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