For 6 months, I’ve been on a body liberation journey. It was, strangely enough, prompted by my future children.
I want them to look in the mirror & love what they see. I needed to do some work to lead by example. Not with a diet, a new workout regimen or superfood. This would have to be a change of mindset. I’ve always been small. I experience & benefit from thin privilege, which means a lot of positive things are assumed about me -- good health, fit, takes care of herself. But we know that size doesn’t equal health. In fact, some of my thinnest days, I wasn’t exercising, eating enough & was incredibly stressed, which we know is bad for health. We can assume a lot & treat people differently based on their size. Fatphobia is at the root of it. For me, this fear can be subtle & it can also dictate a lot. Fatphobia keeps me scrutinizing my body, fearing any sign of flab or jiggle as the end of a good, healthy life. But it’s just not true. In fact, what I consider a good & healthy life is one where I can let go of this fear. I’m learning that my body knows what it needs. If I want cold or hot food, need more greens, protein, bread, or chocolate. I can trust that I will take good care of it by listening & nurturing it like I would a child, a pet, or even a plant -- unafraid of how it will naturally change & grow. I don’t need to calculate to achieve; smaller isn’t my goal. I’m learning not to fight this. Because I know that what is beautiful, worthy, healthy & good doesn’t come in one size. This is really hard. Messages of losing, shrinking & restricting are everywhere. They’re more ingrained than I’d like to admit -- like racism, homophobia, or transphobia. I constantly have to push back. If & when my body grows, I won't hate myself for it. I’ll take pleasure in the joys of a juicy plum & a decadent dessert. I’ll be grateful for my strength, my taste buds & my body as it is -- skin, flab, muscle, teeth, hair, veins & all. Because it’s what I want for my children.
0 Comments
This is one of my simpler tidbits. It feels wrong to put something out into the virtual space that is not about vaccines, police violence, or something else that’s relevant and very important. But my audience is a small one, and maybe saying a few words on snail mail in my small corner of the internet is okay? So, here goes.
Before COVID, mail was kind of whatever to me. Birthday cards from my parents and grandparents came (thank you!), and so did the usual bills and notices. This year, my walk to the mailbox for the casual daily check brought pure joy. Snail mail, one of our earliest forms of communication and connection, allowed me to send crafts for volunteer projects when I couldn’t be in person. It invited “Kyle and Kate” holiday cards for the very first time. Follow up applications to online submissions. Thank you cards to mentors. A tiny batch of save the dates and wedding invitations. Care packages to family for birthdays and ones recovering from COVID. Printed pictures to people I haven’t seen. Growing up, I remember our address book readily available in a kitchen drawer. It held the names of our people and where to find them. This year, I started my own. I cut the return addresses from mail received and taped them into a small notebook; adding a permanence of contacts to the impermanence of contact this year. There’s something about the tangible quality of paper, mailed, that attempts to fill the gaps of distant connections. There’s something about the delayed gratification of something shipping and arriving. The process of preparing items to go out and come in. The waiting game. The joy of delivery. After attempting to clean out my childhood room, I found I keep more papers than anything else. For me, they hold meaning. The content of relationships. Exchanges of how we felt frozen in time. Once I write something and give it away, it leaves me. Sometimes I want to hold on; I say I’ll take a picture before sending. But I forget. I’ve received some beautiful things this year. More cards for more holidays in place of celebrating in person. Packages for birthdays, our engagement, and just because. It’s all been lovely and childlike fun. Someday, I might toss old papers away. Maybe the time will feel right to let go. But most likely, I’ll work to make scrapbooks from it all. In what’s become standard COVID fashion, we’re having a micro wedding! An intimate gathering of 17 people with our immediate family of parents, siblings, and grandparents who are able. It will be small and simple, and we look forward to sharing the joy of this occasion with extended family and friends when it is safe to do so.
I never dreamt of my wedding. I didn’t feel wedded to any particulars (pun intended). And I thought this would make my life easier. But it ultimately presented a surprising amount of possibilities. I never thought I’d spend hours on something like napkins or color schemes! Each item felt like it needed considerable thought, checking in with our preferences, and ultimately making a decision. Even though we’re not catering to many people, and even though we’re going small and simple, the fact that there were so many decisions made it feel high stakes. The possibilities felt endless. What would it look like if we did it this way, or that? The suggestions of Pinterest and researching new ideas or DIY projects led me down too many rabbit holes and left me wondering, what do I/we even want? Getting grounded in our values was our first step. We talked through what our wedding meant to us, and our families, and built it from there. I’ve found that it takes work to keep a hold of this grounding. I was surprised, too, by the magic. A conversation with a photographer was the first time I walked through what it would actually feel like to flow through the day. Finding the perfect place setting gave me more emotions than I’d ever had towards a plate. Our first meeting with the Rabbi confirmed all the good things we read about her, and made us nervous-excited! We’re through the big decisions and easing into the little ones. With less than 3 months to go, I’m working to stay grounded in what matters most. From there, I’m hoping for only more magical moments! With spring here, and with it a sense of hope, I’ve been thinking about what I look forward to doing when we return to normal. I don’t think we’re there yet, and do think that it will take months of patience, but I still dream of the possibilities. Live theater, live audiences, applause and music. Indoor dining, faces, smiles, casual hellos and more eye contact. Less screens, more in real life. Fearless exploring and gathering.
I wonder when the worry of needing to always have a mask on hand, or the shock of seeing someone unmasked, will fade; When normal will actually feel normal. A year of abnormal will certainly have its effects. That said, I’ve appreciated the stillness of this time. The lack of movement and activity. The slowness, rest, and reflection. I’m sharing a poem for this week’s Tidbits, and I’ll be doing a reading of it this Saturday at the Hammond Museum’s April Exhibit. It’s about the slow yet quick passage of time; the familiar yet unexpected change of seasons; and the precious little moments that collect throughout it all. It’s called Precious Breakfast, and I hope you enjoy! Cracked egg in pan, morning’s sizzle Wake up knowing what’s in store Golden yoke shining bright Springtime is scrambled When it’s cool then warm then cool again A winding path to summer days Mixed and blended Unknown, then knowing, then unknown again Rain is certain, right? And green does grow back, flowers too Beauty with a name, and purpose Sunny side up beginnings Warm breakfasts together Prepare the dishes for the sun It comes soon, look for it, the bright side Mixed, then spiced, seasoned Guided into messy order A work of art Enjoy this Precious Breakfast Before counters wiped clean Hardened egg drops removed Flaky pieces pulled from the pan Once it has cooled Culinary magic erased Consumed After this, you prepare for what is next Lunch, dinner, autumn You look forward to another break But it’s fast Egg cracked, yoke dripped, sizzled, then gone Spring is calling Or is it winter, already, again Still In preparation of our marriage, and our Jewish wedding, Kyle and I took an interfaith couples class with 18Doors. It was a sweet little community from across the country, rich with shared experiences and new insights.
A bit surprised, we realized we weren’t actually interfaith (2 religions coming together). While I was Jewish, Kyle came with no distinct religion. However, he still grew up with meaningful culture and rich family tradition that was still important to consider how to integrate in our lives together. We talked about our favorite traditions growing up, negative associations with religion, and what more we’d want to explore. Making these conversations proactive, not reactive, helped us create a religious foundation that was uniquely ours, with pieces from our past, and a path for our future. I also discovered that I’m more religious than I thought. Or, that I tend to downplay how deeply being Jewish impacts me. So while I’m not capital “R” religious, I am very much influenced by Judaism, in practice, action, and belief. I embrace the holidays, seek Jewish community, write about Jewish themes, and even like to look up rabbinical school every now and then… Though I shared on our first date, “my family doesn’t celebrate Christmas,” I quickly followed it with, “I’m Jewish, but I’m not religious.” I realize, now, how these words can go against my upbringing and identity. And it doesn’t really add up to a non-Jewish partner who sees me doing, loving and wanting all these Jewish things. It wasn’t just me; this was a theme among our group. Finally, we talked about kids, which brings a whole other layer of decisions! Some feel clear, while others will be determined by who our kids are and what they want. It was really about starting, not finishing, the conversation. I’m more in touch with my Judaism maybe because I'm in a relationship with someone who is not. It prompts me to more closely examine and be intentional with it, rather than defaulting. While Judaism is newer to Kyle, I feel I have so much to learn and that we’re at the start of a Jewish journey together, with our next stop under the chuppah (wedding canopy)! As a social worker, I’ve supported others with barriers to healthcare. I knew there was a need for better access to quality care. But it wasn’t until now that I experienced it myself.
Before losing my employer’s plan, a top priority was scheduling appointments I put on hold in the first 6 months of the pandemic. Being proactive would help me beat the system, right? I saw a neurologist, an orthopedic surgeon, and an ENT. Nothing serious, just staying on top of minor issues. The only trouble was that follow up tests would cost thousands on my new plan. So, I put a pause on treatment. I was surprised by the ease of signing up for MassHealth. Their helpline was actually helpful. They constantly mailed reminders to ensure I knew my plan, paid on time, and helped me register to vote. Though sometimes redundant to the online portal, I appreciated their communications. An earnest attempt to break down barriers, right? The only trouble was my plan was limited. Even the primary care doctor they assigned didn’t accept my insurance. When I called, they explained that doctors constantly change who they accept, and it’s hard to keep up. I empathized, but worried about the devastating impact this logistical error could cause. Despite this, I was committed (and had the luxury of time) to advocate for myself. After many calls to booked offices, in late January, I finally secured a new PCP for his next availability: May 28th. Then it happened again. After one appointment with a dermatologist, they dropped my insurance. Even with middle class security and hours to spend on the phone. Even when I’m on top of my health, make appointments and have a way to get to them. Even with the ability to pay copays, understand my treatment and ask questions. Even with all of this, I experienced barriers to care. I can’t imagine having a serious health condition on this plan. I also can’t imagine not having any insurance right now. Or having to decide between coverage and rent, or food. Even with the ability to pay hundreds a month for coverage, care was limited and uncertain. I know that too many can’t navigate these systems, and even if they could, they’d be disappointed. As I near the end of my job search (more on that soon), I feel compelled to share some tidbits from the journey. This is more of a list than a narrative, but there are stories behind each one ;) I hope this helps you or someone you love! (All sites referenced are in all caps)
APPLICATIONS ✔️Get feedback on your cover letter & resume. Add a summary. Hone it til you love it. ✔️Make a master copy with bolded keywords to change for each application. ✔️Create a WORDCLOUD with the job description for keywords to incorporate. FOLLOW UP ✔️Follow up on all applications. Sometimes it takes a few nudges to be seen. Keep a running list and include when & who you follow up with. ✔️Most of my next steps in the process came through direct contact with a person -- the supervisor, HR, or even the CEO. Connect on Linkedin or by email. It can be scary, but it's vital to be seen. Make sure you first connect with them/their work. If/once they respond (because sometimes they don’t), bring up your interest! It’s cause for celebration when an employer views your Linkedin profile!🥳 INTERVIEWS ✔️Sometimes interviews aren’t what you think. I was surprised when some didn't ask questions. Some info calls were more like interviews. Sometimes, it was a surprise group interview! That’s all to say, be prepared for anything. Prep a doc with lots of Q's & A's to easily click through (perks of virtual interviewing). Pull up the JD, the org’s site, and ask questions to better understand current priorities. ✔️I found lots of helpful content on the SELFMADE MILLENNIAL Youtube, particularly on interviews & negotiation. ✔️CAREER ONE STOP & PAYSCALE are essential tools for salary research. THROUGHOUT ✔️Take all offers to connect (friends of friends, former colleagues, peers, etc.) especially if you are new to a city. You never know what they hold. ✔️Stay organized. Save all applications. Keep a schedule & stick to it like it’s a job. But of course, make accommodations that serve you. ✔️Find a free career coach, or hire one if you can afford to. There are free resources through local career services or professional networks. My coach pushed me to be bold in my approach & I'm never going back. For me, doing is being. When I did gymnastics, I was a gymnast. When I was in the marching band, I was a band geek. You get the gist.
But there’s something about being a writer that gives me pause. I write, but am I a writer? I pause because I don’t want to say I'm something I’m not. I don’t want to take away from others who are. I don’t have an MFA, the credentials or any awards. I haven't sacrificed enough for it. There are writers who are living the cut-throat, disappointing, exhilarating life of a struggling artist, with tons of gigs on the side to make it happen. I am not. And I don’t write enough. “I’ll do it later,” “when I have more time,” “when a an idea REALLY strikes.” “You can’t force it." But writers have discipline. I fit my writing in on the side. Say, “it’s for fun." But even when a year goes by, and I haven't written anything new, I feel this desire to be a writer. And it’s never within reach. In my childhood room, there are too many journals. Piles. Too many beginnings of ideas. And lots of nonsense. I wanted to be a songwriter, a magazine editor, an English teacher. Any opportunity to write or submit poetry as a kid I took as “my big break." Writing is dear to me. It was an outlet, a friend, a therapy, another world to envision. I think it was my first love. I want to call myself a writer and I want to mean it. I want to take it more seriously. And I want to take myself more seriously with it. So I’ve pushed myself to try it on for size by doing it more. I took a class and wrote a play. I wrote a poem about a grandma I never met. I took a teaching artist course that inspired me. I wrote a poem about a tree and another about water. I wrote another, shorter play. I made a website, a youtube channel, and submitted applications. If you search “Kate Thomas, writer" you’ll find many others with more impressive resumes. So don’t. This is a soft launch. I hope to inch my way forward and get comfier in this cozy blanket I’ve carried with me through, well, everything. But the good thing is, we’re cuddling up. With a deepened commitment to doing more, the name feels more within reach. And that, fortunately, doesn’t give me pause. There’s shame in unemployment, and I've certainly felt it. Work has always been an integral part of who I am. And in a world where we often put work above all else, it’s taboo to talk about the joys of unemployment. Yet not having a role to fill for 5 months has prompted me to invest in other parts of myself, and I have to say, it’s been a gift. I’ve decentered work and reprioritized everything else.
I’m aware of the privilege I have to experience joy in this moment. Savings, a working partner, a safety net, nobody to provide for, and relative certainty that I will be re-employed. Maybe that makes my sharing of this joy shameful. But it’s true to my experience, so I thought I'd explore it. Without work, I’ve felt a flip in priorities. Instead of checking email, I'm checking in with myself. Instead of squeezing in meals, I'm cooking. I have more energy and am moving more, in ways that make me happy. I’m reading more. And I’m writing more. From movement, to meditation, exploring spirituality and religion, reconnecting with friends, staying in touch with family, visioning the future, dreaming up goals, and getting outside, my self care game has flourished. Building routine has kept me rolling and grateful. I’m attending virtual events and learning. I sometimes pack my calendar, but see this filling up as a way of seizing time. I’m not always doing self care perfectly, and that’s not the point. But I’m practicing it more. As much as I’m eager and trying hard to get back to work, I've gotten a sweet taste of what retirement holds. It’s been life affirming to have time for things I love and are good for me, and I’m wondering how I can keep these jewels in my life when I start back up. I’m exploring how to commit deeply to my work while monitoring its defaulting to top priority. Candles, stretching, fresh air, and baking are my self care secrets. So is the presence of mind to pull up my blinds and watch the sky change colors, taking out the garbage as an opportunity to walk around the block, and keeping up with these Tidbits. I’ve rewired my brain to value these things a little more and hope to carry them forward to manage stress better than before. Our move from NYC to Boston (with a few stops between) was smoother than expected. With hand sanitizer, masks, and gloves in tow -- plus the exceptional help of movers and parents -- we made it out alive. Two qualities that helped us most: my resourcefulness and Kyle’s decisiveness.
Packaging up in NYC, Kyle was worried. Somehow we had managed to accumulate a lot into a studio. It must’ve been the unusual feature of four closets. I looked up how to pack a U-haul like a game of tetris, but my “it’ll be fine” became less confident with his increasing worry. This prompted a swift process of throwing out, recycling and donating. Then the apartment search. I’m famous for making lists, but Kyle can do the mental math of comparing places and quickly come up with an answer true to our needs. I leaned on him to navigate this with confidence when my mind got distracted by possibilities. We prioritized his commute, access to transit, and most importantly these days, separate working spaces. We managed to find a place with more than we had in NYC for less, partly due to a decline in city living. But with just one closet, we did another round of filling bags to donate. Hand-me-down furniture was our most resourceful choice. We were lucky to have old furniture from my parents, my grammy, and a family friend. Thanks to a few stops for pick up, a dark furniture marker, new knobs, and fun times mixing and matching, the old became our new. The move was not from point A to point B, and I was the designated driver. From the Bronx to Harlem to NJ to Mass, I wore my truck driver badge proudly. Even accidents brought joy. We covered stained surfaces with decorative placemats. Our old coffee pot spilling often required us to find a new spot for easier clean-ups. Turned out we liked it better there. I dropped a piece of pottery from Kyle’s grandma while packing, but turned it into a beautiful piece of art by @hamsamade There’s a little Marie Kondo in this. Losing track of what we packed away made us more willing to give it away. We rediscovered what we had and reprioritized what we needed. And we’re starting off our time in Boston more agile, a little lighter, yet full. |
Moving through timemore intentionally. Archives |