It’s here. It is over. This is Day 100; I have written here every single day for one hundred days.
I can’t believe it.
I feel fulfilled, alive, and sad.
(I also still haven’t decided if I’m breaking up with the Oxford comma, or not.)
Who gives a fuck about an Oxford comma? –Vampire Weekend
I went back yesterday and read through every single thing I’ve written here, squirmed a little, was embarrassed a little & proud a little, fixed some typos (there are definitely still more of them, haha) and really just marveled at what can happen in a life during the course of 100 days. I also noticed that about every ten blogs or so, I got just 1% more authentic. I let my guard down a little more. I worried less about sounding like a “writer” and focused more on just telling the truth.
I am proud of that.
It was important for me to do a recap at the end of 100 days, that was always my plan (sort of like how J.K. Rowling always knew how Harry Potter was going to end, except for the part where I can’t believe I just compared this to Harry Potter, because NO, and also because I didn’t know how the HELL I was going to get to 100; I was truly always hanging on by a thread).
Thank you for being here with me. Thank you for emailing me, and texting me, and commenting, and sending me things you thought I would like. I really felt at first that no one was listening. And then I was shocked by HOW many people were listening. So thank you for that.
Here are some highlights from the 100 days:
The one where I figured out that #momshame is real:
The point is, leave the struggling mom alone. Unless she explicitly asked for your advice, don’t give it. Listen, nod at appropriate points, and don’t offer your opinion if you disagree with her. Offer your support instead.
Because the thing is…she’s already afraid that she might be doing it wrong. And it took a lot of courage for her to tell you what she’s experiencing. So for the love of god, please don’t stomp all over her with what worked for your perfect kids and tell her that you would never do what she’s doing. She can get that from anywhere, and can especially get it from the internet. (Which she already has, with her ten thousand google searches she did before talking to you.)
There was the one where the older, wiser me gives me approval for the first time.
My co-worker Elizabeth reminded me that I deserve to take up space.
The one where I figured out that “disordered eating” is a softer way of saying “eating disorder.”
How I feel about my daughter, summed up in eleven short lines.
And the way I feel when she calls my name:
It sounds like a balm being spread on a wound; it sounds like fingers running through hair in the middle of the night. It sounds like an affirmation that love is real and present and still healing us, even if we were frustrated a moment before. Another wave laps over us, another bird lands on the shore.
When my husband throws me a life vest in seven words.
We said goodbye to our sweet dog, Sophie.
There was that one time when Jennifer Niven liked my Instagram post and I freaked. (She’s actually liked another one since then. We’re like, cool.)
My mom and I took V to Disneyland.
The time I imagined that I could just soften and accept myself:
This is me, these are my wrinkles from the sunny days I raised my head to the sky and all of the times I laughed at my husband’s jokes, this is the swell of my belly from when I carried my beloved child in my body, these are my stretch marks from when I used to binge on food before I learned to nourish myself, these are my gray hairs because my parents went gray early too. This is my life; my body wears my history; this is me.
I talked about what it’s really like to work for lululemon.
I made a request of my family that I need them to be more supportive in the way they communicate with me.
I decided and declared that I want to be living in the Pacific Northwest in the next five years.
And, out of all of them, this is the blog post I am most proud of. Which is interesting, because I didn’t have to strive hard to write it, and the photos are literally photos of photos. It poured out of me, whole and complete and finished.
All of the people it took to make you, you. All the knuckles in all of the hands. All the bald heads that sprouted hair. The soft folds of all of the ears. The smile lines that deepened and then crumpled our entire faces.
All the bones we grew and left behind.
Thank you for being on this journey with me. What tomorrow holds, no one knows. But I have a feeling I’ll be here, if you want to meet me. ❤️