The Way We Return
Almost exactly two years ago, I woke up at five in the morning, collected my blueberry overnight oats
(which had been stewing in a plastic red cup, covered with Saran wrap -- my solution to making the meal
portable and relatively dish-free) and buckled into the back seat of our Volvo. The sun wasn’t really
awake yet, and nor was I, but my dad sure was. This was the day we were to leave on our road trip. I
couldn’t quite tell if he was more excited for the trip itself, or to drive his new car, which he’d purchased
just after selling his company and just before summer vacation began. He had it all planned out. We’d
stay in one town no longer than two nights, drive for hours during the day, and see all of the Colorado
sites we could. The snacks were packed, the water bottles were filled, and my sister had charged her
Kindle Fire twice, because, obviously, Candy Crush was much more interesting than the rock
formations we were bound to pass.
(which had been stewing in a plastic red cup, covered with Saran wrap -- my solution to making the meal
portable and relatively dish-free) and buckled into the back seat of our Volvo. The sun wasn’t really
awake yet, and nor was I, but my dad sure was. This was the day we were to leave on our road trip. I
couldn’t quite tell if he was more excited for the trip itself, or to drive his new car, which he’d purchased
just after selling his company and just before summer vacation began. He had it all planned out. We’d
stay in one town no longer than two nights, drive for hours during the day, and see all of the Colorado
sites we could. The snacks were packed, the water bottles were filled, and my sister had charged her
Kindle Fire twice, because, obviously, Candy Crush was much more interesting than the rock
formations we were bound to pass.
About two years later, I woke up at seven in the morning, made a cup of Bulletproof coffee, and buckled
into the middle row of our rental Suburban. This was the day we were to leave on the Colorado road
trip, take two, with our mom (who’d stayed home with the dogs last time) and our friends from England.
The snacks were packed, the water bottles were filled, and my sister charged her Kindle Fire twice,
because, obviously, Clumsy Ninja was much more interesting than the rock formations we were bound
to pass.
Returning to places is something I’ve always found intriguing, even when the return is something simple,
like visiting my family in Oregon. Things are always slightly different. Years ago, we’d visit my grandpa,
Papa Jerry, in his nursing home. I was very short then (shorter than I am now, anyway), and when I
leaned against the wall, an automatic hand-sanitizer machine squirted its foam on top of my head.
That was a real fun day. I would drink cranberry juice from a machine while Paper Jerry ate a Hostess
Cherry Pie my grandma, Nanny, had brought him. And right before we’d leave, I’d visit Tim, Papa Jerry’s
neighbor at the nursing home, to say hello. This past year, when we visited Oregon, Papa Jerry wasn’t in
the nursing home anymore, but sitting in a box on top of the TV speaker in Nanny’s living room. My dad
and uncle sat on the couch, making cringe-y cremation jokes, and I thought, maybe this is what grief
looks like. As different as things were, some were very much the same. For instance, I was still very
short. Nanny still piled her kitchen table high with food, urging us to eat. We visited the local crafts and
drug store like we always did. To me, traveling, and returning, are marks of the way time preserves and
alters. It’s fascinating.
like visiting my family in Oregon. Things are always slightly different. Years ago, we’d visit my grandpa,
Papa Jerry, in his nursing home. I was very short then (shorter than I am now, anyway), and when I
leaned against the wall, an automatic hand-sanitizer machine squirted its foam on top of my head.
That was a real fun day. I would drink cranberry juice from a machine while Paper Jerry ate a Hostess
Cherry Pie my grandma, Nanny, had brought him. And right before we’d leave, I’d visit Tim, Papa Jerry’s
neighbor at the nursing home, to say hello. This past year, when we visited Oregon, Papa Jerry wasn’t in
the nursing home anymore, but sitting in a box on top of the TV speaker in Nanny’s living room. My dad
and uncle sat on the couch, making cringe-y cremation jokes, and I thought, maybe this is what grief
looks like. As different as things were, some were very much the same. For instance, I was still very
short. Nanny still piled her kitchen table high with food, urging us to eat. We visited the local crafts and
drug store like we always did. To me, traveling, and returning, are marks of the way time preserves and
alters. It’s fascinating.
Our second Colorado road trip has been no exception. We again stayed at a beautiful bed and breakfast
in Durango, and there were still hummingbirds fluttering around the deck. But the place was not immune
to change. The owners, Walter and Jodie, are thinking about selling the bed and breakfast. Walter had
me try a fermented green plum, because he’s very into health and Chinese medicine now, and Jodie has
recently graduated from a clinical nutritionist program. We visited Black Canyon, and it is still my very
favorite National Park. But out of all our destinations, returning to Grand Junction was especially
impactful for me.
in Durango, and there were still hummingbirds fluttering around the deck. But the place was not immune
to change. The owners, Walter and Jodie, are thinking about selling the bed and breakfast. Walter had
me try a fermented green plum, because he’s very into health and Chinese medicine now, and Jodie has
recently graduated from a clinical nutritionist program. We visited Black Canyon, and it is still my very
favorite National Park. But out of all our destinations, returning to Grand Junction was especially
impactful for me.
See, last time we were in this part of Colorado, we stayed in an Econolodge (which is a whole story in
itself) with an Italian restaurant right across the street. We were tired, and my dad had had enough of
driving, so we decided to walk over there for a bite to eat. Now, for a bit of context, the summer of 2017
and our first road trip was when my dad was discovering the ketogenic diet. He was reading Gary
Taubes and Mark Sisson, eliminating grains and limiting his carbs, recommending books and blogs to
nearly everyone we met. He even recommended Why We Get Fat and What to Do About It to Walter
and Jodie, which makes me wonder if their new diets and health-focused paths were, in part, initiated by
him.
In 2017, I was thirteen, just about to finish middle school and leap into high school. In hindsight, I feel this
age was a particularly vulnerable time for me, because -- yippee! -- I was in the middle of the magical
transformation that is puberty. Hormones were (and, admittedly, still are) running rampant, I was growing
taller (but not by much), and I was a bit of a social mess. I had a pretty hard time not comparing myself
to my peers, and had an even harder time figuring out where I fit in the social expectations and standards
all around me. So when my dad and his diets combined with my age and the messages I was hearing
from the media, as well as the perfectionism and need for control I’ve always had, something clicked. I
thought, I should try this diet. That night, at the Italian restaurant in Grand Junction, I ordered the only
seemingly gluten-free item on the menu. Minestrone. When the soup arrived, and there was pasta in it,
I spent ten minutes picking out every single noodle. And that, my friends, is how it started. First I was
wheat and gluten-free, then I cut out sugar, then grains (even though I loved oatmeal), then sweet
potatoes and starchy vegetables, then every single fruit in the world, and finally milk, because I thought
there was too much sugar in it. Months passed, my size 2 shorts turned into double zero, I chopped off
my hair, I was cold all the time. It was no one’s fault. There were so many factors that had contributed to
this, but at the time, I didn’t realize anything was wrong. By the time fall break and our corresponding
vacation to Mexico rolled around, I was so small that my old swim suit hung off my body. I still remember
my parents frantically ordering the smallest-size swim shorts on Amazon, stressed that I’d put this off so
close to the trip, worried that I was so tiny. That vacation (not to sound ungrateful - Mexico is a beautiful
place, and I am so fortunate to have gone there) was the most miserable time of my life. Food was
always at the forefront of my mind. I swam between meals, even if I was exhausted, because vacations
are typically synonymous with weight gain, and I didn’t want that. Every time I walked to the beach in my
bikini, I wrapped my arms around my body because I didn’t want anyone to see me.
itself) with an Italian restaurant right across the street. We were tired, and my dad had had enough of
driving, so we decided to walk over there for a bite to eat. Now, for a bit of context, the summer of 2017
and our first road trip was when my dad was discovering the ketogenic diet. He was reading Gary
Taubes and Mark Sisson, eliminating grains and limiting his carbs, recommending books and blogs to
nearly everyone we met. He even recommended Why We Get Fat and What to Do About It to Walter
and Jodie, which makes me wonder if their new diets and health-focused paths were, in part, initiated by
him.
In 2017, I was thirteen, just about to finish middle school and leap into high school. In hindsight, I feel this
age was a particularly vulnerable time for me, because -- yippee! -- I was in the middle of the magical
transformation that is puberty. Hormones were (and, admittedly, still are) running rampant, I was growing
taller (but not by much), and I was a bit of a social mess. I had a pretty hard time not comparing myself
to my peers, and had an even harder time figuring out where I fit in the social expectations and standards
all around me. So when my dad and his diets combined with my age and the messages I was hearing
from the media, as well as the perfectionism and need for control I’ve always had, something clicked. I
thought, I should try this diet. That night, at the Italian restaurant in Grand Junction, I ordered the only
seemingly gluten-free item on the menu. Minestrone. When the soup arrived, and there was pasta in it,
I spent ten minutes picking out every single noodle. And that, my friends, is how it started. First I was
wheat and gluten-free, then I cut out sugar, then grains (even though I loved oatmeal), then sweet
potatoes and starchy vegetables, then every single fruit in the world, and finally milk, because I thought
there was too much sugar in it. Months passed, my size 2 shorts turned into double zero, I chopped off
my hair, I was cold all the time. It was no one’s fault. There were so many factors that had contributed to
this, but at the time, I didn’t realize anything was wrong. By the time fall break and our corresponding
vacation to Mexico rolled around, I was so small that my old swim suit hung off my body. I still remember
my parents frantically ordering the smallest-size swim shorts on Amazon, stressed that I’d put this off so
close to the trip, worried that I was so tiny. That vacation (not to sound ungrateful - Mexico is a beautiful
place, and I am so fortunate to have gone there) was the most miserable time of my life. Food was
always at the forefront of my mind. I swam between meals, even if I was exhausted, because vacations
are typically synonymous with weight gain, and I didn’t want that. Every time I walked to the beach in my
bikini, I wrapped my arms around my body because I didn’t want anyone to see me.
When we returned home from the trip, and I stepped on the scale, I was delighted to see that my weight
had gone down. At 5’1”, I was 80 pounds.
had gone down. At 5’1”, I was 80 pounds.
Now, I tell this story a lot, partially because I think it’s important we share our stories, partially because I
want to spread awareness and help people realize that recovery is possible, and partially because I still,
to this day, do not entirely understand what happened to me. Mental illness is a difficult thing to live with,
and for something like an eating disorder, it’s hard to pin-point where, how, and why it began. Writing
about it helps me to digest my experiences. It helps me to understand more and more. I’m not sure if I’ll
ever have a full grasp on the ways I abused my body and mind. This is because an addiction to anything,
to food, to starvation, isn’t something that goes away entirely. Recovery is a life-long process, which is
I’ve come to terms with. Though I still have so many questions, and am still struggling, one thing I
can point out on my personal time-line is where it all started. Certainly, things had been building up in
me for some time before our first road trip. Eating disorders don’t just happen. But I can say this without
any hesitation: in that Italian restaurant, in Grand Junction, my life was altered permanently.
want to spread awareness and help people realize that recovery is possible, and partially because I still,
to this day, do not entirely understand what happened to me. Mental illness is a difficult thing to live with,
and for something like an eating disorder, it’s hard to pin-point where, how, and why it began. Writing
about it helps me to digest my experiences. It helps me to understand more and more. I’m not sure if I’ll
ever have a full grasp on the ways I abused my body and mind. This is because an addiction to anything,
to food, to starvation, isn’t something that goes away entirely. Recovery is a life-long process, which is
I’ve come to terms with. Though I still have so many questions, and am still struggling, one thing I
can point out on my personal time-line is where it all started. Certainly, things had been building up in
me for some time before our first road trip. Eating disorders don’t just happen. But I can say this without
any hesitation: in that Italian restaurant, in Grand Junction, my life was altered permanently.
So, naturally, I was kind of scared when I realized we were going back - not to the Italian restaurant in
question, but to the town, to the place I picked pasta out of a Minestrone. I don’t have the best memories
of my time in Grand Junction, or the year after. But I did realize something important while we were there.
The way we return is always different from the way we first arrived. I doubt I will ever go back to the
way I was when I left home with the blueberry overnight oats. My relationship with food will never be as
simple as it was back then. When we first arrived, I was in most of the pictures, and in the camera roll of
our most recent adventures, I’m in hardly any of them. This was at my own request, and I recognize this
request as something I need to work on: I am still practicing self-love and care. I am still trying to be okay
with the way I look, they way I act, and who I am. I am still hesitant to be captured on camera, because I
do not yet fully like myself. It’s hard to explain this to other people, so I typically just don’t. I only say I
don’t want to be in pictures, and provide no further explanation. I recognize this to be avoidance, to be
my way of dodging the problem. But that’s okay. It’s a process. It’s a life-long journey. For now, I forgive
myself, and for the future, I hope I am brave enough to be in the pictures. I hope I can learn to treat
myself with gratitude and compassion, and not like a piece of clay to be molded and sculpted tirelessly.
I hope I can truly think of myself as something whole. How wonderful that would be.
question, but to the town, to the place I picked pasta out of a Minestrone. I don’t have the best memories
of my time in Grand Junction, or the year after. But I did realize something important while we were there.
The way we return is always different from the way we first arrived. I doubt I will ever go back to the
way I was when I left home with the blueberry overnight oats. My relationship with food will never be as
simple as it was back then. When we first arrived, I was in most of the pictures, and in the camera roll of
our most recent adventures, I’m in hardly any of them. This was at my own request, and I recognize this
request as something I need to work on: I am still practicing self-love and care. I am still trying to be okay
with the way I look, they way I act, and who I am. I am still hesitant to be captured on camera, because I
do not yet fully like myself. It’s hard to explain this to other people, so I typically just don’t. I only say I
don’t want to be in pictures, and provide no further explanation. I recognize this to be avoidance, to be
my way of dodging the problem. But that’s okay. It’s a process. It’s a life-long journey. For now, I forgive
myself, and for the future, I hope I am brave enough to be in the pictures. I hope I can learn to treat
myself with gratitude and compassion, and not like a piece of clay to be molded and sculpted tirelessly.
I hope I can truly think of myself as something whole. How wonderful that would be.
When we first came, my hair was blonde, and when we returned, it was brown. When we first came, I’d
never heard of a mental illness, let alone experienced one. And this time, when we returned, I decided
to talk to my parents. I told them how I’ve been feeling lately, and how I feel it might be time to get help.
Deep down, I know there is nothing wrong with asking for help; in fact, it’s one of the bravest things
someone can do. I’m a very private person, and for so many years, I’ve been dealing with it all myself,
through my writing, through my friendships, through the affirmations I have to tell myself every day.
After awhile, this existence gets lonely. You want to talk to someone and don’t know how.
never heard of a mental illness, let alone experienced one. And this time, when we returned, I decided
to talk to my parents. I told them how I’ve been feeling lately, and how I feel it might be time to get help.
Deep down, I know there is nothing wrong with asking for help; in fact, it’s one of the bravest things
someone can do. I’m a very private person, and for so many years, I’ve been dealing with it all myself,
through my writing, through my friendships, through the affirmations I have to tell myself every day.
After awhile, this existence gets lonely. You want to talk to someone and don’t know how.
When we first came, I didn’t think I needed any help. I thought I was invincible, and that life was all
sunshine-y days. Since then, two people I’ve known have died by suicide. Since then, I’ve started
reading the news, started to realize all of the things troubling and wrong with the world. Since then, I’ve
had bouts of anxiety, bouts of depression. Since then, I’ve lost friends by tucking myself away. Of course,
there have been beautiful days -- in fact, I’d say the beautiful ones outweigh the bad. I’ve met the best
people. I’ve had the most amazing opportunities, and learned so much. Like the places we have visited,
I have changed, simultaneously for the better and for the worse.
sunshine-y days. Since then, two people I’ve known have died by suicide. Since then, I’ve started
reading the news, started to realize all of the things troubling and wrong with the world. Since then, I’ve
had bouts of anxiety, bouts of depression. Since then, I’ve lost friends by tucking myself away. Of course,
there have been beautiful days -- in fact, I’d say the beautiful ones outweigh the bad. I’ve met the best
people. I’ve had the most amazing opportunities, and learned so much. Like the places we have visited,
I have changed, simultaneously for the better and for the worse.
When we returned, I had time to reflect, and what a powerful experience it was. When we returned,
I realized that living in a state of numbness isn’t normal, isn’t a way to lead your life, and that even
someone as private as me can ask for help. That sometimes, it’s important to take your own advice.
When we returned, the places weren’t all the same, and nor was I.
I realized that living in a state of numbness isn’t normal, isn’t a way to lead your life, and that even
someone as private as me can ask for help. That sometimes, it’s important to take your own advice.
When we returned, the places weren’t all the same, and nor was I.
Change is an inevitable part of the human experience. So are difficult things. Sometimes, all we can do
is embrace our constant evolution with open arms. Sometimes, all we can do is the most human thing,
and see the brightness through all of the hardships. We are optimists by nature. And sometimes, we can
look back, see how far we have come, be proud of ourselves, and still ask for help.
With love,
Maya
Photo by Ajda Berzin on Unsplash, Photo by Maya, Photo by David Rupert on Unsplash,
Photo by Calvin Weibel on Unsplash, Photo by Maya, Photo by Matthew Sleeper on Unsplash
Photo by Maya
is embrace our constant evolution with open arms. Sometimes, all we can do is the most human thing,
and see the brightness through all of the hardships. We are optimists by nature. And sometimes, we can
look back, see how far we have come, be proud of ourselves, and still ask for help.
With love,
Maya
Photo by Ajda Berzin on Unsplash, Photo by Maya, Photo by David Rupert on Unsplash,
Photo by Calvin Weibel on Unsplash, Photo by Maya, Photo by Matthew Sleeper on Unsplash
Photo by Maya
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