We seem to forget this message that he told us every day -- that we're perfect just the way we are and can be loved as we are. 

And a blog/article that Vittoria pointed out to me entitled "Go Easy on Yourself, a New Wave of Research Urges"

For the February Going the Distance Challenge (#GoTheDist), I challenged everyone to write down one thing each day that they love about themselves.  As a participant in my own challenge, I had to do this too.  At the end of the month the goal was to write a love letter to yourself.  I first looked back at what I had written down over the 28 days and then I categorized them (in no particular order):

Aesthetic Love:

• I love my eyes. They are one of the most spectacular things about me, even if I wear colored contacts :P
• Though at times I fight with it, I love having straight hair. It is very well behaved.
• I love my voice. It is one of the jewels I was born with.
• I love my nose. Sure, it might be big, but that's to get all that oxygen in my body. Mine... all mine!

Body/Aesthetic Love:

• I love my hips. They are one of my many beautiful curves.
• I love my long, strong lower legs. They proclaim to the world that I am a runner.
• I love my stomach fat. It's fuel. It is womanly and beautiful.
• I've got a really nice rack.
• I love my knees. They really get the job done, whether on the elliptical or in a skirt.
• I love that I can wake up early if I need to and instantly feel cognizant. It's a special skill.
• I love my strong arms. all the better to hug you with

Health/Wellbeing Love:

• I love that my body is strong enough to fight off the flu.
• I love my body's ability to repair itself after a night out of drinking/dancing with a girlfriend

 Mental/Self-Esteem Love:

• I love walking down the street in spandex running pants. Why? It is a great reminder to myself that I'm on a mission to please myself, not anyone else.
• I went out dancing without a stitch of makeup on. Normally this would scare me, but I knew I was going to be working up a sweat and that was more important to me than looking good doing it.
• The capacity of my heart -- and its resilience. It has never failed me.
• I love my quick wit. I may not be the smartest person out there, but i have a way with words that even smart people are jealous of.
• I love how I define myself now by what I can do, and less by what I cannot do.
• I love how smart I am (and modest, too!). It's one of my best qualities.
• I have my moments of fearlessness.
• I love that I'm strong enough to confront the things that scare me.
• I love that I knew myself well enough NOT to go to law school and have a career I hated. So now I have a job I love, where I'm respected, and where I actually get to go home at 5:30. Not bad. But it wouldn't have happened if I listened to other people.
• My competitive spirit has never let me down. I'm not always competing against another person, but I always want to out do myself.
• Though I am only 29, I have some wisdom to share. One of those tidbits is knowing when to take some rest and heal.
• I love that I can dig deep when i need to.
• I love the depths of my compassion
• I love my competitive spirit that makes me go above and beyond what I thought I am capable of.
• I love that because I had the courage to go on this journey in the first place that not only am I inspiring other people to go on the journey, but I have left a trail for them to follow.

As you can see, the overwhelming majority of the love I have for myself is not necessarily in regards to how I look, but how I feel about myself.  This is no surprise for me.  While I have my moments of insecurity and doubt from time-to-time, without a doubt I know I am a wonderful person on the inside (and learning to be confident on the outside bits as well). 

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Other Love Letters:

• @APilgrimSoul:  http://alastconfession.wordpress.com/2011/02/28/febgtd-a-reflection-and-a-love-letter
• @DubyaWife:  http://dubyawife.blogspot.com/2011/03/febgtd-going-distance-doctors-orders.html
• @CarrieSinCA:  http://familyfitnessfood.com/go-the-distance

First things first -- #FebGTD is coming to a close.  How did you do with your mileage goals?

Consider answering the Going the Distance summary questions I've listed in this page (which I will be updating soon!).

I would *LOVE* to see your love letters to yourself (and I hope to post mine tomorrow) as well as link to them through my blog. 

It's never too late to update the #FebGTD spreadsheet!

Like I said in the Half-Way Point update, the whole challenge has been...well... challenging.  Not only did I start the month in a mileage defecit, but I found it hard to make the things I love about myself actually about myself versus things that I loved outside of immediate skin (such as my life, my family, my friends, etc.).

---

Drumroll please.....  

• It's a time when things grow.  (We've planted the seeds of change with a few months of the Going the Distance Challenge, and it's time to step it up -- work towards increasing distances, or setting personal records.  It's also a great time to seek to learn more -- learn a new exercise, ingest some more knowledge, try a new recipe, etc.)
• It's a time of renewal and change.  (Especially in the wake of the February #GoTheDist Challenge, I think it's a great time to look at ourselves honestly and compassionately and seek to improve not just our weights, but ourselves, our lives.  Think about this when considering your non-food reward!)
• It's a time of Spring Cleaning.  (Think about how much stuff -- emotional, mental, physical -- we carry around.  Isn't it time to let go of a few burdens?)

3.  I've changed the Summary page on the March #GoTheDist spreadsheet a bit.  I've made it so people who are doing 2 modalities can track on the same individual page.  Not all miles are created equal (think about it:  it's much easier to bike a mile than it is to swim a mile, right?)  Now it's a bit easier to separate those modalities.

And while this is NOT a change, I do want to mention this:  March is the SIXTH month of the #GoTheDist challenge.  There have been people who have participated in every month, some in just one or two.  But suffice it to say, we're no longer novices.  We are strong and capable enough to be leaders.

To quote Ralph Waldo Emerson: 

“Do not go where the path may lead; go instead where there is no path and leave a trail”

I've written before about how I believe that many people become obese (not the casual overweight) because of some sort of trauma in their lives.  I won't rehash what I wrote in the linked entry, as I believe it adequately describes my thoughts. In that way, the excess weight isnt merely pounds to be lost, but scars to be healed.

I've also written before about some of the trauma in my life--my maternal grandmother ("Nana") dying (1989), namely my mother having three miscarriages (1989, 1990, 1991), and my own mother dying (1994).  But it wasn't these events that necessarily were the trauma, but the context and/or manner in which they arose.

In 1987, Nana had a massive stroke and was partially paralyzed.  We found her a nursing home close to where we lived and she stayed there for close to two years.  In December 1989, we went to visit her the same day we put up the Christmas tree.  My mother and I went inside the nursing home to visit with my grandmother while my brother and father were outside in the car.  I don't know what was special about that night or that moment in particular, but my mother began talking to Nana about Nana's husband, John.  He had died in 1966.  My mother spoke softly about how Nana probably missed John, and that John missed Nana.  My mother softly stroke my grandmothers white hair neatly away from her face.  In a very short time (under 20 minutes?) my mother was able to give my grandmother permission to as well as coax her into letting go.  It is a profound experience for a 8 year old to intimately witness the death of a grandparent.  It was an experience that was never put into context, and I was never able to express my confusion and hurt of that experience.  Why did my mother insist that I was there for that moment?

By 1989, I think I was old enough to comprehend what a miscarriage was -- maybe not the word, but the concept of "mommy lost the baby."  I saw her crying, I saw her depression and anger.  I knew something was very wrong.  When she was pregnant the second time, I tried my hardest to be help her and be careful with mommy so that she didn't lose the baby.  I don't remember being told about the third baby until after mom had lost it.  One day when mom was trying to explain it to me, she told me that "maybe if you were more helpful around the house, mommy wouldn't have lost the baby."   It took many years to pinpoint that comment as the actual trauma -- it wasn't that mommy lost the babies, it was that she insinuated that there was something I could have done to prevent it.  As an adult, I realize just how ridiculous that was, and that I had no control or impact on her ability to carry a child.

On September 5, 1994, my mother woke in the middle of the night throwing up in bed.  My father enlisted help to take care of and tend to mom while he changed the sheets.  By morning she had no recollection that she was sick in the middle of the night.  But the headache she woke with never went away.  The doctor she went to did a cursory examination and said that she had a sinus infection.  They gave her some prescriptions and sent her on her way.  Over the next few days she was sick enough that both my grandma (my dad's stepmother) and my mom's former teacher/friend, Eileen, tended to her bedside while we were at school.  The headache wasn't getting better.  They took her to the hospital.  The initial diagnosis was a severe sinus infection.  The ache in my gut told me that it wasn't the case.  My brother and I knew something was wrong in her head.  People seemed to glance over the most important detail--something that stood out to both me and my brother at the time--that my mother didn't remember getting sick.  The third night she was in the hospital my mother had a massive seizure and went into a coma.  It was too late.  The aneurysm in her head that had been causing the headaches, the nausea, the memory loss, had ruptured.  My mother never awoke from the coma.  On September 27th, my father returned from the hospital to my grandparents' house (where we had been going after school) to tell us that our mother had died.

One could see how that alone was a significant trauma to a 13 year old -- but even looking back, that wasn't the trauma that caused me to overeat and shut down into a stoic, angry teen.  It was once again the details and the context:  my mother had not simply died.  They had done two tests to determine that there was no brain function.  The first one was a few days before my father had decided to remove her from life support.  The anger was because for days no one told me that my prayers were futile, that my negotiations with god were wasted breaths.  The hurt was because no one warned me that it might be a good time to say goodbye.  My father robbed me of the chance to kiss my mother's warm cheek and tell her that I loved her.  His selfish decision to have those moments for himself were the hardest thing for me to forgive.  You might say that he was doing what he thought was best for his children, but please don't.  I know my father better than you do.  I know his mental process.  I've even discussed this with him.  The idea of including his children (one who had already witnessed the death of a family member) in this decision had never crossed his mind.  He had days to prepare himself for the inevitable, whereas it hit me like a sack of bricks.  I can still feel the sensation of the wind being knocked out of me as I fell to my grandparents' light blue living room carpeting, screaming desperately that I had been wronged by the universe.

The injury continued when my father did not let me speak at her funeral.  The injury continued when my father's grief (the dredged up grief from his past as well as the current grief) overshadowed my own.  The injury continued when I was forced to grow up and deal with things beyond my emotional capacity without any guidance or comfort from my father. Instead, the roles were switched -- my father asking his child for comfort, seeking guidance from his child.  I was only able to deal with my grief and my issues once I was out of the house and in college, and only then was I allowed to experience my grief and feelings as my own.  ((Just FYI -- my dad and I have discussed all of this, and I've been able to find forgiveness in my heart for most of this, however this is a huge scar in my life and the healing will take and has taken a long time)).

Last year, in April, my dad's stepmother, Janet, passed away after a long battle with Alzheimer's (my father's biological mother passed away in 1957 as a result of a heart defect).  My father called me at work to tell me this news.  It was expected, but it still dredged up all the history, all the feelings of what it is like to lose someone you love, and that loved you.  Since then, my grandfather's health hasn't been so great. 

And well, I'm bracing myself for the inevitable storm.

The hardest thing for me to deal with in all of this is trying to carve out a space for my own feelings -- not having to defer to someone else's feelings or be inundated by drama, logistics, or anything else.  My grandpa is my last living grandparent.  He is the champion of my romantic life.  In his old age he has mellowed out (in some ways) and become someone I can have inside jokes with and gently tease.  When he is sick and everyone is talking about the medications he's on and which doctor he's seen, I'm the one that asks him how he's doing and tries to get him to laugh.  Being 200+ miles away is hard, but we chat on the phone (when his lungs are up to it) and email frequently.   My relationship and experience with my grandfather is my own little treasure.

I'm not writing this post looking for sympathy (and I'd actually prefer if people didn't comment on this entry).  However it's something I needed to write in order to move forward.

There's a lot I wanted to say here, but never really got it all in the video.

Long story short, Emily had me in her apartment showing me a few moves I could do outside of the gym and a few of them were really hard for me.  She told me that she'd often tell herself "I can do anything for 30 seconds."  Those words really stuck in my head -- that it was a mental challenge, not just a physical one.  I just needed to stick with it and get myself through the panic, the doubt, the fear and on the other side of all of it was someone that was remarkably capable.

So when I was running the 2.5 miles on the treadmill (something that scares me and is hard for me) I imagined Emily right there next to me saying I could do it.  Once I believe her voice telling me I could do it, I started saying it to myself (out loud, the the mirror across the gym) -- "You can do anything.  You've got this, Robby."

Sometimes if we can't trust in ourselves, it helps to have someone who believes in us begin the mantra.  I trust Emily.  I trust that she's been through all of this.  I now trust that I can and will see myself through to the other side.

The meaning of the name Roberta is "bright fame."

It's also the title of Jerome Kern's 1933 musical -- known for the song "Smoke Gets In Your Eyes" -- later made into a movie with Fred Astaire, Irene Dunne, and Ginger Rogers
Roberta was also the robotic secretary for the Fab 4 (in comic strips).
Roberta Flack killed a bunch of people softly.
Billy Joel also wrote a song about a prostitute named Roberta.
There even was a band in DC called "Fat Roberta"

I call "Roberta" the international Fat Girl name because one too many times I'd watch a tv show or a movie and the fat girl (or the crazy girl) would be named Roberta.  She was the butt of the joke.

If you pronounce it with a hard American accent you get Ro-burr-duh.  It sounds heavy.  (It get sexier if you add a little roll Rrrrobearta.)

Sometime in middle school I had an aversion to my name as well as its many splendid nicknames such as Bert or (Big) Bertha.  Bertie and Bobbie were mildy annoying.  More annoying was when people would call me Rebecca, Robin, or Rob/Bob.

It wasn't until college when I was dating D, and he came up with the nickname Robby (after I added a "Mr" in front of his name because he was a bit older than I was).  We decided then and there that it would be Robby, with a "y" not an "ie."  One person is allowed to call me Bert, by special waiver.  My father even apologizes when he calls me Roberta.

I'm not the fat, frumpy, sometimes-crazy Roberta as tv/movies/lifetime specials would want me to believe, but a Robby of her own making.  I still sign my name Roberta, but that's because legally it is still my name. 

Everyone at work calls me Robby. I introduce myself as Robby.
It's who I've been ever since that first utterance of "yeah, that sounds like me."

I'm at 192 lbs right now (yeah, I know... 4lbs over my low). 
In 6 months I hope to be at 175.

I hope to be blissfully happy.

And the thing is this -- I know that I can commit to making the choices required to achieve both things.
I can choose to have a positive attitude.
I can choose to open my heart to the world.
I can choose to put in the work because I'm worth it.

In 6 months, I'll be celebrating my 30th birthday.
It's going to be a very good year.

This post is dedicated to Kendra, who has inspired me to, just this once, really bare it all in a way I haven't before. Not only is she hilarious, but she is one of the bravest women I know when it comes to examining herself and sharing herself with her followers.  It is also dedicated to my many followers who have allowed me to be honest and vulnerable without judging me.

[WARNING:  To my friends & family that may read this -- there are some really personal things in this entry.  Please don't read this if you can't handle reading about my (past) sex life.]