I’d read about the work of Archbishop Desmond Tutu, knew that he was on the board of directors of The Center for Mind-Body Medicine and even read several articles and a book that he had written. Whatever impressions or ideas I’d formed were nothing compared to the pure presence of the Archbishop himself.
Continue reading →
How did it come to be that someone who has extensive training in nutrition and whole foods cooking carried around an extra 20 pounds?
Life gets in the way, which led to years of (survival) mindless eating. It started something like this: the marriage that led to the unexpected twin pregnancy, then another pregnancy right on its heels, all while finishing up a master’s degree in clinical nutrition.
Continue reading →
Many things have happened lately to make me fearful of others and of life itself. My world seems to be filled with people who hold unfounded grudges that baffle me and choose to say vindictive things for no other reason than spite. We’ve had deaths and serious illnesses, difficult medical prognoses. Family members whose actions are more about greed than family values. Job losses and insecurity. It’s been difficult to hold on to the trust and acceptance that got me through past challenges. I see fear peeking out of every corner, tugging at me, knocking on the door, enticing me to believe that the world is full of anger, resentment, greed and struggles. Fear is ready to haunt me, settle into my stomach and my bones. In fact, I can already feel it in my body, aching and throbbing.
Shame is an inevitable component of binge eating disorder, so although it’s the most common of eating disorders, it’s rarely discussed.
Binging was a carefully hidden secret for me since my early teen years. I remember getting upset over a running injury and devouring a chocolate cake. Not a piece of cake — a whole chocolate cake — and it was still mostly frozen. Binging was my normal; I didn’t believe change was possible. So even as I got degrees in nutrition and ate more nourishing foods, there were still nights where I’d polish off a can of frosting, and suffer through the inevitable self-loathing hangover.