NEDA Week: Body Image & Young Children

It's National Eating Disorders Week - a week to raise awareness and educate the public about these devastating and often fatal mental health issues. For those of you who are new to this blog space, I don't talk about it often, but I fought like hell for five years with an eating disorder that eventually landed me in heart failure. I'm not proud of it, and it's not something that's easy to talk about or wins me many fans, but that journey and that struggle is part of my testimony, so I own it. I worked hard to recover and move on, and by the grace of God (and thanks to an incredible team of therapists), I did.

I can finally say it no longer defines me, and I no longer feel shame in talking about it. I'm so thankful that anorexia was simply one chapter of many in my life. I was able to move on and turn a page to a new chapter, unlike so many women who fall victim to this terrible disease. Anorexia is the most fatal of all mental illnesses, and this week is a week to shed light on it.

It's time to talk about this.

If you haven't already read my full story, you can do so HERE. 

My battle may have been fought 15 years ago, but I daily have to make choices to ensure my family and I stay healthy. I've been reflecting a little bit lately on how I'm actively working to cultivate healthy body image, both in myself and in my children.

Being a mom, especially a young girl mom, the truth of the matter is that these issues start YOUNG. Like, REALLY young. So, I've been very strategic about the way I talk about food, exercise, and health since my children were born, and I thought it might be time to put it out there in the world. My prayer is that these action steps might help us re-frame the little things we do every day that can add up to big impact for our kids.  

Here's the scary truth: studies tell us that by the time a girl has turned 6, she will say that her ideal body size is smaller than her current frame. 

SIX. 

That's Kindergarten, y'all. My Kindergartener still sleeps with a monkey blanket every night, has Goofy on a shelf, and spills his milk at least three nights a week. These kids are straight babies, you guys.

I don't know about you, but I'm not about to go down this road without a fight. 

Another scary truth: I don't really think eating disorders can be prevented. At least, not FULLY prevented.

Recently, scientists have discovered that there is a genetic link to eating disorders, which can be a really scary fact for someone like me. BUT, here's what I know: just because my children may be more LIKELY to develop eating disorders than children whose mothers didn't have one, that doesn't mean I can't try to set them up for success. I can educate them and nurture them to develop a healthy relationship with food and their bodies in order to possibly prevent them from walking the road I walked. 

So, let's get practical...I am by no means a medical professional, but I do think there are some action steps we can take NOW, while our kiddos are still mold-able, that will shape their futures.

ACTION STEP: Drop the black and white talk.

No, I'm not talking about race here. What I mean by drop the black and white talk is to drop the notion that certain foods are either all GOOD or all BAD. Drop the labels. I think many of our children grow up in homes where parents are living in extremes - they hear their parents talk of being "good" when they're dieting or being "bad" when they're cheating. When parents bemoan their unhealthy choices or make comments about how they have to punish themselves at the gym for eating so poorly the night before, children begin to feel that they are bad people for eating certain foods. We need our children to understand that what they eat and who they are are mutually exclusive. 

So, my encouragement here would be to re-frame the language. The truth is that unless you have food allergies or specific dietary restrictions, all foods can and should be enjoyed in moderation. Let's ditch this all or nothing mentality. Instead, I suggest we talk positively about what healthy food and exercise do for us. Rather than complain about our jeans feeling tight, let's emphasize how we feel so energetic after running that 5K or taking that yoga class. Rather than whining about how our "bad" lunch at Chick-fil-A makes us bloated, let's talk about how sweet that apple tasted or how that salad gave me vitamins to make me strong. Let's highlight our positive choices for the ways they make us feel and what they do for us, rather than focusing on the negative choices we've made. 

ACTION STEP: Focus on strength for adults and growth for kids.

One of my absolute favorite things to talk about with my kids is how strong they are. Nothing gets my boys more fired up than showing off their muscles. We talk a lot in our house about how healthy food, exercise, and sleep helps us grow big and strong. Brooks has even picked up on it already, and after eating a carrot yesterday, walked over to me and said, "Me go up up up, higher and higher, right Mama?" He beamed with pride when I assured my tiniest boy that yes, his carrots did make him grow bigger and taller. (Just nobody tell him he's still in the second percentile for height, mmmm-kay?) When my kids step on the scale in the bathroom or at the doctor's office, never have I not cheered for them. No matter what that thing says, we celebrate it because it shows us how much we've grown. And when they want me to step on that scale for them? You'd better believe I join in their cheering, no matter what number I'm looking at or what the insecurities are telling me.

Two or three times a week, we head up to our neighborhood gym to work out (okay, okay, and to use the free childcare...), and I'm often asked by the little two why we have to come to the gym. And every single week, my answer is the same: because exercise keeps Mommy healthy and strong. Never once have I said anything about weight or my jeans or how much queso I ate the night before. I may have had those reasons in my head, but you'd better believe I wasn't planting those seeds for my kids.

All they need to know at this young age is that exercise is healthy and makes us strong. Period. Don't make it complicated. Because truthfully? It's not.

ACTION STEP: Eat meals and exercise as a family. 

You saw this one coming a mile away, didn't you? But, y'all, it's SO true! Going on family walks or bike rides is not only great for bonding, but it's so good for cultivating a healthy view of exercise! When you're going on a walk as a family to the park or exploring a new hiking path together, there's a sense of adventure and fun there. We WANT our kiddos to find exercise fun! It shouldn't be seen as punishment! I can tell you right now, having a child with limited mobility due to a broken leg, that the chance to walk or ride around the neighborhood is a gift! Carter would give you the boot off his broken leg (literally) if you told him he could go on a long bike ride tomorrow. We need our children to see exercise as a pleasurable experience and something to look forward to, and there's no better way to cement that than family outings.

Before I go into family meals, let me just preface by saying I GET IT. With 832 different schedules and practices and homework and jobs, I know this one's hard. And it certainly doesn't have to happen every night...but at least a few nights a week, enjoying a meal together is critical to developing a healthy relationship with food. There is so much more that happens at a dinner table than dinner. There is eye contact, conversation, taking turns, laughter, and, okay, a little bit of chaos if yours are little like mine. BUT! BUT! It's worth fighting through the chaos to share a healthy meal when you can. And bonus points if your kids help you with the cooking!

Last, but not least...

ACTION STEP: Just stop talking.  

Yes, I know, this sounds harsh, but it's true. For the love, people...STOP TALKING ABOUT APPEARANCES ALL THE TIME. And by this I mean your body AND other people's bodies. We have SUCH a fixation in our society with our physical appearances. We fixate on our hair, we gossip when someone has put on weight, we constantly whine about our wrinkles and stretch marks.

And I'm calling it out today: STOP.

Our bodies were created to DO. When God created us thousands of years ago, His primary focus was not on how we looked, but what we could DO with our bodies. We were created to work, to learn, to carry children, to feed children, to travel with our families. We were supposed to feed and nurture that body to keep it strong so we could continue to work. We were never meant to focus so much on how that body looked...but that's part of our fall as human beings.

That stretched out tummy that now resembles a frowning face? It grew a human. Or two. Or twelve if you're a Duggar.
Those saggy boobs? It kept a few tiny people alive for a year.
That thigh gap you constantly covet? Screw it! Your thighs ran a half marathon.

Enough complaining, you guys. Enough fixating. Enough battling something that was never meant to be fought in the first place. Let's get over it already.

And here's why this is so critical when you have little ears around...they hear everything. And repeat everything.

The other night, my husband was telling me a story about something scary (or maybe exciting...I can't be sure as I was only half-listening...) that happened at work, and without thinking, I replied, "Oh, damn!" Can you guess what the next two words out of our sweet baby boy's mouth were? Yep. You know it. He looked right in my eyes and said, "Oh, damn."

   I'll leave my "Mother of the Year" trophy on the door step for collection.

When you look in the mirror and verbally criticize those laugh lines on your face with your little girl standing at your feet, do you really think she's not paying attention? She's looking at you, who in her eyes is the most beautiful woman in the world, and you're feeding her negativity. Whether she's aware of it in the moment or not, you're teaching her how to be a woman, and what she just learned is this: women criticize themselves.

Is that really the message we want her to learn?

I want to see my little girl looking in the mirror admiring how strong she is, how much she's grown, or, better yet, moving her focus away from the mirror and into the eyes of people. I want to teach her that it's more important to look out than to look in. I want her to learn that we focus on others, not fixate on ourselves.

  So, those are my thoughts for this NEDA week. We can plant seeds now that can create change later, and I hope you'll join me as we fight for our kids.

If you or someone you know is struggling in this area, I'd highly encourage you to check out https://www.nationaleatingdisorders.org/ or find a local therapist who can help you. If you'd like to contact me directly to help you find resources in your area, you may always do so at awezell@gmail.com.

In honor of NEDA Week...

In honor of National Eating Disorders Awareness Week, I wanted to take a few minutes and share a little bit of my heart for anyone who is struggling or knows someone struggling with disordered eating. If you don't know my past, I shared my story in depth a few months ago, so I hope it encourages you if you've not already read it. If you find yourself struggling with body image or disordered eating, let me encourage you that there IS hope for recovery from this addiction. You can find my recovery story HERE.

When someone struggles with an eating disorder, EVERYONE around that person is affected - friends, siblings, parents, co-workers - so, today, I want to take a different perspective. Today, I want to share a few things that friends and family can do to help and support someone who may be engaging in these unhealthy behaviors. Often times, it is very confusing and frustrating to know what to do or what to say when you see someone walking a dangerous path like anorexia or bulimia. I am hoping that I can help you navigate those waters if you are concerned for a friend or family member today. To make it easier to navigate, I'm going to give you a few DOS and DON'TS.

(DISCLAIMER: I am not a doctor, nor am I a medical professional. I am simply sharing my own experiences in the hopes that it might help someone break free from the cycle of disordered eating.)

DON'T MAKE COMMENTS ABOUT WHAT THE PERSON IS OR ISN'T EATING.

First and foremost, know that this disease is NOT about food. People used to tell me all the time when I was struggling to "just eat a cheeseburger already!" OH, if only it was that simple! The eating (or lack thereof) is a symptom of a problem that is MUCH deeper than food. These diseases are incredibly complex, and while developing a healthy relationship with food is a necessary part of recovery, leave that part to the professionals. Cheeseburgers (while tasty) are not the solution.

DO STICK AROUND.

When someone is struggling with an eating disorder, it is a very isolating experience. The disease tends to take over so much of his or her time and focus that relationships often suffer because of it. Friends do not really know what to say to the person or how to handle their new behaviors. The best thing you can do is simply be there for her. Talk with the person about school, family, relationships, sports, or, heck, reality television if that's what they're into. It doesn't matter how you support her. The bottom line - try to be a friend. He or she needs one now more than ever.

DON'T OFFER QUICK FIXES OR TRY TO FIX IT YOURSELF.

 Do not google, Wikipedia, or WebMD treatment options for a friend. There is a reason that this disease requires treatment from medically-trained professionals. Anorexia, bulimia, and binge-eating disorder are DOOZIES...do not offer your own personal treatment plan. Leave it to the people who understand what they're doing. 

DO OFFER YOUR EAR...WHEN IT IS WANTED.

Let your friend know that you are there to listen if she needs to talk...but leave the initiation of the conversation up to her. If there is one thing I know for sure, it's that recovery is not possible until the struggling person is ready to ask for help. I spent many years fighting off people who thought they could "cure" my eating disorder. It wasn't until I made the decision and committed myself to treatment that things began to turn around.

DON'T COMMENT ON HER APPEARANCE.  

Nothing feeds the demon more than a comment on someone's changing body size. I completely understand that it can tend to be an "elephant in the room" - but trust me when I tell you that a comment on her changing weight, baggy clothes, or protruding cheekbones can drive a friend to engage with the disease even deeper. Nothing encouraged me further in my quest for perfection than someone telling me that I looked "sickly" or "bony" or that my pants were about fall off me. However, if you do feel the need to express concern...

DO USE "I" STATEMENTS
If you truly feel that your friend's life or health is in serious danger, and you feel the need to express concern, use "I" statements. Start a conversation by stating, "I am worried about you." Use factual statements such as, "I have seen you avoiding lunch lately." Or simply say, "I miss you. I would love to talk about what's been going on in your life lately." Accusations, threats, and blaming do not help the situation.

And last, but not least, if you are a spiritual person, pray for your friend. Encourage her to attend church and social events with you. Keep including her, even if it gets hard because she seems a million miles away. Keep in mind that this disease, while frightening and deadly, CAN be treated. It may take some time and hard work, but you WILL (God-willing) get your friend back one day, and you will regret the loss of that friendship if you abandon her now.

Eating disorders are HARD...but it IS POSSIBLE to overcome them with the proper treatment, a support system, and a little hope.

For more information on eating disorders, visit:
www.theelisaproject.org    

My Story of Hope...

This past week at church, our pastor, John McKinzie, challenged the congregation to tell our stories of hope. I am not normally one to talk much about myself, as you can probably tell from this blog, but I felt like God was really pushing me to put my story out there, so here I am...completely transparent...and completely terrified.

You see, my story of hope is not a happy, flowery, joyful story. My story of hope is not pretty. My story of hope involves a battle that I endured with the devil for nearly four years. My story of hope was almost a story of death. I'll start at the beginning.

I was raised as the younger of two children in University Park, a suburb of Dallas, Texas. My mom stayed at home with the kids while we were younger, and my dad was (and still is) a doctor. My brother was about two and a half years older, and we fought like cats and dogs. It was a pretty typical, albeit very blessed, upbringing. We never wanted for anything. We attended great schools, grew up in a Methodist church, took family vacations, and every summer, I was fortunate enough to attend Camp Ozark in Mt. Ida, Arkansas, for two weeks. It was the greatest two weeks of my year.

God began knocking on the door of my heart very young, and I committed my life to him at the age of 12, sitting at the foot of a cross after a hike up the Ozark mountains one summer at camp. It was almost poetic. After that, I became very involved with my church youth group and missions, and for some unknown reason, they even let me sing in the youth choir. Life was sweet.

While in middle school, I became very involved in dance and cheerleading. My dream was to make the Highland Belles drill team once I got to high school. I spent 10-15 hours a week clothed head to toe in Spandex while staring at myself in full-length mirrors. And believe it or not, I felt okay about myself. Could my thighs be thinner? Sure. But was I willing to give up my beloved bagels and cookies? Nah. At five feet, five inches tall, I weighed a very healthy 125 pounds. Generally speaking, I felt good about myself. That is until I took a trip to Mexico with a sweet friend over Christmas break of my eighth grade year. That trip, and the pictures taken there, changed the course of my life forever.

Back in those days, we took pictures on disposable cameras. We didn't see the photos immediately. We had to take them up to a drug store and wait an AGONIZING 60 minutes for the film to be developed. As I waited for my pictures, I remember purchasing a Tiger Beat magazine to pass the time, and a York Peppermint Patty and 7Up to enjoy on the way home. I never had either one. 

As I held those pictures in my hands, something in me changed. For the first time in my life, what I saw in those pictures was different. The faint whisper of comparison crept into my life. Sitting side by side in our swimsuits on those beach chairs, I noticed that my friend's thighs were thinner than mine in the pictures. Her stomach was flatter. Her arms more muscular. I didn't know exactly how to process what I was feeling, but I did know that I did not like what I saw.

When I arrived home, I remember walking upstairs to talk to my mom in her office. I sat on her desk, and I confessed how I was feeling. I knew she'd understand. I had watched my mom, like most women, go on and off diets my whole life. Although I'm positive she offered me some reassuring words about how I was beautiful just the way I was, I don't remember them. What I do remember very clearly was her proposed solution - we would go on a diet together and support each other. Sounds innocent, right? What my mom didn't understand about me then was my competitive drive. She offered me support and accountability, but what I saw in that moment was a competition. And man, did I want to WIN.

I began walking on our home treadmill in addition to my dance classes. I read nutrition labels and started counting calories. I still remember my food logs. I remember the sense of accomplishment I felt watching the calories I ate each day drop from 1700 to 1200 to, at one point, 500. 500 calories for a very active young woman in a whole day. (To put that into perspective, that is the typical calorie intake of an infant. An infant!)

The weight fell off rapidly. By March, I was down 10 pounds, and by May, I had lost 10 more. Each time I put on clothing that was too big, something in me rejoiced. Each time someone complimented me or told me how good I looked, my heart sang. Each time I looked into those mirrors in the dance studio and saw my shrinking thighs, I felt accomplished. I relished every second of it. The praise, the smaller clothing sizes, the way I could jump higher and turn faster...it consumed me.

  

By that summer, I had lost my period. My face became pale. The compliments became words of concern. My friends' parents would call my parents, worried that I was ill. A dance teacher who hadn't seen me in several months pulled me aside one day and told me I looked like I had been in a concentration camp. As sick as it was, that comment didn't frighten me as it should have. It made me smile. It pushed me to lose even more weight. By this point, Satan's grip on me was so strong that I didn't see the harm in what I was doing. I just thought I was winning the competition. After all, I was down to a mere 90 pounds.

At home, things were rocky. My dad tried to help me. He was a doctor after all, so he knew something was terribly wrong. He made me step on his scale every Sunday and would lecture me if I had lost weight. (He didn't realize I had my own scale hidden in my bathroom that I had bought without my parents' knowledge.) Meal times became a battle zone. My parents were terrified to send me off to my beloved Camp Ozark that summer, worried about what would happen when meals were no longer monitored. But I made promises to them to stay healthy that I didn't keep, and of course, their fears were realized when I came home weighing even less than I had when I left. They hired a nutritionist to help me, but all I did was tell her lies and claim that I was eating all kinds of things that I wasn't. She believed me, and  it eased my parents' concerns temporarily to at least know I was being seen by a medical professional. 

That fall, I began my freshman year of high school and survived primarily on Extra spearmint gum and Diet Dr. Pepper. My face was sunken and my arms looked like toothpicks. My clothes hung on me, but I continued in my quest. That winter came Highland Belles tryouts. I was weak and unhealthy, and the judges knew it. I didn't make the team. At that point, I thought I was at rock-bottom. My beloved dream had been shattered. (If only I knew then what was coming.) What I found out from the judges afterward was that I had the dance technique to make the team, but they were concerned about my weak muscle tone and didn't feel I had the stamina to keep up with the practices and games. What they were telling me was that I was too frail and weak. What I heard was that I need to exercise even MORE.

I joined the YMCA (unbeknownst to my parents) and began working out in secret after school. Before school, I could be found in my room doing Tae Bo workout videos on mute, in socks, in the dark, so that my parents didn't know what I was doing and wouldn't think I was already up. I continued in my dance classes and began private lessons. Although I was hovering in the low 90's, my weight stayed status quo for the time being as I began to build muscle. I read nutrition books and tried "clean eating" although I kept the calories excessively low. If I gave into temptation and allowed myself something "bad" or "off-limits," I punished myself with even more exercise so I could purge the calories. Although I didn't know it at the time, I would learn later that this new strategy I had discovered is actually known as Exercise Bulimia.

Things continued in this manner for the next two years. I actually made the drill team the following year - a dream come true. My parents continued taking me to doctors and nutritionists, and I continued to lie and cheat my way out of their help. I still hadn't had my period in 3 years, so my mom made me an appointment with a gynecologist in the spring of my junior year of high school. Had she not taken this step, I would not be alive today. As the doctor completed my exam, she listened to my chest, as all doctors do. It was very routine. But I noticed her face as she was listening to my heart seemed to change. She looked concerned. She listened again, and then sat down in her chair. She told me she didn't like what she was hearing, that my heart was making a swooshing sound that it shouldn't be, and she wanted to send me to a pediatric cardiologist for further testing. I was terrified, but I continued doing what I was doing. 

I didn't realize that my body was literally breaking down.

The next week, I woke up on a Thursday morning in early April, and after my mom had left for work, I drove myself up to the YMCA and worked out on the Stairmaster. I came home, changed my clothes so I wouldn't smell sweaty, and headed up to her office so we could go to my cardiologist appointment. They took me in to perform an echo-cardiogram (basically an ultrasound) on my heart, and then we went upstairs to wait for the results. As the cardiologist came in the room, the first words out of her mouth to me were simply, "Not good." She explained that the "swooshing sound" my doctor had heard the previous week was fluid moving around where there shouldn't be fluid, and I was diagnosed that day with something called a pericardial effusion. Essentially, two of my four heart valves were leaking fluid into the sack around my heart. If that sack got too full, my heart would stop. She explained that I had basically done so much damage to myself that I was lucky to be alive and sitting in her office that morning. I had starved and exercised myself to the point that my body was eating my own muscle in order to stay alive. I learned that, at any given moment, my heart could stop, and I could drop dead unless we did something. NOW. 

I didn't go home after that appointment. I was admitted just minutes later to the cardiac floor of Presbyterian Hospital for emergent treatment. My body needed rest. My body needed nourishment. My body needed to heal. 

After I was admitted and taken up to my room, a nurse came in and told me I was going to be hooked up to a feeding tube. I didn't understand. I promised them I would eat. I promised them I would rest. But you see, Anorexia is a liar's disease. And they knew it. I'll never forget my dad holding me down as they inserted the tube. We both teared up as it was put in, and I told him I hated him for letting them do it. He told me that I would understand one day when I was a parent myself, but at the time, I hated him. I get it now.

That night, after my parents had gone home for the night, I laid in bed, tossing. I rolled onto my side and caught a glimpse of myself in the hospital room window. For the first time in years, I saw the reality of my situation. I saw the lack of color in my face. I saw my hollowness. I saw myself on the verge of death. And I gently felt God saying to me, "This is NOT the end for you. I can do better. Come back to me." I cried, and cried, and cried some more. I remembered what the Bible said in Jeremiah 29:11, "For I know the plans I have for you...plans to give you hope and future." And that night, in room 308 of Presbyterian Hospital, I prayed to God for a miracle. I surrendered my disease to Him. And boy, did He ever come through.

That week in the hospital, I allowed myself, for the first time in years, to rest. I slept. A lot. I ate real food. I read books. I allowed my body to heal. And by His grace, and to the shock of my doctors, I did. I was released a week later after a repeat echo-cardiogram showed that one of my valves had healed completely and that the second was improving. I was sent home on bedrest, and a few weeks later, I was allowed to go back to school for half-days in order to complete my junior year. I resigned from my beloved drill team. God placed the most amazing team of doctors in my life, and I had weekly meetings with my therapist and nutritionist for the next year. I slowly began to put some weight back on. My color came back. My life came back together.

As I began my senior year, I felt God calling me to tell my story. I was very involved with the high school newspaper, so I took a leap of faith and published my story up until that point. The support was incredible. From there, I found the courage to begin a disordered eating awareness group for high school students that is still present in North Texas today and has helped many young girls with their struggles. Over the past ten years, God has given me the opportunity to speak in many different settings and to tell my story, although really it's HIS story, of hope.

I didn't know it at the time, but God's plan for my life was SO MUCH BIGGER than a number on a tag. My life was about these two incredible little people who made me a mom.

If I know anything now, I know with 100% certainty, that God has a PLAN, and his plan is PERFECT. I pray that all who read this would feel confident and know that truth today, too.