iambeauchamp

[iambeauchamp]

Giving Thanks

Quite possibly the only good thing about today’s white-washed-nationalist-made-up holiday, other than the food, is that it prompts the soul to reflect. This year, I’ll be writing those reflections down for a change.

A year ago I spent my first Thanksgiving away from home. For 27 years straight, I had never been away from my family on this holiday. And it was hard. I spent the day with my, then, girlfriend, and a community of other graduate students. The food was wonderful, but it wasn’t my mother’s. I was deep in a hole of depression and anxiety, with no end in sight. I was tired. I wished so badly to come home - in every sense of the word.

I like to think all of the good karma I’ve sent out into world came back to me the day I was offered my job at Wellesley. All of the tears, loneliness, anger, frustration, and fear over the last two years had been witnessed by the universe, and she was rewarding me for my sacrifice. She knew that my soul felt both empty and heavy at the same time, and that the only place that could heal me was the ground where I was fully awakened to the power of my own brain, heart, and voice. My heart was in need of holding, and Boston was filled with hands that could take turns doing so.

The past six months have proven to me that the universe (and hard fucking work) will bring you to where you need to be. Reconnecting with people who were present for the liberation of your brain, heart, and voice is humbling. Spending time with people who you do not have to explain context to for every story is healing. Working with students who you witness carrying on a legacy of passionately pursuing justice and freedom is restorative. Seeing different parts of yourself reflected in the faces around you is a special kind of homecoming.

At the same time, it has been wonderful to add so many new people to my Boston chosen family. Friends of friends. Partners of friends. Coworkers. Roommates. People who have revived my ability to be vulnerable. To open myself up and share the best of me without reservation or fear.

Unlike last year, my soul feels both weightless and full this Thanksgiving. I have begun to let go of the emotional weight that was graduate school. The remaining scars are testaments to my own strength and resilience, and reminders of the people who picked me up every time I fell during that journey. The anxiety still rears it’s ugly head every once in a while, but the abundance of love and light that now surrounds me forces that head to turn the fuck back around so so so quickly.

My thoughts end here, because I’m being called to help with the stuffing. Not only do I have Boston, my Island of Misfit Toys, and Wellesley to be thankful for this year - but I also have my mother’s cooking. I hope, even among chaos and pain, you, reader, are able to find reasons to give thanks this year.

With love and stuffing,

AMB

[iambeauchamp]

Notes from the Resistance: Day 365

365 days have passed since my chest felt like it would collapse under the weight of my grief. The kind of grief that leaves you numb. Unable to even trick yourself into productivity, because the feeling of hopelessness has seeped into your bones; and they now require three times the effort to move half as far. The world required that my body return to business as usual, but that proved to be impossible.

I remained in the cocoon of the Mothership for days after America stole every cell of hope from my body. Tucked away in a corner of the Wellesley College archives, I tried my hardest to not stain primary documents with my tears. I combed through binders and file folders full of yellowed religion departmental notes, dogeared Wellesley News articles, and pre-WWII era exams to unearth the mysteries of liberal arts curriculum change. I uncovered op-ed letters to the Wellesley News from Hillary Rodham, then a hopeful Candidate for Student Education Committee Representative.

Too soon. Quickly I repack all documents, thank the archivists, and run from the library as swiftly as my heavy, hopeless, bones will carry me. I cry the entire drive back to Kaden’s, and order too much Chinese food for dinner. I return to the library the next day to reenact the same scene, but this time I remember my lines. I remember my courage and confront the pain in the name of graduate research. Our deepest learning always comes from confronting pain.  

After three days spent in the safety of my cocoon, I began the journey back to Indiana, where I knew I would be expected to trek the remaining miles up Graduate School Mountain. As if this carefully calculated expedition made any sense to me in the new world order in which I found myself. In the shadows of hatred’s ascendance to power and my own uncertainty, I slowly began to piece together a new purpose. Little did I️ know at the time, but the purpose I was building would bring me back home to my cocoon once more. This time to begin a labor of love. 

Because I have no wish to write a novel at this time, a quick run down of my personal data captures the amount of healing my heart and soul have magically undergone over the last 365 days.

# of master’s degrees completed: 1

# of therapy appointments to get through the remaining months of said master’s degree: 12

# of articles published in peer-reviewed journals: 1

# of partners my heart had to let go of: 1

# of crossfit classes that reminded me that healing begins with loving my body: not enough

# of text messages from friends reminding me that they were there to catch me post-election: enough to make me cry at the sheer amount of love that I never realized I had poured into the universe

# of Program Manager positions I now fill at Wellesley College: 1

# of brothers I have watched graduate from college: 1

# of student loan payments made: 1

# of visits to Indiana since graduation: 1

# of regrets about going back to Indiana: 0

# of times my parents have warned me that holding onto anger is not good for my soul: 4

# of times I have missed my CLDC students since graduation: 100

# of people who helped me move into my new Boston apartment: 5

# of roommates I have in Boston: 2

# of cats that try and sneak under my bed when I leave my bedroom door open: 1

# of vacations since graduation: 3

# of Wellesley weddings attended: 3

# of Wellesley couples that I am now a regular third wheel to: 2

# of family members that survived Maria: All of them

# of protests attended: 4

# of protest signs hung throughout my Boston apartment: 3

# of new friendships born from Brookwood Community Farm work-share job: 3

# of new vegetables I’ve learned how to cook as a result of Brookwood Community Farm work-share job: SO MANY

# of moments I am inspired by my Wellesley Ministrare students: I’ve lost count

# of Lumpkin seminar sessions I co-taught this summer: 8

# of Lumpkin seminar sessions that I will lead teach next summer: 8

# of Wellesley students I advise on a regular basis: 5

# of Tanner presentations I advised: 2

# of times my heart has been surprised to realize that, even after heartbreak, it can still skip a beat: 3

Tonight, I sat on my couch watching election results after 365 days of healing. The results were almost too much to process. A portrait of an electorate roused from its slumber. Democratic gubernatorial candidates winning critical battleground states. The first transgender woman elected to a state legislature. Women of color making history at all levels of government. It almost feels as though the universe (coaxed by the love and labor of millions of community organizers) is trying to overcompensate for the mess it left on my doorstep 365 days ago.

It took a long 365 days to get here, but I accept your gifts of contrition, universe.

[iambeauchamp]

Standing proudly under my Rainbow.

The below piece was originally posted to my personal Facebook page on June 2, 2017. Without realizing it at the time, I finally found the courage to put into words my decade long coming out story. Word on the street is that it will make you feel things. Read at your own risk. 

Yesterday marked the beginning of PRIDE celebrations across the country, and, after 12 years on this journey to self love, I wrote down some feelings. Be forewarned, I have a lot of them.

17. I was 17 when the feeling first hit me like a brick. It took my breath away. It terrified me. It made me feel ashamed. Not only was I a woman, not only was I a Latina, but now I also felt butterflies for WOMEN?! I wouldn’t survive this. I couldn’t be all three of these things and survive this world. My body started to disappear. People asked if I had been dieting. Massive depression and anxiety made for a great diet plan.

Suffocation. I cut off oxygen to this embarrassing part of myself all of senior year. I hid it until, in the last few weeks of the school year, I was outed to a wide circle of friends by the woman to whom I had entrusted my biggest secret. The woman who had become my best friend because our secrets were the same. That kind of betrayal never leaves you. My parents asked why I was so unhappy in those final weeks of high school. “I just hate that school. I can’t wait to leave.”

Escape. Wellesley was my escape plan. A place with girls who openly dressed like boys. A place where being Gay made you a good kind of special. A place where women holding hands was normal. It became my sanctuary. I learned how to become two different people. Straight Alyssa would go home and deflect questions of “Porque no tienes novio?”. Queer Alyssa would come back to campus and wipe down the rainbow colored cabinets of Cafe Hoop during her closing shifts. Straight Alyssa works in congressional offices during the summer. Queer Alyssa lies about where she is going in order to attend her first NYC PRIDE parade with Ashlee.

Compartmentalize. You slice yourself into parts. Interlocking and interchangeable. You arrange them based on how safe the room is. You can’t hide the female or the color of your skin, but you can hide the rainbow behind lipstick and pearls. Femininity makes you invisible on the Gaydar. Mission accomplished. But, wait, femininity makes you invisible on the Gaydar. Rock, meet hard place.

Revolution. I learned at Wellesley that Queer love was revolutionary. I learned that my heart was capable of loving more than two rigid gender expressions. That my ability to do so was not perverted. That I was never to feel ashamed. My heart was capable of a revolution of love. My heart was capable of one of the hardest feats: rejecting the emotional violence of deeply socialized, gendered, hetero-patriarchy. My heart learned courage.

Family. I built a chosen family at Wellesley. A family built on so much love that I was able to come out to my parents the spring of my senior year. I knew I had a home even if I was no longer welcome in my childhood bedroom.

Silence. Abandonment. Loss.

Graduation. Pretend everything is ok. Move back into childhood bedroom. Cut off oxygen to your rainbow around biological family. Text, visit, and call chosen family as often as possible. Finally land a job in DC.

Freedom. It is in DC that I continue the work of becoming my own version of Queer. I learn the power of my voice. The art of coming out as bi when you’re on dates with boys. The art of coming out as bi when you’re on dates with girls. I learn the true power of my heart. I fall in love with the souls of musicians, dreamers, advocates, lawyers, and dancers. My heart is broken by musicians, dreamers, advocates, lawyers, and dancers. Heartbreak knows no gender or sexuality. With the help of friends, I heal the wounds of heartbreak, and continue becoming.

Indiana. Too soon to talk about Indiana.

Becoming. We are never finished becoming. I am not finished revolutionarily loving. I am building the bravery to no longer interlock or interchange. I am still on the journey to find wholeness.

To all of my Queer family reading this today, on the second day of this PRIDE season, don’t forget to thank the revolutionary lovers who came before us. Especially the trans women of color on whose shoulders our movement stands on. When the state comes to claim our bodies, break apart our families, and shame our love, don’t forget that we must always be each others’ keepers.

[iambeauchamp]

I will write.

I’ve noticed a pattern developing since I graduated from my master’s program. When things in the world blow up, it is writing that helps me process my anger in response to the state of the world around me. Now that I am no longer writing out of necessity, I find the process of writing therapeutic. Before today, these exercises in emotional cleansing have largely been documented via Facebook posts. 

It would seem that the last post I made, in response to/chorus with the #metoo movement, struck a nerve with many women in my social media network, because I received messages from people I hadn’t spoken to in years. After fielding a shocking number of messages and in person conversations about the impact of my words, the positive ripple effect of modeling vulnerability, and this sea of affirmations about the power of my voice, I think it’s time for me to accept what has been staring back at me in the mirror for years. 

I am a writer. I enjoy writing. What I write is worth sharing with the world.

For years I vehemently denied that the label of “writer” applied to me. (Just ask Shelly Anand) I was just a person expressing thoughts. Other people were having the same thoughts, and could express them far more eloquently and powerfully than I could! Real writers worthy of reading had blogs! They wrote for HuffPo! They had perfectly curated Instagram accounts! My long form posts on Facebook were merely rants. I was simply a member of the choir. Not the director. Choir directors have responsibility. They lead others in the creation of something beautiful. Something powerful. Something moving. 

I always felt that the weight of these expectations would crush me. But evidence to the contrary has been piling up for years. It was during those hardest moments of my life that some of my most intensely personal pieces poured out of me. Without any hesitation. Instead of worrying about the expectations of others, I felt only the most profound freedom whenever I wrote. I began the writing process filled with anger, sadness, and fear, but found my way to hope, love, strength, and joy by the end of every piece. It is while writing that I ask myself the questions that not many people are willing to ask: So what? Where is this going? Who do you want to be at the end of this? What words do you need to release in order to breathe again? 

While I selfishly wrote each piece in pursuit of my own healing, my community’s response to my writing has been incredibly up lifting. It is because of the texts, Gchats, comments, and Facebook messages that I have now reached a place of acceptance. 

I love writing, and I am no longer afraid of the power of my own voice. 

Today I promise to come here and write when the world becomes too much. I will write for me. If what I write speaks to you, know you are merely feeling the ripple effects of freedom. 

I will write.

[iambeauchamp]

Center Stage

Scrunched up face. Hunched shoulders. Headphones in, but playing no music. Head down. Walk quickly. Retreat into yourself in public spaces. Take up as little space as possible.

The recipe for invisibility that all women learn at far too early an age. Anything to make ourselves invisible. Make ourselves ugly and unapproachable. To shield our bodies from the trauma of being cast into a show we never fucking auditioned for. I never consented to being the center of attention.

And, yet, we are never surprised when we are shoved into the spotlight. Shoved into the wall. Shoved into a different room. Forced out of our cocoon of safe invisibility. By eyes. By hands. By voices. All demanding that we relinquish our power. Our joy. Our love for our bodies.

These hands and eyes and voices are the reasons our mothers cover us up at the beach when we are only 10. They are the reason we are “gifted” pepper spray when we are just 13. They are the reason we learn to hate our bodies.

These eyes and hands and voices that make me pray for invisibility.

They have always belonged to men.

I cannot stand on this stage with my heart exposed forever, men. We cannot relive our trauma for you on demand, men.

At some point you must learn to use your eyes and hands and voices to clean up this toxic mess you have inherited.

Because I am burning this recipe card I inherited from my foremothers.

I refuse to teach my daughters to become invisible.

#metoo

[iambeauchamp]

So, how was Indiana?

Yes, I have a tumblr. Yes, I haven’t posted in like 3 years. Yes, looking through my old posts made me laugh and marvel at how much I have grown. Yes, I plan on writing more now that I have the energy, distance, and perspective to make sense of everything I’ve experienced since 2014.

Over the course of the last month I have been asked “So how was Indiana?” by more people than I can count. Now, I know they ask me in an attempt to begin to understand how this queer Puerto Rican navigated an experience at the complete opposite end of the Americana spectrum, and I trip and stumble over my words and feelings every time I attempt to answer. It wasn’t until yesterday that I realized that I had already written my most honest response to that question before I had even left Bloomington. So, in an attempt to get this answer out to as many people as possible, I am immortalizing it here. Below is the text of the speech I gave at the Latinx Graduation Ceremony. When I was nominated to be the Graduate Student Speaker, I vividly remember thinking “I am not important enough. I have not done enough. I have barely survived this place, so how can I speak kindly about it?” At the encouragement of the Director of La Casa, I still accepted the nomination. A month and a half after writing it, I now realize that this opportunity to speak was never about me being or doing enough to speak on behalf of my community. It was about me reflecting and sharing how I navigated Indiana. While my story is uniquely mine, it does not belong only to me.

And so, without further ado, I present the entire text of my speech. Or, what I personally think of as the only love letter to Indiana University that I will ever write.

May 6, 2017

Buenas tardes a todos, y FELICIDADES CLASS OF 2017! LO HICIMOS!

En este momento despido que me desculpen por el discurso que les voy a presentar a los jovenes hoy dia en Ingles.

For those who do not know me, my name is Alyssa Beauchamp, and, yesterday, I graduated from IU’s Higher Education & Student Affair’s master’s program. Now, for some of you in the room, you know that this program is ranked top 10 in the nation. But, two years ago when I announced to my dear friends and family on the east coast that I was moving to the Midwest, they couldn’t fathom WHY I would do this. For my family in New Jersey to my long time friends in Washington, DC, where I had worked for almost 5 years after graduating from undergrad, I attempted to answer the question “WHY are you you going to Bloomington, Indiana” with facts and figures about this amazing master’s program that I was about to enter. Because, honestly, I had no idea what I would find here.

After two years of blood, sweat, and tears, I know I’ve discovered the true answer to everyone’s question: Why are you moving to Bloomington, Indiana? I moved to Indiana to push myself out of my comfort zone. I moved to Indiana to carve out as much space as this singular voice could for students in my Latino community. I moved to Indiana to challenge students to deconstruct everything they were taught about what it meant to be a leader, and to be vulnerable enough to learn from each other and not just their professors. I moved to Indiana to serve as living proof to IU’s Latino undergrads that, not only was finishing your bachelor’s possible, but that they too were capable of pursuing a graduate degree. I moved to Indiana to grow under the care of outstanding faculty. I moved to Indiana to be inspired by brilliant Latina faculty members, yes I’m talking about Silvia and Mitzi. And, lastly, I moved to Indiana to create community with, probably the greatest gem of all, other Latino graduate students. It has been these phenomenal humans who have helped me get through the days and nights I never thought would end.

The support, care, and fierce love of this tiny community of graduate students helped push me to the finish line. From Willy, literally, making me homemade sopita when I was ill to Jonathan, Patty, and Gabe always being down for a “study” party to Stephanie and Gionni never letting me miss a Salsa night at Serendipity, and to my co-graduate assistant, Juanita, who has stood side by side with me as I worked through two of the hardest semesters of my life - I have been the recipient of so much love. The kind of love that reminds you that you are not alone. The kind of love that pushes you to reach higher. The kind of love that makes you feel the joy of your friends’ accomplishments in your heart. The kind of love that makes it a gut reaction to protect your familia from the hateful, racist, xenophobic, garbage that the Cheeto in Chief and his minions hurl at us on, what feels like, an almost daily basis. The courage to resist and protect is rooted in love, and, let me tell you, our collective roots run deep.

As Latinos, it is important to us that we honor the legacies of those who came before us. Family members who sacrificed everything to put down roots in new lands - all in the pursuit of a better life for their children. Mami’s, Papi’s, Tia’s, Tio’s, and Abuelitos who did backbreaking labor day in and day out so that we could even dream of this day. We, graduates, are the manifestation of our ancestors wildest dreams. Our accomplishments are not just our own. I did not walk across that stage all alone yesterday. I walked accompanied by my grandparents, Dolores, Francisco, Lula, and Juan, and my parents, Maleni and Jonas. They will all also accompany my brother when he walks across the stage to receive his bachelor’s degree at Virginia Tech next week.

After many years of growing, learning, laughing, and loving in this place, I think I can safely speak for all the graduates in the room, when I say that we will take the very best of IU with us into the next chapters of our lives. Cream and Crimson roots will beautifully intertwine with the legacies of our ancestors to help us grow higher than we ever thought possible. Even after two years, it still amazes this Boricua from Jersey that part of her roots will forever span half of the country. My roots will join the long legacy of other IU Latino graduates whose roots extend deep beneath the prettiest, warmest, and safest house on 7th street.

In closing, to my fellow graduates, as you embark out into the world and enter new spaces where you find yourselves to be the sole representative of your entire community, again, I hope these words by Toni Morrision will remind you how important it is to our community that you are there: “I tell my students, when you get these jobs that you have been so brilliantly trained for, just remember that your real job is that if you are free, you need to free somebody else. If you have some power, then your job is to empower somebody else. This is not just a grab bag candy game.”

Thank you, and, again, Congratulations Class of 2017.

[iambeauchamp]

Meh

Constant reinvention is exhausting. Can I just move out to California already??

[iambeauchamp]

4 Months in Review. a.k.a. I am a delinquent tumblr blogger.

I promised myself I would write and reflect during this holiday break, but so many things have changed in the last 4 months that I don't even know where to start. From death, to heartbreak, to Big Life Decisions, I feel like I've been put through the ringer this year. I guess let's start with the internal and work our way out.

I've lost 15 pounds (maybe more? I hate weighing myself). What started out as a small mission to lose some weight has turned into me buying work out clothes as gifts to myself and a membership at a pseudo-cross fit gym. And I absolutely love it. I am doing things now that I could have never, in a million years, thought I had the strength to do. I have also learned that the words "jerk" and "snatch" have completely different meanings in the world of Olympic weight lifting. I still smirk every time someone says them in my gym, though.

For the first time ever, someone broke my heart. Over the last two months I've picked myself up off the floor (mostly with this song on repeat), dusted myself off, and reconnected with the people and things that make me feel fulfilled again, even without romantic love. Some days are still a struggle, but I know I have worked too hard, and achieved too much, to just let myself be broken by one man. Boy, bye.

I'm letting my hair grow out again. After a year of proving to myself (and others) that girls with curly hair can rock the hipster buzz cut, I am ready to have my hair back. Not only back, but growing out the way it is supposed to. Hasta luego, relaxers.

I quit my job with the National Partnership. What I hoped was going to be my dream job, with a well known boss and kick ass organizational mission, turned out to be a horrific nightmare. There were far too many days where I could be found crying in the bathroom or in empty offices, and for reasons that made no sense to anyone who actually worked with sane and sensible people. Unfortunately, I didn't realize until 6 months into my job that the coworkers I dealt with the most, save two women who should be canonized, like yesterday, were not card carrying members of the "sane and sensible people" club. It was so bad that I quit without even having anything else lined up. I was so overwhelmed, emotionally spent, and just tired from the almost daily dose of bull shit that I had no energy at the end of my work day to look for another job. And my weekends were dedicated to recovering my own sanity, as well as doing some serious self-healing as a woman of color in a mostly white, cis-female, dominated space. Another big factor in my decision to quit was......

I APPLIED TO A GRADUATE SCHOOL PROGRAM. Being in such a shitty job really forced me to dig deep and try to figure out what jobs I've had in the past that made me happy, and why it was they did. I had a light bulb moment at lunch one day this summer, and everything just clicked: I think I am meant to be an educator. This career choice that now seems so freaking obvious (I mean, DUH) was like a happy smack in the face. I have since fully realized why this profession was not on my radar: I went to a college that made teaching seem like a profession beneath its graduates (expect for TFA, which isn't a good/supportive pathway into teaching), and I live in a country that does not value teachers. I completely understand that being a teacher, and especially a teacher in an urban area (which is where I want to be), is an uphill battle every day; but I would be upset with myself if I didn't even try. And so, I applied to the Boston Teacher Residency. A one year teacher apprenticeship and masters program, run through a partnership between Boston Public Schools, Americorps, and U Mass Boston. After which, should I complete 3 years of teaching in Boston Public Schools, I will have only paid mere pennies for my master's degree. With a network of people I love already in the city, and doing work that will make me feel fulfilled and connected, the idea of spending 4 more years in cold, gritty, Boston doesn't actually seem all too bad. I was notified two weeks ago that I made the cut to attend interview day in January, so I'm hoping I already have one foot in the door! :knocks on wood:

My great uncle, the patriarch of my mother's side of the family, passed away this November. In fact, this was the cherry on top of a month during which I had already been dumped and submitted my letter of resignation at work. Like, for real universe? This was the last straw that had me playing Rihanna's 'What Now' on repeat for WEEKS. I could not understand how a year that started out with so much love and hope could end in so much pain and loss. But, that is, almost literally, the simple cycle of life; and we all just have to cope.

And now we get to today. The day after my 25th birthday. If you would have asked 7 year old me at what age people became "old", I probably might have said 25. But I am really quite content with being old. Because being old means knowing your own worth. Old means knowing who you are, and not caring if other people don't like you because of it. It means being able to take stock of a quarter century worth of life, and seeing who is still fighting the good fight with you.

So there you have it. 4 of the toughest months of my short life in review. I can't promise that I'll keep up with this little blog every week, but I'll tryyyyyy.

[iambeauchamp]

[iambeauchamp]

We don't assume pat answers are adequate for enabling our children to learn to navigate relationships, nutrition, sexuality, religion, emotions or any other challenging reality. Why should race and racism be any different?

Preaching colorblindness reinforces the status quot. 

[iambeauchamp]

Every day:

[iambeauchamp]

Some days I think: What is the point of it all? And by "all", I mean the rat race that is traditional career advancement. Am I so conditioned to uphold a definition of success, which centers around how many degrees I have under my belt or the amount of money I earn, that the thought of breaking away from the monotony terrifies me to the point of breathlessness? It would seem so. 

But, I keep thinking, "Is this it? Desk work, followed by more school, and then back to more desk work?" Because, if this is IT, then I'm going to request an increased dose on my anti-depressants. Like yesterday.

I am at an age where I just know that this, whatever this is, is not enough anymore. But what is my true THIS? Where do I go to find a better THIS? And why do I have the feeling that whatever my THIS winds up being, it will most certainly not pay enough. 

For all of the positive changes I have made in the last few months, I can't help but feel that I am still chained to something. While my known financial chains have an expiration date of May 2016, I still feel something heavy on my chest. A fear of leaving the known comforts of financial stability (and health care) just to selfishly adventure in the hopes of finding my THIS. A voice in my head keeps saying: What makes you so special as to have that opportunity? Why should you get to go gallivanting off to find an elusive THIS?

But the real terrifying questions I keep coming back to: What if my THIS is standing right in front of me, and I am so busy wanting more that I am blinding myself? What if I just need to grow the hell up already?

AMB

[iambeauchamp]

(x)

[iambeauchamp]

[iambeauchamp]

THAT HAIR, THOUGH. <3 <3 <3 

Dress, H&M

[iambeauchamp]

Reflections

Turns out having a job where you actually have work to do cuts into the amount of time you have to update your tumblr. Shocker. 

Quick updates: 

1. I love my new job. The office is so much friendlier, welcoming, and structured. I'm out of the office no later than 5:45 on most days, and I'm forced to go home if my supervisors do see me at my desk after that time. There is such a better commitment to a healthy work-life balance in my new office and I'm all about it - for the time being. Let's be real - no place of employment is perfect, and I am bound to find one thing that bugs me sooner or later. 

2. Getting a trainer was the best decision I have made in a VERY long time. I'm already fitting back into clothes that I thought were hopeless causes on the brink of being thrown away. Additionally, I am beginning to fall back in love with my body - which was the whole point of this to begin with. I am far from the finish line, but at least I now know that I am fully capable of staying on the path to greater happiness. Even when I fall off the wagon for 3 days, I've been able to motivate myself to get right back on it again.

3. It is amazing how much has changed in one year. I am thinking back to what was going on in my life during pride weekend last year (this weekend is pride in DC. WOOT WOOT), and, for one thing, my nails are way longer..... Other wonderful changes are a new job, my own big girl apartment, and a healthy, fun, loving, and committed relationship. I still can't wrap my head around the fact that I'm celebrating my 6 month anniversary next weekend. 

That is all I have time for now. God speed. 

[iambeauchamp]

today I learned that if you want to slash someone’s tires, don’t slash all four; only slash three because if you slash all four their insurance will pay for it but if you only slash three they have to pay for it all out of pocket 

❤