When I finally came out of the food addiction closet, it was like a goddamn flower blooming.
A swell of thunder rolling across the landscape.
Sasha Fierce emerging on stage.
Now, don’t get me wrong, it was a long, often painful, trembling-in-my-bra scary transformation. Even Beyoncé had to unearth Sasha one back-breaking rehearsal at a time.
Nonetheless, it has been a transformation worthy of parades, fireworks, and drag queen karaoke.
Because, frankly, now I’m fun.
When I was binge eating large, stuffed-crust pizzas for one, and crying into jars of Nutella, my only motivation was:
Fix yourself, you fucking loser!
Now, my motivation propelling everything I do goes like this:
I want to feel Abundant like an Egyptian queen in gold
Connected like a hippy in an Appalachian commune
Creative like Georgia O’keefe in New Mexico
Sexy, like…well, I’ll keep that one to myself.
Selfishly, I want as many women in the world as possible to be living in this freedom, too. Because I want to party with you!
I want to be girlfriends.
I want to have heart to hearts sitting cross-legged on the couch, our eyes dewy and our lips stained red with Syrah.
I want to meet you at Goddess Circles and hold your hand while the tarot deck is drawn.
I want to read your witty, sassy Facebook post about how you embraced the stretch marks on your thighs while on your Tindr date last night. I want to “love” it.
I want to hear about your idea so I can tell you it’s brilliant and, yes, you can so make it happen. How can I help?
I want to dance on the beach with all of you under the moon, around a fire, bellies burning with whiskey. What jiggle?
I want to try a new recipe in your kitchen.
I want to experience your art.
THIS is my selfish motivation.
It’s not that I want more women like me. I want more you. Every single one of you. The whole, bold, brilliant you.
The you who smiles and introduces herself when I take the seat across from you at the cafe .
The you who doesn’t anticpate cancelling plans due to a food hangover.
The you who laughs from the belly, that belly you don’t cover with crossed arms.
The you who isn’t waiting on the weight.
I want our hearts to make out.
This is my confession.