It’s not about being thin. It’s not about the before and after photos. It’s not about the muscle definition, the mile time, or the amount of weight lifted.
It’s about finding balance. It’s about loving yourself. It’s about evolving into the healthiest version of you.
For me, it’s been a long journey, and it’s not even close to being over. I started out overweight and riddled with pain from fibromyalgia. I was inactive, and my diet consisted of mostly processed foods. But most importantly, I despised myself. Physically, mentally and spiritually, I was at my lowest.
When I started trying to get active, the first type of exercise I tried was yoga. It was a low-impact way to stretch my muscles and show my body some love.
But then, my exercise grew more intense. And as it did, the amount I was eating continued to decrease. I found myself growing weaker and weaker, until I was only a shell of the person I had been.
There has to be a balance. You have to feed yourself, physically, mentally and spiritually, to be healthy. That means eating the things that make your body happy and that also bring you joy. It means moving in ways that show your body the love it deserves. It means filling your soul and mind with inspiring, positive messages that fill you in ways that food cannot.
It’s not easy. It’s something we all constantly have to work on. But perhaps I can help you get started.
Check out my Evolve social media for some inspiration, recipes and exercises to get you started. If you have any questions, send me a direct message on any of my social media accounts or comment below. I would love to talk with you more.
I would love to say that I visited the farm on a cool, crisp, windy day, with colorful leaves blowing past my face and the smell of pumpkin spice hanging in the air, but my visit to Spider Hall Farms was far from the quintessential autumn day. It was hot and humid October day in Southern Maryland, a place where the weather is always unpredictable. One day, you will be bundled up in sweaters, scarves and hats and still shivering; the next, you will be sweating in a tank top and shorts, staring at all the fallen leaves around you and wondering what went wrong.
This was one of those days. With my family in tow, I walked through the freshly shaven grass to Spider Hall Farms, a place from my childhood, and a place where I was hoping to relive some lost memories. As a senior in college, I am about to embark upon a new stage in my life with an ending I cannot predict. This uncertainty made me feel that the sense of home I had always found comfort in to be fading away.
Spider Hall Farms, so named because of the “spider hall” that used to form over the dirt lane leading to it, is a family-owned business run by seventh-generation farmers. David and Susan Cox bought the tobacco farm when their children expressed an interest in reviving the family tradition that had ended with their parents. Now, they, their children, and their grandchildren help work on the land.
We stopped first at the petting zoo, where we were not greeted by the fall smell of pumpkin spice, but were treated to another odor I would have rather left undiscovered. Nevertheless, the animals were adorable. The braying goats stuck their heads through the slats of wood of their pen to nibble, because, as always, the grass is greener on the other side. My brother called me over to pet the fur of the llama, which was softer than anything I had ever pet.
The only concerning sight was the turtle, who was trying desperately to escape his tiny, bucket prison, tears leaking from his eyes over his hot, scaly skin.
“Is he okay to be in there like that,” my mother asked the nearby attendant, a brunette girl who looked young enough to still be in high school. “He looks like he needs water.” The attendant replied that he was fine. My mother’s expression was doubtful, so the attendant explained the turtle was from the desert, and he was desperate to get out to roam around and play, not because he was too hot.
From the petting zoo, we watched the children play in the educational exhibits, where they learned about life on the farm. I was amazed to find myself having to stoop into the playhouses that once towered over me and kept me entertained for hours. Finding only a bittersweet feeling, I left the enclosure and followed my family to the blissfully cool farm store. By now, sweat was pouring down our reddened faces, and we were ready for some refreshments before we visited the main attractions: the corn maze.
Looking around the store, I was reminded of the old Mom and Pop’s stores that used to fill Southern Maryland before it was built into the bustling counties that have taken over today. Glass canning jars lined the shelves, filled with jellies, jams, salsas and pickles. Bushels of apples from Baugher’s Orchard, a farm upstate, sat on the ground. Local artists had hung their artwork on the walls to be sold, and beside this stood fridges and freezers filled with farm fresh milk, cheese, ice cream, yogurt and beef. On the counter, fresh baked pastries filled with pumpkin and apple tempted our appetites, while individually wrapped caramels beckoned from the register.
We decided upon some honeycrisp apples and cranberry orange jack cheese with chocolate milk (“From the brown cows,” I joked). We sat outside the store in rocking chairs as if we were sitting on grandmother’s porch. The sweet apples paired excellently with the sharpness of the jack cheese, which could have been a meal on its own. With hints of tangy orange zest and sweet bursts of cranberry, it had the tastes of an elegant wintry cheese platter in every single bite.
The hayride was next. The prickly, golden stalks poked at our bare legs; hayrides should only be ridden in weather cool enough to wear slacks and flannel. At the corn maze, we were warned the path was particularly difficult this year. Upon learning this, my mother immediately sought out a map.
“A map!” Jake, my brother, exclaimed. “You can’t do a corn maze with a map. That takes all the fun out of it.”
“We don’t have to use it,” Mom said. “It’s for if we get lost.”
“That’s part of the fun,” said Jess, Jake’s girlfriend.
“We don’t need a map,” Jake said firmly, grabbing Jess’s hand. “We’ll do it without one, and we will still beat you.”
And so the race began. I, fumbling along with a badly sprained ankle, was stuck with the slower pair of my parents, who insisted on following the map, while Jake and Jess ran ahead, hand-in-hand, Jake playing the part of the brave guide in the wilderness, and Jess as the damsel by his side.
Oh, to be young and in love.
The corn stalks towered above our heads. From inside the maze, with the rest of the world hidden from view, I found myself remembering a similar experience. The maze had seemed just as confusing and foreboding then, filled with winding bends and a writhing path that left the mind boggled. Then, too, I had followed my mother’s safe form as my brother ran ahead, always the most daring of the group. It occurred to me then that childhood memories were not the moments I should be chasing. As my brother journeyed ahead with a youthful spirit and curiosity, I realized that life, too, is not something to be scared of, but to be daringly explored. Life is an adventure. Like the maze I was trapped in then, it is filled with twists and turns that can send you down unruly and sometimes erroneous paths, but what matters most is knowing the people I love will always be there to help me find my way back home.
My name is Tyler, and this is my first blog post. For most of my posts, I plan on writing about things actually happening in my life, or about topics that I find interesting (and I think you will, too!). But, I thought I would use this opportunity to tell you a little bit about myself.
I grew up in southern Maryland, and I have been a writer for as long as I can remember. I wrote my first short story when I was four years old about the ants that had trespassed into my house, and I have been writing stories ever since.
For most of my life, fiction was my main form of writing. I loved using my imagination and escaping into the worlds I created. My characters were almost as important to me as the real people I knew in my life.
When I started college, everyone expected me to be an English major. But I went for communications instead. It was the “smart” choice, because it gave me to opportunity to fall back on a degree that offered plenty of career opportunities should the “writing thing” not pan out.
I still wanted to focus my elective choices on my true passion. Creative fiction writing was no longer an option, but journalism seemed like a good idea. It was still telling stories, but now my subjects were real people.
Induction ceremony into Alpha Chi my junior year of college
I fell in love with journalism. I loved the opportunity to give someone the spotlight and make them feel special.
The thing about journalism, though, is it’s normally pretty cut and dry. The inverted pyramid style taught by my professors always felt so confining and suffocating. They wanted to know what happened, and when and how it occurred. I just wanted to describe my real living character and tell their story.
So, I took the skills I learned in my journalism classes, and I moved on to creative nonfiction. In these classes, with magazine writing style format, I was given the opportunity to expand my typical 400-word news stories to 2,000-word expositions. For the girl who once couldn’t keep her middle school assignments under 10 pages, this increased word count was surprisingly freeing. I had learned from journalism how to strip a story down to its bare bones; now I had the opportunity to expand on only the most important details (and the knowledge to know what those details were).
During all this time, however, I don’t think I ever truly found my voice. In all the stories I had ever told, I had neglected one very important one: my own.
When my professor said we had to write memoirs for our class, I was distraught. I didn’t believe that I had a story to tell. Which is funny because I had anything but the conventional childhood.
I have suffered from chronic illness since the age of 10, when I was diagnosed with Lyme disease. Twelve diagnoses and over a decade later, I am no stranger to pain, to overcoming challenges, to perseverance, three things that can make a great story.
Induction ceremony into Delta Alpha Pi (academic honor society for high-achieving students with disabilities) with my good friend Caitlin
The trouble is, what really makes a good story is being able to connect with the reader. While my story was one full of plot possibilities, I didn’t believe it was one anyone would want to read.
My professor told us to choose any topic, and that she would be the only one to read it. Even with that information, I did not want to tell any story that was painful to write. However, after weeks of brainstorming, I couldn’t get one particular story out of my mind. It wasn’t one I wanted to share, but after years of denying this particular moment, it was time to face it.
When I handed in the memoir about my hospitalization for anorexia to my professor, I was visibly shaking. I felt raw and exposed. I was convinced it wasn’t the story anyone wanted.
I had always gotten high marks on my papers. But when my professor handed my memoir back, it was the first time anyone had asked me for more. She asked me to let my peers read it. Nervously, I handed it to one of my classmates. Once again, I waited with bated breath, hating myself for sharing something so personal. But when she returned to me, tears brimming in her eyes, she thanked me for telling the story she had been too scared to share herself.
It was then that I learned that not only do I have a story to share, but it’s one that actually touches people. It’s one that can comfort and encourage, one that can facilitate connection and possibly inspire others’ creativity.
Since a young age, I have always wanted to help other people. But it took me nearly two decades to discover that my way of doing that was the thing I have always been most passionate about: writing.
So, this is my blog, and on it, I plan to share my story, and also some other things that I have grown passionate about over the years. I am going to talk about the travels I have taken, and the adventures I am still going on, because I have found that the best way to learn more is to go places you have never been. I am going to share about ways I have found to find balance in my life, mentally, physically and spiritually, because dealing with chronic health has taught me that self-care is one of the most important ways to care for yourself and others. And most importantly, I am going to talk about the people in my life: those who have inspired me, those who have made me who I am, and those who I am growing with.
I hope this is a place where you can find inspiration, illumination and comfort. I hope it’s a place where you can read something authentic, and then know that it’s okay for you to be yourself, too. And most importantly, I hope it inspires you to tell your story, in whatever way feels most natural to you. Create art, write poetry, talk to people, volunteer…whatever makes you feel most alive. And when you do, please leave a comment and tell me about it – I would love to hear your story, too.
