heartyspoonful

By no means am I declaring myself the biggest bookworm there ever was, but I have loved reading from the tender age of four. My favourite gifts have always been books, a little fact that my mother learned early on. I read various versions of several fairy tales growing, leading to the more gory original stories that were told. Many afternoons were spent pretending to enjoy the nap that my parents have declared quite vital to a child's growth, when, truth be told, I would quietly reach for a book I secretly placed under my pillow to read. As a 12 year-old, I was allowed to browse the more "adult" sections of the public library. I reached for Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice, as cliche as that might sound. The librarian gave me a funny look when I borrowed it. Why in the world would a pre-teen girl read this book? To be honest, I actually really liked the cover of that particular edition and the title! I mean, Pride and Prejudice. It took a few more reads as I got older for me to grasp the essence of the book, of course. My immature 12 year-old brain knew squat about love. This is why the Harry Potter series were my love affair at this point. The next one could not come soon enough. So you see, books get me rather excited. Very much so. 

Nothing much has changed as I grew older. Except, perhaps, now I do not unfortunately have enough time to read, but of course, once a book lover, always a book lover. I make it a point to read a few books every month. Gone are the days I would greedily finish a book in one day. But I do try. 

Here are some of my favourites from the last year. 

We Should All Be Feminists by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

After taking an art history course on feminism, I was fortunate enough to be introduced to various female authors, painters, photographers, artists, revolutionaries, musicians, actresses, etc., who have shared their talents in order to spread the word about feminism. Even after I finished the course, I continued to read feminist essays, listen to talks about feminism and learn about feminist art. This all lead me to Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's brilliant TEDx talk. This particular talk moved me so much because, as a woman, I have been a recipient of sexist remarks and experiences. I do not know if you identify yourself as a feminist or if you have particular qualms about feminism, but I urge you to watch this TEDx talk. It is concise, brilliant and rather funny. 

From the popularity of her TEDx talk, Adichie published an essay adapted from this particular TEDx talk. Believe me, I almost wanted to highlight every line of this essay. It speaks to me. I was that girl, who had to sit back because a boy was deemed to be a better choice as head of a school project. I was that girl, who was ignored by a salesman because he had assumed the guy with me would pay for my purchases (I was with my brother and though I know he loves me, I highly doubt he is open to pay $200 of dresses). I am that girl, who continually receives comments about my single-hood. When are you getting married? There must be something wrong with you. You need a man! Aren't you scared you'll end up alone? Or childless? So, Valentine's Day must be a sad day for you. This all makes me angry, but I smile through it all and I let you have it, calmly. Because, no, my identity as a woman does not rely on a man putting a ring on it. 

Adichie also points out how boys and girls are raised today and how this impacts the attitude of males and females when they become adults. With witty remarks and funny personal stories, Adichie is able to make her point: that feminism is not solely for the well-being of women, but that men can profit from it as well. She also admits that our beliefs that have been long-standing and so ingrained within us are not necessarily easy to erase, but that we can reverse some of the effects by changing how we raise our children, both boys and girls. Adichie defines feminism simply to avoid getting lost in translation. No, feminism is not about the supremacy of women. It is not about women claiming they are the better sex. It is not about slashing men's faces and burning them at the stake. As Adichie points out, men also suffer from gender inequality, that they also have to face unfair expectations as well. So what is feminism? It is about bringing this inequality to a fair level so that there is no one gender that is better or worse off. 

Thus, I highly recommend this tiny book of just a few pages. Well worth it. 

Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear by Elizabeth Gilbert

Have I created much these past few years? No. I stopped painting. I stopped creating handmade birthday and holiday cards. I barely wrote anymore. My time was spent mostly working in the corporate world, and yes, it is like a newborn baby that demands all your attention. My solution was simplistic actually: I created an Instagram page that featured all my breakfasts. I continued to bake, tried (very simple) food styling and started taking photographs. I have been on/off with blog writing, just because for the longest time I was being too hard on myself. 

Reading Elizabeth Gilbert's Big Magic was an eye-opener. Really. There is something so honest with her writing. She does not hide her failures, she joyfully describes the details of what has not been fruitful in her endeavours. I loved that she not only gave examples from her past experiences, but also shared stories about how others have resolved their creative funk. There is no I-am-better-than-you sound from her tone; she is encouraging and insightful. 

Sometimes, Gilbert sounded like she was a cheerful high school guidance counselor who was giving pep talk and you know what? I really found that refreshing. It gave me the boost I needed to continue with my writing (and now I write at least a line every single day). I brought out my old water colours, sketchpad, the works, so I can start drawing and painting again. Because, as Gilbert points out, what you create does not have to be validated by someone else. All that matters is that the products of your creativity bring you joy. I completely agree. 

Sure, of course I daydream that perhaps one day I will publish something, anything! But that is not my main driver for creating. Gilbert repeats this more than once: Your creativity should not be rooted simply to create for others. It is foolish to do so. 

If you want your creative juices to start flowing and you need some warm character to give you a nudge, please do yourself a favour and read this wonderful book. No regrets. 

Creamy & Crunchy: An Informal History of Peanut Butter, the All-American Food by Jon Krampner

Look, being a vegan who is not allergic to peanuts translates to a peanut butter monster. My mum actually saved some space in one of our cupboards to place all the jars of peanut butter I had "hoarded" (her words, not mine). My luggage has been searched many times over between flights from New York City to Montreal just because I kept on buying jars and jars of different flavoured peanut butter from Whole Foods. No, sir, that is clearly not a jar of peanut butter; that is my underwear. Put it back. There has not been a day I have not had a spoonful of peanut butter. (Okay, perhaps when I travel to Europe I go without but that is just because it is not North America. I cannot find Justin's Squeezepack, can I?) But, you see, when I found this book about peanut butter by Jon Krampner, I just new I had to read it. 

Perhaps, like peanut butter, it is not for everyone. Especially if you are not the type of person who likes history, but truth be told, I quite enjoyed this book. Krampner describes the different types of peanut butter from classic smooth to more adventurous crunchy to far newer forays into creativity involving various flavours. He also points out the different kinds of peanuts that are used to make peanut butter (my favourite is actually Valencia peanut butter, but it is not very popular). Aflatoxin mold was also in the picture, which is unavoidable when narrating peanut butter's history. It sounds scary. It is scary. But I suppose this is a risk I am willing to take. 

There are stories about peanut butter that made me shake my head, some that had me feeling quizzical, others that I simply could understand. All in all, if you love peanut butter and would actually want to know more about its history, from where it first originated to how it came to the American household, you should give this one a go. Now spread some lovin'. 

Spinster: Making a Life of One's Own by Kate Bolick 

Being a 26 year-old single woman, who has "no prospects" in sight means a lot of questioning from the marriage police. It also means a lot of judgments of my character. Why is it that I am the one accused of having a difficult personality? As if wonderful men who are financially stable, responsible, mature with a good sense of humour fall down the sky every minute or so. No, I am not being picky or difficult. I just have not found someone with whom I am willing to share the comforts of my existence. 

Spinster came into my life at a rather angry point and what good timing that was. I really started to feel like there was something wrong with me (and yes, I go through periods of continuous self-questioning and self-doubt), but when I read the words of Kate Bolick, I felt relieved. Here was a woman, who had a man who loved her, but because she was searching for something that felt more right, she left that behind and went on her own journey of self-discovery. Bolick thus starts with her own journey and then expands on the more global experiences of women, both historical and present. She examines the lives of female personas, such as poet Edna St. Vincent Millay and novelist Edith Wharton. Some of these women did get married, other chose a more solitary life. Some of these women enjoyed the company of many lovers, whilst others pined over one. All in all, Spinster gives a good glimpse of the varying journeys of women and that the social norm does not translate to it-works-for-everyone. Because it does not. 

There are women in my family, who either chose not to marry at all or who married later in life because they wanted to focus more on their careers and other passions. Sure, they heard their biological clock ticking, but they reaped more pleasure in seeing the fruits of their hard labour. Love can wait and it did. Bolick describes the progression and somewhat entanglement of her love life, but throughout it all, she braved the snide remarks and the pitiful glances. Ever the single girl. When someone feels sorry for me, I punch this person on the inside. Please do not feel sorry for me. Perhaps you mean well, but this kind of reaction only makes me feel inadequate and insecure. It helps no one. 

Bolick's book helped me cope with the endless questioning of my non-existent relationship and of what, for some people, seem to be a rather dire-looking future. I am fine. I will be fine. With a man or without one. If you are a single girl, especially if you are in your 20s, and feeling very self-conscious and alone, give this one a read. You are not alone.

Enjoy xx

Sylvia Plath photo credit: Playbuzz

As a health goal this year, I intend to decrease and to eventually cut out sugar from my diet. I reckon that there's a misconception that as a vegan, we're all very healthy and that there is no kind of vegan junk. (If you think this, how very wrong you are.) No matter what your diet is, there will always be some type of processed food that will be made available to you... because that's how the market works. Businesses look into current trends in order to service whichever fad people follow. Veganism has definitely been on the rise and though I'm very happy about that, sometimes I think certain individuals go for the "aesthetics" rather than support veganism for the right reasons (i.e., animal rights, environmental issues). 

Back to vegan junk, trust me, there are a lot of options out there. All the frozen vegan meals that contain too much sodium and ingredients one cannot even properly pronounce, processed snack bars, veggie crisps, vegan ice cream, even. I've tried a lot of these foods, to be honest, mostly out of laziness. Sometimes, I don't want to cook and would prefer an easy meal--much to my disappointment. Refined sugar is also a popular ingredient in these vegan junk food so don't be fooled. Just because something is labelled as vegan, it doesn't mean that you shouldn't eat with caution. 

Being a natural sweet tooth, I crave dessert all the time. I prefer sweet snacks over salty little bites. These days though, I get most of my sugar intake from desserts that I bake and the chocolate-flavoured coconut milk yoghurt that I love for breakfast. Also, when I make raw desserts, not only are medjool dates packed with fructose, but I also add agave nectar or maple syrup to bind the whole thing together. Now, there's the sugar killer. I still think fresh fruits are the best source of sugar because they don't contain refined sugar. I'll also settle for my medjool dates (because LOVE!). 

I was very tempted during my grocery run to grab some vegan cookies and snack bars, but I resisted. Best to make my own. Now, where are my medjool dates? 

Raw, Vegan & Gluten-Free Chocolate Banana Oat Squares

Makes 10-12 squares

Ingredients:

Let me tell you a story.

Once upon a time, in a land of tropical fruit trees and rice plantations, there was a young girl named Carla, who was crowned the “Princess of Picky Eaters.” In this faraway land, animal meat was deemed as the holiest of foods. Well, after their beloved rice, of course. Children, Carla the Picky Eater included, were often told by their well-meaning elders that they’re lucky to have animal meat served on their plates because there were those less fortunate than they are who didn’t even have a grain of rice to eat. With this kind of talk, Carla ate the meat served to her though with a heavy heart and clenched teeth.

One day, an aunt scolded Carla for chewing on the same piece of steak for 10 whole minutes. She couldn’t for the life of her bring herself to swallow that steak. After some angry  scolding, Carla managed chow down that one piece. With a heavy heart, she forced herself to hold back her tears. She ate the rice and cut the steak in tiny pieces. It took her more than an hour to eat enough and so her aunt told her to just leave her plate and go to her room. Still hungry, little Carla dreamt of the actual food she liked: banana, peanut butter and local strawberry jam. The one with the whole strawberries of course! She heard a knock on her door and just like a fairy godmother, her grandmother brought her a plate of peanut butter & jelly sandwiches! It was gooey and the strawberry jam oozed out of the bread when she squeezed it. The young girl chewed and chowed and eat her sandwich in five minutes.

… and she lived happily ever after. (I wish.)

But it’s true. I was a problem child. I didn’t like all meat, I abhorred beef—it’s just so heavy. I felt so bad for the pigs as well. My brother had chickens growing up so chickens were more like pets to us. Although, I must admit that I did like fish and seafood, growing up near the ocean and all. I think when I started my vegan journey, fish was the hardest for me to give up. Of course, seeing the actual damage fishing produces to our bodies of water as well as to the defenceless species of fish brings me back to our sad reality. (As a side note, I must admit that I’m not the best vegan out there, but I’m trying my hardest not to purchase leather or fur. I’ll explore this subject more on another post.)

This story also brings me back to my early days as a peanut butter & jelly enthusiast. I have years of discovery and trial here, mixing various sorts of peanut butter (crunchy, smooth, flavoured) with different fruit jams. I’ve had tropical jams (pineapple, mango, passion fruit), “normal” jams (strawberry, raspberry, blueberry) and artisan jams (fig & ginger, blood orange with rosemary, strawberry & basil). But nothing beats strawberry jam, I have to say. (Another side note, I’m an advocate for creativity, but honestly, some jam flavour ideas do sound, well, “sophisticated,” but I reckon they should never be conceived.)

But always with banana slices.

So, after all this intermission, I want to focus on what this recipe post is for. It’s been a long while since I’ve made homemade pancakes. I’ll blame it on my Sunday laziness. And the fact that since Sundays are usually my run-days, I really don’t want to take another hour just to prepare breakfast. Today, however, after running 8 km on thick snow and a rather disappointing flour-y blueberry pancakes from Aux Vivres (everything else is a-okay), I wanted to make myself pancakes BUT with peanut butter and fresh berries. I do avoid jams now because of the sugar content. I’ll go for fresh fruits on the side if I’m having a peanut butter sandwich now as an adult (but with a banana of course). Just thinking about this recipe makes me want to make another batch.

Vegan and Gluten-Free PB&J Pancakes
Serves 2 (makes 6 pancakes)

Ingredients:

In a medium bowl, mix together mashed banana, flour, almond milk, baking powder, cinnamon and salt.

Heat a non-stick pan. When hot enough, lower the heat and pour batter 1/3 cup at a time. Flip pancakes after 2-3 minutes or when bubbles appear. Cool on a wire rack.

For the peanut butter sauce, in a small bowl, mix peanut butter and hot water. Gradually add more water depending on the consistency desired.

Place pancakes on a plate and serve with fresh berries and banana. Drizzle peanut butter sauce.

Enjoy! xxx

I don't know about you, but I never keep New Year's resolutions. Not a single one. Perhaps, all will go well for a few months or so, and then it's downhill from there. Come December, I would feel rather disappointed in myself. I would beat myself over the broken promises, a sackful of them throughout the years. I hate that. I'm trying to avoid letting myself down like that. It's a painful, painful experience. 

For 2016, I decided to take on a different approach. Instead of resolutions, I'm setting up intentions or a simple bucket list of sorts. Plus, I'll update the list monthly. I want to check my progress or my "un-progress." To make adjustments if needs be. This way, I think at least, I'll know for sure whether or not I'm able to accomplish anything from my list and I'm not waiting until the end of the year to give myself a pat on the back. Good job. 

So far, I came up with the following:

Then There Was Cancer

Brain cancer. Once we heard the doctor utter “cancer” there was dead silence in the room. It was as if the word vibrated in the air and the echo didn’t end. The doctor, of course being a doctor, explained the whole ordeal for what seemed to be hours. I couldn’t hear anything anymore at this point, the word “cancer” was still ringing in my ears. Like a school bell warning students it’s almost time. It felt exactly like that, I suppose, the warning that my dad’s time was almost up.

It’s been almost two years now since we found out. At first, we thought it was just a benign tumour hitting the part of his brain that affected his motor skills. Having seen one too many episodes of Grey’s Anatomy, I figured some smart neurosurgeon, who may look like McDreamy would just slice my dad’s skull open and do his thing. At this point, I was still hopeful. There were no tears yet, no hands raised to the sky whilst screaming “Why me? Why my dad? Why our family?” No random loud sobbing in windowless audit rooms. No unfinished salads and blank stares. No public display of despair. Not yet anyway. But those moments will come. They were just stuck in traffic.

One day, of course, the rays of hope gave way to stormy reality. My dad started to limp and then gradually, he needed a cane to walk, then he was just sitting on a wheelchair. The tall man I’ve loved my whole life no longer towered over me. The man who joked that he won’t let go of my arm when he walks me down the aisle would most likely never even have the chance to walk again. Nor will he even see me get married. The wheelchair was bad, but what’s worse was my mum finding my dad crouched on the floor, unable to breathe and shaking. That was the turning point. When everything went downhill. My dad spent months in the hospital. Every day, I visited. Every day, I struggled to get out of bed in the morning to face what lay ahead because I didn’t like what I saw. It was painful. It was ugly. It was, unfortunately, our sad reality.

When we were able to finally take my dad back home, he was already bedridden. He has lost control of the left side of his body and his right side would continue to lose its strength. For almost two years now, he hasn’t done much and not because he doesn’t want to. But he still makes jokes on good days. He still teases me and he tells my mother he loves her. He pouts his lips when he wants her to give him a kiss. He tells me tales of his childhood, of how he fell in love. He still listens to the news and is saddened by the state of our world today. He’s fully aware of his surroundings. Ironic isn’t it? It’s brain cancer, yet his mind continues to bloom and his body deteriorated.

There are good days. Then there are bad days. Days of tears. Days of anger. Days of blame. Days of complete helplessness. Days of hope. A melting pot of emotions. I can never predict how one day would turn out; I just brace it with all the might I’ve got, with all the might I have left in me. I’ve been told countless of times by well-meaning friends how “strong” I am, how brave, how I’m such an inspiration. I just smile when I hear this sort of remark, but other times, I want to hurl and scream and shake them senseless. I’m not strong. I’m not brave. I’m not an inspiration. There’s a lot you don’t see. There’s a lot of internal panic attacks and complaints and cries for help. To be frank, the number of days where I would’ve preferred to go in a quiet corner somewhere and rock myself into total oblivion outnumbers the days where I felt ready to take on the emotional ride that never misses to pick me up the moment I wake up. But all this, you see, it’s a conscious decision. I choose every single day to battle the tremors of paralyzing vulnerability. I choose to be a warrior, but I give myself permission to cry and breakdown. I’m only human after all.

One of my darkest hours was when I lost my patience with my dad and I involuntarily told him life would be better off if he were already gone. The moment that came out of my mouth, I cried. The look of shock and hurt on my dad’s face will forever be ingrained in my brain. It took forever to forgive myself. I felt ashamed and ungrateful. I called myself selfish. I told my friends and my mum, waiting for them to judge me, waiting for them to tell me I’m no different than a mindless ax murderer. The judgment never came. What I received was hugs and comforting words. My mum asked me calmly if I at least said I’m sorry to my dad (I did profusely) and then she locked me in a tight embrace and told me it’ll all be okay. Yes, it’ll be okay. One day.

It could be worse. I could’ve abused drugs, drink and sex. But I didn’t. I could’ve simply disappeared into the unknown. I could’ve ran away from my responsibilities. I  could’ve turned into a selfish bitch and put my wants and needs first. Of course, I realised I’m only made of flesh and blood. I’m also not on my way to sainthood. I left a little piece of selfishness on the platter. I was willing to sacrifice or at least to put my dreams on hold for a while to help out at home. I did it from the bottom of my heart, but not without great difficulty. I continued to yearn to cross off goals on my list. I wanted to accomplish so much. I thought, “Hey, I’m in my 20s. Why do I feel like a woman in her 50s?” There was a voice inside me that whispered I’m not a living my life. That same voice also injected some green juice of envy whenever someone my age was doing great things. “Why not me?,” I kept on asking. When will it be my turn?

Then, I look at my dad and I figured I’ll never get these years back. My time with him has almost run its course. The sand continued to pour down and there was a loud ticking. There was a countdown of sorts that announced any day now. Any day now and it’ll be over. Any day now and everything will change.

You know what’s beautiful? Realizing that love does conquer all. At least, that it’s a possibility. My mum sacrificed so much of her life for my dad. She could’ve walked away from it all or taken the easier way out and shipped my dad into some home. But she didn’t. She decided she wants to take care of him, that she wants to be hands on. She accepted that her world is only going to get more difficult, that she’ll probably be impatient and even helpless at times. But I see her look at my dad and I see the love there. It continues to burn strong. She’s keeping her vows - though sickness and health, until death do they part. She’s selfless and braves the storm so beautifully.

We have a routine now. I can’t stay too late at work so I can help out at home before my mum passes out from exhaustion. I spent a few hours just chatting with my dad, recounting the good ol’ days and answering his inquiries about my plans for the future. He usually drills me about dating… as if on top of everything else I have time for that. Saturdays are my complete days with him. My mum runs her errands and usually spends some time by herself. We don’t have a nurse on weekends who comes around to help so of course, I needed to learn everything. It’s not beautiful. It’s hard work, dirty, painful, tough. Emotionally, physically, mentally taxing. Exhausting. Someone relies on you for everything. And I mean, everything.

Don’t get me wrong, it would be nice to have someone to care for me, too. But building a relationship with the chaos in my life at the moment continues to prove to be an impossibility. I dated this guy, who complained over and over again that I didn’t make time for him over the weekend. Sure, perhaps I should’ve tried harder, but really? Saturdays left me worn out and all I wanted to do at night was sleep. I didn’t want company, I wanted my warm covers and a good book. Sunday was the only day for everything else: errands, preparations for the week, a bit of work, a bit of quiet time. I squeeze in a few hours for company, but no, not the whole day. I don’t have that luxury. This is my sacrifice.

Self-pity, I’m continuously learning, is like wrapping yourself with a ticking time bomb and then jumping down a skyscraper. It’s pure suicide. It kills you inside. At first, people around you try to be understandable, but, let’s be honest here, the more you feel bad for yourself and the more you complain to others, the less likely it is they want to be around you. So why put your relationships at risk? Self-pity never helped anyone. It takes you five, ten steps back. You go in endless circles. It makes you selfish because you start to think you have it worse than everyone else. Your friend going through a tough breakup? Big deal, she’ll replace that boyfriend, but you can’t replace your dad.

I went through a phase of wallowing in self-pity. I bathed in it. I drank it. I swam in it with the sharks of dejection. I cancelled plans. I stayed in my room, listening to the saddest music I knew (Both Sides, Now by Joni Mitchell was on repeat for days). I cried and in between sobs, I, like Iago before me, delivered countless soliloquies, proclaiming myself the unluckiest girl in the world. It was a toxic time. But pity from others can only take you that far. At first, when someone consoles you, it feels good. It’s like a tight hug. After a while however, words begin to feel rather used, like an old pair of your favourite shoes that you know you have to throw away already because, come on, the sole is falling off. You need a new pair. You need a new perspective.

It was a long process, and it still is. I still feel bad for myself sometimes, especially when I think I’m being left behind by people my age. I’ve questioned “Why me?” out to the universe many, many times over. Why my dad? Of all people, why him? Why our family? We never harmed anyone. We’re just citizens of the world. We pay our taxes for crying out loud. But even with all these angry questions thrown at nobody in particular, reality is still reality. It doesn’t change nor do these questions add any value to our lives. So, I tell myself to leave the self-pity party. It overstayed its welcome in my life. Sure, I give myself a few minutes of defeatism once in a while, but I check out early. I mindfully choose to dance to the sound of laughter and the giggles of my dreams.

Truth be told, when friends and well-meaning colleagues ask me how my dad is, I find myself uttering an automatic answer: “He’s doing all right. He’s okay. We’re all just fine.” And I plaster a huge smile on my face. I don’t want to burden anyone with the sad details. With my close friends, I break down in front of them. I tell them how haggard we all are, but I choose what I relate because no one wants to hear the details. Not really. I’m beginning to think this is one of the reasons why I’m deemed to be strong. This is the attitude I’m projecting out there, it’s hard, but we’re doing our best and here’s a toothy smile to prove it to you.

Professionally, this is where the struggle lies. What do you do when your career doesn't factor in personal issues? When you have to keep out your personal hell to survive at work? When you have to draw a line and lock your personal problems away for the next 8 to 10 hours? I became very bitter, the unhappiest part of that machine. I rolled my eyes a lot whenever I heard the politically correct replies of my superiors. I felt alone, used, abused. Like an itch I can’t help but scratch, hating my job took over my thoughts. Any enjoyment was stripped away from me. Feeling fulfilled with the results of my hard work became a thing of the past. The days were long, especially when I came home wanting to spend some quality time with my dad, but knowing I needed another hour or two to finish up some work. Days dragged on and on. Mornings were difficult. I just wanted to nap in the afternoons. Nights were where I looked for solace. Don’t get me wrong, I do my job well. That didn’t change because it’s my professional responsibility. What this whole ordeal taught me, however, is to be kinder. I support those who work under me. I’ve fashioned myself as Mama Hen looking after my chicks. I look after myself because no one else will do it for me, but I look after those who need help, too. Why? Because I know the feeling of being vulnerable and it’s not pretty.

The kitchen became my place of worship. I baked like I’ve never baked before. I took photographs of all the food I made and posted them on Instagram. It was my hobby. It made me feel normal for some unknown reason. I baked for friends, for co-workers, even for random people I didn’t really know. In the process, dealing with my dad’s cancer led to a weight gain. Not by a lot, but by enough that I felt my eating disorder creeping in. It’s ugly head was beginning to sprout back to life. I couldn’t go back to that dark place. It took years of recovery to accept my body just the way it is. It took years of self-acceptance to finally stop the abuse. It’s taking years for me to love myself just the way I am. It didn’t help when I was told repeatedly that I looked fuller. My face was a full moon. I didn’t fit into most of my clothes and I knew I had to size up. Eight pairs of trousers I wore to work were left unworn because I couldn't zip them up. Dresses were too tight and I felt like a pig in a blanket. I didn’t dare to wear jeans. I cried, I cried a lot.

I wasn’t used to the curves I began to see. I felt my hips and thought, “Were you always there?” My ribs began to play the game of hide and seek. My thighs seemed heavier, my arms felt like thick sticks of marshmallow. My tummy was soft and pillowy. My cheeks were like steamed buns, tempting to pinch. I was welcomed by what seemed to be breasts. I wasn’t used to it all. My dresses were loose and I avoided certain constrictive fabrics. I justified it as my new style, though, really, it was all for concealment. I deleted old photos, refusing to be reminded that once upon a time, even a double zero petite was big on me. My mum told me I looked healthier, physically at least, but my mind was playing tricks again. I was afraid of going on that road again, of being strangled by the strong self-destructive power of an eating disorder. It took what seemed like forever to finally cut ties with this mental disease and I wasn’t going back.

Like a bad ex-boyfriend who turns up when things are finally looking up, that’s what eating disorders are to me. I had verbal tennis matches against my eating disorder, like a nail-biting match between Nadal and Federer. Set point now. I couldn’t lose, I’ve lost too many times already. Self-acceptance was slow. I avoided mirrors. I bought sack dresses that didn’t fit well to hide what my eyes refused to see. But, through it all, I fed myself. I nourished my body. I respected it. I honoured it. I gave it what it wanted and didn’t deprive myself, which would’ve been easy after years of restriction. I became an expert on that subject. I tried to calm my mind, reassuring it that all will be all right in the end. Here’s my body, it functions well, it’s strong and able. Sure, it looks different now, but it continues to fight. Isn’t that enough?

I went to war with my eating disorder because there was so much more at stake. I couldn’t be a burden to my parents. My dad, who was already crippled by cancer, worried about me as it was. He could sense my powerlessness and self-doubt. I didn’t want to be another tumour destroying everything on my path. I also needed to be strong physically to help take care of him. There was no place for frailty. So I shushed my eating disorder. I told it to go to its room for a timeout. It wasn’t easy, it isn’t easy. I still hear its wild temper tantrums, but I know better to ignore it. Don’t give in.

Through it all, I continue to be grateful. I’m not where I want to be, but I’ll get there. Deep in my heart, I know it. I’m working on it. Every single day, I wake up and I set a purpose. I’m a work in progress and I don’t believe anyone really turns into a finished product. We’re made of our raw materials and we just add more or remove parts we don’t need anymore along the production line. I refuse to let my life turn cancerous, destroying my spirit and seeping my energy away. I’ll only have this one life and I want to colour it, to nourish it, to keep it healthy.

My dad calls me his “little fireball.” My brother was always the quiet one, the one who keeps to himself and creates his art. On the other hand, I was the child who inquired about lots and lots, the natural chatterbox. I want to look for that little girl again, with big, bright eyes and ready to conquer the sea of possibilities. I want to be that girl who brushed up her wounds when she fell and got right back up. Unrelenting, unwavering, headstrong. Wouldn’t it be nice to caption my life as #winning? Yes, it definitely will be. 

Photo credit: Lattes & Layers