On Being Brave

My brother brought home puppies this week, and, if you know me well, you know I'm not an animal person. I'm more of a love-them-from-afar girl, instead of a let's-snuggle-in-my-bed girl. But! These puppies stole my heart and completely ruined my productivity for the week. My friends were texting asking if it was really me in the picture, cuddled up with tiny labs. It's me, guys! 

Yesterday, I pupsat while attempting to work, which really just meant I held them, stared at them and obsessively checked to make sure they were still breathing. My sister said it is similar to what it will be like when we one day bring a baby home from the hospital. :) 

A few months ago, I started practicing feeling sad for the first time in my life. Sadness isn't something I easily access. I'm not comfortable with the feeling, it overwhelms me and I tend to push it down and ignore it. Why be sad when you can be happy, right Joy!?

But, after a lot of reflection, I realized that by ignoring sadness, I was stifling my other emotions, too. You can't embrace the depth and breadth of joy (or any other emotion) if you're squelching a primary feeling. The less I allowed myself to be vulnerable to sadness - the really painful, hard kind - the less I was able to experience joy - the really abundant, elated kind.

Over the course of a few months, I started practicing sadness and yesterday, as I watched these tiny puppies whimper and shake, clearly missing their mama, I felt sad. A few months ago, I would have thought: Whitney! You're not even an animal person. This is dumb. They're fine. Separation is natural! But yesterday, I didn't do that. I felt sad and, as I sat there alone, I cried for these tiny puppies. And then, I cried for all of the real babies who are abandoned by their mamas. And all of the mamas who have to say goodbye to their tiny babies without wanting to. I didn't kind of tear up. I cried and cried - multiple tears coming out my eyes at once. When my brother came home, he probably thought I'd lost one of the puppies. Or my mind? 

As silly as it sounds, as I sat there, allowing myself to cry, I encouraged myself by repeating: Be brave. Stay in this moment. Feel the sadness. Be brave enough to experience this moment.

Sometimes, I think we get a little confused about what being brave means. A few months ago, I would have said being brave was taking a deep breath and putting a smile on my face while playing with the puppies. Lately I've learned that, in this very moment, it was braver to let sadness overcome me. 

From time to time, I get Letter Requests from women who are writing in on their own behalf. They know they are hurting and they need extra love and support from other women around the world. Every time, I'm blown away by how brave they are. There was a period in my life when I would have called that weak. Now I know it's not even a little weak. Self-care is brave. Advocating for yourself is brave. 

Sometimes, bravery is big adventure and leaps of faith. But other times, bravery is staying in the moment and being vulnerable to how you really feel, not matter how hard it may seem.

Yesterday afternoon, as I went about the rest of my day, I noticed how elated I felt. I was cleansed. I'd lightened my load. Joy was back, because I wasn't afraid of the sadness anymore. I was reminded then, that sadness doesn't last forever. Sometimes it lasts a lot longer than we want it to. But, it isn't forever and, when it goes away, the joy is so much better. 

An Open Letter to the Man Bothered by Lady Gaga's "Gut"

Dear sir, 

You sat next to me at a restaurant on Super Bowl Sunday. Before the game started, you showed me a picture of your daughter. She had beautiful eyes and a sweet smile and I could tell that you adore her. You told me that you moved across the city to be in a better school district; you and your wife wanted the best possible education for your girl, even though she is only two. 

We cheered together for the Falcons and you joked around with my husband. When we first arrived, I felt annoyed that there were only seats at the crowded Community Table. But as we all cheered and high fived at the end of the first half, I realized it wasn't so bad, watching with strangers. 

My eyes were glued to the screen as Lady Gaga started her halftime performance.

But then, I heard you say, with disdain, as her ballad echoed through the restaurant: I forgot she's not even hot! 

And then, as she finished her performance, you complained a little more: 

She's got a bit of a gut. I can't believe they didn't put a net over that!

My heart pounded and my ears burned and I wanted to breathe fire on you in that moment but, as I took a deep breath, my husband chimed in: Come on man, that's enough. We left the restaurant after that and you will probably never think about us again. But I am thinking about you today.

You see, I don't surround myself with people like you. I forgot there are still people in this world who could find Lady Gaga's "gut" offensive. I forgot there are still people who would look at a woman - a talented, powerful woman - and see her "gut" and her lack of "hotness" before they see anything else.

I forgot there are people who still value a woman based on her body and you reminded me there are, in fact, people who do just that. 

I wondered, in that moment, if you knew that you were inadvertently feeding into the lie that there is even such a thing as a "perfect body."

I wondered if you knew that one day, your daughter will be playing in the room where you're watching TV and that, when you complain about an actress' weight, she will look down at her little tummy and wonder if you're bothered by her's, too.

I wondered if you knew that you are feeding into the lie that women should be smaller and tighter and firmer and take up less space. And that one day, your daughter might worry more about the size of her waist than the magnitude of her thoughts and feelings. 

I wondered if you knew you were insulting every woman, everywhere, when you complained about her stomach fat, implying that she should be smaller in order to be more pleasing to your eyes, as you drank your beer and ate your nachos. 

In that moment, did you know that you were insulting me, as I sat right next to you? And that you were insulting your wife, as she sat at home with your daughter, generously allowing you to go to a restaurant with friends?

Did you know that you were contributing to a society that will one day focus more on your daughter's looks and waist size, rather than the education you're already paying for? Did you realize that, with your comments, you were, inadvertently, reinforcing the societal pressures your daughter will begin to feel as early as the next four or five years? 

Do you know that when you deem one woman more or less valuable because of the tightness of her stomach, you devalue every woman, everywhere? And, when you devalue a woman, you devalue a man, too. Did you know that?

But I didn't ask you any of that. And today, as I finished my own workout with crunches, I smiled at my own "gut." Thank you for reminding me not to strive for a "perfect body" because, as I watched you criticize Lady Gaga's smoking hot physique, I remembered there will always be someone, somewhere who chooses criticism over generosity. I can't stop that. But I can stop my part in it. I refuse to buy into the lie that I must be smaller to be more valuable. Thank you for reminding me of this.

Sincerely,
Whitney