Who'd Want to Live in a Vacuum?

I realized this morning that I've been blogging for almost 15 years.

When I created my first blog, my audience was exclusively strangers on the Internet—my writing purposefully kept secret from anyone I knew in real life.

That must sound odd to an Internet culture that now values individuals who have branded themselves with their real, full names and whole life on display as a cohesive package—but that was just the opposite of early Internet culture.

There was comfort and safety in keeping all identifying private information concealed—and excitement in the mystery of it all. While I was a homeschooled teenaged girl growing up on a nursery in Alabama in real life—on the Internet I could anonymously explore and discover a voice I might otherwise have never thought to look for.

Blogging back then wasn't self-involved. Nobody took pictures of themselves or tried to make their lives look glamorous. There was no need to put on make up or create a vivid character for an online audience. There was no risk of over-sharing or faking anything—because we were just writing about our lives in a self-examining, thoughtful way—trying to make sense of the world around us and connect with people completely different from ourselves who we knew we'd never meet in real life.

You could be yourself, unvarnished.

When I started learning to code (awfully) and building blogs for my friends, that's when the trouble started.

When people in my personal life knew where to find my blog, they were suddenly able to go through the archives and access posts I'd written about fights with friends, conflicts over boys, and secret crushes. A friend of mine was suspended from high school for writing a blog post complaining about a teacher—and I was punished because I made the blog for her (justice is in short supply for teenagers, Amen?).

It was then that my audience changed and with it, my writing style. I worried about what my family members would say—and I would edit myself accordingly. I "admitted" things I wanted to tell certain people, knowing they would read it and I could avoid the unpleasant exercise of advocating for myself. My tone and content changed. And then, gradually, the Internet changed.

In college I would ride my bike to the library to spend an hour a day (maybe) on the Internet—and now I'm only off the Internet when I'm sleeping.

And what a different Internet it is.

I learned a valuable lesson when my audience expanded to include people I cared about:

Words don't live in a vacuum. 

With rare exception, you can't tell the unvarnished truth without hurting someone along the way.

And wouldn't it be nice to return to a world where the Internet is a place we visit for a few hours each evening after a long day spent in reality?

Part One: Put Some Ice On It

Wow.

Of all the responses I thought I would receive about yesterday's post, I'm astonished by how many of my friends also suffer from AI diseases and have never talked about it. I didn't think my post would resonate with so many people and I'm also overwhelmed by all the support I've received. Thank you.

I feel like I need to put up a disclaimer that this post will be a little sad, but I promise it's the only one that will really be like this—because since my diagnosis, things have only got better.

A lot of people have asked me how long I've suffered with PA and my response is: I don't know.

I waited for a really, really long time to finally seek medical help—even though my pain was often unbearable.

Since college I've frequently awoken with pain coursing through my arms, unable to move them until after a few minutes of walking around doing shoulder rolls. I always thought it was a normal part of getting older or maybe soreness from a work out or sleeping the wrong way. "Waking my arms up" was just another part of my morning routine.

It sounds insane to me now, but I never once mentioned it to a doctor.

About four months ago I went to my Crossfit coach, frustrated that I wasn't seeing results from classes despite trying my hardest. I didn't mention my pain because I didn't want to sound like someone who makes excuses or whines—the "rub some dirt on it and suck it up" aspect of Crossfit is part of the appeal - it's very American, very "pull yourself up by the bootstraps" and "if you work hard and don't quit you'll get there." I was sold.

I wanted to talk solutions/goals/troubleshooting. My fitness background is varied - I played sports through high school and college and have always been very active; before converting to Crossfit I took boot camp and spin classes 5-6 days a week for years... so I was surprised after a few months of CF that my strength and endurance overall were getting worse, not better.

When we sat down and I started to tell her about it, I felt like I was talking to a wall. I was interrupted or had my sentences finished for me the whole time and was basically told I just needed to increase my cardio and "lean out" (actual words used) then check back in a few months later (Translation: You're just fat and it's not Crossfit's fault). 

As someone who is actually motivated by tough love I walked away motivated.

It was like that scene in The Devil Wears Prada when Annie is crying that she's doing the best she can and it's not good enough and Nigel tells her no, you're not trying hard enough and you need to suck it up and then she realizes he's right and gets a make over with Chanel boots and finally gets to work.

So I did. I upped my cardio, getting on an Airdyne or a rower before classes and adding extra runs in throughout the week. I did what everyone told me to do: I pushed through the pain.

But instead of getting better, it only increased—and I finally noticed it wasn't related to how hard my workouts had been the day before (my shoulders and arms would be sore even if I'd only done back squats, for example). It also wasn't soreness that could feel better with foam rolling. It was pain.

The pain didn't go away after a shower and stretching—in fact I couldn't even get into a plank position without tearing up in pain. I took a rest day. The next morning I tried to do inch worms to warm myself up and after walking myself out I ended up on the floor unable to get up.

I thought, "that's weird."

I took otc anti-inflammatory pills and slept on 3-4 packs of peas and ice wrapped in towels—I even set an alarm for midnight so I could wake up and get new frozen packs. I did that for weeks like it was completely normal.

It got to the point that the only thing that wasn't excruciating was standing upright, so sometimes I would pace around my apartment or walk on the treadmill in the basement holding ice packs to my back until I could finally bear the idea of laying down again.

As you can imagine, it was really challenging to perform well at work - I couldn't focus on anything but the pain and it made me angry and short-tempered. If you know me, you know that's not like me at all.

I was constantly exhausted from being awake all night. Everything frustrated me—from crowded sidewalks to long lines at Whole Foods (well okay that's normal). I would lose focus in meetings if a fresh jolt of pain washed over my arms. I skipped all social events. I couldn't walk my dog for fear she would pull on her leash. I definitely couldn't work out.

But even at the worst I just knew with rest from the gym for a few days, a healthy diet, and a massage I'd eventually feel better on my own.

Because I'm a moron.

One day in January my boyfriend and I got back to my apartment after grocery shopping and I had to ask him to carry all the groceries in because I couldn't even lift a single bag from the trunk to the ground.

That's when I thought to myself: What is the point of lifting weights to be a strong, healthy person if I'm in too much pain to perform basic tasks?

That was my lightbulb "something is really wrong here" moment (yes, I know, I ignored A LOT of other red flags to get to that moment).

I finally went to my doctor and described the pain I was feeling. After being sent to a few different specialists I saw a rheumatologist and after some tests and x rays I was diagnosed with psoriatic arthritis.

I was prescribed new anti-inflammatory pills that I quickly discovered were hardly stronger than the otc stuff I'd been taking.

After a month of taking pills constantly I went back to my rheumatologist to show him my "progress." When I sat down and began to answer his questions I realized he had no idea that the person he was talking to wasn't the real me. I wished I could play him a video of myself from six months earlier—bubbly, silly, active, and happy. Not scared of moving her arms. Not on the verge of tears fearing the next crippling wave of pain. I didn't even sound like myself.

So I stopped and told him: This isn't the quality of life I want. I can't keep living with this pain and the pills aren't working.

We talked about Humira and he gave me all the information I needed about it and said it was a big decision and that I could call the office when I decided how I wanted to continue my treatment.

A few days later, while I was still researching the side effects and waiting for my pain to magically disappear on its own, my grandfather passed away. I quickly had to make plans to go home and I thought to myself, I don't want to go home to my family like this. I need to be pain-free. Now.

So I went back to the doctor and thought I was going to get an injection...

Nope!

They taught me how to give myself the injections.

Spoiler alert for tomorrow's post (which might include a video of me giving it to myself): It sucks.

Let's Talk About Pain!

"You don't look like you're in pain!"

For months I've walked around trying to figure out how to share this story, mulling if I really wanted to share it, and thinking about how to put it out there in a way that will be helpful and empowering—not depressing or whiny—and most importantly honest without oversharing.

Tonight after seeing Allison tweet about her daily blogging challenge I realized why I've had such horrible writers block for so long: I've stuck myself with this idea that I have to write it ALL out at once in one big long dramatic post. Then I get defeated just thinking about it and put it off for another day.

So, I'm going to write out a list of things I want to talk about, then every day for the next few weeks I'm going to tackle one at a time:

I want to talk about getting diagnosed with psoriatic arthritis at 29.

I want to talk about how long I ignored my symptoms and how hard it was to find a doctor to diagnose me.

I want to talk about learning to inject myself with Humira and all the weird side effects from being on an immunosuppressant.

I want to talk about how humiliating it was to walk up to the gym and plant myself on a treadmill going 3.5-4mph every night in searing pain while my former Crossfit "family" stared in silent judgment as I passed, only a very small handful bothering to ask why I'd stopped coming or check to see if I was okay (and how every single one of my boot camp friends has reached out to be supportive and understanding).

I want to talk about how being in a lot of pain changes your mood and outlook on life... but I want to talk about it in a not-sad and depressing way.

I want to talk about how my coach seemed to think I was making excuses when I explained my diagnosis and cancelled my membership... and hasn't reached out once to check on me.

I want to talk about how I've finally learned our value as humans shouldn't be measured by how fit we are—that staying active is something I do because I love it, because I want to stay healthy and happy and enjoy life—not define who I am or determine my worth.

I want to talk about how I will never, ever judge anyone in the gym again for not appearing to push themselves to the limit or for using lighter weights—there is no way for any of us to know what pain they might be in or what their story is.

Hell let's praise people for having the courage to listen to their bodies in a fitness culture that SCREAMS keep going, don't listen to those legs, you'll pass out before you die, ignore that pain and WHISPERS but uh, like, listen to your body as an after-thought/legal requirement.

Let's admire the guy who says nope, I'm not going to power through these deadlifts even though a bunch of people are screaming at me to keep going—this is actual pain, not soreness, not weakness leaving the body: PAIN.

I want to talk about bio-hacking, the Bulletproof diet, avoiding nightshades, fighting inflammation naturally, and how quitting Crossfit and starting to walk 10-15 miles a day has made me a whole different kind of fit (and Fitbit addict).

I want to talk about how even with EVERYTHING I just said above—I STILL struggle with feelings of guilt and shame because my body is in pain that I can't prevent and that it's humiliating not being able to train and run and lift and jump around like a rabbit.

I want to talk about how I'm jealous of people with boring fitness stories. I want to be one of those people who come to class 6 days a week and never have injuries, never have an off-day, never get sick, and never plateau—year after year. But when I stop to think about it... I only know like two people like that.

Strike that, I want to talk about how comparison is the thief of joy.

I want to talk about how hard it is not to annoy the hell out of your boyfriend when this is all you ever want to talk about all the time.

I also want to answer any questions people have—especially if you're struggling with an auto immune disease—so ask me on Twitter.

Meet Daisy Mae

"Did I just step in wee or did she just drip water all over the floor from her water bowl...?"

"Is she quietly sitting in the corner chewing a toy or another one of my favorite bras or shoes?"

These are thoughts I think now.

I've never been so comfortable reflexively handling poo in my life.

I grew up in Alabama with lots of dogs (mostly golden retrievers) and after leaving my dog Brinkley with my parents when I moved to DC close to 5 years ago, I really missed having dogs in my life.

Every time I see a dog on the sidewalk, I just have to say hello. Whenever friends go out of town, I am always the first to volunteer to dog sit. Last year I even started dog walking to get my dog fix and make extra money.

I just didn't think I could own a dog—election season was coming and my friends with dogs always talked about how expensive it was. I live in a studio apartment near Logan Circle and I don't own a car... I'd be crazy to get a dog, right?

Walking was a great way to spend quality time with lots of different dogs and make extra cash. Bonus: I lost close to ten pounds biking all over NW and up the 16th Street hill to walk dogs every day.

It also innocuously introduced me to DC dog culture which, like DC fitness culture, is insane. More on that below.

But then along came Daisy Mae.

My mom lives in Florida near Ocala National Forest where sometimes folks abandon dogs they can't afford to take care of (you have to pay to drop off dogs at the shelters—which makes absolutely no sense but that's another post for another time). One day in December while she was walking around, mom was approached by a stray dog covered in mange and ticks with bloody paws—she was clearly starving but very sweet and naturally knew my mom was the right human to go up to.

Smart move.

After a bath and some food, my mom posted this picture to Facebook and my heart just melted.

It was hard to tell at the time how old she was because of the rough shape she was in—she had apparently survived by eating the hard corn some hunters spread out to attract deer, so her tummy was bloated (let's get this girl on a Whole 30, amen church?) and she needed a lot of help. The vet put her on lots of meds for her mange and my mom put her on a chicken and rice diet with pumpkin and carrots and yogurt (which she still eats). They put her age at around 9 months and I named her Daisy Mae because she looks just like our golden retriever Daisy I grew up with.

I drove down to Alabama for Christmas and picked her up. We instantly fell madly in love.

Here I am about a month later thinking I know so many people who, like me, think they can't adopt a dog or it's not right for them. If I'd known then what I know now, I would have taken the plunge long ago. That said, I'm also glad I waited because Daisy is literally the dog for me—I don't think I would have bonded this much with any other dog.

We're both strong, Southern women who have been through a lot and are ready to live our happiest, healthiest lives in the city.

Seriously, Don't Read the Comments

Some mornings, for no reason whatsoever, prompted by nothing, I'll go to my Pat Barker trilogy and read the first page from Regeneration (which is actually the Soldier's Declaration written by Siegfried Sassoon).

It makes me think about what I want to do with my life—reflect on whether or not I'm heading in the right direction or living life with courage.

Some days I think, yes—I am. I put on my helmet and ride my bike to work with a smile on my face.

Tonight: no, I don't really think I am.

It's easy for me to get really self-involved at work and feel like I'm not being appreciated or that I'm being undervalued. It's a tone people take with me, perhaps not meaning to, or the number of times in meetings I let myself get interrupted.

But if I'm being completely honest that's probably my own insecurity showing—the reason I feel people aren't taking me seriously is that I know I could be doing so much more than I am.

Driving to the airport with someone on my team recently, we talked about how refreshing it is to work on a team where everyone—every single person—is giving 100%. Nobody is phoning it in, nobody is spinning their tires or doing the bare minimum. We're all passionate and motivated and we all uplift each other.

Coming from the political world, that's never the case. You find a few work horses here and there—a few bright, young folks eager to prove themselves and work their way up, but you also find a great deal of laziness and self-promotion—a lot of cheating.

I was told by a coworker years ago not to leave the office until after the partners had left—even though we were all done with our work and it wasn't an election season.

"Well what should I do?"

"Do what we do... play on Facebook, g chat your friends... just wait them out."

They did this night after night—leaving the office at 7, 8, 9 p.m. or later and I finally thought to myself "this is ridiculous, I have a life to live—I'm leaving."

And so I would leave—at 6:00 p.m. every night.

And when it came time for my review I was penalized for not staying in the office as late as everyone else. The boys were given promotions and raises.

There's a lot wrong with the consulting class in DC... but that's a whole other thing.

I guess I'm just one of those people who hates feeling like I've left something in the tank. There is nothing worse than that feeling after a workout like "I have so much left" or coming home after a bike ride and wishing I'd taken the long way.

Also, I've got to stop letting people discourage me—and I've got to stop discouraging myself.

Also when Instapundit links your blog—don't read the comments.

You Deserve Nothing

You're sensing a pattern, aren't you?

I blog about once a month (if that) and lately I've been blogging about fitness.

Because it beats the hell out of blogging about vulnerability, being a good person, or DC culture.

But... DC culture is fitness culture.

After years of going to different gyms and finally finding the Greatest Gym Ever, floating around to different classes until I found a rhythm that made sense, I've learned a lot about how obsessed people are with fitness here.

In fact... there are a LOT of similarities between fitness culture in DC and religious culture in The South.

Shall we?

In The South, the lady you meet at the gas pump (and yes you will talk to the lady at the gas pump) will not ask you if you go to church but where you go to church.

In DC, the people you meet at happy hour (and yes you will go to happy hour) will not ask you if you go to a gym but what gym you're a member of....

And just as with church in The South, your answer will say A LOT about you.

This isn't a perfect science, but there are really only about four kinds of people:

"I'm Episcopalian" = "I love yoga... no, you don't understand—I LOVE yoga." 

"I'm Church of Christ but I was raised Baptist" = "I might seem harmless, but in about 5 minutes I'm going to evangelically convert you from Boot Camp to Crossfit." 

"I'm Catholic but I really only go on Christmas and Easter" = "I go to Dance Trance on the weekends and will never understand why I don't have a hot body." 

"I'm Methodist" = "I'm addicted to spin—a great workout, great results... but if they switch up the playlist too much I get really upset."

Episcopalians and Catholics look the same on the surface—they're both wearing lululemon and have the glow of a person unconcerned about eternal hellfire or knee injuries. The Church of Christ folks and Baptists will always be warm and friendly no matter what your workout is—as long as you're active, that's all that matters!—but on the inside they know they're right and maybe one day they'll pull that Methodist off the spin bike and make her do an amrap of burpees and thrusters until she sees the light (and passes out in it).

And within all subsets when Episcopalians meet fellow Episcopalians, when Catholics meet Catholics, and especially when Baptists meet Baptists they will all announce what church (or gym or box) they belong to with the same mix of pride and smugness.

Do you want to know how many times I have had this conversation?

"I go to DC Crossfit."  

"Oh. Cool. I go to Balance." 

"Oh... Cool."

Tell me I'm wrong.

Okay maybe this is all coming out as a disaster—my brain is completely fried from tonight's workout.

Which, of course, I'm going to talk about because I'm doing Crossfit and the first rule of Crossfit is NEVER SHUT UP about Crossfit.

Like I said, evangelical.

Tonight I was talking to one of the trainers about my form and asked how much weight I should use and she asked "well what was your weight last time?" and I confessed, with horror, that I didn't know—because I didn't write it down.

And it was in that moment this whole disaster of a blog post came to mind. Because in that moment I was 12 years-old in Sunday school telling Mrs. Crabtree that I hadn't brought my Old Testament homework to church.

———

Unrelated: I'm reading a novel called You Deserve Nothing. I saw it in the bookstore and I thought it would be some sort of commentary on our entitlement culture or how we, as humans, deserve nothing... but instead it's a really poignant and beautifully written piece of fiction I'm becoming obsessed with. There is nothing more disappointing than picking up a novel you think will be amazing and then rolling your eyes at poor turns of phrase or, worse, bad dialogue. This is not disappointing.

Well that was dumb.

So here I am, post-Whole 30 and let me tell you: That was dumb.

30 days of green tea instead of lattes, water instead of wine, chicken salad instead of burgers, I don't ever want to look at zucchini again... and guess what?

My workouts were sluggish, my strength and energy levels hit the floor, and I lost four pounds.

Oh, strike that, I ate a burger at LAX waiting for my redeye to NYC because, damn it, I wanted a burger and didn't want to be that moron putting my bun to the side... so then when I got home and stepped on the scale, I was at my starting weight.

Oh, so, so many expletives.

I missed all my workouts this past week because of travel—I did burpees and push ups in my hotel room to try to get myself pumped up for all the events we had, but I was exhausted and had to push myself through every single one.

So this is what I've determined: Whole 30 works for people who drink diet coke and beer and eat pasta everyday. 

Oh my gosh what magic—you lost weight when you stopped eating cheeseburgers and ate broccoli and salmon for a month? SORCERY!

I base this not just on my experience—my friends who also did Whole 30 and are also 90% clean eaters had the same results (read: no results).

So I'm adding quinoa, lentils, red wine, and chocolate back in. I'm adding hot sauces back in (try finding a good hot sauce without sugar—I bloody dare you). I'm taking sweet potatoes and red meat out.

Live your lives, people. Figure out what your body needs to fuel your workouts and lifestyle and eat that.

But Did You Die?

This weekend was perfect.

It was one of those almost warm pre-spring teasers perfect for walking around outside and riding a bike—so of course I did a lot of both.

After morning boot camp on the church stairs I went on a bike ride with my neighbor Gloria who is sort of like a roommate for grown ups.

She lives in the studio next to me and moved in the same week I did. When she saw me in the hall way she casually asked if I wanted to split wifi.

It was then I fell deeply in love.

She's from New York City and uses really cool expressions like "that's so ratchet" and is just generally much, much cooler than me.

ANYWAY.

Let me tell you guys: biking downtown is a completely different animal from riding on the Hill.

And it's terrifying.

I'm getting much better at commuting to work and picking out my routes—as well as learning to dodge both traffic and potholes at the same time—but I haven't had a single ride yet that was without at least one heart-stopping near miss.

Gloria used to ride her bike in New York City (I mentioned she was cool, right?) and her biking advice for me was "be fearless."

Just be fearless.

I mean, okay sure—I can do that.

So I began approaching intersections with my usual heaping helping of caution (usually being passed by a few fellow cyclists blowing through red lights with TRUE fearlessness) but resolved to keep myself from acting like a frightened rabbit every time I passed a bus or made a left turn.

No more screaming like a ninny every time an SUV runs you off the road, Lyndsey.

Stop taking it so seriously. I mean it's just you, wild and free on a bicycle—moments from certain death at all times. NBD.

Yes, that is actually what my internal pep talks sound like.

I realized the other night, as I was riding home from Whole Foods with a big bunch of Dandelion greens poking out the top of my bag, that I've developed into the sort of cliche urban crusader who might start a neighborhood composting co-op and rebelliously paint my own bike lanes on 14th Street (don't say it hasn't crossed your mind, too).

When did that happen?

Oh, also, my gym did a spotlight on me. It was fun and I love promoting my gym because, if you can't tell, I really, really love that place.

Teaching Moment.

I don't know about your parents, but my parents LOVED teaching moments.

My brothers and I always knew we were about to have a teaching moment when our mom would get an excited smile and nudge our dad, then make a facial expression that loosely translated to "come on—don't you remember? We read about this in that childhood development class 15 years ago and we've been waiting every day since then to finally use this! IT'S HAPPENING!"

One Sunday at the dinner table when I was around 13 I made some smart aleck remark about a girl from church—I don't remember what it was. My mom got the look on her face and went to find a ketchup packet from our junk drawer.

She squirted it out on to a plate and said "put it all back in the packet."

She and my dad were so damned pleased with themselves.

Being stubborn, I actually started trying to put it back in the packet. My brothers got in on it by taking it on as challenge, helping me figure out how we could open it wider and insert the ketchup.

A few minutes passed and my mom was clearly frustrated we were missing the point: YOU CAN'T PUT IT ALL BACK IN!

Once something is said, it's said. You can't take it back—it exists now, planted in the head of anyone who heard you (and then to whoever they repeat it to).

If I could get everyone in the conservative movement together in a room, with a smug look and a ketchup packet, I'd try to impart this wisdom upon them.

Because they need it.

If you've spoken badly about someone and damaged their reputation, a private apology isn't enough—no matter how sincere.

Yes, it helps, but it's not enough. Once you've spoken something into existence or repeated a story you heard about someone, you've carried on something that can never be taken back.

Is it really that hard?

If you're not speaking life into someone, what's the point of talking?

This house has a part of my heart.

Most days of the week I'm fighting an impulse to leave DC forever and, I don't know, get a few goats and chickens and a little cabin in the woods.

But that's another blog post.

As with 90% of the wonderful things that have happened to me in my life, I wasn't looking for this—I just stumbled across it and said "oh, I'd never thought about that before..."

I hate that this is happening just before the end of the year because I know it's going to sound like an intentional New Year "Fresh start! New beginnings!" kind of blog post and that makes me a little nauseous. Let's carry on anyway.

This house has a part of my heart.

Some of my best memories in DC are from my backyard—lit with strings of baubley, romantic lights full of friends drinking too much wine and talking all night.

Or Saturday morning's waking up with roommates and walking to get coffee.

Instead of trying to tell stories that couldn't possibly do it justice, I'll leave you with a few pictures—the best way to remember the great times we had here.

that sky glowed all calico like phosphor in the sea

You haven't lived until you've had red wine from a tin cup by a campfire in an unseasonably warm November.

My favorite time on earth is the hour before everyone else wakes up on a camping trip.

I'm physically incapable of sleeping in, no matter what sort of night I had and camping trips are no exception. I tiptoe around, quietly hunting through bags to find coffee (usually waking people up in the process).

And then I sit. I know I'm not truly alone—surrounded by sleeping friends tucked into tents all around me—but I'm completely at peace, my mind finally at rest with no plans, no mental to do list prompting me to action.

A few days ago as I was standing on the metro escalator trying to finish a page, a woman barreled past me and knocked my gym bag off my shoulder. I balked at her silently as she turned—not to apologize, but to tell me I was taking up too much room with my bag (well, duh) and that she was in a hurry. I told her to have a good day as she flipped me off. My headphones were still in so I couldn't make out what she was saying anymore, but I could see she was angry and kept making a point to call back and shout things at me as she ran to the platform.

I put my nose back in my book and slowly reached the platform just as the train arrived... and we both got on.

How embarrassing for her. I thought to myself: What a horrible day she must be having. And how sad to walk around having outbursts at strangers.

I think the anonymity of cities makes these sorts of angry encounters acceptable and common—because we'd never talk that way to someone we actually knew.

But why does it seem everyone is walking around, seconds from exploding because the turnstile didn't open right away or Biden is going to the White House so we can't get to lunch on time.

I saw myself turning into that sort of person once and I didn't like it.

A lot of my time here is spent walking, surrounded by strangers (it's my primary mode of transportation) and it's so much happier when I make a point to be present for it and be kind.

Life isn't just the times with friends, the events, the holidays—it's those anonymous moments when you hold a door for a mom with a stroller or run after someone who dropped their Smarttrip. Life is a few hours spent alone, hunched over weeds in your front planter, not looking at your phone, letting dirt set in deep into your cuticles.

Pull out your earbuds. Enjoy those moments. They add up. And they matter.

Velveteen Lyndsey

A few things I can't share have happened in the past few weeks.

I hate announcing at the outset that I have secrets because it's sort of like saying to a friend "I need to tell you something... oh nevermind, I can't."

And everyone hates that girl.

So I'm sitting here drinking tea and trying to think of the best way to dance around what actually happened while still sharing what I've carried away from the wreckage.

Emily has christened me Velveteen Lyndsey. It's so funny to think of myself that way.

I've learned a lot from this.

Picture me falling apart while writing that sentence and taking a few minutes to compose myself and come back.

I think it's okay to lose your bearings every once in a while so long as you always work to get them back.

Because if you don't let the hurt and the fear in—if you don't cry or say the wrong thing to the wrong person—if you can really, truly, just put on your grown up suit every day and cheerfully carry on to work when bad things happen... you're a sociopath, right?

I can't believe I used to pride myself on how well I handled a crisis.

Like I deserved a red balloon for being able to cook meals while mourning a friend.

Sometimes everything falls apart. Sometimes dark things remind you that they exist and you learn that even though you thought you knew yourself and knew your limits and capacity for pain—you were absolutely wrong.

And that's okay.

Friendships are the best ships.

When I was a child it used to mortify me every time my mother and I would visit friends of hers and she would immediately set about cleaning their kitchens and straightening their living rooms.

No sooner than we'd knocked on the front door she'd quickly start pulling weeds out of the planters around their porch and henpecking me to pull their trash bins up from the street.

Once inside, instead of just sitting down and enjoying their company—or taking the temperature to see if they actually welcomed the help, she just assumed that's what they wanted.

She would dole out copious, well-intentioned advice on how to keep their plants alive and train their dogs to stop begging.

Because what busy mom wouldn't want someone to come help around the house?

My mom shows she cares about people by doing.

And I'm very much the same way. Which drives me insane.

It embarrassed me because while she was in a tornado of clearing mugs from coffee tables, I was quietly reading the subtle expressions on her friends' faces. Sometimes confusion, sometimes contempt—many times embarrassment, and very rarely gratefulness... even though they expressed sheepish, polite thanks.

My takeaway—apart from paying attention to people's needs, is that we can't love people the way we want to be loved. We have to figure out the way other people want to be loved and... you know, do that.

This is hard.

Figuring out how someone wants to be cared for (and how they communicate) is a challenge in every relationship.

At the end of the day, people want to spend time with and nurture relationships with people who make their lives better, who challenge them to be better and hold them accountable... but who are also actually enjoyable to be around and who are receptive to what they actually need.

Stop talking, stop doing, and pay attention.

Sometimes friends don't want advice when they come bearing life problems—they want to be heard.

And they want wine.

Always bring wine.

It's Called Chop Stuff Up and Put it In a Bowl.

A few weeks ago everyone in my gym class was given a flyer for Power Supply and a few samples.

We all talked about it and checked out the prices (seriously affordable) and I couldn't figure out why I had such a negative taste in my mouth about it.

I love anything that connects normal, busy people with healthy food options—and I would have pushed puppies into traffic to have something like this available to me during the campaign season.

I brushed it off, kept my thoughts to myself, and carried on.

Today in my kitchen it finally hit me why I was so averse.

As I was considering signing up for PS, I realized I would be saving money on my weekly grocery bill; I would save myself the trouble of walking to the farmer's market and Yes Organic before coming home to unpack and cook all my meals for the week; I would save myself the time of looking up recipes or calling up my grandmother to ask advice on the nuances of mirepoix and oven temperatures.

And there it is.

I feel sorry for people who think their lives are so busy and their time is so precious that they're above chopping their own onions or watching squirrels from a kitchen window while mindlessly peeling garlic between sticky fingertips.

Right now my house smells like ginger and garlic and heaven.

Walking to the farmer's market picking out produce is the stuff life is made of.

Using technical questions as an excuse to connect with people I love is a joy. Stirring soup with the spoon my mother used and taking more pride in meals cooked for friends than just about anything else in the world... those are sources of joy.

So of course I'm not against Power Supply or any of the many small businesses like them—they're providing a much-needed service to people whose jobs require it.

I just remember that lifestyle, that lack of balance in my life, and it chills me to think that someone would prefer that, would look to a meal service to give them more time to spend at the office.

They can eat vegetarian or paleo meals without having to think about it. 

I remember it used to gall my grandmother when she learned that it cost less to buy a dress than it cost to buy fabric to make her own. Growing up for her it had been the opposite—and that was a time when she and everyone else made most of their own clothes. They valued each piece, tailored to fit them, and knew how to make a straight hem and take in seams as effortlessly as breathing. Learning to sew from both my grandmothers and mother taught me more about their patience and creativity than it did about sewing.

So now we're talking about a generation of people for whom it's actually more financially responsible to buy pre-made food (healthy and awesome as it might be) than see the joy in making it themselves; unnecessary to look up why it's important to eat certain types of vegetables or intuitively know when kale season is about to end and tomato season is about to begin.

And I feel so, so sorry for them.

Where Did You Go?

When I first moved here, I was shocked by how often I ran into people I knew on the street or on metro. It seemed impossible—especially considering how few people I knew at the time.

It no longer surprises me but I always love it.

But lately I've started noticing that every time I run into someone I get asked the same question.

Where have you been?

Earlier this year when I left CRAFT I immediately took an audit of my work/life balance... and essentially found that I didn't have one.

So I mapped one out.

Six months later I'm a healthier, happier person.

And apparently souls do grow back.

But I've also really largely checked out of political social circles in a big way.

I'd rather be in the gym sweating with happy, uplifting strangers than having policy arguments with wonks over vodka-waters.

I'd rather work through lunch at my desk eating salad with a plastic fork than sit through another noon briefing with the same three panelists on the same topic with the same strategy at the same think tank.

I was tired. I was tired of watching the same characters with clear cognitive dissonance try to baseball bat their way into a culture they don't understand.

I was tired of the ugly infighting—the unapologetic gossip-mongering and threats to end the careers of good, smart people because of personal vendettas and messy break ups. I was tired of being manipulated into taking sides.

So I looked at all the moving parts.

I trimmed off the dead branches bearing no fruit.

I asked myself this: Who would you be if you weren't living your life for everyone else in it?

Most of my major life choices have come down to whether or not my family will be proud of me.

When I came to DC I had no money, no job prospects—just a small network of friends who I wish I could do more to thank.

I try to thank them by succeeding. I try to thank them by letting them know that their investment was worth it.

In the same way, I thank my family by trying my hardest to be a good person.

But what if my definition of success and being a good person isn't the same as theirs anymore?

What if I have come to a trail head and have decided I want to completely change my course?

You know, it's funny.

The more I learn about myself, the more vividly I see my tendency to romanticize the past.

Keeping a blog was never supposed to be some narcissistic exercise in putting an Instagram filter over my life. I want you to see the dust on the baseboards.

But maybe that's not the point.

And it Loved Her Right Back.

"You know that girl who 'has it all'—perfect job, relationship, body? No, you don't, because she doesn't exist." - Debora L. Spar

Women in DC talk a lot about having it all.

We're constantly measuring ourselves against other successful women—fixed marks on a scale of where we should be.

We should be married with children and on our way to the C Suite—and if we aren't, if we've found some alternate version of what success and happiness looks like, we're probably receiving a heaping measure of side-eye and judgment.

With the best of intentions, our mothers told us not to go to college for our MRS degrees and to put our careers before men.

Where has that landed us?

Check all that apply:

 - Paying off law school student loan debt in a career that doesn't require a JD (this doesn't apply to me thank God, but it does for many of my friends), wishing we could just... be moms who make jam.

 - Single in our late 20s, staring at toddlers in strollers like they're roadrunner and we're Wile E. Coyote.

 - Passively wanting to get married but looking at a landscape of Peter Pans and beta males like we'd rather spend the rest of our lives alone with a golden retriever in a cabin in Wyoming thank-you-very-much (err... did I just get a little too specific?).

 - Constantly wondering if we're on the right trajectory despite how often we take an audit of our lives and see that we're richly blessed and should relax and take pride in our accomplishments.

Sound about right?

You aren't alone.

As Debora put it, "feminism was meant to remove a fixed set of expectations; instead, we now interpret it as a route to personal perfection. Because we can do anything, we feel as if we have to do everything."

But my idea of perfection has totally changed.

As I've said before—there is nothing quite like almost getting exactly what you think you want to make you realize it's nothing like what you actually want.

Perfection is a week chock full of moments with friends, sweaty nights at the gym with uplifting people, a slow stroll through Eastern Market on Sunday, and finding exactly what I want in my size in the sale section at Lululemon.

Perfection is being a responsible, kale-eating adult 99% of the time but still being comfortable enough in myself to put on a short dress and act like a moron in Georgetown before drunk-eating cheese fries at 3:00 a.m.

Perfection is the daily choice to stop comparing myself to other people and the gall to be myself.

I used to have the roadmap—the bucket list and the framework of how my life would go.

And years ago I threw it away—because it was all at once so hysterically limiting and so completely different from where I decided I want to go.

Happiness for me isn't the C Suite—and it never will be. And that doesn't make me lazy—that doesn't make me an underachiever.

It just means I've made career choices that will put me in a position to one day work from home... hopefully while I make my own jam and raise babies.

And always have enough in the bank to fly to the islands if everything else falls apart.

Put THAT in your blog.

I'm just going to say this without any grand introduction:

The presence of phones around me all the time has reached a fever pitch and I just want it to stop.

The etiquette of phones in DC permits them to be used through dinner with colleagues and throughout a night with friends—without apology.

One of the best compliments I've ever received was being told by a friend that they appreciated how I never looked at my phone while we were talking. As if I deserved a prize for doing something so basically courteous.

Recently I was at drinks with a friend—an occasion I'd anticipated all week since we'd had to push plans back a few times—and I realized I'd looked at my phone constantly. When I took an audit of what I was doing, I was checking my Facebook notifications—that people had liked my recent status update, that people had commented on a picture I was tagged in... things that could wait until later, if they were really valuable at all. It was so obvious in that moment that I was wasting my time with her as effortlessly as breathing.

For what?

I'm connected to hundreds of people I grew up with—many of whom I haven't seen in years. I comment on pictures of their children and like their statuses, but ultimately wonder if their lives are really as beautiful as instagram makes them appear.

Friends of mine who were recently divorced were both posting smiling pictures of each other and announcing how much they loved one another on Facebook almost daily right up until the updates mysteriously stopped cold. I later heard (offline) that they had quietly separated.

Theirs was the sort of magical fairy tale marriage that looked so perfect. After all, it was so photogenic.

Why do we lie for social media?

Why do we photograph our food and describe how much fun we're having on camping trips? Why do we talk about how happy we are all the time like we have something to prove?

Do we worry that we'll be left behind? Do we worry that someone will note the absence of OUR instgrammed brunch and NOT KNOW that we had brunch with friends?

Is this really the way we want to chronicle our lives?

Is this really the way we want to spend our time with friends?

Head bowed slightly, saying "almost done, just one more second..." while the people we love wait for us to finish telling Twitter how happy we are to be with them?

I do this for a living, I realize. I think about this constantly—the way we communicate, why it has changed... how it is still changing.

I would never criticize someone for opening up and sharing their lives online. I've been doing it since I was 15.

But it used to take place at the end of the day, away from the world, in a Dorothy Wordsworth sort of way—in one articulate, intentional, and cohesive post.

It wasn't a living, breathing, perpetual anxiety attack of photographs and words.

And there are quite a few things I'll never write about in complete detail.

Because there is a difference in being vulnerable and over-sharing.

Our words don't live in vacuums. Some stories aren't completely ours to tell.

As much as I'd like to be less ambiguous sometimes, as much as I'd love to really get into complex detail about my relationships... I can't.

And if the only reasonable substitute is to clock in on Facebook like a factory worker with a timecard, ticking the box that says "everything is going really, really well for me, I promise!" then screw it.

A Beautiful Year

On Monday (the day before my birthday) I was chosen as one of Red Alert Politics 30 Under 30.

No idea why but that's another blog post.

They threw a great party at Living Social's DC office. It was honestly the perfect birthday gift—I got a huge party with my friends... and everything said I was still 27. Scores all around.

So of course since a year has passed I feel like I have to reflect and measure... because that's what I do.

I write a lot about my personal vulnerability and how important it is for me to write and live openly—and I'd never really heard anyone else talk about why it was important to be vulnerable until I watched Dr. Brené Brown's TED talk.

Go watch it and come back. I'll wait.

It's like the woman has been reading my diary:

The one thing that keeps us from connecting with people is our fear that we're not worthy of that connection.  

There was only one variable that separated people who have a strong sense of love and belonging and people who really struggle for it ... the people who have a strong sense of love and belonging believe they're worthy of love and belonging. That's it. They believe they're worthy. 

When I was a freshman in college I remember being confused when a girl I'd met the night before (who I thought was way, way cooler than I was) knocked on my dorm room door. I was even more confused when she sat on the end of my bed and just started talking about what had happened after I left and then wanted to get coffee. I said to myself, oh, she wants to be my friend... this is what making friends is like. Act normal.

Having been homeschooled and raised in church, making friends wasn't really a process for me - it just happened. This was the first time I had someone new come into my life because they wanted to be there. This was the first time I felt I could choose the types of people I wanted to be a part of my life.

And oh Jesus did I choose wrong.

I surrounded myself with the cool kids, the affluent kids, the ones who dressed well and smoked a ton of cigarettes.

I was drawn to the other kids—the nice ones, the ones dressed like idiots, who smoked a ton of cigarettes and listened to the kind of music I liked and would have probably liked me for who I was if I'd had the courage to be that person... or if I'd felt worthy of that connection.

I was so terrified of being rejected by them that I rejected them.

I gravitated toward people who made me feel bad about myself, who weren't challenging me to be better, who didn't want to be better, and who were just... not strong people with honed sense of purpose.

When I finally took a little audit of my life, I ran away from them. Fast.

I've written a lot about getting away from that and the importance of surrounding myself with the right people so I won't repeat myself.

It took me a lot of time, but I finally grew a sense of worthiness—which is very different from a sense of entitlement. I didn't wake up and decide that I was amazing and deserved great relationships, I woke up and realized that no, I didn't deserve anything... but I was worthy of trying.

Back to Dr. Brown. She pulled stories out of her research from people who had a sense of love and belonging and found commonalities:

They fully embraced vulnerability... they believed that what made them vulnerable made them beautiful. They didn't talk about vulnerability being comfortable or excruciating, they just talked about it being necessary. They talked about the willingness to say I love you first... willing to invest in a relationship that may or may not work out... 

...because to feel this vulnerable means we're alive.

As I listened to her finish this talk I thought, yes, exactly—finally someone stood on a stage and explained why no matter how many times I'm hurt or how many times I fail, I keep getting up and saying well that's okay, let's go do it again.

It's been a beautiful year. Such a beautiful year.

And if you've been a part of it—thank you.

How to wait.

I don't know how most of you guys blog, but I've written and saved about 398420958 drafts that may never see the light of day. Sometimes I go through them and smile at old thoughts I had that I must have thought better than publishing at the time—often very wisely so.

Yesterday I came across a draft that I wrote about 6 months after I got into my car accident when I decided to commit to the lifestyle change of being carless. I did the math in my head and realized it's been over two years now and I'm still just as happy to live my life without the burden of a car.

Getting into a car accident was possibly the best thing that ever happened to me.

I never thought I would be able to endure, let alone enjoy, not having a car—but I absolutely do.

After my accident, when I was making the decision on whether or not to buy a new car to replace my Prius, I read a post Leo Babauta wrote for Zen Habits about what he and his family learned from taking public transportation. It summed up my attitude almost perfectly—the biggest difference being that it's just me and I don't have to include herding small children in my commuting plans. I will be honest: entering children into the equation would probably make me a little less zen.

There is something romantic and human and alive about walking down a city street instead of driving down one in a car. You see the sleeping cats on porches and overgrowth of weeds around aging patio furniture. You see other people emerging for their commutes. You see flowers (right now: peonies) and when you see a meter attendant you never have to worry—it's never, ever going to be your car they're ticketing.

Say hello to passersby. Realize that yes, you're becoming your mother.

I know the name of the crossing guard (Monica) at the school beside my house and say good morning to her every day as I walk to work.

When I need a car (Target, IKEA, road trip) one always materializes somehow—especially when I offer to fill up the tank.

Not having a car has forced me to truly prioritize what I want to do with my time. If I truly want to spend time with someone who lives across town, I have to make a little plan in my head (Metro or bike? Bike home after dark? Metro home alone? Cab home?) and make my choice accordingly.

I also have to make wiser choices about what I actually need. I walk to the farmer's market and Yes Organic on Saturdays and get only as much as I can carry home.

I remember the way I used to act as a driver and car owner.

I was constantly feeding money into a pit for insurance, payments, registration, parking tickets, gas, and maintenance.

I had occasional road rage and I let traffic and rude drivers rob me of my joy. I also carelessly texted while driving—which is just stupid. I don't like the part of myself that gets instantly impatient and frustrated. When I walk, I'm constantly in motion and I never feel trapped. If I feel like I might be late to something I walk faster or I start running. If I have to wait at a crosswalk for a long time I just take a deep breath and check my email.

Joy levels: through the roof.

___

So let's change the pace a bit: When my bike was stolen everything changed.

I used to ride happily around the city—for free, feeling my legs getting stronger and faster as the months passed. When it was stolen, instead of buying a new one or using bike share, I just started taking metro and walking more. I shopped for new bikes but nothing was ever exactly what I wanted—and I was terrified of investing in something that could be gone again in the blink of an eye.

Despite the fact that two of my friends recently had their bikes stolen on the hill (tis the season) I think I'm ready.

It's time.

I want a new bike. I want to ride it around DC and on bike trails in NOVA, I want to go fast, I want to be able to easily carry it up my front stairs every night, put my gym bag (read: huge) on the front or back, and spend less than $900.

So bike experts, tweet me your suggestions @LyndseyFifield - or just tell me about your experience and choice to go carless in the city!

Motivation.

Being a grown up is so much harder than anyone tells you it's going to be.

I'm not talking about the getting-to-the-train-on-time bits or the remembering-the-water-bill stuff.

I'm talking about the knowing-how-to-talk-to-people part and knowing-when-to-put-your-phone-away thing.

Yesterday Chelsie and I were talking and she asked me, out of the blue, "what motivates you?"

While I was thinking about it, she continued, "you don't have to make it about working out or your job but just about life in general like... why do you work as hard as you do?"

What's funny about the way she phrased her question is that I see total interconnectivity with every aspect of my life.

Everything has to be working in harmony or else it all falls apart. I put just as much energy into my job as I do into being healthy and building up my relationships with people.

If I throw off that balance, everything falls apart.

So... what throws my life off balance?

It's pretty simple.

Yesterday after running up and down the stairs a few times, one of the class leaders said "hey you look like you want a challenge" and he handed me a weighted bag and sent me back on my way to the stairs. It sucked.

The next time, he handed it to someone else and I took off once more—but this time I sprinted happily up the stairs, totally unburdened.

Isn't that so much like life?

I have a tendency to wear my failures and mistakes like weighted bags around my neck, pretending they're not there and that I deserve the challenge. I go through my life smiling, but secretly making decisions based on what other people think of me, letting their perception and judgment define me instead of writing my own story.

Why do I do that?

Every time I throw that on the ground and keep moving, I soar.

And every time I remove negative voices from my life and fill my time with people who speak life into each other, keeping my balance becomes easier and easier.