how I healed my eating disorder

Alright, it’s time to dive into this stubborn lil baby. This stubborn lil baby being my eating disorder. The one that handicapped me (and also taught me tons) for about 8 years of my life. If reading isn’t your thing, you can listen to my podcast episode on this subject here:

Firstly, I must acknowledge my white thin privilege in dealing with this issue. I was born with a thin white body and have never experienced the oppression felt by the BIPOC community and/or having a fat body. I cannot relate to the added pressure of those experiences, but have so much compassion.

Secondly,  there’s debate about whether or not I had an eating disorder. According to my eating disorder therapist, you qualify for binge eating disorder when you are having binges 3 times in a week. This was me at my worst. Other times, I went weeks without a binge. 

To be honest, I don’t really resonate with the word “disorder.” I deeply believe our bodies and minds are never “disordered” but simply responding in the best way they know how to keep us safe. I don’t care what you classify my situation as, I just know that spending my life consumed by eating a certain way was miserable. It drastically took away my energy from spending time on things I actually cared about. It affected my mental, emotional, and physical well being. It quite simply sucked balls (and also taught me tons). 

Food was the one thing I cared the most about in the world. I believed that if I could just eat a certain way, then everything would all work out. I’d lose that belly flab that’s been plaguing me. I’d recover from my concussion. I’d attract the love of my life. I’d be fully happy. 

In hindsight, this is one of the many thoughts that kept me stuck in a perpetual loop of restricting, binging, feeling shame, restricting, binging, feeling shame. The belief that one external thing will make everything better is a recipe for disaster. 

I’ve since changed this belief and currently have the best relationship with food I’ve ever had. It actually weirds me out. Like, I can buy a pint of ice cream and not obsess about it as soon as I get in the car. I can have a scoop of it and then feel satiated enough to not want more. I don’t binge. And it’s not because I’m trying hard to not binge. It’s because I’m trying the least hard. Actually, not trying at all. Most importantly, I’m allowing myself to eat without shame.

I still have belly flab. I still have some healing to do in regards to my concussion. I haven’t found my soulmate.  I’m not “fully” happy, but what does that really even mean? I believe we’re humans and meant to ride the full spectrum of emotions. 

What I do have: 

• time to focus my energy on things that I’m actually passionate about

• the ability to fully enjoy any food I eat without shame

• days where I love my body

• confidence in myself that lives far deeper than my body

I’m going to share a bit about my story of how I got to where I am now, but I must provide a huge disclaimer that this is just my story. We are all deeply unique individuals, and what worked for me, does not automatically mean it will work for you. I encourage you to take what resonates and leave what doesn’t. 

When my disordered eating all started

It all began back in college when I was struggling with digestion issues. After games, I would be curled up in the fetal position with excruciating pains. It was as if a serial killer was stabbing my intestines. I didn’t want to leave my bed or eat because it was so uncomfortable.  

At the time, I was working with an acupuncturist, and he innocently recommended I go gluten- free. 

People talk a lot about going on diets to enhance their body image. I didn’t feel like I was dieting for that reason. It was simply to feel better and improve my performance.

Soccer was my top priority in life. If eliminating food would make me feel and play better, then of course I was going to do it. No questions asked.  

Little did I know, this was the beginning of my diet progressively getting stricter and stricter.

I ate gluten-free for 6 months. And I still had stomach pain. 

I eventually took a food sensitivity test administered by my naturopath. My results revealed I was sensitive, to eggs, dairy, whey, oats, sugar, peanuts, mushrooms, chia seeds, tomatoes, strawberries and over 20 other foods. 

This made my heart shrivel up a bit, as I loved trying new foods. But again, if it was going to make me feel and play better, then of course, I was going to do it. No questions asked. 

I eliminated these foods from my diet. After a few months, I didn’t feel any better. I felt worse. In games, my energy tanked within 10 minutes. It was really difficult to focus on my performance. I knew something was off, but couldn’t figure out what was the culprit. 

I took blood tests. I got biweekly liquid IVs to infuse extra nutrients into my body. I injected myself in the butt with b12 shots…still no progress. 

All the while, I continued exploring different routes of eating. 

I was devouring books praising the importance of nutrition. Food is medicine. Your body is a temple. I thought if I could just find the ideal way to eat for me, then all would be well (the good ol’ thought that ONE external thing will make EVERYTHING better) . 

This led to me trying out every diet/protocol under the sun that would be the ONE thing that made EVERYTHING better. 

Here’s the list of different diets/protocols I tried out over the years: 

Elimination Diet

Whole 30

Paleo

Specific Carbohydrate Diet

Food Combining

Vegan

Medical Medium protocol 

Ketogenic diet

Calorie counting 

Intermittent fasting 

Juicing

Liver Detox

Intuitive Eating Diet 

SIBO diet

Meyers Cocktail IV 

Supplements up the wazoo 

Each of these diets promised wonderful results. The progression of each protocol/diet/lifestyle/(insert disguised word for “diet”) worked like clockwork: 

1. Get über excited that I’ve found THE ONE way of eating for me

2. Research-like a mad scientist-everything about it. Get even more hyped!!

3. Buy all the “superfoods” things

4. Say “I know all the other diets didn’t work, but they weren’t meant to work for me, because this is THE ONE for me. It all makes sense now."

5. Dive all-in to exactly how this diet tells me to eat

6. Stick with it hardcore for a set period of time

7. Start to question myself. Why am I not feeling better? Am I not being strict enough? Is this not the one for me?

8. Find out about and research another diet and learn about why it’s THE ONE for me

9. Repeat steps 1-8

 Without fail, I always left feeling empty handed. I thought it was my fault that the diet didn’t work. I either wasn’t dedicated enough or I needed to find THE ONE that actually worked for me. 

I was the “healthy” one 

To my family, friends, and relatives, I was seen as the “healthy” one. Due to my constant dietary exploits, they got used to me having my own specialized meal, different from everyone else’s. A lot of them (genuinely and harmlessly)  admired my discipline, which made me feel like a massive failure when I started secretly straying from my “perfect eating.” 

I remember being at one of my parent’s parties, going down to their basement freezer, and finding an old batch of frozen cookies. I ate one. Headed upstairs.  Then, the insatiable craving drew me back for another and another and another. I’ll just be really good tomorrow to make up for this, I thought.  

The first few years, I had zero awareness around me having an issue with food. This was a self-control issue. The reason I ate sweets in secret was because I was embarrassed by my lack of will power. 

The further I went down the diet train, the more I restricted, the more I binged, and the more I felt guilt. 

One of my many breaking points when it came to diets was when I was diagnosed with SIBO (small intestinal bacteria overgrowth). A holistic doctor recommended I go on a 2 week liquid shake diet to starve the bacteria in my stomach. Again, I was willing to do anything to get better, so I dove all in. I wrote a piece about this protocol (read here), mostly from a comedic point of view, but the shakes no joke tasted like a combo of expired milk and dog food, with the texture of mucus. Michelin star status. 

During this time, I was coached by Paul Riley at the Portland Thorns. He has an infamous fitness test called “the suicide mile” where you run a mile worth of line sprints. At the beginning of the season, I would always finish this test third, behind Emily Menges and Sinead Farrelly, who are both physical specimens. Halfway through the season, I was trying just as hard, but finished middle to the back of the pack. It was deeply confusing and painful for me.

Of course, my brain went to, Okay well, I must not be eating right.  How do I need to eat to improve my energy?

This is typically how my days went down: 

1. Wake up and vow that my number one priority of the day would be to “eat well” and not binge

2. Restrict myself from food until the afternoon

3. Around evening time, The Cookie Monster (see my piece a day in life of my eating disorder for The Cookie Monster I’m referring to) would hijack my brain, and I’d succumb to all food in my site

4. Feel immense shame

5. Wake up and vow that my number one priority of the day would be to eat well and not binge

6. Restrict myself from food until the afternoon

7. Last however long, until The Cookie Monster would hijack my brain, and I’d succumb to all food in my site

8. Repeat steps 1-7

My disharmonious relationship with food finally came into my awareness when I  was drawn to read a book called Intuitive Eating. The book was super eye-opening to me. As I read, I kept thinking, holy shit it’s me!

The book talked about how when you view food as good or bad, it sets your brain up for failure. You crave the food you deem as “bad” even more, and when you do give in to the “bad” food, your brain is hardwired to think, Oh I already messed up, I might as well eat as much as I can today, and I’ll be “good” tomorrow.” This described me to a T. 

I was treating food like it was some righteous accomplishment that determined my worth. If I caved into eating “bad” food then it meant I had no self-control and consequently lowered my self-worth.  

The book didn’t get me to other side, but it was one of the first times I felt seen around my habits with food. Maybe there wasn’t something wrong with me. Maybe it was the way I had been taught to view food.  My soul deeply resonated with the truth that eating a certain way does not define who I am.

The shame is real 



There’s something comfortable about not knowing there’s a part of you that’s out of alignment or not working for you. You get to be naive and continue living your life per usual. 

For me, as soon as my funky relationship with food was brought to my consciousness, shame flooded my body. I didn’t understand why I couldn’t stop my binging. 

I was determined to stop the cycle. Again, willing to do anything. But, it seemed like the harder I tried, the more I binged. I felt broken and didn’t understand why I couldn’t fix the one thing I loathed about myself the most. I felt like a fraud. Every time I ate salads and “healthy” food around my friends I knew, no matter how hard I tried, there was a 87% chance I’d be heading out at night on a grocery store bender-devouring sweets up the wazoo.  I hated being left alone because I didn’t trust myself. 

But, I kept plugging away doing the best I could with what I knew, continuously searching for more tools and insights to heal.

Before, I share about the book that genuinely had the greatest impact on my entire life and got me to other side of my eating disorder, I have to acknowledge all of the work that I did beforehand that set me up for the book to have such a profound impact. 

Every step and misstep was absolutely necessary for me to stumble upon lessons and deepen my connection to myself. 

Here’s a list of some of the most impactful things that helped, before I found the book and way of eating that changed my life: 

Recording voice messages to myself-anytime I wanted to express something I was going through, I’d pull out my phone and just release whatever thoughts and feelings were on my mind. Talking to yourself may seem like it would make you feel crazier, but it was wildly beneficial in me acknowledging where I was at, releasing whatever was ready to be released, and observing that all emotions eventually pass. 

Eating Disorder Therapist-having a safe space to talk about what I was experiencing. At the beginning of my pursuit of recovery, it was so nice to have someone who I could word vomit to, without judgment.

Psychic School-a program that helped me to see how much of other people’s energy was in my space, and how to clear out what wasn’t mine. I took a year-long program that I’ll be talking about in detail in the future, but for now, I’ll just say that it helped me to clear enough energy to be able to connect to my truth and trust my path with food.  I offer energy readings now.  It’s so much fun for me. If you have an interest, please reach out :)

Somatic Work-based on the idea that stuck emotions are stored in the body. When we don’t know how to process our emotions (emotions=energy in motion), they stay stuck in our body.  Any time we feel anxious in our day-to-day life, it’s often because the circumstance is triggering a stuck emotion in our body. When we feel triggered, some of us (especially those with complicated relationships to food and their body) may cope with food. This is a beautiful coping mechanism that keeps us safe from having to feel the really uncomfortable emotion.

Brainspotting- in the family of somatic work, brainspotting is an even more targeted way to address the root of our compulsions.  For me, it helped me see that my obsession with food had so much to do with my desire for control, because my insides felt out of control from not knowing how to actually feel my feelings. I offer brain spotting sessions now too. They’re dope. If you have an interest please reach out :) 

Breathwork-there’s loads of different types of breathwork out there. For me, a certain variety of holotropic breathwork was immensely helpful in me clearing out energy and working through emotions. (Bree Melanson is my my favorite breathwork practitioner. She sporadically offers group sessions and every time I leave feeling so much more grounded)  Using our breath to heal seems too easy and good to be true, but I genuinely believe it's one of the most underrated healing tools we all possess (unless your dead, which I’m guessing your not if you're reading this, but if you are, that’s incredible and I’d love to meet you. Please email me and give me all the dirty deets about where we go when we die.) 

All of these modalities essentially boiled down to me gaining trust in myself. It was me learning to communicate with my body and listen to it. 

But, despite all this healing work, I still binged. It was upsetting and confusing. Like, do I really have more trauma to work through? More emotions to release before I can eat like a normal person? At this rate, it felt like I’d be doing this healing work until I had grey hairs growing out of my chin with little to show for it. 

And then one day, The Book flew into my lap (I swear it was wearing a wonder woman cape) and changed my mutha fuckin life!  No lie. Boom. Mic drop.

The missing piece of the puzzle for me was found in a book titled, none other than, The Fuck It Diet. 

This book eloquently (in my view of eloquence, which has it’s share of F words) explains why I had done all this healing work and was still struggling with food. 

When I found this omen, I had done enough research and connected with myself  enough to know that dieting straight up sucks. Literally over 95% of diets fail. 

Fuck that. Fuck that. Fuck that. 

So why couldn’t I stop my binges, despite knowing that diets fail? 

Back in the day, when people were literally just trying to survive, they would have to scavenge for food. When no food was available, they would go into a famine. When they found food, their body would signal “FOOD! NOURISHMENT!” Then, that person would eat as much as they could because they didn’t know when they were going to have access to food again.

That survival part of our brain is still very much a part of us today. So, when we restrict our food for long periods of time (aka dieting), whether it’s calories or certain food groups, our body thinks that it is going into a legit famine.

And because our bodies are dope and always looking out for us, they slow down our metabolism and other parts of our system to conserve energy. In this famine state, food will often be at the center of our attention, because are bodies are dope and always looking out for us, and they are letting us know we could use some food to survive. Then, when there is food available, because are bodies are dope and always looking out for us, they get loudddd and make us have strong cravings. 

For example, when I was on the ketogenic diet (a diet that revolves around eating very high amounts of fat, and very low amounts of carbs), I was a savage squirrel when it came to nuts and nut butters. I could shovel down spoonfuls upon spoonfuls upon spoonfuls. I thought it was because I lacked disciplined. 

Looking back, this nut craving was because my body was craving the carbs in the food because I was heavily restricting carbs.  This was my body telling me, yo you need to eat more carbs! But, I ignored it, because I thought I needed to follow what the specialist told me to do.  If I strayed off track, then I failed and I wouldn’t heal. 

Bottom line, if you have been dieting on and off for a long period of time, and are still binging, then your body likely thinks it’s in a famine. 

How do you get your body out of a famine state? 

YOU EAT!

Not like a squirrel, or a bird, but like a deeply wise body that knows what it’s doing. 

A brilliant point Caroline makes: 

If you’re thirsty, do you say to yourself  “oh no I shouldn’t be thirsty, I shouldn’t drink water. It’s not okay to do that”? 

If you have to pee do you say “oh no, I’m going to hold it until I really have to go.”? 

Ya, on road trips I like to torture myself and hold my pee for unnecessarily long periods of time, but other than that, no I don’t.

These are basic human biological needs. Hunger is a signal that our bodies need our basic human biological need of food to be met. 

Our body’s know what they need. When we start blindly listening to other people’s advise about how to eat without checking in to see if it feels good to us, then we start losing trust with what our bodies want and don’t want. Our hunger signals get out of whack. We can’t tell when we are hungry or when we are full. 

This information was really helpful for me, but this next part was the game-changer for me. 

The author claims that the way she has helped tons of women heal their binge eating was to allow yourself to eat whatever you want, and (this was the big ‘aha moment’ for me) you allow yourself to eat AS MUCH as you want. 

I feel like I’m typing with a lot of CAPS now because this topic gets me hyped. Not, sorry about it. 

Allowing myself to eat as much as I wanted, IN WHATEVER QUANTITY, not in moderation, of whatever my body was craving was revolutionary for me. 

The reason it was so massive for me was because of my hidden fat-phobia. 

My desire to eat “well” had morphed into wanting to have a certain body type. 

Why did I want to have certain body type?

Because our society idealizes this specific skinny body. We see it on magazine covers, movies, workout programs, weight loss stories etc. 

This body type is engrained in our brain as the model of health.

I saw an instagram post the other day of all these different diets and a pictures of the people who created the diets, and I shit you not, they were all white men. 

The same kind of white men who pay womxn less, make laws suppressing minorities, and silence our voices 

These white men own health companies that unsolicitedly tell womxn what’s wrong with our bodies and shove diets down our faces. 

If you’re fat, then you’re unhealthy and it’s not okay to be yourself until you fix it. 

If you’re thin (a huge privilege), then it’s still not okay to be yourself until you lose those 5-15 nagging pounds. 

And, if you happen to be the .0000001% of women who somehow fit the exact ration of thin, toned, and curly that the patriarchy currently deems as worthy, then your lips probs aren’t quite plump enough or your butt cheeks aren’t quite funky enough. 

Once you “fix” your body, then you’ll be worthy of confidence and a lover and all the things you want.

It makes sense then, that most of us demonize people in bigger bodies. We view them as “unhealthy” and “undesirable.” 

Caroline talks about how this desire to diet, very often has to do with this fear of getting fat. 

She debunks a ton of myths about fat bodies. 

She shares studies about how the BMI test has very little correlation to actual health and how it’s an overused, outdated measurement of health. 

A concept that really sunk in for me: 

• everyone has an average set weight point.

• this is the weight your body is designed to be at, is most comfortable at, and likes to chill out at. Some people are naturally bigger than others because they have a larger average set weight point. And that is healthy for them. When we try to squeeze ourselves into a smaller weight than our average set weight point, this is when the cravings and binges run rampant. We were never designed to be that size, it was just our society making us feel like we needed to look a certain way.

• People often fear that if they let themselves eat whatever they want they are never going to be able to stop eating and are going to get fatter and fatter. This isn’t true. When you fully allow yourself to eat, your body eventually hits this point where it doesn’t get any bigger, and it then it begins to settle into it’s average set weight point.
  

Bottom line, you can’t tell if people are healthy or not just by looking at them, that goes for bigger bodies too.

When I read about fat phobia, something in me clicked. I did have a fear of getting “fat” (I put “fat" in quotes because I’m privileged to be in a thinner body and my view of my own fatness is deeply contorted). 

Caroline explains that in order to heal from an eating disorder you really have to face your fear of being fat and question where this fear of fat even came from. 

Growing up in the athletic world, there’s constant implicit and explicit messages about how athlete’s should look. 

Go to social media and see someone with a picture posted in a sports bra with a flat, toned stomach, and you’ll see comments like “omg wash board abs”, “body goals” etc.

I am a proponent of celebrating all our bodies and also I believe that there is an over-emphasis and over-celebration of people who have the societally deemed acceptable body type.

I have this vivid memory from a U20 national camp. We were in a locker room getting ready for training and two girls were having a conversation about abs. One of them said that doing ab workouts is not a good thing because it makes your stomach bulge out and you look fat. My stomach has always been my most self-conscious body part.  I remember thinking of my gosh should I not be doing ab workouts?

To overcome this fear, I had to:

1. Examine where these values around my body, fatness, and food came from. Questions I explored: Are the beliefs and thoughts I have about my body my own? If not, where did I learn this belief/where did this thought come from? I can guarantee you that if your thoughts are anything less than the fact that you are a god damn queen gracing the earth with your presence, then they aren’t yours. Something that was really helpful for me during this time was to follow people on instagram with bigger bodies who were confident/shining their light. This allowed me to dispel my fall belief that you have to look a certain way to be worthy.

2. Allow myself to eat as much as I wanted. No holding back. Not to rebel, but to communicate with my body that I trust it. That my body knows what weight I’m designed to be at right now. That if my body is indeed meant to be at a bigger size, then it’s for my greatest good to stop trying to change it. That there’s a reason I’m craving food.

 It was time to surrender to my bodies innate wisdom and get out of this damn chronic famine state. 

I want to emphasize that Caroline states that this way of eating is for people who tend to binge eat and NOT people who have anorexia or bulimia. Eating disorders are serious and really benefit form seeing a health practitioner or a therapist. TBH anyone could really benefit from a therapist (specifically, one that you vibe with, because there are tons out there that you won’t vibe with. Find your one).

Caroline really encourages going all in and fully committing to this way of eating. That can be really scary for people. Very understandably so. I don’t believe going all in is necessary for results. I have a friend who eased her way into it, slowly adding in foods that were “off limits” for her, and she found similar freedom on the other side. I am someone, like I mentioned, who gets high off of going all in. So I said “buckle up, let’s do this fucking thing.” 

The beginning of allowing myself to eat whatever I wanted 

The same day I started reading the book, I headed to the grocery store. I stocked up on everything my heart desired. Talk about a literal kid in a candy store. I was stoked. 

Liberated. No longer bound by the food restrictions I arbitrarily placed on myself.

My first stop, obviously was the cookie aisle. My eyes lit up when I saw those pink and white frosted circus animal cookies. A childhood staple. I grabbed a package of those guys. Next, I said hello to my good’ old friends Oreos. I opted for “the most stuf” variety.  Yes, I said ‘the most stuf.” We’re talking more frosting than the double stuf, more than the xtra stuf. Twice the amount of filling as the chocolate cookies. Just how mama likes it. Next, I ventured down the ice cream aisle and stocked up on drumsticks, another childhood memory food. I followed that up with some peanut butter m&ms, cinnamon toast crunch cereal, and lots lots more. 

My body was pulled towards all the sugary things because those were the main foods I had deprived myself from for so long. 

I rode away feeling like a Queen. The world was my oyster. 

When I arrived home, I was hit with a healthy dose of skepticism. Is this really going to work? I know I thought all the other diets I went on said they would work too, is this another diet in disguise? How on earth would I ever actually stop eating all this glorious food I bought? 

Before reading this book, I rarely allowed myself to have food in my pantry that I deemed “bad” for me because I knew I would devour it all and, then,  feel terrible about myself afterwards. 

 If I could eat as much cookies and ice cream and candy and literally whatever I wanted….there’s no telling when I’d stop.

In the book, Caroline assured me that this is a very common thought and misconception amongst people who begin the “fuck it diet.” 

Our bodies know what they want. It’s that simple.. When your body is craving sugar, it is for a good reason because it is lacking something nutritionally or psychologically that it will get from that thing. If you’re craving a cookie, but give yourself a strawberry instead to satisfy the sugar craving, your body will know. You’ll likely still obsess about the cookie until you allow yourself to have it. The more you allow yourself to have the thing you crave, the more it loses its allure. In other words, we’re hardwired desire the things we want, but don’t think we can have. Eventually, your body will see that the cookie isn’t that special because you can have it whenever you want it.

Sugar is an interesting one for a lot of people. It was my biggest nemesis. A lot of doctors and nutritionists talk about how sugar like it’s the root of all evil. They claim sugar, especially white sugar is the addicting. The more you eat it, the more you want it. 

I lived by this philosophy and ate minimal sugar for years. I’ve tried all different diets to eliminate the “bad” bacteria in my gut that craves sugar. And I still had insane cravings. I can honestly say that eating as much sugar as my body wanted was the only thing that eventually brought my sugar cravings down. Like, significantly. 

I’m still mind blown by all the information I received and listened to because an “expert” or “specialist” told me it was what’s best for me. 

On my healing journey, a truth that I keep being reminded of is that our bodies know whats up. They are sooo much wiser than we give them credit. They are always communicating with us, and we owe it to ourselves to tune into them Especially, when it comes to something as biological as our need for food. 

When I ignore my body’s craving, I am sending a message to my body that I don’t trust it. As soon as I started eating carbs, my cravings for peanut butter was not like a fricken squirrel. 

The Journey

For a week and a half straight for breakfast lunch and dinner, I served myself up a plate of nanimo bars, animal circus cookies, some sort of ice cream sandwich. I didn’t document the progress too well, but here’s a pic of one of my meals. It was a new endeavor to be adding raspberries to my plate. 

Initially,  I was on cloud 9. Eating whatever I wanted, no qualms. This was the life. As the days went by, it felt like I fell from the clouds and landed smack on my face in concrete. I felt so shitty from eating what I was eating. Yet, I still craved those foods. 

In this moment, I had a profound realization. Even though I felt physically ill and emotionally trashed, I still desired those foods. This goes to show how physiologically restricted my body has felt over the years. My body would choose this kind of physical and emotional pain over not eating these foods The famine state I had put myself in was the real deal. 

I knew this was a tipping point for me. I chose to continue listening to my bodies cravings and trust that it was guiding me. 

After two weeks, to both my shock and also deep knowing, I started craving these foods less. I now had an interest in exploring the other foods I had arbitrarily placed on my “naughty list.” 

Throughout the months, I found myself in different phases. 

I had my sour cream and onion chip phase 

My toast and butter phase

My breakfast burrito phase

My sandwich phase. 

With each phase, I felt like I was taking my power back my back. I was eating as much as I wanted. Surrendering to my bodies pulls, as opposed to listening to what other people told me was good or bad. 

Within the first few days I started noticing little signs of my body trusting me.  I wasn’t constantly thinking about what was in the pantry. I had a handful of animal cookies, and then a few more, and I was ready to move on to other things. 

My body caught on that I was over starving it. I believe because of this commitment and the internal work I had done prior to starting this way of eating, my body stopped obsessing about food pretty quickly. 

How I feel a year after commencing the Fuck It Diet

It’s been a year now since I embarked on the fuck it diet journey and I honestly have the best relationship with food and my body that I’ve ever had. It still amazes me how impactful the book was for me. Any time I feel like I’m not making progress in my life, I think about my journey with food. It’s honestly one of the most massive physical signs of growth I've had in my life. I can tangibly see how much changing my internal reality affected my external reality. 

I now have energy to worry about things besides food. I eat whatever I want. 

For years before this journey, I have felt really connected to eating mostly plant-based But, I had this knowing that in order to get to the place where I was able to eat plant-based without obsessing about wanting something that wasn’t plant-based, this was a crucial part of the process. From this place of nourishing my body with what it desires now, I knew at my core, that if I really did feel connected to plant-based food, that I’d be guided there. 

This was phase 1.  Phase 1 is never-ending. I will ALWAYS allow myself to have whatever I want in whatever quantity

I now naturally crave a lot more vegetables and fruits. It’s not forced. I let myself have whatever treats I want-plant-based or not. I have days where I eat more “emotionally,”  but I don’t beat myself up about it. I’m human. I keep on living. I also love my body the most I’ve ever loved it. Not because of the way it looks, but because of the deepened trust I have cultivated with it. 

A lot of people are either extremely anti-diet or entrenched in thinking diets are the answer. I’ve teetered both lines and am now finding my balance. 

Everyone is different. I just know this was a crucial stage for me to be at the point where I am now: deeply grateful to no longer be shackled by food. To no longer be obsessed about having a certain body type. To no longer be eating like a squirrel or a bird, but a body that knows what the fuck it’s doing :)

a day in the life of my eating disorder

I have something on my heart that I’ve wanted to share about  for years, but it felt too shameful to reveal while I was going through it. 

I had binge eating disorder.

“Binge eating disorder” feels like three measly words that don’t encapsulate the hell my body went through during this experience. 

For 7 years, food consumed my life. What started with the pure intention to heal digestion issues, quickly and also slowly spiraled into being about so much more. Eating was about my livelihood.  I held this belief that if ate perfectly, then I would heal my concussion, I would get the body of my dreams, attract my soul mate and, most importantly, I would be able to get back to playing soccer like myself. 

Food thoughts consumed my life. I attributed my lingering concussion symptoms to not being strict enough with my diets. 

I know now, that this is complete and utter nonsense. But, fuck, when you’re in it, it’s a dark and shameful place.  Because you don’t know why you can’t stop your binging, especially when it’s the thing you loathe the most about yourself. I’ve never felt more out of control. 

I share this story with so much compassion for myself and anyone who resonates with it. I believe that disordered eating and body image issues are way way way more prominent than we know. Especially, in the female athletic world.

I’ll be sharing how I got to the other side in the future, but for now, here’s a piece where I recount a day in the life of my eating disorder,  when I was in the thick of it. 

Sending love to anyone who relates and I hope you know that every part of you is pure magic. 

xx Kendall 

(listen to the podcast version below the written piece or on iTunes HERE )

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At 9:48pm I walked over to the counter of an empty Laughing Planet. It was just me and the cashier, Dave, a mid 20ish year-old ball-capped man that I couldn’t quite determine if I thought was cute or not. 

“May I have some chips and salsa please?”

“Don’t over do it with that meal…” Dave sarcastically smiled back at me. 

I couldn’t quite determine if he was flirting or not. I couldn’t quite determine a lot of things when I was in this state. But, I could determine that Dave wouldn’t have said that if he knew four hours earlier I was sitting on my couch and all I could think about was a chocolate chip cookie. At first, I tried to write out my feelings about wanting a chocolate chip cookie so that I wouldn’t give in to the chocolate chip cookie. Then, I tried to focus my attention on finalizing a podcast episode so I wouldn’t give in to the chocolate chip cookie. I tried watching more game film so I wouldn’t give into the chocolate chip cookie. I tried tidying up my place so I wouldn’t give in to the chocolate chip cookie. But the chocolate chip cookie…like most nights, was a pesky, persistent, fatass moth, and I was an even fatter-assed light bulb. 

Of course, once again, I failed.

You stupid piece of shit. What is wrong with you? I mean, I love you. But, also what the fuck?

The voices in my head were at constant battle with one other. On these nights, the voice I like to call The Cookie Monster, took over with vengeance. 

I knew what was about to ensue, no matter how hard I tried to stop it.

It mostly started with New Seasons. My favorite and least favorite grocery store. Kendall dreaded it. The Cookie Monster devoured it.

When I arrived at the store, I opted for a paleo cookie and a cookie dough flavored Quest bar. Healthier options than the real thing. And maybe, just maybe, this time the result would be different than my hundreds of others.

I sat down in the eating area and did my best to savor the treats. The Cookie Monster grew louder with each bite. 

My endorphins were raving. I needed more.  

I knew I had already flunked. There was no going back. I might as well eat everything I wanted and tomorrow I would start anew. I would be good tomorrow. For real. Tomorrow would be different.  But, tonight, I feast. I couldn’t buy more at this New Season though, because then the cash register might notice me again and think I’m a whale with no self-control.  

Before I left for my next mission, like I always did, I had to make my rounds in the bulk section. 

The bulk section was the Mecca. It had the nuts, granola, chocolate covered raisins, dried mangoes. All the stuff that was too sugary or crappy for me to consume normally.  And the bonus: I didn’t have to pay for it, so it’s like it didn’t count. Every time I was in the Mecca, I mentally rehearsed the secret role play of my dreams:

Employee who notices me eating out of the bulk section like it’s an all you can eat buffet: “excuse me ma’am you can’t sample the bulk section like that. You have to pay for those items.” 

Me, simultaneously blushing and aggressively hugging the employee who notices me eating out of the bulk section like it’s an all you can eat buffet: “oh my goodness, thank you to the heavens and back for catching me! I’ve been hoping I’d get roasted by someone for ages. I promise I’m not trying to be a bad person, it’s just that I have uncontrollable binges.  And when this happens, I literally feel like I exit my body and The Cookie Monster takes the wheel of my mind. I feel sooo much shame about it but because you caught me, now I will never do it again and I will finally heal. Thank you!!”

Once I got my Mecca fix and closed the curtains on this imaginary scene, it was onto the next one. 

At this point, I had memorized every single New seasons and Whole Foods within a 20 mile radius of Portland. I imagine this is what addicted gamblers do with casinos.

I got in my car, and drove to a New Seasons 10 minutes away. 

There’s something about these drives that feels sacred. It’s as if I am a baby being pacified by the sensory experience of cruising along dark, uncrowded roads. I can be all to myself. Listen to whatever emo music I want. Cry. Escape the feeling that I am a fuck up because I binged last night too and I woke up this morning convinced that today would be the day for change, but it wasn’t because I am a fuck up.

I have a tab going on my whiteboard. I get a star every time I go a day without a binge. And a heart, to attempt compassion, every day I binge. I was seeing a lot hearts lately. But, today was supposed to be the day for change. I left for Thorns training without eating anything. The night prior, I had round-housed enough for the entire day alone, so I would intermittent fast until the afternoon. Train on an empty stomach. You burn more calories that way anyways. 

I showed up to training, and like always was the case, I felt groggy as our coach was going over our plan for the day. During warm up, my arms started tingling, and I had a massive desire to run away from this scene all together. 

My first thought wasn’t that these symptoms were a result from the severe concussion I was recovering from, but because of my binge episode. Obviously I feel so off because I stuffed my face the night before, and now I’m sabotaging myself! 

On the weeks where I have a bunch of stars on my whiteboard, yet still have those symptoms? It is because I was not eating clean enough. I need to be even better than my gluten-free, sugar-free, dairy-free, low-carb, high fat, mostly plant-based, lots of veggies, fasting in the morning, drinking a glass of water upon awakening, don’t eat after 7pm lifestyle (it wasn’t a diet because this is how I planned to be eating for life, in order to be my most optimal self). 

The car rides between grocery stores are a place for me to forget about everything. Just surrender into the darkness. My darkness. 

I arrived at the next New Seasons. This time, I opted for the creaminess of ice cream and the fluffiness of a slice of vanilla cake. I didn’t really want it, but I also couldn’t stop. 

I followed this up with a trip to Whole Foods for more cookies and a pitstop at a pizza joint. 

How I still wasn’t full after eating energy bars, cookies, ice cream, cake, handfuls of samples at the multiple Meccas, and pizza was beyond me. At this rate, I could eat the entire Willy Wonka Chocolate Factory and still have room for more. 

Finally, after a few hours, I started to feel the intense discomfort of my bloating stomach. I was super thankful this sensation arose, because it was one of the few things that stopped my face stuffing. But, since I was starting over with my healthy eating tomorrow, I might as well make the most of tonight. I decided to go for one last night cap.

At 9:48pm I walked over to the counter of an empty Laughing Planet. It was just me and the cashier, Dave, a mid 20ish year-old ball-capped man that I couldn’t quite determine if I thought was cute or not. 

“May I have some chips and salsa please?”

“Don’t over do it with that meal…” Dave sarcastically smiled back at me. 

I couldn’t quite determine if he was flirting or not. I couldn’t quite determine a lot of things when I was in this state. But I could determine that Dave wouldn’t have said that if he knew ordering those chips was the one thing that I was determined not to do today. That the entirety of my day revolved around THE ONE goal of eating like a normal person.

But of course, once again I failed.

You stupid piece of shit. What is wrong with you? I mean, I love you. But, also what the fuck? 

Listen on iTunes HERE 

Resources

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The Healing Wizard who got my Brain to Breath for the First Time Since my Concussion

Have you ever met someone who when they touch you, you wonder if their hands are dipped in angels’ tears? Someone who reads into your soul, feels your energy, embraces your existence, and doesn’t judge any part of you.

Meet Christina Goodwill. 

Chris is one of those people who tore both ACLs (competing in gymnastics as a kid) and believes it divinely happened to lead her to where she is today. 

Chris is a physical therapist who implements a wide variety of techniques including Butler’s Neural Mobilization, Upledger Craniosacral Therapy, osteopathic muscle energy application, Maitland joint mobilization, Barnes Myofascial Release, and Barral’s Visceral Manipulation.

If that sounds like Morse Code, all you need to know is that she is a healing wizard. 

I believe a massive reason Chris is a miracle-worker is because her work isn’t just her work. It’s her calling. She doesn’t pencil you in and perform the standard protocol. 

Every time I walk into Chris’ office I feel like I’m surfing into a wave of deep inner peace. I know I am literally in good hands. 

My first session (WTF is anything actually happening?)

My first session with Chris (and every time after), she sat me down in her treatment room and asked me what was going on. I word-vomit my ailments, and she gazed back at me with the kind of eyes that tell you they are deeply listening. Once I was done ranting, she offered a possible explanation to why I was feeling like I did. 

She then left the room for me to change into a gown and basketball shorts. 

The session started off with me laying on my back. Then, she picked up both my legs in her hands, closed her eyes, and gently rotated them. It was as if she was taking the wheel of my personal vehicle and assessing how my motor, engine, battery, etc. were all functioning. 

Based on what Chris felt, she could sense a pull coming from my cranium. She came around to my head, and gently cupped it in her hands.  She explained to me that the bones in my skull should gently glide open and closed like a butterfly. Mine are a bit jammed. Then, she ever ever ever so lightly (like we’re talking as if my head was a sacred, little, delicate butterfly ornament) used her hands to move the bones in my head back and forth. 

I gotta be honest with you though, during this first session, there were several moments I was thinking WTF is anything actually happening!? 

I’m one of those people who always ask for my massage “extra firm.” Like, even when I’m on the verge of tears from a masseuse digging into my sore muscles like they’re a goldmine,  I say nothing. Because harder is more  effective. 

Or that’s what I thought before I knew Chris. I don’t anymore. Chris’s work feels slightly more than a tickle. But, it’s the most highly effective tickle I’ve ever had the pleasure of being the recipient of.

Before my first treatment with Chris my brain felt like a factory-farm chicken. The kind who is is fed GMO processed grains, crammed into a cage with one-hundred other chickens, and sleeps in each other’s poop and pee. 

I walked away from my first session feeling like, for the first time since my concussion, my chicken was set free into a vast field of endless crops. It had room to roam free and breath fresh air. I will never forget lightness I felt in my body and mind. The world had a lightness to it too. 

How Upledger Cranial Sacral Works

In our podcast episode (listen here), Chris goes more in-depth about what she does and how it all works, but I’m going to give you the breakdown based on my understanding and my paraphrasing of her words.  

Cranial sacral work is all about getting the bones in the cranium to move properly. 

Here’s a little science-y stuff on how the cranium works and its affect on the body:

• Cerebral spinal fluid flows around the spinal cord and into the brain.

• As it flows into the brian all the sutures in the brain expand so it can give nutrition to the brain and the nerves. Then, when it flows back out, it closes. 

• As a cranial sacral therapist, the job is to be aware of that opening and closing, and paying attention to: do both sides equally open, do they open as much as they should,  do the open at the right rate, how is their interaction with all the other cranial bones? 

• If the sutures in the brain don’t open and close optimally, then the brain and nerves don’t get the nutrition it needs and the messages sent down to the spinal cord aren’t effective. For example, someone may have tailbone pain that just won’t go away because the cranial bones won’t open and let that fluid come down to the coccyx like they should. In other words, sometimes the root cause, isn’t the same place as where you are feeling symptoms.
    

How Barnes Myofascial Release Works // What is Fascia?

Chris has a great visual to explain fascia: if you take a raw chicken breast that’s butterflied, and pull it open, you’ll see that white filmy substance. That’s fascia. It’s the strongest tissue in the body and it holds everything together. Everythinggggg from head to toe. It weaves between all the layers of the muscles, the systems in the organs, around the nerves, and the blood vessels. Fascia works like a sweater. If one part gets twisted or has a snag in it, then the entire sweater of the body gets twisted. The snag will pull at everything around it in the body. 

Fascia has a certain amount of spring to it. Chris’ work is to find where the fascia around the muscles are aren’t at their optimal springy-ness.  She’s able to determine stuck, un-springy fascia through her years spent working and communicating with people’s bodies. 

Why so gentle? 

If you’re like me (the old me), you like your body work extra firm. But,  it doesn’t have to be like that. In fact if you go too hard, your body can have a negative response. I experienced this first hand, when I saw a neck specialist who dug into my neck and also had me hold multiple chin tucks for 30 seconds straight. Later that day, I had a throbbing headache, my body ached, and I felt disoriented. My system was pushed beyond what it could handle. 

Modalities, like sports massage are all about getting in there and  moving the fluid. Chris argues that “pushing hard” is disregarding the bodies natural ability to do that itself. 

Our bodies can communicate with us how much pressure is enough. Chris uses a water balloon analogy to explain this concept: “if you take a water balloon and put your hands around it and push in very gently, you only push hard enough that that water balloon would push back on your hands. That’s the physical barrier. That’s where we work. It might be really deep, if it’s deep in the intestines, but if it’s something like a hernia scar, you don’t push very hard.  You only need to push as hard as you need for the body to give a barrier response, then you just pay attention to what it’s asking for. Sometimes bodies don’t want to be stretched anymore.” 

A few months after my concussion,  I saw my naturopath because I was having really sharp, stabbing pains in the upper part of my stomach. My naturopath believed I had developed an ulce from all of the Advil I was taking to help reduce my headaches. She recommended I go off Advil and start taking some supplements. That week, I saw Chris. She felt a twist in the fascia around a valve in my upper stomach. She performed her super light magic w/ angel-tears-dipped hands, and I kid you not, I left in no pain. And I stayed in no pain. Talk about an absolute legend. I’m all about the light touch now. 

Communicating to the Body + Intuitive Gifts 

Chris’ ability to communicate with the body always blows my mind. She often makes makes it seem like anyone could do what she does. But, she has years of in-depth knowledge of anatomy AND her intuitive gifts are next level. 

I can’t tell you how many times she’d rotate my hip flexor or touch a body part and say “you should be able to feel this….” 90% of the time, I could not feel it. I had no idea what she was talking about.  But, then she’d go into a detailed explanation of how and why this particular part of my fascia isn’t moving as well and because of this, it’s affecting the rotation of my neck, which is making me feel nauseous when I run. She always had a possible answer as to why I was feeling my concussion symptoms. It really eased my mind and helped me make sense of what I was feeling inside. 

Furthermore, Chris has a keen ability to hone in on the energy of her patients. She has had numerous accounts where she’s working with patients and sees pictures or colors, and is able to get a sense of why someone is injured or ill. Chris believes nearly every injury has an energetic component to it. For example, if someone comes in with lower back pain, maybe it’s from the patient tensing up and not being able to express themselves as a kid. The stories she has from helping heal others are epic (she shares a few in the podcast). 

I love Chris 

Chris’ in-depth knowledge of anatomy coupled with her pristine intuition makes her one of the best healers I’ve ever seen. In the nicest, most sincere way possible, I am so grateful that she tore both her ACLs because it led her to being the healing wizard that she is; helping myself and so so so many others. 

Visit Chris’ website HERE

My Lifelong World Cup Dream Did Not Come True. Instead, my favorite pair of Wildfang underwear caught on fire.

“How about the US team at the World Cup?” 

As a lifelong, obsessed soccer player, I was asked some version of this question by nearly every breathing being I came into contact with these past few months. 

My answer is two pronged. The first, more user-friendly prong, is my go-to response: 

“It was awesome. So amazing for women’s soccer, women’s sports, women, and just humanity in general.” 

I genuinely meant prong #1 answer. 

But, prong #2 answer, is more flavorful: it starts with me collapsing onto my knees and bawling all alone on my apartment floor. And it ends with my favorite pair of Wildfang underwear catching fire. 

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It was July 10th, 2019. Three days after the US beat the Netherlands in the finals. Ever since their victory,  I contracted a particularly potent virus that forced me to uncontrollably scroll the inter-webs for US team content containing celebrations, interviews, highlights, and all things Megan Rapinoe. 

At a glance, this may appear to be a semi-embarrassing thing to admit to, since the women I was stalking were either players I know or players I have competed with.

You aren’t wrong. But, if you caught the same deadly virus, no doubt you’d be right there with me. Your underwear probably would have caught on fire too.

But, I’d like to clarify some technicalities of this word “stalking.”  Afters years of studying and personal experience, I’ve discovered there are different varieties:

There’s “fan girl stalking” where you start with the stalkee’s instagram and are like OMGGGG look at her luscious hair, and her dog I just want to squeeze him, and her home is like a spa, and her overalls are just WOW, ugh she’s so cool, I want to be her. I’m all about fan-girling, but I typically direct these exploits towards musicians. 

Then, there’s “investigative stalking” where you start with the stalkee’s  instagram and are like okay, what’s going on here? who is this?  how do I know her? what is happening? what does she do? and an hour later you have 10 different tabs open forming a collage of this person’s life story. 

My current form of stalking carried a twinge of the latter, but it was different. Different, in fact, than any from of stalking I had ever trial and error-ed before. 

My steadfast stalking was directed towards trying to wrap my head around one impossible, burning question: why for the life of me, wasn’t I playing at that World Cup?

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Adults often ask kids “what do you want to be when you grow up?”

“An astronaut!”

“A dolphin trainer!”

"A fire fighter”! 

“A chef!”

“The president!” 

This question was too limiting for my six year-old mind.

I never “wanted” to be a World Cup champion. I was going to be a World Cup Champion. I saw it clear as day. 

One of my past mentors, gave me an unforgettable analogy about going after your dreams: when you deliver a letter to the post office, you don’t worry about whether or not it’s going to make it to the recipient. You trust that the postman and all the post office people have it taken care of.  Zero questions asked. 

That’s how you ought to view your goals. Set the goal, and trust 100% that the Universe is going to deliver it to you. 

There are some dreams I’ve had my doubts about it. But, this one… this one, I never questioned. I knew I was going to play on the world stage before I learned how to put Poptarts in a toaster,  play tic tac toe, condition my hair, buckle my seatbelt, and give my brothers wedgies.  

The letter was signed. The envelope was licked, sealed, stamped, placed in the mail, and picked up by my childhood, neighborhood,  postman, Jim. Jim was a great guy. Every time Jim retrieved our family mail, he pulled a treat out of his pocket and fed it to my dog Jake. Jim always had a soft spot in my heart. Until, this World Cup. 

This specific year. This specific World Cup. This specific gold medal. Wrapped around my neck. Celebrating with my teammates. This was my lifelong dream.

I had it all plotted out. Based on my age and the amount of work I would put in each year, I calculated that I would be at my prime for the 2019 World Cup.

But, here I was in my cluttered studio apartment, in my pajamas at 3pm, cemented to my bed, binge-watching YouTube videos of the the US team chugging celebratory beers. 

POSTMAN JIM, WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO WITH MY LETTER?

Did I not make my dream clear enough? Did the letter get misplaced? Sent to the wrong recipient? At least, give your girl a heads up,  Jim. I thought we had something special.

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This virus was lethal. I was bedridden, scouring the internet for hours on end. I knew I needed to stop. To do something. Anything. To get me out of this state. 

Finally, I told myself ENOUGH.  I was going to go for a jog and release some energy. I manually pried each of my limbs out of my bed. I threw on some shorts and a t-shirt. I slipped on my shoes, grabbed my iPhone for music, headed towards the door, and just when I thought I was gaining some positive momentum, my knees involuntarily collapsed to the floor and I started bawling. Like, bawlinggggg. It was one of those cries where you are like WTF, are these aggressive seal moans I’m hearing actually coming out of my own mouth?? 

The animal noises were followed by confusion: “Whyyyy!? Whyyy me!? That was supposed to be me! I don’t understand?!” 

I’m not sure who I was asking these questions to, but I didn’t get a response. I just kept weeping. 

You might think this is an embarrassing thing to admit to. Again, you’re not entirely wrong.

But, have you ever had a dream, a big dream? One where all the odds are stacked against you,  yet you still go after it with every fiber of your being? You dedicate your entire life to it. Every life decision you make is with that end goal in mind.

Have you ever thought, what if I give every, every, every thing I have to this dream, and it still doesn’t come true? 

Honestly, I never even allowed myself to truly ponder that question. I just kept going.

Until now. When my dreams were taking place before my own eyes. Without me. 

We hear about the importance of grieving the death of our loved ones. It’s equally as important to grieve the loss of our dreams. When we fully grieve our lost aspirations, we make space for new ones to come in. It’s painful. But, I believe the more pain we feel about something we love, the more evidence we have that we gave it our whole heart. 

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I laid on the ground for a long while. And came to the confident conclusion that this run was not in the cards today.  But, ya know, a matcha latte sounded like the perfect remedy for my broken heart. 

I sauntered over to my tiny kitchen area. I placed a pot on the stovetop, poured in some oat milk,  and turned the nozzle to heat up the electric burner. I then scurried back to my bed to cope with my pain by, naturally, watching a bit more of the NYC ticker tape parade. 

Approximately 4 minutes later, I smelled something. Oh my matcha must be done. I walked over to my stove, and… holy shit….something was on fire!!! Flames were partying all over that “something”, but I couldn’t decipher what that “something” was. I sprinted over (the most exercise I’d gotten all day) to the scene of the crime and that’s when I saw it: my favorite pair of Wildfang underwear. Scorched to death.

RIP undies

Now, you may be thinking, why the hell does this girl have underwear on her stovetop?

I can explain. I am not a US women’s national team member, and even if I were on a professional team right now, my salary could barely afford the cheapest apartment. In my quaint studio, the washing machine is right next to my tiny kitchen area.  

I had gotten my period that day and bled onto my underwear. So, I sprayed my underwear with stain remover, and was letting it set in before I tossed them into the washing machine. 

Now, you may be thinking that bleeding onto my underwear is a semi-embarrassing thing to admit to and not something that needs to be shared for the entire world to see. And that’s where you are wrong.  If periods grosses you out, I am not sorry. Women bleed. Welcome to human biology 101. 

Anyways, I accidentally turned on the wrong burner, the one that had my underwear on it, and subsequently, not the pot. 

I immediately transformed into firefighter mode. I turned off the burner, grabbed a pair of wooden tongs,  plucked up my blazing underwear, transferred it over to the sink, and doused it with water. 

And that’s when it hit me: Postman Jim just delivered. 

I bursted into laughter.

Here I was sulking, feeling so deeply sorry for myself, grieving a deep inner wound, acting like the world was over, and then all of a sudden, out of nowhere,  my fuckin’ underwear lights on fire. 

Adulting is messy.

It doesn’t make sense sometimes. Sometimes, it doesn’t make sense a lot of times. And that’s okay. That’s called being human. It’s important for us humans to allow ourselves to be human. And to allow The Postman to be The Postman. Because, The Postman, ultimately, is the one who calls the shots.

He or she or them or whatever you want to call it, is always delivering. We just have to be open to opening the letter. Sometimes, it’s not the letter we want. Or the letter we think we “know” we are destined for. But, the one that brings us to our knees so we can feel what it means to completely surrender. The one that scorches our underwear to see that life doesn’t have to be so damn serious. The one that shows us, within seconds, that it’s okay for life to simultaneously hurt like hell and to laugh about it. 

If we allow ourselves to fully receive the letters, both the tears and the laughter, it will eventually  lead us to where the stuff that didn’t make sense, all of a sudden, makes so much sense.

The Postman always delivers. Thanks Jim. 

The Scariest Question I've Ever Asked Myself: who am I without my sport?

Current Occupation: ___________________________

I’m seeing a new specialist for my concussion recovery and, per standard protocol, I was sent a waiver and history form to fill out before our first appointment. I blankly stared at the “Current Occupation” blank space with more blankness than the blankness of its blank space. 

For six years, I filled in that space with a prideful “professional soccer player.” It was a subtle nod, a “you’re damn right I’m still following my dreams and doing what I love, despite my setbacks and squirrel food salary.” 

Now, for the past 6 months I’ve looked at that space with a mango pit in my stomach (I just googled “stone fruits with the largest pits”and based on my intensive one minute investigation I believe mangoes have the biggest pits. Please correct me if I’m wrong). 

What the hell do I write down? I’m taking this season off. I haven’t played in a true professional game in over two years. I haven’t felt like myself playing at the professional level for over 3 years. I straight up just haven’t felt like myself, period. Filling the space with “professional soccer player" doesn’t feel accurate right now.

I’ve seen a lot different specialists since I’ve stepped away from soccer to focus on healing. Hence I’ve had to fill in a lot of “Current Occupation” blank spaces. Sometimes I fill in the spot with “Lyft driver.” I picked up driving for Lyft after I left the Utah Royals halfway through the season to:

1. amuse myself

2. feel like I’m a contributing member of society 

3. make a little extra dough

4. secretly practice being a therapist. I’ve low-key made it a goal to dive as deep as possible with my passengers during our time together, regardless if (especially if) it’s just a 5 minute drive to Plaid Pantry. Not shockingly, many of my passengers hate their job. They have closeted dreams of dope things like creating a movie theatre that features TV shows.  As their unbeknownst therapist, I always encourage them to make that ish happen (disclaimer: I am not a certified therapist, however my therapy sessions are included with the ride, no additional charge. Tips are appreciated, but not necessary, but like, really appreciated).

Sometimes I put down "soccer coach.” I love individually training determined young girls and boys.  But, that’s just a side gig. 

I plan on writing a book, public speaking, podcasting (consistently) and launching a mentor program for athletes, but I haven’t done any of that yet. 

Writing down “unemployed” makes me feel lazy. And I’m not lazy. 

I vacillate this blank space, the same way I do when someone asks, “what are you up to these days?” 

“Oh ya know, the same ol’, just really trying to focus on healing.”

But, what I’m really thinking is:

you mean what am I NOT up to? You mean what am I NOT up to and what have I NOT been doing for the past three years as I’ve simultaneously attempted to let go and fight for my life to stay afloat as I watch the thing I dedicated my entire life to slip away and I literally feel like I want to die at least twice a week, but not like actually die, just die for like three months so I can shut off the crazy ass thoughts that move at 100mph and filtrate my mind every day and often cloud my ability to to see how fucking blessed I am just to be a living, moving, breathing, being on this beautiful earth, but, like it’s really all good, I know people have it much worse and I’m a privileged, blond, white girl, I think I am just gonna move to a remote island and drink coconut water and eat bananas and float in the ocean for the rest of my life. Thanks for asking. 

I typically go for the more socially acceptable, avoid-my-true-feelings response. 

You know what’s wild? Ever since I was 8 years old, I have had a crystal clear picture of what I wanted to do with my life. You know what’s even more wild? I’ve had the determination, discipline, and good fortune to see actions through and make my dreams come true.  Do you know what’s the most wild? I currently feel like my once crystal clear picture has entirely disintegrated, my dreams are in menopause, and I genuinely have no idea who I am or what the future holds. 

I’m currently receiving therapy because if you haven’t deciphered by now, my mind is a little psycho and I’m totally cool with it (except for when I’m not totally cool with it) because we are all psycho, and if you think you aren’t psycho, then my personal theory is you may just be the psycho-ist of them all. I highly support therapy for everyone. 

But essentially, I believe I’m dealing with what my therapist deems “post-traumatic sports stress.”  I have currently been participating in this really neat modality called brain-spotting.  I’ll be writing about it more when the time is right. I have literally no idea when that “right time” will be because my ability to actually make things happen right now comes and goes like the Portland sun. If you want to learn about post-traumatic sports stress and brain-spotting before I write about it 9 years later,  I recommend the book This is Your Brain on Sports by Alan S. Goldberg and David Grand. They write all about how unresolved emotional sports trauma, and past emotional trauma in general, can affect your physical sports performance and increase your chance of injury. 

It’s strange because my will to take actions towards my dreams right now has been playing hide and seek with me. But, my passion for my dreams is still there. It hasn’t faded an ounce.

There are days when I am 100% certain, without a shadow of doubt, that all of my aspirations are going to come to fruition.

Dreams are sickkkk!!! Anything is possible! My breakthrough is so close! I’m going to take all the lessons I’ve learned over these three years, apply them to my life to make a full comeback and play the best and most enjoyable soccer I have ever played in my entire life!!!!!

I still fully believe this is a feasible option. But, will my life actually turn out this way? I honestly do not know. 

I believe a large reason for my disappearance of discipline is not necessarily from the physical blow of the concussion itself, but rather how this injury has made me question my entire belief system and the way I have gone about living my life. 

I hear people always say “do what you love and you won’t have to work a day of your life! ” But the thing is, I was doing what I loved. I was following my dreams and doing everything possible to make them happen.  And for my entire life, I had been successful at it. 

For the first 20 years, I was riding on cruise control with my “work really, really, really hard” recipe. I’d face a setback, work hard to get through it, and eventually achieve the thing I wanted. I intended to follow this plan until I made the US national team roster and played in a World Cup. 

Soccer has been my greatest protector throughout my most difficult challenges in life. When I got the call my brother was in critical condition at the hospital from a near-death car crash, when my boyfriend whom I  (naively, obvi) thought I was going to spend my life with broke up with me, when I found out my grandma unexpectedly passed away while I was 7,497 miles across the globe in New Zealand…I committed myself to my sport even harder. 

Yet somewhere along my journey, the lines got blurred between my profession and who I am. 

‘Soccer player’ proudly became my main identity.  But, I didn’t just see myself as a soccer player,  I saw myself as a good soccer player, one who works really hard, one who keeps getting physically better every day, one who achieves their dreams. 

A few years before my big concussion, I experienced energy issues, and it felt like the harder I worked, the harder I ran into walls. My illogical rebuttal was to work even harder, which resulted in many more wall crashes. And then the big bang happened (referring my concussion from my head smacking the ground, not the beginning of the world, but actually it kinda was the new beginning of my world). 

Ever since then, doing what I loved physically, emotionally, and mentally felt like I was pushing a flat-tired semi-truck up an ice-covered hill.  My body wasn’t working the way it had been able to work for my whole career. I wasn’t getting the praise I had received my entire life for my athletic endeavors.  I wasn’t able to use soccer as an emotional outlet. I finished last in fitness drills. I was cut from my team. The single thing I had poured my entire life into turned into a slow-motion eyebrow threading session; almost torturously, little by little, plucked away from me. 

Stepping away from my sport was the first time I have ever examined my existence without soccer. It didn’t take long for me to see that I have NO. FUCKING. IDEA. who I am without it. 

When we identify with our sport so deeply, we often subconsciously believe that we need our sport to feel complete. Consequently, this means that we don’t feel like we are enough as we are without it. 

It makes complete sense then, that removing soccer from my life feels like I’m missing a part of myself. It’s as if I’m frantically (but trying to act like I’m totally not frantic) trying to find out where that missing piece went.

In a way, soccer has been a coping mechanism to hide my insecurities. 

I believe a big reason my concussion happened was to force me to stop hiding behind my accomplishments; to stop basing my happiness on if I start in a game or not, if I finish first in fitness testing, or if I play well. 

I am no longer able to cover up my flaws with more drills, more long balls, more sprints, more…anything. 

My athlete cloak has been taken off. I am naked. And when I first looked in the mirror, I hated what I saw.  I felt like a toddler who was learning who I was all over again. But I have committed myself to showing up every single day. Even days when I literally feel like I’m trapped in a heavy load, hot water, extra wash, washing machine cycle, filled with a months worth of my dad’s sweaty workout clothes, somehow I always make it through. And I’m starting to see that the “missing piece” was never actually missing, but simply covered up by false narratives about my worth being tied to factors outside of myself. Step by step (with a lot of assistance from therapists, specialists, and my people ), I am standing a little bit taller on my own two feet. I am looking in the mirror and staring at the core of who I am. Without the awards. Without the notoriety. Without anything or anyone, but me. 

I made this old childhood pic of me my phone screen saver to remind myself who I’m returning to.

If you ask me “what are you up to these days?” my answers will vary on any given day from “(insert some short, generic BS answer that I’m well)” to “I have no idea” to “I’m making my come back bitchezzz.” But, really, none of those answers matter to me.

I am not and will never be defined by my career,  even if I am an out-of-this-world, Lyft driving, therapist, inconsistent-podcasting, mentoring goddess. 

I am enough. Exactly as I am. Right now. In this very instant. I will continue to remind myself of this truth until I feel it in every fiber of my being.  

Until then,  if you need a Lyft ride and/or therapy sesh and/or soccer coaching,  and/or know of any great podcast guests and/or are interested in being mentored by me, don’t hesitate to hit me up. 

Sincerely, 

Kendall, Current Occupation: ______naked_________

Dear Soccer, FUCK YOU, I Love you, Do I Have to Let you go?

Dear Soccer, 

I went shopping for avocados the other day to concoct my new lunch obsession: toast with mashed avocado, sliced cherry tomatoes, chopped basil, aged balsamic, olive oil, and a dash of salt and pepper. The colors, textures, and flavors are like a game-winning goal celebration in my mouth. 

At the store, I intimately groped each avocado to find the perfectly ripe one. I found it and drove home, salivating at the mouth. When it was time to create the masterpiece, I pulled out the cutting board, surgically sliced around the pit,  un-hugged the halves, and the avocado was …brown. It tasted like solidified dirty bath water. 

I immediately thought of you. Because it reminded me of our last two years, eight months, and fourteen days together. 

I have soooo many things I want to say to you.

First and foremost, Fuck You.

Secondly, I love you. Please forgive me. Take me back. I need you. I want you. Do I have to let you go? 

_____________________________________________________________________________________________

“Have you ever heard of something called MS?” the doctor inquired. 

“Ya.” I muttered back. 

“Now again, I’m not saying that’s what it is, but when we see that we have to check it off the list.” 

“What could other possibilities be besides that?”

“Lyme disease, hypertension, sometimes diabetes…there’s something going on that’s quite unusual for someone your age…but if we never got this scan, we might never have caught it.”

I just completed an intensive 5 day concussion rehab program at Cognitive Fx in Provo, Utah. The program is intended to balance out the blood flow in certain areas of my brain that got out of whack from my concussion.  I’m in the conference room reviewing my results with the head doctor. My structural scan revealed that I have white matter changes on my brain, that sometimes indicates a demyelinating disorder. 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Dear soccer,

When the doctor was speaking, all I could think of was what this meant for you and me. 

“What would you recommend in terms of playing soccer?” I asked, fearing the answer. 

“I would wait until you know more about what’s going on. The great news is that with a lot of these things like lyme disease, and MS, and hypertension…getting the most blood to your brain is only going to help you. The healthier and more balanced the brain, the better it will deal with some of these other issues.”

I thought only old people developed Multiple Sclerosis.  And even if younger people could contract it, Kendall and MS don’t go together. This wasn’t meant to be my battle. It wasn’t my plan. 

I was meant to represent my country and play in the Olympics and the World Cup. Ya, people don’t know me now, but I don’t care. That’s how all the greats start out. As nobodies.

But, you know who I am. Our game plan. We promised each other. 

At the presuppose of our relationship, we were inseparable. We held hands (mostly feet), danced until the sky’s curtains closed, and then, we climbed under the covers, and dreamt of our future together. We had the wildest aspirations. We weren’t the kind of couple to settle. 

You were my safe place. I could run, compete, and push my body to its limits with girls who also lived to run, compete, and push their body to its limits. Not much else mattered to me. When I was faced with a painful challenge, I didn’t see any other option than to keep moving forward. For you. For me. For us. 

We knew we would encounter obstacles, but we always two foot slide tackled them. Get cut from a team…two foot slide tackle. Tear my ACL…two foot slide tackle. Hospitalized for a week in a foreign country…two foot slide tackle. Until we were back in the game. 

We were promiscuous, secretly escaping to racquetball courts, abandoned side allies, and recreational baseball fields. We put in the work. And then we got rewarded. It’s how I helped my high school team win its first ever state championship, how I got recruited to my dream college, played in a U20 World Cup, and was drafted to the pros. 

You + Me + Work Harder Than Everybody Else= Get $$$ (not actual money, because it’s women’s soccer, and we get paid diddly squat).

What happened to us? When did our system stop working? 

I think October 16th, 2015 was our tipping point. 

It was gradual and sudden all at once. 

Sudden, in the sense that I was instantly bed-ridden. The concussion was gnarly. For months, I couldn’t ride in cars, read, walk in crowded places, listen to music, let alone play soccer. 

But even then, I had no doubt I was going to get back to you. 

For the first year and a half, my comeback was clear as Crater Lake. It wasn’t a matter of can I??, it was simply when? I knew we were going to reunite.  Each setback would make the return that much sweeter. We were going connect on a deeper level. One that could only be experienced by those who’ve gone through the ringer. I was going to play the best ball of my life, and inspire others who were struggling in the dark. 

I feel like there are two distinct “Me”s: Kendall-before-her-concussion and Kendall-after. 

Pre-concussion Kendall was narrow-minded. I think you have to be with such ambitious goals. It was you and me until the end of time.  Post-concussion Kendall, felt like someone silly stringed my body with so many challenges that I didn’t have a choice to change, unless I wanted to be miserably trapped in neon green netting for the rest of my career. 

The physical symptoms were difficult enough, but then I got depressed. Wow. I didn’t know it was possible to feel so low.

Depression is very different for everyone. For me, I knew something was off and was desperate to get out of it. But it was like a vampire broke into my soul and sucked out any ounce of motivation. I felt trapped in between a myriad of polar opposites. 

I wanted to make magic happen in the world, and yet I felt this force field around me (like the girl’s from The Incredibles’ superpower) that prevented me from making any forward movement.

I wanted someone to hold my hand and walk me out of this emptiness, but I had an even stronger desire to get into my car and drive and drive and drive until I found an isolated cave in the depths of the forest for hibernation. 

I was sad, confused, lonely. Intensely uncomfortable. The scariest was when I started feeling nothing at all.

During my lowest low, I wanted to resort to you. For you to be there for me, like you had been the past 20 years of my life. But you weren’t. Or couldn’t. 

Fuck you, for that. I needed you.

I was mad at you. Really mad. Why couldn’t you just accept me for who I was? 

When I got released from the Portland Thorns, I was upset, but felt it was exactly what we needed. To say goodbye to our past, and welcome a fresh start.

I decided to move to Utah to tryout for the new NWSL team. For the first couple months, we were jiving. Things were hot and heavy. It felt easy. That fairytale kind of love. 

But it was naive of me to think that a location change could fix all of our problems. My symptoms crept back up. Even at my best, it was always mind over matter.

Nearly every training session, my eyes were more glazed over than a Krispie Creme donut fresh out of the oven. Energy-wise, it felt like I had eaten one-hundred of them. Exercise took 10 times more effort than it used to. 

My whole life, training was about improving our relationship. How can we be our best? Ever since my concussion, it felt more like survival.

I am an all-in kind of person. 100%. I never bought into that “110% work effort” bull crap.  That’s not physically possible.  When it comes to the things I love, I’m not a half-asser. 

I pride myself on controlling the controllables. I was always one of the fittest people on my team. It was part of my success formula: You + Me + Work Harder Than Everybody Else = Get $$$. 

Now, whenever I toed the line for sprints with my teammates, I finished in last.

I used to always do extra ball work before or after training. Now, I was too emotionally and physically drained to put in extra time. 

Playing wise, I hung on. I don’t think I was at the level for onlookers to be like “ohhh that girl sucks, she doesn’t belong here,” but I fell way short of my standard. I constantly compared myself to pre-concussion Kendall.

That’s often the hardest thing for people to understand. From the outside, I look fine. I’m able to live a normal life, even train at the most elite level. But I’m constantly living with this feeling that something is off. Like I’m sinking in quicksand while everyone else appears to be walking on water. I try so hard to hide the feeling though, because I yearn to be Bruce Almighty.

Dear soccer,

You really did me dirty. 

Sometimes I felt like you found great joy in taunting me. I entered the league starting every game, incredibly optimistic about my future. Over the past 6 years of my career, almost systematically,  I slid back to a “practice player.” 

You full on chucked my ego into flaming barbecue coals. You made me question my worth as a human. You used to be the thing that let me forget about my worries. Now, you are the thing that reminds me who I am not.

____________________________________________________________________________________

When I signed up for my intensive week of concussion rehab at Cognitive Fx. I felt this was going to be the thing that set me free. I think it was, but not in the way I anticipated. 

After the doctor informed me of the white matter on my brain scan, she left to give me time to process the news. I hyperventilated-ly cried for a few minutes. I was crushed and confused. Yet, in the midst of my meltdown, I felt something shift deep inside of me.

This entire recovery journey my mind has taken the driver’s seat, and my body, slammed in the trunk. Whenever I thought about throwing in the towel, my mind piped up: you’ve got this Kendall! You are so much closer than you think. How amazing is it going to be when you step on the field and feel like yourself? All this suffering will be worth it.

But this current feeling was so subtle, yet so distinct-too powerful to be coming from my mind. It was that inner-knowing that unexpectedly shows up to guide us in inexplicable ways. The one that makes no sense to you or me or anyone else, until one day it does. And it implored me to get out of my head.  

In that moment. I asked my body “body, what do you want?” 

Without hesitation, I heard ”Please. Please. Please,  give me a break.”

When you’re a lifelong athlete who’s sole love is your sport, life can get skewed pretty easily. Your sport isn’t just something you do, it is a part of your identity. It’s your most intimate relationship. 

Letting it go, feels like betrayal. 

_____________________________________________________________________________

Dear soccer, 

I said I hate you. You know that’s not true.

How could it it be?  You made me feel things I haven’t felt with anyone else ever before. You introduced me to lifelong friends. You took me to places I never knew I’d venture to: Guatemala, Spain, Germany, Peru, Australia (hot damn, I love you Australia) and several others.  You allowed me to access parts of myself I didn’t know existed. You taught me (I’m still learning) that I am so much more than you and everything else external. 

I truly feel like I’ve given you every part of me. I put you before school, family, and my wellbeing. 

But something isn’t working. I wish it were. I’ve tried and tried and tried to get back to the way we used to be. I can’t ignore my body any longer. It’s exhausted.

The Universe is clearly trying to speak to me and I think it’s pretty selfish to keep plowing through. 

It doesn’t make sense to me because I want you so badly. But this sensation is beyond logic. 

I needed a permission slip, this brain scan raising concern, to step away. I’m too driven and stubborn (and mostly afraid) to walk away from the game on my own.

They say losing your first love stings the most. Isn’t that the truth.  I dream about you. More than I ever have. Almost every night. Sometimes nightmares, other times glimpses of hope. I’m not sure what it means. But I’m tired of trying to figure it all out. 

I need to breath. To let you go. So you can do you. And I can do me.

 I don’t know if this is the end for us. It’s scary as shit. A little bit exciting. I feel both confident and lost. Confidently lost. 

 I sincerely hope our paths will cross again. If not, that’s okay too. What’s meant to be, will be.    

Just please know, you are the ripest avocado I’ve ever known. 

I’ll always love you,

Kendall 

My Dog is Dying, I'm Jobless, and I'm in Awe of my Left Index Finger

To listen to audio click link below, listen on iTunes HERE, or continue reading on.

My dog is dying. We all are, but Jake’s a little bit further along than most. If I’m at my parent’s house, and we hear a “bang! bang! bang!” late in the evening, we know it’s not a burglar. It’s Jake, tumbling down the wooden stairs because his hind legs have collapsed. Jake poops in the house each afternoon because he can’t hold it in long enough to relieve himself outside. When he does make it outdoors, a five minute neighborhood sniff leaves him huffing and puffing as if he’s just maxed out on the beep test.

The other night, at 10:59pm, I calculated that I have exactly 11 days of Jake’s entire life to spend with him. I sobbed. Uncontrollably. Alone. On my apartment floor.

I calculated that I have 11 days left with Jake because at the end of my last soccer season, I was released from the Portland Thorns.  I’m leaving in 11 days to tryout for the new NWSL Utah Royals team.

It’s a funny thing when you enter the professional level starting every game, and then five years later you have to tryout to make it.  From the outside, it appears I have regressed. I don’t believe I have.

It’s humbling. But, I’m not ashamed.

I’m not ashamed because my dog is dying.  And every single time I enter my parent’s home, I ignore all other human existence and bee-line to Jake. I suffocate him with cuddles and speak to him in my prepubescent little girl voice, as if somehow the change of tone will indicate I love him more.

I love Jake more than he loves medium-rare New York steak, a spoonful of peanut butter, and every other dinner item he’s ever begged for under the table. Once, back in Jake’s prime, he snuck onto the kitchen counter and knocked down an entire platter of brownies. He licked the brownies clean, including parts of the shattered ceramics dish. I love Jake even more than that.

My brother thinks Jake has more than a year left to live. I’m an optimist. Miracles happen, but it doesn’t seem likely.

My entire life, the thought of Jake dying torched my soul. I avoided this idea entirely.

Until one evening, about two years ago, when I drew a bubble bath and began reading a book called Being Mortal. I distinctly remember gripping the book, and digesting a passage about how our bodies are slowly deteriorating.  By the age of thirty, our lung capacity declines and the demise continues from there; our teeth slowly decay, our hair changes color, we lose muscle mass….Each word I consumed felt like my gut was stepping into a bottomless pile of quicksand.

After reading this passage, I peered down at my left index finger. I observed the criss-cross wrinkle patterns on my skin. I stared at my hair follicles. The deeper grooves on my knuckles. Dang, I need to moisturize more.  Why is my finger hair so much shorter than the ones on my arm? Where did this shiny shield we call a “fingernail” come from? How does my my brain Simon-Says this finger to bend back and forth anytime it wants?

I’ve been the caretaker of my dying finger for 25 years, and never had I observed it in such vivid detail.

It was this bubble bath-the pondering of my finger’s fate- that gave birth to my obsession with death, and, not coincidentally, the moment some of my friend’s questioned whether or not to check me into a psychiatric ward.

I became intrigued by the fear surrounding death.  Why are we all so afraid of it? Why do we feel like a kindergartner stuck alone underneath a rainbow parachute every time we think about our loved ones passing? Why does no one talk about it?

Death is one of the few things in life that is 100% certain. It’s unavoidable. Yet we treat it like it’s not just the elephant in the room, but the largest tyrannosaurus rex of the kingdom.  It’s as if we think that acknowledging it will somehow bring us down faster.

A few months later, I consumed another book, True Refuge. The author, Tara Brach,  talks about an exercise she performed at a meditation retreat. The participants were told to find a stranger and hug them. While arms still wrapped around their partner,  they were instructed to repeat the following: “I’m going to die.  You’re going to die. And all we have are these precious moments.”

I immediately began trying this exercise on every person I encountered. My mom, friends, teammates, the mailman (jk, I didn’t take it that far).  I asked for a hug, and when they obliged, I’d hit them them with the dialogue. Again, most of them further questioned my sanity.

For me, it felt like a similar experience to the night of my finger analyzation. When I acknowledged death, everything seemed to matter more.

From this point on, I started consciously accepting that Jake was going to die. I was greeted with deep sadness, but it wasn’t as scary as before. I found I cherished our time together even more.

On an off day, I whimsically drove with Jake up to the Oregon coast (his favorite place) and we hopped around from beach to beach, ending at Oceanside, the location of my childhood beach house. I pulled up to a side street, rolled down the windows to breath in the roaring ocean air, and climbed to the backseat to cuddle with Jake. I slept less than three winks the night, but I didn’t care. I knew this may be our last time here together.

This last season with the Portland Thorns. I feel like I took the same approach. The previous year and half, I was recovering from a concussion, and my absence from the pitch made me deeply aware of the rarity of playing professional soccer, even more-so in my own hometown.  On practice days, I warmed up with a deeper appreciation for my body’s ability to move however it could on that day. On game days, I fully soaked in the thunderous energy of the crowd.  On off days, I cherished Pacific Northwest adventures with my teammates to Crater Lake and the Gorge.

In my mind, I wanted to play in Portland forever. The Rose City is such a special place to me. I grew up a seven minute drive from the stadium. The fans are out of this world. My family comes to every game. Jake lives here.

After our championship, I was released from the team. And this idea of me staying forever was gone.

Yet, the strangest thing happened: I felt at peace.

I was heavyhearted and frustrated, naturally, but I believe this inner calmness arose because of my acceptance that everything in life is temporary.  I was going to have to leave the Portland Thorns eventually. I’m going to have to stop playing soccer eventually. Jake is going to die eventually. We all are.

I find we often wait to fully celebrate beings and things until they pass. I think we ought to have more living funerals.

Once we are gone, there’s no going back. At the end of it all, It doesn’t matter how much money is in our bank accounts, what awards we have won, or our number of Instagram followers. Everyone’s grave is the same size.

Why wait to fearlessly live, love, and be our truest selves?

When Jake’s time on this earth comes to an end, I know my face will be drenched in more tears than the person who gets splashed the most at Disneyland’s Splash Mountain. I plan on mourning by whatever means necessary (hello, Ben and Jerry).

Acknowledging death has been the ultimate wake up call. It has made me think about what it means to be alive and want to experience the simplest thing with as much gratitude as when I slept beachside in the back of the car with Jake and warmed up with my friends on the field at Providence Park.

My dog is dying. I am currently jobless, and I am in awe of my left index finger.

Because Jake’s the cutest and deserves to be seen by the world, here’s a few more photos of him:

Why Portland is the Best City for Women's Soccer in the World-a reflection on what it meant to play for Thorns FC as a Rose City native

I shuffle through the post-game signature line, scribbling on scarves, jerseys, and pamphlets  when a red rose face-painted girl asks me what it’s like to play in front of a sold-out stadium at Providence Park.

“Can you hear us!?” Do you get nervous?” her eyes beam.

___________________________________________________________________

When I was her age, I stood in that exact spot (far too shy to ask questions) anxiously awaiting signatures from the Portland Timbers. At the time, the Timbers were still a USL team. There was no women’s team.

Even then, I knew I was going to be a professional soccer player. My maturing brain had not worked out the logistics, but I was far too obsessed to pursue anything otherwise.

In 2003, the Women’s World Cup qualifiers were held at the same stadium. I sat in the stands, eyes glued to Tiffany Milbrett, Brandi Chastain, and Mia Hamm. My idols were playing in my own backyard!

For a Portlander, aside from the national team, University of Portland was the pinnacle of women’s soccer. I watched Christine Sinclair and her teammates bring home two NCAA championships, with Clive Charles as coach. I set my sights on becoming a Pilot.

My junior year at University of Portland, the National Women’s Soccer League came into fruition. I opted to forgo my final season and enter the college draft. I secretly hoped to get selected by Portland.

I was acquired by Sky Blue FC, in New Jersey. For two years, I got a taste of the east coast lifestyle; enough time to deepen my appreciation for Douglas Firs, quality coffee, and people who let you veer into their lane without flipping you the bird.

In 2015, I was traded home to Portland.

___________________________________________________________________

Before home games, the national anthem singer walks onto the field to perform. I always close my eyes. I take this time to give thanks for where I am today.  I reflect back to when I was the red rose face-painted girl’s age; waking up at 3am to watch the US women team play China; spending hours kicking the ball against the racquetball courts-a mere 100 yards away at the adjacent Multnomah Athletic Club; winning my first state championship for my high school across the street. I think about my club coach, who told me I was going to make it.  And the other one, who told me I wasn’t. I thank the people who supported me through all my setbacks. If it weren’t for them, I wouldn’t be here. And if it weren’t for the setbacks, I wouldn’t fully grasp how special it is to play for my hometown, in a city that embraces women’s soccer.

I make sure to open my eyes before the anthem ends to witness the thousands of scarves  twirling above their owners’ heads, as if helicopters in support of female equality.

Immediately after, I dart my eyes over to the Rose City Riveter section. The gigantic tifo unravels from the rafters. Every single time, (even if, at first the concepts are too sophisticated for me to understand) my jaw drops. The fans dedicate countless hours for the banner’s one minute of fame.

The final whistle blows, and we stride a lap around the stadium to thank our supporters.  My favorite section to greet is the Multnomah Athletic Club balcony. I look up and see my grandma, whom I call Goggie. She’s easy to spy because the club designated her a specific seat.

“I don’t even have to pay!” Goggie boasts.

She waves down at me as if she is performing the “Y”  in the “YMCA” dance.

I blow her a kiss. She sends me one back.

We turn the corner again. My mom, dad, uncle, brother and family friends are smiling down at me. Whether I play or not, they are always there.

On the final section, we stand in front of the Rose City Riveters. Talk about a P-A-R-T-Y. Even after the game, they’re jumping and chanting like kids who just chugged eleven Red Bulls.

I am convinced the Riveters expend more energy during a match than us players.

We join hands, and swing them up and down to praise their unparalleled support.

We finish the revolution, by shuffling through the autograph line.

___________________________________________________________________

“Can you hear us!?” Do you get nervous?” the red rose face-painted girl asks.

___________________________________________________________________

When you’re a competitor and play sports for a living, you get accustomed to getting in the zone. It’s as if you’re wearing a pair of goggles that tune out the crowd and only get taken off during special moments. Like, when we score a goal at Providence Park. I chuck the glasses aside, hands flail in the air, smoke bombs ignite, and I allow myself to rumble with the roar of the crowd.

Shortly after, it’s back to business. But in Portland. even when the goggles are on, it’s not enough to tune out the crowd.

Despite the chronic rain, Portland has this sunny energy that seeps through your bloodstream.

It’s where my teammates and I coached a Girls Inc. clinic, and a squad of 8-year-old girls screamed “I am fierce!!!” with enough conviction to make the hair on my arms stand up.

It’s where the lead capo and flag crew coordinator, Sunday and Heidi White, invited me to their home, showed me their scarf collection and the hundreds of patches the Riveters sell to each other during games to support one another.

It’s where Sinead Farrelly finished a season with the Thorns, didn’t want to leave, sent out a tweet, and a few days later was taken in by a selfless couple as if she was their own.

It’s where hundreds of supporters greeted and chanted “Build a Bonfire!” with us at the Portland International Airport after winning the NWSL championship.

For me, the city resembles my family, my dreams, my sacrifices. My place.

___________________________________________________________________

“Can you hear us!?” Do you get nervous?” asks the red rose face-painted girl.

We can’t necessarily hear the crowd, but we can feel it. It’s this quiet assurance that the entire city is behind us. That the game means as much to you as it does to us. We are in this together.

Even if I’m no longer a Thorn. Even if I’m thousands of miles away from you. Even if, when I visit, I’m wearing another jersey, I will always feel you Portland.

Thank you for making me proud to call The Rose City home.

ACCOMPANIED PODCAST:

In this episode, I reflect upon my experience playing for my hometown team (one of the best women’s club teams in the world), Portland Thorns FC. I read and expand upon this piece, and let you know how to enter into the giveaway of my old and new Thorns gear. 

Representing the Rose City will always hold a special place in my heart and I’ll remember it forever and ever and ever. Thanks to everyone who has been a part of my journey thus far. Much love Portland!

Listen below or listen via iTunes here: Episode 40-Why Portland is City for Women’s Soccer in the World 

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The Day I Snuck out of the Hospital to see Chelsea Handler at the Sydney Opera House

My mom told me that I wasn’t allowed to write about my visit to the hospital this past week. She said all my prior posts have been about some sort of over-exaggerated “trauma” and my next post needs to be more upbeat. At the time, I agreed because she is right. I do enjoy writing about my misadventures more than all the sugar plum, fairy dust and rainbow type stuff that happens in my life. My missed flight, blender explosion, stomach bug, lost sweatshirt… all unfortunate circumstances. But I’d like to clarify that I most definitely don’t think I live a sad, depressing life. My life is freaking phenomenal. I’m living in Australia, getting paid to do what I love, all the while exploring a beautiful country. I could write about the serene Gerringong beach I recently frequented, or eating the best sashimi my tongue has every tasted at the Sydney Fish Market, or going on the open bar cruise with my friends as the sun set over the harbor. But, that’s not very nice of me to rub all of that in, nor is it very entertaining. And that’s why, I’m sorry mom, but I’ve got to tell the story about my hospital visit.

I’m going to spare the boring details, but for the past three weeks I hadn’t been feeling too well. Stomach pains, fever, night sweats and such. I saw a doctor, drew some blood, peed some samples, took some pills, but nothing seemed to help much. Right before my housemates and I were about to head to the airport for our 4.5 hour plane ride to Perth, my doctor called and strongly encouraged me to get an ultrasound right away. I heeded her advice and the results revealed I had some unwanted business going on with my appendix. My doctor told me to go straight from the imaging center to the hospital.

Little did I know, my trip to Perth would be replaced with an all-inclusive 8 day, 7 night stay at the lovely, luxurious Royal Prince Alfred Hospital. Talk about a 5 star name for a place, and boy did they live up to their name. We’re talking complimentary breakfast, lunch and dinner, a reclining bed, high water pressure showers, and being waited on hand and foot at the push of a button.

I have to admit though, my stay didn’t start off on the best foot. There was a lot of waiting around. I’d like to consider myself a relatively patient patient, but when I’m not properly nourished, its another story. Immediately upon my arrival, I was told not to eat or drink anything. Had I gotten a fair warning of this trip, I would have prepared myself one last feast, and at the very least brushed my hair and put on some socks.

After about 6 hours and 30 minutes of waiting in the lobby, 9 hours 28 minutes of fasting (not that I was counting), a courteous man, I liked to think of him as the bell hopper, informed me that my room was ready. He insisted I sit in his wheel chair. I complied, and he escorted me to my suite where I was greeted by three other ladies who had already begun their holiday. We all shared one spacious room, but had curtains that, when closed, created our own private dwelling. At first, I was a bit uneasy and skeptical about my new roomies because we didn’t speak a single word to each other that night. But the next morning, the sun shone, we opened our curtains, and all of a sudden it was social hour.

Directly across from me lay Irene, the nighttime whimperer. Bless her spirit and her shoulder pain, but it was quite difficult to sleep with her wet-lonely-stray puppy-like moans. To my diagonal was Simone, the sincere sweetheart who kindly advised me to ask the nurses to substitute my meals for salads if I wanted a healthier option. And then to my left, there was the stone-cold legend Lillian, aka Lilypad. I have to confess, I was a bit intimidated by Lilypad at first. Lilypad was a soon-to-be 91 year-old woman who simply had her shit together. If she wanted some apple juice, she’d tell the nurses. If she had to poop, she’d tell the nurses. If she needed some more pain meds, she’d tell the nurses. The woman knew what she wanted and I admired that. When we got to talking, I realized Lilypad was as kind, bright, and humorous as they come. She told me the story of how she ended up in here. She had just finished with her physical therapy appointment, and went outside for her driver to pick her up. When the driver arrived, he (like he always does) opened the door for her. Lilypad placed her hand on the window to help her balance, and without noticing the driver rolled up the window and crushed her index finger. Apparently blood squirted everywhere and her finger was hanging on by a thread. The driver turned blue. Lilypad quickly gained control of the situation and yelled at her driver “don’t pass out yet, you have to drive me to the hospital!”

Fortunately, Lilypad was able to get her finger reattached, and a few days later she was back at it strolling around the room with her walker.

One night, Lilypad rolled her way over to Irene and my bed with a precarious look on her face. Before I could ask what was up, she exclaimed “there’s a strange man in my bed!” Now, Lilypad does have her life all figured out, but she had told me the story about her decapitated finger three separate times, so I thought she was losing her mind a bit. But shame on me for thinking such a thought. I look over and see that there was indeed an old ball-capped man snuggled underneath Lilypad’s covers. My roomies and I started dying laughing (clarification: not dying, just laughing). David, as we shortly after found out, had mistaken Lilypad’s bed for his own. The nurses helped guide him back to his own bed. I joked with Lilypad that she should have let him stay the night. She was repulsed, and stated “oh no no no, he is definitely not my type.” I’m telling you, this lady knows what she does and doesn’t like. Respect.

Lilypad, my other roomies, and I had a quiet next couple of days as our nurses catered to our specific needs. As you can imagine, my mother was a bit concerned with my situation and called in every few seconds wanting to ask the doctor’s questions about every possible thing she had googled about the appendix. My questions for the doctors were more urgent. When would I be able to stop fasting and finally get to stuff my face with a high quality meal? Once I had that question answered, I moved on to an even more important one. Chelsea Handler was performing at the Syndey Opera House on Thursday night and some of my teammates and I had purchased tickets for the show a long time ago. Every time my team of doctor’s entered my curtained room to give me an update I reminded them about this event, and in my most polite voice I asked if I could be released to go to this event. On each occasion, the doctors told me that it shouldn’t be a problem.

When the day finally arrived, I reminded my nurse about my plans. She said she wasn’t informed about this departure and had to check with the doctors. She came back a few moments later and told me that the Big Dogs (the ones above my doctors) wouldn’t let me go for liability reasons. I threw myself a 5 minute internal pity party, but then did some logical thinking that went as follows:

Lillypad is a grizzled veteran. She told me herself that she has always been a hard-nosed woman and knows what she wants. She’s gained priceless experiences through this philosophy and is extremely satisfied with her life. I want to be like Lilypad. If I want to be like Lilypad, I need to heed her advice and do what I want. Furthermore, I highly respect my nurses and doctors, but I also highly respect Lilypad, my plans, and Chelsea Handler. I am in the hospital to get better. They say laughter is the best medicine. Chelsea Handler will provide an abundance of laughter. Thus, if I go see Chelsea Handler my body will receive an abundance of medicine and I will be more like Lilypad. Therefore, it is in my best interest to go to Chelsea Handler.

So it was settled. I was breaking out of that joint that night. For the sake of anonymity, I’m going to change my accomplice’s name to Shmeelin Shwinters. I informed Shmeelin Shwinters of my plan and told her to meet me in the lobby at 6:15 on the dot. I gathered a few necessities and then shut my curtains, signifying it was go time. If I ran into a nurse I would tell them I was going downstairs to see my friends (wink wink) and hang out at the hospital cafe (wink wink), and that I wouldn’t be long (wink wink). I was able to slide out of the place and into the elevator unnoticed. Shmeelin and I escaped out the back door, headed to the train station, and into the Sydney Opera House.

The escape was well worth it. The show was hilarious, I felt better with every laugh and felt as though I had a dose of Lilypad’s badassness running through my veins. When I got back to my pad the nurse was a bit worried and upset I was gone for so long, but I was able to smooth talk her and patch things over. I received my nightly dose of IV antibiotics and then conked out. The next day I was cleared to go home. The goodbyes to my roomies were bittersweet, but I knew the timing was right.

This hospital trip appears to be a bit bigger of a blip than all my prior mishappenings, but I believe it’s all a matter of perspective. Weird stuff happens in life. Your finger could get smashed in a window any second. But if I learned anything from Lilypad during my stay, it’s that you just have to roll with the punches. The more experiences you gain in life, the more you grow as a person. Lilypad knows what she wants in life. She knows the kind of juice she wants, she knows the kinds of men she will allow to sleep in her bed, and she knows that sometimes you have to live on the edge and break out of the hospital to go see Chelsea Handler. May the lessons of the legendary Lilypad be of guidance to us all.

To everyone 25 and older: GROW UP, GIVE UP ON YOUR DREAMS.

I recently turned 25, which basically means I am 30, because as we learn in 5th grade, you round up from 5s. The more birthdays I celebrate, the further I push forward my definition of “old.” In my early teens, I decided I would turn adult when I began college. Free from parental guidance, I’d have no choice but to grow up. But then graduation rolled around Daytona 500 fast, and I felt ill-equipped to wear the cap. After I entered the “real world” surely I would feel old. Nope. And now here I am, four years removed from college, 30 by mathematical rounding standards, and yet just this month I purchased my first house plant. My parents gave me a food dehydrator and water filter for my birthday. That has to stand for something.

The word “grown-up” in itself is deceiving. It insinuates that there’s a distinct point in which one becomes an adult. As if some mystical creature waves her wand and all of sudden we transform from a child into a matured specimen.

In my adolescence, I thought by now I’d undoubtedly have my “adultness” on lockdown. A few things my teenage self anticipated I would have checked off by now:

-marriage

-kids on the way

-owner of a home

-strong political and religious views

-lover of fine wine and cheese

Score for this list: 0 for 5, unless you count the green plant that I’m mothering.

Being an adult is a far murkier matter. There is no clear cut definition.

I used to feel weird about this grown-up thing. I haven’t done this, bought that, become this.

But I have always been certain of one fact: I wanted to be a professional soccer player when I grew up. Far before I knew its logistics as a career choice with foreign words like contracts, salaries, and sponsorships.

I watched the 1999 World Cup penalty shootout-Brandi Chastain tearing off her jersey after scoring the game-winner. I wanted that. Not the shirt ripping-off, that’s not my style. But everything else.

I wanted to make the National Team. To represent my country in a World Cup and Olympics. I wanted to win them both, and kiss the gold medal on the podium, listen to the national anthem and look out to my entire family in the stands.

I envisioned this scenario before society had a chance to chokehold my dreams and contort my brain into thinking maybe I wasn’t good enough. Before my friend’s parents asked me “what do you actually want to do with your life after soccer?” As if soccer was not going to be my job. It was too late for any of that. The seed was already planted in my head. Padlocked in a place no one could touch but me.

I was naive. I didn’t know you needed a certain amount of talent to play a sport at the highest level. My current ability was irrelevant. All that mattered was that I wanted to play soccer, therefore that’s what I was going to do.

I have never really cared much about what people think about me. I guess I care to an extent. When I was younger I left the house with a shirt on because my mom told me that’s what ladies are supposed to do. But I never brushed my hair. I was late to the game on shaving my legs,  wearing mascara, and all other products intended to enhance aesthetics-with the exception of roll-on glitter, I was all about having a little sparkle in my life.

I knew what I wanted. Playing soccer ignited my soul. I didn’t concern myself with much else and turned a blind eye to anyone who inferred I should do otherwise.

I grabbed hold of this golden feeling and allowed it to guide me throughout my youth.

On my club team, I remember playing in a quarterfinal match against our local rivals. The opposing team scored the game winner with two minutes left in the game.  Our coach brought us into a huddle to console us and chant the final obligatory “team name” cheer. After we all shouted “Sapphire!”,  I overheard my teammates laughing and talking about going out to dinner at the pizza parlor.  Pizza??? How on earth could you think about consuming pizza when we were just defeated mere minutes ago??

Blasphemy. I didn’t understand it.

Whenever we lost, my parents knew my red flag was activated: do not talk to me, unless I initiate the conversation.

I had this mentality throughout childhood. I just wanted to get better, and become more like Brandi Chastain, Mia Hamm, and Tiffany Millbrett. For me, it was all or nothing.

I never knew the exact steps I needed to take to get there. I relied on my intuition and trained the best I knew how. I practiced my juggling in the backyard.  In middle school, I discovered the racquetball courts at the gym and I spent hours jamming to music and kicking against the wall. It just happened. I didn’t really know what I was doing, but I knew my heart liked it. That I was in alignment with my vision of playing at the highest level.

I continued this attitude throughout college, onto the U-20 national team, and into the professional ranks. At a glance, it appears I have reached my dreams. Yet, I still haven’t played in a World Cup. I still have yet to win a professional championship. I still feel like I haven’t even tapped into my potential. I have more things I want to accomplish.

And here I am battling a concussion. Increasingly aware of how finite a professional athletic career is.

Will I get fully healthy? Is it time for me to grow up and get a “normal” job? Is this the time to throw in the towel?

It seems the older we get, the more we’re exposed to this dream-snatching vortex. The one where our parents, or teachers, or news reporters or friends say, “okay, enough is enough, it’s time to settle down and get your life sorted out.”

As children, we run around with our dreams like political campaigns, unafraid and eager to divulge them to anyone who will listen.

But each year, we have to stand on even firmer ground to protect them. Societal pressure is toxic. Like mosquitoes on a warm Southern night. If we don’t wear enough repellent, we’ll get bit with insecurity, our self-belief sucked away. With each bite, our dreams get called into question and tainted with doubt.

Eventually, we listen to the voice inside our heads that rationalizes maybe it is time to move on.  We become too overwhelmed by the scrutiny (self-imposed or from peers).  We cave in. And slowly but surely, the thing that once made our soul sparkle, our dream, fizzles away.

When did we confuse growing up with giving up?

There are some people who truly, circumstantially, despite how badly they want it, can’t pursue their dreams. But most of us don’t fall under that category.

Sometimes goals change. We realize that what we wanted in the past, truly doesn’t feed our soul anymore.

But I think a lot of times we give up because of fear.

Society has this stigma about audacious goals. If you say them out loud, then you are cocky or crazy, or both.

Big dreamers make people uncomfortable. They challenge mediocrity and cause others to examine their own dream-lost lives.

On the individual’s end, we often fear that if we vocalize our goal and don’t achieve it, then we are a fraud. A failure.

I wholeheartedly disagree.

Our worth as a human does not come from whether or not we achieve our goals.

I believe it’s cultivated through the pursuit. Through the lessons we learn from the triumphs, and, especially, the failures. Our value lies on who we become by going after things that genuinely fire us up.

It’s wildly more rewarding pursuing our true desires, than scraping by with a do “what you’re supposed to do” existence.

Even if at surface level it appears that I am further away from representing my country in a World Cup, or my other dreams, that doesn’t change the itch inside of me. The goosebumps I get when I look into the stands at Providence Park and see thousands of fans waving their scarfs during the national anthem.

That giddiness is inside all of us. It’s there for a reason. It’s a sign we are doing what we are meant to be doing. It gives us the juice-even when life isn’t going how we anticipated-to keep going. It affirms that the obstacles are all necessary teachers in our journey.

I believe this is what growing up is about. Relentlessly following that feeling. Going after our dreams. And not stopping at whatever arbitrary number society associates with the appropriate age to settle down.

Whether I am a wide-eyed 9 year-old watching the Olympics, a 25 year-old in the midst of a quarter-life crisis, or a 106 year-old with a walker, I will always have something that lights me up. My plan is to find it. Go after it. And not stop.

I will never grow up.

The Day I Chopped my Hair Off for Coach Mark Parsons, but actually for Pantene Beautiful Lengths

In between training sessions,  Arrow Liver Maureen Fitzgerald  cut 10 inches off my hair.  It happened to be Coach Mark Parsons birthday, so the team decided to gift him my hair, which we thought he might find useful. After the joke,  I ended up donating it to Pantene Beautiful Lengths. They make wigs for women battling cancer. If you have any luscious locks, consider donating to this great organization:

Pantene Beautiful Lengths

Everyone deserves to feel strong, powerful and beautiful.

I feel lighter and freer already!

My stylist, Mo is still looking to raise money for standing desks. Read more about this Arrow Liver and donate to her Fundme here :Who is amateur call-up Maureen Fitzgerald? School teacher by day, Portland Thorns FC player by night

The Most Effective Way To Dominate Life

All of my life, I have been go-go-go on a mission. As a child, it was customary for my mom to shake me awake at 10:00am, snarf down a breakfast burrito on the way to basketball training,  jet off (still sweaty) to a birthday party, then to a soccer match, to family dinner, to my desk and up until midnight to complete my science project due the next morning… it was nonstop. And I loved it.

As I have gotten older, my gung-ho mindset is more planned out. I am aware that 99% of “overnight successes” are not necessarily illusions, but instead a result of small, daily habits accumulated over time.

Three years ago I ramped up this attitude full throttle, when I met former NFL player, and mental conditioning coach Niyi Sobomehin. He gave me a system to implement that ensures every single action I take is intentional and in alignment with my dreams. It’s an approach, that has changed my life far beyond the soccer field. It inspired me to launch my blog, to volunteer more, to play in Australia- to place my future entirely in my own hands (Check out Niyi’s website:imnotyou.com. He also has a killer podcast, he interviewed Michelle Beto’s awhile back : Niyi’s podcast w/ Michelle ).

The system allows me to dominate every single day.

And it starts the moment my alarm buzzes at 6:30am. I wake up, pop out of bed, grab my phone, and turn on my customized affirmation track, a recording, with beats in the background, of my voice telling me how beautiful and unstoppable I am and how today is about to be the best day of my life. Not in a cocky way, but in a self-love, no one else is going to hear this track but me (until now) kind of way.

As this is playing, I pound out 20 push-ups, and 1 minute of planks each way (face down, and both sides). Once finished,  I stretch and foam roll as I listen to my health affirmation track reaffirming my abundant energy and vitality.

Next, I fill out my “blueprint” journal. I answer a series of questions such as:

What are you incredibly grateful for?

Who’s life can you positively impact today and how?

Why is today going to be the best day of your life?

What one action can you take that will make today a success?

I follow this reflection by standing in front of the mirror, staring into my eyes, and again telling myself how unstoppable I am.

I give my body an “inner bath”-down a glass of water-, and lastly, I meditate for at least 10 minutes.

Before 7:15, I’ve completed my morning routine. Any ounce of fatigue is long gone and I am Lebron James-Game-7-NBA-Final ready to beast the day.

I channel this energized and invincible feeling throughout the rest of my day’s schedule- which I devised the night before, and ensure I incorporate my “Daily Disciplines”, 8 actions that I must complete every day:

At least 10 minutes of:

Watching film

Ball work

Stretching/foam rolling

Writing

Reading

Meditating

Brain HQ (an online mental training program)

Flossing my teeth (this does not require ten minutes, unless I ate a kale salad garnished with quinoa and poppyseed and chia seeds that day)

I chart my progress.

I have followed this system religiously for two and half years. If I fail to complete a habit-which happens-I feel guilty, and often make up for it the next day.

It’s a against my nature to rest.

Yet here I was, a few days after my concussion, and just getting out of bed shot milky way stars across my field of vision.  A walk to the fridge mimicked playing in the last minutes of double overtime.

By process of elimination, the only suitable response was to remain still. I wasn’t tired, but lying horizontal was the one posture that relieved my symptoms. So I rested. And I thought. I thought a lot. Sometimes my thoughts hurt. Like one time I fantasized about a thai curry dish I recently cooked, and could not, for the life of me, think of that Asian vegetable I added for extra crunch. That night, it came to me. Bok choy. That dirty devil.

Nights were the worst. Right when I got under the covers to catch some zzz’s, my brain turned into a bossy older brother; throwing lego blocks at my skull and choke-holding my neck, finding any means possible to taunt me.

My doctor anticipated with a week of minimal brain activity, my symptoms would subside and I would be able to resume my soccer duties.

A week passed. Then two. Three.  Although I was improving, any strenuous activity or extended focus invoked an interplay of nausea, light headedness, headaches, and fatigue.

So I continued to heed the doctor’s prescription until entirely symptom-free.

One more week of resting, maybe two tops, and I would be back on the pitch. I got this.

This laissez-faire attitude contradicted my typical behavior.

But I was physically unable and instructed not to abide by my ordinary structure.

Instead, I woke-up schedule-less, and based my days off of how and what I felt.

I thought this drastic change would shock my system and spur a mild depression.  But the craziest thing happened: I…dare I say it…I loved it.

To visit my beach town, you have to drive down a steep escarpment of jungle-y trees. Once at sea level, the water is audible everywhere. It’s as if you are encapsulated in your own secret sun-shining, bird-singing, wave-crashing, safe haven.

I could sulk about my uncontrollable aches and pains, but it wouldn’t make any difference; I would still be in the exact same physical state, just unhappy. That didn’t make sense to me. I opted to treat this as a mini-vacation with a side of near-barfing nausea and trash-compacting headaches.

Most days, I meandered to the beach, laid out a towel, and stared out at the ocean. I meditated, self-reflected, read until my headache acted up (about 15 minutes), and then rested some more.

At some point, I took a dip in the ocean.

I swear, water has healing powers. Every time I was near the ocean, all of my symptoms washed away with the waves. I could soak in the whimsical never-ending blueness for hours.

After being hypnotized by the magic of the ocean, I usually sauntered over to my favorite coffee shop, Bread Espresso &. I chitchatted with the owners, an adorable couple named Norby and Sandy. The shop closed around 3, (most places do to allow for a siesta or afternoon surf), and Norby’s kind heart often handed me fresh bread to take back to my roomies.

I then walked to the grocery store and bought some fresh veggies and produce . That trip usually drained my energy. so when I arrived home I took a nap in the hammock, listened to the birds chirp, then cooked my meal.

I even started developing my own recipes:

It’s as if this town was specifically designed for my prescribed “minimal brain power” recovery protocol. No one was in a rush, they were simply enjoying the day.

This laid-back lifestyle was a stark contrast to my former “can’t stop, won’t stop” mindset. Usually, I am hard on myself when I don’t complete my push-ups or watch extra film. But I didn’t feel this angst because I was told by the doctor that the fastest way to get back on the field was to rest.

Before my concussion, I idolized the lion-like mentality. I was willing to do whatever it took to be the most dominate player. I was 24/7 trying to be like the lion chasing after the the gazelle, but I was missing the whole picture.

What does a lion do when it’s not attacking?

It rests. Deeply. For upwards of 18 hours. Until it’s time to feast. Only then, does he rise from his dwelling, and attack its prey.

It is the deep rest that allows the lion, the king of the jungle, to hunt with such veracity and conviction. Lions are incredibly efficient. But when they are resting they aren’t thinking about being efficient, or, being efficient while resting.

My pure happiness stemmed from tapping into that presence. From being exactly where I was. Unconcerned about what I “had to do” (listening to affirmation tracks, watching film etc.) to set me up for success. I did things because I felt like it, because they elevated my well-being, and I trusted that the mental break would get me back on the field sooner.

This joy didn’t come from just relaxing. I have had plenty of “recovery days” over the years. It stemmed from being exactly where I was, and no where else.

Nature has this nonjudgmental way of awakening my soul. It happens when I’m around authentic people, and when I’m immersed in a soccer game. I am more alive and see the world brighter.

I still believe routines and habits are crucial for self-improvement and goal achievement. If I rested all of the time, my life would lose meaning. I need and want a system to achieve the big dreams I have in my life.

But like a lion, purposeful stillness allows for more efficient attacks. To perform at the highest level when the time counts.

With this upgraded outlook, I continued to rest, soaking in the healing powers of the mystical sea. As I gazed out at this expansive mass of water, I trusted I would be back on my grind very soon, but this time with more efficiency and intention that ever before.

My whiplash heat stroke FIFA '94 Concussion

omeone wise once said when you hit rock bottom the only way to go is up. But what happens when you smack your head on a hard flat ground?  Realistically, you could go left, you could go right, or you could just remain put for awhile.  Heck, if you’re adamant, you could whip out a shovel and dig even deeper. There’s more places to go then just up. My concussion taught me that.

With physical injuries such as broken bones, torn ligaments, stress fractures etc. there’s a general return-to-play timeline. There can be complications sure, but generally the injured person knows what to expect in terms of recovery time.

Concussions are another story. An entirely different breed. They are scary.  Uncertain. A silent assassin. You may appear happy and healthy on the surface, but inside-mentally emotionally,and physically-you’re screaming for help. Unless you’ve experienced a serious concussion firsthand, it’s difficult to grasp its complexity.  And even then, each person’s symptoms are profoundly different.

In my case, I didn’t even know I acquired a concussion.

Looking back, the concussion signs of my initial blow to the head were present; nausea, headache lightheadedness, disorientation, fatigue, influx of emotion.

The lack of management at the onset of my symptoms extended the length of my recovery.

But I don’t blame anyone. Not the referee who saw the tackle or the physiotherapist who diagnosed me with whiplash, or the doctor who speculated it was a heat stroke, or the migraine specialist who informed I was dealing with classic migraines and not a concussion. I don’t even blame myself.

Hindsight is always 20/20.

If I knew on the day of my first tackle, that I would still be managing concussion symptoms 9 months later, surely I would have left Australia and received medical support from home.

But I know there is reason I didn’t. The path I am taking has been life-changing and needed to happen to put me in the position I am today.

To spark conversations about concussions, to provide my perspective, and empower-at whatever capacity -anyone who is struggling.

My naïveté of concussions stopped me from taking any shortcuts. I was forced to educate myself, become my own advocate, and process every feeling I felt.

I intimately ballroom danced with my lowest of lows and disco jived with my highest of highs.

I transitioned from viewing my concussion as a betraying backstabbing boyfriend, to a world-renowned top tier coach. The kind that you initially despise for making you run doggies until you’re on your hands and knees vomiting, but you look back and realize that it was to build character and strength. Every one of his demands purposeful.

I didn’t go home so I can share my story.

This story isn’t just about concussions. It’s not just about struggling. It’s about living.

We are all living in different chapters of life, with some pages dog-eared and others we wish we could rip to shreds.

When I read other people’s stories, I highlight excerpts that offers new insight, shifts my way of thinking, reminds me of the power within us, compels me to take action, and gives me hope.

If I can take one nugget away from a book, then it was worth the read.

I hope this story is the same.

I’m going to start from the beginning.

On October 13th, I landed in Australia (much smoother than last time: Not So Timely Travel Day),  for my second off-season stint with the Western Sydney Wanderers. My motivation to get after it was at an all-time high. These three months I was determined to make massive gains. I devised a daily schedule that insured I dominate each day:

7:00am Wake up, morning routine

7:30 Eat sautéed veggies and protein or an acai bowl

7:45 Walk over to the beach, meditate, journal

8:30 soccer workout

9:30 surf

10:30 home for a snack

12:00 study film/ perform mental work

1:00 Lunch

2:00 Hit up a coffee shop, write for Arrow Living

4:00 Consume nutritious meal before carpooling to training

6:00 Training

9:00 Reflect in journal, read

10:00 Bed

I followed this routine for the first few days and was grooving. Absolutely loving life. Soccer, surfing, writing in chill-vibed cafes, living with my friends in a home that was a 5-minute walk from the beach.…somebody pinch me.

This was about to be an epic, game-changing three months.

Our first game rolled around.

Some games, I play happier than others. I am not concerned with performance. I am flowing. Mindlessly running free. Every pass feels right. Even if the execution isn’t spot on, I can quickly shake off the mistake. Today was one of those days.

Up 2-0 at half, and assisting on both goals, I was in my zone. But in the second half, we conceded a goal, then another, and everything changed.

In the 71st minute, I received the ball on the left side, accelerated down the line to take a player on. I cut the ball inside the player and she tackled me from behind. My back slammed onto the grass, whipping my head back onto the hard ground.

I consider myself a tough player. I don’t Cristiano Ronaldo roll around as if my leg has been sawed off (with all due respect to Cristiano, he’s top class). Even if I am writhing in pain, it’s not in my nature to show it.

I remember the tackle. I hit the grass forcefully and laid face down longer than usual. I felt disoriented and it took me a while to stand to my feet. But I got up. Because that’s what you’re “supposed” to do as an athlete. Tough it out. Plus we just earned a free kick, and it was my duty to take it. The referee issued the player a yellow card and came over to check on me. I can’t remember what she said, but we kept playing.

Throughout the rest of the game, I felt dizzy.  I have dealt with far worse migraines and tendonitis throughout my career and knew I could push through this no problem.

After the game, I told my physiotherapist how I felt. She acknowledged the hard tackle and scheduled me for treatment in the coming days.

For the next couple weeks, I experienced headaches, light headedness,  nausea, and neck stiffness. These symptoms were all typical of “whiplash”, my diagnosis. These sensations would appear for a couple hours of the day, then fade away.

The following week, we played another game. I was exhausted, but having played very few full length matches in the past month, I knew my fitness wasn’t at its prime. I made it through the game and felt mediocre afterwards, with a touch of nausea and irritability the rest of the week. Nothing that would keep me away from training.

During one of our sessions, I got bumped by a player. I felt a little disoriented, but we only had 20 minutes of training left so I gritted it out.  I let our physiotherapist know after and she continued to give me treatment, mostly neck massages, the remainder of the week.

The following weekend was the Sydney Derby; the much anticipated match against our Sydney rivals.

It was a balmy 90 degrees in the stadium, but my adrenaline for the match masked the heat.

The whistle blew and we were underway.

Every time I play, it takes a few moments to get fully acclimated to the flow of the game.

But in the first few minutes, something felt especially off. I received the ball on the left flank and sprinted down the line to take my opponent end line. When I approached my opponent, I instructed myself to lunge right then explode left. A maneuver I’ve performed countless times. But my body’s response was significantly delayed. My opponent easily stripped the ball away.

A couple moments later, we received a right-sided corner kick. In charge of our kicks, I gazed over at the corner flag, dreading the amount of effort I envisioned it would take to jog over, take the kick, then run all the way back to my left back position.

I delivered a personal pep talk: Come on Kendall. I know it’s hot out. I know you’re tired. But so is everyone else. You are stronger than this. Than them. You got this. Keep going.

I dragged myself to the corner flag and whipped in a bent ball.

Stevie Wonder would have a better idea of where the ball landed than me at this point. My vision was clear, but my brain was delirious.

I felt like I was extracted from real life and placed into a scratched disk of FIFA ’94, with the screen lagging and 10 pound dumbbells shackled to my ankles.

Every action required all my energy and invoked intense emotions.

Around the 15th minute, our team conceded a corner. I walked up to my teammate Keelin and muttered “I don’t feel right.” What was intended to be a nonchalant statement, came out as a teary-eyed plea.

Keelin told me to come off, it wasn’t not worth it.

After the corner, my body sat itself down.

The team physiotherapist ran onto the field to assess me.

“I don’t feel right,” I repeated.

I stood up, walked over to the bench, and placed an ice water-dunked towel over my head. The cool temperature soothed my hidden face and provided me with alone space to attempt to process what was happening.

Never in my life, have I voluntarily subbed myself out of a game.  Junior year of college I tore my ACL. I heard a pop. It wasn’t painful, but knew it wasn’t a good sign. The doctor ran onto the field, checked my knee and helped me hobble to the sideline.

This time was different. I didn’t know what was happening. My self-engrained rugged, relentless mentality willed me to keep playing, but my body simply wouldn’t let me.

Everything around me was happening too quickly, too loudly, too brightly, too…too much.

The doctor asked if I wanted to go into the locker room where it was quieter and darker. I did.  I got up and my assistant coach asked me if I was alright to keep playing.

“Yes” , the conditioned mentally-tough part of my brain automatically responded. But my body ignored my ego and kept walking towards the locker room tunnel.

I threw myself on the training table.

My emotions took place in intervals. One minute I felt pissed off,  frustrated, sad, confused, and betrayed.

“WHY ME!?? WHY CAN’T I JUST BE HEALTHY!!??”

I thrashed my body around on the table as if I could physically shake off these feelings.

Then, all of a sudden I released all my body’s tension and laid perfectly still. The mindful, two-consecutive-years-of-meditating part of me kicked in and guided me through a breathing practice.  Everything is going to be okay. Non-judgment. The situation is neither good nor bad, it just is. Inhale deeply, exhale deeply

A few moments later,

“WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING!! I’M TIRED OF BEING HURT AND SICK AND INJURED. I JUST WANT TO BE HEALTHY!!!!!!”

This interplay continued for thirty minutes. Maybe more. I had no concept of time.

I read somewhere that you cannot be frustrated while being grateful. So I elected to make a mental list of the things I was thankful for:

I am grateful for my mom, my dad, my brothers, my dog, my relatives, the ocean, whales, Tempurpedic pillows, almond butter, trees, books, hammocks, napping. ..Aw yes napping. Your body just needs to take a little nap Kendall, relax. This all can be dealt with later. Get some rest and you’ll wake up a new person. 

I didn’t sleep. Even with my eyes shut, I felt light-headed and pressure pounded my skull.

Our game ended and our physiotherapist entered the room. She attempted to alleviate my pain with a neck massage. She theorized that my neck tightness was a huge contributor to my disorientation.

The team doctor then appeared and asked if I had played in the heat since I arrived In Australia. He speculated that I may have a heat stroke. We practiced at night so the afternoon temperature was hotter than usual, but his remark was a blow to my ego. I like to think my mind and body are strong enough to deal with a little extra heat. Although at this point, I didn’t know what to think.

My housemates, AM and Lara, then walked into the room. I looked at them and broke into tears. I tried to explain to them how I felt. Through wet eyes, I told them I just wanted to leave.

The doctor and physiotherapist were out of sight. I gathered my bags and we headedout the stadium.

AM, a physiotherapist herself, asked if I remembered getting hit in the head during the game.

“What? No, I didn’t get hit.”

AM looked concerned. She talked to multiple girls on my team and they all witnessed a ball get blasted into my face.

I teared up even more. I was confused, with zero recollection of this incident.

AM explained that memory loss and being overly emotional are signs of a concussion and recommended we go to the hospital to get a CT scan and MRI.

AM called our team doctor to update him on the drive to the hospital. She explained to him that my teammates saw me get hit in in the head, but I didn’t remember, and that she suspects I have a concussion. The doctor asked to talk to me.

I grabbed the phone.

“Hello”

“How are you feeling Kendall” he asked

“I feel the same, I still don’t feel good.”

“Do you remember getting hit?”

“No”

“Ok, I thought you might have had a heat stroke and rest would help. But sounds like you might have a concussion if you got hit. I have to go to the guys game, but Am will take care of you and I will check in after.” He hung up before I could respond.

I felt strange.

We arrived at the the emergency room and I flashbacked to my last season’s emergency room visit; a processor to a 7 night all-inclusive stay, when I snuck out of my hospital bed to see Chelsea Handler at the Sydney Opera house.  (My Hospital Visit and Lessons of the Legendary Lilypad).

On my way to the front desk, blood rushed to my head. The walk over felt as if I had just gotten out of the ocean after swimming for 20 hours straight. My legs were wobbly, and I feared that one missed step would send me crumpling onto the floor in tears.

The entire process of testing, and a lot of waiting, took 3 hours.

My results came back negative. During this time, we found out it was actually another girl on the team with blond hair who got hit in the face, and not me.

At surface level, this appears comforting.

But if the scans were negative and I didn’t get hit in the head, then why on earth did I feel like this?

The hospital doctor informed me that I had a minor concussion. He handed me a medical release form and and a sheet of paper detailing standard concussion protocol. He anticipated that if I take it easy for a week, my symptoms would go away and I could resume playing soccer.

We left the hospital around 11:00pm and picked up some Indian food for dinner. I popped some anti-nausea pills and inhaled my green curry dish. An instant pick-me up. I crawled into bed around midnight. My head throbbed, but I knew I already hopped onboard the recovery train. A solid’s night rest would boost me even further and I’d be back on the pitch in no time.

Little did I know, this train had some technical difficulties.

(Future posts will highlight how these “technical difficulties”  profoundly impacted my outlook on life. Stories are meant to be shared. I’d love to hear yours, don’t hesitate to reach out)

Previous post: Why I Saw Strange Men in my Room (and am telling you about it 9 months later)

Why I Saw Strange Men in my Room (and am telling you about it 9 months later)

I have been wanting to tell my story for awhile now. But every time I went to write my eyes strained, my neck tensed up, my head throbbed and I felt nauseous. After 10 minutes, I’d lose concentration and shut my laptop.  On bad days, it was because of frustration. On good days, it was acceptance; today’s just not my day. I would convince myself that my time is coming. That I will know when the time is right.

At the early stages of my concussion, I closeted my experience. The pain I felt was deep, and I didn’t want to burden people with my afflictions. Who wanted to hear about the fact that every time I crawled out of bed, blood rushed to my head and I nearly passed out? Or that at night it felt as though someone was perpetually hammering a nail into my skull. And when the headache did subside, and I was finally able to shut my eyes, I would unexpectedly jolt awake and spring onto all fours, hyperventilating because of the strange man I swore I saw staring at me from across the room.

I honestly despise excuses and complaining.

I don’t want anyone to feel sorry for me. There are people-cancer patients, soldiers, rape victims-with far greater battles.

Plus, I like to make the most of my situations, and knew I would overcome this one eventually.

So I downplayed my symptoms to my parents. I hid tears behind closed doors. I practiced mindfulness, self-reflection, and focused on getting better.

With my physical limitations, my thoughts and feelings consumed me.

Questions swirled around: Why is this happening to me? When am I going to get better? What did I do to deserve this?

The more questions I asked, the faster the tornado spun.

I am hardwired to find answers. To get from point A to B as efficiently as possible.

But with this concussion,  I was living in a real-word version of that game at Chuck-E-Cheeses. The one where the gophers pop up and you have to smack them back into the ground. Each time you hit one, another one or two or three resurface (I swear, that game is rigged).

Every time I weathered one storm, another swarmed in. And I would re-activate problem-solving mode.

What was I trying to solve?

A while back, once I was able to tolerate minimal screen time,  I navigated my way to my blog: arrowliving.com.

The home page popped up and I scanned the quote at the center of the page:

“AN ARROW CAN ONLY BE SHOT BY PULLING IT BACKWARD. WHEN LIFE IS DRAGGING YOU BACK WITH DIFFICULTIES IT MEANS IT’S GOING TO LAUNCH YOU INTO SOMETHING GREAT. SO JUST FOCUS AND KEEP AIMING.”

Below, was the intention of my blog;

“Arrow Living is intended to inspire and encourage individuals to overcome all circumstances, even the seemingly impossible. The stories, interviews, quotes, and excerpts, are meant to motivate individuals to live the most wildly rewarding and satisfying life humanly possible.”

In that moment, it hit me.

A year ago, I had unknowingly written out my destiny. I had gotten what I asked for.  To get thrown directly into the embers of a “seemingly impossible” situation, and somehow find a way to make the most of it. A chance to perform my own case study on what it means to be an Arrow Liver.

Once I had this revelation, my motivation to get better rose even further. I couldn’t wait to overcome this concussion so I could share my story and inspire as many people as possible.

My concussion occurred while playing in Australian Women’s League. I rested, waiting for my symptoms to subside. Weeks passed, and I had little to show. I would have to postpone my story on perseverance.

After 8 weeks of stagnation, I saw a migraine specialist who told me to take a certain medication and I would be back in a matter of weeks. I started progressing quickly, and after just three training sessions, my coach played me in a game.  I made it! I thought.

I thought wrong. I played a full match, 60 more minutes than planned. By half time I was physically and emotionally depleted. The following day, my symptoms flooded over me and I was back to feeling terribly disconnected with myself.

A couple weeks later, I flew back to Oregon. With great medical and emotional support at home,  surely I’d get better and back on the field in no time.

For nearly 9 months, I have been living in a physical and mental cloud of ambiguity. My symptoms, at their worst, have prevented me from doing many things that bring me joy: play soccer, write, read, explore the outdoors, and spend time with my loved ones.

A few months ago, I hit up one of Portland’s finest treasures, Powell’s Bookstore. I ventured to the health section and stock piled every novel I could find on concussions, and sprawled out on the floor, determined to fix my brain’s ailments.  Again, I was problem-solving.  Within 20 minutes, I had to stop reading about treating concussion symptoms. Because of concussion symptoms.

A month later, having made progress,  I again decided to visit Powell’s. By the time I walked into the store’s cafe, I felt like I was engulfed by an energy-sucking vacuum. I sat down to journal, but picking up my pen felt like I was ascending Mt. Everest. The chattering couple next to me sent my brain over the ledge. I got up with the intention of walking home, but my entire body ached, and I found myself gravitating to the corner of the sci-fi section. I laid down, and pulled my sweatshirt hood over my eyes. A few minutes later, someone tapped my shoulder. I lifted my hood and a store employee was an inch away from my face.

“Excuse me you aren’t allowed to sleep here.”

I outwardly laughed at the ridiculousness of the situation, but inside I felt defeated.

For months, my journey has been a one step forward two gallops back process. Any time I set my eyes on a target date, I have been let down. And once again, I postponed telling my story.

Although physical symptoms have prevented me from writing, I recently uncovered the real reason I was withholding my story. It wasn’t to spare others.

At the eye of the tornado of my struggle was MY OWN fear.

I was safekeeping my problems until I surpassed them.

Or at least until I was on the right track.

So I could be in control and have an answer.

I believe it’s a natural human tendency to share our vulnerabilities only once we are able to wrap them up with a bow.

It’s a mechanism we use to protect ourselves.

Because society admires those who overcome tough times.

How Oprah Winfrey endured poverty and hardship to become the world’s most motivational talkshow host.  How Steve Jobs went from college drop out to founder of tech powerhouse, Apple. How Major league baseball player Mike Lowell overcame cancer and went on to win the World Series.

Through the media, we often hear of these stories post-struggle. Once they’ve made it.  It’s truly inspiring.

But there may be something more brave and powerful about divulging unsolved issues. About confessing that you are trying everything possible, but still have nothing to show for it. That you are scared out of your mind not knowing how things are going to turn out.

The more I exchange my story with others, the more people share with me their own battles, and I realize we are all ultimately chasing the same underlying feeling of worthiness.

Whether it’s losing weight, earning a promotion or finding a soulmate,  we often theorize, that once we figure out our most pressing issue, everything will fall into place and we will finally achieve these feelings.

I believe this thinking is fruitless and flawed.

Once we tackle one challenge, another one will undoubtedly present itself. Life is a never ending string of obstacles. We will never have everything figured out.

Sometimes, the strongest thing we can do, is allow ourselves to be present and accept where we are right now. To understand that everything we are feeling—from the hopelessness of lying on the Powell’s bookstore floor, to the radical acceptance in reading Arrow Living’s home page—is real. To trust that everything is going to work out.

That it’s okay to simultaneously not have all the answers, yet still have an unwavering belief in my ultimate vision.

That if I am intentional in my actions to be the best I can be, to discover my truest self and fulfill my purpose, then by the law of momentum, good things are bound to happen.

This is my endless story of Arrow Living.

p.s. If you need to contact me I’ll be curled up at Powell’s in the self-help section

p.s.s I no longer see strange men in my room, but in future posts I’m going to backtrack to the beginning of my concussion when I did, and reveal the revelations that have gotten me to where I am today-still Arrow Living

Dear Nonie, one last letter on love and traveling every day

Dear Nonie,

It’s been a year since you sent me that email, and I’ve yet to respond. As the old saying goes, better late than never.

I’m not sure how Lillian is, but I have no doubt she’s holding her own and showering her wisdom on all she meets. Even through that whole hospital ordeal, I never actually got my appendix taken out. They put me on antibiotics and told me to take it easy for the next 4 weeks. If you ask me, I can think of worst places to be instructed to take it easy.

I was released from the hospital just in time for Molly’s visit.  I made sure to follow the doctors strict orders. We camped in Booderee National Park on the edge of an isolated beach amongst a family of kangaroos and went on a Jervis Bay cruise where wild dolphins danced alongside our boat.

Then, my mom and dad flew in and we road-tripped on the Great Ocean Road alongside breathtaking beach views, and continued on to Phillip Island where, at sunset, we witnessed thousands of penguins waddle from the ocean to the the beach for a nights rest in their burrows.

The more I travel, the more I understand why you backpacked 40 plus countries. From your animated stories of Istanbul, Machu Picchu and elsewhere, I’m convinced that adventuring lights up your soul in a similar way it does for me.

After our Australian adventures, my dad flew home, but my mom and I trekked on to conquer a slice of New Zealand.

We flew into Queenstown and were immediately immersed in the country’s unique flare; vast snow-capped mountain ranges, rolling green hills, brilliant blue waters; a combination of California and Oregon on all-natural, grass-fed steroids. The kind of images that look photoshopped in National Geographic magazines. To this day, it’s one of my favorite places I’ve ever visited. It’s also hands down one of the worst.

On our last day in Queenstown, my mom and I planned to bike around Lake Wakatipu.  The sun rises there around 4am and sets after 11pm, optimal for anyone who likes to carpe diem.

We woke up early and headed to a travel information shop to inquire about bike rentals. The window was plastered with “free-wifi” signs. Free wifi was difficult to come by and I was excited to check-in with people back at home. We entered and connected to the internet. My mom’s phone lit up with a message from my dad and Gary telling her to give them a call as soon as she could. She dialed my dad.

And that’s when I sensed something was wrong.

You know my mom, I swear she’s made of more stone than the Great Wall of China.  She doesn’t shed a tear easily. I asked her what happened. With her hands buried in her face, she muttered your name.

What?

Why?

How?

I didn’t understand it. I didn’t believe it. It didn’t make sense.

You were the one taking care of Allan. You just sent me that email. You just placed an order to send me another batch of your friend’s delectable slow-roasted hazelnuts. We were supposed to plan our cruise trip together.

I didn’t get to respond to your letter.

Big events, often tragedies, jolt us from our mundane routines and force us to focus on what’s important in life. Why does it take such catastrophic events to gain perspective?

I recently read the book Tuesdays with Morrie, about a 70 year-old professor diagnosed with Lou Gehrig’s Disease. His body was slowly deteriorating. Death was inevitable,  yet he had the most positive outlook on life. Every Tuesday, his past college student would visit and ask Morrie questions regarding life. The student asked Morrie if he was worried about death and being remembered.

Morrie answered, “no, love is how you live on.”

I certainly felt your love when you were physically here, but now, I feel it in an indescribably more powerful way.

One reason I think your love is engrained in me and countless others, is because of your endless travels. With traveling, the purpose is to explore the territory, the culture, and the people. Each morning, you wake up with a curiosity and excitement to see things you’ve never seen before. When you meet people on the journey you tend to open up faster because it’s uncertain if you’ll ever reacquaint.

With each new expedition, you understand that the world is full of more beautiful things and people than we are physically capable of experiencing. It’s eye-opening and humbling, and spurs self-discovery.

When the trip is over, we arrive home in the wee hours,  jet-lagged, often dreading going “back to reality.” But you, instead, would wake up the next day as if the vacation hadn’t ended; with that same sense of wonder and keen awareness of all around you.

At your trip to the grocery store, you would treat the butcher like she was the Queen of England. When you would come to my youth soccer games, it was as if you were watching a Barcelona vs Real Madrid Champions League final. When you walked into Anthropologie, you would touch the embroidered jackets as if they were handwoven delicacies from India.

Every day was a travel day for you.

You lived fearlessly, sincerely absorbing each person and moment to their fullest capacity.

And because of this, as Morrie responded, your love lives on.

It shouldn’t take a car accident, a terrorist attack, or an unexpected illness to gain perspective.  And I know I don’t have to be in Zimbabwe or Croatia or Lagos to appreciate the moment.

Every day should be a travel day. I should expect to witness miraculous things and meet life-changing people. As you’ve shown me, if you allow yourself to be open-minded and astutely present, you will appreciate life’s simple, yet profound, pleasures.

Even though a whole year has already passed, I still hear your cheerful “how is my favorite person in the whole wide world?” during our weekly phone calls and your infectious laughter at family gatherings. Sadness still comes in waves, but it’s always blanketed in an irreplaceable warmth: your fearless love.

I miss you every day but I promise that no matter where I am or what I am doing, I travel with you.

Love you always,

Kendall

Throwing Away 9 Trash Bags Full of my Belongings Changed my Life

On every away trip I travel with a banana in my bag. I rarely anticipate traveling with the banana, but before I leave the house, there’s always one banana on the counter staring me down, begging not to be left behind. I give in and chuck the thing in my bag with the intention of eating it on the plane ride. Yet, without fail, I always forget I packed the banana until I arrive at the hotel. I open my bag and find a sticky, smeared brown mash covering the innards of my bag.

The vomity goo serves as a blatant reminder of one of my least favorite qualities; I am a slob.

Before I could talk, my parents nicknamed me SQ, short for Spill Queen. An average meal ended with mac and cheese splayed across the kitchen floor. As I grew older, my biggest fights with my parents revolved around my messy room. They’d ask me to pick up my stuff and I’d stall as long as possible.  Usually, they laid down an ultimatum and threatened to call my friend’s mom to tell her I wouldn’t be able to have our much anticipated weekend sleepover. Only then, would I give in, pile up all my belongings from the floor, and chuck them into my closet with just enough space to shut the door.

This is not something I’m proud of. I dislike my slobby tendencies and have failed many times in attempt to become tidier. After a deep clean of my room, I’d swear on my Eeyore pillow pet that this would be the day that I consistently put away my belongings. One week later, I’d be back to square one.

I simply accepted that I was an unfortunate beneficiary of this irreversible personality trait.

But then, awhile back I was at a family dinner and my mother informed me of a book she started reading;  “The Life Changing Magic of Tidying Up.”  I had never before witnessed someone so animated about organizing and cleaning.  My brothers, dad, and I rolled our eyes as she explained the book’s philosophy which involved clothes having feelings and a tutorial on how to fold your clothes.

I left the conversation intrigued, but not sold. I always have heaps of books that are on my to-read-next list, and a book detailing how to clean wasn’t a worthy addition.

A couple days later, my team and I landed after a late-night flight. We arrived at our hotel near midnight and I zombie-walked to our room, eager to hit the hay as soon as I reached my bed. I zipped open my bag to grab my pajamas, and felt something sticky on my fingertips. Another smeared banana.

You’ve got to be kidding me! This was the last straw. I was fed up with having to wash my bag after every trip. I’d had enough of this monkey business. Tomorrow I would start the “Life Changing Magic of Tidying Up.”

The book commenced with a background of the author Marie Kondo. When Marie was in middle school, she hid in her classroom and tidied up the bookshelves while her classmates were outside running around in PE class. She spent her free-time scouring magazines and articles for the newest methods of organizing. After school, she’d hurry home to emulate these techniques in her own room. Now at 30 years-old, Marie has established herself as an organizing consultant.

Right off the bat, Marie’s undeniable passion intrigued me and embodied an Arrow Living mindset. This is someone who managed to create a career around her obsession of tidying.

Marie went on to explain that messy rooms aren’t due to a lack of skill, but rather a lack of awareness. Only a select few organize naturally. All this time, I blamed myself for my inability to stay clean, but Marie was telling me it’s not entirely my fault. I was starting to dig this chick.

Marie claimed that her method, if followed, will allow you to be tidy for the rest of your life. I took out my pen and a pad of paper, and vigorously took notes.

I finished the book in two days and am convinced Marie cast a spell on me. I could not be more excited to get home to begin the tidying process. Who was Marie turning me into? I didn’t know, but I liked it.

Due to the vagabond lifestyle of a professional women’s soccer player, the majority of my clothes reside at my parent’s place. Once we landed back in Portland, I drove straight to their home to begin the organizing.

Marie’s first step is to choose a category and place every item you own of this category into the same vicinity.

I decided to be aggressive and tackle my biggest category first; clothes. My closet is jam-packed with 12 year old soccer cleats, holey socks, high school memorabilia , yellow-but-supposed-to-be-green weathered shirts, Forever 21 star-ladened belts, and every free t-shirt I’d ever caught at a sporting event. I keep most everything with the thought process of “maybe next year my sparkly crop top with embroidered artificial diamonds will be trendy.”

But that was the “pre-meeting Marie” me. Now that Marie was my homegirl, I was inspired to make moves. I heaved every shirt, jacket, pant, scarf, skort, and purse out of my closet and into the middle of my room.

After compiling all of my clothes into the same arena, I realized a few things. First, I am a raging tea bag and gum wrapper hoarder. I could open up my own tea shop with the amount of spare tea bags I found dispersed throughout my coat pockets and backpacks. And I could then decorate the wall with a 10 foot by 10 foot edgy art piece solely consisting of vibrant 5 gum wrappers.

But even more startling was the amount of clothes I’ve acquired over my lifetime-especially for an anti-shopper like myself. I want to gauge my eye balls out when I walk into a store and see a plain grey V neck shirt that is the same price as a four-course steakhouse dinner.  I appreciate shopping occasionally, but I’m more a one shop and done person.  Then I crave my eye mask, some chamomile tea, and a nap with my dog.

Next, I began the second step: purging. In the past, I’ve gotten rid of things because I simply didn’t like them, or for size issues. For instance,  I’ll part ways with my middle school dress only because it now fit like a skin-tight tank top.

But my girl Marie had a different way of looking at it. Marie instructs you to take each item of clothing, hold it, feel it, do what you need to do with it, then ask yourself the question “Does this bring me joy?” If it does, then you may keep the item. If not, or if you even doubt your love for it, then it goes in the discard pile. You need not feel guilty about getting rid of anything, even if the purchase ripped a hole through your wallet or your grandma gifted it to you for your Quinceañera. Marie explains that the item brought you joy at some point, thus it’s served its purpose. Thank it and move on knowing it will bring someone else joy.

I am firm believer that a successful life revolves around experiencing happiness. We should be doing things that make us happy in the present moment or in the foreseeable future. In order to achieve this joy, we should surround ourself with positive supportive people, and take actions that trigger enjoyment.

Yes, many times we perform tasks that don’t immediately elicit happiness- like running hill sprints, paying taxes, and voluntarily entering the torture chamber that some call the dentist office-but the reason for these actions, almost always comes down to the fact that it will eventually make us happy.

I’ve made a conscious effort to follow these happiness guidelines. Yet up until now, I’d severely overlooked the significance of my room. The space that bookmarks ever single one of my days. The space I come home to, slide under the covers, and shut my eyes to absorb all of the day’s insights.  Then,  9 hours later I open my eyes to this space, verifying that I’ve been given the opportunity to live another day.  Yet I’ve cluttered this sacred space with meaningless and outdated items.

There are many circumstances in life that are out of control. But we do have the ability to dictate what items surround us and I’ve realized that all my life I’ve unnecessarily immersed myself with “okay” items.  But I’m not okay with living an okay life. I’m not okay with okay dreams or okay relationships. I want insanely rewarding and fulfilling experiences. If I want to achieve maximum happiness, it’s logical to create a living quarter filled with things that ultimately align with this innate desire.

After asking “does this bring me joy?” to my underwear, socks, and hundreds of other items, I gained a pretty solid understanding of what brings me happiness. Since then, I’ve used this question as a filter beyond my linens and garments.

“Does this bring me joy” is an invaluable question because it discourages deep analytical thinking or outside influences. It’s an emotional question that is based on intuition that only you can answer.

It’s pretty transparent whether something elicits or will elicit joy. This allows us to hone in on our self-judgement and get a better sense of who and what we want in life, and then take steps towards living in alignment with these values.

Through asking this question, I eliminated 9 garbage bags full of belongings. Holy s*&t!(pun intended).

After purging, Marie then tells you to put your clothes in their designated home and fold them the “Kon Mari” way. The standard stacking clothes method, leaves the poor clothes at the bottom of the drawer neglected and suffocated. The Kon Mari method allows each item to stand up vertically, giving the clothes life and making each item visible. The method essentially brings the clothes to life.

 After fully completing the entire process, I can verify that Marie’s title, “The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up”, is warranted.

 It’s been months since my re-vamp and I can honestly say I’m a new woman. I’m not only tidier, but I feel a sense of relief and bliss when I enter my room. I am happier and I am the first to admit that it’s weird. Really weird. I never in a million years thought tidying up would have such a profound impact on my life. Occasionally, I let my clothes pile up and I still spill on myself at meals. Some things never change. But one of the most revolutionary byproducts of the process: I haven’t had to deal with any smeared bananas since. Does that bring me joy? Yes, yes it does.

The Key Ingredient to Success: A Honey Baked Ham

At age 8, my mom scheduled an impromptu family beach trip. I politely informed her that the trip didn’t fit my itinerary. I am all about family time, but the U.S women’s National team was playing in the World Cup and I couldn’t afford to miss a minute of the action.  My mom assured me that the games were televised at our beach house, but that the games kicked off in the middle of the night due to the time difference in China. I didn’t care if they played at 3am, it was my duty to cheer my team to victory.

We struck a deal. I’d attend our family trip so long as my mom promised to wake me up 1 minute (and no earlier) before each U.S game. She agreed. We piled into our white Suburban and headed to the beach. Each night, somewhere between 2:00-4:00am my mom crept into my room and shook me awake. For the next two hours, my eyes were glued to our 12 inch by 12 inch television in admiration. After the final whistle blew, I sunk my head into my pillow, and dreamt of playing in red, white, and blue.

The World Cup final fortunately aired during the daytime, so my whole family spectated the historical event. I distinctly remember, Brandi Chastain netting the game-winning pk, simultaneously ripping her jersey off and sliding to her knees. Making history.  An indescribable surge rippled through my body like I’d never felt before. I want that. And that’s when my whole life started revolving around soccer.

A few weeks later, I was scouring my favorite clothing store, Nike, when I spotted a shirt that defined my current existence.  A fairly simple white garment, adorned with a soccer ball, but its content stole the show.  Across the front read “I don’t play soccer, I live it.” I tore the shirt off the hanger and flung it over my existing outfit. An impeccable fit. I knew Nike handcrafted that shirt specifically for me.  And I expressed my gratitude by wearing it morning, day, and night.  Each rip and mud-stain acquired from playing soccer only added to it’s authenticity.

“I don’t play soccer I live it” became my motto. I capitalized on any opportunity to transcribe the words onto another object. A pin at my elementary school arts and crafts fair. A plate from the classic “paint your own ceramics” birthday party.

My grandma lived in Bend, Oregon, surrounded by farmland. My friends and I often biked around the country roads and anytime we came across farm animals we named them. One day, we spotted 7 llamas. Can you guess what I labeled them?  “I”, “don’t, “play”. “soccer”, “I”, “Live”, and “it”. Obviously.

My infatuation continued into the following year. Every birthday, my grandma hosts  a celebratory dinner for the “birthday child.” On my special 9th birthday, I dawned my Mia Hamm, number 9 jersey. With the inception of our “number 9” connection, Mia now ranked in the top 3 of my favorite soccer players, behind, Tiffany Milbrett and Brandi Chastain.

After dinner, I opened a few presents. I doubted anyone would beat my grandma’s gift; a glow in the dark soccer ball. But my Aunt T and Uncle Gary’s present gave the ball a run for its money.  I ripped the wrapping paper off the package and uncovered a slab of honey baked ham with the number 9 taped onto it. They gifted me a “Mia Ham.”

My childhood consisted of late night juggling sessions, perfecting the “rainbow”, competing in made-up games with friends such as who could kick the ball over the highest telephone wire at my nearby park, watching behind-the-scenes youtube videos of the National team. In middle school, I discovered the racquetball courts in our athletic club and my life changed forever. I ignored the sign clearly stating “these courts are for racquetball use ONLY!” and kicked the ball against the wall until the management lady came in and scolded me. I’d act as if I was unaware of the rule, apologize, and then come back again the next day.  I didn’t play soccer, I lived it.

Parents often ask me what their children need to do to take their game to the next level. What skill should they learn? What club team should they play for? What about colleges?

I give them my two cents, but the truth is, nothing I tell them matters. There’s no one-size-fits-all recipe for success. Every elite athlete has a unique story. They come from different hometowns, club teams, social classes, and experience their own setbacks.

But amongst this class remains one common denominator; an obsession. They feel something deep within. A calling. When people discover that “one thing” that brings them an indescribable feeling, it naturally consumes their thoughts. It becomes ingrained into who they are as a person. It creates an unwavering hunger that propels them to focus and commit to mastering it.

I recently toured the Stumptown Coffee roasters headquarters in Portland. There is a man whose occupation is to sample the coffee imported from their other roasting locations to ensure quality and consistency. After 15 years of studying and being a barista, he’s apparently developed one of the most sophisticated coffee palettes in the world. He literally drinks java for a living. A dream career, undoubtedly spearheaded by obsession.

For me, soccer gives me those fiery sensations. My infatuation goes beyond the game itself. I love exploring the cities we play at, learning and reading during recovery time, beating personal fitness records, and meeting equally passionate like-minded people.

Whenever I face a setback in my career, I always think back to my childhood. Blasting balls against the chain-linked baseball fence at the park. Juggling with my friends until we surpassed a set number. The whistle blowing, tuning out all outside factors and playing instinctually. This raw passion ultimately led me to where I am today and is the reason I am still hungrier for more.

Parents often ask me what their children need to do to take their game to the next level. What skill should they learn? What club team should they play for? What about colleges?

    I give them my two cents, but the truth is, nothing I tell them matters. There’s no one-size-fits-all recipe for success. Every elite athlete has a unique story. They come from different hometowns, club teams, social classes, and experience their own setbacks.

But amongst this class remains one common denominator; an obsession. They feel something deep within. A calling. When people discover that “one thing” that brings them an indescribable feeling, it naturally consumes their thoughts. It becomes ingrained into who they are as a person. It creates an unwavering hunger that propels them to focus and commit to mastering it.

I recently toured the Stumptown Coffee roasters headquarters in Portland. There is a man whose occupation is to sample the coffee imported from their other roasting locations to ensure quality and consistency. After 15 years of studying and being a barista, he’s apparently developed one of the most sophisticated coffee palettes in the world. He literally drinks java for a living. A dream career, undoubtedly spearheaded by obsession.

For me, soccer gives me those fiery sensations. My infatuation goes beyond the game itself. I love exploring the cities we play at, learning and reading during recovery time, beating personal fitness records, and meeting equally passionate like-minded people.

Whenever I face a setback in my career, I always think back to my childhood. Blasting balls against the chain-linked baseball fence at the park. Juggling with my friends until we surpassed a set number. The whistle blowing, tuning out all outside factors and playing instinctually. This raw passion ultimately led me to where I am today and is the reason I am still hungrier for more.

I don’t play soccer, I live it.

That One Time I got Impaled by a Pole Stake

Playing Sky Blue FC this weekend brought back a surge of memories from living in New Jersey during the previous two NWSL seasons. Any time I revisit a place, it inevitably brings back an influx of memories. In Jersey, there’s one particular moment that will forever be ingrained in both my mind and body: That one time I was impaled by a pole stake.

On a blustery Tuesday afternoon, May 13th, 2014, to be exact, my teammates and I rolled up to training. The field was divided into four sectors for an inter-squad 3v3 tournament. Each field was lined with cones, and had poles acting as goal posts. These particular poles were plastic, but had metal rods at the ends that were used to stake them into the ground.

As professional athletes, we live for tournaments like these, and when our coach blew the game-starting whistle it was all business. After 20 minutes of play, my team had secured two victories, and we were now honing in on our third. Up one goal with less than a minute left in the game, we confidently possessed the ball around our opposition.  Suddenly though, we made an errant pass.The other team, quickly grabbed hold of the ball and fired a long range shot that was on target to roll between the poles for a goal. In a final attempt to stop the ball from crossing the goal line, I slid my body down to the muddy ground. Due to the wet surface, I slid much further than anticipated and my momentum drove me through the pole, snapping it in half and taking it out of the ground with me. Mid-slide, I felt a sharp sensation. At first, I thought it was simply my heart’s disappointment in my failed effort to save the goal. But then I glanced down at the exact point of pain to see that the pole had lodged into the back of my thigh.

“What the!?…” Before I could even end my exclamation with an explicit, I yanked the pole out of my leg and blood instantly gushed up in the air. I kid you not, the blood shot straight up like it does in the movies. My teammates came rushing over and Taka, our assistant coach, immediately applied pressure to the wound with his hand. Meanwhile, I stared intently at the ground, practiced my deep breathing exercises and continuously repeated “I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay!”

My teammate, Sophie Schmidt, was standing above consoling me, “It’s not that bad Kendall.” I couldn’t see her face, but apparently she was shaking her head left to right with her eyebrow’s worriedly raised. Regardless, her soothing voice made me feel at ease.

After the bleeding finally simmered down, my teammate, Maddie Thompson, drove me to the hospital.

After an examination, they decided against stitching up the deep wound to avoid risk of infection. Instead, they x-rayed the wounded area, cleaned out the divot, gave me a little rabies-prevention shot, and sent me on my merry way. After a few very sore days of rest, I was back at it with a newfound appreciation and reminder of some important life lessons:

Role with the punches and poles

It’s always ideal to have a plan in place of what we want to accomplish and where we want to go in life. Having a well thought-out system allows us to stay focused and reminds us of the reason behind our actions. Yet, undoubtedly, situations aren’t going to go as anticipated. Things will get in the way. In our last game, for instance, it was the ref who got in my way.

If we let these unexpected happenings bring us down, then we are preventing ourselves from reaching our potential. For me, I’d still be impaled and/or eating the turf at Providence Park. Nothing good happens when we remain stagnant after a setback.

It’s crucial to control what we can control and make the best of every situation, even the difficult ones. As the old saying goes, “roll with the punches”- in my case, the poles.

Pull the stake out 

Evidently it’s not the most intelligent decision to immediately pull out objects that are imbedded into your body part because it could cause you to bleed out and die or something like that.  I’m sorry, but if I see something lodged into my leg that doesn’t belong, it’s coming out STAT. In the heat of the moment, I acted on my instinct.  When we listen to our gut, rather than analyze situations, we are acting in our most authentic form. Even if it’s not the “right” choice, trusting my instincts always leaves me without any regrets. If our instinct happens to be wrong, we can learn from it and adjust in the future.

Stab Your Fear

Before this incident I had a legitimate fear of being stabbed. I assume and hope most people have a general opposition to impalement, but this was honestly one of my bigger fears in life. Yet, now that it happened, it honestly wasn’t as bad as I thought. CAUTION: I AM NOT RECOMMENDING VOLUNTARILY STABBING YOURSELF TO OVERCOME A FEAR. but I truly believe the best way to overcome a fear is to face it head on. Whether it be public speaking, asking someone on a date, or standing up for what we believe in, the more we do that very thing that scares us, the more comfortable we will feel doing it. Most often, it’s never as bad as we anticipated, and it’s often incredibly invigorating afterwards. I am now no longer afraid of sharp objects. Again, please don’t go stabbing yourself, but rather, stab your fear.

A year has passed and I have a beautiful little scar on the back of my thigh. It’s a reminder that there is always a lesson to be learned, even in the most ridiculous situations.  Before you get discouraged from an unexpected happening, stay strong and  and think about what’s at stake (pun unintended). You could be piercing (pun slightly-intended) your dreams. It’s important you stab (ok I lied, all these puns are intended) your fears.  For your stake and mine (pun fully intended), trust your gut.  Alright I apologize, all these jabs are undermining the true points of this story. Learn from everything, for heaven stakes!