Anna Rae Gwarjanski Portfolio |
I'm going to be honest: Everything that's happening in Virginia makes me want to run away into the mountains and never come back. It's freaking scary, it makes me incredibly angry, and it breaks my heart, all at the same time. As a naturally sensitive person to begin with, my first reaction to reading all these news stories is to hide from the gut-wrenching pain they bring.
But, then I think, if I, a white person sitting 1,649 miles away from Charlottesville, am feeling this way, how much hurt must the people who are the actual targets of this hatred feel? I don't know why I was born white, straight, middle class, with a fantastic family and access to a top-tier education. I was and am incredibly blessed, and it's not fair. I don't deserve it. But, one thing I do know, is that words matter. Words that incite hatred matter, words that condemn hatred matter -- and words that never come matter. Another one of my fundamental beliefs? Love is louder. Even when hate has a bullhorn and tiki torches and madmen driving cars into protesters and shit has hit the fan, love has the potential to be louder. Let’s make it thunderingly loud, y’all. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. said, “In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.” So, as a writer and as a member of the only race I care about -- the human race -- I will use my privilege to speak words of love. It’s an unfortunate fact that as a white person, my words are louder than those people of color speak. Thank you to all my friends of color who share and help me understand your experiences. I want to listen, and I want to use my platform as a microphone and my actions as a spotlight for the injustices you go through that I can never fully comprehend. And, one thing I’m hearing, one thing people who are discriminated against want the world to know: This fight is not one that people who wear their diversity on their skin can carry on alone. I can’t say it any better than Pastor John Pavlovitz: “White people especially need to name racism in this hour, because somewhere in that crowd of sweaty, dead-eyed, raw-throated white men are our brothers and cousins and husbands and fathers and children; those we go to church with and see at Little League and in our neighborhoods. They need to be made accountable by those they deem their 'own kind.' They need to know that this is not who we are, that we don’t bless or support or respect this. They need white faces speaking directly into their white faces, loudly on behalf of love. Though all of us can eventually trace our lineage back to oneness, all carrying a varied blood in our veins -- the surface level differences matter to these torch-bearers. They value white lives and white voices above anything else, and so we whose pigmentation matches theirs need to speak with unflinching clarity about this or we simply amen it.” Privilege is an uncomfortable word for many people, but it shouldn’t be. By admitting your privilege, you’re not saying your life has been perfect. Privilege doesn’t mean you’re a bad person, or you haven’t had struggles, or you haven’t worked hard for what you have. I’ve been through a lot of shit, and I’m proud of what I’ve overcome. But, I’m also incredibly privileged. For example, what that means is that just by looking at me, no one can tell that I have a mental illness. It’s there, it’s clinically diagnosed, and I’ve had it my whole life, but you wouldn’t know that unless I told you. As my friend Molly Whitman put it, “I, unlike many others, am able to remove my diversity like a jacket and hang it up whenever I please. I am insulated and protected from much of the hate that people of color, immigrants, transgender, Muslims, and anyone else who wear their difference from alt-right America on their skin are vulnerable to. My profession, education, and class also bestow upon me a privilege many others cannot access.” Privilege isn’t necessarily a bad thing on an individual level -- as long as you use it to help those born without it. If you’re wondering how to do that, this is a great article to read. (Yes, I know it’s MTV, but it is actually a really good article. Promise.) As Maya Angelou said, “Do the best you can until you know better. Then, when you know better, do better.” Be aware of what’s going on in this world. Have conversations with and listen to people who don’t look like you -- I’m talking really listening just to listen, not listening just to retort. Realize your privileges, and understand how you can use them to make the world a better place. Stand up for what’s right. Say something. Do something. If you’ve ever wondered what you would have done during slavery, or the Holocaust, or Jim Crow… you’re doing it now. Let’s do better, all of us.
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A few months ago, I wrote the post below after discovering a photo I thought my body looked good in. I was scrolling through my camera’s SD card after a rugby game, trying to decide which photos to upload to our team page, when I stopped on a picture taken during our second-side game halftime. My first, split-second thought was, “Who is that girl in the red sports bra? She looks good!” Then, I realized it was me. When I first started writing this blog post, my intentions were to let that instant be an example to others in how harshly we judge ourselves versus other people. And, the reason I’ve procrastinated publishing it adds proof to that — despite my initial thought, the more I studied myself in the photo, the unhappier I became. I focused on my not-quite-flat stomach. I cringed at the indentions where my sports bra pressed into my shoulders. I didn’t like that the bottom of my back rolled over my spandex. I was afraid someone would comment and say something like, “Why are *you* proud of the way you look? You’ve definitely still got a lot of work to do, honey.” And you know what? I do have a lot to work on — but most of that work has to do with improving my self-confidence, not with “improving” my body. So, without further ado, here’s a short post on body positivity. ________ I’m pretty good nowadays about being nice to myself. I listen to my body, feed it, and try not to judge it too much. Most of the time, I stand in awe of this mass of skin and bones and muscle that allows me to play the sport I love, to hike with my dogs, to dance with my boyfriend [now husband!]. I recognize and honor how hard this physical vessel works to keep me alive, especially after all the damage I’ve put it through. But, I’m only human. Of course I have days when I’m not happy with how I look. My muscles are bulkier now than they’ve been in the past because I’ve been training that way — the way I want to play rugby necessitates it. (Side note: it’s also because TexMex food is a gift from the gods and I eat it at least once a week ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ ). However, being bigger has not been great for my wardrobe. I’ve had to give away a lot of my jeans, shirts and dresses, either because they don’t fit or I don’t like the way they look on me anymore. And, that can take its toll on the ol’ self-esteem. Anyway, what inspired me to write this post is the photo below. When I saw it, for a split-second I thought, “who is that tall girl in the red sports bra? She looks good!” Then, I realized, “Oh wait, that’s me!” My stomach has always been the part of my body I’ve loved the least. I’m 5’10, and at this height, my weight has ranged from 136-194 pounds. Right now, I’m around 180, and I’m just about the happiest I’ve ever been with how I look. But, I’m hyper-aware that I’m a sturdy girl, just like I’m hyper-aware that my midsection is not very toned. Even when I was at my smallest, my abs looked soft. I’ve accepted that my stomach is where I naturally carry my weight, but some days, it still makes me self-conscious.
The day of the above photo, I turned my jersey in after our game and decided to keep my shirt off to get some sun (#palegirlproblems). Even though I’m confident enough to not be too uncomfortable showing some skin, I still remember trying to tuck my stomach rolls into my spandex and making sure I sat in a “flattering” way. So, seeing this photo weeks later and having that primary reaction made me realize how unnecessarily critical we can be of ourselves. Take a minute and try to look at yourself objectively like I accidentally did, and you’ll discover how freaking beautiful you really are. Don’t be so hard on yourself, and I’ll try to do the same. “I am spinning the silk threads of my story, weaving the fabric of my world...I spun out of control. Eating was hard. Breathing was hard. Living was hardest. Recovering from bulimia was hard. It was the fight of and for my life, and it took three years, constant positive self-talk, twice weekly visits with my therapist, one major relapse, and, yes, Prozac to get to the place I'm in today. I've been in recovery for about four years now, and I'm currently attempting a new chapter that is already proving to be just as challenging -- healthy weight loss. When I lived in Texas, I had rugby to galvanize me to exercise and stay in shape; however, my team in Minot is so small that we have a hard time finding enough people to practice with. This lack of a team sport has left me needing motivation, and I've put on some weight since moving up here (I don't weigh myself anymore, but I'm guessing it's about 10 pounds). I don't like the way my clothes fit, and speaking completely objectively, I could healthfully lose a little weight. Here's the kicker, though. Restricting is hard for me because I'm terrified of falling into bad eating habits again. There’s always going to be some part of me that tries to see food as the enemy, as something I can fight against and control when other compartments of my life feel chaotic. I know it’s weird and dramatic, but when I was caught in my eating disorder, what I ate, and whether meals were “good” or “bad,” determined whether I, personally, was good or bad that day. I let everything in my life revolve around food and the scale. “From the outside an eating disorder may look like the ultimate expression of self-control and willpower, but I can tell you from personal experience and from years of hearing other people’s stories that it is about one thing and one thing only: pure, unadulterated fear," blogger Charlotte Hilton Andersen wrote in this post. "And I wouldn’t even say it’s a fear of getting fat. It’s that, yes, but really it’s a fear of being unlovable, of being imperfect, of having powerful needs and desires, of not measuring up, of failing. So many, many fears. An eating disorder is a terrifying roller coaster of highs filled with delusions and lows marked by denial. For awhile we have the illusion of control -- food is so passive! So easy to push around! So obedient! -- but eventually we realize that our entire lives are being controlled by something that’s not even sentient much less very nice.” Last year, I tried to go Paleo again. I followed that lifestyle one summer while in college with great results, but I eventually had to stop simply because it was expensive. Because I was making good money as managing editor, I figured it was a good time to try it again. But, as soon as I started thinking of food as something I had to “allow” myself, things went downhill. I didn’t relapse, but I began to have more negative thoughts, and I could tell that path wouldn’t end well. So, I stopped. Throughout and since my recovery, I had to redefine what I want my body to do, not what I want it to look like. It’s why I picked up weightlifting and one of the many reasons I’m so passionate about rugby. But, I don’t have easy access to a gym here, and, as mentioned above, rugby just hasn’t been happening. Additionally, as much as I hate to admit it, vanity is part of being human. In that same blog post I quoted above, the author writes that post-ED treatment, “some people gain more weight than is deemed ‘necessary’ or ‘healthy,’ which is such a fine line to walk. How do you talk about what is appropriate or healthy with someone who has no concept of either? And what happens when -- if -- you end up in a position where you legitimately need to lose a bit of weight? Dieting is just another trip down the rabbit hole. And you’ve worked so SO hard to recover! Plus, by this point, you may even think that dieting is anti-feminist or unsocial or simply unkind. Are you even allowed to think you need to lose weight?” Those last two sentences really resonate with me. I HATE diets (I know, I know -- it’s hypocritical of me to say that since I just wrote that I loved living Paleo... oops. Maybe that's a post I'll get into later ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ ). Diet culture simply takes advantage of people’s insecurities and cashes in on it, and that’s not something I want to be part of. But, like I said, I genuinely would like to become fitter, and it’s hard to do that without fueling your body properly. For someone who has had issues with food in the past, that can feel like an impasse. For the past few years, because I’ve had rugby teams and gym partners to lean on in my fitness journey, I didn’t need to focus so much on food -- which is exactly what I needed at the time. So, actually trying to look at what I eat with love and without judgement is a new challenge. One I think I need to go through to be stronger and healthier, but a challenge nonetheless. A couple of years ago, a revolutionary thought came to me: you can’t hate your body into being a certain way. Two years ago, in a post about my bulimia recovery, I wrote, “I do still think that we must be constantly striving to better ourselves, but it has to come from a place of love and not from a place of hatred. In other words, I used to chase success because I was terrified of failure and disappointing people. Now, I’m graduating with my master’s degree in May and I eventually want my PhD because education makes me happy and because I love to learn and because it will help me make the sort of difference I’m trying to make on this earth, not because I’m trying to impress anyone.” Basically, if you want to change yourself, fine, but it has to come from a place of love instead of disgust. For example, the way I used to motivate myself was through the latter. I’d be on the treadmill concentrating on feeling my stomach jiggle and thinking about how every minute I kept running, another piece of cellulite would melt away (a thought that was completely false, by the way). I’d go to the dining halls, looking longingly at the pizza, but tell myself “you don’t deserve that, you fat piece of shit. Go get some more lettuce.” That way of thinking didn’t work out, to say the least. Somewhere along the line, I transformed those thoughts into a celebration that, despite all my injuries, I’m still able to move the way few people can. I learned to revel in the choice of meals -- some days, I want a Greek salad, and some days I want pizza with extra cheese. When I started removing things from my “off-limits” list, I learned, when I stopped making them a tool for punishment, I actually enjoy vegetables. Who knew? In any case, this new adventure of getting back into shape is taking lots of tools and self-awareness. It’s cautioning myself that, even though I know ~ways~ to lose this weight fast, they’re not worth it. It’s making sure my plate is full and I’m not skipping meals. It’s not cutting things out entirely, but trading beer for a glass of red wine. It’s focusing on how amazing it is that, despite my foot fractures and knee and hip surgeries, I can still put one foot in front of the other on the trails. It’s emphasizing that, while yes, being fit makes me feel good, it’s not the end-all-be-all; no one’s tombstone reads “she was so thin.” It’s reminding myself that I have a body, but I am not just a body -- no matter what I weigh or look like, the soul inside my body will always be the same, and it’s my purpose to honor her.
I published this post as a way to keep myself in check and also as a reminder of how far I've come. I’m refusing to fall back into my old disordered eating mindset, and because I’m a stubborn son of gun, I have faith in myself. (But, if anyone wants to send motivation, prayers and/or good juju my way, I certainly won’t turn them down). |
About the AuthorConfessions of a failed southern lady. I've got messy hair and a thirsty heart. Writer, photographer, career wanderer. Archives
May 2023
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