My Weight Loss Story

I just got through jogging.  This may not seem like a big deal to those who get up every day and run for miles, but for me it is a big deal.  All of my life, I have fought this monster called weight.  It seems to follow me wherever I go and whatever I do.  Whatever steps or accomplishments I make into being healthy…it comes around the corner and smashes into me, saying “You can’t do it.  You’ll never be slim or healthy.  Look at how many times you have failed in the past.”

The monster is right in one regard.  I have failed in the past…a lot.  But what the monster doesn’t realize is that through every one of my failures I have learned something.  Another thing the monster does not realize is that I don’t give up. 

I remember when I was too self-conscious to even go for a walk.  I was afraid people would see me and laugh at the “fat lady walking”.  Walking into a gym was unthinkable.  What would all of those trim, hard-muscled people think of me?  I would feel like the ugly duckling in the midst of a bunch of beautiful swans.

Somewhere along the way, I decided I was going to walk regardless of my fears.  When I did, I realized something.  Most people did not laugh or even look at me walking.  Some people even gave me words of encouragement along the way.  Another day I found myself walking into the gym at the local YMCA.  A trainer showed me how to work on the machines, and what machines would be good for me to start out on.  Again, I noticed that nobody really paid any attention to me there.  I also noticed something else.  Everyone there was not trim and hard-bodied.  That was just a false stereotype that had plagued my mind.  Many people were just like me…working on trying to get healthy.

I soon learned that when I work out, I automatically want to eat healthier.  Do I always eat healthy?  No.  I still love my chips and comfort foods.  But I am more mindful now of what I put into my mouth, and I try and eat healthy most of the time.  I no longer drink soda, but drink lots of water.  Do I always exercise?  No.  I have times where it is hard for me to make myself walk out of the door, and I am often the Queen of excuses.  It’s too  hot, too cold, too humid, too late, too early..

Am I slim?  Nope.  But I feel better about myself.  I feel better physically and emotionally.  For the past few days, I’ve been walking/jogging, and climbing 10 sets of stairs.  I like knowing that I am taking care of myself.

I have friends and family who have trouble walking due to health reasons.  So many times I have heard them say, “I wish I could walk”.  That really got to me, because I CAN walk.  What a waste to not use the muscles that God gave me.  If I lose weight….great.  If I don’t….that’s okay too.  At least I know I will be healthier for the exercise, and that is all that really matters in the long run.

To date, I have lost a total of 70 pounds.  This has been over the course of 5 years, so it has not been a rapid weight loss by any means.  But I’ve kept most of it off.  If I gain any back, I pay attention and make sure I get it right back off.  I still have more to lose, and I’m sure it will be a slow process too.  But I’m learning as I lose and becoming healthier along the way.

If you are overweight, struggling with diet and exercise…let me tell you to never give up.  Every small success is a big success.  Every failure along the way is a mere stepping stone.  Don’t let anyone tell you that you can’t do it.  Don’t let your own thoughts of failure keep you down.  Tell yourself that you are special and worthy to be happy and healthy.  Nobody can take good care of you better than yourself.  Treat yourself like the child of God that you are.  

Before and after shots of me...)

The top picture is me and my son, Tim...taken in 2009.  The second one is my daughter Christy and me, taken in 2012.  

                                              

Part 4: Confessions of a Born-Again Christian

Today, I am a Christian who is on a continual process of learning. And the more I learn, it seems the less that I know. But here are a few things that I have decided as I have been on this journey.

Nobody has all of the answers. No religion. No person. No political group. We are all human beings with something to share and something to learn. And believing we have it all figured out is a sure sign that we don't.

God loves us all, no matter what. He loves us when we soar, and He loves us when we fall on our faces. He loves us when we obey Him, and He loves us when we don't. He loves us when we love Him. And He loves us when we love everything else more than Him.

God is not narrow-minded. God's mind is as vast and as open as the universe He created. So in our attempts to place God in a box, I would have to imagine He is heartily laughing at our vain attempts.

God loves gays and pro-choice activists just as much as He loves those who seek to condemn gays and pro-choice activists. Because, guess what? A person can be a gay Christian and a person can be a pro-choice Christian activist. Just as a person can be a judgmental Christian. Christians are not perfect. Nobody is perfect.

And just as God loves Christians, he also loves Muslims and Buddhists and Athiests and Agnostics. God's love is totally unconditional, so it is not affected by how much a person believes in Him or loves Him.

To all Christians

Ease up.  Let us ease up on each other and ease up on those who do not believe as we do. We are not in charge of anything. God is.

It is not our job to point fingers and walk as if we are so much better than those who believe differently than we do. It IS our job to LOVE...period.

How can we condemn people and expect those same people to embrace us and our beliefs? Why would they want to?

Let us not pretend that we are  "perfect" Christians, because there is no such thing. We are  Christians for one reason only...because of the grace of God. The Ten Commandments were given to us as a guide and to show us how in need we are of God, because we cannot obey all of the commandments. It says in the Bible that if we break one, we have broken them all. So while we are busy condemning someone for being gay, we are, in fact condemning ourselves as well.

We are, indeed, sinners. But does being a Christian mean we have a "ticket to sin"? Absolutely not, and any Christian who sins with that thought in his mind needs to rethink his relationship with God. We are to strive daily for a closer walk with God by praying, thanking Him, and asking Him for help. The closer we draw near to Him, the more the desires of our hearts will be in keeping with what He wants.

It really comes down to treating others as we would like to be treated. Very simple.

To all Non-Christians

Ease up. Ease up on what you believe about Christianity, and realize that we are just as broken...oftentimes more so than those who do not profess a belief in God.

Please don't judge all of us on the basis of the ones who are still fumbling around in the dark, trying to find out what it is that God wants them to do and be. The truth is, we are all fumbling or have fumbled at some point. But that's how we learn.

Please know that there are kind, loving, open-minded Christians who do not seek to judge you.

Also, know that, inasmuch as we are not perfect, we very often do some very stupid things. As a matter of fact, very often its hard to tell who is a Christian by the way we conduct ourselves. You may find us in bars, or watching porn, or having affairs, or doing drugs. You may find us in abusive situations or mentally ill. But this does not mean we are not Christian, for Christianity does not mean we are perfect.

It means we are struggling, but have found Someone to help us get back up. It means we are heartbroken, but we have found Someone to dry our tears. It means that we are angry, but have found Someone to gentle our spirits. It means that we are sinning, but have found Someone who forgives us.

We are no better than you. We are no less than you. We are all walking the same road of life to reach our final destination. Some of us may have few more bumps in the road than others. Some of us may have a few more detours. Some of us may have more money and more possessions. But in the end, we are all the same. Death sees to it.

Here is the biggest difference between Christians and non-Christians. This is where the road forks, depending on what a person believes. Christians believe death is only a transition into a new and better life, made possible by the birth, death, and resurrection of Jesus.

Let me state that this it fully what I believe. But let me also state that I have questions as well, for I am still searching and learning. I know that God is a God of great mercy, and in a way it almost seems like I am placing Him in a box by limiting Heaven to this strict interpretation.

I don't know. I really don't. All I can do is continue to live to the best of my ability and continue searching with an open mind. Hopefully the reader will do the same, no matter what your present belief.

Photo by Cheryl Williams, 2014

Part 3: Confessions of a Born-Again Christian

Realizing that my relationship with God could be fulfilling regardless of the church I attended was actually a very freeing realization. At last I felt that I could be the real me without having to conform to what this particular group thought or that particular group thought. God became personal to me in a way that He never had before. Yes, He had been a part of my life for many years, but I have never really known how to develop that relationship with Him. So it had grown rather stagnant, and I had become someone I did not even recognize anymore.

I began to rethink a lot of things in my life. And I began to get to know myself better. For a year or so I stopped going to church completely because the church I was going to seemed spiritually dead to me. All through the service, people were looking at their watches, or sleeping. It all seemed so fake and at the time I had rather be going for a walk or something, enjoying God's nature. And I knew that if I was actually dreading going to church, something was wrong somewhere....either with me or with my choice of a church. So I stepped away to do some hard thinking and praying. For awhile things were going well, and then ZAP....I got hit with one thing after another that tested my faith in God.

The first thing that happened was that I had a stillbirth. I was 7 months pregnant when I started bleeding. When I went to the Dr., no heartbeat was found. So for 2 days I lay in the hospital with my baby inside who was no longer alive....while they induced labor. I had to go through regular labor. Her name was Maryanna Hope, and she was so tiny. I could hold her in the palm of my hand. I was so heartbroken, but that pain turned to emotional numbness. After she was born, we had to plan a funeral. And 2 days after she was born, we laid her to rest. This was the most emotionally wrenching thing I had ever gone through. The pain and depression afterwards was almost unbearable. I was so angry inside. And the only one I could think of to really be angry at was God. I kept asking him all of the standard questions. "Why me?" was the one I asked most often.

Several months down the road I found out my father had cancer, and I had so many feelings tied up in knowing this. I had some loose ends I needed to tie up with him...things I needed to say in order to feel some closure and peace. So I did that. His health continued to deteriorate and I was waiting for the call to come at any time saying he had passed away. And the call did come one Monday evening. Only it was to tell me that my mother had passed away unexpectedly. She had had a heart attack.

My mother and I were very close, but there were so many things I wanted and needed to say to her as well, but never got the chance. 3 months later, my father passed away. And I became even more bitter towards God. I just could not understand why I was being hit with so many bad things at once. In my mind, it wasn't fair. I considered myself a good person. And I almost felt God was punishing for something.

A month after my mother died, I discovered that my 12 year old daughter had been raped by a stranger at gunpoint. He forced her into a car, threatened to kill her family, drove off with her, raped her, and made her walk back home. She walked for 4 miles and did not call us because she was in shock and she was afraid we would be mad at her. My poor baby girl was feeling a shame that I was so familiar with. And I can honestly say that at that time I felt hate in my heart for the man who did this to her.

After months of hating and months of anger toward God, I grew so weary of it all. I had started to have flashbacks of my own abuse, and I turned back to the One who had always been there for me during it. God. And once again He was there for me, only this time he set my feet on a different pathway. And He brought people to me and opened doors for me to get the help that I needed. Once I surrendered totally, and admitted my total helplessness, the floodgates of Heaven seemed to open and things began to happen in my life that I found even hard to believe. I found a wonderful friend who pushed me into going to therapy. This therapist recommended a support group in which I have made wonderful life-changing friendships. My self-confidence increased and I began writing more.

Yes, He opened up the floodgates. But I still had to trust enough to walk through those gates. And this is still my biggest struggle. When you have been hurt by men, and you see God as a "man"...of course there is some comparison there. So it is a challenge. But each time I step into my fear and trust, I find that it has become a bit easier each time.

Today I am back in church, but it's a non-denomination church. It is based on love and outreach.  All are welcome...no matter who you are, what you look like, how you dress, or what your issue is. And if I do say so myself, the music there is totally awesome! I look forward to going each week and I leave feeling like I got my tank filled up...ready for the coming week.

Through all of these years since my first "Christian" experience, I have come a very long way in my attitudes as well as my beliefs. In some areas, I have done a complete turn-around.

There are some things that truly upset me about the world today and in both the way that Christians act and the way they are often perceived. But that I will save for my last installment. In my mind, it is the most important one.

                 Photo by Cheryl A. Williams, 2014

Part 2: Confessions of a Born-Again Christian

When I became a Christian as a teenager, I had this feeling that God was going to immediately zap away all of my problems and that all of my temptations to steal and have sex and hang out with the wrong people would vanish. Boy, was I in for a surprise.

Nothing around me changed. My parents kept drinking. My father kept molesting me. I did not stop my old behaviors. I just felt a bit guilty for what I was doing. The only thing that did change was the fact that I read my Bible and prayed every day. It wasn't something I felt like I had to do. I really wanted to. I felt peace in the words I read. And I always felt God's presence with me.....even during the bad times, and even when I knew I was not living as He wanted me to.

I think the problem was that as much as I wanted to walk on a Christian path, I truly had no idea how to even start. None of my friends were Christians at the time, even though they went to church. So I had no support system. There was nothing to replace my negative behaviors with. And being a rather shy girl, it wasn't like me to go on a big search for new friends.

The day came for me to leave for college and this was life-changing in many ways. In a sense, I felt like I was getting let out of prison. I was free. But with freedom comes great responsibility, and I did not do so well with it. My old ways began to manifest themselves more intensely....only now I had absolutely nobody to hold me accountable. I stopped going to church at all. I pretty much put God by the wayside unless I really was having a problem. I practiced my Christianity when it was convenient for me to. And I spiraled deeper and deeper into a hole, still trying to fill it in the wrong ways.

A couple of years into college, I met my husband. And he became a Christian not long after we met. We became engaged soon after that, and that brought its own dilemma. You see, my husband was a Catholic and I was a Methodist. At the time I had no idea what kinds of issues this would bring. But I was in for a very rude awakening.

To get married in the Methodist church would mean that our marriage would not be recognized by the Catholic Church. Therefore, since we would be "living in sin", my husband would no longer be able to take communion. Also, his family, who were devout Catholics, refused to believe we were "truly" married. But I had no desire to become Catholic. And even if I did it would mean six months of instructions. We did not feel we needed instructions. After all, we had been dating for three years by this time. And to top it all off, I was pregnant. Yes...pregnant. So delaying our marriage for six months of instructions was just not going to be happening.

So we married "in sin". And for the next seven months, my husband was denied communion, even thought we went to the Catholic church each Sunday and we were both Christians. When our son was born, he was baptized into the Catholic church. And on that same day, we were allowed to renew our vows in the Catholic church so that my husband could partake of communion. (We found a very nice priest who was not so strict with the rules).

The next few years brought us a baby girl and our first house. By this time, our love had been tested with infidelity and job loss and mental illness. But God was the glue that held us together. And it seemed that as long as we put Him first in our marriage, things went well. But as soon as we took our eyes off of Him and started doing things our own way, the problems would overwhelm us.

During this time, I found myself growing more toward the religious right. I listened to Pat Robertson and James Dobson, and I marched in Washington, DC at pro-life rallies....as well as in my own city. I wrote newspaper articles which strongly supported censorship of certain "questionable" artwork and literature.

We found ourselves joining another church because we were tired of juggling two different churches. .The Seventh-Day Adventist Church, which we joined was very loving but very much kept to themselves. And it was also very legalistic. I suppose at the time, we were looking for that in some sense. It felt "safe". But when the legalism made us feel unworthy in so many respects, we began to not feel quite so safe. We also did not like the way it was so judgmental of other religions. It did not seem very "Christian" to us. We were looked down on if we did not observe the Sabbath in the way other members thought it should be observed. If we disagreed with any of the church doctrines, we were looked down on....and not made to feel like we were truly welcome. We always felt a bit ostracized.

Throughout all of the changes in churches we attended, I had come to realize something. God had remained the same throughout. He was unwavering. He loved me regardless of how perfectly I obeyed the law. He loved me despite all of my shortcomings. And he was always there for me, regardless. I realized that, unlike many of the churches I had attended, God's love was totally unconditional. When he gave His life for me, He did not die for a perfect person. He died for someone who does not have a clue about living anywhere close to perfection.

When I realized all of these things, I began to see God in a new light. And as a result, I began to walk with Him in a different way.

Photo by Cheryl Williams(2013)

Confessions of a Born-Again Christian (Part 1)

I am a born-again Christian. Before you run for the hills, take a moment to read. I have some insights to share with you.

I grew up in the Methodist Church in the mountains of NC. I frequented church suppers with my granny and I went to Bible school. My friends were old time Baptists, and I would frequently go to church with them, and tense up during a service filled with hell fire and brimstone. One time a lady in front of me got the Holy Spirit and started shrieking as loud as she could. She flew up out of her seat like something had bitten her on the behind. She scared the living daylights out of me and I yelled out. So people thought I had the spirit too. Boy, was I glad when that service was over. I was prayed over like I have never been. And I faked that I had the Holy Spirit because I was afraid of what would happen if they knew otherwise. Visions of fire and brimstone kept going through my head.

I lived across the street from the Catholic Church, and I thought this was a really cool church. I would look out of my window and watch the nuns in their black and white habits, and I used to pretend I was a nun too. They seemed so mysterious to me. One day they came to my house and invited me to vacation Bible school at their church. I was so excited! I went every day for a week, and had a good time. On the final day we were to have a little test to see if we had learned anything. The ones who passed the test received a beautiful little prayer book. Well, the test was to name the ten commandments....in order. I was fairly sure that I could name them, but naming them in order left a bit of doubt in my mind. I was the third person in line, so I figured that by the time they got to me, surely I would know them just from listening to the others. So I sat and listened intently. I watched each child hold out his hand and proudly receive his prayer book. When I was finished, I was confident that I had named them all correctly. The nun asked me to hold out my hand. I smiled and opened it for her. WHACK! Right down onto my hand with a wooden ruler. It turns out that I had gotten the fourth and fifth commandments out of order. I went home with my pride wounded and my view of the nuns a bit tarnished. I never wanted to be Catholic again after that.

So I continued to go to the Methodist Church. I truthfully never got that much out of it. I would constantly look at my watch to see when it would be over. Sometimes I would go back to the Baptist Church with my friends, and it didn't seem so bad since I knew what to expect. And one thing was for sure. I surely did not go to sleep in there, with people jumping and shouting. Goodness knows what would happen to a person who fell asleep.

The Baptists were different than the Methodist in that at the end of every service they had an alter call. The preacher would talk about how you needed to get saved. Then he would explain how you needed to ask God to forgive your sins and ask Jesus to come into your heart. And then the music would start playing "Just As I Am". And as the music softly played he would say, "Do you feel the Lord speaking to your heart tonight? If you do, you better listen. You better answer the Lord's call. Hell-fire waits for the ones who don't answer." Now, for me, this was a lot of pressure. I mean, how was I to know if I was hearing the Lord? Because my own voice could be telling me to go to the altar if I thought it would keep me from the fires of Hell. So I would sit there and listen and bargain with God in all kinds of strange ways. In my mind, I would think something like this:

"God....if it is You talking to me and if You want me to go to the altar call, then let the lady in front of me rise up out of her seat and shout ' AMEN!" So I would wait, and nothing would happen. Then I would say, "Well, if You want me to come up there, then let me get a cramp in my leg so I have to stand up on it....and then I will know." Again, nothing happened. So I would go home thinking that God wanted some others a bit more than me that night. In a way, I was relieved. But in a way, I felt like I was missing out on something.

It didn't help that my best friend in the world was the daughter of the Methodist minister. I would go to her house and visit almost every day. And the difference in her family and my family was like night and day. They all seemed so happy and considerate of each other. At dinnertime, they had a family devotion and prayer at the table in which everyone participated and actually liked it. Nobody ever said bad words. Everyone seemed to get along. Without going into detail, let me say that my house was the exact opposite. At my house, we prayed on Thanksgiving Day, and that was the ONLY day. If you heard God's name in my house at any other time, it was not in a very pleasant manner.

When I was a teenager, my friend's father was moved to another conference area, and I no longer had that positive influence in my life. I was so sad she had moved. My life seemed to spiral downhill, and right when I was entering my teenage years.

I began studying the occult. I listened to heavy metal bands. I plastered posters all over my wall and I would sit in my room for hours burning candles and black lights, meditating. My poor granny thought I had lost my mind. My parents fought and drank. I withdrew deeper and deeper into my own little world. I began shoplifting music from the store. My parents began drinking heavily. My father began to sexually molest me. I began turning boy-crazy, and looked anywhere I could for the love I was missing at home. I became a food addict as well, trying to fill that emptiness inside of me. I still went to church, but only to please my granny...and to flirt with boys.

One day I was walking up on the hill behind our house. It was a really beautiful place. You could see the Blue Ridge mountains rising up in the distance. The hill itself was a big soft meadow with wildflowers growing. I would go there to think or to rage or to cry. On this one particular day, while on that hill....I heard voice speak to my heart. I wasn't looking for this voice or asking for it in any way. I was just feeling so much pain. And I knew that this was the voice of God speaking to me. And He was telling me that He was there to fill my emptiness if I would only let Him. So I put my face into the soft earth and asked God through my tears to forgive me for trying to worship Satan...and for the shoplifting...and for all of the wrongs I had done. And I asked Him into my heart. I felt a peace flood over me like I have never known before.

And this was the beginning of my Christian walk.

Photo by Cheryl A Williams.

Perfection and the Death of Creativity

In the many years that I've been writing, I've made a discovery. The more I try to perfect something, the 

less creative I am. The more I am reaching for a goal, the less joy there is in the journey.

Could it be that writing is best when sparked by a childlike zest and enthusiasm.....an enthusiasm that comes not so much from wondering what the end result will be, but rather an enthusiasm just from the joy that comes with the expression?

We all want to be the best at what we do. We all want to write to the best of our ability. But isn't there a fine line somewhere in which those wants for perfection drive the perfection right out of us? Can a bird soar locked in a cage? Can a horse run free tied to a post? Aren't they most beautiful when they are totally free to soar and to run with the wind?

Sometimes I feel the urge to write something just well up inside of me and I feel like I will burst if I don't get it out of my system. So I sit and I write and it flows out of me like water in a stream. The flow doesn't stop. There are no barriers to my creativity. But if I take that urge and analyze it and organize it and pick it to pieces, my urge leaves. And what is left is only a shell of what I truly felt like writing. My rainforest suddenly becomes a barren desert.

I've always envied writers who are so organized in their thoughts...the ones who make a living from writing and doing nothing else. In my mind, that has always seemed so perfect ....to make a living at doing what you most love to do. But I'm not sure I could do it. How many edits of my work would eventually edit the heart and soul right out of it?

And deadlines. Nothing kills my passion more than a deadline. Some people thrive on deadlines, but not me. When I have a deadline, I feel like I am being forced to create. And when I'm placed in a box like that, my creativity decides to take a nice long nap.

I create best in the least expected moments. So I carry pen and paper with me always. Sometimes I find myself breaking out in laughter at the odd places and times I have to stop what I'm doing to write. It may be in a restaurant. Or at work. Or in the middle of a conversation with a friend. Very often music sparks my creativity.

I recently sold an article I wrote about a man I pass by every day. Every day at rush hour he stands on the street corner and waves at the passing traffic. And it is quite obvious that he is mentally challenged in some way. After passing him every day for a couple of weeks, I found that one day he wasn't there. I actually felt sad and realized that I had gotten used to his smile and waves. This sparked a little article. And I was so surprised when it sold because I wrote it from my heart and it took all of 5 minutes to write. But if someone had told me to write such an article, and given me a list of guidelines...along with a deadline.....I couldn't have done it. My heart would not have had that creative joy in the process of writing it.

We were born to create. And some of the most beautiful things we create are done out of our lust for life and the inner passion to express it. We should all tap into that source from time to time. Even writers who are able to make a living with their craft, facing deadlines and constant guidelines need to take time to tap into their inner childlike passion. We need to learn how to focus more on the process of becoming rather than the end result.

Confessions of a 57-Year Old Chameleon

Getting older is scary. Incredibly scary. Despite all of the self-talk in which I try to convince myself that I am "fine like wine and better with age", I find myself talking a big lie. I talk the talk but sure as heck don't walk the walk.

Who am I trying to convince, and the bigger question is "Why?" Why do I care about what anyone thinks about me? That is the stuff made for the minds of teenage girls who starve themselves and paint their faces to look like twenty year olds. Yet I find myself, after all of these years, riding the conformity train with my wrinkle creams and hair coloring as I write poems about truth and being genuine. I revel in comments such as "You look like you're in your forties" (Yes...hiding gray hair does that). What if someone said "You look to be in your 50’s"? Would I feel insulted? Is being in my 50’s such an embarrassment?

I've got so much wisdom and experience packed into these 57 year old bones. I could write a book on that alone, but would anyone read it? How about a book called "Accepting Your Age", or "Dancing with the Gray" or "Ravishing With Wrinkles"? These titles make even me cringe because they are a reminder of something that we are taught to believe.  Getting old is a negative happening.

We grow up either looking back or hoping for better. We cover up and hide who we are. Rarely do we relish the moment. As a Southern girl, I was taught to be sweet, don't make waves, quietly submit, do what I must to fit in and be liked...and I have over and over again. I've been a chameleon most of my life. Being a quick change artist has taken me to some lofty places as well as straight into the gutter, and at the end of the day, I had no idea who the real me was.

We talk about being modern, liberated women at the same time we Botox and work our butts off for things that serve no purpose other than to make us feel like we have value. We rationalize all that we do to improve ourselves by telling ourselves it is fine if it makes us feel better about ourselves.  We try to impress our neighbors with all that we have as if those things add value to who we are as human beings.

But is it fine? Is it really? Because if we're to be totally honest with ourselves, we would realize that when we color and crème, have plastic surgery, and live for materialism, all we're doing is admitting that we are not quite good enough as we are. It's a desperate plea to the world, saying "See me. Notice me. Love me. I can be what you want me to be." Even scarier is that when we look in the mirror, we are making a desperate plea to ourselves, trying to convince ourselves we are worthy.

So here's a bit of honesty from me and this is scary to admit. I'm 57 years old. If I look to be in my 40's, it is because I color my hair every 2 or 3 weeks. My roots are gray, so if I decided not to color my hair, I would be all gray as soon as it grows out. I'm even plucking gray eyebrows. WOW...just writing that brought tears to my eyes, but it is freeing. My eyes are not so good these days. I wear reading glasses to read, bi-focals when on the computer, and regular glasses most other times. I'm overweight and have been since I was 11 or 12 years old, so chances are I'm never going to be slim or svelte. (Trying for 40 years with limited success has convinced me of that).

I am menopausal and I get moody and have those dreaded hot flashes. Every ache and pain I imagine to be cancer from all of the second hand smoke I have had to endure over the years. I worry more about getting sick and dying than I do about the latest skin rejuvenation product. I worry about what kind of legacy I will leave my children...because even with them, I wear a mask of conformity. Taking it off is scary, and a part of me wants to protect them by not looking my age. To them, gray hair is synonymous with "old age" and old age is synonymous with death. I don't want them to worry about losing me.

I don't care much about money or material things, and I never have. But my lack of it causes me to shut out those who do...for fear of what they will think. Not only that, I pretend to ride the money train rather than admit I just don't really care. All I want is enough to get by. My idea of perfection is a roof over my head, food to eat, and a bit of peace and quiet to do my writing. I'm a plain and simple kind of person.

Some days I want to keep on fooling myself and the world. I want to hang with the 30 year olds, party like a college student, and live with reckless abandon. Other days, I want to embrace 57. I want to enjoy where I am...as I am...and not worry what anybody else thinks. I want to slow down and relish the things that I truly enjoy...a good book, a sunset, a piece of music, solitude, a walk in nature, the sounds of my children laughing. And yes, the real me has a reckless, adventuresome streak as well. I just need to exercise it doing what I want to do.

My grandmother knew how to age gracefully. She was smart and sassy and didn't care what people thought. She spoke her mind. She was lovely and graceful, not given to conformity. I never saw her put on a pair of slacks in her life...despite the fact all of the other woman were wearing them. She loved wearing her dresses and her costume jewelry, and she didn't care who liked it or who didn't. She did not color her hair, but did go to the salon once a week to have it styled and to have a silver rinse put on her hair to enhance her gray (which was beautiful). She was flirtatious until the day she died, and would giggle like a schoolgirl. She took up smoking at age 70 just to see if she liked it...and she did. She embraced her age and did not let it hold her back from anything that she wanted to do. At the same time, the things she did were things she wanted to do...not things she felt she had to do as a means to fit in.

I can almost see her looking down from Heaven saying, "Oh my. What are you doing? Who are you trying to impress? Where's my granddaughter?"

Well, I'm here, Granny...trying to be find myself at 57...trying to be me.