On the Mysterious Secret of Slowing Down

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

Last Sunday evening after dinner I was washing a pot. I was washing it very mindfully. I was noticing the feel of the warm, soapy water on my hands. I thought about how the pot was made and how I infused the homemade vegan chili in this large, heavy blue pot with love. Most importantly I was slowly and methodically removing the food that was stuck to the bottom of the pan. I thought back to a lesson I just cannot seem to always remember – “To go faster you must slow down”.

 

I led a fast-paced adult life until about 2 years ago. So fast that I hardly had time to think. Washing a pot with food stuck to the bottom has always reminded me of this paradox; thanks to a visit from my mother a few years before she passed away. When my children were young and I was first married, we had little money, but I kept a really good home. I felt very on top of things. But I was rushed back then too. I was so rushed that I never really had time to deal with pots that ended up with years’ worth of stains on them. In late 2001 my mother came to visit with her new husband Boris. I had only just met him, and I know he made my mother very happy. He was from Venezuela. My mom talked so much about how laid back he was and how he got her to slow down, grow out her hair, and stop fussing so much with makeup and keeping up the house. I made a big dinner when they came to visit, and afterward there were many pots and pans that needed cleaning. My mother and Boris came into the kitchen to help and stationed themselves at the sink; she on dish duty, he on drying duty. What seemed like only moments later, while I was putting the leftover food into containers, I noticed Boris drying off one of the pots. What caught my eye about a particular pot that usually had brown and black soot on the bottom was that it was so shiny and clean. Years’ worth of food and cooking buildup was gone! I asked my mother how she did that and so fast… she only smiled with a glint in her eye and said “Boris showed me how”. She never told me with words, but with her eyes she told me to slow down and go easy. The next time I had to clean a pot, and ever since, I’ve taken my time, used far less pressure than I ever would have, and they have always come clean. Working in a rush and with too much pressure used more time and never yielded the same results. I never understood how; it’s just the way it works.
I learned this 17 years ago, but I still don’t always remember or practice this principle. Two years ago I slowed down immensely, truly savoring the small, day-to-day moments, and oddly enough I found myself to be happier, more at peace, and with more time than I ever had. It’s not only time, but also about “less”. Doing less, trying less, having less… all equal less stress and more joy.
Last week I had the luxury of traveling with my husband and a group of amazing individuals from my yoga studio to a jungle sanctuary in Costa Rica. Getting to this sanctuary required two commercial flights, a puddle jumper plane, a 45-minute car ride, and then a 20-minute hike crossing a river four times. It was hot and humid; the type of humidity where you never dry off, even after a shower.
The only way on and off the sanctuary is a 20-minute-plus hike. On the last full day of the trip, my husband Daren and I ventured off the property to the sanctuary’s closest neighbor, Nena, in pursuit of pure organic extra virgin coconut oil. It was a short walk over a bridge that overlooks the ocean to Nena’s house. For the previous two days, Daren & I opted to take some excursions off the property with our group. Both days were a little hectic and obscenely hot at times. I felt ambivalent all morning about whether or not we should take the walk down the hill to get this coconut oil, mainly because it was hot. For some reason I said I’d like to go, but I wanted to walk slowly. So off we went to Nena’s house for coconut oil.


Daren and I really took our time. We stopped and looked at monkeys. We watched little birds. We passed our friend, the white cow. When we left the property and crossed the street, we stopped on the bridge. Actually, Daren stopped on the bridge and called out to me, “Babe, look at this view!”. Slightly annoyed, I stopped to look. I was initially feeling rushed, looked at my watch, and started calculating how much time it would take to get to Nena’s, buy this coconut oil, trek back, “relax” at the pool, and then dash off to the next yoga class. However, when I turned my head to the left and saw the scene, my heart rate actually slowed down a bit. I couldn’t believe I was about to just walk by and miss this scene! I took it in. While standing there, I couldn’t help but notice this insane, harried American thought pattern, and I pushed it completely away. When I stopped and didn’t worry about the time, I was able to remember that I was here in this beautiful place, at this beautiful moment, with my beautiful husband and a group of beautiful, well-lit individuals. I stopped my physical, then mental body from the rush of insanity and fleeting thoughts to appreciate the view and the view of my husband appreciating the view.


We stood there a while in silence. I took a few pictures and resisted the urge to snap more. More is not better. More pictures, more talk, more activity… more, more, more… No, no, no… I know this, but I live in a world that tells me the opposite, so it’s easy to forget.


It was I who broke the silence after a long while. I had the profound realization that because we walked slowly, we weren’t as hot as we were the rest of the trip. I intellectually knew that before we walked and even made that suggestion, but it was even more profound to experience that it worked. It dawned on me that every time I go anywhere where the weather is warm all the time, the locals move slowly. I heard other Americans and Canadians joking about how the natives live on “Costa Rican time”. I’ve heard the same joke in other places. All these Americans and Europeans thinking it’s so funny to crack jokes about how slow everyone moves, when really the joke is on us. What is wrong with us? We are the dummies sweating in the sun because we are rushing around like lunatics. It’s our culture that is uptight, wound up, and stressed. What are we in a rush to do anyway? At that moment on the bridge, I decided to put my watch in my pocket and let the day pass as it may. Strangely, there seemed to be just the right amount of time for everything once I stopped worrying at all about it.

IMG_E1457.jpg

Daren with our friend the pretty white cow who was often on the path onto and off the sanctuary.

 

IMG_E1458.jpg

The view I nearly just didn’t notice

When we move too quickly, we often miss things that are right in front of us. This applies to work, our lives with our families and friends, and even how we move toward our goals. It’s not just about what we need to see, but what actually enriches our daily experience.


In the midst of this jungle last week, we were surrounded by wildlife. It was beautiful, simple, exotic, intoxicating, and natural. This was a yoga group at a yogic sanctuary. Yogis might be more aware than most about the beauty of being conscious, but are no less human and subject to falling prey to being unconscious in a world that keeps dangling shiny temptations all around. One of my teachers deliberately did not go on one of the daily excursions on a day that every other single person in the group did. She said she did not want to feel rushed, and she sat watching monkeys for several hours that day instead. The message she took away is that the monkeys were there all along, providing the same level of awe and entertainment, but had one not taken the time to stop and observe, it would have been missed.


The evening we returned to Connecticut from Costa Rica, Daren and I found ourselves in line at a McDonald’s drive-through on the way home from the airport at 11:45 at night. By that point in the day, we had been up and en route home since 5:15am. We had only one real meal. We were tired, dirty, and stressed. Hurry up and wait. We almost missed a connecting flight because Passport Control was a hot mess when we got back into the U.S. We were waiting in a very long car line at 11:45pm for an absolutely nutritionally poor meal (well, Daren was waiting, I was looking forward to some soup at home). We were stressed. Daren was tapping at the wheel. I was mentally trying hard not to fall into the trap of ordering something greasy or feeling upset over the slow-moving line, all while trying to stay cheerful so my husband could stay positive too. In my mind, I was doing math again about the number of things I needed to do the next day to get ready for the week, wondering how I could fit them in. How much mail was there? Who is taking the dog to the vet Thursday? What should I pull out for dinner tomorrow? Should I go shopping? I needed to inventory the food situation at home first, right? With every thought, I felt my blood pressure rising. And every time I noticed my breath becoming rapid and shallow or my heart racing, I made the conscious decision to breathe deeply and live in the moment. That only lasts a few moments out here in the “real world” until the thoughts and heart start to race again. How could you explain this feeling to someone in the third world?


We may have been in the middle of the jungle, but the concrete jungle creates artificial stressors that make living life to the fullest nearly impossible. It’s impossible because living life to the fullest was taught to me as fitting in as much “fun”, work, and activity as possible. This means learning as much as you can, moving quickly, multitasking, making lots of money to do these amazing things (because they aren’t free), and providing these experiences to our children. Making money means more rushing and more stress. For most, it means long commutes and doing work you rarely feel connected to. Then rushing home to activities and often hurried, unhealthy meals—if you are lucky, with loved ones. Weekends are spent putting your living space back together, cleaning, doing laundry, shopping, shuffling people around, and squeezing in “quality” time. Somewhere in between, you are supposed to exercise, meditate, perform self-care, attend appointments, cook healthy meals, and sleep enough—just so you don’t get stressed or exhausted. You know… so you can be happy and experience life to the fullest. It sounds insane when you really look at it.


I’ve also noticed that when we take the time to do things more carefully instead of rushing through them, we tend to get better results and feel less stressed in the process.


Physics teaches us that time is relative. Slowing down seems to expand our experience of time. I can’t explain why; it just is. Another interesting paradox is that it allows us to appreciate more. Life becomes less expensive, less material, and far less stressful.


The overall message for me is that slowing down equals living life more fully. I keep forgetting, but the time between which I do is growing larger and larger. I hope that others who haven’t given it a whirl do. There’s nothing to lose but old, tired ideas of what it means to live our lives to the fullest.

IMG_E1435.jpg
Sunrise one morning from the Tower at the Sanctuary
IMG_E1455.jpg
Sunset one evening on the beach of Santa Theresa Costa Rica

 

Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

Please feel free to leave a comment or subscribe for future updates.

The reputation of Stepmothers

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

 

I post a lot of happy photos and experiences on social media. I have a pretty good life. One thing I almost never write or post about is Daren & my biggest struggle. The largest hurdle we haven’t gotten over and continue to learn about and navigate is having a blended family.

I’ve written countless journal entries over the years. We’ve written hundreds of heartfelt emails to one another, our kids and our extended family trying to explain where we are coming from. I don’t really know anyone in real life with a current blended family to turn to for advice or to vent. There are little to no resources.

Over the years in complete frustration I’ve turned to the Internet. It’s been helpful in learning how we are not alone, but as with many things in life the “tips” (if you can call them that) are much easier said than done. In the past week I’ve been a bit selfish and have only been looking up information about stepmothers. In the past I ran across information and angry forums where biological moms and step-moms posted and complained about one another. It was all a bit too much for me, yet I kept reading the same kind of stories and threads over and over. This week I tried to stick with peer-reviewed information only. There is little to none. The closest thing I can find that has a lot of information are Psychology periodicals. The New York Times and Huffington Post had some articles too, but on average 1–2 a year, and they are more informational for the public to be aware of the struggles that blended families experience rather than a help to the blended family itself.

What shocks me is how “textbook” we are. We fell hook, line & sinker into exactly what normally happens.

Stepmothers generally have such a bad reputation. It’s often long into adulthood, usually after grandchildren/step-grandchildren are born, that the relationship between a stepmother and her stepchildren starts to flourish. Until then it’s often contentious, and it doesn’t have to be. These are 3 things in order that a family could do to speed up that process.

The parents should work together to establish the boundaries, rules and consequences in their home (father and stepmother).
Both biological parents should work together to maintain as many commonalities as possible between both homes and back one another up, or at least check in when the children complain about one home or the other.
The biological mother should give her children permission to accept the stepmother in their lives.

This is the bare minimum to ensure success. Taking it further might look like all three (or four if mom is remarried) parents working together, especially if either stepparent has children living in their home. Mature adults realize this is in the best interest of all kids involved. Without the above three factors in place, the situation is practically a perfect setup for failure. However, we are so quick to blame the stepmother when anything goes wrong. Why? The world believes the fairy tale evil stepmother fantasy. She is the easy target because she is the outsider and no one feels any loyalty to her.

This is a very lonely feeling. As a stepmother you wonder what is wrong with you. You lose part of yourself. You question every word you say. I felt really alone for so long. It’s comforting to now know that many stepmothers experience similar feelings—being blamed, misunderstood, and caught in situations they didn’t create, simply because of the role they stepped into.

Wow, how that sits with me. So it’s not just me? It’s not something I did or our special situation?

I’ve been accused of thriving on drama, needing my husband’s ex as a common enemy to save my relationship with him, being verbally abusive, making capricious rules, being childish, having an eating disorder, trying to make the children into something they aren’t—the list goes on. To anyone who knows me in real life, this sounds ridiculous. But if you didn’t know me and heard I’m a stepmother, you really might believe it, because of the perception that already exists.

Why do so many women have the same experience?

From what I’ve read and experienced, the stepmother is often the first to notice something isn’t working and starts to look for ways to improve the situation. She tries to create structure and understanding within the home, and that can sometimes come across as controlling or authoritative, even when the intention is the opposite. That can create resentment and distance right from the start.

I’ve also noticed that stepfathers often seem to have a different experience. In many situations, dynamics between households play a role, especially when emotions from the past haven’t fully settled. That can create ongoing tension between homes, and the stepmother often ends up in the middle of it, feeling both responsible and powerless at the same time.

The above becomes even more complicated when the stepmother has children of her own and is trying to create a fair and balanced home for everyone. It’s so important that all the kids feel at home, but when expectations differ between households, it can create a divide between step-siblings and make it difficult to maintain consistency.

If we could all just co-parent seamlessly, many of these issues would likely ease, but that requires a level of communication and maturity that isn’t always present. Unfortunately, the stepmother is often the one labeled as the problem.

These are some common myths that I find so absurd.

She is jealous of the children.

That is such a strange accusation, yet it’s widely believed. I’ve heard it long before I ever became a stepmother, I’ve heard it about myself, and I see it come up again and again. The idea that someone would secretly try to manipulate situations to make children look bad just doesn’t align with the reality I’ve experienced.

She tries to exert power over the blended family and make the children’s lives miserable.

What kind of person actually wants to see children miserable? I ask that honestly. I can’t think of anyone in my real life who operates that way.

I think a lot of people hear one side of a story and form their opinions from that. What might look like strictness or control is often something as simple as asking for basic respect, structure, and consistency.

In step-families where the father is the biological parent, it’s not uncommon for dynamics between households to influence parenting styles. When expectations differ significantly, the stepmother can end up being the one trying to create balance, which can easily be misunderstood.

After this happens repeatedly, the stepmother can begin to feel like she has no control in her own home and has to walk on eggshells. Over time, that only makes things more difficult, and the situation can start to feel strained in ways that weren’t there at the beginning.

She shouldn’t have any say when it comes to the children.

This is a partial myth. There are areas where she should have a voice—anything that directly impacts her home, her time, her schedule, or her children. And there are areas where she shouldn’t. Finding that balance isn’t always clear.

Discipline is one of the most difficult areas. If something happens within the home, it makes sense that the adults in that home address it together. But when expectations differ across households, it can create confusion and tension for everyone involved. Consistency matters, especially when multiple children are involved, and when it’s lacking, it can create resentment between siblings.

If she is kind, the children will warm up to her.

Not necessarily. There are many factors at play, including loyalty. Children can feel that accepting a stepmother is a betrayal of their biological mother, even if that’s never said directly. That creates a barrier that the stepmother has no control over.

Over time, I’ve come to understand that even kindness doesn’t always resolve that dynamic. Relationships take time, and sometimes they don’t develop the way you expect.

Culturally, there is also a double standard. Children are allowed to feel however they feel, but the stepmother is expected to show patience and understanding at all times.

She isn’t immature and childish; she is human, often trying to navigate something incredibly complex without much guidance.

Are you a stepmother or know of any? Try looking at things from her perspective. Most little girls don’t grow up with dreams of marrying a man with children. Almost no woman sets out seeking that situation. Choosing it usually means you love someone enough to take on everything that comes with their life, including the parts that are already complicated.

That doesn’t make anyone perfect. It just makes them human.

If you enjoyed my writing, consider leaving a comment, sharing with others, or following my blog

Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

Please feel free to leave a comment or subscribe for future updates.

 

On International Women’s Day

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

If you aren’t outraged, you aren’t paying attention.

I have to admit—I had never really heard of International Women’s Day either. My initial reaction wasn’t great, but I started looking into it. It’s been around since 1909. Really? It was first celebrated in New York City, and the date later moved to March 8th when it was recognized more broadly. It’s been around for over 100 years and somehow never fully caught on here. Maybe it’s about time.

When I thought about it beyond that first reaction, I started to feel something closer to outrage. To everyone who made fun of the day or felt the need to post something snarky—have you ever stopped to consider why it exists?

In the United States, we still lag behind many developed countries in policies that support families. Paid maternity leave is limited. Paid paternal leave is not standard. Many women still earn less than men in similar roles. Representation in leadership and government positions remains uneven. And culturally, women are still often portrayed in narrow ways that shape expectations from a very young age.

Globally, the gaps are even more striking. Women make up half the population, yet hold a much smaller percentage of leadership roles. Many still face violence, limited access to education, and restrictions on basic freedoms. These realities are not abstract—they affect real people, every day.

So when people dismiss something like International Women’s Day, it makes me pause.

Why is this acceptable?

Why are these things normalized?

Some might say women make different choices—that they step away from careers, take fewer risks, or prioritize family. But why is that the structure we’ve accepted? Why does raising children—future members of society—come at such a high personal and financial cost?

Most families I know didn’t choose daycare because they preferred it. They chose it because they had to. To pay bills. To survive. And for those who stay home, there are tradeoffs too—financial, professional, long-term.

This isn’t just a personal issue. It’s a societal one.

You would think the federal government might set a stronger example. On paper, it often does. In practice, that hasn’t been my experience.

I’ve worked for the federal government for over two decades—active duty, reserve, and civilian. When I got pregnant in 2006 while in the military, I applied for what was described as a generous unpaid leave program. My situation was straightforward—we had no childcare support, and both my husband and I had schedules that made coverage nearly impossible.

It was denied.

No real explanation beyond “I was needed.”

I returned to work after six weeks. There was no place to pump, so I didn’t breastfeed. A coworker’s wife helped watch my son. People were shocked the request had been denied. It worked out—but it easily could have not.

A few years later, when it came time to reenlist, I wanted to stay in. I had strong performance reviews and had advanced quickly. We asked for a reasonable accommodation—one of us needed to be stationed somewhere that didn’t require overnight duty so we could care for our child.

It wasn’t considered.

I was told it was my turn for ship duty. End of discussion.

I left active duty.

Another motivated woman out of the workforce.

Years later, in my civilian role, I saw similar patterns. Flexible schedules, job sharing, alternative work arrangements—all things that exist on paper. In practice, they were rare.

After 22 years of consistent, high-level performance, I asked for an alternative schedule to manage burnout and maintain balance.

The answer was no.

No clear explanation. No real discussion. Just… no.

When I pushed for clarity, the response wasn’t transparency—it was subtle resistance. Enough to feel it, not enough to prove it.

Eventually, I left that role.

Another motivated employee gone.

This isn’t just about me. It’s about a pattern.

At some point, you start to ask—where is the accountability? Why don’t these issues feel more visible, more urgent?

Why aren’t we talking about them more openly?

Why aren’t we asking for better?

And beyond our own borders—why aren’t we paying more attention to the realities women face in other parts of the world?

This isn’t about comparison or competition. It’s about awareness.

Because inequality isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s quiet. Built into systems. Accepted over time.

So maybe International Women’s Day isn’t something to dismiss.

Maybe it’s simply a reminder.

To pause.

To notice.

To ask better questions.

To consider what still needs to change.

Because if we don’t, it’s very easy to assume everything is fine.

And often, it isn’t.

If you enjoyed my writing, consider leaving a comment, sharing with others, or following my blog

 

Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

Please feel free to leave a comment or subscribe for future updates.

 

 

On Abuse

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

“Don’t be ashamed of your story. It will inspire others” ~Blake Pierce 

Division Bell

Wikipedia defines a division bell as: A division bell is a bell rung in or around a parliament to signal a division and thus call all members of the chamber so affected to vote in it.

Hence –it’s a call to action.

It’s also an album by Pink Floyd that was released in 1994. Pink Floyd was one of my favorite groups in high school. In 1994 when this album was released I was a senior in high school just about to graduate. I heard it right after I made my decision to join to military once I graduated. It felt like a time of hope. The album spoke to me.

It’s time for me to do my part in a call to action against domestic violence. I grew up as a child in a household with domestic violence. My father was the perpetrator, my mother, brothers, and myself the victims. More than anyone though, even my family would agree, for some reason I bore the brunt of the violence.

Like a fish doesn’t know it’s in water, I didn’t know I was in a bad situation. I didn’t realize my father was an alcoholic. I knew he was a gambler. I knew what happened in our house wasn’t right, but I also thought it could be worse and the people who experienced something worse were really the victims. There were so many people in my life who saw the signs and bruises and heard our excuses. Teachers, friends, friend’s parents, our own extended family, our neighbors. No one dared ask past the excuse. They all suspected, but they dropped it there. I always thought – they should suspect more, poke a hole in my ridiculous story so I have a reason to elaborate. Since they didn’t, I assumed my parents were right and it must not be too bad.

Everything went. Things broke. Things were thrown at us – food, boiling water, household objects. Our heads and bodies made holes in walls and doors. I was thrown across the room, beaten with a chair, punched, kicked… you name it. Called names, told I was stupid, lazy, a whore, an idiot, etc. Looking back it’s a miracle I made it out ok.

I was also told not to cry – by both of my parents. Neither could stand anyone yelling back or crying. I learned so early on to bury my feelings and cry only under the cloak of darkness.

I knew I wanted out of that house, probably from the age of a toddler. My mother once said to me she couldn’t leave my father because she didn’t finish high school and couldn’t take care of us. It was my life’s mission as a kid to finish school and get an education so I could take care of myself. I didn’t want to be like her and put anyone else into the situation I was in.

It wasn’t until about a year after I left my house & was in the military that I realized anything was different about me. I overreacted far more than anyone else to other people’s anger. I jumped when asked to do something and did it better than anyone else. The only good that probably came out of my growing up situation is that it made me a good solider, a good employee, one who aims to please. But other people’s anger really got to me. I went to see a counselor through the EAP program once my ship was on land. She gave me a book about co-dependence and didn’t think I needed to go back. It was no help at all to me.

When I got pregnant with Tommy I was determined to be a different kind of parent. I read every book I could get my hands on about parenting, which was pretty limited 21 years ago – it wasn’t like I had Amazon or all the time in the world to shop while I was active duty. I think the books served me well. John didn’t read anything and was quick to listen to me. We were on the same page as parents – loving, stern, caring, rules, and fun. Once I had Tommy and I was a parent myself, I started to realize how it feels to care for and love another little human so much. It really started to bother me thinking about the way I grew up. I just didn’t understand. For about a year I think I cried and journaled EVERY SINGLE day. John was kind and patient. He was more angry at my parents than I was. Again I went to counseling through the EAP, and again I found it to be a waste of time.

One day about a year of absolute post suffering, in the middle of writing – something just clicked inside me. It was like something you read about in books or see in the movies. All of a sudden my sadness was just lifted. It wasn’t replaced by bliss and I wasn’t overly joyed; but I felt a sense of letting go of the past. I suddenly realized what John meant when he said there is nothing you can do about it anymore. I think I just put the pen down and stopped shedding tears. I was just done crying about the past. I was only 22 at the time.

For the most part since then I’ve been able to talk about my experience without getting swept away by it. When I was 30 my mom passed away and her boss asked our family if we would write a little something about her life. I wrote this story that I shared on the 10 year anniversary of her passing on my blog page: https://esterinaanderson.com/tag/my-mom/.

At the time there was nowhere to post it. I emailed it to a bunch of my family and friends. Everyone gathered around & supported me. It was the first time I was public with what happened in my house. I hit send and was kind of frightened by the reaction I might get. I had always felt ashamed and broken by the situation – as if it made me different from everyone else and less of a person. But the love and support I received made that feeling disappear. It felt good to share. I felt light.

For the next 10 years I only talked about it when it seemed relevant (super rarely). It wasn’t until I went to a Yocovery class last March that I realized I was still very much affected by what happened to me. Yocovery is a special program at my yoga studio where addicts and family members of addicts go weekly to share their stories and do a little yoga. I was curious about what it was one Friday evening, so I drove over and joined the class. Everyone started sharing their stories. When it came to be my turn and I started talking, I was surprised to get choked up and then start crying. Wow – it did still bother me. Over the next few months I started to read about the affects of child abuse on adults. I was a classic case. Anxiety, anger, rage, guilt, shame, emotional numbing, dissociation. On the outside I’m very normal and well adjusted, but I hid a lot. And I hid it so well I was no longer aware it was even there.

In December I became aware of a group called Exhale to Inhale (ETI). ETI. is an organization that supports victims of domestic violence and sexual assault through the teaching of yoga. I joined the group and will soon be taking trauma teacher training so I can volunteer my time at shelters and safe houses. In the month of April the organization asked members to hold donations based classes through their own events and at their home yoga studios. I wanted to be a part of that. I emailed my beautiful point of contact at my home studio and got it registered for a volunteer class on Sat 4/15/17 http://www.yogasouthington.com/news-and-events/. I may also host a personal event at the house in Branford on 3/31. Stay tuned.

As strong as I feel, while researching some quotes, pictures and facts to incorporate into this class; I had to stop, cry and feel. Even 23 years after I have left the house, the experiences sit so deeply within in me until today. As a child I had nowhere to go, I didn’t even really know I was in harms way. In school we learned when to tell, but my parents would tell me that is for other people, not us – don’t waste their time. And I believed them.

I just still wanted out of that house. Music through my growing up helped me to escape and deal. Be normal. Sing in the car. Have something fun to connect to. Dance in my room with the door closed. Pink Floyd was one of those music groups for me. Those last few weeks in high school when the Division Bell came out, the end was in sight. The songs on that album mean so much to me. They can be relevant for so many topics. In my room while falling asleep – those songs… the lyrics and instruments were about the rise and fall of innocence before and after abuse. “On the Turning Away” from Momentary Lapse of Reason spoke to me about people who kind of knew but turned away. And then the escape. The ringing of the division bell at the end of that album in the song “High Hopes” as it faded away, sounded to me at the time like the bell toll that was my escape. Any bells I heard after that, especially in my early days of boot camp and in the military were the sound of justice for me. I hope to make that album in some way part of the theme for the karma class to raise money for ETI. The ringing of the Division Bell is a call to action to vote on something and bring justice. It’s time to do something about domestic violence.

Also in reading about the topic of child abuse I had to shake a bit in disgust. Sometimes as a society we take identifying “abuse” too far. Feeling angry, yelling at a kid every once in a while when they actually did something disrespectful, not looking up for the 5th time when a child shows you something and pretending it’s the best thing you ever saw while you are trying to finish something for work, taking some time for yourself and not attending every last little league game is NOT abuse. I couldn’t believe the things I was reading. It’s not even in the same league. Doing these things repetitively could be – absolutely… But children who now feel like they are being neglected and abused by working parents because they only help with their homework 50% of the time is not neglect. I understand why people tune out and don’t pay attention to so many allegations.

There is real abuse taking place. It can be hard to weed through the garbage of allegations, but those who know about it or have experience just can tell. There is a true sense of hopelessness, loss of control, and fear in victims. ETI’s two platforms of Intimate Partner violence and sexual assault help survivors to feel empowered, to feel safe, to help themselves, and to connect with the spirit inside of them that knows the right thing to do.

People are surprised I don’t hate my father. I do love him. I can’t be around him for long. I feel kind of bad for him. He has no real friends. He is still an alcoholic. He hangs with the wrong crowd and does the wrong things. When you talk to him he lives in the past and will still talk about my mom and how she left him, never understanding his part in it. He is still quick to blow up. Has been in jail a few times. He is loving. He is generous with his money. He has some really insightful, intelligent things to say sometimes. People that don’t know him who tell me that my father is a good man and nice company don’t know any better. I liken it to what my brother Mario once said recently about the type of people who support certain politics – if you say you like pops you just don’t know any better; and there is no way I can explain it to you because you haven’t experienced the dark side.

We all come from different experiences. Don’t judge, but do give and command respect back – Always. Act in love, but don’t be pushed around. Listen to your gut if something feels off and stand up for what is right. Push a little harder if you are talking to someone you suspect is having any of these experiences. They likely won’t tell you the first time you ask, but once or twice more may be just the little barrier breaker that can save them.

Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

Please feel free to leave a comment or subscribe for future updates.

Yoga Journey 2016

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

It’s Friday, December 30, 2016. I just walked 4 miles from my house to Cheshire Coffee. I’m sitting alone with a cup of green tea with honey and lemon. I’ve never been more content in my life.

I did a lot of thinking on the way up here and wanted to capture it. I don’t know if I’ll finish this or even blog it. For now, I’m just writing from my heart.

2016 was the best year of my life (so far).

I keep seeing posts about how terrible this year was and how people can’t wait for it to end. I don’t relate to that anymore. I might have in the past—but I’m a different person now.

A few weeks ago, Daren and I were driving up to Portland to see Thomas at college. We got caught in traffic, rerouted through a chaotic neighborhood—construction noise, bright sun in our eyes, the dog restless in the backseat, music playing, Siri interrupting with directions.

We were still trying to talk through it all when I suddenly realized—I couldn’t anymore.

I felt anxious. Overstimulated. Instead of pushing through or getting irritated like I would have before, I simply said we should pause the conversation and pick it up later. I turned off the music. We drove in silence.

And I thought about how new that was for me.

A few years ago, I wouldn’t have recognized what was happening in my body. I would have just felt irritated and probably complained. This time, I noticed it—and adjusted.

That shift felt big.

Later, Daren asked what I was thinking about. I told him I was reflecting on how different I am from a year ago.

He said something that stuck with me—he hadn’t really noticed a difference.

And he’s probably right.

These changes are subtle. Internal. The kind you don’t see day to day—like a child growing. You only notice when you look back.

So how do I explain it?

I’m becoming a “less is more” person.

Before speaking, I now run things through a filter:
Is it true? Is it necessary? Is it kind?

I suddenly have a lot less to say—and I listen more.

Yoga taught me that. Sitting in circles, listening to others without responding. At first, it felt unnatural. But I started to carry that into my life.

I listen more deeply now—to people, to my body, to the world around me.

I’ve become more aware of my body, especially through anxiety. I didn’t even realize how much of it I carried all the time. Medication helped quiet the noise enough for me to actually hear what was going on inside.

With that awareness came acceptance. Of myself. Of my experiences. Of where I am.

I’ve learned what affects me—what fuels me and what drains me. Running long distances, too much coffee, certain foods. Things I never would have noticed before.

I have a better sense now of when to push and when to let go. I used to fight everything. Now I understand balance a little more. Not everything is worth the energy.

I move slower. When I catch myself rushing, I stop and ask why. There’s usually no good reason.

I became especially aware of this after knee surgery, when I had no choice but to slow down. It felt uncomfortable at first—like I was wasting time. But I realized… I wasn’t.

I was just present.

Yoga taught me how to breathe. Really breathe. The kind of breathing that changes how your body feels. I started practicing different techniques and using breath to move through my day more intentionally.

That awareness extended to my thoughts.

“Don’t water the weeds.”

I catch myself now when I’m feeding thoughts that don’t serve me. I used to beat myself up over it. Now I just begin again.

And I begin again more quickly.

The background noise in my mind has changed too. It used to be random songs or looping conversations. Now I’m more intentional about what I take in—music, messages, thoughts. I use mantra. I redirect.

I’ve even become more aware of what I consume physically—food, products, everything. I’ve simplified. Less makeup, less fuss. More natural. More ease.

I feel more like myself than I ever have.

And interestingly, I’ve become more aware of others too.

Not long ago, I saw a woman at work crying. I barely knew her, but I walked over and hugged her. I didn’t overthink it. I didn’t hold back. I just showed up.

I didn’t used to do things like that.

I tell people I love them more. I listen more. I’m present more often.

And I’ve learned to enjoy my own company.

That might be one of the biggest shifts.

I used to hate being alone. Now I need it. I value it. It’s where I hear myself.

Daren was right—these changes aren’t obvious from the outside.

But inside, everything feels different.

The world constantly tells us who we should be. It’s hard to know who you are underneath all of that.

Yoga didn’t change me overnight. It worked quietly, over time. Along with other experiences that led me there.

I feel incredibly lucky to have had the space to explore this part of myself. Not everyone does.

I’m far from perfect. I still fall off my path.

But I get back on.

And I fall less often now.

2016 was the year that shifted everything for me.

I only hope to keep going—and maybe help others find their own path along the way.

If you’re still reading—thank you. Truly.

Peace. 2016—out.

Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

Please feel free to leave a comment or subscribe for future updates.

 

On New Pathways

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

I don’t know if it’s because I turned 40 this year. Or because I started yoga teacher training. Or because I started taking Lexapro. Or a combination of those and other things, but I’m a person going through a transition. I’m sort of on a new path.

One of the many new things in my life that I’ve been taking advantage of is the new trail that was recently built between Jarvis and West Main Street in Cheshire. It’s not officially connected to Southington yet, but it’s walkable and no one tells you to get off. It’s not connected to Cornwall Street either, which would make it possible to stay on the trail all the way from Southington to New Haven, but the small road that connects West Main and Cornwall (Willow) is safe and short enough that it’s no problem to do the whole route without getting too far off the path.

It’s a new pathway. I ran on it for the first time about a month and a half ago. It was the same day I put on a Fitbit. Daren got one at a conference in Vancouver. He had it on his dresser for a few weeks until I asked if he was going to use it. He said no and that I could, so I put it on that morning and ran the 1.25 miles up to the new trail.

As soon as I stepped off my usual route, I felt a little scared and excited. I’d never really been off my usual path (A.K.A. rut), and the excitement of being on new territory without a car felt freeing. I turned the corner not really knowing how long it would take me to get to the trail. I knew it by car, but being on foot was so much different. It turned out not to be that far.

When I reached the entrance of the trail, standing there in the bright morning sunlight, it felt a bit magical. I stopped to take a picture of the new sign. I thought I might start walking once I got there, but I wasn’t tired yet and felt a strong desire to keep running.

img_8589

The path is flat compared to the hills in my neighborhood that I’m accustomed to. Sometimes those hills kick my butt and I need to stop and walk; other times I can push through them. The flatness felt novel and good. It felt like I could run forever.

 

img_8590

I ran further into the trail and saw the “Prom?” sign graffitied into the mountain. Where did that come from? Is it the Cheshire prom pose place? Did some romantic high school boy do that for a girl while the trail was being built? Who knows… but it’s kind of nice. It sits right across from a bench.

I stopped again, feeling the warm morning sunlight on my skin, wanting to soak it in. I ran further, breathing slowly—an old trick that sometimes works and sometimes doesn’t. That day, it worked. The slow breathing, warm sun, and shadowy trees created the perfect conditions. I continued down this new path without really knowing how far I’d go. I just knew I wanted to keep going.

Running water, green muck, benches, beautiful trees… it was all breathtaking. I felt so alive.

When I started to hear cars in the distance, I knew I was getting close to the end. And almost without warning, there it was—West Main Street. I had to stop and just take it in. I had never seen it from that perspective, out in the open without the protection of a car. Without that barrier, you feel everything more. The air, the smells, the heat. It was beautiful.

I turned around, now having a sense of how far I had gone.

 

img_8597

Again, I thought I’d get tired and walk. To my surprise, I never really did. Even when I got back to the hills, I pushed myself just a little further each time—one mailbox at a time—until I reached the top without stopping.

By the time I got home, I realized I had run farther than I ever had before. It wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be. And it was actually fun.

Over the next few weeks, I went back to the trail as often as I could. I walked it. I ran it. I explored parts that weren’t even officially open yet. I started combining new routes with old ones and found myself going farther and farther.

One Sunday after yoga training, I got on my bike and decided to ride the path alone. I hadn’t done that since I was a teenager. It felt both exciting and a little scary.

I rode faster than I expected and reached the end quickly, so I decided not to turn back right away. Instead, I went off the path to see if I could find my way to another entrance—without using a map. And I did.

That feeling of figuring it out on my own stayed with me. Not just physically, but mentally. I felt independent. Capable.

 

img_8806

 

This new path has opened up my world in so many ways. It helped me realize how strong I am, on foot and on a bike. It’s given me the ability to go places without a car. It’s connected me to different parts of town, to nature, and to myself.

And somewhere along the way, I started to see it as more than just a trail.

It felt like what was happening inside of me.

I began thinking about how we create new neural pathways in our brains—how change happens slowly, through repetition, through small shifts over time. Just like the trail being built piece by piece.

I’ve watched sections of it evolve day by day. And I realized—I’m doing the same thing.

Each day, one small change at a time, I’m creating new routes. Strengthening them. Making them deeper so they can eventually become the default instead of the old patterns and ruts.

As above, so below. Pathways are pretty amazing, whether in our minds or in the physical world.

It made me think about history—about when the Romans built roads and how that opened up the world. It created connection, trade, movement, possibility.

But roads can also wear out. Or lead somewhere you no longer want to go.

It happens in our minds too.

Creating a new path is work. It’s uncomfortable. It’s unknown. The old path is easier—it’s familiar, automatic.

But once you step off that old route and into something new, something shifts.

It’s exciting. A little scary. You’re more alert. More aware. You notice things you wouldn’t normally see because you’re no longer on autopilot.

And when you return to the old path, you see it differently. You start to recognize what still serves you—and what doesn’t.

Maybe it’s not about abandoning the old completely. Maybe it’s about keeping what’s good while creating something new.

That’s where growth happens.

New pathways—both mentally and physically—make life more exciting. They help us grow. They open up possibilities.

That sounds pretty good to me.

Thank you, Cheshire rails-to-trails project. It’s just one of many things changing in my world right now, and I wanted to honor it by sharing its beauty.

Love, Peace & Namaste.

img_8797

Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

Please feel free to leave a comment or subscribe for future updates.

Abroad in Italy

Running 

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

Monday, July 18, 2016 around 8:15pm

Daren and I are on a small little puddle jumper plane to Toronto, en route to Vancouver for the week for a conference of his. We had been rushing all afternoon to make this flight. Once we arrived at the gate, it was delayed. We grabbed a quick bite—some apps and an IPA—only to learn the plane was somehow leaving on time. We rushed back to the gate and jumped on.

I was stressing the whole drive home from work today, realizing how poorly my organization treats its employees. I don’t know if I want to work for an organization like that any longer.

As soon as we sat down in our seats, I was incredibly thirsty and had severe indigestion from scarfing down unhealthy food and rushing around. Then, as soon as the plane took off and my body started to vibrate, it was like a wave of emotions was free to course through me. I started to sob uncontrollably beneath the sound of the loud engines and had my first panic attack in the last five weeks.

Daren held me tight and stroked my hair, asking me to talk to him. I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t sure what was wrong. Finally, he asked if it was those jokers at work, and I realized it was. My job really got to me today. Upon that realization, I broke down even more—now aware of what it was. The release of pent-up emotions was a welcome relief from the burden of stress that had been building over the past week.

Daren encouraged me to think about leaving my job again. Then he pointed out the beautiful sunset we were flying right into. Literally, right now, I am flying off into the sunset.

Is it time for a change?

 

Wednesday, July, 20, 2016 8:33am

Just taking a break after a 3-mile run on a beautiful pedestrian pathway in Vancouver, BC. What a beautiful morning. The temperature is only 62 degrees. I’m sitting on the water in Stanley Park. I’m so lucky to be alive and have this opportunity to explore a new city and travel.

As I was running, I was thinking about the Gwen Stefani song “Running.” It’s playing in my mind now. One day back in April, on the way home from work, I heard this song for the first time in years, and for some reason it made me cry.

I thought about Daren and how, since the moment I met him, we have been literally running. The pace of my life picked up tenfold—and not all for good reason or measure. My stress started to grow then, and it accumulated until I literally crashed after six years.

Blending a family is not easy. We had no idea what we were getting ourselves into, and it has both broken and built us. We are stronger than ever as individuals and as a couple, but the path was ugly and very difficult. I wish someone had told me how hard it was going to be and helped guide us through the changes we were inevitably going to face.

It’s really time to stop running.

What’s next for me?

To even think about exploring that, I need to slow down and enjoy this most amazing journey and gift of life. I’ll continue to run for exercise and keep the old ticker in shape—but no more running through my life.

Thank you, panic attacks, for being my warning signal—showing me what I can handle and helping me stop and literally see the gorgeous sunset I’m flowing into as my life changes in the most beautiful ways.

Slower is better.

Time is really our enemy. Time and money, separation, being on the run… (Thanks, Pink Floyd—Dark Side of the Moon.)

I could write a whole book about the meaning of that album—maybe some other day.

For now, I need to run back 3 miles to the hotel, shower, and enjoy my slow, no-rush day while continuing my journey of contemplating how to be my best self in the world using what I’ve been given by this beautiful and expansive universe.

Namaste.

 

No Doubt lyrics (because they inspired me to stop, sit on a bench and write this morning while on a long jog)

Run, running all the time

Running to the future

With you right by my side

 

Me, I’m the one you chose

Out of all the people

You wanted me the most

And I’m so sorry that I’ve fallen

Help me up, let’s keep on running

Don’t let me fall out of love



Running, running, as fast as we can

Do you think we’ll make it?

(Do you think we’ll make it?)

We’re running, keep holding my hand

So we don’t get separated

 

Be, be the one I need

Be the one I trust most

Don’t stop inspiring me

 

Sometimes it’s hard to keep on running

We work so much to keep it going

Don’t make me want to give up

 

Running, running as fast as we can

I really hope we make it

(Do you think we’ll make it?)

We’re running, keep holding my hand

So we don’t get separated


The view I’m seeing as I write this while sitting on a dedicated bench. Thank you Jean Mary Kendall Eligh and your family. I have enjoyed a piece of your memory today. ☮

 

Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

Please feel free to leave a comment or subscribe for future updates.

 

On being a girl (just my opinion)

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

Just writing that subject line, the song “I Love Being a Girl” suddenly pops in my head. I have an urge to look up the words, but I am currently on a plane as I type this, without an internet connection. I remember the song from when I was a little girl in dancing school. I danced from the ages of 2–12 at a dance school in Brooklyn called Miss Helen’s. She was an older teacher and we had a real piano player (no pre-made music). Miss Helen was a woman of the 1930s and 1940s—a time when ladies were really ladies, even when they had to go to work. And men sported timeless attire: hats, overcoats, and shiny shoes. All the music we ever performed at Miss Helen’s was from that time period. Inevitably every year, one class did a tap number to “I Love Being a Girl.” It was usually a younger class with sweet little girls, stamping their feet and learning the early lessons of dance—to move on the beat and stay in line with the other girls using peripheral vision.

I have mixed feelings about being a female. A curse and a blessing. From the time I can remember, I was encouraged to embrace my femininity. My mother and grandmother insisted I dance. My grandmother was always buying me frilly dresses and pretty overcoats. “Sit like a lady,” “ladies don’t say that or laugh like that,” “just be careful—you don’t want to get your pretty dress all dirty.” I would look longingly at my brothers, who could hunch over, sit however they pleased, and run off to play without worrying about soiling their clothes. I always felt ridiculous in poofed-up, itchy dresses and ribbons or curls in my hair. My mother was always trying something new with my hair. I had to sleep with curlers many nights, or some kind of Chinese ribbons that my hair never took to. I absolutely HATED my dance recitals and putting on makeup. I felt like a clown. I wanted to be in the audience with shorts, sneakers, and air conditioning like my brothers and cousins who were forced to come sit and watch this yearly grand performance.

When I became a teenager and started buying my own clothes, I put myself in comfortable things that normal teenagers wore. I started wearing makeup in my early teens and poofing my bangs with Aqua Net hairspray like most girls did in the late 80s, early 90s. I paid little mind to jewelry or nails or shoes or anything super girly. I joined the Coast Guard and fit in well, not having to worry about my clothes each day and being able to throw back my hair in a bun under a hat quickly. I loved it.

I guess what got me excited about being a girl was the opposite of being in a uniform. The rare times I was able to get in civilian clothes and literally let down my then fairly long brown hair, I felt so… feminine! The guys I worked with every day did a double take. I felt like a new person. It was kind of cool to literally transform. Over the next few years, once I became a civilian, I discovered all sorts of fun things—hair different ways, different kinds of earrings and bracelets, flat shoes, heels, boots, leggings, colored pantyhose, different shades of makeup and nail polish. Hair up or down, curly or straight. Dresses, skirts, pants, capris, tight shirts, loose flowy ones… Oh, the possibilities were endless. Thanks to my mom in my formative years, I knew how to do my hair in different styles and not be bothered by the discomforts of pinchy shoes, clothes, and tights. My grandmother immediately noticed my transformation. She was a woman of class. She had timeless beauty and style. She had a wardrobe many a woman would envy with years’ worth of clothing, shoes, handbags, belts, scarves, and luggage. She always bought me beautiful things over the years—things me and my parents thought were way too expensive and sexy. Underwear, lingerie, bathing suits, shoes that I couldn’t even walk in. When I started to realize how much fun these things were, my grandmother was so excited for me. We were always close, but we really bonded at this time in my life over the joys of being a woman. She had and shared clothes she outgrew by popular designers before they were even popular. I was finally listening when she talked about fashion and the stitching on our bags. I got a little more into housewares. She loved to set a beautiful table and had given me many china sets, glasses for all occasions, napkins, tablecloths, and cutlery. Gosh, it is fun to be a girl. Poor men with so few options.

I never appreciated these things before then. My mom loved her makeup, manicured nails, perfume, and clothes, but she wasn’t into anything expensive and sort of detested her own mother for insisting on the best of everything. At the time I started to really enjoy fashion, my mother sort of became a hippie. She divorced my father, married, and moved in with a Venezuelan man from a missionary in Florida, and started working in a homeless shelter. She started to wear old comfortable clothes and let her once short, always perfectly hair-dried tresses grow long. She stopped wearing jewelry and makeup and cared less about a perfectly clean house and homemade dinners on the table. My grandmother and I thought her to be crazy. She became quite spiritual and pretty adamant that these “things” just don’t matter.

They have both since passed. I now understand my mother a whole lot more.

At some point in the past few years, my feet really started to hurt in shoes. Many a morning when it was freezing cold out and I was in a rush, drying my hair and squeezing into stockings knowing there would be no time for breakfast, I watched my husband turn dashing in about 5 minutes flat, and then make himself some eggs and read the paper over a long cup of coffee. I am no longer sure that the time sacrifice to look nice is worth it and should be encouraged.

There were times during PMS or that time of the month where it took all the energy in the world to get up and get dressed to the nines and get to work—running to the bathroom with feminine hygiene products discreetly in tow between meetings, then being embarrassed to show up late while being wildly uncomfortable and bloated, with pinching clothes… only to sit down and see some man, who I’m sure took 5 minutes to be ready and ate breakfast, gawk at me like a piece of meat. Not cool, dudes out there. I was really doing these things for me because they were fun, not for them. How dare men get to do nothing and then stare at pretty women? I was understanding what people meant when they say it’s a man’s world.

I started to notice the respect that well dressed women get. A female standing at a podium making a speech with an unfitted shirt and wild undried hair just does not command the same attention as the slim suit skirt with lipstick and a Brazilian blowout who would follow before or after her. I have watched audiences, colleagues and even coffee baristas ignore the comfortable, practical woman over the impeccable one who had to put hours into looking that way time and time again. When this realization started to take hold, I began to get bitter about the injustices women in general face.

I understood the bra burning craze and movement toward a hippie life in the late 60’s, early 70’s. There were men at the time who understood these injustices too and went with the flow. What stopped them? Drugs and too free of a life I assume, but they weren’t on a bad track. The jokes about the ladies room lines really started to get to me. Yeah haha funny, but it’s just not really ok. Why are their restrooms even close to the same size as ours? We are heading in with babies, small children and handbags. Changing tables, broken hooks with no where to hang a purse many times except your own teeth. Sweating in a jacket, squeezing in with a little kid, having to actually wash your hands at all, but then doing it while balancing everything else one is holding trying not to touch anything nasty. Why is bringing the kids into the ladies room still even the norm? Even when you don’t have any or they have grown, they are all still in there, underfoot; being lifted to the sinks. Poor mother doing a balancing act and everyone right around her trying not to get in the way or hit with splashed water. Forget it if you have your period and need to take care of business amongst the chaos. Then only to go outside and see the man you are with happily on his iPhone, never understanding what you have just gone through… Or bless his soul never understanding why you are an irritated grump when he asks what took you so long.

That is in my free country. There are women who are actually still oppressed in the world. All over. Then there are THOUSANDS who are made to work fields under hot burkas so we can drink coffee and eat chocolate and meat. There are many more who have to work in hot deplorable falling down factories to make cheap garments… Sadly mostly for women so men can ogle them.

Domestic violence. The sex trade that men actual pay for, treating women like objects. Women are not equal. I don’t know why I believed that when someone told me that when I was young.

A few months ago I watched a free Netflix movie called Miss Representation. I was so moved by it I had all 4 kids watch it. There are SO many unfair and male dominated decisions even in our “free” country right under my nose that I never noticed. Why the sex object in ads, video games, movies? It’s so ingrained that we don’t even notice it and little girls (and big ones too like me) think it’s normal to have to strive to look fake all the time. In politics, tv and movies; women are cheapened and made fun or or talked about provocatively when a man almost never faces the same ridicule. What’s even funnier is that at the end of the day women actually get down to business. Men are often consumed with power and being the alpha male in the room or thinking about what’s under one (or more) of the women’s clothes, that they aren’t even paying attention and things are repeated and beaten to oblivion before a decision is even made. One of my favorite parts of the Miss Representation movie I mentioned is how some political women who are a MAJOR minority in the United States said that they often joke in the bathroom across party lines on breaks that they would have had the decision over and done with in a few minutes opposed to the days they are spending deliberating on our capital’s floor watching egos and the same non-sense being repeated over and over.

I wish my mother and grandmother were still alive to have intelligent chats over coffee (my mom) or a gin & tonic (my grandmother), about how they feel about feminism in this day and age. We are in an interesting time period. My grandmother grew up during the depression when men and women’s roles were a little different. Not too far from the farming generation where no one worked outside the home, and men & women were equal in taking care of two different parts of running a home and raising children. Fashion had no part of practical life. Men were getting their power reduced with voting and equal rights. Both sexes pooled together to do what needed to be done for our country with WW2. Women looked and acted like women, men like men- but it seemed fair. Even when men left the home to work and more money was flowing, women stayed home to keep house and raise the kids. Then the economy started to boom and women now had products (made by men no doubt) that made them look shapely, done up and feel pretty. Advertisement, tv and movies ramped it up and suddenly it was the female norm to be “done up” everyday, stay skinny and keep a perfect home.

Bring in my mom’s generation who had to do all that but then also work outside the home to buy all these life necessities to look and be perfect. Child rearing, keeping house, working like a horse; but doing it with heels, perfume and make up was and still is generally an expectation of females only. Men just have the work like a horse part. Women fought against it at first with the bra burning and high divorce rates of the 70s, but somehow they became oppressed and took on extra roles throughout the years. Many women, myself included, play this part because it’s what we were taught to do. We saw it on tv and magazines and in movies, watch our mothers, aunts and neighbors do it; so we think it’s normal and don’t even question the differences. Men run 95% of the media and politics, everything that shapes out perception of the world. My mom, like most other women, (now myself included) ended up hitting a burn out wall. We feel mostly powerless against the world and against the majority of women who have not yet awoken to this reality, feel there is nothing we can do and kind of quietly rebel against this nonsense.

Gender inequality is everywhere. I saw it so much on the vacation I’m returning from over a vast number of cultures in a few countries. I’m on a plane right now. Everywhere I look men are sitting spread eagle right into the women’s spaces. Women are sitting uncomfortably like ladies. Most men push past women everywhere, doorways, trains, on lines. When I see a woman struggling with a suitcase or trying to get a stroller down stairs, it’s another women helping her and other ladies making sure she is being helped unlike the oblivious men charting off to push the weaker and slower out of the way as soon as possible. Women are still covered in much of the world. They can’t show their faces. They are the ones pushing strollers and lugging the family’s bags. In the crowded and stinky restrooms women are brushing out their hair, applying a fresh coat of lipstick to keep their man’s attention and tending to the children. Why don’t men have to do any of this?

Men may never know what it feels like to be scared to get into a cab late at night or even walk to the car. They never have to change their last name and deal with the legal obnoxiousness of having several identities. Or being paid less for doing the same job! They cannot understand the pressure most young girls start to feel in the preteen years when they see their dad, brother or classmate’s nudie photos for the first time and start to believe they need to look like the altered models for a man to find them attractive. They have eating disorders and serious self confidence issues because of the media. Men will never understand what it feels like to bleed every month, have your hormone levels rise & fall and not have any control over the emotions souring through your body. Or being so tired some days from the loss of iron you can hardly function. We are told we are wimps for not pushing through crowds or dealing with a period, but has any man ever dealt with a menstrual cycle or been called a bitch for elbowing their way through a crowd? Yeah yeah yeah… the way of the world and the curse of being a woman and all that stuff, but by who? It’s the way of the world, but we should be able to see the injustice and unfairness in the differences of the genders. How can women embrace femininity when they are expected to be both sexes at the same time and take on every role every man or woman has had since the dawn of time? So many women before me including my own mother have realized this simple fact but are such a minority that they can hardly do anything about it except maybe hold some rallies where they are mocked by both sexes alike or post blogs, write stories or make low budget movies where they will be called a feminist and very possibly be publicly made fun of.

In some ways my grandmother and Miss Helen had it a little easier. A bit closer to a period where women were gaining domestic and political rights but both sexes had a very separate yet equal role. Men held doors and helped ladies with heavy bags. Both sexes dressed up and women weren’t expected to have twiggy like bodies. I may have loved being a girl then.

I still do enjoy many parts of being a girl, but not at the expense of being expected to do it all. In the past few years I only blow dry my hair once or twice a week. I don’t wear make up many days. I’m certainly wearing more comfortable clothes and shoes. I shop only consignment. I care much less about ultra girly things. I would rather drop money on a charity to help women and children around the world shape the next generation over an expensive bag that plays into the obscene role of the woman who has the perfect job, kids, clothes, house, and husband. It’s fake and exhausting. I’ve been waking up to this reality over the past few years and can feel proud that I talk to my own daughter about the confusing world women live in so she doesn’t fall into the same confused state many of us are or were in.

No more having three-year olds in tight sparkly costumes cut down in a heart shape to their non-existent bust. All dolled up with hairspray and lipstick, looking like a clown singing about enjoying being a girl in a world where there is female oppression, genital mutilation and sex trade. If you are lucky enough to live in a free country, enjoying  being a girl means obsessing over your weight, bearing most of the household duties, watching your sisters be gawked at and spoken of as objects and spending hours a day trying to look like the media says you should to be taken seriously at work or even in the grocery store.

I also know there are a lot of men and single dads out there that do play a big role in parenting and running a house. They get my kudos and I know they are likely helped with that baby stroller on the stairwell by another women rather than a fellow dude. It’s also a woman who sees you outside a public restroom deliberating how you and your daughter can both use the bathroom and offers to take her in.

We are all human, let’s treat each other as such. This just means a little more elbow grease from the “weaker sex” on raising awareness in both world wide and domestic issues; and a little more compassion from men on what half of the population around them feels. Equal rights and equality between sexes is not the same thing.

Love & Peace. Namaste.

Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

Please feel free to leave a comment or subscribe for future updates.

 

Lexapro 100 day journal

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

Wow… 100 days. I went to see my primary care provider this afternoon for a follow-up on my anxiety and refill on my SSRI. I noted to myself that I have not journaled in a long time about my experience with Lexapro and came home to do so. I put the date I started and today’s date into Excel to see how many days it’s been – since I completely lost count; and to my utter surprise it’s 100 days exactly today. I feel like things are under control. I get anxious occasionally and I did have a panic attack last Wednesday at work. But the last time before that I had a panic attack was 5 weeks prior to then, but it was an incredibly stressful morning. As I told my provider this afternoon, I almost need to feel slightly anxious every so often because it’s my body’s trigger to slow down. If I went up any more on my dose I might not feel anxious at all and push myself too far. I’m in a good place.

And slow down I have! I am smelling the roses. I catch myself unnecessarily trying t o beat the clock for no good reason and I stop to consciously appreciate the present moment, no matter how unpleasant (except for traffic… I have NOT mastered feeling ok with the present in traffic). I am on my back deck. I can hear the trees blowing in the wind. I am not taking appreciating life for granted. I hope I always feel this way. I’m going to try to make an effort because life is better slower and in gratitude. I spent the day weeding the garden with my feet in the dirt. I thought about weeds and good and evil & cleaning/purging and how we need to do that with our minds by meditating reguarly. You can’t weed on occasion and expect weeds will not grow. You can’t clean every so often and think your home will not get dirty. As above so below – you cannot meditate every once in a while and expect to walk around with a clear head and zen outlook.

I loved the journey since I started medication. Someone told me to journal about it and I did. I was so afraid to start my medication. I kept the meds a few days before I began and read about it online obsessively. I was afraid of not feeling like myself. A girl wrote about how she had been on Lexapro for a year. She was artsy and creative and had incredible mood swings before she started the drug. She said she drew and painted so much more passionately before she started and now wondered if she should go off and be her real self again. That scared me. But the 5-10% of people or so who had good things to say, and didn’t have a nightmare of an experience said they were glad to actually feel like their old self again. That is what I wanted. I like being passionate & creative and all that jazz, but I did want to feel like myself. What would be the worse thing? It would be a nightmare and I’d go off and be in the same place I was? My biggest fear was losing myself, but actually – I found myself again. And I’m all the better for it.

March 16, 2016; 10:16pm

And here goes 

About to take my first dose of lexapro. I may be miserable the next few days and worse off. I’m officially someone diagnosed with a mental health condition and I need meds. I pray it works because I so desperately want to feel better. This may be the last of the real Esterina. I love myself. I’m sorry I lost it. I will be better. And here goes…

March 18, 2016; 5:44pm 

Lexapro – Day 2

I am a person who is in touch with themselves. Deeply. I can already feel a difference. This morning when I woke up, it was the first time I woke up and didn’t have the sense of impending doom looming over me in a long time. It was amazing! But I know it’s not working yet because after a few minutes of lying in bed I started my normal anxiety. Only this time it felt different. I was short of breath, but somehow it wasn’t causing pain in my head. It was like it was cut off from my head or something. Then I read a text from Daren that he sent last night. I could hardly see it. The words and font looked kind of different, smaller if anything and a little sharper. I went down to the kitchen and prepared a fresh juice. I went back upstairs to reply to Daren’s texts. It wasn’t until he started making rigmarole plans with different pick-ups and hockey bags and complicated collaboration that the anxiety really started. Only it didn’t even come close to a panic attack. 

Today at work I was able to focus. Focus on one thing at a time. Not as well as I’d like but I was SO SO SO productive. It was crazy! I had energy I hadn’t had in years. Is this what drugs really do? No wonder these are prescription drugs. I almost want to up my dose to the 10 I’m not supposed to start until at least Sunday, but I’ll hold off. 

Driving home felt good. Usually I’m numb and kind of miserable. I wouldn’t go as far as saying that I was happy, but I was pretty ‘unmiserable’. 

I laughed like I did when I was younger twice in the past two days. Once about an hour after I took my first pill. I immediately felt a sense of chill about 5-10 minutes later. I did have a few margaritas with Gretchen and Lucy earlier in the evening. I know I’m not supposed to drink and take this, but I didn’t want to say no to hanging with them, especially while Daren was away and I haven’t seen them in so long. And I was suffering SO much with anxiety I didn’t want to wait even another day until I started the journey. So I took it that night. I felt a little chill as I drifted off into bed. I thought back to the day and remembered a funny incident at work. Haha!!! I couldn’t stop laughing. It was like when I was a kid or teenager before I got married and had kids… when I’d laugh all the time. Then yesterday the same thing happened in a meeting. It was a construction meeting and one of the police officers was describing an area that someone requested we do construction in. He was describing the half wall they were asking for and the reason being he said was… he didn’t know the medical term – but it was to give the patients a “shot in the buttocks”. OMG, I started laughing but stopped. I was holding back – I mean this is a professional meeting & all right? I’d heard this shot in the butt story before. Then when someone else was referring to it a few minutes later and he said “to give these shots in the butt” I started laughing again. And like when I was young. I knew it was inappropriate but I was giggling uncontrollably anyway. I couldn’t stop and it was almost embarrassing. Everyone looked at me when I really busted up. With tears streaming down my face. I said “I’m so sorry I’m laughing about this like a 5 year old”. And they all started laughing too. It felt so good. It felt like me raw. What’s funny is that it is me raw. I guess that is what it feels like to have my brain more in balance. 

I NEVER really time off from work. But over the past year or two I’ve probably taken between 6-8 mental health days with some other excuse. I always felt guilty as if I was cheating the system or something. I do it so nicely too. I make sure my work is done, my meetings are covered, I often get online & work throughout the day and answer questions. But overall I felt guilty. Truth is though, I do have a mental health condition and needed those mental health days. My reactions and feelings aren’t normal. I truly am suffering. It took having my first panic attack to realize how unstable I felt. While I don’t treasure them, I do in some way for getting me to realize I really was at a breaking point and needed help. I need help. It feels good to say that. And as long as this medication keeps improving and there are little to no (and fingers crossed for no) side effects then I’m SO happy I’m taking the steps to feel mentally healthy again. I cried coming home from the doctor when the med was prescribed. I felt like a loser. Now I don’t. I read somewhere where someone wrote coming out with a mental health disorder to other people felt worse than coming out of the closet. I felt like I could sympathize. I stared at the bottle. I read the instructions for a medicine the first time ever. I read everything I could get my hands on online about Lexapro. I was scared. When I finally made the decision to start taking it I was kind of excited and not scared anymore. I’m glad I waited the time out because now it feels right. Fingers crossed it’s only on the up & up from here. I want to be me again. 

March 21, 2016; 5:35am 

Lexapro – Day 5

Tired is all I can say. I have no energy. Saturday morning I woke up in full on Fight or Flight mode, only my thoughts were rational and I didn’t try to figure out what was the matter with or try to talk to Daren about all that is wrong in our lives & the world. It was just obvious that my body was reacting to absolutely nothing and I had to let it ride out. My mind didn’t follow it. It was nice, but unsettling. I can’t believe the medication would work so quickly. Saturday late afternoon when I went to take a shower, about 2 minutes into it I was hit a giant wave of exhaustion. Crazy exhausted. I was worried I wouldn’t be able to make it out of the shower safely. I did though. Daren came up and made sure I was able to get dressed. Then I went downstairs to the couch and kind of didn’t move most of the night. I got up for about 15 min to eat dinner, but had to lay back down. I slept for about 2 hours before dinner. Then again through most of the movie we watched. Sat night I know I looked at the clock before I fell into a deep sleep in bed, and it was 10:50. I woke up at 7:50, a full 9 hours later! But I was still tired. Saturday evening I switched from 5mg to 10mg. I was expecting to wake up with some wooziness and nausea, but didn’t. I was just super lethargic.

I forced myself out of bed and downstairs for some green tea. Stupidly Daren and I started our quarterly detox too. Probably a bad idea to be detoxing and starting a new medication. I started to gain some energy around noon. I made all the dinners for the week and cleaned up the kitchen & house a bit. Then I took Koji on a very mild 2 mile walk. But when I came home I was exhausted again. I went to take a shower (a very quick one because no one was home and I was afraid I’d fall asleep in there). Then I went to the couch. I couldn’t really fall asleep and I had no motivation to do anything. I had a mini panic attack. I’m not even sure why. I was incredibly depressed and crying on the couch. I was thinking about putting real clothes on today to go to work (no yoga pants) and it just made me so sad. I felt like I couldn’t deal with life. At that time I felt pangs of anxiety, but nothing fight or flight like within me. It was more like depression to be honest. No beating heart or doom & gloom thoughts. I got up to eat and right back to the couch. Until bed. I slept like a log. I had a hard time getting up for work today, but here I am.

 I feel drugged up. I really do. My motor skills are slower than usual. I’m SO tired. I can’t say enough about how little energy I have. And I’m really hungry. Don’t know if it’s the meds or the detox, but just hungry. I hope this wears away. I’m having a hard time caring about anything, especially work. I hope this balances out. Good vibes & lots of love.

March 25, 2016; 5:40am

Lexapro – Day 9

I’ve been SO depressed. I had no energy the past few days. I have been FORCING myself to walk. I drank pink wine & had chocolate last night. I had such forceful cravings. I should be getting my period so that might be it too. Plus I have heard Lex can make your anxiety and depression a little worse. I’ve felt my body in fight or flight a LOT, but my mind has not always taken me there. It has a few times. It’s been a rough few days since I’ve last written. 

Today I’m feeling great so far. I’ve only been up a for a little bit though. I got up & stretched and I put on a mask and gave myself a mani & pedi. I feel good. I feel solid. I still feel anxiousness in my head, but I just feel happy. I want to stay here (as I know everyone does). I NEED to work peace and meditation into my day everyday. It helps. I feel good. Namaste.

March 28, 2016; 12:24pm

Lexapro – Day 12

I had an absolutely terrible weekend at first. I mean terrible. I felt great on Friday. Like my old self. I was productive at work as I was the Friday before. I had a beer Friday night at the Wolfpack game and felt ok for a while. I started feeling a little depressed and by the time we got home I wanted to kill someone. I was so anxious about our ridiculous lives. None of the kids were supposed to be with us, but 3 of them suddenly were. I fell asleep right away but woke up to Kieran taking a shower at 12:15 in the morning. His mother left his belongings behind my car earlier that evening, and then Gabby ran them over while we weren’t home when she borrowed my car. She had to have the neighbors come over and help bail the crap out from under the car. Once I woke up and couldn’t fall back to sleep my blood started to boil and my anxiety kicked in. I lost it. I had a panic attack. The next morning on the couch I had another. Overall I’m not really feeling better yet. Today at work I haven’t really done a thing this morning. I’m so completely unmotivated. I know that doctors sometimes prescribe Xanax or something for breakthrough panic until the SSRI starts to kick in. I’m in a weird place. I have my fingers crossed this works. Every passing day I hope I’m one day closer. I did have the energy to get up & do some yoga stretching this morning.

 I know I sound a little rambly. I can’t wait to have motivation again. I did have it on Friday. Today I’m moving in slow motion. I was better this morning. I even did my 5 minutes of meditation that I always intend to do. I did it on Friday too. I really did give me a good sense of peace and inner stillness. Just now I’m SO tired. I’m tired. I’m not doing anything useful for the world. I don’t know what to say. I want to feel better. I just want to feel better. I really do.

March 30, 2016; 5:32am

Lexapro – Day 14

One thing I have been forgetting to mention is the very realistic dreams. People seem to use the word vivid but to me they just seem real. Like it’s real life and I wake up confused about whether or not something actually happened.

One of the things that recently happened to me last Tuesday is that several of my pills went down the sink. I ordered a pill box so that wouldn’t happen. It had 4.5 stars on Amazon so I chose it. It came on Friday (I think… maybe Saturday?) and I’ve been using it ever since. I’m not completely impressed with it. I just thought it would be easier than twisting off that terrible cap every time. Then last night I dreamt of this pill box. The days of the week wouldn’t close. The pills were falling out all in my make-up bag. I thought to myself that I needed to write a bad review and in my mind I thought as a consolidation the company would be mailing me a new one. I wasn’t going to get another one, I was just going to put the pills in a plastic bag instead. Vivid dreams. Realistic really.

April 1, 2016; 5:21am

Lexapro – Day 16

Yesterday was the first day I felt good all day. I think waking up & doing yoga first thing had something to do with it. I’ve also been meditating every morning at work for 5 minutes before starting the day. I’ve been opening the the window and looking out. Hearing the sounds of West Haven waking up. Feeling the cool morning air. Even the day it was raining. It was nice. Today I am in Newington. There is no window. I will try to meditate anyway at 8:15 when morning report starts and I know no one will bother me. 

Yesterday I felt kind of normal or what I imagine other people feel as normal. I caught myself catching my breath a few times and taking deep sighs, but I didn’t try to follow my body to why I felt stressed and just kept saying to myself that I shouldn’t water the weeds (of thoughts). It helped yesterday. It doesn’t always. Hopefully it’s the lex and then hopefully I can remap my brain to do that all the time.

This morning was the first time in 2 weeks that I woke up and didn’t have stress coursing through my veins with my heart beating. I’m trying not to think too much about it because it can go any second, AND thinking about it causes more stress usually. Please God/Universe/Almighty…. I need a clear mind. Peace. Tranquility.

April 4, 2016; 5:40pm

Lexapro – Day 19

Today I feel really good. Saturday I felt overall nothing. Not depressed. Not happy. Just nothing. Unmotivated too. I kind of did almost nothing. I did change out my summer and winter clothes though. Not having the feeling of being too attached to doing anything else or the outcome helped me to just concentrate on what I was doing and do it well. Time flew by. It was kind of nice and it felt nice to look back and see the progress I made with the clothes change. Something simple and it made me feel accomplished. Then for some reason on the way down to Shannon’s wine party later that afternoon, listening to music I perked up. I perked up so much I was singing to the music. It felt nice. After that I went out with Mirta and Elizabeth. We went to J. Timothy’s. I was kind of mellow. I feel like I’m losing my mind sometimes. I feel duller somehow.

Yesterday I woke up pretty motivated. We slept in until after 9 I think. A good night’s sleep felt really nice. I didn’t do much of anything yesterday at all. I made a few foods in the morning to prep for the week. I took my time. Again not being attached to an outcome feels nice. Then I touched up all the white trim around the house. Sometime in the morning while cooking, most of us were at home but all split up doing various things around the house. I was suddenly incredibly motivated to talk to Kieran and Devin about odd blended family situation. What I’m forgetting to write is that on Friday right after I wrote in here Daren copied me on an email to his ex. She was vague about Keiran’s plans so I asked to clarify something. Well…. she went nuts and spouted back that I’m the step-parent and there is no reason I should communicate about her kids plans. I just wrote back again and said I’d like to know what is going on in my own house.

One of the main things I’m learning about myself is that a situation doesn’t bother me as it’s happening; it’s usually down the road hours or a few days later that I’m affected. I think it was because it was how I coped with domestic violence as I was growing up. At the time of an unpleasant experience I am strong and normal. Only later do I allow myself to process. So, as I was happily cooking Sunday morning, I started to process what felt like an unnecessary attack on Friday. I was in a good mood and just felt like I could talk to the kids. Daren was supposed to come home sooner than I thought with Devin so I was kind of waiting for them. But a lot of time passed and I didn’t have the opportunity when I was ready to talk it so I missed it. I really wanted to air things out though, so I thought I would write down everything I wanted to talk to them about and chat together after dinner. Then I thought the kids might get upset and misconstrue my words, so I thought I’d send an email ahead of time so there were no misinterpretations. I thought about what I might write for hours while I cooked and painted. I finally sat down and the thoughts were just pouring out of me. I imagined their mom one day reading it in case they got upset and forwarded it to her, so I was very PC.

 When I was finished, I felt spent. I sent it to Daren first for his advice. I had no idea how he would react. I asked him to read it and disappeared to take a shower. I felt a huge release and a little panicky. I think a few weeks ago before the lexapro I might have had a panic attack. But I didn’t. I did feel shaky though. Daren came upstairs after my shower to tell me that it was beautiful and that I should sent it right away. I did. Then he told the boys to read it. Kieran did, Devin had some kind of mishap with receiving it. We kind of openly talked about a few things after dinner after Gabby left the table. Then I left Daren and Kieran to talk while I took Koji out for a walk. I know I left the door open for them to talk about some stuff more openly than likely they ever have since I’ve known them at least.

 After that I was kind of numbish again. It’s nice to be numb. I thought I would be upset not feeling so hard, but it’s kind of peaceful. This morning I woke up with more energy than I’ve had in long time. I did about 15 minutes of yoga, no meditation. Had coffee. Actually listened to music again & sang! And I’ve been moderately motivated at work. Not as much as I normally am, but much more than last week. That’s how I am! Thanks for listening.

April 7, 2016; 5:56pm

Lexapro – Day 22

I’m so so so tired of not feeling like myself. I’m tired of feeling blah and uninspired. I’ve been escaping with reading. I don’t want to deal with my bullshit life. I don’t know what to do anymore.

I’m not doing well. I can’t say this medication is working. I had no control over my mind today or my emotions. What can I say?

April 22, 2016; 5:21am

Lexapro – Day 37

Let today be the start of something new. It’s earth day. We had a beautiful full moon last night & now one this morning. I’ve felt good the past few days. I want to somehow get out of working at the VA, at least full time. I know it doesn’t work for me anymore and I’m just not that interested in the politics of it anymore. Not sure what to do. Wish me luck in discovering whatever it is.

April 27, 2016; 12:49pm

Lexapro – Day 42

What inspired me to write is the walk I just took. I’m walking much faster and with much more gusto. I have been walking since 2003 at lunch nearly every day in rain, snow or shine. I have been walking with gusto for years. I never stopped walking, but I did stop walking with gusto. I still took the stairs, but never with conscious thought anymore. Walking the stairs made me pant. I’m not panting anymore 🙂 I don’t even know when that happened :-). I can’t smile enough about this.

 Everything else in my life stayed the same. It’s my body that is different and calmer. I am enjoying the little things more. Things that used to stress me out matter a bit less, but excitingly enough I’m more excited and engaged with them if that makes any sense.

 What likely stopped me from completely falling to pieces are the good habits that I had already. Like taking the stairs, walking daily. Getting up early to stretch and having a quiet cup of coffee. Eating fairly well. I had lost any and all motivation. I hated doing all those things. But the act of doing them out of habit helped me not to delve into a downward spiral. I’m proud of myself for not giving up and just going through the motions even though I wasn’t there and couldn’t care less about it. It still helped even though I couldn’t feel it at the time.

 All else is ok. I am not loving my job like I never had before. Not since the early days in the Coast Guard as a non-rate have I stared at the clock and mentally counted the hours and minutes until I would get to leave. It’s been a while. It kind of stinks. I liked being engaged more, but I feel a call to do something more. I wrote about my experience with stress in my blog esterinaanderson.com. It was cathartic. I had it posted to facebook. I’m not sure if I already journaled this or not, so I may be repeating myself – lol. Just wanted to catch up. 6 weeks. Feeling good.

May 12, 2016; 12:37pm

Lexapro – Day 57

Happy happy lunch break. It’s been a while since I’ve written about my lex experience regularly these days. I’ve been feeling better. My physical anxiety has not gotten better – only mental. I can think so much more clearly. The biggest thing I did yesterday was actually write to my acting boss & the director to ask to work part-time and if that’s not possible I understand that they will have to replace me. I basically said in a very nice way it’s part-time or I just can’t. I told them about my stress. I told them it sounds like I’m sharing something personal but I’ve shared it publicly. I haven’t heard back yet, but I do have an appointment (requested by the director himself) for today at 2pm. It has to be about my email I imagine.

The strange thing is that I’m not worried about this meeting at all. What is the worst thing that can happen? They fire me and I stay home & relax and garden, take care of Koji, read, cook dinners for the family, pick up kids who need rides. Shop for our food and not have it delivered? Clean my own house & not have a service come?  Like normal people… 

I can think about opening a yoga studio and start an hour bank in my town. I’m still fairly young, I have skills that are worthy, and I have motivation to do good for the world. If I can’t do it at my job where I’d like to, I’ll do it somewhere else. That I know for sure.

In some weird way, I’m really oddly not tied to the outcome as much as I may have once been. Is it the lexapro? The yoga?  My intentions I’m a bit better about setting? I don’t know… but I’m happy and I threw something out there that I can’t take back, and whatever happens it won’t be what I’m doing now… and that makes me SO happy. Hugs & lots of love to all beings.

June 24, 2016; 7:51pm

And as I read back through all of this and previously journaled day 100; I’m in an awesome place. I still don’t know what’s going on with my job! I’m working 3 days a week for now, but don’t know if it will be in my current position or any myriad of possibilities. Who knows? I’m ready for anything! It’s been a while since 3/16 when I journaled “here goes”. No regrets! For anyone ever wondering if it’s worth its, for me… it was.

Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

Please feel free to leave a comment or subscribe for future updates.

 

 

Or if you like my style -consider visiting my Online Shop @

https://www.etsy.com/shop/esterinayb

The connection and beauty of two negative recent events in my life 

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

I have a deeper appreciation for life and moving through my day than I’ve ever had before. Two things happened in the past few months that helped me come to this realization: I started taking an SSRI, and I had outpatient knee surgery. Two very different things for completely different reasons—but in all honesty, both were the result of moving through life too quickly and absentmindedly. Both have completely slowed me down (and fattened me up just a little!), and it’s not all a bad thing.

Back in March, I quite literally lost my marbles and, thankfully, became fully aware that fooling myself into sleeping more, doing more yoga, or meditating more often was not going to be my cure. Truthfully, I was no longer able to do any of those things in a way that felt meaningful. Yoga still felt good physically, but it didn’t slow my thoughts or help me “just be” like it used to. Meditation was a joke. I sat there diligently, but I couldn’t stop the racing in my head.

I did everything I could to keep up with my life. I was (and still am) one of the most organized people I know. Everything was as efficient as possible. No time management tip was going to help—I would read them and think I could write a better article myself. I was stretched thin. There was no room for error. One small miscommunication between family members and the entire chain of well-planned events and pickups would fall apart. No way to live.

A few days before the marble-losing, I went to a routine Thursday morning report-out for senior leadership. As usual, I prepared at the last minute—rushed, but still pulled together something polished and well-coordinated. I walked into the conference room, my employee pulled up the presentation, and I slid my chair under the large dark wooden table.

SLAM.

I hit my right knee hard on one of the table legs.

There were the usual reactions—“Oof,” “I heard that,” “You didn’t need that knee anyway!”—and I shrugged it off and kept going. About 24 hours later, during a meeting with my small team, I noticed my knee hurt. I wondered why as I pushed through the agenda, then remembered hitting it the day before and briefly questioned why it took so long to register. That night at dinner with friends, it hurt more.

The next day, Daren and I went into the city. We were so busy and stressed that I didn’t think about my knee at all. The following morning, seemingly out of nowhere, I had my first long-overdue panic attack. I cried the entire way home. I noticed my knee hurt, but it wasn’t until late the next night—around 9 p.m.—that I realized how swollen and red it had become.

Daren was at hockey practice. I wanted him to look at it, but I fell asleep before he got home.

Long story short, the next few weeks were filled with panic attacks and knee aspirations. The panic worsened quickly. I realized I had to start medication—I had nowhere left to cut back. And have you ever tried to “relax” while in a nonstop adrenaline rush? It doesn’t work.

Once I started the SSRI, I began to notice how often my body was in fight-or-flight, even as my mind started to calm. It was eye-opening. I had been living like this all the time.

I first went to urgent care five days after the injury and was told to rest and monitor it. It stopped hurting—but it didn’t stop swelling. So I ignored the advice. I ran on it, did yoga on it, and didn’t call an orthopedist for three weeks. Who has time for this?

Eventually, I was getting it drained every couple of weeks… then every week… then it started swelling again almost immediately after each visit. At one point, the doctor tried to drain it and nothing came out. A wall had formed. Surgery or live with it.

It’s funny—my knee felt like a physical version of what had been happening mentally for years. Rushing. Ignoring warning signs. Doing the bare minimum to manage something that was clearly deteriorating. Until I hit a wall—mentally first, then physically.

It wasn’t until I had no choice but to deal with it that I realized how much my lifestyle was harming me. My body is all I have—why wasn’t I taking care of it?

After medication adjustments and a few rough weeks, the panic attacks lessened. And then I had surgery.

I’m not claiming I’m a changed woman, but I’ve had some of the most relaxing weeks of my life.

Since March, I’ve rediscovered the library. I’ve been reading a book a week—fiction. Nothing intellectual. Nothing self-improvement related. Just stories.

I’ve started getting bi-weekly massages. Daren and I have been spending more time at home—making the outside of our house beautiful, sipping cocktails, watching fun TV (not documentaries—actual fun TV). I’ve been coloring mandalas. Visiting local shops. Sitting in coffee shops with a matcha latte and a book. Writing for fun.

I’ve even started going back to sleep in the mornings when I don’t have to rush.

That, in itself, feels like a revolution.

My whole life, I woke up ready to go. Even when I was exhausted. There was always something to do. Something waiting. Something urgent. My dad used to bang on our doors and tell us we were “sleeping our lives off.”

Now… I listen to my body. And sometimes it tells me to rest. And I do.

After surgery, I slowed down even more. I slept. I sat outside with my leg up and a book. I noticed things. I wasn’t rushing anywhere.

One morning, I walked slowly down my own street and realized I barely knew it. The houses, the details, the quiet beauty of it all. It had always been there—I just hadn’t.

Later, on the ferry, I looked at my legs—one swollen, one not—and felt grateful just to have them. In the shower, I noticed their strength, their design, how they carry me through life.

I ate breakfast and actually tasted it. I thought about how each raspberry grew—slowly, over time—until it was ready.

I want that.

Slow growth. Presence. Awareness.

We spent the day outside. I modified yoga to meet my body where it was. The trees were alive with spring. Food tasted better. Life felt softer.

Healing—mentally and physically—is happening in small increments. Just like those raspberries.

This morning, I woke up early when Daren left to drive Kieran to work. I started writing this… then stopped.

I opened the blinds. Listened to the birds. Laid back down. Let myself rest.

I want to live like this more.

I’ve already asked to cut back hours at work—and thankfully, the answer was yes.

I don’t want to need medication or injury to slow down. I want to choose it.

We all need to live a little more and “do” a little less. Be present more and absent less.

Every single moment matters.

And I’m finally ready to live in them.

Namaste.

Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

Please feel free to leave a comment or subscribe for future updates.