I ditch the diet

It’s that time of year again. We are entering the season of “New Year, New Me” diets. It’s time to offset the extra holiday pounds with calorie restriction. It’s time to get an overpriced gym membership and pick my fad diet of choice. Call me a Scrooge; I loathe this time of year.

When I was a preteen, the South Beach Diet hardcover book sat on my parent’s coffee table like the Bible. My mom read it with a highlighter and tried all of the recipes. Now, at 33 years old, I can see it has been 20 years since I rang in the New Year without a diet. Somewhere along the way, I began associating weight loss with self-compassion. Diet culture tells us the formula to looking and feeling better is food restriction.

But what if this idea of bettering myself with a diet, is actually a form of self-punishment? What if this process of constantly striving for thinness is actually killing me?

Biologically speaking, the natural way mammals respond to a period of starvation - or a diet - is to compensate with a binge. It’s literally hardwired in our brains and bodies to follow a diet with overeating. So, every time I ring in the New Year with a new diet, I am setting myself up for this cycle of failure. Diets are not designed to work. They are designed to keep me coming back and stuck in never ending self-hatred. (Kinda sounds like drugs.)

What if, this year, I made the resolution to practice asking my body what it needs and wants, rather than constantly rejecting its hunger cues? What if I vowed to properly fuel my body with three meals per day, plus snacks in between? What would happen if I stopped counting macronutrients and just ate whatever the hell I am craving?

I imagine giving up dieting will be challenging at first because it’s one of my oldest security blankets. I will miss the (false) sense of control my eating disorder has provided for 20 years. But, if I alter my intention to self-compassion, rather than self-punishment, diets no longer belong in my life.

Whether it’s the South Beach, Paleo, Keto, low-carb, low-fat, or low-calorie, being on a diet will not change my relationship with myself or the world around me. Self-compassion, self-trust, intuitive eating, and stretchy pants are much more practical and attainable “New Year, New Me” goals.

I ditch the diet. 

I take a self-compassion break

 Recently, upon arriving at work, the first thing my coworker said to me was, “OMG. I got so drunk last night. I think I am still drunk right now. Hahahaha.” My eyes got wide as I stared at her with an angry and judgmental gaze. Unable to respond, I walked away and cried alone in a nearby janitor’s closet.

I spent the rest of the day fuming and beating myself up for “overreacting.” Sometimes I get so furious my drug of choice is casually flaunted and joked about at work. Sometimes it feels like there are triggers around every corner.

A few days later, while venting to my therapist, I was introduced to what is called a self-compassion break founded by Dr. Kristen Neff. This is a quick mindfulness practice that can be used during moments of stress and emotional discomfort.

A self-compassion break involves the following steps:

1. Notice this is a moment of suffering

While crying alone in the closet, I could’ve taken a deep breath and reminded myself that this is hard. It is incredibly difficult to live in a world where alcohol use is everywhere. I can acknowledge my triggered state, which leaves me feeling hurt and stressed.

2. Remember: Suffering is part of life/the process

Next, as I continue to breathe deeply, I remind myself that it is normal to feel this way. Triggers and difficult times are a part of getting sober. I am not alone or crazy. I have all of you to share this recovery experience with.

3. Be kind to myself

Finally, I can combat this emotional discomfort with self-compassion. With my hands on my heart, I can take more deep breaths and shower myself with words of kindness. What would I say to a dear friend in this situation? What do I need in order to best support and protect myself? Furthermore, I can whip out my toolkit and self-soothe with essential oils, a cozy cup of tea, and dark chocolate.

Unfortunately, it is impossible to live in this world without encountering alcohol triggers. However, on the bright side, I can always take a self-compassion break—even in a janitor’s closet—when I start feeling shaky.

I take a self-compassion break.

P.S. Here is a short guided self-compassion break with Dr. Kristen Neff. Enjoy! https://youtu.be/uSNH5yvxylg

I practice comfort and joy

Yesterday while walking my dog, Teddy, I found myself crying as the first few snowflakes of the season landed on my cheeks. My garden has shriveled up and the sunset now arrives at 5pm. The frigid November air is always a reminder that the holidays are just around the corner. And let me tell you, nothing stirs up unwanted emotions within me quite like the holidays.

In 2015 I spent the holidays - Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, and my 28th birthday - in (court mandated) rehab. My drinking and bulimia had reached a point where I was deemed too out of control to be trusted with myself. It felt like I had officially become too crazy to be home celebrating with my family.

When I try to reflect back on that time, everything is blurry. I had completely disassociated from my surroundings and entered survival mode. I could not crawl out from underneath my own pile of shame, while being completely cut off from the outside world, and hanging in church basements with strangers during the holidays. The allotted one hour supervised Christmas visit with my parents felt like torture, not therapy. It was like I had become something “other.” Something different. Something unworthy of holiday comfort and joy.

Ever since then, year after year, I start feeling triggered as the seasons change and the holidays approach. Like many of you, the relationship I have with my family is complex. Everyone still imbibes; holiday drinking begins at (or before) noon. So, even though I am no longer in rehab for the holidays, I still feel like I don’t belong.

This year, I am dedicating the season to my own comfort and joy practices. If going home for the holidays feels too overwhelming, I do not have to go. Sobriety gives me the space to both, sort through past holiday trauma, and discover my own comfort and joy practices. I can meet the hard parts of sobriety, like loneliness and grief, with new traditions.

For example: I can decorate a gingerbread house, bake cookies, go sledding, ice skating, or snowshoeing, simmer alcohol-free mulled cider on the stove all day, string twinkle lights from my houseplants, DIY popcorn tree garland, blast my favorite Christmas album, buy peppermint mocha coffee creamer, light evergreen scented candles, hang a stocking for Teddy, stay connected with my Tempest family, and cozy up with cathartic classics like Home Alone, The Holiday, and The Polar Express.

My past with alcohol, the holidays, and my family is messy - and that’s okay. This year, as Ted and I bundle up for brisk morning walks, I will inhale comfort and joy, and exhale past holiday trauma.

I practice comfort and joy.

I welcome the What If's

One of my biggest fears is re-entering the working world sober. I just got a call for my first interview since beginning my sobriety journey; and instantly, my brain began scheming ways to get my hands on some booze ASAP.

Working and alcohol became enmeshed ten years ago when I graduated from culinary school and began working at a winery in Northern Michigan. My internship took me to Aspen, Colorado and The Food and Wine Classic. Everyone thought I was living the dream, but in reality, I was learning to pair champagne with breakfast.

During those years, I quickly learned how much (fake) prestige and power and connectedness the wine world holds. I thought becoming a sommelier was THE dream occupation. I started a wine journal and recorded the (fake) smooth, oaky tasting notes in a ten dollar bottle of Cabernet.

My family was so proud of me. As daily drinkers themselves, they were eager to visit and bring home a discounted case of wine. My cousin even honeymooned at my work and raved about the experience for years.

Now, when I look back at that time, all I see is pain. Photos circa 2011 reveal an emaciated, drunken Kelsi desperately searching for acceptance. It’s not surprising that my first (super drunk) DUI happened on my way home from work at the winery.

Job interviews transport me back to that girl who believed alcohol provided a sense of belonging. While sitting in this intense fear, I am struggling to develop an affirmation that feels genuine. Luckily, a recent Tempest lesson with Brandon introduced the idea of “if-firmatiations.”

What if I show up sober?

What if I embrace change?

What if I meet some incredible people?

What if they like me?

What if I thrive?

By focusing on exciting What If’s, rather than my past “failures,” I create space to imagine a new future and release some of that fear. My past with work and alcohol is messy and triggering. That’s okay. What if I show up sober today?

I welcome the What If’s.

I am proud of myself

These past few weeks, for me, have been filled with recovery milestones that deserve a celebration. Yet, while writing in my journal this morning, I noticed some discomfort when I tried to scribble these five words, “I am proud of myself.” Why do I feel like such a phony when I attempt to express pride?

According to Mariam Webster, pride (noun) is a feeling that you respect yourself and deserve to be respected by other people. And, to be proud (verb), is having or displaying excessive self-esteem.

I’m not sure about any of you, but as someone who has struggled with severe anorexia and alcohol addiction, displaying excessive self-respect (pride) is not something I am familiar with. Most of my life has been focused on fixing what is “wrong with me;” not loving what is “right with me.” It makes sense that I struggle to genuinely write the affirmation, “I am proud of myself.”

It seems like our society has a complex relationship with the words proud and pride. These words hold heavy, sometimes contradictory weight. While it’s okay, even necessary, for men to show pride, girls are considered unlikeable if they boast about their achievements. Even worse, according to AA, pride is a character defect that must be removed immediately.

I like Mariam’s definition of pride because it involves self-respect. While I was drinking, there was zero self-respect (pride) in my life. Sobriety, for me, is not possible without at least a little self-respect (pride).

My therapist suggested I start a pride practice. 

She suggested I start small, but practice often. 

For example:

Remember to eat breakfast? Off to a good start. Proud.

Survived the work day while on my period? Super proud.

In bed before 9pm? I am proud of myself.

I could argue, as a human in recovery, I need self-respect (pride) more than anything. In order to remain sober, I need to put that bullshit rhetoric about pride (self-respect) being a character defect in the garbage. It doesn’t belong here.

My favorite definition of the word pride is simple:

“The love of one’s own essence.” -St. Augustine

I am proud of myself.

I trade shame for compassion

Yesterday was the six year anniversary of my second DUI. Six years ago, I woke up from a drinking blackout in a jail cell to discover I blew a .26 BAC, while driving home from an AA meeting. None of which I remember.

I think it’s safe to say, as Tempest members, we all have cringeworthy, even nausea-inducing drinking memories and anniversaries. Which means, one time each year, I face all of the emotions that accompany the dreaded anniversary day.

I am reminded of that girl from six years ago who couldn’t escape the darkness. While it is painful to reflect back on that season, because Tempest has been pounding radical self-compassion into my brain, I decided to spend the day taking care of myself. And, kicked my old friend, shame, to the curb.

I decided to ask that girl from the past what she actually needed. How can I fill this anniversary day with compassion for that girl who was desperately self-medicating six years ago?

Luckily, I had the day off from work, so I cozied up in matching PJs and fuzzy socks with my dog, Teddy. It was a rainy day filled with candles, homemade pumpkin bread, and soup. I washed my bedding, took a long nap, and caught up on The Great British Baking Show.

I wrote a quick letter to that girl from six years ago. I told her the things I thought she needed to hear back then.

Dear Kelsi - I see you. I am not here to punish you further. You have experienced enough humiliation. I see you and your fear of jail time. I see your fresh breakup wounds. No matter what happens, I am here with you. I will not abandon you. We will do this hand in hand; baby steps all the way. You are not a criminal. You are a human being who deserves proper care. I see you beyond the labels and the lies. I love you.

Six years ago I was lost in a blackhole of shame. I wonder what would have happened if my recovery process began with compassion, rather than criminalization. I wonder what type of world we would live in, if we traded all of this bullshit alcoholic shaming, for compassion.

We all have shame-filled drinking memories and anniversaries, and that’s okay. I choose to look back gently and celebrate anniversaries by giving myself the care I needed back then.

I trade shame for compassion.

Letting Go of Thinness as a Moral Claim

Originally published for The NEDIC Blog

When I was nine years old and in fifth grade, I got my first period. By the time I was 12, I was already taller and weighed more than my five-foot-zero mom. One time on our way home from Burger King my mom grabbed her full stomach and complained about how disgusting it was. Thinness, I learned, according to my mom was like a moral claim.

For all of my childhood I watched my mom count calories and try different diets in an effort to control her weight. The South Beach Diet hardcover book was always on our coffee table; that’s how I learned to diet as a preteen without the internet. Heartbreakingly, it makes sense that my adolescent brain created a story in my head that said, “If my mom thinks she’s fat, then she must think I am a whale because I am bigger than she is.”

Obsessing about food and body became a way to check out of the confusing world around me. My eating disorder was a way to escape the heavy emotional load, the constant overstimulation, the endless self-made pressure, and every other uncomfortable thing in my life. I thought if I can just keep my weight and food intake strict, I can remain just numb enough to survive the day.

Because I believed thinness determined my worthiness, I also learned to completely deny my hunger cues. I stopped trusting myself and began allowing external sources to dictate the size of my body. I wanted to be a morally good girl; so I did exactly what my mom and every other successful woman does. Diet.

It has been nearly ten years since my eating disorder recovery journey began. Over the past decade I was admitted to inpatient treatment six times and have worked with countless therapists. My journey has been anything but a straight line but I sure have learned a lot along the way.

Currently I am in a place where my therapist is once again encouraging me to gain a little healthy weight. It is challenging for many reasons. In order to combat the stories I created in my head as a child, I have created a list of things I know are true about being at a healthy weight:

My brain is less foggy

My emotions are still intense, but manageable

My issues with overstimulation are less noticeable

I have more energy

I obsess about food less

There is more space in my brain for creativity

My sex drive improves

My overall anxiety decreases

My skin is better

I sleep through the night

I perform better at work

I can notice obsessive thoughts without acting on them

My relationships, while still messy, have improved

It’s okay to develop my own relationship with food separate from my mom’s

There are people out there who get it - Glennon Doyle, Christy Harrison

It’s okay to trust and listen to my hunger cues

Weight gain is uncomfortable at times; it’s safe to lean into that discomfort

Our society has a ton of misinformation surrounding food and diets and metabolism

While growing up I was taught to view thinness as a moral claim; a pathway to belonging. Now as an adult with ten years of eating disorder recovery under my belt, I can see beyond the illusion. Even though in the moment it feels familiar to maintain a tight grip of control over my weight, my list is proof that reaching a healthy weight is actually bursting with positives.

I wish I could go back and show my nine-year-old self this list. I wish I could have shown her the truth before she created all of those false stories in her head. Eating disorders are destroying lives. Maybe it’s time to ditch this idea of thinness as a moral claim. Maybe instead, it’s time to properly fuel and develop trust in our bodies. All of the benefits listed above are waiting on the other side.

I no longer strive for past versions of myself

In 2016, while on probation and sober, I helped open an adorably hip coffeeshop in my hometown. During my interview, the owner and I connected over a Brené Brown book and the rest was history. Occupationally speaking, I had more “success” at that job than any previous job in my life. I became the pastry chef and created a few recipes that are still on the menu today. 

Because I was sober from alcohol, it appeared as if I had my shit together. My Instagram page was filled with mouthwatering latte art and seasonal baked goods. I went back to school and became obsessed with my 4.0 GPA. I thought sobriety meant adhering to the confines of my probation and allowing my perfectionistic, people-pleasing tendencies to run the show.

Not surprisingly, when my probation ended in 2018, all of that “success” went down the drain because I started drinking again. My work became sloppy, and I became the queen of calling in with fake excuses. I got demoted and my pay was cut. One time I showed up to an 8 PM team meeting drunk, snuck more booze into the meeting, and then threw up in my boss’s bed after the meeting was over. All of the bridges were burned.

As a result, over the past few years, I have created a story in my head that says I am not good enough until I return to that 2016 perfectly-put-together version of myself.

But the truth is, 2016 Kelsi was living in survival mode. I wasn’t sleeping. I was hyped up on caffeine; constant espresso tasting was a job requirement, after all. I lied to my therapist weekly to ensure her monthly report to my probation officer was squeaky clean. My caloric intake remained strict because I got a high whenever people commented on what cute and tiny pastry chef I was. I was holding up this impossibly heavy façade.

Sober from alcohol? Yes.

Healthy or healing or creating a sustainable recovery for myself? Hell no.

That story in my head about not being good enough until I return to some past version of myself is not real. It is an illusion I created. And, it kept me entangled in addictive behaviors for a couple of years post-probation.

Today I am practicing sobriety because I choose to—not because it is forced upon me—and that alone is more than good enough.

I no longer strive for past versions of myself.

I light a candle

I started a new job this week and survived without drinking. This feels equally triumphant and triggering. While I am trying to celebrate my progress (this is my first new job since joining Tempest last year), I also feel like I have been hit by an emotional freight train. Meeting dozens of new people and having first impressions formed left and right, has left me feeling drained to the last drop. It’s no surprise that numbness sounds good to me right about now.

About a year ago, during my early Tempest days, while fighting urges to drink, I decided to buy a cheap candle instead of a bottle of wine while at the grocery store. When I got home, as I sat on my couch to light the candle, I remember feeling, once again, both triumphant and triggered. Proud of myself for not drinking, but also a little bummed I wasn’t numb.

While I sat on the couch and cried, I became entranced by my new candle. While blankly staring at the flickering flame, I noticed I was sitting with my emotions for the first time in maybe two decades. I noticed, by making the choice to not drink, I could feel both proud and blue at the same time. I noticed that celebratory moments can be just as triggering as anxiety provoking moments.

It felt like that first $3 candle held my hand and provided a hug in the form of a calm and cozy glow while I sat with dueling emotions. The candle gave me space to just be. Space to let my feelings come and go and teach me things.

This candle lighting ritual has continued into my sobriety. It has become my go-to witching hour mood stabilizer. Now, I look forward to cozy candle time the same way I used to look forward to booze. Now, I use the money I would’ve spent on cheap wine to buy cheap candles at Walmart.

You might have already guessed that lighting all the candles I could find helped me survive the first week at a new job without drinking. I still cried myself to sleep 3 out of the 5 nights; but at least my tears and fears and progress were all met with a warm, cozy, nonjudgmental glow. Sure beats a hangover.

I redefine showing up

Whenever I think of Glennon Doyle’s earlier work, these words echo between my ears, “Just show up, Glennon. All you have to do is show up and do the next right thing.”

For most of my life, I thought showing up meant never leaving the house without makeup or clean hair. Putting together the perfect outfit, as part of my morning routine, was a dramatic hurricane of emotions, negative self-talk, and flying clothes. When I finally did leave the house, I never forgot to plaster on a bubbly fake smile because I believed niceness was the path to belonging. I thought showing up meant having a full social calendar and a perfectly Instagram-able life.

I thought doing the next right thing meant finishing college and landing a full time, salary, casual-jean-Friday-type job. I thought doing the next right thing meant striving for an expensive fairytale wedding, buying a house, and popping out a few babies all before the age of 30 (none of which happened, btw).

All of my next right things were based on cookie cutter societal norms. It seems like, somewhere along the way, society taught me that showing up meant masking, dulling, and suppressing my truest self in an effort to gain external validation.

Now, in an effort to maintain sobriety and fight off emotional meltdowns, I decided to redefine showing up by adding some self-compassion. My therapist encouraged me to list 3-5 ways I can show up for myself by using self-compassion each morning. 

Today’s list says:

1. Pay off an overdue bill

2. Listen to my favorite podcast while coloring

3. Eat an extra helping at dinner (I have been working to gain some healthy curves)

4. Take a long nature walk with my dog

Past showing up for myself lists include things like: limiting news, social media, caffeine, and marijuana consumption, consistent sleep hygiene, being honest with my therapist, budgeting, hydrating, Tempest calls, videos, and community, doing laundry and the dishes, setting boundaries, engaging in creativity, taking vitamins, having tough conversations, scheduling quiet time, cheering myself on, practicing Hygge, welcoming all emotions, and wearing comfy clothes.

While Glennon is right about showing up and doing the next right thing, in order to maintain my own sobriety, I need to make sure I am not showing up for external validation. Now I understand showing up, especially during recovery, is actually about finding ways to incorporate self-compassion into the chaos of my everyday life.

I redefine showing up.

I am worthy of rest

Hi, my name is Kelsi and I’m an extreme napper. Yesterday I had the luxury of taking 3 naps. It was incredible. Admittingly though, I feel guilty saying that out loud. It can feel like such an indulgence to nap while tired. My question is: Why?

My extreme napping skills were passed down from my dad. When I was a kid, he would nap during the day whenever he got the chance. My mom, on the other hand, would huff and puff and loudly tidy up the house because she didn’t understand how someone could rest during the middle of the damn day. According to my mom, productivity equaled worthiness.

When I was in college I’d attempt 17 or 18 credit semesters, while working 30 hours a week (and mastering my car napping skills) because I thought that’s how it worked. My best friend at the time, who graduated with honors and a full time job, also believed there was a direct correlation between her daily output and her self-esteem. 

Endless work + minimal rest = success. 

It seemed like a simple enough formula.

Every time I went to rehab, our schedules were filled from 7am until 9pm with group therapy, meetings, meals, crafting, trips to the gym or library; anything to occupy our addict brains. We definitely weren’t worthy of naps.

Now, with the help of a therapist, and after experiencing lockdown, I am learning how important rest actually is. As an introvert and easily over-stimulated human, rest is essential to my overall wellbeing and general functioning. I was exhausted for 20 years. It makes sense that I used alcohol, or anything I could get my hands on, in order to survive the day.

In my perfect world, naps would be a requirement for sobriety. As Glennon Doyle would say, we become like exposed nerves when we get sober. Everything is hard and everything is emotional. Everything is changing and everything is surfacing. Here’s a radical thought - maybe rest actually helps us feel better.

Let’s create a new formula and ditch the shame, shall we?

Endless work + minimal rest = torture, self-abuse, emotional instability, addiction

Meaningful work + prioritizing consistent rest = self-compassion, space for healing, potentially fewer emotional meltdowns at the grocery store

I took three naps yesterday and that’s okay. I am worthy of rest.

I seek compassion for myself and others

Last week an old friend, who I haven’t spoken to in about six years, showed up on my caller ID. Thinking it was a butt dial, I let it go to voicemail. When I called her back, she was hysterical. Turns out, her husband had been arrested for his second DUI, just three weeks after their first child was born.

My friend said she was ready to bail on the marriage; take the baby and run. Picking her husband up from jail, with their newborn in the backseat, was not her idea of acceptable. She wanted to send him away and cut ties forever.

Our conversation brought me back to the day my mom picked me up from jail, after my second DUI, just five days after I had completed rehab. I bet my mom hysterically called someone, too.

Honestly, if I didn’t have my own DUI history, I probably would have encouraged my friend to get out and protect her own wellbeing. But in my experience, when people shut me out, called me crazy, and left me in exile, it only made the drinking worse. It only reinforced and increased the shame I was already drinking to cover up.

I told my friend people don’t get DUIs out of choice or because they are lacking a moral compass. People get DUIs because they are in PAIN. And there is nothing worse than being shunned and judged and criminalized for that pain.

The people in our lives who are “acting out” the most, are the ones who need us most. If you woke up hungover this morning, I see you, I feel you, I love you. You will always have a friend in me.

While that phone call left me feeling heavy, it also broke me open with compassion. Maybe, if I can show others compassion after their darkest moments, I can also start to do the same for myself after a decade of shameful drunken behavior. We are all in this together.

I seek compassion for myself and others.

I play the tape through

This morning in the shower, while washing my hair for the first time this week, I was suddenly hit with the desire to crack open an ice cold alcoholic beverage. My mind took me for a trip down the alcohol-brings-joy-and-comfortable-numbness road. Several months into sobriety and I still experience craving thoughts like these on a regular basis.

Typically, I would beat myself up for even having these thoughts. But lately, instead, I have been attempting to lean into these cravings with curiosity and compassion. There must be a reason why the thought of getting buzzed has the power to erase the memory of my last four-day hangover.

Looking back, I notice alcohol has been a part of my life since I was in the womb. “Alcoholism” runs on both sides of my extended family. Plus, my parents are high-functioning daily drinkers. There was always a box of wine and a few beers in my childhood refrigerator. In many ways, alcohol provided a sense of belonging among my family. It makes sense that alcohol became a big part of my life — no need to beat myself up.

Although I struggled with 12-step based rehab programs, one positive that came from those rooms, is the idea of playing the tape through when urges hit. While sitting with seemingly impossible cravings to drink, it helps to take a walk down memory lane.

It helps to remember the crazy shit I drunkenly posted on social media and the nonsensical texts I sent my friends. I remember those first few hours after waking up from a blackout, when alcohol becomes a stimulant, and my mind races. I remember the self-hatred, the brain fog, and the puking in a trash can next to my bed. I remember the night sweats and the frightened look on my dog’s face. I remember the two mornings I woke up in a jail cell after drinking and driving. I remember the alcohol-detecting ankle tether I wore for six months. I remember all the jobs I have lost and all the people I have hurt. I remember it all.

No matter where I am on my recovery journey, I still face cravings and triggers. Drinking often sounds enticing in the moment, but when I pause and play the tape through the next 24 hours, I create space for a longer term sense of gratification.

Do I really want to put myself through all that again? 

Is it really worth it?

I play the tape through.

I create my own magic

At the time of my birth, my dad was employed by the Chicago White Sox and my mom was a competitive triathlete. My childhood was kind of like The Sandlot. We came home to an endless game of catch in the backyard and hot dogs on the grill. 

Year-round, with the exception of one week during the summer, our calendar was jam-packed with travel sports and expectations of excellence. But I always knew when my Aunt Kathy pulled up in her Mercury Cougar, it was time for seven heavenly days at what I called Camp Bladow (her last name).

Rather than hanging at the ball field, days were spent imagining and creating with my brilliant Bladow cousins. After a dip in the pool, we’d turn our towels into fashion, and strut down the back deck catwalk. We’d camp out in the basement writing and developing skits to perform. At night we were free to catch fireflies and pretend to be fairies in the forest. It was mystical and magical and the complete opposite of my rigid life.

The drive home after a week of Camp Bladow always left me feeling blue. As a kid, it was confusing to not feel connected to the Sporty Spice childhood my parents had provided. Now, twenty five years later, I can recognize that icky emotion as shame for being different. Shame so unbearable it led to five arrests, five rehabs, and two hospitalizations all before my 31st birthday.

The key to sobriety, for me, is about honoring that girl from Camp Bladow. It’s about turning off those impossible, self-made expectations and finding myself by cranking up the creativity. It’s about closing my eyes, breathing deeply, tuning in with myself, and brain dumping with glitter and vibrant colors. This is where my truth lives.

Camp Bladow taught me how to create my own magic with my own imagination. It taught me that magical places reside within me, not outside of me. Best of all, my magic is always there waiting for me when I’m ready to welcome it home.

I create my own magic.

I am worthy of forgiveness right now

One of the most harmful things I was repeatedly taught before joining Tempest was, “Your apology doesn’t mean shit until you get some sober time.” Meaning, I wasn’t deserving of forgiveness until I was, say, six months sober or had completed inventory and step whatever.

At that time I couldn’t get more than 72 consecutive hours of sobriety. Let alone sit with my shame long enough to construct a list of my defects, plus reminisce about every single person I’d hurt while drunk. This way of thinking made me wonder if I would ever be worthy of forgiveness, or anything good in life for that matter.

Luckily, about a year before I joined Tempest, I unexpectedly brought home a 14-pound havapoo dog named Teddy. Those first twelve months together were rough. But he was always there, nuzzled up with his neck on mine, when I woke up from a drinking blackout. He was always there to comfort me. Ted’s sweet little face taught me about a type of forgiveness that I can only describe as unconditional.

His forgiveness was not dependent on sobriety time. His love for me right now is exactly the same as it was on my seemingly endless streak of Day Ones.

Maybe there’s a way to reframe this, “I’m not worthy of shit until I get sober” idea. Maybe it’s okay for my loved ones to have their own (healthy) boundaries while I am using. That makes sense. I am not myself (I am a lying, stealing, unconscious human being) while using.

When I am ready to come back, on my own terms, when I have looked at my past with a less shameful, more compassionate eye, and welcomed a bit of self-forgiveness, then those who are on my team will be there whistling from the bleachers. Or welcoming me with the warmest bear hug.

Forgiveness has to come from within. I am worthy of forgiveness right now. And, in my experience, it doesn’t hurt to have a 14-pound havapoo dog named Ted to remind me of my worthiness every single morning.

Sending slobbery kisses,

Kelsi + Teddy = Telsi

(she/her + he/him) = <3

I create space to fill my summer with joy

One of my favorite sobriety practices is a sunrise walk with my dog. Teddy and I live in a touristy town, and last night was the final firework show of the Dog Bowl Festival. Thousands of people and their furry friends gather for competitive events, hot air balloons, live music, and food trucks. As a dog lover, I anticipate this kick-off to summer every year.

However, today on our sunrise walk downtown, Ted and I found more than a dozen semi-full beer cans and mini wine bottles left behind from the night before. Our sacred morning (walking) meditation spot was trashed. I was struck by the urge to chug a few and catch a buzz before my coffee. No one would see me. Feeling triggered as hell, I cried the entire fifteen minute walk home.

Summer, for me, triggers more glorified drinking memories than any other season. Everything we love about summer — weddings, graduation, barbecues, slowpitch softball, boating, bonfires, festivals, concerts — are all accessorized with a red solo cup.

My post-festival morning walk was a reminder that this will be my first attempt at an alcohol-free summer in over a decade. I could feel some serious FOMO surfacing. Sometimes not drinking makes me feel like an outsider.

But, since ditching alcohol several months ago, I can see my hard work paying off. In an effort to fill my summer without wine, I built a cozy twinkle-light-lit balcony garden and have become a devoted plant mom. I am brewing my own fancy iced teas. Ted and I have discovered three new walking trails. My brain is less foggy. And as a special sobriety gift, I splurged on the new Taylor Swift vinyl for my record player.

The point is, by removing alcohol, I have created space to fill my life with things that I love. Drinking alcohol causes us to miss out. Not the other way around.

I am bringing my voice along for the ride

Over the past eight days, my job, city, and closest relationship have been flipped upside down. I am ending one chapter, and opening new doors. This is the space where paralyzing anxiety lives, and dreams are born. While packing my things, I’ve been given time to reflect on the apartment that brought me into sobriety and the lessons I’d like to bring from this place to the next.

When I first moved here for a new job, it only took about three weeks before I was drinking prior to clocking in. After one of my worst episodes, I woke up to find a hole I had ragingly punched through my bedroom door.

Those incidents led me to find a therapist. Together, we uncovered the main reason I have used eating disordered behaviors and binge drinking to cope, is because I didn’t feel like I could use my voice. I felt like I had to physically prove my struggle to the world. For more than a decade, I thought if I got thin or sick enough, someone would come to my rescue. But that never happened.

Before I moved here, I was still using my body and blackout drinking to tell my story. I was physically abusing myself because I never learned to speak up while experiencing pain.

After nearly 15 years of this self-made abuse, I am slowly relearning the importance of kindness. A type of kindness that, for me, is only experienced while using my own voice. When I take the time to honor and heal myself, my ability to show up and speak up multiplies.

It is impossible to say what the future holds. All I know for sure is, the upcoming weeks will be difficult and messy. Moving sucks. This is a massive change. I will have triggers and probably cry twice a day. However, one comforting promise I can make myself is to bring my voice, rather than the abuse, along for the ride.

I have the power to rewrite my story

A few years ago while finishing school, I took an adolescent psychology class. I almost fell out of my chair while reading about a theory stating that kids develop an ideal self and a feared self. I took a screenshot of it on my phone:

“The ideal self is the person an adolescent would like to be (for example: an adolescent may have an ideal of becoming highly popular with peers or highly successful in athletics or music). The feared self is the person the adolescent imagines it is possible to become but dreads becoming (for example: an adolescent might fear becoming an alcoholic, or fear becoming like a disgraced friend or relative).” 

At that time I was showing up to morning classes hungover and bringing a tumbler filled with Pinot Grigio to evening classes. I kept telling myself I’d get my shit together at the end of the semester. And there it was written in scholarly black and white; proof I became the person children fear. 

A few months later, after spending an entire semester drunk, I went to rehab for the first time. Then, five days after being discharged, and on my way home from an AA meeting, I got my second DUI. Now my criminal record was filled with more black and white proof I should be feared. 

For a very long time it felt like the universe was saying there was something wrong with me. I was the one who needed to be sent away and monitored 24/7. I was the one who could not handle life. 

My relationship with alcohol didn’t change until I realized I have the power to rewrite that, “Hi my name is Kelsi, and I should be feared” story. That story is what kept me entangled in addictive patterns for over a decade. It helped to welcome all parts of myself, rather than emphasizing my perceived weakness.

Now, after months of filling my life with Tempest material and brightly colored pens, I have rewritten the story in my head. It goes like this:

“My name is Kelsi and I am not afraid of myself. Sure, I’m awkward, emotional, quiet, and often overstimulated, but I’m also kind, creative, intelligent, and loved. I am someone who courageously and imperfectly challenges society’s view of what it means to struggle with alcohol.”

I have the power to rewrite my story.

I am free to bloom

 Whenever I woke up from a drinking black out, usually around 4 a.m., I would think, “I wish I could crawl into a hole and die.” A few hours later, I would force myself out of bed for a cigarette and shower in the dark. That was my morning ritual for years. 

Maybe I did crawl into that hole for a while. I tried to make it my permanent address because that felt way easier than being with myself through the pain. Eventually, though, I wanted out. 

Years before my sobriety began to stick, I attempted different routines and planted various seeds to aid my recovery. I tried rehab, meetings, halfway houses, several antidepressants and vivitrol, drinking herbal tea, getting a dog, studying Brene, Glennon, and Oprah, writing my own blog, and countless therapists. 

One ritual that really stuck was reading a book of poetry before bed called All Along You Were Blooming by Morgan Harper Nichols. Here is one of my favorite pieces: 

"The sight of old photographs 

sends a sharp pain up your spine. 

The days are not going to look the same 

from this day forward, 

but you will move forward, 

for all you have endured, 

you have blossomed. 

Which was possible only by the rain. 

And perhaps this is your becoming, 

your unfolding into a grace-filled bloom."

Her words reminded me that I was free to bloom, even while buried in that hole I had created. I was still free to dig myself out of the dirt and grow with the sunrise. Now, after a few months of hangover-free mornings and witnessing the perennials fill my life with vibrant color after a long winter, I can feel myself blooming, too.

 Things got dark.

That’s okay. 

 I am free to bloom.