Saturday, November 24, 2012


Last night, my family--happily full of turkey and apple pie--watched family videos: Easter egg hunts and birthdays, bathtubs and back yards, learning to walk and learning to stand. These memories reminded me of something I don't think about very often: where I've come from.

I have a pretty accurate recollection of the last five or six years of my life, progress and change, but how often do we usually think about being babies, having our bossy older sisters correct our behavior, our parents as young adults? It's good to remember where I've beeen.
That baby was loved.
That toddler was celebrated.
That kiddo was fiesty.
That adolescent was silly.
That bouncy, blond, curly-top had not a thought or a care in the world about food, calories, or size. That person has lived well.
And as I look around this table, I feel good.

Just last week, Jeremy asked me, "How's Helga?"

I was surprised by my own answer: fine.

Thanksgiving hasn't always been a reflective compilation of warm fuzzies and happy memories. No, Thanksgiving used to send pricklies up my neck. I dreaded it. I hated it. It was six years ago when anorexia and bulimia stole my joy for the holiday (among other things). But now, it feels so good to have that joy back.

Helga doesn't have much to stand on these days. She's not silent, but she's quieter. She's recently been drowned out by the newness of marriage and the challenges of adulthood and time with wonderfully supportive people.

This Thanksgiving, I'm grateful to where I came from, to healing, and to getting my favorite holiday back.