Sweaty & Glittery & Committed

The more you know, the more the healthcare system can change.

Well, I hope that sunset picture gave you a sense of calm before I dive in.

Surgery recovery isn’t easy. Below are some honest realities from the perspective of the three week post-op mark from endometriosis excision and a hysterectomy, which I hope continue to get better over the next week before returning to work.

I had a catheter for 3 days and found it mentally taxing in a way I had not anticipated. It wasn’t part of the plan, but the amount of endometriosis the surgeon found when she opened me up, and ovary repair necessary to preserve my hormonal cycles, turned a 4 hour surgery into a 6+ hour procedure. I am so freaking grateful for mobility over the past two weeks and the ability to pee on my own.

I’m peeing every hour to protect my bladder. There was so much endometriosis all over it, my surgeon told me to be cognizant about not over-filling it to allow the tissue and nerves to heal. I’m also icing my elbows. I can’t straighten my arms without pain. My surgeon is pretty sure the length of surgery (over 6 hours) irritated the nerves in my arms. 

In health, the stakes are high. My quality of life was so low that I was willing to take the risk with major surgery. Nothing compared to the pain I anticipated & GUTTED THROUGH over half of each month. I’m still optimistic about a full recovery. I have a comeback list, which includes truly training both sides once I’m cleared for aerial arts. 

A hysterectomy does not cure endometriosis. Endometriosis exists outside the uterus. My uterus is being tested for adenomyosis, a disease that causes pain similar to endometriosis, but only exists inside the tissue of the uterus. Adenomyosis is diagnosed through biopsy after the uterus is removed. Before recommending a hysterectomy, an expert surgeon (not a general gynecologist) will do additional tests and assess your symptoms to confirm their suspicions. Among many factors, my periods were so long and awful that I was ready to be uter-less, even if an adenomyosis biopsy doesn’t come back positive. Again for the people in the back: a hysterectomy does not cure endometriosis. 

As a white woman in her 30s, America’s legacy of white supremacy allowed me the CHOICE of a hysterectomy. Black woman have not had this choice, which is a product of racial bias in healthcare. Eugenics were policy not long ago. There are countless women, like the legendary Fannie Lou Hamer, who woke up from a surgery in 1961 to find that she had be sterilized without consent, which was legal under Mississippi law. The more you know, the more the healthcare system can change. Just this week, Kyla Canzater contacted Johns Hopkins to voice concern that “white women” was listed as risk factor for endometriosis. Whiteness as a risk factor has now been removed from their webpage.

I mentioned earlier in the post that I’m optimistic about a full recovery. Endometriosis is difficult to manage for a multitude of reasons. Because of misogyny and racism still prevalent in healthcare, it takes approximately 7-10 years to diagnosis. Once your body has been under duress for so long, you’re not just treating endometriosis. There is impact on other organ systems like the kidneys, vitamin deficiencies, chronic inflammation, psychological trauma, all on top of removing the endometriosis. Healthcare is woefully under-equipped to treat the complexity of the disease at this time. In addition to my usual “what I’m reading” send-off, I included links to organizations working to change this.

Further reading and organizations to support:

Stay sweaty and glittery and committed. And remember, because maybe it wasn’t clear throughout my post, Black Lives Matter. There are many ways to implement change and I firmly believe that access to quality healthcare is necessary in the fight for equal rights.

Vulnerability & Identity

I deserve to be healthy. You deserve to be healthy. We are all worth a second opinion.

Vulnerability is easy when you’re happy. I thought I was comfortable sharing—I’ve been writing this blog for over a year and have been on the Internet since Xanga, ya know?—but apparently not. Not when I thought my life was really trending up. Or whatever stock market term makes sense.

One of the difficult things I’ve learned in therapy, and well, all my fucking appointments, is how hard we hold on to identity. This month, I’m taking the time social distancing to reflect on identity and mental health. 

Athletics help me feel normal. It’s been a part of my identify since I was a child, I cannot remember otherwise. Even though it could just as well be otherwise. (A bit of an aside, I got really into existentialism when I had a blood clot at 19.)

Lindsey Vonn’s documentaryThe Final Season, was illuminating when I watched it a few months ago while I was flattened on the couch by endometriosis symptoms. The film came to a climax during the press conference before her final race. She’s sparing with a male journalist about her career. Vonn is unrelenting and gives everything, despite the physical pain that is living the life of a serious athlete in your 30s. She feels isolated.

Though different, chronic injury is on a similar plane as chronic illness. I was chronically injured as a Division I swimmer since my freshman year. I started at Rutgers as a distance swimmer. When my shoulders failed me (or rather, the 10,000 yards a day wore down the cartilage), I was able to transition to middle distance backstroke and butterfly with a strong underwater kick that had already been a major part of my distance success. A group of us were in a similar situation, which created a special bond. We spent extra time with trainers, extra time with doctors, but we were still isolated from teammates that thought we weren’t trying hard enough. Similarly, when you have a chronic illness, it’s hard not to notice when friends and family are frustrated that new treatments, new diets, additional surgery, don’t seem to help enough. Then you have people slide into your life with: Meditation changed so-and-so’s life. Yoga healed my friend’s fibromyalgia. Etc, etc.

So what’s identity? I think about impression management and have so many questions: Am I communicating I’m an athlete? Am I communicating I’m an artist? Can I be a jock poet? If I can run and practice circus, am I really sick enough to have a chronic illness?

When I was an athlete, I would train through pain, which lead to severe chronic injuries. I’d downplay it with doctors, I’d trust I could keep going because a coach said I should. Because they said it was a sign of toughness. I don’t always talk about my doctor-anxiety in therapy, but all the work I’ve been doing with my therapist has made me realize that if something feels wrong, it probably is. This has made me smarter in running. It has made me comfortable speaking up at work. It has helped me realize I’m not crazy or hysterical if I’m upset when I’m dismissed by a doctor.

Here’s an example. Last summer, I went to my primary care physician because my energy was unusually low. I read her the list of symptoms I tracked in the months leading up to the appointment. Rather than ordering a blood test, she countered every symptom with the response, It’s probably anxiety and depression. After her forth response, I spat out, You’d be depressed to if no one believed the pain you have been in for years. She ended up relenting and ordering bloodwork, but only ordered one very basic thyroid test. Another doctor ordered a better panel, but in the end, I knew I needed a holistic approach. I saved money to see a highly recommended out-of-network doctor that practices naturopathic medicine, therefore looks at the full picture of what is happening inside a patient’s body coupled with their lifestyle. The results were a surprise to no one that listens to the length and heaviness of my periods during an intake: my iron WAS low. Off I went to a hematologist that immediately recommended an iron infusion. 

The two-part infusion was a few weeks ago. I have noticed some significant changes. Although my period this month was bring-me-to-my-knees painful, I didn’t have the brain fog that usually comes with severe fatigue. It’s a relief, I have been really concerned about that symptom. I also coped with the pain better than I have for the past few years. No emotional breakdowns this month. I’ll keep track of this in my spreadsheet, but the anxiety and depression that would normally come with my period barely registered. It seems that because I was not bone-tired, I could hold on to the fact that the pain was temporary, another surgery is on the schedule, I could keep going even though the state of the world is precarious. Nurse and endometriosis advocate, Nancy Petersen, referenced a study at the Endometriosis Summit that supports this: for many chronic illness patients, their depression lifts when (and only when) their significant symptoms are properly treated. I keep thinking about my PCP, who does not seem to understand that.

I deserve to be healthy. You deserve to be healthy. We are all worth a second opinion. We all deserve access to quality healthcare. Our system needs a serious look at the accessibility of long-term care for chronic patients. 

The books I was thinking about while writing this:

  • The Unbearable Lightness of Being, Milan Kundera
  • She Said, Jodie Kantor and Megan Twohey
  • The Sirens of Titan, Kurt Vonnegut

Stay sweaty and glittery.

It’s Mental Health Awareness Month. National Alliance on Mental Illness has resources year round, locally NAMI Metro Baltimore is there for anyone that needs help.

Health in the Time of Coronavirus

The staff member that answered confirmed the appointment was moving forward. She said, “Essential appointments are not cancelled.”

How is everyone doing? I had other writing planned…and then COVID-19.

Baltimore businesses and other nonessential services have been closed for a week. I’m not alone in my anxiety about missing appointments that help me function, help me participate in society. My social media presence looks pretty rosy—I know. That’s curation. When the endometriosis pain is overwhelming, I can look at what I’ve done and remind myself that how I feel is not forever.

Reminding myself that it is not forever does not minimize the impact. The pain is real. I’ve lost an unreasonable amount of time. Previous symptoms have escalated, and new ones have been consistent for quite a few months. After the recommendation of Nancy Petersen (The legend!!—I introduced myself at the Endometriosis Summit which I will write a bit more about shortly, but I have to say that her in-person energy is warm and hopeful. She’s always trying to problem solve with the best information), I made an appointment with a new surgeon in the Baltimore area. The appointment was earlier this week. I worried and worried that it would be cancelled, so I called the day before. The staff member that answered confirmed the appointment was moving forward. She said, “Essential appointments are not cancelled.”

I thanked her profusely for staying open before hanging up to cry. Even with the incredible practitioners I work with, I haven’t acknowledged that endometriosis care is essential. I’ll bring this up in therapy tomorrow…probably. Honoring that endometriosis has brought life-altering pain is an ongoing and difficult place for me to go. For now, I want to say that I’m hopeful about my current care plan. Because even with some dear healthcare providers closed, I still have the support and knowledge they shared. In the pandemic, please remember to deep breathe and do healthy things to move. That’s the best advice I can give, I’m not a doctor! I’m a master of words.

I did want to share a bit more about the Endometriosis Summit earlier this month, especially because it’s a reminder that community continues to work hard. Go if you are able to attend, or watch the live-stream. I learned more in six hours than I had in the two years since my diagnosis. The pelvic floor PT, acupuncture, therapy were all validated. Another big development from the conference: Endo What? launched the School Nurse Initiative. They will send a free education toolkit to the school nurse of your choice. Even with schools closed, the organization announced today that nurses working from home can still receive the kits. Participate to help educators learn so the next generation doesn’t have to spend years suffering silently.

The book I was thinking about while writing this:

  • Beating Endo: How to Reclaim Your Life from Endometriosis by Dr. Iris Kerin Orbuch and Amy Stein DPT
  • Dear Girlsby Ali Wong
  • The Crying Bookby Heather Christle

Stay sweaty and glittery.

Changing Pain

I’m more than work and physical pain. There is movement and creativity—all experiences better when shared.

I’ve been looking back at my blog this year and notice how often I work to mention joy. I can’t deny the impact of Ross Gay’s The Book of Delights on my perspective. I think about his work, and many others I’ve read this year, while reflecting on what I’ve attempted to do in 2019. Which has turned out to be a lot. One of the difficult things I’ve learned in therapy, and well, all my fucking appointments, is how hard it is to undo thought patterns. 

Much of my time this year has been spent at doctors: pelvic floor physical therapy, gynecologist, acupuncture, therapy, orthopedic physical therapy, general practitioner…I’m exhausted. In November, I was at multiple doctors a week. I burned out, cancelled a bunch to get back to some basics and have social time. Trying to pack all the appointments for my health ended up becoming more stressful than helpful.

I’ll echo what many have said about chronic illness: it’s isolating and exhausting. Managing your health feels like a full-time job. You’re always calculating your time. You look at other people and feel resentment that they haven’t been to a doctor weeks, or even years (that’s probably a bad move on the opposite side of the spectrum). Every social interaction and choice become loaded with the question will I make my symptoms worseWhat will I have to do to undo this event?

Talia Hibbert puts the isolating feeling in perspective in Get A Life Chloe Brown, “Her body was vulnerable enough without her heart following suit.” Chloe Brown has fibromyalgia, and after her friends and fiancé have left her, she’s convinced herself she’s better alone. Que her writing a list to be more adventurous. Relationships are already vulnerable. Add constant pain, unpredictable energy levels, and a social life feels more like a let-down. But like Chloe, that’s not what I want. I’m more than work and physical pain. There is movement and creativity—all experiences better when shared.

The shift I’m feeling isn’t only from the books I’ve read. I can’t tell if it’s the annoying phrase, getting older, or the perspective change with time. Or therapy. After writing a book about not wanting to be vulnerable, maybe now it’s easier to see the importance of relationships. My partner is incredibly supportive, I’ve had a chance to collaborate with all sorts of creatives and change-makers at work, I can make time for friends, my family sticks around—maybe it all will be okay. I can change how I react to pain.

In order to intentionally find more joy and spend time with loved ones, I’ve decided 2020 will be The Year of the French Fry. I LOVE potatoes (ask friends that went to The Woods writing retreat about my 2018 potato poem). I also love exploring different parts of Baltimore with people. So in the comments, please suggest your favorite fries, from Royal Farms to upscale restaurant. French fries have diverse pleasures. Just like Baltimore. 

The book I was thinking about while writing this (obviously, perhaps):

Stay sweaty and glittery.

Something to Know

One of these times, if I get the words in the correct order, if I retrace more precisely the lines of history, I am convinced I will learn something I need to know.
– Rebecca Makkai

There is no better time to write than during a two hour wait for my tires to be replaced, am I right? Eleven months into blogging about endometriosis, and I have more frustrations than answers. I’ve heard countless authors talk about this, read countless essays about this—there is an idea that you can write your way out of something. I should say something about obsession here.

What else don’t we know? The universe may be one billion years younger than projected. This is the ultimate I thought it was Friday, but it’s only Wednesdaymoment. I white knuckle through the day and feel the thrill of bronzer tricking people about my health. It’s the sinking thrill of the phrase you don’t look sick

Memories are a haunting. I feel the ache start to grow in my pelvis and panic, then try to breathe. What have I done wrong this month to trigger symptoms? Why did my surgeon say there was nothing else he could do? Is my mood at this point in the cycle because of medical trauma? Why can’t I deflect with some jokes right now?

Still, I’m not interested in the theory that endometriosis is caused by trauma. The theory allows doctors to dismiss pain as all in your head, or even with the best intentions, make the pain some part of an individual suffering narrative, rather than an illness to be treated with medical intervention. I’m interested in how we (general public, doctors, researchers) will cling to any vague theory that may provide a reason. Then I remember—I don’t want to shake from exhaustion and pain any more. I want a reason, or an answer.

Here’s something to know—the holidays are difficult. I think about limitations as I drive to visit friends and family, yet end up distracted and in pain during the visits from these drives. Yet I spoke up recently. My parents drove, and I slept under a blanket with the heat in the car blasting. Small steps.

Some books that explore trauma in different ways which I was thinking about while writing this:

  • The Nickel Boys, Colson Whitehead
  • Music for Wartime, Rebecca Makkai
  • Felon, Reginald Dwayne Betts
  • Queenie, Candice Carty-Williams

Stay sweaty and glittery.

Curious Potential

Beating Endo: How to Reclaim Your Life from Endometriosis and ROAR: How to Match Your Food and Fitness to Your Unique Female Physiology for Optimum Performance, Great Health, and a Strong, Lean Body for Life arrived earlier this month. As I continue to work toward a sub-20 minute 5k, I’m also working on taking to heart the advice from my acupuncturist and pelvic floor physical therapist: running easy (or not at all) while I have my cycle. I’ll write more about my experience with those books and a virtual running coach after the Baltimore Running Festival 5k. I’m so curious about potential.

Why is not running so hard? I spent a decade being told my pain was normal. I was treated as if I was lying, weak, or hysterical. I needed to take the pill or suck it up. The message was that it was my fault I couldn’t stomach the pain. I was already practicing this kind of self-talk anyway–I swam on a team where the coach said that you’re recovering while sitting in class in between morning practice and evening practice. Unlearning those beliefs will take time. I’ve been repeating the phrase that Sonya Renee Taylor created an organization around: the body is not an apology.

I’m curious to see how radical self-love and athletics interact as I face the unknown. I’d like to think they’re not mutually exclusive if the movement is about exploring the unknown and internalized expectations. Taylor recounts an encounter with a free-diver as description of the journey of radical self-love: “learning the difference between fear and danger.”

As I read Taylor, my thoughts wander to Leslie Heywood and Shari Dworkin’s Built to Win: The Female Athlete as Cultural Icon: “Serious athletic training paradoxically produces a profound (and only partially mistaken) sense of the self-authorship of one’s body. This sense is one of the benefits of sport—you get beyond a culturally mediated sense of your body…And you feel that, through your labor, you’ve made yourself.” Have I used athletics to make myself? As much as I want to PR at 31, I run for the endo warriors who can’t. The ones whose kidneys and diaphragms are compromised by the disease, the ones whose healthcare won’t cover excision surgery. I see your fight and this is where I am in mine.

I’ve run with two Baltimore running groups this month: Faster Bastards and Riot Squad Running. Both groups are open and supportive and use positive self-talk when talking about new races. I love this, and plan to continue running with them while remembering that ultra-marathons may not be for me, though I have the joy of spending a Saturday morning running around the waterfront for 10 miles. It’s not lazy that I prefer 5k and 10k races. As my health changes, I’m going to continue to explore potential. 

Some books I was thinking about while writing this:

  • The Body Is Not an Apology: The Power of Radical Self-Love, Sonya Renee Taylor
  • Built to Win: The Female Athlete as Cultural Icon byLeslie Heywood and Shari Dworkin

On Spontaneity

Unfun confession: I am not spontaneous.

I never was—as a kid, the next swim practice was always on my mind. Lists were necessary for everything: swim-meets, vacations, reading, goals, my future house. I was creating vision boards before they were trendy. Every Sunday, I’d cut out my favorite furniture from weekly newspaper circulars for my future house. Could it have been the naming? Or was it having something to look at in the uncertain fog of childhood? Endometriosis has been part of my vocabulary, my identity, for over a year. I have a name for the cloud, but what can I do with it?

I’m still a list-maker and planner. It’s also all about tracking workouts, moods (I am always a mood), self-care, physical therapy, and sleep. Why? I have still been experiencing significant chronic pain and fatigue after excision surgery. Tracking symptoms is a way to see patterns and identify triggers. The scientific collection of statistics is a ritualistic calming. 

As I write this, I still think I should be more spontaneous. Instead, I plan my life around pain. My period is usually regular, so I plan everything—rest, social time, dates, workouts, events—around how I may be feeling. Otherwise, what if I’m caught in public without an arsenal of tampons? What if I’m stuck in a crowded event, in pain and unable to get to a seat? What if I have to cancel on someone because I didn’t anticipate how ghostly my body would feel? What if I’m so overwhelmed by symptoms I’m being a neglectful partner? Some days, I think a cane for high pain days would be a good investment. Yesterday, I barely made it up a flight of stairs before ceding to the elevator the rest of the day. This may be surprising when you look through my Instagram feed. That’s curation. I prefer to celebrate what feeds my soul online, especially when I need something positive to get through the hard days. I’m the master of the lean with the hip-cock. 

I have been turning the phrase by Rio Cortez in my head for what feels like years: “I have learned to define a field as a space between mountains.” Time and space have a different meaning when you’re racing your limits. Energy is collected in an attempt to maintain inertia. That’s not what her incredible chapbook is about, but the title has taken on a meditative role in my life. I will repeat from my Goodreads review: “if we can communicate how history has made us, there may be space to move forward.”

Tracking, naming, and identifying will probably always be part of the process. I’m an amateur adventurer in all of this. At least until there is some sort of cure for endometriosis.

Some books I was thinking about while writing this:

  • Laurel, Tyler Mendelsohn
  • I have learned to define a field as a space between mountains, Rio Cortez

Stay sweaty and glittery.

Redefining Expectations

None of the beaten end up how we began.

A poem is a gesture toward home.

The two final lines from “Duplex” in Jericho Brown’s The Tradition hit my heart. Brown created the duplex to say what he couldn’t express in other forms. Or in his words, “I should remind everyone who knows me that I do not believe that poems are made of our beliefs. Instead, I believe poems lead us to and tell us what we really believe.” Poetry Foundation

I feel this way when redefining goals while living with chronic illness. Have you noticed that I don’t say overcomewhen speaking about chronic illness yet? Overcoming suggests an ending. You cannot fail without a set end. You cannot find out what you really believe without exploration.

Sylvia Plath published four books, despite dying at 30. I was obsessed with this before my 30thbirthday. “The Applicant” is one of my favorite poems because of the saltiness, the suits, the repetition. I mean, will you marry it, make it yours, take on the expectations built before you? Will you marry it? Don’t. The expectations are empty, there is no reason to follow them.

I’m about to turn 31 and have put aside this obsession with number of books as publishing success. I’m still chasing some time goals in running, but the minute details interest me at this point: the consistent tempo run, the amount of times I perform physical therapy in a week, or the amount of hours I sleep. In writing, it’s about the process: drafting, or reading and journaling my reaction to the work.

Recovery isn’t standardized. Neither is success. I see this deeply in Lily Hoang’s Bestiary: “The success of the true rat race is all veneer. It is a hot-boxed garbage and infidelity.” Hoang sends her piercing gaze on perfection, family, the immigrant experience, expectations, myth. There are so many ways to live, any one definitions of success is garbage. I hope you, reader, see this in your life and find joy in the process.

Stay sweaty and glittery.

Books I was thinking about while writing this: Jericho Brown’s The Tradition, Lily Hoang’s Bestiary, Candice Carty-Williams’s Queenie.

Avoiding Vulnerability

I’ve spent the majority of my life avoiding vulnerability. Talking about endometriosis with someone that doesn’t have it often becomes a judgment of how sick I seem. I’ve heard, variations of but you don’t look sickor but you’re so activemore times than I can count. 

Is a body yours when you step outside your house? I’ve spent most of my life feeling like my body isn’t mine. The first time a man told me to smile, I was 20, waiting for a Rutgers University bus to take me from Busch Campus to Livingston Campus. I still burn with anger remembering that I smiled back. I felt vulnerable to be told in public what to do with my body, I wanted it to end. Why would I want to live my life with vulnerability?

Frances, the main character in Sally Rooney’s Conversations with Friends, is diagnosed with endometriosis. She doesn’t tell anyone. Even before this, she spent her life concealing vulnerability in relationships. She decides not to tell her mother as they leave the doctor, thinking, “I had the sense that something in my life had ended, my image of myself as a whole or normal person maybe. I realized my life would be full of mundane physical suffering, and that there was nothing special about it.” 

To summarize the interaction: her doctor tells her there is no cure. He explains that endometriosis spreads but isn’t cancerous, and treatment is geared towards preventing pain debilitating to the point of disability. Frances’s detached and ironic personality throughout the book laid out one way to cope with the frustrations of endometriosis. The suffering has no end, so there isn’t much to do other than get on with it. Vulnerability feels like weakness when you’re in unmanageable pain.

There can be a way to manage. I found aerial arts in 2014, at the recommendation of a good friend. It wasn’t until climbing the aerials silks that I felt like I had some claim over my body in adulthood. I’d already been struggling with painful periods, which later became weeks of fatigue which later became vomiting with nearly every period. My body couldn’t withstand the distance running I enjoyed, so I changed my interaction with gravity. Gravity has more potential.

There is something special about aerial arts. When you commit to repetition, your body learns the language. Your body can tell a story with a toe point or flex, with the emphasis of a hair flip or outstretched hand or the point in your back that you arch. This is all without thinking about sexuality—it’s about the potential of movement. The aerial school I attend has opportunities for student showcase, so whenever I can, I jump to perform creatively.

This showcase season, I was with a group of warrior women that we came to call the Jedi coven. We danced on strappy loops to the Star Wars theme song. I began the session with trepidation—my strappy loops background was limited. Class started in February and I’d only taken a few months of strappy loops classes. Was I really going to be ready and capable of keeping up in 3 months? even though I’d been in lyra for a few years, I felt completely inadequate in strength and flexibility compared to my classmates.

The fear stopped meaning anything in the safe and open environment we fostered. Even as I had a horrible reaction hormonal birth control, I was thinking about making it to class. At one point during a Saturday warm-up I said, I’ve had my period for 20 days. If I start crying on the strappy loops, it’s not personal.

We performed in a show with forty other classmates on May 18 and 19. Our last performance had a vibrating, joyful energy. The six of us ran offstage, laughing and smiling, emotionally open and alive—dare I say, vulnerable. One remarked that we should have had that attitude every class. Probably. I’m holding on to the feeling so I can take it with me each day.

Jedi coven, May 19, 2019

Stay sweaty and glittery.

Books I was thinking about while writing this: Thick, Tressie MacMillan Cottom; Bestiary, Lily Hoang; Sex Object, Jessica Valenti.

An Element of Control

In the spirit of crampedstyleblog’s #selfcarefebruary on Instagram, I’ve been looking closely at what I’m doing when my body starts to shut down. Last month, so many things were missing from daily routine: multiple rest days, dedicated stretching time to keep (my) hips open, allocated time to indulge in pleasurable reading. My body starts to rebel with pain and sour moods when I try to consistently crest 25 miles in a week, at least from what I’ve gathered through tracking my runs over the past couple of years. To try and do better, I’ve added a “self-care” column to my training log.

See! It’s real. I add text or glyphs to spice it up, like executing my glute and core physical therapy exercises are MONEY. Workouts I haven’t done yet are in pink. An aside—can we have a moment for the improvement in technology, from the inaccurate Nike running chips in vogue a decade ago to the relatively accurate Garmin technology of today?

Mileage and workouts might not seem important to everyone, but testing the limits of my body has been a lifelong habit. Swimming for hours a week, sucking in chlorinated air hoping that millions of strokes will lead to some sort of momentary glory. Racking the weight at incrementally higher amounts on the squat rack, knowing that my secret weapon was kicking underwater like a dolphin for fifteen meters at a speed faster than most of my peers. Tenacity is a piece of identity I’m not willing to forgo. Chronic illness changes this perception of invincibility.

I think of this quote from Sick when the attempts to feel alive, to feel healthy, seem out of reach:

“If you know a part of you is always dying, taking charge of that dying has a feeling of empowerment.”

There is something in pushing the limits, in feeling a rush, however it is found. There is an element of control, a belief that there is a choice.

I see overlapping threads in recovery memoir, illness accounts, and athletic feminist theory, like Leslie Heywood. My curiosity piques when the author pushes against the perfect story, the perfect feminist character, the story of what is supposed to be best for your health. These accounts, these protagonists, these people are not perfect plaintiffs. I’m looking at the complex stories broadly to identify threads, like The Recovering by Leslie Jamison, Pretty Good for a Girl by Leslie Heywood, Sick by Porochista Khakpour, Don’t Let Me Be Lonely by Claudia Rankine, and Annie’s Ghosts by Steve Luxenberg. There are more, but I think that brief list gives a smattering of the different approaches–in form and content.

I’m looking to expand my list, so please comment with recommendations. A few books I’ve been meaning to read: The Amputees Guide to Sex by Jillian Weise, The Carrying by Ada Limón, The Collected Schizophrenias by Esmé Weijun Wang, and Crumb-Sized by Marlena Chertock.

Thanks for reading. Stay sweaty and glittery.