TGIF: That Time I (Kind of) Wanted a Boob Job

On Bruce Willis, curling irons and the mishaps of dating on Skype.

by Tina Francis | Twitter: @teenbug
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A month ago I got an email from a SheLoves reader. I asked her permission to share it with you today.

(Deep breath):
_______________________

Hello Tina,

I just read your latest post on SheLoves — the one about you without makeup. I’m lost for words … but thanks for really talking about our fears. I don’t wear lots of makeup, just a little gloss and lipstick most of the time.

Now this is personal. I’m Ugandan. I have a big nose.

I’ve had an experience recently that beat down on me a little bit. I’d been Skyping this guy for a while. I was able to see his face, but he could never see mine. I decided to get a webcam one day, to see if his “feelings” for me would remain.

I can’t judge him, because I don’t know what happened. But that day changed our relationship.

It beat down hard on me. I thought, “Yeah, I’m not as beautiful as he thought I really was.”

This incident affected me for some time. I’ve had to face the insecurity in me: that I am not beautiful enough for any guy.

I still struggle with this. I no longer want to take or upload pictures on Facebook. I try to take pictures in a certain posture so that my nose doesn’t look that big.

I know my heart will heal in this regard.

Thanks for sharing.

God bless,
D.

_______________________

D’s email broke my heart. I feel like a lot of girls identify with her struggle. Myself included.

Reminds me of the time … I burnt my boob.

It was 2006. And I was running late for a fancy dinner with some friends. I jumped out of the shower, wrapped myself in a towel and read three frantic texts from a friend telling me to get my butt out the door in ten minutes. Riggght. I still had to: brush my teeth, lotion my legs, put on makeup, style my (wet) hair and pick out an outfit. Sweet baby Jesus! On a good day this takes me 25 minutes! And I had to make it happen in ten?

In the interest of saving time, I started curling my hair, wearing only my bra and underwear. I wrapped sections of freshly shampooed hair around the hot, gold metal barrel. I counted to five, and then released the curl.

When I was halfway done, I checked the time. Ahhhh: two more minutes! I was determined to not be that girl who’s “Always Late”. So I started to take larger chunks of hair and wrapped them around the curling iron.

All of a sudden, I lost grip of the handle and watched the curling iron tumble onto my .. .[gasp] … unprotected boob.

This was one of those slow-motion moments, where you scream “Nooooo…” and try to save the cup of coffee before it spills onto the keyboard of your $3,000 Macbook. Except, the coffee was a screaming hot curling iron, and the keyboard was my partially exposed bosom.

White hot metal kissed my delicate caramel skin.

Then I heard the dreaded sound. Like melting butter in a hot frying pan, I heard my left boob sizzle.

Sizzle.

Like Bruce Willis in Die Hard 2, I staggered as the mind-numbing pain washed over me. Like Bruce, I powered through. Half-dazed, I quickly curled the rest of my hair, threw on the first thing in my closet and made for the door.

Later at the restaurant, I told my girlfriends about the “hilarious” curling iron incident. Everyone laughed and said, “Gurrrrl, you so crazy!”

At first it was funny, but as the night progressed it got hard to ignore the throbbing pain. So I excused myself and retreated to the safety of a bathroom stall. I locked the door and pulled down my shirt to take a peek.

Mocha Frappucino. It was Saving Private Ryan in there! Ugh, so much blood! I folded up some toilet paper, gently placed it into my bra (bad move), and went back to the table.

By the time I got home, the toilet paper had glued itself onto the wound. When I finally managed to get it all off, I was raw (and so was my boob).

I cried myself to sleep that night.

I hoped that the wound would look better in the morning. It didn’t. It was inflamed, it was bleeding and it was oozing yellow pus. I’ll spare you the rest of the gory details, but it hurt like Hades.

I needed something for the pain. But the thought of exposing my burnt boob to a doctor was more traumatizing than suffering through it.

I knew how that conversation would play out.

He’d say, “So, how did this happen?”

I’d say, “Well, I was trying to curl my hair and, um … I accidentally bludgeoned my boob”.

So … No, thank you. I’ll pass. Instead, I chose to suffer in silence.

“I’m hideous”

I was M.I.A. for a couple days. A worried gf showed up at my door at 11pm and rang the bell like a maniac. I finally answered, wrapped in a towel, sobbing uncontrollably. I showed her the mangled boob.

And with that, we were on our way to the E.R.

After sitting in the waiting room for two hours, we finally got to see a doctor. He was male (of course) and I braced myself as the fear of being examined by him washed over me. After what felt like deafening silence, he finally spoke.

“You have third degree burns. I don’t know how you managed without painkillers.”

My friend and I looked at each other in silence while he wrote up a prescription.

As he started to wrap up, he told me that there would be some scarring because the skin was really delicate. “Come back to me in two weeks if you want to talk about reconstructive surgery.”

The moment he left the room, I looked at my friend and said “I wonder how much that surgery is gonna cost me.”

“Are you frickin’ serious?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” I snapped. “Look at me: I’m a freak!”

I started to cry. My friend touched my shoulder, looked into my eyes and said “Our scars make us beautiful, Teen.”

“Maybe, if I rescued someone from a burning building?” I shot back. “How does burning myself with a curling iron make me beautiful? I’m hideous”.

________________

At this point, you’re probably wondering, “Why are you telling me this graphic story? What does D.’s nose have to do with your disfigured boob?”

What we have in common is shame.

- we’ve both believed that we are “hideous”
- we’ve both experienced fear of ridicule or rejection (real or imagined)
- we’ve both had moments where our vulnerability made us retreat/recoil
- we’ve both considered the reality of being unlovable

Shame makes us feel exposed. It makes us feel like outsiders. It makes us feel repulsive and dirty. It’s devastating; it’s consuming. And it is lonely. It makes us feel irrelevant. It makes us feel weak, powerless, small, disposable. It makes us feel trapped.

In her book, “I Thought It Was Just Me”, Brene Brown defines shame this way:

Shame is the intensely painful feeling or experience of believing that we are flawed and therefore unworthy of acceptance and belonging.

This is exactly how I felt after burning my boob and how D. felt after her video Skype session.

But I’m able to be objective about D.’s story.

Even though I’ve never seen D. face to face, I know that she is lovely. There’s something about her willingness to be vulnerable that radiates courage. And that is beautiful.
________________

And so, sweet D., I’m standing on my tippy toes, one hand on my burnt boob, yelling all the way from Vancouver. You are not flawed! You are beautiful. You are worthy of love.

Even though you “still haven’t found” what you’re “looking for,” I want you to know that you are you are accepted; you belong. You hear that, D.???!!! “YOU ARE NOT ALONE!”

[cue Michael Jackson’s "You are not alone.” Awesome song, creepy music video.]

“Beauty is taking what you have and running with it. It is your one tooth that is slightly crooked, or the way you wrinkle your nose when you laugh. It’s the shape of your finger nails, the dimple on the inside of your wrist, the shape of your earlobes, the curve of your eye lashes, the slope of your shoulders, the shape of your forearms. It is the little things and the big things. It is everything and it is nothing.”

– Collin Slattery, “In Praise and Appreciation of Women”
(The Good Men Project)

And because I choose to believe this about you, I choose to believe this about me too.

My burnt boob, your lovably “big” nose, my friend’s blue toenail; splotchy birthmarks, peach fuzz bellies, cankles, unibrows, saggy boobs, etc. We all have our stuff. Ultimately it’s not the particulars about our body that captures love. Neither is finding the right surgeon (guilty as charged), or the perfect camera angle (guilty again).

I want the man I marry to love: my pear-shaped body, my errant chin hair, my (sometimes) greasy hair, my shaved and unshaved legs, my flabby arms, my thunder thighs, and my lovely love-handles. Heck, even my burnt boob!

Shame only works if we think we’re alone in it. If we think there’s someone else, a group of women, a city full of women, a country full of women, a world full of women, struggling with the same issue, the concept of shame becomes bankrupt. 

– Brene Brown, “I Thought It Was Just Me” (fwiw, it wasn’t)

_________________________________

So, dear ones,

If you were to step out and be vulnerable (courageous) today:

- What parts of your body are you insecure about?
- How does shame show up in your life?

Love you more than Hot Fudge Pudding Cake,
xoxo,
Teen

To read more TGIFs from Tina: Click here.

______________________________________________________

My name is Tina. Loved ones call me: Teen.

Words are my chocolate. Music, my caramel. Photography, my bread. Girlfriends, my butter.

Confession: Some girls dream about Manolo Blahniks or their next Hermes bag. Not me. I dream of freshly baked bread, perfectly barbecued meat & steaming bowls of Pho. My dream lover *cue Mariah Carey song* is someone who would read out a menu to me in Barry White’s baritone voice.

I celebrate food, ask for help, interrupt conversations, laugh and cry hard, acknowledge the elephant in most rooms, fight for the underdog and believe in the power of storytelling.

I was born and raised in Dubai and currently live in the beautiful city of Vancouver, known for some of the best sushi in the world.

TGIF: Woman Thou Art Hungry!

On dunking goldfish in tartar sauce, Zen Elmo and finding my true hunger.

by Tina Francis | Twitter: @teenbug
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About four years ago, I got in a heated discussion  screaming-sobbing-snot-filled-straight-up-gangsta-fight with a family member who will remain anonymous–let’s call this person “Jo”–about finances (or lack thereof) and my futile attempts at looking for a job. After a month of sending out cover letters and resumes, Jo gave me a newspaper clipping  and suggested I apply for a position I was insanely overqualified for.

“ You can’t get emotional about it,” Jo said. “You just have to be a grown-up.”

I knew in my heart that if I did this particular job, I would start dimming my light, thinking small and believing that this was the best I could do. It broke my heart that Jo wanted me to settle,  didn’t want me to strive for more and couldn’t see why I was offended.

I started crying so hard, tears were pouring out of every orifice of my (upper) body. I grabbed my purse, car keys and started barreling down the street.

With one hand on the steering wheel and the other hand on my phone, I started calling my “lifelines.” You know, the peeps you call when your jeans don’t fit, your credit card blinks “Insufficient funds” and your grandmother is really sick.

After two unanswered calls, something in my gut pushed me to call Idelette, who was still a relatively new friend at the time.

Idelette has a secret superpower–I think of her as “Zen Elmo.” With two seemingly simple words, “Oh sweetie,” and her head cocked to the side, all mortals feel accepted, understood and smothered in love.

A Big Hunger

I sobbed as I breathlessly recounted the details of the fight with Jo. To clarify, this was not a drama-queen “I’m not getting my way” tantrum cry. This was a “I don’t know what I’m doing/ My life is a mess/ I have officially hit rock bottom/ I did six years of school and have no marketable skills/ I’m a freaking liability/ Does anybody care?” gut-curdling cry.

“I had to leave the house,” I told her. “If I stayed, I’d eat everything in the fridge and the pantry. I’d eat till I was sick, and then I’d cry because nothing I ate would satisfy me.”

“Oh sweetie …” she said. “You’re hungry.”

“No,” I replied, “I’m not hungry.”

“No, I mean, you are huuungry. You are hungry for more out of life. You are hungry to live out your purpose, your dreams, your passions. You are hungry to use your talents. You have BIG dreams on the inside of you. You have a BIG hunger you are trying to fill.” She paused. “Sweetheart, you are hungry!”

A Sick Heart

This was the first time I had heard the word “hungry” being used in a positive way. I’d been medicating my “hunger” on the surface but never acknowledged my real hunger, my real desires, that were thrashing around like an angry tidal wave on the inside of me.

Proverbs 13:12 says:

“Hope deferred makes the heart sick,
but a desire fulfilled is a tree of life.”

Good Lord, my unmet desires were making my heart sick.

Fast forward to March, when I’m talking to my friend Julie. Much like Idelette, Julie too has a superpower; she has an uncanny Yoda-like ability to look into my eyes and see the muddy backroads of my soul. I told her the story of the straight-up-gangsta-fight with my family that eventually led to my big moment of enlightenment.

I told her how I’d been learning that “being hungry” is not a bad thing and how I’d noticed a gradual change in my eating habits. I now ask myself, “What are you really hungry for?” before eating. I realized that I tend to eat even when what I really need sometimes is sleep, a hug, a bath or a phone call with a friend.

“Have you heard of Rachel Cole?” Julie beamed, “This is exactly what she talks about.”

What are you truly hungry for?

When I Googled Rachel Cole I was thrilled to find out she was having a “Retreatshop” in Seattle called “The Well Fed Woman.” The words “well fed” made my toes curl. It oozed abundance, acceptance and affirmation. I knew she was my kind of girl when I read the tagline on her website, “What are you truly hungry for?”

Rachel affirmed some truths I’d been learning on own my journey and taught me some new ways of articulating my relationship with food and hunger.

Here are some nuggets that resonated deep in my belly:

1. Identify your Primary Hunger.

One of the things Rachel articulated beautifully was distinguishing between your Primary Hunger and Secondary hunger.

She gave an example, “If you want a date night with your husband, perhaps the primary hunger is connection, physical touch, intimacy, play or communion.”

So on the surface, it may seem like what I want is to lose weight (secondary hunger), but what I really want (my primary hungers) might be unconditional love, or to feel accepted, or to feel at home in my body.

It takes courage to dig deep and unearth the raw hunger sitting at your core.

2. We can’t feed the hungers we don’t know. 

It’s like dunking a goldfish in a creamy tartar sauce, instead of water.  Sure, I love lemony mayo, capers and tarragon as much as the next girl, but that little Petsmart fishie needs water to breathe and live!

Soooo … [scratching head] when I’m watching Real Housewives of Vancouver, “just-to-see-what-all-the-fuss-is-about,” with a bag of Cheetos,  what I really need after a long day at work might be a hug?

So many times I’m the goldfish sputtering about in tartar sauce,  self-medicating with food, Facebook, Netflix, blogs or Pinterest.

I needed to create pockets where my true hungers could be made known.

Rachel says, “The practice of digging deeper is essential to being a well-fed woman. We must look under the covers, peel back the layers and expose what wants to be fed.”

3. When we receive our beautiful hungers, the “how” takes care of itself.

Once I figured out the hungers I was denying and misplacing, it got easier to make decisions that truly feed me. The habits that are right for me, may not be right for you, but here are some things that have really helped me:

- Before I eat I ask myself, “Tina, what are you really hungry for?” Is it food, sleep or a pee-break? Sometimes it’s a plate of good ol’ fashioned food. But every once in a while, I’m pouring myself a cup of coffee, when I actually want to shampoo my hair and read my new Joan Didion book in a towel turban.

- I don’t buy fashion magazines. They hijack my mind and make me ache for Heidi Klum’s legs and crave a Wendy’s Jr. Bacon Cheeseburger in the same breath.

- I still have a long way to go on this one, but I got rid of all most of my clothes that fit Mini Me.

- I surround myself with healthy friends who affirm me, but also hold me accountable when I need a reality check.

- I now receive and share wisdom. Three amazing women helped me find deeper clarity on the issue of hunger. Idelette first reframed the word “hungry” for me. I shared Idelette’s story with Julie, who affirmed my journey and pointed me in the direction of Rachel. Rachel gave me fresh language and tools to identify and connect with my true hunger. Now, I’m sharing what I learned from Rachel with you to come alongside you on your journey. See how this works? Karma baby.

- I read what God says about me in the Bible. One of my faves: “You are altogether beautiful, my darling, And there is no blemish in you.” -Songs of Solomon 4:7.

____________________

We are hungry people.

Idelette is right about me, I have big dreams and a big hunger I’m trying to fill. While it seems so much easier to numb or ignore my true hungers, I’m learning that denying them leads to an unsatisfied, famished life.

I want to savour, delight and relish life. I don’t want to be imprisoned by insecurity, jealousy, exhaustion, criticism and guilt.  I want a better life, a life for freedom, for myself, and my girlfriends.

What would a world with women unified with their true hungers look like? 

In the words of Michaelangelo, (the orange-masked turtle whirling pizzas, not the Italian Renaissance artist): “Cowabunga!”

Mind. Blown.

Marianne Williamson says it beautifully in this prayer:

Dear God,
Please free me
from false appetites
and take away my pain.
Take from me my compulsive self,
and show me who I am.

Dear God,
Please give me a new beginning.
Unchain my heart
so I might live
a freer life at last.

Amen.

_________________________________

So, dear ones, I want to leave you with some of Rachel’s brilliant questions:

- Today and tomorrow the hunger I need to feed is _______ .
- What gets in the way of you feeding your truest hungers?
- If you have a busy schedule and are really strapped for time, what is one way you could feed yourself in the shower, in traffic, in the kitchen, etc.?

Love you more than Coconut Mango Oat Muffins,
xoxo,
Teen

To read more TGIFs from Tina: Click here.

______________________________________________________

My name is Tina. Loved ones call me: Teen.

Words are my chocolate. Music, my caramel. Photography, my bread. Girlfriends, my butter.

Confession: Some girls dream about Manolo Blahniks or their next Hermes bag. Not me. I dream of freshly baked bread, perfectly barbecued meat & steaming bowls of Pho. My dream lover *cue Mariah Carey song* is someone who would read out a menu to me in Barry White’s baritone voice.

I celebrate food, ask for help, interrupt conversations, laugh and cry hard, acknowledge the elephant in most rooms, fight for the underdog and believe in the power of storytelling.

I was born and raised in Dubai and currently live in the beautiful city of Vancouver, known for some of the best sushi in the world.

TGIF: My “30 Going on 13″ Moment

On forgotten business cards, my Jambalaya family and sleeping in the backseat of a minivan.

by Tina Francis | Twitter: @teenbug
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I got a promotion at work last year. Not the kind that results in a corner office, prime parking spot and stock options. But the kind where you get a moderate raise, a fancy title, continue to do your old job (with the dream of a replacement—“soon”), work longer hours and get a fresh stack of business cards.

I find the practice of swapping business cards archaic and awkward. Much like a good handshake, handing out a business card is an art form. I lack the prerequisite swagger needed to hand them out with any semblance of credibility.

This guy has swagger:

In stark contrast, I’ve got a lot more of this going on:

When I’m not moonlighting as a sandwich consultant, I work with engineers. In my experience, most engineers consider non-engineers, an overhead cost, and “a suit”.

Now add the fact that: I’m female (minority), younger to my peers (inexperienced), a communication major (fluff degree) with work experience in TV broadcasting (condescending smirk). Let’s just say, the odds are stacked against me.

My business card is the neon stamp of approval that grants me access to this otherwise members-only club.

Without it, I’m basically toast. This is where my story begins.

___________________

On the eve of a business trip to Toronto, I was working late at the office. Seriously sleep-deprived, I eventually packed my bags to go home but had a sneaking suspicion I was forgetting something important.

You know where this is going …

At the tail end of my 1.5-hour commute home, it dawned on me: I’d forgotten to grab my business cards.

I was catching an early morning flight, still had to pack, do laundry and make crucial changes to a presentation. This (this!) lapse in planning was a boo-boo of epic proportions.

While I wanted to go into a “Jim Carrey-esque” meltdown, i.e. slamming my head into the steering wheel, I started crying angry defeated tears instead.

How could I forget to pack them after my boss reminded me? All this work on a presentation and I wasn’t going to make a professional first impression! Nobody wants to be on the team with the person who “ran out of business cards.”

7:30 pm

After raging crying on my driveway for three minutes, I walked into the kitchen where my parents were eating dinner. Afraid I was going to burst into tears, I avoided eye contact and rinsed out my lunch Tupperware in the sink.

“I forgot to grab my business cards,” I said in a monotone Terminator voice. “I really needed them for my trip.”

“Do you have any extra cards at home?” my mom asked.

I exhaled and nodded my head, “No.” I served myself a plate of food, then headed up to my room.

7:45 pm

Back in the kitchen. I was washing my empty plate, when my dad, who was now munching on a fistful of sweet sticky dates said, “If you want to pick up the cards, I can drive you.”

I looked up at him tentatively and said, “But it’s an hour-and-a-half away …”

Half-chewing he replied, “That’s okay. There won’t be any traffic this time of the night.”

“Are you sure … ?” my voice trailed off.

My mom who was clearing the dinner table urged, “Go get dressed.”

Just as I was about to climb into the minivan, I noticed my mom standing right behind me with a pillow and a blanket.

“Get in the backseat,” she said handing me the pillow and the blanket. “You can rest on the drive there.”

“The family is a haven in a heartless world.”
- Christopher Lasch

You Can Rest

As I climbed in the van, I felt my knees buckle and my lips quiver.

The words, “You can rest,” made my head spin.

Remember that movie “13 going on 30” where Jennifer Garner plays a game on her 13th birthday and wakes up as a 30-year-old woman? Well, this moment, was the exact opposite.

Here I was, an able-bodied 30-year-old woman, in scuffed sneakers, an oversized hoodie, whimpering in the backseat of my parents’ minivan with a blankie. For crying out loud!

First I was crying, because I love the relationship my parents share. They truly enjoy each other’s company–whether it’s going to buy a bag of mulch for the backyard, or driving their adult daughter to pick up business cards in the middle of the night.

Then I was crying, because I realized they had loved 30-year-old me for as many years. Thirty years of being bailed out, taken care of and consoled. Thirty years of encouraging me, protecting me and looking out for me. Thirty years of (metaphorically) leaving the light on for my prodigal heart.

Sure, sometimes their “encouragement” felt like pressure, “protection” felt like suffocation and “looking out for me” sounded an awful lot like paranoia. But the bottom line was that these people–my parents–love me. They would go barefoot to hell and back for me.

What about people who don’t have a loving family?

I was semi-hypnotized by the streetlights whizzing by, when I realized we were driving through Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside (DTES), a.k.a. “the rough part” of town. Just outside the protected bubble of my minivan was screaming visual proof of poverty, drug use, prostitution, crime and violence.

In February, I was at the Justice Conference in Portland where I heard stories about lives that took a drastic turn for the worst because of emotionally unavailable parents.

Girls with parents who were caught up in numbing their own pain with alcohol, drugs or multiple sexual partners. Girls who had no one to call after running away from home, getting pregnant, date raped or overdosing. Girls who had no one to call from a gas station, bus stop or payphone.

So the girls went back to their:
… abusive boyfriends,
… pimps, and
… dealers.

They never stood a fighting chance.

A good friend often says, “When you have roots, you can have wings.” I need “the roots” of my family, who love me unconditionally ”to have wings.” I needed a two-hour drive to grab my business cards in the middle of the night, so I could feel confident about giving a stellar presentation at work.

Driving through the DTES, I found my heart overflowing with gratitude for my mom and dad, who were happily chatting away, snacking on spicy fried peas in the front seat.

My family is a thick jambalaya of characters, who share food, bad jokes and the remote control. We celebrate birthdays, new jobs and great haircuts. We stand together in failure, heartbreak and buffet lineups. We sit through terrible high school plays, teary weddings and depressing waiting rooms. We parade around in our pajamas, talk with morning breath, tease each other, address fashion faux pas and wander through Walmart. We are fiercely protective, borderline codependent and wildly irrational when it comes to loving each other.  In a nutshell, their unconditional LOVE, gives me the courage to journey through the good, the beautiful and the downright ugly of LIFE.

____________________________________________________________

So, dear ones …

- Who cares about your rest?
- Who needs you to show up for them with a pillowcase and a blankie?

Love you more than a comforting bowl of Coconut Shrimp Soup and Lady Apple Cardamom Cake,
xoxo,
Teen

To read more TGIFs from Tina: Click here.

______________________________________________________

My name is Tina. Loved ones call me: Teen.

Words are my chocolate. Music, my caramel. Photography, my bread. Girlfriends, my butter.

Confession: Some girls dream about Manolo Blahniks or their next Hermes bag. Not me. I dream of freshly baked bread, perfectly barbecued meat & steaming bowls of Pho. My dream lover *cue Mariah Carey song* is someone who would read out a menu to me in Barry White’s baritone voice.

I celebrate food, ask for help, interrupt conversations, laugh and cry hard, acknowledge the elephant in most rooms, fight for the underdog and believe in the power of storytelling.

I was born and raised in Dubai and currently live in the beautiful city of Vancouver, known for some of the best sushi in the world.

TGIF: Are You There, World? It’s Me, Tina. Without Makeup.

On Angelina Jolie’s leg, posing for Facebook pictures and exposing the “real me.”

by Tina Francis | Twitter: @teenbug
____________________________________________________________

It’s been an AWESOME week to be a woman.

Apart from the insane media coverage of Angelina Jolie’s leg at the Oscars (epic low for humanity), I have enjoyed watching women stand up and stick it to The Man.

I want to take a quick minute to say:

Source: baubauhaus.com via Tina on Pinterest

Dear Angelina,

Haters gonna hate.

I’m so sorry about the spoofs, Twitter account, “Legbombing” Pinterest page, memes and TV shows making fun of your leg.

I say this sincerely and un-ironically: it must suck to wake up every morning and hear that your leg is on the cover of yet another newspaper, when women are being raped in Congo.

Ignore these bozos. Let one of them win an Academy Award, two Screen Actors Guild Awards, three Golden Globe Awards and be named Hollywood’s highest-paid actress by Forbes; then they can talk.

Love you girl,
Teen
__________

Coming back to task at hand …

Women were such rockstars this week. They are:

1. Speaking up.
   “Dear Oscar: Women Have Stories, Too“
2. Gathering allies.
   “Tumblr Takes Stand Against Eating Disorder Blogs”
3. Standing up for each other.
   “Why We Should Stop Snarking On Angelina Jolie’s Thinness”
4. Embracing their imperfections.
   “Want to be happy? Stop trying to be perfect“
5. Telling the truth.
   “My Journey with Weight Control.”

The last link is a revealing ballsy piece, written by our very own SheLoves writer, Claire De Boer.

Here’s an excerpt from her article that made me choke on my afternoon apple:

“I can’t count the number of times I have sat around a table with girlfriends, a delicious selection of mouthwatering finger foods under our noses, and listened as most of us have justified our decision to eat or not eat the food.

I went for a run today.
I didn’t eat dinner, so I can indulge.
I’ve been good all week, so I deserve a night off.
I shouldn’t … I really need to lose a few pounds.

Whatever the response, so many of us are sitting around that table justifying our decision to eat or not eat. I have never heard the same conversation around a table of men.”

Mid February (coincidentally on my birthday), another SheLoves writer, powerhouse Sarah Bessey wrote, “For Shame or Freedom?” “Shame is insidious, ” she says, “because it can sound reasonable to our own ears, but it always ends in the same place: a prison.”

She goes on to say that as women:

“…we weave a banner of love as nouns and verbs to guard and protect,
to trail-blaze, for our mothers, our daughters:
you are beautiful, you have worth, you are valuable – NOW.
I love you, I see you, I hear you, my sister.

Facebook Me vs. Real Me

Sarah’s words, “I see you,” jumped out at me. I thought about how rarely, I let people see the real me. I hate being seen. I hate been photographed. Maybe I’m extra critical because I’m a photographer. If it’s not the right angle, the right light and the right posture, I want the earth to open up and swallow me whole.

This fear is magnified with the magic of Facebook. Anyone can upload and tag a nasty picture of me with a double-chin, back-fat, eyes closed and mouth wide open. Sure, I could “untag” myself from the picture, but I’ll always know that it’s still floating out there on the scary Internet.

Like most mortals, I’m guilty of putting up a cute but not too pose-y picture of myself as a profile picture, like so:

Please note, the flattering soft light coming from my window making me look like a cast member of “Touched by an Angel.” Truth be told, I often worry that people who I “meet” on the internet, will be disappointed when they meet me in person. Alas, I can’t bottle that gorgeous light to follow me around!

I read an article this week titled, “Almost Half Of Women Don’t Like Their Faces Unless They’re Spackled With Makeup.” Dude … that just makes me sad. Spackled?!

And hey, if this is what Supermodel Kate Moss looks like without makeup and Photoshop, then why do I give myself such a hard time?

If more of us women stopped hiding behind our staged “Perfect Profile Picture,” we could start to reverse the cycle of self-hate and fear, and run wildly into the arms of love and freedom.

Some of you might remember that my One Word for 2012 is “enough.” I’m learning that I am: strong enough, smart enough, brave enough, loved enough …[squirm] … even beautiful enough. Just as I am.

“We can’t look to the world to restore our worth; we’re here to restore our worth to the world. The world outside us can reflect our glory, but it cannot create it. It cannot crown us. Only God can crown us, and he already has.” — Marianne Williamson

In a moment of pure insanity I thought, if my beautiful friend Claire can be honest about how many times she has weighed herself, I can be honest about what I look like without makeup.

So this is the real me …
Glasses
Pimple on my cheek
Angry Vein on my forehead
Bags under my eyes
Ratty pajamas
No makeup.
No Photoshop.
No flattering angle.

BOOM.

And this is (round-faced) me, after I realized that this idea was totally crazy and I was going to regret it in the morning!

Guess what? It’s morning. And, I don’t regret it!

“A tulip doesn’t strive to impress anyone. It doesn’t struggle to be different than a rose. It doesn’t have to. It is different. And there’s room in the garden for every flower. You didn’t have to struggle to make your face different than anyone else’s on earth. It just is. You are unique because you were created that way.” — Marianne Williamson

______________________________

OH-OH-OH, I have a crazy idea!!!

Dear ones, I (lovingly) dare you to take a picture of yourself without makeup and:

a. Post it on our SheLoves Facebook page.
b. Share it on Twitter. You can copy/paste this tweet:
“Hey World! It’s Me, _____[insert name]. Without Makeup. #iamenough [insert picture] ”
c. Or “Pin it” on Pinterest. #iamenough

Gleep! I’m so excited. I would seriously love to see your beautiful faces, just as you are.

Together we can define a new standard for beauty; one that celebrates our curves, stretchmarks, scary veins, wrinkles and laugh lines.

Love you more than Ginger Grapefruit Curd,
xoxo,
Teen

To read more TGIFs from Tina: Click here.

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My name is Tina. Loved ones call me: Teen.

Words are my chocolate. Music, my caramel. Photography, my bread. Girlfriends, my butter.

Confession: Some girls dream about Manolo Blahniks or their next Hermes bag. Not me. I dream of freshly baked bread, perfectly barbecued meat & steaming bowls of Pho. My dream lover *cue Mariah Carey song* is someone who would read out a menu to me in Barry White’s baritone voice.

I celebrate food, ask for help, interrupt conversations, laugh and cry hard, acknowledge the elephant in most rooms, fight for the underdog and believe in the power of storytelling.

My word for the year is “leap.” If something scares me, I do it.

I was born and raised in Dubai and currently live in the beautiful city of Vancouver, known for some of the best sushi in the world.

TGIF: Now That I’m Older …

Thoughts on the eve of my 30th birthday.

by Tina Francis | Twitter: @teenbug
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“You get old and you realize there are no answers, just stories.”
— Garrison Keillor

Now That I’m Older …

I think twice before using the word “hate.”
I invest in good friends and good bras.
I avoid “beauty” magazines.

I say, “I don’t know.” Often.
I lean into the uncomfortable.
I feel pain and beauty. Deeply.

I know that …
I’m not as “fat, ugly or stupid” as I feel.
Everyone needs a friend they can call at 4am.
I like my eggs sunny-side up.

I sip, I savour, I sing.
I ferment, I fiddle, I fail.

There is something about …
“Landslide” by Fleetwood Mac that makes me weep.
A drastic haircut that feels like a second chance at life.
A kind heart that is sexy-as-heck.

Poetry trumps the news.
Channel pain to create art.
Don’t wait for perfect. Do it now.

I now know that …
Hurt people, hurt people.
Friends break hearts.
Friends (also) heal hearts.

Mama does know best.

Debauchery is a raisin Danish with a custard centre
Anger is a broken heart in disguise
Life is “brutiful” (brutal + beautiful)

I now know that …
There are no answers.
Only stories.
______________________________________________________

Oh Stevie … your voice wrecks me.

“Can the child within my heart rise above?
Can I sail through the changing ocean tides?
Can I handle the seasons of my life?”

______________________________________________________

My dear ones …

- Have you had a milestone birthday?
- Do any of my truths resonate with you?
- What do you know now, that you wish you knew then?

Love you more than Potato Chip Cookies, (<- Recipe)
xoxo,
Teen

To read more TGIFs from Tina: Click here.

______________________________________________________

My name is Tina. Loved ones call me: Teen.

Words are my chocolate. Music, my caramel. Photography, my bread. Girlfriends, my butter.

Confession: Some girls dream about Manolo Blahniks or their next Hermes bag. Not me. I dream of freshly baked bread, perfectly barbecued meat & steaming bowls of Pho. My dream lover *cue Mariah Carey song* is someone who would read out a menu to me in Barry White’s baritone voice.

I celebrate food, ask for help, interrupt conversations, laugh and cry hard, acknowledge the elephant in most rooms, fight for the underdog and believe in the power of storytelling.

My word for the year is “leap.” If something scares me, I do it.

I was born and raised in Dubai and currently live in the beautiful city of Vancouver, known for some of the best sushi in the world.

TGIF: What My Grandmother Taught Me About The Hero’s Journey

On PDA in a hotel lobby, crying cashews and spooning my grandmother.

by Tina Francis | Twitter: @teenbug
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“Diet Pepsi at 11pm was a bad idea,” I think to myself, staring at the empty can on the bedside table.

I’m exhausted, but can’t sleep. My restless body curls into the shape of a cashew nut, and then unfurls into a giant flag.

Cashew. Flag. Cashew. Flag. Cashew. Flag.

I look at the digital clock above my head that blinks 3:15am in scarlet red. In my wayward state of insomnia, I decide, “I’ll wear my black skirt that doesn’t need to be ironed,” and jump out of bed. I roll up my pajama pants, shave my legs, slather a generous scoop of cocoa butter on my now shiny smooth limbs and look at the clock again.

3:30am.

In exactly five hours, I’ll be reunited with my 95-year-old grandmother, my Ammachi.

The grandmother who saved my yellow scissors.
The grandmother I hadn’t seen in nine years.
The grandmother I didn’t want to speak to.

I was on a whirlwind work trip that took me to my motherland, Kerala, in beautiful South India. The azure sky bejeweled with lush emerald coconut trees made me sigh deeply. An unexpected trip that facilitated the luxury of being able to visit my beloved grandmother.

PDA and an inappropriate sling bag …

At 6am sharp, I greeted my dad’s oldest sister–my 4′ 6 75-year-old plucky aunt, Sister Vera, in the hotel lobby with an over-exuberant hug. She turned cranberry pink and burst into nervous laughter. Given that South Indians rarely hug, and compounded by the fact that she’d been a nun for almost sixty years, I could see how my overt public display of affection gave my poor aunty a heart attack.

As I settled into the back of the cab, my eyes slowly wandered and I encountered an unexpected glee-inducing moment. My adorable aunt was carrying a Chivas Regal sling bag. Lawwwd, have murrrrcy! I was so tickled by how incongruous this image was, I almost clapped.

Oh life, and its beautiful ironies!

The Second Half of Life 

I’m not sure what I expected when I walked into my grandmother’s room. I gingerly placed three totes filled with an odd potpourri of gifts on the floor: cereal, towels, Vaseline, chocolate-covered almonds, rice crackers, a coffee mug, Turkish sweets, my sister’s homemade toffee brittle and cleaning wipes.

As I approached her bed, I saw that her breathing had become laboured and heavy. Her eyes were full of tears. I bent down to kiss her cheeks and she “sniff-kissed” me. The customary South Indian grandma kiss. She pressed her cauliflower-shaped nose against my cheek and took a deep audible breath — inhaling the scent of my skin, inhaling my entire almost-thirty-granddaughter-essence with each sniff. She kissed the right cheek and then the left cheek. Switching back to the right cheek and the left again. This went on for what felt like 15 minutes.

Sr. Vera brings me a foldable wooden stool so I can sit beside Ammachi. When I finally pull my face back, I get a proper look at her. She was wearing a loose white cotton dress with cute-as-heck pink polka dots, a white rosary around her neck and a wedding band on her finger. Her hair snowy white, her face gaunt, her tiny-tiny arms and her skin hanging from her bones. She was so much smaller than I remembered. Her forest green metal walker to the left of her bed, an ugly reminder that she would be taken away from me. Worse, she’d been taken away from my dad. I was angry and wanted to burn the stupid walker  in the front yard.

My pyromaniac fantasy was interrupted by her quivering lips which whispered the words, “Devum thanna pilara…” This loosely translates to mean, “The children God blessed me with …”

This was the moment I officially became a wreck. I remembered why I didn’t want to see her or speak to her. It hurts too much. Loving my grandma breaks my heart, and hers.

She cupped my face firmly with her jittery arms and looked at me. I mean, really looked at me. She drank in every detail of my face, committing it to memory: every curve, dimple, bone, bump, eyelash and pore. I was humbled by the silent awe, elation and gratitude etched on her face. She seemed to be looking at a glorious, beautiful, perfect version of me, that I couldn’t see in myself.

“The world is more magical, less predictable, more autonomous, less controllable, more varied, less simple, more infinite, less knowable, more wonderfully troubling than we could have imagined being able to tolerate when we were young.” - James Hollis, “Finding Meaning in the Second Half of Life”

A Handkerchief + A Cross + The Great Wounding

My dad has seven sisters. Three of his sisters are nuns. The youngest of the three, Sr. Cecelia (my favourite–she sang) passed away a couple of years ago from cancer. My grandmother asked my aunt Sr. Vera to crochet the cross Sr. Cecelia wore around her neck onto a green and white plaid handkerchief.

In his book “Falling Upward” Father Richard Rohr talks about “The Great Wounding” or “Necessary Suffering” in every hero’s journey. The whole story pivots on the resolution of the trials that result. The great wounding eventually leads to a great epiphany, and the wound becomes a secret (even sacred) key that takes the hero to the next level. The wound breaks the hero before strengthening him. This strange balance between ascent and descent, victory and suffering, is every hero’s journey. Richard Rohr says the hero “floats forward by the quiet movement of grace.”

I thought about my grandmother’s “great wounding.” She lost her husband, her siblings, her parents and eventually her own daughter. I can’t imagine anything more painful than a parent having to bury their child. She had to leave her home, her roots and her legacy in Kerala. She shuttled between her children, all over the world, from the Middle East to Canada and she did it without her husband, sisters and family.

The LORD had said to Abram, “Leave your country, your people and your father’s household and go to the land I will show you. - Genesis 12:1

My grandmother is a hero. She is a hero in the classic Greek sense of the word. Unlike the modern definition, where celebrity is equated with heroism, the classic Greek hero was somebody brave enough to leave her home, accomplish a greater task for the greater good, suffer the great wounding, learn to rise above it and come back home to share her wisdom with the next generation. Hello?! That is my grandmother in a nutshell.

“First is the fall, and then we recover from the fall. Both are the mercy of God.” – Lady Julian of Norwich

Spooning  + Like a Child

As Sr. Vera silently crocheted the cross onto the handkerchief, I climbed onto the bed and lay beside my grandmother. Everything that needed to be said had already been said. I just wanted to be close to her.

The moment I climbed on the bed to spoon my grandmother, tears began to run down her cheeks and she said, “You have so much love … like a little child.”

I felt my chest tighten, throat close up and my legs start to tremble. There were tears. Warm, fat, monster tears.

Two [crying] cashews lying on a bed, just taking each other in.

“I want her to melt into me, like butter on toast. I want to absorb her and walk around for the rest of my days with her encased in my skin.” ― Sara Gruen, Water for Elephants

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My dear ones…

I still have tears coming down my cheeks as I write this. I need a minute. *deep breath*

Okay.

I recently read an article in the Guardian about Bronnie Ware, an Australian palliative nurse who recorded her patients’ dying epiphanies in the last twelve weeks of their lives. She wrote a book called The Top Five Regrets of the Dying and here they are in random order:

1. I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me.
2. I wish I hadn’t worked so hard.
3. I wish I’d had the courage to express my feelings.
4. I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends.
5. I wish I had let myself be happier.

I would love to hear your thoughts:
- If today were your last day, what would be your biggest regret?
- What do you want to achieve/change before you die?
- Have you experienced “the great wounding”?

Love you more than Salt and Vinegar Kale Chips,(<- Recipe)
xoxo,
Teen

To read more TGIFs from Tina: Click here.

______________________________________________________

My name is Tina. Loved ones call me: Teen.

Words are my chocolate. Music, my caramel. Photography, my bread. Girlfriends, my butter.

Confession: Some girls dream about Manolo Blahniks or their next Hermes bag. Not me. I dream of freshly baked bread, perfectly barbecued meat & steaming bowls of Pho. My dream lover *cue Mariah Carey song* is someone who would read out a menu to me in Barry White’s baritone voice.

I celebrate food, ask for help, interrupt conversations, laugh and cry hard, acknowledge the elephant in most rooms, fight for the underdog and believe in the power of storytelling.

My word for the year is “leap.” If something scares me, I do it.

I was born and raised in Dubai and currently live in the beautiful city of Vancouver, known for some of the best sushi in the world.

TGIF: Precious Pixels + Handwritten Letter + Sun + Fine Art Print + The Help

By Tina Francis, with Danielle Hardy

Hiiii my beautiful SheLovers!

[cups your face in my hands and smushes cheeks]

I’ve missed you! *** (I, as in Tina}

Sorry for going MIA. I just got back from a two-week work trip to India. Writing TGIF from the road was near impossible while juggling jetlag, an intense travel itinerary and spotty access to the internet.

So, my friends Ashley and Trinity (and new SheLoves friend Laura), saved the day (as friends often do) and did an awesome job of bringing you TGIF while I was away. I loved getting a glimpse into the Top 5 things they hold precious. Reading their posts made me realize that there’s great value in having more women share their voices. Less is not always more.

It’s like my undying of love of popcorn. I chomp through fistfuls of the stuff like a rabid dog foaming kernel dust (salt) at the mouth. Now, I like classic movie popcorn without butter. But I also love: white cheddar, dill, kettle corn, ketchup, etc.

My friends bring their unique flavour to popcorn … errm … I mean TGIF! So you will be seeing many more guest posts in the future.

Coming back to the business of this week’s post, I’m technically back in town, but still recovering from a severe case of jetlag. I put makeup on in the shower, get into imaginary heated debates with Gingrich on the skytrain and speak a hybrid of English-Aramaic-Hindi-Spanglish.

To spare you the gory details of my current state of lunacy, this week’s TGIF is brought to you by my friend Danielle of “What One Girl and Her Decals Can Do” fame. You’re going to love her!
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5 Things I love …

By Danielle Hardy | Twitter: @hardydanielle

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Confession: It took me WAY too long to put together five things I love. I don’t know if it’s because I don’t love enough things or if I just love too many things to encapsulate into words. I hope it’s the latter, because I want to love in a B.I.G. way. So, after much thought, I would like to share five things  I love and invite you into my heart and see what makes it swoon.

Precious Pixels + Handwritten Letter + Sun + Fine Art Print + The Help

1. Precious Pixels: I think Will Smith said it best in his hit single “Just the two of us …”

Oh man, my mom would be SO mad at me for sharing this picture, but I just love it with all my heart and it’s not because of my amazing style sense that I had as a child (although that floral shirt and black stirrup combo is quite amazing), but because it just so perfectly captures the relationship between my mom and I.

Her beauty was breathtaking. She definitely was no fashion expert, as the majority of her days consisted of sporting purple sweat pants, a northern reflection sweater(wolfscape included), navy patent shoes and a floral dicky (you know, those amazing faux turtlenecks from the early 90’s?), but her heart was so stunning. She always made time for me, loved me unconditionally, fiercely protected me, prayed without seizing for my soul and let me sit on her lap as much as I wanted and whenever I wanted. I spent countless car rides to school fixated on her lap as she was driving (something that is heavily frowned upon now for whatever reason).

It’s been 15 years ago since my mommy went to Heaven. She passed away from a two- year battle with cancer when I was 15 years old–three months short of my sweet 16. I look at this picture and remember my life with her in it: Safe, loved, encouraged and believed in. I can’t explain how much I miss this woman.

There’s not a doubt in my mind that if I had one more day on earth with her that I wouldn’t climb back on her lap and soak up her love and affection.

2. Handwritten Letter: Hello, LOVE LANGUAGE!!!

You can imagine my delight over this little treasure I found under the Christmas tree this year.

My son, Mattias, had the sweetest idea to make a present of his own to give to me: A beautiful letter expressing his four-year-old thoughts and love for me. He brought a blank piece of paper and pen to Daddy and asked him to write down what he said. [ MELT.MY.LITTLE.BLACK.HEART!!] I realized how much he watches what I do, studies what I say, and pays attention to what I spend money on

This kid is going to make a great GREAT husband.

3. Sun: Where are you?

I love the sun. Doesn’t matter if it’s humid sun, dry sun, 46 degree sun. I JUST LOVE THE SUN. It means flip flops and walks to the park. Frappucino’s and sunglasses. Happy, smiling people. Colour. Health (No vitamin D in the form of a pill). The sound of my kids playing outside. Camping trips. Walks to the beach. Windows in my house wide open. Blowing bubbles, impromptu hop-scotch with the kids and the sun setting at 9pm.

Please hurry summer … please?!

4. Fine Art Print: Inspiration

As a person that thrives on huge amounts of creativity I found this little number and immediately scooped it up off the internet with my handy dandy visa.

Loved the colours, design, femininity and the words kind of leapt off the page at me. I feel this to be true in my life. I used to despise those yucky and sometimes endless “winter” seasons that came in and out of my life. I see now, though, that they have brought me to where and who I am and I can appreciate the ups and downs that come with living life … that there is a beautiful summer after every winter. #seasons Buy here. 

5. THE HELP: The power of one; The power of many

I received “The Help” as a present from my hubs (who must know me so well to get this for me) a few months ago and couldn’t wait to read it. I sometimes find it hard to finish books, but I devoured this within 48 hours.

I love this story because it represents a person and a people who were willing to stand up for justice and what was right. They counted the gigantic cost of speaking the truth and telling their stories and they did it anyway. They didn’t know if their efforts were going to make any sort of change, but their voices were heard and they made a difference.

I love the power of one person willing to fight to create change and I love the power of a group of people joining alongside and do what they have in their hands–to use their voice and stand up for what is right. People willing to fight injustice with their sphere of influence and their God-given talents. #empowered #worldchanging

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* * *

Okay, that picture of Danielle’s mom? [hand on chest] LOVE. See what I mean? It’s amazing hearing everyone’s stories.

So, we’d love to hear from you:

- Do you have a picture you treasure just about as much as your holy book?
- What’s melted your heart this month?
- When you reach for some inspiration glee, what’s in your special drawer?

If you would like to write a guest post for TGIF, write to our editor (Mama-bear) Idelette or leave a comment below.

Love you more than crunchy-chewy-gooey chocolate chip cookies.

xoxo,
Teen
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About Danielle:

Danielle Hardy lives in Surrey, BC (we’ll refer to it as Cloverdale). She is a wife to Paul and mommy to two of the cutest “Hardy Boys” around. She is owner and creator of Urbanwalls, Etsy seller, Graphic Designer, aspiring blogger and thrives in awkward moments. She blogs a uwdecals.com and tweets at @hardydanielle

About Tina:
My name is Tina. Loved ones call me: Teen.

Words are my chocolate. Music, my caramel. Photography, my bread. Girlfriends, my butter.

Confession: Some girls dream about Manolo Blahniks or their next Hermes bag. Not me. I dream of freshly baked bread, perfectly barbecued meat & steaming bowls of Pho. My dream lover *cue Mariah Carey song* is someone who would read out a menu to me in Barry White’s baritone voice.

I celebrate food, ask for help, interrupt conversations, laugh and cry hard, acknowledge the elephant in most rooms, fight for the underdog and believe in the power of storytelling.

My word for the year is “Enough.”

I was born and raised in Dubai and currently live in the beautiful city of Vancouver, known for some of the best sushi in the world.

TGIF: I Won’t Dance. Don’t Ask Me.

On Beyoncé, Japan’s tsunami debris and my “one word” for 2012.

by Tina Francis | Twitter: @teenbug
____________________________________________________________

“I would believe only in a God that knows how to dance.”  -Friedrich Nietzsche

For some reason, it didn’t occur to me there would be dancing at a New Year’s Eve party. A small (naive) part of me hoped the night involved: steaming cups of Rooibos tea, reading excerpts of Eve Ensler’s book “I am an Emotional Creature” out loud and lemon pound cake.

I-know-I-know. I’m such a party animal.

I’d successfully escaped the dance floor for the first half of the evening by: perusing the appetizer table, hugging friends extra (creepy) long, pretending to be thirsty, then pretending I had a full bladder and initiating long conversations by asking open-ended questions like,”So, how was 2011?”

The festive yet fairly sober evening was under control until, the evil iPhone shuffled its way over to Beyonce’s song “Single ladies.”

Game over.

Squeals sounded, the couch emptied and female-folk ranging from six to thirty-something crowded the carpeted, cozy, living room dance floor. I found myself in the middle of an impromptu R&B inspired tribal circle of exuberant “single ladies” (and one exuberant dude).

I surveyed the situation and immediately started plotting my exit. “Another washroom break? A fake phone call?” I thought frantically. Suddenly the lone exuberant dude on the dance floor grabbed my hands and ushered me off the couch.

“C’mon!” he said.

“I can’t do it,” I said avoiding eye contact.

“Keep it simple,” he reassured.

“No seriously. I can’t do it!” I said fighting back tears.

“Just bop your head.”

“What is wrong with me?” I whispered. “I suck.”

I’ll have what she’s having …

For as long as I can remember, dancing has been the proverbial scary monster under my bed. I’d rather give an impromptu speech on live television dressed up as a chimp than get jiggy with it. I could never be part of Ellen’s studio audience. Just watching her dance at the beginning of her show, makes me a little short of breath.

Early 2010, my girlfriend Adriel invited me to a wedding in Seattle as her date. In my excitement to see her, I’d completely forgotten about the dancing component of the evening. The moment I stepped into the reception hall, I broke into a cold sweat. So, I did what I always do in uncomfortable social situations. I pulled out my camera security blanket.

I documented Adriel and her fabulous friends that night. They were inspiring and hilarious to watch. I thought about how amazing it must feel to be free.

Last summer, Adriel hired me as her wedding photographer. Looking back at the pictures from her reception, I’m amazed by how liberated her friends and family seemed. They made it look so easy!

Why do my arms and feet feel like lead on the dance floor? I–so badly–want a piece of what they are having.

Soul Debris

My mom has a newspaper clipping about Japan’s tsunami debris on our refrigerator. Twenty million tons of wreckage, including furniture, TVs, refrigerators and other miscellaneous domestic flotsam is making its way to the West coast of Canada and the United States.

Two things occurred to me about the story:
- Tragedy results in debris.
- Debris eventually washes up to shore.

So then, what about tragedies of the heart? Where does the invisible debris from the wreckage of a soul go? The nuclear disaster left tens of thousands dead or missing. Soul-disasters must have a similar effect. Parts must go dead or missing.

A tragedy of the soul occurs on the inside, and yet it manifests in different ways on the outside. If I think back to my childhood, I can remember a time when I was free. A time when I was comfortable in my skin. A time when my limbs were full of expression and life.

And yes, there was a great tragedy. The debris is mostly invisible. It often surfaces when I have to dance. I want to recover the parts of my soul lost at sea.

Silent Soul

Martha Graham, the Picasso of modern dance says, “Dance is the hidden language of the soul.” If dancing is the hidden language of my soul, then what is my mute soul trying to say? More importantly, given my soul’s total inability to communicate (dance) what is my soul unable to say? Why is my soul afraid to speak-up: bop my head, lift my arms, shuffle my feet? How long is my soul going to stay silent?

Martha says, “Dance is a song of the body. Either of joy or pain.” I want to hear the song of my body. My body has been running away from expressing pain for 23 years now. I want healing. Unfortunately, the only way to heal is to dance until my debris rises to the surface.

My One Word

2011 was an incredible year of growth and healing for me, but I’m starting to realize that I’ve only scratched the surface. There is still so much work to be done.

My “one word” last year was “leap.” And, leap I did. Each leap was like the swing of a big demolition ball that slowly knocked down the skyscraper of my fear.

This year is about delving deeper and pulling out the roots, addressing the foundation of the fear and identifying the invisible fear. I’ve realized that the root of most of my fear is from feeling unworthy, less-than or average.

So my “one word” for this year is [insert drum roll] … ENOUGH.

God is showing me that: I am enough. (Philippians 4:13)

Strong enough.
Smart enough.
Brave enough.
Loved enough.

“To watch us dance is to hear our hearts speak.” – Hopi Indian Saying

I want to hear my heart speak loud and clear this year. Dancing feels risky. Who knows what dark and putrid ugliness dancing to Beyoncé will bring to the surface, but I’m ready to find out.

I’m going to write a blog post at the end of 2012 titled, “How Tina Got Her Groove Back.”

#iamenough

Let’s do this!

____________

I love this 2008 Gap commercial featuring the adorable Ms. Hepburn. #dancepiration

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So dear friends…

1. What terrifies you?
2. What is your “one word” for the year? (Read more about the One Word conversation here.)

Love you more than Steamed Mussels & Buttermilk Frangipane Cake, (<- Recipe)

xoxo,

Teen

To read more TGIFs from Tina: Click here.

______________________________________________________

My name is Tina. Loved ones call me: Teen.

Words are my chocolate. Music, my caramel. Photography, my bread. Girlfriends, my butter.

Confession: Some girls dream about Manolo Blahniks or their next Hermes bag. Not me. I dream of freshly baked bread, perfectly barbecued meat & steaming bowls of Pho. My dream lover *cue Mariah Carey song* is someone who would read out a menu to me in Barry White’s baritone voice.

I celebrate food, ask for help, interrupt conversations, laugh and cry hard, acknowledge the elephant in most rooms, fight for the underdog and believe in the power of storytelling.

My word for the year is “leap.” If something scares me, I do it.

I was born and raised in Dubai and currently live in the beautiful city of Vancouver, known for some of the best sushi in the world.

TGIF: Why I Didn’t Go to the Gym in 2011

On hot fudge sundaes, loving my jiggly bits and saving the world.

by Tina Francis | Twitter: @teenbug
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[Full disclosure: I'm sipping on a glass of white wine as I write this post. #liquidcourage]

“It’s too bad you’re fat,” he said. “The dress looks better on your sister.”

I was six.

He* was my 21-year-old cousin.

This was the moment I believed a lie.

[*Complicated back story. Perhaps for another time.]

Being a hot fudge sundae

Like a lot of women, I have naively clung to the lie that my life would be mediocre, uninspired and boring, until I lost the proverbial ten or twenty pounds. Forget Santa, I’ve waited my whole life for Skinny Me to magically show up in a cape and rescue Pudgy Me. I thought of Skinny Me as my stronger, braver, carefree, adventurous alter-ego; she grabs life by the cojones. 

Does anyone relate to the following?

(It’s too bad I’m fat) If I was skinny I’d…

wear more colour.
wear less makeup.
ask for a promotion.
sing in a coffee shop.
take that belly dancing class.

write a book.
embrace my curly hair.
launch a small business.
charge the rates I deserve.
wear my glasses more often.

swim with dolphins.
Wait … 
put on a bathing suit,
stop obsessing about my thunder thighs,
learn how to swim, and …
then swim with dolphins.

wear a “little” black dress (Size: M/L – depending on the store),
forget about my back fat, muffin top and dark armpits,
rock red lipstick and smoky eyes,
smile at myself in the mirror (even my jiggly bits),
and shake my bon-bon.

stop hiding my face behind my hair.
believe that I’m worthy of love.
speak up in meetings.
find a mentor.
save the world.

I’m sensing a collective Amen.

After years of struggling with my weight, I’ve slowly come to realize I didn’t want to be skinny. I wanted the life I thought only a skinny person deserved to have. A life of: frolic + freedom.

Early 2010, I read Geneen Roth’s book, “Women, Food and God” after watching her on Oprah. (I’m such a cliche, right now. Haha. #shootme) Geneen’s book helped me re-frame 2011.

Geneen confirmed a hunch:

“It’s never been true that the value of a soul, of a human spirit, is dependent on a number on a scale. When we start defining ourselves by that which can be measured or weighed, something deep within us rebels. We don’t want to EAT hot fudge sundaes as much as we want our lives to BE hot fudge sundaes. We want to come home to ourselves.”

Ohhhh …

I wanted to BE a hot fudge sundae. I wanted my life to be full of creamy decadent friendships, hot oozey passion, topped with whipped whimsy, nutty adventure and sweet maraschino-cherry life experience.

I wanted my life to be a story that was so riveting, so grand, so epic, you couldn’t put the book down.

The Problem: My Sinking Heart

A couple of weeks ago, I had a candid conversation with my friend “Lisa” about the role beauty plays in dating. She told me about her friend “Trent” who only dates girls that are long-distance runners. Aesthetic reasons aside, Trent believes their lean bodies speak volumes about their inner strength, dedication, determination, commitment and willingness to get uncomfortable.

If a lean body communicated such wonderful characteristics, what did my pudgy body communicate?

Something about this story totally unraveled me. I was a sobbing mucous-dripping mess. I cried for over an hour. Trent confirmed a deep-seated fear of mine: my pudgy body was not worthy of love. Why would someone see me as a worthy partner if I was weak, flaky, faltering, uncommitted and wary of discomfort?

“Weight loss does not make people happy. Or peaceful. Being thin does not address the emptiness that has no shape or weight or name. Even a wildly successful diet is a colossal failure because inside the new body is the same sinking heart.” – Geneen Roth

Ah, yes. My sinking heart.

When my sinking heart is drowning in self-hate, I deprive myself of food and I punish myself with exercise. A recipe for disaster, yes?

Trent’s theory is partially true. Some girls have indeed managed to find the perfect balance of diet and exercise. What he didn’t account for was skinny/athletic girls who don’t love themselves. We all have at least one skinny friend (her thighs don’t touch), who can’t stop obsessing about diet and exercise. Trent’s theory didn’t account for beautiful girls who lived in my dorm who ran 15 miles after eating one cookie. Girls who starved themselves a whole day before a family meal because they’d have to eat everything on their plate. Girls who, despite their pretty shell, didn’t believe they are worthy of love.

Girls, who look “athletic” on the outside, but share my sinking heart.

The Real Reason I Haven’t Been to the Gym in 2011

Once I figured out I was actually craving an exciting life, I knew 2011 needed to be different. No more New Year’s resolutions to reach my dream weight before the summer. I refused to go to the gym until my motives were clear.

I made a pact with myself to never go to the gym for the following reasons:
- Guilt
- Shame
- Punishment

This meant that I barely went to the gym this year.

The verdict?
I didn’t lose or gain any weight in 2011.

I did, however, write a killer chapter for the story of my life.

I went on a life-altering road trip. I ran my first half-marathon. I made a sick amount of new friends. I helped raise $43,600 for my sisters in Uganda. I went on dates. I read great books. I ate delicious food. I got out of debt. I debated life’s deep philosophical questions over Skype.  I bought a wicked camera. I shot my beautiful girlfriend’s wedding. I charged what I deserve. I wore red lipstick. I cut my hair. I got a promotion. I wore thigh-hugging running capris (cringe). I spoke up in meetings. I found my voice. I wrote a column that helped me find healing.

Psssh… who wants to be skinny?

I’d rather be a hot fudge sundae! Holla!
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My theme for the year has been to invest in the things and people I love. “Awake my soul” by Mumford and Sons nails this message for me. Enjoy!

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So dear friends…

1. Do you remember the moment you believed a lie?
2. What are some things you want to do in 2012?
3. What’s holding you back?
4. Have you struggled with your weight?

Love you more than Coconut Pinkcherry Yogurt, (<- Recipe)

xoxo,

Teen

To read more TGIFs from Tina: Click here.

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My name is Tina. Loved ones call me: Teen.

Words are my chocolate. Music, my caramel. Photography, my bread. Girlfriends, my butter.

Confession: Some girls dream about Manolo Blahniks or their next Hermes bag. Not me. I dream of freshly baked bread, perfectly barbecued meat & steaming bowls of Pho. My dream lover *cue Mariah Carey song* is someone who would read out a menu to me in Barry White’s baritone voice.

I celebrate food, ask for help, interrupt conversations, laugh and cry hard, acknowledge the elephant in most rooms, fight for the underdog and believe in the power of storytelling.

My word for the year is “leap.” If something scares me, I do it.

I was born and raised in Dubai and currently live in the beautiful city of Vancouver, known for some of the best sushi in the world.

TGIF: On Plastic Trees, Fruitcake and Mothers Who Made Us Wear Poofy Dresses

Christmas isn’t a Hallmark card with smiling gingerbread men and festive peppermint sticks.

by Tina Francis | Twitter: @teenbug
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