I get cozy & hibernate

One of the hardest parts of recovery, for me, is learning to regulate my emotions. I have always been an extremely sensitive and emotional human. It often feels like I live in a constant state of emotional overwhelm.

When I was in middle school, binging and purging became my go-to emotional regulator. I felt forced to restrict my emotions and food in the daylight; while animalistically binging on junk food and purging to release the day’s emotions at dusk. After I finished, while sprawled out on the bathroom floor, my brain and body were exhausted to the point of blissful numbness. Years before I ever touched alcohol, this was my daily emotional regulating system.

Luckily, sobriety provides space to explore new ways to regulate my emotions. After much trial and error, I have created a new ritual: I get cozy and hibernate.

This process begins as soon as I get home from a long day at work. I slip into my favorite oversized fleece onesie PJs and fuzzy slippers. I play soothing music, boil water for tea, wash my face, and light all of the candles. I gather a giant pile of pillows and wrap up like a burrito with my dog, Teddy, in a soft blanket cocoon. I fill up my introverted cup with some cozy quiet time.

Next, while in my safe, cozy space, I prioritize a cathartic release. The word catharsis literally means to purify or purge emotions - like pity and fear - through art or any extreme change in emotion that results in renewal or restoration. My cathartic releases of choice are endless Taylor Swift and Grey’s Anatomy marathons. But, if sappy isn’t your style, comedy, cute dog videos, and upbeat dance-in-your-underwear-jams will also do the trick. Maybe a cathartic release is what my middle school self actually needed.

Once I have cozily released some of my daily emotions, I like to hibernate. When I feel extra emotional, it usually means I need extra rest. My hibernation space is free from all distractions. I don’t have to worry about my to-do list or check my Instagram. All I have to do is drift off into a sweet, lavender scented slumber. Sometimes I hibernate for 8 hours, sometimes 12, sometimes more. I have learned that by resting, I am eventually able to rise without harming myself.

I have struggled most of my life, long before ever touching alcohol, with emotional regulation. And it turns out, emotional regulation is an integral part of sobriety. What would happen if I tried to regulate my emotions with rest and self-compassion rather than numbness?

The only way through is cozy.

I am powerFUL, not powerLESS

Yesterday I was listening to Ashley C. Ford as a guest speaker on Glennon Doyle’s We Can Do Hard Things podcast. Hearing Ashley was like the motivational speech I didn’t know I needed. She might not have been talking about sobriety, but she kept using Tempest-worthy affirmations like, “I won’t give up on me,” “I’ve kept me alive this whole time,” “I can trust me to take care of me,” and “I’ve got me.”

The best thing Ashely said was, “When I let people see me, I am powerful.”

To me, this means, when I show up without any masks and allow people to see the real me, I am my most powerful self. This message from Ashley feels empowering; like it gives me a superwoman cape.

Ashley’s statement about power also reminds me of Step One from the Big Book, which says, “We admitted we are powerless over alcohol.” Step One always makes me scratch my head in confusion. If I quit drinking and let the world see me, does that mean Twelve Steppers believe I will have less or no power? Do they really believe disempowerment is the first step toward sobriety?!

This quote from Ashely seems profound because she is saying my real, sober self is powerFUL, not powerLESS. I struggled to get sober for 15+ years because of fear; fear of what would happen when I let people see the real me. Making the choice to reevaluate my relationship with alcohol and practice sobriety does not make me less powerful. Rather, it fills me with power.

Sobriety, for me, requires vulnerability and letting people see the real me. Let’s ditch this old idea that showing up as sober and real requires powerlessness, shall we? Today I will remember, “When I let people see me, I am powerful.”

I am safe in the nothing space

Yesterday, while waiting for my teapot to whistle, I caught myself thinking, “I need to sweep the floor and clean the stove. I need to do some laundry and schedule my first dentist appointment in ten years. I need to take my dog out for a walk before dark and get him groomed next Tuesday. I need to vacuum the carpet and clear off the coffee table, and then I can relax.”

Making tea is my favorite simple daily pleasure. It’s like a hug in a mug. But what happens when this time for myself gets bombarded with thoughts of a never-ending to-do list? Do I ever stop thinking about my to-do list? Is it possible for me to relax without cleaning up first? Do I even feel safe in the nothing space?

I think I developed this need for hyper-productivity as a way to both prove my worthiness and avoid my awkwardness - which creates a false sense of control. I am much more comfortable working than I am making small talk, so I never stop moving. I think twenty steps ahead and work efficiently. I will work harder than everyone in the building, even at the cost of my mental, physical, and emotional health. No one can talk shit about a hard worker.

But, when I live in this constant state of doing, I completely lose myself. I never allow for relaxation or fun or growth. I find it challenging to slow down because that means there is space for vulnerability.

So, how do I begin slowing down and create space for nothing? What if I prioritize, maybe even schedule in my color-coded planner, time for rest and creativity and extreme introvertness? What if, in moments where I catch myself obsessing, I take a deep breath instead? What if the path to healing lives in the nothing space?

What if the next time I find myself heading down the to-do list spiral of doom, I switch up the dialogue? What if I told myself, “I see what you are trying to do here, Kelsi. I know this pattern well. I give you permission to temporarily put the to-do list down. It is safe. I am safe. I know it’s challenging, but there is beauty to be found in stillness.”

I am safe in the nothing space.

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.