My Labour Story

Even though I suppose I’m somewhat of a writer, I never thought I would be one of those women who documented her own labour story for the world to read. That was only for those really intense moms who exchanged placenta recipes and kept their baby’s umbilical cords in a jar on the shelf.  (I realize that’s not actually true, and lots of women write their labour stories on blogs and forums. I just didn’t think I would be one of them.) But halfway through my pregnancy I became very intrigued by labour, and actually got really excited for it. I told many people that I was highly anticipating labour and was psyched up for the challenge. I wanted to conquer something that intense and feel like a superstar after. Some people compared it to the intensity of my competition and encouraged me that I would totally have the strength to rock it and have a great experience.  

I asked a lot of other women about the details of their labour stories. I took an excellent labour and delivery course at Southland church called “Labour of Love”. I read the labour section of “What to Expect When You’re Expecting” with more interest and intensity than the entire rest of the book. I was fortunate enough to have a midwife, and talked to her about my eagerness for labour and she gave me a million more tips and suggestions. I didn’t really have a birth plan – just no medication unless absolutely necessary, Justin would be my main coach, and I would bring some music (relaxing jams like Ben Rector and Amanda Cook for when I needed to chill out, and pump up tunes like Lil Jon and Beyoncé for when I needed motivation to be tough. I used both of these playlists, by the way). I took a tour of the hospital in Steinbach where I planned to deliver and we both fell in love with the facility and staff. I was so ready.

Every labour is difficult in one way or another (actually in every way). I mean, you’re pushing a human being out of a small hole in your body, and you actually live through it. Whether your pain lasted three hours or three days, you are an absolute goddess in my opinion if you have given birth. My story is in no way meant to be a woe is me, sob story. But it was hard, even traumatic, and I would like to share it.

Wow, take it easy with the preambles, Melanie.

I knew I was going to have an overdue baby. My mom was overdue with my brother and me, it was my first baby, and my midwife told me to expect to be at least a week late. Being the planner that I am, I still took three weeks off work on maternity leave before my due date to make sure I had enough time after our big move to unpack and settle. I was ready a week early just in case. His due date came and went, and I was totally fine with the extra time, even a whole week. By day 9, I was still feeling great, by day 10 I got a little antsy, and by day 11 I felt a bit like a crazy person. I had refused to do anything out of the ordinary to induce labour because I didn’t want to feel nuts, but I had not heard of many people going more than 11 days overdue, so I started to freak out a little. I had gone on lots of walks, eaten spicy food, a whole pineapple, and yes, had some fun with my husband. Other people will be just as or more anxious about the arrival of your little one as you are, and everyone has a suggestion to speed up the process. But nothing works. I’m still convinced of it.

In my middle of all this, my sweet grandma and my only living grandparent passed away. We were quite close and I was devastated. Her funeral was going to be two weeks past my due date, and I was determined to make it there. It made me even more anxious to go into labour, so I could have my baby soon enough to recover and attend the funeral.

I finally caved and bought some castor oil on Wednesday, April 27^th and it kicked in around 5:00pm that evening. Side note: this was not nearly as big of a deal as the Internet tells you it is. Maybe that’s just me with my messed up digestive system, but it was not a distressing experience by any means. Just empties the ol’ large intestine after a few bathroom trips and you’re good to go! I don’t really believe it helped me with labour though. Around 6:00pm I thought my water had broken so I got all excited. I later found out that I had probably just peed my pants or something, so it was all for nothing. But I started having real contractions around 8:00 that evening and they picked up throughout the night. After about 8 hours of that (one of which was spent walking around town at 3:00am, which was quite lovely), we went to the hospital just to see what was up. My midwife met me there and checked me: only 2cm dilated. Rather exhausted, I wanted to just fall asleep on the hospital bed and hope things would pick up enough to warrant me being there, but they didn’t, so we went home and slept a mere four hours.

The next day my contractions had all but subsided and I was quite frustrated. I kept busy by hanging photos on my walls and watching LOST, and eventually they picked up again, but only about every 15 minutes. We went to Winnipeg for a second fetal assessment to make sure Mr. Latecomer was still doing all right in there. We went out to dinner, and absolutely delighted our waitress with the news that I was in labour. We then decided we would be able to make it to my Grandma’s viewing in Steinbach, which would be quite similar to the funeral. I was so thankful to be a part of it, and even gave a tribute with some of my cousins. While one of them was speaking, I had a contraction on stage, but I think I played it pretty cool. We hung around Steinbach as long as we could, chatting with family, and hoping to go straight to the hospital. By 10:00pm I was completely wiped out, and things weren’t progressing, so we went home to bed.

After two hours of sleep, I woke up with much stronger contractions, so I walked around my house, ran up and down the stairs, and tried to keep them going. After about three hours of this, I broke down and woke Justin up. Through tears I exclaimed that it had been 30 hours of contractions with no real progression. I had also only slept six hours in the past two nights. I was a mess. He stayed up with me for a while until I got it together, and finally over the next few hours, things picked up. My contractions became seven minutes apart, which gave me about five minutes to lie down and “sleep” in between each one. Justin got up around 7:00, we watched some more LOST, and by 9:30am we were ready to go to the hospital with contractions at three minutes apart.

When we got there, my midwife checked me right away and happily announced that I was 5 – 6cm dilated! Without wanting me to get my hopes up too much, she did say that things should progress smoothly from here, which was such a relief to hear after 36 hours. However, the next 12 hours is where things really got intense.

We quickly realized that I was having very bad back labour, and there was only one form of relief: Justin’s epic hip squeezes. For ten hours, Justin pressed on my hips with all his strength through every single contraction. My midwife would sometimes jump in to help when he just couldn’t do it anymore and his entire arm was cramped up, but he was the absolute pro. She even asked him if he could come help with their other deliveries in the future. They thought baby’s head was turned the wrong way, so we tried some incredibly painful maneuvers to flip it around, including lying on my back on an exercise ball on the bed and bending backwards through three contractions. I about died. I laboured in every position possible, trying to make things move along.

Around 4:00pm (six hours later), we discovered I was only 8cm dilated and still had a ways to go. I was so exhausted, and my midwife offered me laughing gas. I quickly accepted, but almost cried when she told me it didn’t help with the pain, just kind of took the edge off. I thought it was better than nothing, and when they gave me the mask I took three huge breaths, despite the nurses telling me to go slowly. I looked at Justin and said, “I feel drunk,” and flopped down on the bed. Sometime after that, they decided to break my water, to which I yelled, “Gross! Sick! That was disgusting! Why was that so hot?! It felt like hot diarrhea! Gross!” Everyone laughed at me, but why did no one prepare me for that? And why is it hot? I still don’t understand.

The next three hours are a wild blur, partially because of the gas, partially because I started to lose it. My contractions started to pick up like crazy with incredibly short breaks in between. They were each at least two minutes long, sometimes up to ten minutes, and I had one that lasted nearly 20 minutes with just a few seconds in between to catch my breath. It was horrendous, I was exhausted beyond belief, and I felt like I absolutely couldn’t do it anymore. At one point I said to Justin, “Next time I’m getting an effing epidural!” (More on that later.) They checked me again at 7:00pm and I had only progressed one cm. One! In some of the worst three hours of my life, I only made it one cm! Then they discovered a bit of a cervix lip on baby’s head, which was preventing him from moving any farther down, and meaning all those contractions were basically for nothing. I laboured for another hour like that, but never got to 10cm. I pushed ineffectively (because I didn’t really feel the urge, I just couldn’t wait anymore) for about half an hour, but it only caused my cervix to swell and be counterproductive to the process. Great work, Melanie.

Finally by 8:30pm I started pushing for real, but the lip was still there and was stopping his head big time. So here’s where it gets real fun. They took away my laughing gas, which made me want to kill someone. I was that crazy lady sucking on a mask attached to an empty canister not wanting to give it up. Again, wasn’t really doing much to help me, but I felt like it was something keeping me alive. Then, in order to push the cervix lip back, my midwife stuck her fingers up there and moved it out of the way while I pushed. She also stuck her entire finger up my rectum to help stimulate contractions. These are officially the worst two hours of my life. I have never screamed so loudly and so intensely before. I had half the mind to worry that someone else giving birth would hear me and be freaked right out.

Unless my midwife took her fingers out of me, I wouldn’t stop contracting, so I had to beg her to stop so I could have breaks. Again, I pushed in so many positions – with my knees up, pulling on a sheet at the edge of the bed, on the toilet, having other people hold my feet up. While on the toilet (the most painful position by far) with two nurses and the midwife, I completely lost it again and begged them through tears to cut him out of me or use forceps or something. I was convinced he wasn’t going to come out without intervention, so I wanted to just get it over with. Justin came running to my side, grabbed my face, and gave me some sort of pep talk that I don’t remember because I was entirely insane by that point. I have a memory of his blurred face and some words, but that’s about it. It must have worked, though, because I kept going, and eventually made it back to the bed where he finally started coming.

The burning ring of fire is something lots of women had talked about, but I think I had assumed it only lasted for a few minutes. From the time the nurses could see a loonie sized spot of his head and the fire started, to the time he actually came out was about 45 minutes, and I was pretty sure my vagina had split like the Red Sea by the end of it. After his head came out, my body went into some sort of euphoric state. I knew I only had one more contraction to push out his body, and I was just so relieved the horrible part was over. I sat with just his head out for about four minutes before I finally had another contraction, and eventually gave birth to an octopus. Seriously, the body coming out is the strangest, grossest feeling in the world. It’s all wriggly, slithery limbs and fluids and the biggest relief of your life.

But then, at 10:20pm, they placed him on my chest, and while simultaneously thinking, “It’s finally over,” I had all the new mom feels of “You’re actually here, in my arms, and I am so in love.” Justin says I didn’t say much of anything for a long time, probably because I was in quite a bit of shock due to the last 50 hours. I finally looked at Justin and said, “This is Roman Sawyer Giesbrecht,” to which we both started crying and were so overwhelmed.

I still needed to deliver the placenta, and despite getting a shot of oxytocin to speed up the process, it took nearly 20 minutes to come out. They could finally cut the cord, and start stitching me up. Even though I only had six stitches (praise the Lord), it took over an hour to sew me up. During that time, I got impatient and we FaceTimed our parents while I was getting stitched to tell them Roman was finally here. My parents and Justin’s mom quickly came to the hospital, with McDonald’s in hand! The only thing I had eaten in the last 12 hours was two small bowls of pudding, so I was incredibly grateful. They left shortly after, and Justin and I spent the next while just staring at our precious baby boy.

So that’s my story, with most of the gory details, but what I still want to mention are the things that I am ridiculously thankful for through my awful experience. Justin was a hero. He was the best labour coach I could ask for, and I mean that with all sincerity. He did anything and everything that I needed him to, and supported me in a way I didn’t even know he was capable of. Men deserve so much credit for supporting their wives in labour, and I want to give props to all dudes who do it well. You guys rock. I also can’t possibly thank my midwife enough for going through all of that with me, and helping me in every single way. Midwives are the bomb, and I can only hope and pray I have one the next time around. I have no idea how I would have managed without her there the entire time, as opposed to having someone come in and check on me periodically. The nurses were also amazing, and I was lucky enough to be the only one in labour at the hospital, so I had all of their attention for 12 hours. Steinbach hospital is the bees knees, and I’m so glad I delivered there.

A number of people have asked me why I didn’t get drugs of any kind, and there are two answers to that – I didn’t ask and no one offered any. No one offered them to me because I had previously said I didn’t want drugs. I didn’t ask because even in the most horrific moments, it didn’t really occur to me that it was an option. I kind of forgot epidurals existed. When things got really bad, I also had it in the back of my mind that it was too late to get one for some reason. I found out later that wasn’t true, but I’m grateful it didn’t happen and I went through all of that naturally.

And obviously, I am so very thankful for my sweet little Roman. I honestly couldn’t ask for a better baby. He is smiley and fun, eats and sleeps like a champ, and is all kinds of cute. He is my reward for 13 days of waiting, and 50 hours of labour. The theme through the whole experience was clearly patience, as every stage took double or triple the average time frame. I still can’t believe everything took as long as it did, and was as excruciating as it was, but I also can’t believe I get to be Roman’s mom and Justin’s wife. Sometimes life just isn’t fair ;) 

Self Love

There are so many topics surrounding body image that I am just bursting to write about. Sometimes I am surprised I’m not tired of talking about it, but I feel that it’s something to stay aware of and on top of. I want to be real about it, and call out things that we all do, but never admit to. I want to share my experiences, flawed as they are, and hope that they are relatable on some level that make you breathe a sigh of relief. You are not the only one! We all wish our leg hair didn't grow as fast as it does, pop our pimples when we shouldn't, and need to hold in farts during certain situations. This is real life! I've lived far too long of mine trying to pretend those things aren't normal as opposed to something to be embarrassed by. 

When it comes to our bodies, we spend far more time comparing our weaknesses to others' strengths, leaving no room for actual camaraderie and safety in the insecurities we all struggle with. There is so much we can learn from each other, if we are willing to be vulnerable enough to say, "I'm in that boat too. I struggle with loving things about myself and I sometimes feel I'm alone in the battle." No two people will find peace with their bodies in the exact way, but there are so many beautiful places to find inspiration, motivation, and above all, truth. These things are designed to be shared with each other as we learn and grow while also building each other up. 


I would like to share with you some of the things that have greatly impacted me in my journey to self-love, and hope you find value in integrating them into your life.

Be intentional about self-love

I have spent the last two years being very intentional about weight loss, muscle definition, and strength. It has taken strategic planning, mindful preparation, time management, finances, and a shit-ton of incredibly hard work. But if you've read my other blogs, you'll know that while it left me with a rockin' bod, I had no more self love than when I started. I needed to be just as intentional about loving myself as I was about working on myself. Those things go hand in hand, and both require a great deal of effort. If loving your body does not come naturally to you, I cannot stress this enough, deliberately work on it! This means actively doing things that change your mindset - replacing negative self talk with positive thoughts about yourself, talking about it with people close to you, reading articles and interviews and blogs about the subject of body image and self love. There is so much good out there surrounding these topics and it's amazing what happens to your psyche when you start to fill your mind with it.

Find role models

What is your media - social or otherwise - of choice? Facebook, movies, celebrities, online magazines? I spend most of my media time on Instagram, which has a huge fitness faction full of motivational quotes, girls lifting heavy weights, and sharing their imperfect fitness journeys. But there are also a lot of gym selfies and progress pictures that may or may not make me feel really awful about myself. One day I realized that half my IG feed was full of really tiny girls who dedicated their life to the gym and never went out for wing night with their friends. The more you fill your mind with something, the more you believe it to be a larger truth than it may actually be in reality. 

Those girls make up a very small percent of the population, but because I wanted so badly to be like them, I felt like the only one who couldn't seem to make it happen. 

So I started unfollowing them, and replacing my feed with girls who were more similar to me. Girls who have huge appetites, but strive to eat well. Girls who are naturally a little thicker, but enjoy hitting the gym to lift. Girls who have other interests and friends and passions in life that don't always include perfect bodies. I also find a lot inspiration and assurance in female actresses and comedians who defy the conventional standards put on women and set a new normal with their natural, beautifully created bodies. Women like Mindy Kaling, Jennifer Lawrence, Lena Dunham, Beyoncé, and Tina Fey, to name a few. 

Buy and wear clothes that fit you

This is a big one for me, and really shouldn't be as hard as it seems to be. I have spent most of my adult life around a size 6, wishing to be a size 4. It's not a huge jump, I haven't asked to be a 00 or anything, so you would think that putting genuine effort into my health and body composition would reward me with such reasonable size requests. Well let me tell you that the only brief moment in time that I could squeeze my tush into a pair of size 4 shorts that I purchased for a photo shoot was the week right before and the week right after my competition. Once that was over, it was all downhill (uphill?) from there. Wait, what? 

The way I have come to explain it (to myself, in my own head…) is that we all have "default bodies" and "striving bodies." When I say default, I don't mean letting it all go and putting zero effort into your health and fitness. (That brings me to a size 8 or more, depending how long I let that go on.) I mean living normally while eating dessert sometimes, but not every day, going for long walks or to the gym a few times a week, and putting solid mindfulness into our decisions. I realize that may not seem "default" to everyone, but bear with me.   

The striving life is one with one or no dessert per week, intense physical activity at least every other day, and meal preparation to ensure you stay on track. You have a purpose, and you are intentionally trying to lose weight. You know you can't live that way forever, but you have goals to meet, and will find balance later.  

My striving body fits a size 4. My - go to the gym 2+ hours per day, eat very restrictively, and never have a cheat meal - body fits the size I would like to be. So I finally gave up that desire because I don't want to live like that. I have become perfectly happy with my size, and will only buy clothes that fit and flatter my beautiful body. Any clothes I own that don't fit me (because I foolishly bought them in the two week magic time portal) will be given away, because I will not let pieces of material make me feel bad about myself. It's ok to not fit things anymore, one way or the other. Feeling comfortable and amazing in size 6 pants is 100% better than feeling squished and gross in size 4 pants that you keep because you wish they fit, and wear because you feel guilty owning things you don't wear. Strive sometimes, yes, but more than that, embrace your default body (which may take a while to find) and rock your outfits accordingly. 

When you are working on a body-related goal, find the right motivation 

We have to tread carefully here. I am 100%, completely in favour of setting fitness goals for yourself, and working hard to achieve them. I have helped so many people with this, see great value in pushing yourself to new levels, and know it does marvelous things for not only your health, but your self esteem, energy, and passion for life. But first and foremost, your motive has to be in the right place. Just a heads up from oodles of personal experience that changing your body for the sole purpose of looking good is not the right place. Feeling good is right. Being healthy is right. But appearance only has got to be the worst motivator around. I don't think I need to say anymore about that.  

I would also like to write a whole post about having realistic goals and knowing when you celebrate progress (spoiler: always), but we will save that for another day.  

A huge focus shift I have had for myself is making the habits to get to my goal more important than the goal itself. If you’ve ever heard the term “fall in love with the process” this is exactly it. Meaning, I know I need to eat healthy and be active in order to achieve a certain body type/level of fitness/internal health/whatever my goals are. But in the past I have spent way more time caring only about my end goals (short or long term) and hating the way to get there, as opposed to just being proud of myself for putting in the work. Now, instead of my goal being to lose five pounds, my goal is simply to eat as well as I can each day, and hit the gym four times a week with lots of walks in between. Some weeks are better than that, and some weeks are not, and that’s totally all right. #balance  

Know the truth about your identity

If you are someone who believes in God, this one is found straight in His manual for our lives. Scripture is full of beautiful truths that tell us who we are and what we were created for. These are some of my favourites:

"For He chose us in Him before the creation of the world to be holy and blameless in His sight. In love He predestined us to be adopted as his children through Jesus Christ." - Ephesians 1:4-5

"You are a chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people belonging to God, that you may declare the praises of Him who called you out of darkness into His wonderful light." - 1 Peter 1:9

"Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God? You are not your own; you were bought at a price. Therefore honor God with your body." - 1 Corinthians 6:19-20 "I praise You because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; Your works are wonderful, I know that full well." - Psalm 139:14 

 

I give Him all the credit for leading me out of my negative self image and doubt. His words are more powerful than anything else I fill my mind with, and the motivational tools listed above are some of the things He uses to guide us into the life He created for us - one where we love who He shaped us to be and care for the physical body He designed. His truth for you is that you are His daughter, you are beautiful, you have a great purpose, and nothing will ever make you unlovable to Him. Hold onto that.     

  

 

 

Beach Bodies and Strangers

Lately I have been reading an abundant amount of articles about bathing suits and beach bodies. Now that summer has essentially arrived, these posts are everywhere, and truth be told, I'm gobbling them up like fro-yo on a hot day. (OMG, fro-yo!)  I have re-posted a handful of them, because I truly believe in the message they are sending: we all have "beach bodies" and look fabulous just the way we are.

But what is it that makes us care so much in the first place?

This, my friends, takes us into some dark places of the minds of many women (I won't say all, because some of you beauties have truly mastered the art of positive body image, and you inspire the heck out of the rest of us. Keep that up, would you?) There are so many reasons we as women want to look and feel our best: personal satisfaction, health, the approval of other women, the approval of men, compliments from our friends; just to name a few. The one I want to dissect and expose is one that is unspoken and most times unknown. It's more of a sense or look we get without any words attached to it to obtain its full meaning.

Sometimes as women, we present ourselves for the silent approval of complete strangers.

We know most of our friends won't judge our appearance (because we choose our peeps wisely and are surrounded by the best) but what if a stranger thinks I look fat in this dress? What if that girl over there notices the zit on my forehead and doesn't think I'm pretty? What if those guys see my arm fat jiggle and silently laugh at me? On the flip side we wonder, does the cashier think my carefully planned outfit is as cute as I think it is? Is that girl totally jealous of my thick, luscious hair? Are those guys checking out my long, tanned legs? Maybe I'm speaking to myself here, but I'm willing to bet you have had at least one of these thoughts.

For whatever reason, we let the opinions of people we will probably never speak to or see again dictate how we feel about ourselves. It sounds ridiculous when you say it out loud, and yet it's so difficult to let go of. We crave the validation of others, whether we know them or not. Don't even get me started on social media fronts and appearances and the feelings we associate with likes on photos. I'll be the first to admit I'm a sucker for it. But we do it in real life too, and I can't for the life of me figure out why I care so much. One thing is for sure: the more I think about other people's thoughts about me, the more I have those types of thoughts about others. I once spent a whole summer looking at every girl's waistline on the beach trying to measure where I fit in.

"Oh she has a beautiful tummy, I wish I looked like that."

"I think I'm roughly the same size as her, and she's wearing a one piece. Shit, should I be wearing a one piece?!"

"Ok well I probably look a little better than that girl in my bikini, so I'm doing all right."

Just being real, folks. If no one else is going to say it, I will. We all judge people at varying degrees. I know the times I'm being the most judgmental are the times I'm most insecure about myself, and my thoughts about others are just reflections of the thoughts I have about myself.

So I started trying something. I started caring less about what rand-os on the street thought about how I looked. I started caring less about what my friends thought about how I looked. Heck, I even started caring less about what my husband thought about how I looked (although, let's be honest, that opinion is my favourite because it stays beautiful even when I'm not.)

You can probably guess what happened. I genuinely started simultaneously loving myself more and having almost only positive thoughts and opinions about other people. It's crazy how powerful that is, and so vital to our self-image. Uplifting and empowering others more than we think about ourselves - sounds like a game changer to me. I read this in a blog the other day and it really struck me:   

"The best hostesses don’t worry about whether company feels good about their home or food or throw pillows or what have you. The best hostesses just make sure company feels good about themselves. That seems like the better way. This reminds me of my friend, Angela, who thought she was twenty pounds overweight, but didn’t care much. She always wore a bikini to our neighborhood pool and one day she said, “Listen. I’m a little fat. I don’t spend a lot of time worrying about that because I’ve got stuff to do. As a matter of fact- with these seven million kids and a husband and a job – I’ve got no time for charity work. So to make the world a better place, I wear this bikini to the pool. You know, so other women who DO worry about their weight will feel awesome in comparison. No skin off my nose. That’s my good deed. Done. Check.'”

First off, Angela sounds hilarious and wonderful and like someone I want to meet. Secondly, who am I in that story? Most times I'm one of the other women worrying about my weight and think the answer to feeling better about myself by looking at other women. When I really think about it though, I would much rather be Angela who "doesn't care much" and is more concerned with making sure other people feel good about themselves in humorous and unorthodox ways. I would rather be known for spreading positivity and joy and good vibes than for looking great and making others feel bad about their appearance. It's so obvious to say, but my thoughts don't always reflect that desire. I'm working on it though. Very intentionally working on it.

So this summer when we all get out on the beach with our bodies; when we take off our tank tops to reveal a bikini or a one piece or we leave our top on; when we decide if we feel fabulous on our own or depend on the opinion of others, silent or not; and whether we feel "ready" or not…here we come :) 

 

For the Girls

This one’s for the girls with hearty appetites.

For the girls who truly love food, and in full portion sizes.

The girls who love real food, soul food, healthy food, fast food, wholesome food, and every food in between.



This one’s for the girls who can eat a full cheeseburger and fries without needing a box at the end of the meal.

For the girls who panic at the idea of “three meals a day” and wonder if life exists without snacks.

The girls who hear the words “Oh I had a salad for lunch” and get hungry just thinking about it. (Did it have meat? Was there cheese or nuts or anything of substance on this salad? How are you full from only vegetables?!)

 

This one’s for the girls who still don’t know what gluten is, but have essentially given up avoiding it.

For the girls who are trying to eat more vegetables, but wouldn’t know how to make a green smoothie if they tried.

The girls who love a home cooked veggie stir-fry just as much as a generous plate of fettuccine alfredo.  

 

This one’s for the girls who struggle to have a healthy relationship with food, and find it difficult to stick to diet plans.
For the girls who want to be fit and healthy, but don’t quite know how this ravenous appetite or adoration for taste fits into that picture.

The girls who fight to lose the weight they want to, and know that consumption plays a huge role in that battle.

 

This one’s for the girls who don’t find this process easy, but keep on trying.

For the girls who didn’t stick to their plan on the weekend, but start fresh again on Monday.

The girls who fight temptations, have small victories, and are learning to love their bodies as much as they love food.

 

If you are one of these girls: I get you.
And we can do this.

Bodybuilding and Balance

 


It’s been about six weeks since my competition. The day that I spent a year and a half preparing for has come and gone as fast as any other day and now seems rather distant. Feels a bit like a wedding where you prepare for endless months to have one glorious day and then it’s all over in an instant. I meant to write about the whole experience when it was a little fresher in my memory – during the days when I went for coffee with people who wanted to hear what it was like, what I learned, how my life looks now. People still want to know, but we’ve all mostly moved on. I felt it was fairly essential for me to document my experience, if even just for my own memories and reflection. It was definitely a life-changing event, and I don’t want to forget things that seem to so easily slip from my memory. 







If you are my friend, have seen any of my posts on social media, or have had a conversation with me in the past two years, you will know that I competed in a body building show in the bikini division. I had crazy ups and downs: lost weight, gained weight, lost some more, gained way too much, and finally lost the most I ever have. I’ve talked enough about the entire grueling process of my prep, so I won’t discuss the details of that now. Only that the days of spending three hours a day in the gym, and eating as low as 850 calories a day are thankfully over.  (I should point out that most people who compete do not have a prep like that, and part of it was my own fault for deciding to “YOLO” most of my summer weekends. My coach was incredible and deserves infinite amounts of credit for bringing me through all of that.) But what I - and most of the people I talk to - find most interesting about this journey is the transformation of my mind, rather than my body. I had no idea I would learn as much as I did through this wild experience.

I have been overly preoccupied with body image since I was 12. I have desired a certain body type since I first discovered the roll of fat on my midsection, and stopped eating four oatmeal blueberry pancakes on Saturday mornings. I have resented my slow metabolism for over ten years, and when I finally decided to do something real about it, I had no idea it would be as difficult as it was. I heard people talk about “losing ten pounds” like all they had to do was swap out chips for celery once a week and jog for 20 minutes on days when they felt a little more energetic.  I thought that losing the last ten pounds would be similar to the first ten pounds.  



I thought that losing ten pounds would take maybe a few months of strict dedication, and then I would be golden. I use the number ten, because from the very first day I sent a trainer my weight, to the day I stepped on stage in a bikini, my weight was a difference of ten pounds.

As I mentioned, I did end up gaining a pile of weight from June – October, some of which was muscle, but most of which was Domino’s, Menchie’s, and tequila. This meant that in just five short months of my official prep, I needed to lose 30 pounds. Oops.

The mind battles were unreal during those months, and I could probably have entered a domestic partnership with my full-length mirror by the end of it. I grew so tired of looking at myself and checking to see if I was “lean enough yet” that it almost put me over the edge. I promised myself in the beginning that I wouldn’t become self-obsessed like so many competitors do, but I think I mistook my frequent body negativity as something other than self-absorption.   

 

Having a time line on your waistline is a terrifying, yet exhilarating challenge. It was not, by any means, all self-hatred and tummy pinching, although that was a real struggle. I thankfully had a live-in gym partner, meal prepper, and most importantly, mental coach to redirect my attention time and time again. Justin would never let me give into the mental tormentors that tried to tear me down, and consistently lifted me up in every way possible.  




I can truthfully say that although we were a powerful team during our journey together, that he was a lot stronger than I was, and I definitely would have quit without his encouragement, support, and genuine care. There was a time where did he almost make me back out – a time when I sprained my ankle six weeks out, got three week influenza, and had the energy of a palliative care resident for over two months. Fortunately I pulled through, but he always had my best interest in mind. Our marriage is so much stronger than it ever has been, and I would not have wanted to do this without Justin with me the whole way through.




One of the most challenging parts about prep was how slowly my body responded to even the most drastic of regimes. I kept waiting for a time when I could say, “ok, I’m happy here. I could stay this weight when I’m done with this competition, and I feel it is attainable to maintain.” And while that did eventually happen, it wasn’t until about two weeks beforehand, right after which I immediately finally started dropping weight at a much quicker pace. I think I lost my final ten pounds in my final two weeks, and by the time I got there, I was almost too exhausted to appreciate the new body I had. For real. This was one of my really big moments of realization.  

I remember lying on the bed in my hotel room the day before the show, covered in spray tan, wearing Justin’s shirt that was too big for both of us, and looking at my stomach thinking, “I should be appreciating this. I finally have the body I’ve been dreaming of, and I’m just lying here with no one to see it.” I said something to that effect out loud, and Justin asked what exactly I meant by appreciating it. I had no idea. What was I going to do with a nice body? Feel it myself? Walk around in clothes that were a size small and feel smug about it? Look in the mirror again to finally have less to pinch? Other than walking on stage in a bikini and spending some time on the beach this summer (for all of two months in Manitoba), I could honestly not think of anything to “do” with the body I had wanted so badly.  






The other ironic thing was that as my body fat was lowering so was my internal thermostat. I was so cold the entire last few months, that the only time I saw what was under my t-shirt and two sweaters was when I was jumping into a hot shower to warm my bones. It was ridiculous, really. All this hard work with nowhere to show it off because I was too cold to take my clothes off, and no logical place to have it on display. 

 

So there it was. Apparently as soon as I reached my goal, I realized it wasn’t as great as I thought it would be. Oh stepping on stage was as great as I thought it would be, and probably even more. But not for the reasons I first had in mind. See, I thought the rush of having all eyes on me, strutting my stuff, and showing off this beautiful body I worked so damn hard for would be all the reward I needed. I am a self-proclaimed diva who loves being the center of attention, so this was essentially my dream come true. But although that part was fun, a little silly, and I suppose rewarding, the true pay off was the number of people in the audience cheering my name.  

Over twenty of my family and friends paid to come to cheer me (us) on with signs, colour coordinated outfits, and voices louder than the entire theatre combined. Why did they do that? Because they were really excited about my tiny waistline and muscular legs? No. They came to support because they were proud of my hard work and dedication, and because they love me. Can you even believe such a thing? That over twenty people who came to watch, plus countless others who sent encouraging texts, voicemails, and messages actually love me for infinitely more than what my body looks like. I can’t even write about it without tearing up.  

This sounds like the most basic concept, especially when I consider why I love all of them right back and realize that none of it has to do with appearance or performance. But it took (and is still taking) a very long time for me to grasp this concept. Through the entire journey, not a single person has ever made me feel that I was not meeting their expectations or that this was something I needed to keep up once I was finished. Every single negative thought I had was entirely and completely in my own head, and I received nothing but unconditional support, even from people who didn’t quite understand or maybe even agree with what I was doing. 

 










I could not have asked for a better community. Stepping on stage was fully worth every bead of sweat, every portioned meal, every weight lifted, every avoided dessert, and every hour on that damn elliptical because of one thing: knowing that I was loved and valued by the people, present or not, cheering me on. The dorky smile on my face the moment I stepped on stage says it all.

That entire day was such a huge rush, and I was excited from beginning to end. I’m grateful to have so many photos to remember it, and I will hold onto those memories for a lifetime. It was, however, the same 24 hours as any other day, and soon enough, it was over. We celebrated that evening and the next day with copious amounts of food and friends, and it was everything I dreamed it would be. And then Monday came, and I started living out the number one question I am now asked: what are you doing now that you’re done your competition? 

 
It’s such a loaded question that I love answering, because it gives me a chance to talk about this beautiful concept that I have such a hard time with, but am slowly figuring out. “Finding balance” is something that everyone is striving for in some area of their life, and it’s my big focus at the moment. I am an all or nothing kind of person, and health and fitness has been no exception. I spent last summer eating on a strict meal plan during the week, and then binging on weekends. I spent most of my life doing next to no physical activity, and graduated to three hours a day lifting weights and running my butt cheeks off. I guess I follow the pattern of a “yo-yo dieter” fairly well, except that I’ve followed the same “diet” the entire time. My body just hates being thin, apparently, and thinks it’s more fun to gain a pound for every chocolate chip I eat, and lose a pound for every 75 hours of cardio I do. (Sorry, still working on my attitude about this.) But here I am, post competition, trying to live somewhere between the realms of “body builder lifestyle” and what I call “YOLO bulking” (aka eating everything I want to whenever I want to).

Balance is harrrrrd! After three months straight without a single cheat meal, yes I want to treat myself when I can! On the other hand, after being in the best shape of my life, yes I want to stay as close to that as I can! There are those magical people who are able to have both of those things in their life, and I will forever struggle with envy towards those born with supersonic metabolisms, but I belong to the larger camp of people who will always have to watch what they eat in order to maintain a certain body weight.  

 
Note that I haven’t said balance at the gym is hard, because, quite frankly, I have come to enjoy working out (most of the time), and it means I get to eat more, so I am all for that! I have also significantly reduced my time spent there, which makes it an enjoyable place to spend some of my time once again.  

So how do I balance?  Well my first step was booking a ten-day all-inclusive resort in Mexico with eight of my best friends three weeks after comp, and literally eating as much as a 300-pound man. I say literally because I matched my buddy plate for plate at almost every meal. Not even ashamed.  But then I come home to normal living and need to make new decisions about how I eat, how I train, and how I think about my body; living somewhere between caring too much and not caring enough; being conscious of health and nutrition and movement, and trying not to be so self-conscious of my body.  




Simply “eating healthy and being active” sounds so fun and enjoyable, even attainable, and yet the image conjured up in my mind associated with such habits looks nothing like the girl in my mirror who does all she is told to do to “eat healthy and be active” and still has rolls in uncomfortable places.   

And yet I know I’m very healthy, I know I was created to be beautiful, and I’ll even go so far to say that some people are striving for a body like mine. (That is a sobering thought in itself.) But do you know what I realized when I finally lost the extra fat I loathed on my body for over half my life? It is just as difficult to love your body at the end of your goal as it is at the beginning. No one told me that, but I’m telling you now. Well honestly, someone probably did tell me that, and I paid very little attention because I was too busy looking for my abs that never showed up.  

So now that I’m done competing, have a little extra “fluff” on my body, and am re learning how to eat in public settings and be ok with missing one work out, now I am learning this. And I don’t know if I have ever been happier with myself. The evenings of tears when I’ve spent too much time in the mirror are behind me. The mornings of going through 12 shirts before I find one I feel good in are gone (mostly because I just threw out those first 11 shirts. No sense in owning clothes you don’t feel fabulous in when you have clothes that you do.)  






I still catch myself poking and squishing and wishing and wanting, but it’s less. I don’t know that I will ever stop caring fully, but I hope to less and less every day. I hope to reach new milestones in my heart and mind where I conquer new battles, and therefore make space for more. More goodness. More love. More peace of mind. More care for others.
In chatting with my mom about this recently, I said that being so concerned with my body takes up too much brain space, and I want to get rid of it. She agreed and added that it takes away space you could be thinking about other people. 

 
Thinking less about my body makes more room in my head for thinking about loving others.

 

This is a very simple, and yet mind-blowing concept for me, and it helps me keep my focus right. I would so much rather take up space in my head with the concerns of other people, and the more I concern myself with, well, myself, the less space I have for those amazing people who came to cheer me on in a bikini. I make my body an idol when I care too much about what it looks like, and you know what else? NOBODY CARES! It’s just me. As women, we think that other women care so much more about our appearance than they actually do. Just watch a Dove beauty campaign commercial and you’ll see it a million times over. We judge ourselves so harshly compared to how we see others. We can point out all kinds of beautiful features in our friends, but have a hard time coming up with that list for ourselves.  On top of that, people are much more concerned with whether or not you are kind than whether your butt jiggles when you run. The people who love you care more about your conversation than your thigh gap, or lack thereof. And my friends want to see my smile when they tell a joke, rather than my flat stomach at the beach. 


I’m sure I will learn and re learn these things until I am old and grey and oh so wrinkly. I will look for inspiration in every corner I can find it, and Justin will patiently listen to my “new discovery” every day I read something valuable. I will receive revelation after revelation, and change my mind a million times about my goals, my focus, my methods. I will live a healthy life without obsessing over health, because obsession is not healthy. I will lose weight, and I will (gulp) gain weight, and I will work harder on loving myself than I do at “fixing” myself. I will never have it figured out, but I will always strive to help others as they learn to love their bodies. I hope to write more about this, and chat with friends about health, fitness, and self love. We are all works in progress and can all use a little inspiration from somewhere on a regular basis. This is just my story. I hope it inspires you.