Like most Americans, I’ve been dealing with depression for awhile. It’s a forever wave of sad and negative thoughts sometimes triggered by stress or trauma. One year, my depression got so bad, I called the suicide helpline. It wasn’t that I wanted to commit suicide, I just needed direction. I knew that I refused to leave my family behind without trying, and I knew that I refused to give into to devil’s lies.
I sat sad in my dark room, cried and thought to myself about what things I could do in that moment to make me feel better—at least feel a little better. At the time, I was still newly postpartum with Liam. I didn’t feel beautiful, and was struggling with my new identity as a mom. I’ve always been a girly girly so I thought about ways I could improve my outer being, and in turn improve my inner. I started my weight lifting journey, started to make time for myself every 2 weeks to get my nails done and I made sure to wear clothes that made me feel sexy!
When I started doing these things, I started to feel good about me! I felt good and I looked good. I was making progress. It’s seems silly that me investing in cosmetic things helped my depression, but it was deeper than that! When I really examined my life, I was already doing to the hard stuff—completing the steps to achieve my larger goals. I was back in college, I was mastering motherhood and my marriage was on the ups. I realized that although my depressive thoughts directed me elsewhere, the real source of this wave of sadness was from not being happy with me. So, what better way to fix me than to invest in me, right?
When I found the source of my sadness, I was able to address it. My friends and family started to notice the change in my mood, and it felt good to be on top of Mt. Depression!
Depression sneaks in at our most vulnerable times, hoping to masks its minor issues in larger issues. Depression will make you feel like you’re not good enough, causing you to want to quit when in reality, an example source of your depression could derive from you being overwhelmed in school. Depression attaches itself to our subconscious and acts through our conscious. There’s so cure for depression, because depression was made by the enemy to plant doubt in a mind that already knows the truth. The truth is, depression can only take hold of you if you give it your hand. Don’t!
Cry, scream, pray and then sit alone in your thoughts! Write down how you’re feeling. Your feelings will most likely be lies like:
I’m not good enough.
No one likes me.
I’ll never get anywhere in life.
Beside those “feelings,” write down the truth depression doesn’t want you to know.
I am enough!
Jesus likes me, I like me!
It may be hard, but I’ll get there one day!
After that, think about what triggered your bad thoughts. Was it a falling out with a friend? Was it your job? What happened to send you in this downward spiral?
When you figure this out, compose a plan to change your situation. If it’s a spit with a friend, talk to them. If it’s your job, maybe it’s time to talk to your boss or find another place to work.
If you’re reading this, and think this sounds like too much to do, ask yourself if you’re ready to divorce depressive thoughts? Maybe you’re not ready to get better, and that’s ok. We have to remember that although no one asks for depression, it’s still our responsibility to climb out of the dark hole.
Try these steps, they helped me tremendously! Depression never leaves, it’s a silent attacker that attaches itself to your life when you’re most vulnerable. Be prepared. I use these steps each time I find myself in a bad place. It’s ok to take time to re-evaluate your situation. Depression will make you think you can’t beat it, but you can!
When depression makes its return and attack on my life, I 1.)find the cause of the relapse, 2.) I strategize on how to rectify the problem, and 3.) I rectify the problem!
Don’t let depression become bigger than you. I love you! Be happy lappy, not depressy lessy!
Arguments with loved ones usually end up with both parties saying unflattering and hurtful things. We’ve been taught to excuse our loved one’s hurtful words, because they were only saying those things out of anger. Although, their maybe some truth to this theory, you can’t help, but to wonder if these “mean and hurtful words” were deep rooted truths our loved ones only had the opportunity to share when they had the “free card” to do so. So, we consciously ignore the mean words but subconsciously we dwell on them, because no matter how hard we try to deny our loved ones words, we have an inkling that some of what they said is true.
Therapy and popular social media feel good memes would say to suppress those negative thoughts about yourself, because you are light and perfect in every way. I’m calling this mindset bull crap. You are not perfect in every way. No one is. This way of thinking encourages us to live counterproductive lives in denial. In order to live truth you have to face truth—you have to hear the truth. I’m not saying everything mean said to you is right or reflects your character, but I am saying, if you’ve heard the same things multiple times, maybe there’s some validity to those words.
Look in the mirror. Accept the good parts and bad parts of you. Ask yourself is there any truth to what you’ve heard about you. Fix the broken parts of you. Love you through it all.
A recent spit made me address a part of me that I was forcing myself to ignore. Confession: I’m very critical of others. Because I’m critical of myself, I tend to judge others as harsh as I judge myself. This isn’t right and I wanted to believe that this ugly truth wasn’t true about me, but it is.
The question we should ask ourselves after learning and accepting our ugly reflections is, why? What’s the root of our mean streak?
Don’t bypass “mean talk.” Sometimes it feels mean because it’s truthful.
Every October I flood my social media timeline with domestic violence awareness statistics. Every so often I share my own experience. Last year I opted not to be so vocal.
Things happen in our lives and we think they don’t consider how deeply they change us. We soon realize the effects of our past traumas when they trickle over into our new relationships. I really thought I had forgiven my abuser. I really thought I did.
It was the week that the Surviving R. Kelly documentary invaded our homes, TVs and conversations. It was the night that Dominique was reunited with her mom; it was that night that triggered feelings of anger, hate and shame. That night, I searched my abuser on Instagram and Facebook and to my disappointment he was alive, well and thriving. I was angry!
“Why is he living a good life,” I asked God. Why am I still hurting?
I felt guilty for wishing bad on my abuser that hurt me for so many years. I know many people feel that I’m entitled to this hatred and anger but I disagree. I’ve been angry at this man for years and what has that done? I’ll tell you. It caused rifts in my marriage, it caused anxiety, it caused me to walk around carrying a load of crap that isn’t mine to carry. So I forgave him. I forgave the man who raped me. I forgave the man who alienated me from my friends and family. I forgave the man who choked me, pushed me out of a moving car, abandoned me, belittled me and manipulated me. I. Forgave. Him.
I never went into detail about how I got into this bad relationship because in order to do so, this meant revealing a lot about my family dynamic. Since the cats out the bag and you guys already know about me growing up with a parent that suffers from BPD, I’ll share my story. I’ll share it today. I’ll share it tomorrow and I’ll continue to share it until no girl is ever in my old shoes.
I was 18. My home life was chaotic. My parent with BPD, made life hell and I often tried to leave. My parent would physically fight me to prevent me from leaving. I didn’t know then but I know now that people that suffer from BPD have a fear of abandonment. Because of this, they’ll do almost anything to avoid being alone.
Women between the ages of 18-24 are most commonly abused by an intimate partner.
One day my parent dropped me off to the college I was attending at the the time. That morning was a rough one. My parent was agitated and on this day, they threaten to leave me at school and never return. Little did my parent know, I prayed that they stayed true to their harsh words. My prayer was answered, my parent never came.
At this time, I was working my first job and a girl at my job offered for me to live with her. I took her up on her offer. I moved in.
I was lost. Although I was physically free from my parent, I wasn’t emotionally free. They continued to manipulate me and involve outside family members in their drama. Explaining the crazy life I lived to others felt like explaining the plot of a Lifetime movie and I often felt like no one believed me. I didn’t know then but I know now, I was leaving one abusive relationship to enter another.
I was introduced to my abuser from Facebook when he randomly messaged me one day. I’m still unsure how we became Facebook friends; we grew up on opposite sides of town, he was 5 years older than me, and we had no mutual friends. He messaged me almost everyday, despite me never responding. “Good morning,” he’d message. “How are you,” he’d follow shortly after. He was what we millennials call a bugaboo.
I punished myself for what I’m about to confess for years because I really thought this was the reason things happened the way they did. I thought I was being punished by God. I’ve recently found peace and forgave myself. I now know that what I’m about to confess still makes nothing this man did to me OK!
He was ugly. He was a fat guy and behind his back I joked that he looked like Chris from Family guy. He always reeked of cigarettes and he wasn’t very bright. He was thirsty for my attention, but most importantly, he had a car! I only entertained him because he had a car and I didn’t. I was newly emancipated, working and in college, AND this guy was obsessed with me and he had a car!
Even though I felt everything above, I love to love. I’m hopeless romantic and I honestly enjoyed him fawning over me so I agreed to hang out. I watched a lot of romcoms and I had the idea to cook dinner together and watch movies for our first date. He obliged. The first sign that I ignored is that, on this date, he walked me to his room and told me to “chill there.” He cooked by himself. I stayed in the room. The night passed and when we finished eating he mentioned that his dad was going to work; we’d be there alone (second warning.) I felt uncomfortable but I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t familiar with the area he lived in and I didn’t want him to know that I was weirded out. His dad left and he said we’d follow and leave too. We followed behind his dad but after his dad pulled off, my abuser pulled me back inside his house. He forced his tongue down my throat and I didn’t stop him. I didn’t know what to do. He took me back to his room and he raped me. I was virgin. He took my body and my virginity. I was confused. He was somewhat gentle but I definitely said no. I said it twice. I never said yes. I never agreed to this. Prior to our “date,” he was aware that I wanted to wait until I was married to have sex. He’d jokingly say, “I’m going to put a ring on your finger.” (He knew what he did was wrong.) He finished and we left his house promptly. On the ride home, I was silent. He asked, “how do you feel” and “are you mad at me?”
I whispered, “what do you think?” He dropped me off home.
Almost half of female (46.7%) and male (44.9%) victims of rape in the United States were raped by an acquaintance. Of these, 45.4% of female rape victims and 29% of male rape victims were raped by an intimate partner.
I knew what happened wasn’t right. I called a friend and told her what had transpired. She assured me that it was ok and that some men were “more eager than others.” This didn’t sit right with me but I was what my friends called “a Jesus freak,” so I accepted my friend’s advice.
I continued to see him. We hung out and every time we hung out, God would warn me to stay clear of this man. Like many of us, I would ignore God’s signs. My abuser threw tantrums. When I would threaten to leave he’d threaten to kill himself. I learned later that he did this often. He would threaten to hurt people close to me and he was really territorial of me. It felt like I woke up one day and realized that I had stopped going to class, I no longer had a job and I had “ghosted my friends.”
In the heat of an argument, my abuser choked me. He choked me for so long, I began to feel lightheaded. He apologized and I remember calling him a “domestic violence abuser.” He laughed and said, “choking didn’t count.”
I thought he was right. No one ever complained about “chocking,” plus he apologized. My situation didn’t mirror the horror abuse stories I had read. I didn’t think my situation counted. “It was just choking.”
Chocking turned into pushing. Pushing turned into him throwing things at me. In the beginning he was good at hiding his violent behavior but eventually other people started to notice it too.
The system that failed me:
I didn’t have family support and my city didn’t provide much support for women in situations like mine. When the beatings were too much to take, I’d call the police. The officers would advise me to find another place to stay.
“Where,” I’d ask.
They would reach into their pockets, hand me a card with services to “help me” and always, the numbers either never worked or no longer offered services for women in my predicament. Tears in my eyes and no fight left from within, I’d go right back to my abuser’s arms because I had nowhere else to go.
Click here for help for yourself or to help others in need ⬇️
This relationship went on for about 2 years–on and off. I’d leave and come back. It was the week of my 21st birthday. I was asked to go out with some “friends.” My abuser got angry.
“You’re not going out,” he screamed.
I ignored him. He dragged me outside and attacked me. He banged my head against the wall outside. The police were called and when he found out, he carried me into the bathroom. He threaten to kill himself right in front of me. Sirens sounded and he fled. The police met me. With blood on my face and lump on my head, the state pressed charges.
75% of domestic violence related homicides occur upon separation and there is a 75% increase of violence upon separation for at least two years.
Even though my abuser had done all these things to me, I still loved him. In all his chaos he stayed consistent. He was the only one there for me. I would’ve stayed with him but God removed me. God literally removed me from that toxicity.
When I found out that I couldn’t have contact with him I was depressed. I missed him. He wasn’t always bad… because he fled the scene before the police could arrest him, I saw him one last time. It was at a hospital. We were both there visiting a “friend.” He thought I had moved on so, there in the waiting room, he assaulted me. After this incident, the police found him at work and arrested him.
God removed him.
Moving forward by myself was hard. I felt like a baby learning to walk for the first time. Everything was new. I was free. Like a newly emancipated slave with only the knowledge of farming, I felt stagnant. I was free, but I had nothing to do with this newfound freedom. But God placed people in my life: to help me get on my feet, to love me, to encourage me and to build me back up. I had hardcore prayer warriors. I had just met my now husband, who unbeknownst to me at that time would become my forever Superman, best friend and companion.
In the mist of my transformation as a new woman, healed and healthy, I found myself. I found my independence. I found my worth. I found my husband. I found my peace. I found my voice.
If you know someone is a domestic violence situation pray for them and get them help. If you’re currently in a domestic violence relationship, know that you’re so beautiful. You’re worthy. This is not your fault. You are strong! Leaving your abuser is dangerous; I know you’re scared, but you have to leave him! Leave!
Most Heavenly Father,
Release this woman from bondage! Free her from her satan on Earth. Embrace her with your love and give her the strength to walk away. Cover her and those closest to her in the blood of Jesus and grant her a safe departure! Fill her new life with joy and remind her of her perfect worth. Help her start anew, Jesus. Help her find peace! I love you God.
Click here if you or anyone you know is in a domestic violence relationship ⬇️
Life for me has been hella hectic. I’m all over the place with deadlines, assignments, babies and bills! I’ve never been one to fall behind but I’ve recently found myself unprepared for TWO quizzes, I overslept for class and I forgot about a movie date with my family. I’ve been running off energy drinks and Jesus. My family life has been little to none since I usually find myself dead on the couch immediately after walking in the door. Pray for me.
For a little switch up and maybe even a little treat to myself, I cut my hair into what I call a “mom bob.” It’s shorter, more manageable and FRESH. I needed somethings fresh. Lately, I find myself making fresh coffee, forgetting it and then remembering it, just to have to warm it up in the microwave.
This week has been surreal. It’s been filled with clarity, sadness and confusion. I’ve been conditioned as a black woman to believe that “at all times, I have to keep it together,” so this week I spent a lot of time in my car crying between classes, praying during pee breaks and calming myself down quietly during panic attacks in the hallways. I’m good a faking it til I make it.
I’ve been blessed with the power of discernment. I’d like to think that God speaks to me through dreams, feelings and even others. Last Saturday God laid something on my heart. It was HEAVY. I shared it with my husband. It was the following Sunday afternoon when I received a phone call lasting 45 minutes confirming everything I shared with my husband the night before…
I can’t say that I was in shock about the news. I felt a sense of relief, maybe even a sense of thankfulness. The person on the other end of the phone with just a couple of words had brought forth major healing to my past traumas. I felt slightly selfish for healing in the mist of this person’s chaos but I couldn’t help the feelings that overwhelmed me. This person unknowingly had answered my many questions about, “why my traumas happened to me.” As this person spoke, my mind wandered. I felt like the world stopped.
“My childhood traumas didn’t go in vain. My negative ways of thinking of myself (feeling like I’mnever good enough or undeserving of good things) wasn’t random and my drama-filled childhood WAS NOT MY FAULT.” One of my parents suffered from BPD (borderline personality disorder.)
I don’t mind being transparent about this because this is something I’ve been dealing with alone for 26 years. I also love living truthfully. Putting it out there means no one can use my “secrets,” or insecurities against me. I’m free.
My parent is in denial and has been apparently for my entire life. Unfortunately my brother and I didn’t have people paying close enough attention to advocate for us. My childhood and most of my adult life have suffered at the hands of this. I could tell you some stories about what I’ve seen or even experienced but I’d like to treat my healing as delicate as possible. This is my ugly and uncomfortable truth.
This week, I’ve struggled with many emotions. I love my parent but that doesn’t erase the pain this parent has caused me. I’m confused. I’m relieved because for months now, I’ve been seeking therapy to cope with this but I too was in denial about my parent’s mental health. (In therapy, your therapist can only diagnose and treat you. In regards to your past, they’re left to only speculate what they think was going on. In my case upon my first counseling session, my therapist felt that it was very likely my parent suffered from BPD.)I struggled with the feeling of feeling violated. I feel like I’ve been lied to. I feel like I’ve been coexisting with a stranger. I feel sad. I love my parent and feel like their support system or there lack of failed them. They needed someone to lean on. On Sunday, I felt like I was meeting my parent for the first time. For 26 years I didn’t know them. I didn’t understand them. I know them now.
This is all so new to me and honestly I have no advice to share. One thing I will say is that, many people lose to the fight against mental illness. They try to ignore symptoms but mental illness lives in the brain. Our brains control our bodies. When the brain is sick, our bodies can’t function properly. Many people have been taught to think that therapy is bad thing. Because of this way of thinking, many parents are rearing their children while fighting mental illnesses.
Writing and sharing this has been both healing and scary. I struggled with doing what’s therapeutic to me while being considerate of my parent’s well-being. It’s like walking a tightrope with the world on my back. In one sense I want healing,understanding and growth but in the other sense, I understand that my parent’s situation is serious and delicate to them as well. My parent is still very much in denial and while seeking and achieving my healing I don’t want to hinder theirs. Writing this and posting this blog post has left me very feeling vulnerable. I understand that some might not fancy this post and others may find it helpful to their healing. I’m ok with this.
I ask that you pray for my family at this time. I started this blog to share and inspire. I’m sharing this because although I’m still unsure of my next move or my family’s, I wanted someone/anyone in this same situation to know that they’re not alone.
I just dropped my son off to school for the day and my son’s teacher did something that left me feeling slightly offended. She touched his hair. I’d like to put this in context for you …
Liam has a curly Afro! He has a serious and tedious hair routine that some parents might find ludicrous but to me, it’s a very important part of his hygienic routine. I start off with shampoo and follow up with a deep conditioner. I then pat his hair dry and moisturize it with a cream. I seal that cream with an oil. His hair is really dry so his curls appreciate the extra love. Some mornings when I drop him off to school, his hair isn’t fully dry. You’re able to see some of the product settling into his curls and it may look a bit odd. Never the less, by the time I pick Liam up from school, the product can no longer be seen and his hair and curls are full of life!
I’m assuming that Liam’s teacher unfamiliar with black hair, was confused as to why his hair was coated in a tan looking liquid? She patted him on the head and asked, “did you wash your hair today?” I immediately followed up with, “yes, he sure did!” She was left awkwardly holding out her now damp hand.
A couple of thoughts crossed my mind. One, why the heck did she think it was ok to touch my son’s hair? It’s an unwritten but known rule since FOREVER to NOT TOUCH A BLACK PERSON’s HAIR. Periodt! Secondly, why did her face turn to distaste when she realized her hand felt damp? Her face looked as if she had just accidentally touched the wet rim of an overfilled trashcan.
Her face brought me back to a childhood memory. Once in 3rd grade I was practicing braiding in my Caucasian friend’s hair. This was after school and I had no combs or hair products just my 8 year old hands. I remember after finishing up with what I thought was a braid masterpiece, my friend’s mom walked into our classroom. She looked at her daughter’s new-do. My friend’s mom touched the braids both in astonishment and disgust and said, “eww what did she (me) put in your hair? It’s so greasy?” Even as an 8 year old girl I understood what that comment meant. My friend’s hair wasn’t greasy. I didn’t use any products or utensils. What her mother meant was that her daughter’s hair looked “too black,” which she felt was disgusting.
Back to Liam. So when his teacher’s face changed after running her hand through his hair my heart dropped. As a mother I don’t want my child to experience any hurt, especially hurt I enabled! I chose his hair style. This is my fault! Immediately after dropping Liam off, my mind started racing. I sped to a local beauty supply store. I had just recently changed his shampoo and conditioner and his curls had been dryer than usual which is why he had EXTRA product in his hair this morning… The hair store was closed. I thought, “maybe it’s time to give up the curls? Should I cut off his hair?” A mired of things ran through my mind. I preach, live, stress black pride in our house because growing up in a predominately Caucasian area as a child left me feeling ashamed of my blackness too often.
I ask Liam daily does he like his hair. I don’t want white society shunning my baby because his hair is different. That. That alone is enough to break my heart. So here I am sitting outside in my car with anxiety because I don’t know if Liam noticed or felt what I felt. I’m unsure of how his day will go. I’m unsure if his teacher has the gall to change his hairstyle so that it’s more appeasing to her. I’m unsure if I’m over reacting. Am I over reacting?
I decided to drive back to Liam’s school. My body wouldn’t let me do anything else. I drove back. I walked into his classroom. I walked him out of his class. I whispered to him, “You are a handsome, strong and intelligent brown boy. Your hair is the coolest hair in all the world. I love you and Jesus loves you. Do you understand?” Liam replied, “yes.” We hugged and kissed.
This moment reminded me of how impressionable children are. My experience as an 8 year old made me feel like braids weren’t cool. I never told my mom but shortly after that incident I refused to wear braids in my hair. She thought it was phase but in actuality I wanted to detach myself from anything my peers thought was bad or different—even if that meant disassociating myself from my own culture. Because my son is 3 years old, and I wasn’t sure if he understood what had just happened, so to combat any of my doubts I decided to remind him of what I’m sure he already knows– his black is beautiful. xoxo,
My weight has always been a struggle for me. I’ve never been skinny. I didn’t start to love my curves until I moved to a school with a larger African American population. My peers praised my curves. Curves have always been celebrated in the black community. It was refreshing to see girls shaped like me roaming the same hallways. Attending predominantly Caucasian schools made it hard for me to see the beauty in my shape—body types like mine weren’t the norm.
I’ve always had wide hips which I later learned wasn’t such a bad thing if I wanted kids in the future. Childbearing hips is what my BaBa called them. I was blessed with boobs too. My curves are very proportionate and I’m grateful for that. However, owning my sexy didn’t happen over night.
After giving birth to my son, I was so depressed. My body not only resembled that of hippopotamus, (it’s ok to laugh at this)I didn’t feel like myself either.
Before pregnancy I loved my body. Ok so I was kind of cocky. By 18 years old, society finally started to praise bodies that looked like mine! Women of all walks of life were paying to have the natural curves I was blessed with! I was lit. My body was lit. I was dwelling in all things body positive.
After giving birth to my son, loving myself was tough because I lost my self confidence. My once nice boobs now kissed the floor after being released from my bra. My back had rolls I’d never seen before and if I ever thought my thighs rubbed together; boy oh boy did those things stick together now! Accepting my new postpartum body was hard.
It wasn’t until I found weightlifting that I began to start to feel confident again.Postpartum with my first baby Liam, I started going to the gym five times a week and counting my calories. Weight didn’t fall off easily or fast but it fell off. Before I knew it, I was down 50+lbs! Because of all the hashtags I used below my Instagram pictures, I found other moms who had similar weight loss goals. These moms became my online friends and accountability partners! We encouraged each other below post and even shared dieting and training tips. It felt good. I felt good.￼￼￼
With my most recent pregnancy, I went to the gym almost everyday, modifying my workouts of course but that didn’t seem to matter. Baby Zora was determined to make mommy fat. Still, I embraced the extra weight. Recently, I’ve returned back to the gym and started counting my calories but weight loss this time around has been different. My postpartum c-section belly stores most of ALL my fat— in my lower belly. This extra tummy makes me self-conscious in jeans, dresses and even skirts. Instead of dwelling on the extra weight, I’ve decided to live my best fat life. Weight loss takes time. I can’t base my happiness around losing weight; so why not love the skin I’m in today while working towards my goal? It’s so important to love yourself through the journey! If you don’t love you at your “worst,” why the hell would you love yourself at your “best? Self love starts from inside. Understanding and changing my mindset helps keep me mentally and physically healthy during my postpartum weight loss journey.
Here are 8 tips that keep me on the right path! ⬇️⬇️
1. Create a Pinterest for healthy meal inspiration!
I love Pinterest. Eating healthy can get boring but Pinterest helps me to keep things fun and tasty!
2. Follow fit moms on social media or follow moms that share similar goals to you !
This tip helps keep me accountable! I steal workouts from my favorite fit moms. All of their journeys are so inspirational, they push me to go harder because they too have been where I am!
3. Buy clothes that compliment your new body and own your new mommy curves!￼
After my first pregnancy I was so hard on myself to lose the weight! I would buy things based on my pre-pregnancy weight to punish myself to lose weight faster if I wanted to wear it. That sounds crazy and it was. Punishing myself like this, made me more depressed because I never had clothes to compliment the body I had in that moment. In turn, that made me feel unattractive and sad.
4. Listen to “Truth Hurts” by Lizzo when you feel down!
“I just took a DNA test turns out I’m 100% that chick…” These words alone get me hyped! I replay this song until I believe every word! I👏🏿 AM👏🏿THAT👏🏿CHICK👏🏿 and so are you!
5. Adjust how you contour and highlight your face!
When I saw Queen Rihanna adjust her contour after she gained a few pounds I was like, “ok!!!” When you gain a few pounds and your face gets a little round, switch up how you do your makeup! Makeup should compliment you.
6. Watch My 600lb life when your journey feels stagnant. — at least you’re not 600lbs.
You’re probably laughing reading this and it’s ok because I laughed typing this but seriously, watch my 600lb life. No, don’t make fun of the people on the show because as real as crack addictions are, so are food addictions. I’m just saying, watch a few minutes of the show and thank God that you can still walk and leave your house! Use that gratefulness as motivation to stick to your goals! Thank God that your weight hasn’t gotten that far. Be encouraged!
7. Remember that small progress is still progress!
Chill! Sis, you just had a baby! You grew a whole human for 9 months! It took your body almost a year to transform to grow baby! Be patient with yourself postpartum. Small progress is still progress. Don’t let other mom’s “snap back,” make you feel insecure because yours is taking you a little longer to achieve.
8. Remember that God loves you no matter what!
God doesn’t care how much you weigh! He loves you no matter what. He loved you before you were even born and guess what? Wings in Heaven are one size fits all. You’re good sis!
Stopping beating yourself up! You got this! Read this out loud, “you is beautiful. You is kind and you is important.”