Those moments, when you have this incredible rush over your entire body and your brain and your being, of this unexplainable overpowering feeling of being thankful to be alive..
I just had one of those moments.

I wish there was a way that I could bottle it up and save it for days when I am struggling and really need to remember how fucking amazing that feeling is. Hell if I could bottle it up I would give it away to everybody else who needs it too.
But when you really sit down and think about it. We're all feeling this feeling at different times in our lives.

I experienced it a minute ago, you might have experienced it 2 days ago and the next person might experience it 3 days from now.

So let's really sit down and think about this.

We are all busy human beings. We are all swamped with things that we need to do for our own lives. But just imagine those days when you're not feeling the best and you're having a rough go, imagine if your friend or your family member decided to reach out to you because they're having a good day, and do something even as little as tell you that they love you (which is actually a pretty big thing), or give you a phone call to check in to see how you are.. These things can potentially change your entire day (and life)

So if everyone of us, when we're having a good day, reached out to somebody who may not be having a good day, wouldn't that make the world a better place?
I know I've talked about this a lot, the things that can make this world a better place, but I feel it honestly truly doesn't hurt anything if I just keep putting it out there.. so that's exactly what I'm going to do.

One more thing, I'm not perfect. As I sit here and I drop all of these words out of my mouth, I'm realizing that I too need to take my own advice and put more effort into doing exactly what I just said. But that's the thing we're not perfect. If our intentions are pure and if our intentions are good and meant for the better, then honestly that is your first big step towards the goal of being a better person.
​
Voice-to-text activate! Jen has the urge to ramble again! Heck if my ramblings help at least one person then it's definitely worth it! 💙😘

Way back, close to 15 years ago, I experienced something that knocked me off my feet. And I don't mean knocked me off my feet in a good way. Not a good way at all.

I experienced, for the first time, depression.

I didn't know what the hell was wrong with me. Was this normal? Did everybody feel like this? Am I going to survive this?

Depression consumed me. It grabbed a hold of me and said Jen, I own you. And you have no say in the matter at all. I'm going to make people think that you're crazy I'm going to make people think that you are not normal and I'm going to make people think that you are not someone they want to be with. Even worse yet, I'm going to make you not like yourself. I'm going to make you want to curl up in a ball and cry. Cry all day. I'm going to make you second-guess everything that's ever happened to you and everything that you're doing. I'm going to make you hate yourself.

I'll be honest, I have no idea how I'm even writing this right now. Because depression and anxiety has done so many terrible things to me. So many things that I honestly can't even fathom how the heck I'm going to provide you with examples of things that it has done to me in the past.

Let's Flash Forward to now. Thank God now there are many resources and Facilities that are there for people who are struggling with different mental health struggles. Thank goodness that now it has finally had a light shined on it. Thank God now the word stigma has a solid meaning for the majority of us in this world. Thank God it is now easier to talk about your mental health.

Because of my personal Journey with my mental health struggles, I have vowed to do whatever I can possible to help other people.

It is hard when you have anxiety and depression or any other mental health struggle to take care of OTHER people AND take care of yourself. It's possible. Because honestly, helping other people, when I'm able, helps me and helps me heal and helps with my recovery.

I've developed a new package that I'm going to be releasing in the next little while that is going to provide a means for people to use my photography as a form of therapy, to help them with their own, personal mental health struggle.

About a month ago I was emailed by a beautiful woman that I haven't had the honor of meeting in person yet, asking if I would be a panelists at a conference that I have been admiring for a few years.

Jenn Wallace is the Founder and creator of GWEn Inspire - A Full Day Event!

The other day I finally had the pleasure of meeting her in person. Talking to her, felt like talking to somebody I've known for years! We talked about the event and of course Mental Health.

I'm completely honored to be a part of GWEn!

Last fall I spoke at a the Niagara Leadership Summit For Women 2018 at Brock University and it literally changed my life. It gave me one BIG step up towards my ultimate goal of recovering from PTSD.

I am so looking forward to GWEn, next week, and I hope to see some of my friends there! All of this stuff that we're doing is all to help end the stigma surrounding Mental Health. It's so very important!

http://gwenconference.com

​
I started my weight loss journey long before I signed up for surgery. That journey has been going on almost as long as “Don't Stop Believin'” has been over-played and over-sung – because I was born in the early 80's! Get it? Ha! I have been that typical yo-yo dieter for most of my life. I can always lose about 30-50 pounds on my own and then I put it all back and then some. I've done some crazy diets over the years, like the cabbage soup one and this one where you could only have one type of food per day – protein on Tuesday and veggies on Thursday, that kind of thing. I did the big ones – Weight Watchers, good ol' diet and exercise – even a weight loss pill that is now off of the market because a lot of the patients that took it, well... They died.

I went through the typical years of self loathing and self hate, worried about what other people thought of me, shrinking into myself in public, sitting in pain to try to avoid taking up space in this world. I was always wanting to weigh a certain amount, look a certain way be who I'm “supposed” to be. I suffered years of abuse from those in my life whom I trusted to love me but over the recent years I have learned to distance myself from those who made me feel less than, and it's incredible what happens when you can make those changes.

The pre-op process for the surgery is intense! I have had to go for a lot of appointments, blood work, a gastroscopy, ultrasounds, two sleep studies, and the list goes on and on. So far, the most formative appointment was the short time I spent with the psychotherapist to pass my psychiatric evaluation. I have certainly struggled in the past with some mental health disorders; post partum depression and post partum OCD both combined lead me to have a three week stint in a locked in-patient psychiatric hospital – so I have seen my fair share of psych professionals. This was a different beast though. Ultimately I did get cleared by the psychotherapist but it did bring up some of my crazy feelings around food and body image, particularly when she asked if I had any troubled personal relationships or any relationships that breed negative connotations surrounding food and body image.

The conversation went a bit like this: Me: “Do you mean if my mom... Well she photoshopped me to make me look skinny before she put pictures of me on her social media...” Her: “Really?” Me: “Yeah. I mean, at least she's bad at photo editing and so it is pretty hilarious!" Her: “Would you say that you use humor to mask your pain?" Me: "You bet your ass I do.” Going into this whole process I have maintained a positive outlook and have enjoyed every part of the process as a part of the ride, however, this little shadow of doubt started poking into the back of my mind. Not doubt related to my decision making, but doubt in that self love I've spent the last 33 years developing.

Everyone in my life is so positive about the surgery, so happy I've made this decision, so happy that I'll finally be smaller... I am thankful for the show of support, but I started thinking “is there something wrong with me now?”

Now that I have finally gotten to the point of loving my body for the hugs it has given and received, the lives it has helped save throughout my career, the times my body almost failed me and then came back from the brink. My body has made a very cool mini-human, and it has rebounded from the times it couldn't quite finish making other ones.

My body has been broken and bruised and depressed. My body has gotten me through every bad day I've ever had and has been there to celebrate all of the good times my privileged life has had to offer. No, there is nothing wrong with me now and I refuse to believe that there is. Yes, I want to make a change and work to be a healthier, less pained version of myself, but this body is also a lot of who I am.

Every formative experience in my life has been in this body and I need to honor that journey. When I get to my weight loss “after” I don't want to look back at myself in a negative light. I do not want to look back to see sad, dreary “I hate myself” before pictures, because I don't. I am beautiful now, I will be beautiful in the future and despite what I have been told I have always been beautiful.

I am not perfect, I have made mistakes and I am certain that I will continue to make many mistakes into the future. There are times when I could be a better friend, a better mother, spouse, nurse, employee, co-worker, boss, daughter... I dear say that imperfections highlight beauty instead of darkening it though, because in my experience it's not about being perfect, it's about seeing the problematic imperfections, acknowledging that they exist and working to improve into the future. After all, to err is human, and that's what we are. Catch you on the flip side, Elise

I have always struggled with the way I look in some way, shape or form. Its why I originally became a health and fitness coach.

I was in my early teens when I really started worrying about what I looked like. Thinking I would only be beautiful if I was skinny and toned. I think this is what either triggered or highly impacted my depression and anxiety through my teenaged years.

It’s a mentality I have struggled with even through my late 20’s.

I was 29 when I finally decided that being skinny didn’t matter to me anymore, ironically on my birthday. I was sitting at my kitchen table (as I am now) writing an email to a client about how beautiful she already was. She may have been a little over weight, but she was BEAUTIFUL. It didn’t change how anyone thought of her, we all thought she was beautiful just the same.

It stopped me in my tracks.

If I could love another person, who I had technically never met, with no limitations; why could I not do that for myself?! Why could I not see every scar, stretchmark and roll as a badge and sign I had LIVED?

I decided right then and there that it was time to start the practice of loving myself whole heartedly.

I started changing the way my inner dialogue went, I changed ‘I hate this’ to “I love this’. I started eating better and exercising not to be ‘skinny’ but to be a healthier version of myself. I stopped fasting or skipping meals in hope of losing faster (news flash, it works the OPPOSITE way!!) I started to eat less and less junk.

It started working.

Not only did it have a HUGE impact on my depression and anxiety, I was feeling healthy for the first time in my life. I felt strong, empowered and full of love. I had been a self love, fitness, nutrition and empowerment coach for over a year and I was only JUST starting to really understand what it was about for MYSELF.

Its been three months of truly practicing what I preach and expanding my capacity to love. The life change is amazing, I wish I could put it into words. Changing my perspective has truly changed how I look at everything in life, from my incredible clients to friends and family, right up to myself.

Today I can sit here and say that, though I have my struggles, I do love my body. It isn’t always easy, and I still slip up (only been 3 months) but this journey is one I won’t ever stop. I invite you to love yourself too, body, mind, spirit, all of you. Because you know what? You are the most beautiful person in your life, you NEED to see that just like the world around you does.

When I started health and fitness coaching with Beachbody I got a lot of ‘you’re just shaming others into hating themselves’ and ‘you just look for ‘fat’ people!’ For me that’s NEVER been what its about, it may have taken me a long time to learn to love myself, but I have always loved every body shape there is out there. Always.

So why do I do this gig then? Body positivity my friends. EVERYONE deserves to feel their best and look the way THEY want to look. I simply provide the tools and kick ass motivation/empowerment to help reach the goal that they would like help with. Skinny isn’t always healthy (I am proof of that) and being more on the curvy side doesn’t always mean unhealthy (also proof of that). It is a FEELING and a way of life to be healthy. Your size does not determine this!! I don’t care if you’re 110lbs or 300lbs YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL.

End of story and slight soapbox rant 😉

If you ever hear the song start to play “I Can See Clearly Now the rain…”  and sing it in my direction, I can guarantee you I will disappear. You see when I was in middle school one individual realized that my name Lorraine rhymes with the lyric “rain” it became “I can see clearly now Lorraine is gone” which was my signal to take the hint and leave.  It seems harmless in hindsight and at the age of almost 30 I should not have the reactions I do, but to this day that song is a painful reminder of my youth and struggling to find my place. 


I will skip the soap opera like drama that was my preschool to elementary school years as an only child of divorce trying to navigate family and friends. Lets return back to the middle school hallways where the taunting began because there was just something not right about me to everyone else . Was it that my parents divorce emotionally stunted me and that is why I chose to retreat to the basement to play with my dollhouse instead of parties? Did it have the opposite effect and force me to grow up instantly which is why I dressed like I was going to a business meeting with my latest outfit from Le’ Chateau paired with sensible heels when my peers wore jeans and sneakers. My best friend at the time was the tallest girl I have ever seen, she was blonde, curvy and vivacious which means typical story, girls wanted to be her friend and boys wanted to date her. 


I stood next to her just over 5”, freckles, braces for over 5 years and attempting to dye my hair from brunette to red which resulted in a carrot top situation. I was in every sense of the word the ugly duckling of our group and it didn’t get easier in High school. I remember sitting at the lunch table looking around and hearing all the gossip from the parties I had missed the previous weekend while I retreated in the basement because I did want not to partake or simply because I was not invited. Sex, drugs, alcohol they were experimenting with everything and I was more interested in the latest release of an animated movie or new Broadway Musical. We were never seen as the “cool kids” but to me they were, and I was not. 


I was diagnosed with Depression and Anxiety around the same time and had a huge setback. I struggled to control my emotions and prescribed medication made it impossible to get out of bed. I eventually failed grade 9 due to lack of attendance and attitude so when I was going to have to repeat a year and my group was going graduate on time I decided to transfer and start fresh. I switched school and fell in with another group and I felt little more accepted but still always the odd one out. I worked really hard to graduate but I fell ill and almost missed the festivities. I was so sick I missed the breakfast and now I have an yearbook without any signatures. No “I’ll Miss you” or “Rock on!” and now that I barely talk to anyone due to distance, life and personal growth I sometimes look at the blank cover and wish by some power that I could have those signatures. 


My first year out of high school my mom thought it would be a good idea for me to volunteer, and so I applied to be a camp counsellor for Canterbury Hills. They have both day camp and residential programs and a special needs one on one support team. I volunteered to be the one on one support for my cabin that summer and my life was forever changed. I bonded with children who thought differently, spoke differently and sometimes not at all, but we did our best to understand one another. 


My older cousin is on the Autism Spectrum and growing up in our household it was never a conversation, it was expected that she be accepted and treated with respect because she is one of us, she is family. Over the years I have seen her and the children I have worked with struggle similar to my experiences when it comes to finding your place because of our individuality and differences. By writing ‘Friends on the Spectrum’ I set out to create material for children, parents, educators and more to use as a platform for discussions around awareness and the importance of acceptance in regards to the value of our peers on the spectrum.  I do not claim to be an expert on the subject matter and have used my personal and professional experiences with my background in children’s education /development to form the content.  The illustrations are individually hand drawn by a young woman on the spectrum from Newmarket, ON  and she has created an incredibly detailed depiction of daily living and learning in order to tell this story. Together we have created an engaging, fun and educational story in order to foster open and honest conversations to promote uniqueness and individuality for all ages. 

Cheers, 
Lorraine Lowry 

To purchase "Friends On The Spectrum" follow this link:
​www.friendsonthespectrum.com

​Photography by: Lady Luck Photography Studio

​As I write this, my son Arthur is almost seven months old and I am seven months postpartum.
I’m a first-time mom and have had chronic depression and anxiety for the majority of my life.

I’m no stranger to challenges related to having a mental illness yet somehow, I was unprepared for the complete upending of my psyche that happened after I gave birth. Even though I told myself over and over again that because I’d be on my medication, and because I knew I’d probably have postpartum depression (PPD), I’d be ready for it, PPD still hit me fast and hard,
and at the same time, insidiously and like a dripping faucet.

Arthur was born at full term on my due date but was smaller than average for his gestational age.
Because of that, we had to stay in the hospital for thirty-six hours after his birth as opposed to the midwife-recommended six hours that would have been acceptable if he’d weighed more. I was not ready for an overnight hospital stay, both mentally and emotionally. Within the first few hours of Arthur’s birth, he was taken to be examined by a pediatrician (luckily only for a few
minutes), and a nurse had to draw a vial of blood from his foot while he screamed in distress.

The latter is when the tears started for me and they didn’t stop for about twelve full hours that
day. I couldn’t rest, as I was in a ward room with three other families, I hadn’t showered, and the nurses were concerned that my son wasn’t getting enough breast milk to keep his blood sugar up. I was overwhelmed with a full spectrum of emotion and literally could not stop crying. Finally, a nurse switched me to a private room over concern about my mental health and then I was able to
get some rest. This was the first day of my son’s life, and the emotional roller coaster had already begun.

Over the next few weeks, concern over his weight and the rate of his gains were at the top of my priority list. I worked extremely hard to establish breastfeeding with Arthur, to the detriment of my own health. No one prepared me for the fact that no matter how hard I tried, it might not
work. I was on medication and herbal supplements, I pumped as much as I could, and I fed Arthur at some points every forty-five minutes. Despite all of that work, he was growing too quickly for my body to keep up with demand.

One night when he wouldn’t settle and kept getting frustrated at the breast that he couldn’t get enough, we decided it was finally time to supplement with formula. At that time, I thought it would be a temporary solution until my body could catch up, but we ended up supplementing Arthur with formula for the next 5 months while I was also nursing and pumping for him. Feeding became an all-the- time exhausting event: nurse, prepare a bottle, feed Arthur the bottle, rock Arthur to sleep, and if there was time before he woke up again, try to pump, feed myself, use the washroom – anything I could possibly fit in 20 minutes. I can honestly say that I’ve never worked so hard at anything my entire life as I did trying to breastfeed my son. I gave it beyond everything I possibly had. I slowly drained myself of all energy, human-ness, and what made me “me” before I was a mom.

I didn’t have time to take care of myself or do the things I loved. I constantly felt guilt for not trying harder and for having to give him formula. Then he stopped wanting to nurse, and my mood took a nosedive. Every feeding became a struggle to get him to latch. I didn’t understand why he was rejecting food. I contemplated going to a clinic in Toronto. I thought maybe I could exclusively pump for him. I’d look online for tips to boost milk supply and encourage latching. Every time I looked up new ways to “make this work”, I’d get despondent. I felt like a huge failure. Thankfully, I had my husband, our families, and my friends to encourage me to do whatever worked for me. One conversation with my husband Josh in particular was helpful when he said that what we were doing was working, so why try and change it? I was making things more difficult for myself when I didn’t have it in me to tackle anything more.

Not only was Arthur not eating well, he wouldn’t sleep. I was exhausted probably to the point of madness. I was unable to nap during the day to make up for long nights because he wouldn’t nap for longer than thirty minutes. His night sleep got worse when he was around four months old to the point that he was waking up every hour to be rocked back to sleep. It was physically draining and mentally demanding. The lack of sleep for all of us ended up being a strain on my marriage to the point that if we hadn’t decided to sleep train Arthur, it’s likely that would have been the breaking point.

At my worst, I got so frustrated with Arthur that I wanted to shake him to stop him from crying. I became afraid I would harm my child. I felt bad for not wanting to spend all my time with him, and then felt bad for not being more happy and present for his first days/months. I wanted to be able to savor all these small moments that come during his infancy, and instead I was crying,
worrying, angry, and very sad.

“At least he will know that I loved him when I’m gone” were the words that kept going through my head each time I did something like make my son clothes or write in his journal. I was trying to leave a legacy of how much he meant to me before I ended my own life. Those were/are my darkest moments of PPD, when I think about how Arthur will remember me when I’m gone.

Those are the words I told Jen when I walked into her studio the day we did a quick mom and baby shoot. I wanted a physical reminder of my love for my son, and a photo of the two of us together seemed necessary. When I look at these photos now, I see a beautiful and happy baby and a woman who loves her son more than anything else in the world. Since that day, I have started to feel better. I’ve taken more time to be creative, Arthur and I have gone on more walks, and in general, he is eating and sleeping better. Nothing can change the fact that those were the hardest months of my life, and all the “it’s gets better” comments from those around me didn’t help in the moment. I feel proud of myself for recognizing that something had to change (I stopped breastfeeding) and for taking steps to become a healthier and more balanced person/mom each day.

It’s my first Mother’s Day, and my Mom asked me the other day if I could do anything for Mother’s Day, what would I want to do? I had no idea how to answer that question when she asked me but now I know: I’d like to spend some quiet time alone to do whatever makes me happy. It feels selfish to me, but I have to keep telling myself that self care isn’t selfish – it’s necessary for me to be at my best during all the other times when I’m needed to hold my baby
when he’s upset or make silly faces at him to get a laugh or sing him the same lullaby ten times in a row while he fights a nap. Arthur deserves the best version of me that I can give him. So this Mother’s Day, of course I’d like to spend some time cuddling my sweet boy, but I’d also like to spend some time being a mother to myself and making sure I can continue to work on becoming that version of me.

My PPD right now is manageable, but that’s not to say that tomorrow, or next week, or next month that things might be hard again. Overall, though, the trend seems upward, and I have a beautiful, healthy, extremely happy and silly baby boy that reminds me that all of this is worth it. Being a mom is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, but meeting Arthur and watching him grow
is also the most exciting adventure I’ve ever been on.

To all the mothers out there, Happy Mother’s Day! You’ve got this, and even if you don't (you do), it’s ok and healthy to ask for help. No matter your journey, you are doing an amazing job. - Kat

I am not going to bore you with the details of my past; I have worked hard to get to this point in my life and have decided to stay in the present as much as possible.

Because of multiple unfortunate events in my life, I have been diagnosed with PTSD, generalized anxiety and major depressive disorder. I have suffered in silence for years, pushing my thoughts, feelings and emotions down so far, I thought no one would notice. I worked hard to keep people thinking I was this "wonder woman"; working 2 jobs, taking on a full university course load, maintaining a household with 3 children and being married. Avoidance was the key to keep me from crumbling and this going, no one will see how much pain I am in and how I am not a "wonder woman", but someone who is suffering, but too proud to ask for help. Once I realized that I couldn't sustain this lifestyle any longer, I reached out for help. I had seen multiple counselors throughout my life, but I felt that it was time for something drastic. I reached out to an agency and asked for inpatient treatment. I waited for 6 months before finally getting the call that it was time to go.

I had a week to prepare myself and my family for my leave; I would be gone for 56 days. The day came when it was time for me to head to treatment; I was more scared then I had ever been in my life. I had no idea what to expect and I was so sad to leave my family for an extended period of time. What if my youngest forgot about me? What if my eldest hates me for leaving? I knew this was something that I needed to do, in order for me to be healthy and present in my life.

The first week was scary and I felt very alone. Once I came out of my shell, I met some amazing people who would forever change my life. Treatment itself was very helpful for me, but nothing will beat the connections I made and the feeling I had when I realized other people understood me because they were going through similar things. This had never happened to me before; the shame and guilt I had been feeling all of my life, were "normal" for people with PTSD. Finally, people who got it and didn't judge me, they accepted me and it felt amazing.

My whole life my brain has been telling me how stupid, worthless and ugly I am. These people, this community, was there supporting me and telling me to stop being so hard on myself. They understood how my brain works and got that there would be bad days and they helped me through those bad days. I came home from treatment not liking myself, because that will take some time, but not entirely hating myself. For someone with PTSD, I would call that a win. These pictures represent how my brain feels; chaos, anger, sadness and hate for myself on the inside and on the outside, that armor, that smile that pretends everything is perfect. Really, I am just an actress, putting up a front, so I can help others, friends or clients, and always avoiding taking care of myself.

Those 56 days were about me. All. About. Me. For the first time in 35 years, I took what I needed and with the support of family, friends and the PTSR community, I made it through those days. It wasn't easy, but nothing worth fighting for ever is. I choose me. I choose happy no matter what that looks like. I have been home from treatment for almost 2 months and I have my struggles. There will always be days where my thoughts are dark and I feel like I don't have any choices. I know I have choices and I have friends, family and the connections I made through treatment, to get me through those days.

Just because I offer a smile and come across as happy, that doesn't mean I'm not breaking on the inside, I am just really great at hiding it.

​- Kendall

#PTSD #endthestigma #mentalhealthawareness #CAMH

I spend my life listening to life stories. I’ve been told that I’m a star shaped peg in the square of life (good & bad, I guess). People want my energy. They allow me to walk with them in the darkest of times; they say I help them to be strong, accepting and brave.

CAMH One Brave Night for Mental Health™ (Friday April 6th, 2018 is a Canada-wide challenge to share one night to inspire hope for the one in five Canadians living with mental illness in any given year.

It’s my time to eat my own words. (pun intended, because words have no calories)

I’m stepping forward to share my story. It’s my truth that in all my writings, I never imagined I would see.

..............................................................................................................................

Natalie Proulx - Funeral Director -Bereavement Educator - Life Celebrant - School Nerd – Mom – the people loving, overly energetic foodie.

But my medical files says otherwise. Natalie Proulx

Body Image Dysmorphia (BDD), Binge Eating Disorder (BED), Anorexia, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD), Dermatillomania

In my life I’ve had great support – nothing majorly traumatic. A good family. A crazy amount of great friends. I feel that if there was something suppressed in my mind, one of the 807ish therapy rooms I’ve sat in would have discovered it. I had a pretty tame case of sexual abuse as a child compared to what all too many children go through, and hid it like most children do, but I don’t feel that I carry that with me. I had highs and lows with my body in my teenage years.

One moment I would want an inappropriately aged low rise jean and cropped top outfit, then the next moment I would look at myself and think “what was I ever thinking to show my body like this – I didn’t have a right with my big legs and fat arms”. This would literally happen multiple times in a day. Highschool started my need for a “safety jacket”, the quick cover up for those moments when I loathed myself, and when that wasn’t enough, I decided it was easier to go grunge and attempt to convince myself that I loved sporting my xxl Roots sweatshirts.


Twenty years have passed since high school, and I can still name every person that I obsessed over, knowing they were thinner than me. I could even tell you where their lockers were, because I would compulsively watch them, studying them to see what they did and ate that kept them smaller than me. I remember my effed up ‘reality’ shattering when a guy that I had an interest in started dating someone heavier than me, after I had basically convinced that part of why we would never make it was my size. I loved food and hated sports so that wasn’t helping my personal cause.


In grade 11 came a thyroid problem that put on 17 pounds in the course of a couple of months, and with that stemmed many hours spent in the library researching the “best eating disorder for me”. Throwing up wasn’t an option, so I learned to not eat, or only eat in the presence of others – binging was easy. I learned the magic and cheapness of Epsom salts – the wretched tasting shot that would purge your body of whatever you ate, but could be bought cheaply and was never noticed because it was the creator of a lovely bath experience. By this time, I was off in post secondary, where everyone was gaining the freshman 15 I lost the freshman 20 – afraid to eat and gain that inevitable weight.


Through this time, I maintained the popularity level that I deemed necessary to survive. I thrived on new friends and their stories; it was a mission to connect with people so I could focus on them and not myself. I won awards, I appeared obnoxiously confident and was the friend to all. Behind all that though, was a need for control.


​While not eating made me feel exhausted and weak , it gave me this God like sense of power; I was mentally invincible… To feel hunger was success; it still is to this day. It’s also the price I feel I need to pay after a day or two of binging. It’s so odd to be able to recognize that my feeling of being on top of the world is also what I use for my punishment. Did my keener brain understand this was not healthy? Of course. Did I care? No way. I was not losing that feeling.

Any shiny surface gained my attention; I would stop and scrutinize whatever I could, I was always hoping for a chance to catch myself looking thinner, that obviously was never there from only hours or even moments before. I most often walked away defeated, but sometimes – SOMETIMES I felt thin. It was that feeling of happy that I wanted so badly; a feeling that usually diminished within an hour or so after I caught myself at the right angle. I did, and still do have a love hate relationship with mirrors. Sometimes I can lose hours in front of them poking and prodding at myself, pulling back and sucking in, trying to find an angle that I feel less disgusting, and when I find that I try and approach people from that way… At least until something else in life distracts me from my own head.

I kept these issues private. This was my me time. I knew it would dampen the personality ridden happy go lucky self image that I was worked so hard to maintain. I’d constantly make jokes and start new “Life Style changes”, saying I was on a quest to achieve my birth weight. Only once I was called out by a fellow woman who was struggling, as she noticed how I cut up my food in such tiny pieces here and there, to make myself believe I was eating more than I was. She caught me. I laughed it off, said I was bored – and then I cried in the arrangement office. Guess that’s a perk of working in a funeral home, the frequent crying that comes with a hatred of your body never really goes noticed. Everyone around you is red eyed, and the tissues are plenty. No one questions if you suddenly need a moment to clear your head from the day to day.

Then, that moment happened - that moment of clarity when I thought “I can’t live like this. I can’t lose hours a day obsessing over my inadequacies, I need to get help”. I was getting ready to head to a class across campus and needed to go to the bathroom, but on my way I realized I just couldn’t because I didn’t want to have to see my thighs in those bright bathroom lights, not at that moment – because I had a presentation to give. I tossed my coffee in the garbage, clenched my girl bits and thought I would make it until when I got home where the bathroom was darker. There I wouldn’t have to put my feet on the ground on my tip toes to not see that dimple of cellulite that always showed on my upper right thigh when my legs flattened on the toilet seat. It was usually covered by a bruise, self created in a futile attempt to maybe, just maybe flatten it and make it disappear. I weighed less than 120 lbs at the time. I lost some points in that presentation for speaking too fast (because I REALLY had to pee, but at least I was in a head space that I was able to stand up there and speak. For that moment, I owned what owned me.

Today I weigh 121.3 lbs. Apparently, (from what people tell me) I weigh “more than I look”, but that doesn’t make me feel safer. In fact, as I wrote my college weight I was instantly sickened by this morning’s weigh in, and my mind was lost in what I meals I could avoid this week to beat that weight. I had clothing picked for today’s funeral, but I changed my mind. If I kept the outfit I had planned, I wouldn’t be able to breathe without dripping anxiety, let alone speak. It’s messed up. My brain should know better.



I have two little beautiful girls. The moment I found out about my first, I went to the Doctors in tears, telling her I needed some more medical intervention. Back I went to an eating disorder clinic, but this time with more of a one on one focus so I didn’t use it at a learning tool on how to do it “better” (those group sessions and self help videos were awful, we used to look at it as tips and tricks time). Instead, one on one, I hoped to learn how to ensure my strong and smart little future ladies never learned self body shaming from me, and never knew that their mom struggled in her own security. I wanted them to be brave and secure in their beauty. The world will be tough enough on them. I needed home to be their safe space. I left the appointment with a new medication or three, and different appointments after appointments for follow up therapeutic care.

Three months before the birth of my first child, like all moms I was researching cribs and all things baby, but on top of that I was connecting with seamstresses trying to create a “birthing outfit” so that I wouldn’t have be bare skinned under those bright lights. I basically was asking for them to make me a loose body suit with an escape hatch for my baby. One day a seamstress that I reached out to called me, crying, telling me to not worry – that she too had once felt like I felt, but she promised me that for the first time in my life birthing my baby would own more of my mind than my concern over my body. She was right. I wish I had not deleted all those messages out of shame, because I’d love to thank her for that. I ended my quest, trusting the words of a stranger who took the time to share her truths with me. I birthed shamelessly naked, without the weight of any clothes or any bad thoughts on my shoulders. I was way too occupied to worry about that… but once my baby latched, I checked out my belly and gave myself a timeline to when I had to return to “normal”. It’s scary to know that I had that thought in my mind BEFORE I even delivered my placenta. Before the mesh panties. Before my body even knew that it wasn’t pregnant anymore… My brain was already on how to rid myself of all signs that I had been pregnant.

The last 17 years have been filled with Cognitive Behavioural Therapy, Acceptance and Commitment Therapy (ACT), Exposure and Response Prevention Therapy (ERP) and Interpersonal Psychotherapy (IPT). I’ve been an in and out patient. I’ve had more pills than I can remember the names of but will never forget the one with the little happy face on it. I have filled out more forms about “how I feel” than I’d rather admit. I’ve had so much homework of “wear pants for at least six hours in public” or “go sleeveless and post a photo on social media” and “try and wear a bikini in Jamaica and post a photo” (surprising to myself, I actually did this thanks to some Ativan and Jamaican rum – but I stretched my arms to the sky pretending to be silly, but really just trying to appear longer). I still feel this exposure therapy only made things worse, garnering comments showing that people were noticing these changes. They weren’t freeing, they froze me and I felt like I could throw up. I could feel them measuring out the diameter of my arms and legs that were always hidden away under a skirt or sleeves. The nylons that I cling to on a daily basis to “tuck me in” were still under my jeans, and I felt they just added girth to my already “large” legs. I actually fear underwear because in group one day, when I was a self placed “in patient” my roomie pointed out that underwear put a tangible ring around your waist, which would draw notice to how wide one was. She was brilliant, and I was so happy she “saved me” from that unnecessary potentially embarrassing situation, not that I ever changed in front of anyone at that time. Friends. Boyfriends. Husband. I changed while holding my shirt or in my mouth, in a corner, not to appear like I was hiding, but just casually standing in the corner, you know, naturally with a towel or shirt in my mouth. I learned to change at a sonic speed – I can actually get fully dressed in the time it takes someone to go pee in the morning. Any intimacies I had in my life had been clothed or in the dark. I can’t even imagine wanting that to change, especially after having children. I want to embrace the mom body so much, because I understand its power and story. I just can’t. Maybe one day. I’m told that when I am older I will look back and wish I wore that bathing suit. I will feel anger and annoyance that I didn’t. Honestly, that is my hope. I hope that I can look back and see myself as okay… As more than someone with a big personality and always working mind with stellar nails and awesome shoes ;) I want to feel alright with myself. Not even beautiful. Just alright.

I want to wake up and not have to check for bruises on my wrists and collar bones, because that is where constantly check to see if I “feel fattER” in the morning and throughout the day. I’d save some money on concealer without them there. I’d like to not constantly have nail marks on my midsection because I constantly pull at what I feel like stomach fat, and no one can ever make me believe it’s just skin, even if I can see my ribs – I want to see more of them. I’d like to be in a place where I don’t get so anxious that I rip off my toe nails or pick at my ears, nose or gums until they bleed, and have wounds for months, because at least people can’t see that. I wish that with every breath I wasn’t reminded that over ten years ago I picked through my nasal septum out of body image stress alone. Now that there is nothing to damage there, I live with this unrealistic fear of my nose basically falling off, all because I couldn’t stop and just pull my shit together. I want to hug people and not need to reach up so they can hug an elongated version of me, never feeling the wideness of my arms under theirs. I want to bring my children to a water park or vacation without a boat load of medication, nervous vomiting and wearing what may as well be a parka, pretending to be afraid of the sun. I want to be as beautiful as my girls tell me I am. I want to shower with them and not hold my stomach in and worry about the angle I face my THREE and FIVE year old at. THEY DON’T CARE and here I am, stressing. My youngest, a couple of weeks ago, decided to use my bum as a drum and liked the way it shook. I almost died inside, and there she was, laughing away, thinking her mom was super cool with a shaking bum. I left the shower and cried. I want to be less messed up in my mind. I know better.

Will this happen? Well, I’ve lost of a lot of faith that it ever will over the years. I feel I’ve done everything. That’s why I took this drastic step of a photo shoot with Jennifer. I only threw up twice – before and after - and only ugly cried in front of the camera once. Though the experience was as comfortable as it could be, I spent it in goosebumps and sheer terror, while trying to make the best of it through joking around. My therapist, psychiatrist and doctor thought if I could do it, it would be “good for me”, and everyone knows I have mad medical doctor love – so I am willing to try just about any suggestion of people who are smarter and wiser than I am.

Funny enough, recently I was approached by a professional to do something similar to this story, but ended up being told that I was neither “skinny enough” or “fat enough” to be a participant. They needed people on the extremes so people can relate through a visual experience. That fueled my fire. That even though my file was thick, and I was told that I was “too bright for my own good” (that’s a thing?!?), my body was not allowed to have these issues. I was too average to be allowed to feel the way I felt. When I saw the photos in proof form, I didn't see anything different than I see in the mirror. I see exactly what I don't like about myself. That's a tough pill to swallow. I think I was really hoping that I could see myself in a new light, maybe in the eyes of how see other people, in a state of indifference about their bodies. I gave up comparing myself to others years ago - now I just self compare, I guess.

Eating disorders can fit anyone. One size does not fit all. Mental Health Disorders affect one in five of us, even those of us who help others with their mental health.

To all the people who lose years of their life, obsessing and missing out on life’s pleasures, who don’t look like they have issues. Who appear like life is put together. This is for you. Here goes nothing. Literally I’m wearing basically nothing. As I write this I’ve not even seen all the edited photos. I just agreed to put them out there. I hope that I can help at least one person realize that no person has it all together. God, I certainly don’t. I’ve done wonderful things in life, I’ve helped people. I’ve also done things I regret and things I’m ashamed of. I’m human. I’m also trained enough to know that our actions don’t define us. We are not one page of a book, we are the whole story. That if we work hard, we can get through anything. We aren’t supposed to carry mountains, we are supposed to climb them. This part of me doesn’t define who I am even though it controls me. It’s given me a need to be needed by people that I am almost embarrassed about, yet at the same time, it’s helped me be the strong, busy people person that I am. Do I have it worse than anyone else? Ha. Not even close. We all have our own journeys. We all have our own things going on. Do I worry about the internet trolls? Not really - they can't possibly be any tougher on me than I've already been. It is what it is, right?


Thanks for making it to the end of my wordiness. On Friday April 6th, or before, consider stepping forward and sharing your own journey. Let's work together to help end the stigma that surrounds mental health and help build a strong, braver and more accepting society together.

- Natalie Proulx
http://facingthesun.life/
https://www.facebook.com/facingthesun.life/
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