourning over the loss of a pet can seem irrelevant when there are people losing loved ones daily, but fuck, it's hard. I remember one miserable spring where our family dog and my grandmother passed away in the same week, and my father said "I think I cried more over the dog than my own mother". There's something about a dogs unconditional love, their sweet little faces, and the fact that they are helpless without us that makes losing them so difficult. 

Petey was always a pain in the ass. He was rescued from a puppy mill where his cage was also his bathroom, making it tough to house train him. He used to walk around our dining room table and piddle as he did, leaving an irritating stream of piss everywhere. We drove to get him from the mill - that was later closed for mistreating pups - when I was 17 years old, in a snow storm, the day after I had knee surgery. We tried crating him that first night which only lead to endless barking, and I begged my dad to let me sleep with him. I remember him telling me that if I started that habit now, it would be hard to break later, but I put him on the recliner with me where I recovered from surgery and he was my constant lap dog ever since. 

He barked at every little noise. When I had my babies, it was hard to get a newborn to sleep only for the wind to blow loud enough to send Petey into a barking frenzy, and so he took turns living with my parents for a few years while I adjusted to parenthood. During his time with my dad, he got lost. They were walking in the woods a mile or two from my childhood home, got skittish around another dog, and pulled the leash from my dad's grip. My dad called for him for hours, and decided to head home incase the little guy made his way back. He didn't. My dad looked for him for days, and we dubbed him a goner. Until one morning, 8 days after he ran off, he managed to get out of the woods, cross a 4 lane traffic road, run down the side street and along the busy road home. He showed up at my dad's front door skin and bones, with his leash chewed to a nub. To this day I wish he could talk so I knew what happened to him in those 8 days, but it was a miracle to get him back, where my dad nicknamed him The Wonder Dog. 

One summer, we took him camping on our family trip, where he decided to have diarrhea inside my sleeping bag in the middle of the night. 

In recent years, his accidents in the house became more frequent. He would bark in his crate every couple of hours during the night to be let out - it was like having a newborn all over again. We knew if we left his crate open he would leave us gifts all over the house, but I needed sleep, so we came up with a bedtime routine. Every night, we would move the coffee table off of our living room rug, roll the rug up, lay our dining room chairs down on the floor to barricade the hallway, and play white noise in hopes of him sleeping a little more soundly. I started every morning by turning on all the lights and search for the piss-puddle I knew would be there. Sometimes it would spread the length of our entire kitchen. As his back legs worked less and less, he would tip over into his mess, and drag all the way back to his crate. My floors got washed every single morning. 

Waking up this morning to an intact living room and no pee to clean up was weird. 

He started to get really disoriented in our home, struggling to find his way to the door and randomly staring at walls. He was still eating, but less. He slept all day. 

I made the decision to put him down early last week, when his back legs were really bad and he began whining in pain. I cried when I made the appointment, and every single day leading up to it. It's a guilt ridden thing to be able to choose your dogs death date. After years of him living off and on with us, and being frustrated by his barking and mess making, I just wanted him to know how loved he was. I would come home every day from work, lay him on my chest, and cry for hours. I've never said "I love you" more in my life. Naturally, this past week, his legs seemed to work fine, making my decision that much worse. But I knew more painful days were ahead of him, and we went ahead and brought him in. 

I took him to the beach where we spread out a blanket and cuddled. I fed him chicken sausages and string cheese. He got up and staggered to the ocean, where his tiny tail would wag anytime the waves lapped him. Strangers came up to pet him, causing me to lose my shit. The kindest woman and her daughter overheard me, and she came right over and wrapped me in a hug. She stayed with me, shared stories of a dachshund in her family, and offered to take photos of us during his last few hours. It was one of the kindest moments. From there I took him for ice cream, where I barged in unaware that they weren't open yet. They kindly gave me a doggie cup for my boy, and I sat outside with him wrapped in a beach towel while he enjoyed his treat. The workers came out a few minutes later and gave me two gift cards for free ice cream cones. 

Coming home for that final time was tough. Watching the girls say tear streaked goodbyes was tougher. On the drive to the vet, I wanted nothing more than to turn right back around. He wouldn't have to suffer if I just held him 24-7, spoon fed him soft food, and camped out on the couch with him each night. But I knew that wasn't realistic. I sobbed, and repeated "oh, fuck" the entire ride. The vet gave him a quality of life evaluation, where she agreed it was likely time to let him go. Hardest moment I've had to live through yet.

They gave him a sedative that took 5 minutes to fully kick in, where we cuddled him, cried with him, told him how much we loved him and what a good boy he's been. Once he was asleep, they laid him on the table in the fuzzy blanket we brought him in, and gave him the final injection. I can't get the image out of my mind of the vet holding the stethoscope to his chest and telling us he's gone. I kissed his sweet little face one more time even after he had passed. 

That night, everyone left. I wanted to be alone to ugly cry and mourn my dog of 15 years. I cried like I've never cried before. My chest hurt. I missed him with a deep pain that physically hurt. I spent hours laying in front of his crate, snuggling his blanket, and missing my cuddle buddy. He was my first  baby. He came before kids, before marriage. He has lived so many lives with me and now he's gone. I sat our under the stars, wrapped in his blanket, crying "I'm so sorry" to the sky. 

This morning when I came down the stairs and saw his empty crate, it hurt. I feel guilty, sad, heavy. I've never had a loss like this, and it truly sucks. I'll miss him forever, but am so thankful for all the years - especially the last few where he really slowed down, causing me to be more present with the little guy. I want him back, I want one more cuddle, one more adventure, but I know he's not in pain anymore, and is hopefully playing games of fetch with my grandpa up there. Loss sucks.  

It Worked Out But I Missed Out

 My life has unfolded way out of order. 

Baby before marriage, falling in love with someone other than the father of that baby, married years before my friends, honeymoon baby to follow. Now, at the age of 32 with a nearly 12 and 9 year old, an amazing husband and new life in North Carolina, I am happier than I've ever been with no regrets. However, I can't help but feel like I missed out on the positive attention people typically receive with these life changing moments. 

Becoming pregnant at the unplanned age of 19 in a very new relationship wasn't exactly a recipe for "congratulations". Instead of being showered with hugs and excitement, I was asked if I would keep the baby. Sharing this news was ridden with anxiety, nerves and fear of the opinion of others. It was a "sit down, I have something I need to tell you" situation, rather than a love-filled exciting moment. Despite always wanting to be a mother, I felt like a disappointment to my family, a problem to worry about to my friends, and a failure to my unborn daughter who was conceived with the wrong person. 

Leaving that relationship and falling fast for my now husband came with its own set of judgment - especially when conceiving and losing another baby, and becoming engaged just 4 months into our relationship. The true excitement came from my parents who had grown to know and love this man, but everyone else had their own opinions; we were moving too fast, we didn't understand love or the commitment of marriage, we were too young, we were naïve, why not wait? When we called to tell people our news, they asked if we were sure instead of screaming into the receiver while jumping up and down with joy. We even received messages telling us not to go through with it. 

With my older daughter being 2 years old at our wedding, we decided to give her a sibling sooner than later, and tried (and succeeded) for our 2nd daughter on our honeymoon. This was the one I thought I could actually share with joy; now a married family with a planned baby on the way, I hoped to finally get the positive attention I so craved. Instead, the news was more often followed up with "was this planned?" Or worse, when sitting down to share: "please don't tell me you're pregnant". 

As I got older and friends my age were finally getting engaged and having children of their own, I couldn't help but feel jealous. Their families were so excited, their friends planned big events for the occasions, an outpouring of love was splashed all over Facebook...and as much as I shared this excitement for them, all I could think was "man, I really missed out on this level of joyous celebration". People felt bad for me. People doubted me. Looking back, it was like there was a black cloud over these moments in my life instead of sunshine and rainbows. 

I believe in the cliché that everything happens for a reason. Being such a young mother and wife made me try extra hard, even if it was driven by the opinions of others. This effort has shaped two amazing girls and a healthy, communication filled marriage. I was able to be the person my friends called for advice with their first pregnancy, baby, or marriage problem. I am so fortunate to have been done with massage school before pregnancy, to have found a man who loved my daughter as much as me, and to be a young mother because, as I always say, "I get you for longer". My circumstances worked in my favor, and for that I am thankful. I can also look back and recognize that we did things on our time line, no one else's. But, because of this, we also really missed out. As much as things truly worked out and we created a dream life for ourselves, there will always be a part of me that is sad, jealous, and envious.  

No regrets, just the feels. 

Marriage - A Decade of Learning

 Let's be real...marriage is WORK. Nearly 10 years into what we hope to be a lifetime is just the tip of the iceberg in the "work" department of our love story. And though things will never be perfect, I am thankful for how we've perfected our marriage to work for us - not a fictional romance, not with the comparison of others in mind, just those simple day to day things that simply work. Because in reality, we've learned that's all there is to it. 

I'll never forget when we started therapy together. I told our therapist that the things I had to "complain" about were so minuscule: wanting help with chores, wanting a thoughtful foot rub, wanting him to be more present...and, I'd address them less often than more, simply because I didn't want to be "that wife" who nagged. It wasn't until our therapist helped me realize that those things weren't minor at all, they were the thread and needle to our marriage quilt; it's exactly those little things that add up to give you a solid relationship - and a metaphorically cozy blanket. 

My most memorable relationship quotes come from two of my favorite chick-flick movies. The first comes from The Break Up, when Jennifer Aniston's character explains to her boyfriend that she wants him to WANT to do the dishes. Naturally he thinks she's crazy because, come on, who wants to do dishes? But throughout the ups and downs of their breakup throughout the film, he realizes that he does in fact want to do the dishes - not for himself, but for her. By doing those damn dishes, it shows her that he's being thoughtful, helpful, and going out of his way to do something unpleasant simply because it helps her out. In our house, it's the bed. When I see that our bed is made, it makes me smile each and every time; he took a few extra minutes out of his morning to do something he doesn't give two shits about (we crawl back in at night, what's the point?) - just because I like my sheets tight and I think my throw pillows are darn cute. I get this same lovey-feeling when I discover the dishwasher is empty, when he surprises me with a favorite dessert, when he bails on a work out to hang in - individually these seem like such small things, but it IS these small things that set the tone for our attitudes toward each other. It creates a mutual respect, and a desire to continue the thoughtfulness. 

The next quote comes from Sex And The City, where friends are discussing how often they feel happy in their marriages. Character Charlotte says "every day" to which her friends roll their eyes - but she follows it up with "not all day every day, but every day". I've always found that so profound but also so important. There are going to be bad moments; arguments, disagreements, frustrations - and often, this quote has stopped me from going off the deep end into a downward spiral of "I'm unhappy. This isn't working. Here we go again." I can take the moment for what it is: unpleasant, challenging, upsetting - and know that it'll get worked through. That it doesn't need to ruin the whole day. That it doesn't undo all the good. 

But man, it's taken some WORK and some TIME to get to a point where we want to do those dishes, where we find happiness in every day - not every moment. It's taken a decade of growth, vulnerability, good times, bad times - and I guess my whole point in writing this is just out of gratefulness. I'm glad we didn't give up when we were faced with those hard times, I'm glad I married someone who is so willing to fight and that I found that fight within myself. I know how it feels to post a family photo on social media and know the fakeness behind it. I know how it feels to look at others with envy, or to believe that my marriage should mirror this fictional Lifetime love story. I'm so fortunate to have been able to move past fiction and comparison and create our own unique story. I love that we support each other whether we are on a juice cleanse or decided it was a brilliant night for tequila shots. 

So thank you, doll, for all the "flowers" - the bed making, the dishes, the foot rubs, the oatmeal cream pies. You make me feel all the feels. 

RIP Control Freak

We all crave control, especially when there are lots of things in this world that are OUT of our control. 

The funny thing is that once I let go of a lot of the things I thought I NEEDED to control to keep all the plates spinning, I FELT more in control, and not a single plate dropped. 

I used to think that I needed to control time; time together, time with friends, time for family or outings or chores. I was so regimented that I made everyone - myself included - miserable. Everything seemed forced, on a time crunch, under pressure and filled with anxiety. If my husband said he’d be home from work at a certain time and god forbid stopped for gas, my blood boiled with every minute that passed. I was glued to the clock (especially a new-to-two mom who needed a break). My husband didn’t stand a chance from the minute he walked through that door, where I would instantly fling a newborn onto him and huff and puff myself into the next room. Because I treated him this way, I would receive similar treatment back; out with girlfriends or for a pedicure, I’d receive texts on time frame and short-answered responses if things ran late. Then I’d be the one coming home to a grumpy husband, needy toddler and crying baby. 

As a mother, I thought that controlling things like nap time, meals, snacks, and bedtime were a matter of life and death. Inflexibility caused me to miss out on many things, created stress in our home, arguments in my marriage, and less than patient parenting. 

This carried over into exercise and food. 

When your body feels out of control after a baby, you want nothing more than to feel back in control. (How sad). I made sure, no matter how exhausted or how inconvenient, that I went for a run or did some form of exercise every.day. 

Husband gets home from work, I fly out the door.

Kids down for a nap? Yoga mat rolls out. 

Opportunity for a babysitter? To the gym I went.

I missed out on so many moments with my husband by doing this, when I could have taken that time to be with him or use that sitter for a needed night out. I was so self absorbed in my need for control.

Enter food. It’s one thing to eat healthy, but I used to take it to a whole new level. I’m talking super restrictive, super strict, bring my own meals to weddings and holidays kind of level. This kind of restriction naturally lead to binges, depression, over exercising, but most importantly - a bad attitude that was easily projected onto my husband and kids. Family meals were non existent because I ate something different. Going out was likely embarrassing with my detailed food orders. I was constantly calorie counting, which meant always planning ahead, which meant always thinking about food. That attention could have been so much better spent on my own family than my selfish control needs. 

Enter our move to NC. When, for the first time in 30 years, I let it all go. I went out with new friends with no time frame planned, and learned my husband was supportive. I encouraged him to do the same, with weekend plans to golf, surf,  grab beers; and I, too, found that seeing him relaxed created more happiness between us. 

I ate the pizza and tasted the ice cream for the first time in years. I worked out when I felt like it and moved in ways I felt like moving, instead of calculating calories that needed to be burned. 

The most amazing part of it all is that once I let go of the tight grip I had on control, the more my life felt IN control. When I ate intuitively I stopped when I was full with no binges. I took more rest days and active recovery days because there was no longer anything to “work off” which in turn created much healthier, better feeling work outs. Not panicking over food or time to work out gave my brain space to breathe, leaving room for more games with my kids and fun with my husband. My relaxed NC lifestyle cascaded onto my family, and I see how strong and loving my marriage is, I see how little my daughter needs her anxiety medicine, I see how much joy my little one gets when she can have desert first. 

Letting go gave me the life that the control-freak in me wanted all along.