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Share Your Story

7/4/2021

3 Comments

 
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Not everyone needs to hear your story, but somebody does
A few times a month I sit down to write a blog post and newsletter for the SheHive community. Some weeks the words flow like an inspired river. Some weeks I have to pry and wrestle them out. And some weeks, like this one, my inner critic makes herself loudly known and starts questioning whether I have a story worth sharing.

“Who. the. fuck. do you think you are to be trying to teach anyone anything?” she asks.

And, truth be told, my inner critic - I call her Roz - isn’t the only one giving me negative feedback or questioning my who I think I am. There are weeks where the number of unsubscribes to this newsletter surpass the subscribes. There are weeks where I hear nothing but crickets after I hit send. And there are times (luckily, rare), where people reach out to me and let me know they don’t like what I’ve written or don’t think I’ve earned the right to, well… write.

But there are many, many weeks where I hear back from someone that they can relate to what I shared. And by doing so, they’ve shared a little of their own story with me. These are the moments that remind me of how important it is to share our stories.

If you follow the SheHive on Instagram, you might have noticed a post last week of a chalk drawing on a sidewalk that read, “One day you will tell your story of how you’ve overcome what you’re going through now, and it will become part of someone else’s survival guide.”

What unshared survival guides do you have within you?

Plus Size Pizzazz

About a decade ago I answered a question on the Detroit Free Press’ Facebook page about the difference between “curvy” and “plus size.” Free Press reporter, Georgea Kovanis, then focused on style and shopping,  was interviewing women about whether the words were interchangeable. I ended up on the phone with Georgea and quickly discovered the question was in response to the Kardashians impending release of a plus-size clothing line.

I can’t remember my exact response, but I think it might have been something along the lines of, “I could give a fuck about the Kardashians.”

The interview should have ended up there, but Georgea is a gifted interviewer. She kept me on the phone for over an hour and, in that time, I bared my soul about my journey and how, at age 40, I was finally learning to overcome the shame I had been taught to feel about my larger-than-average sized body. One thing led to another and the story turned into a photo shoot and full-page feature on the cover of the Sunday Style Guide titled, “Plus Size Pizazz.”

What Did I Get Myself Into?!

Due to summer vacation schedules, there was a gap of about a month between the time the interview and photo shoot ended and the story was published. In the whirlwind of the spotlight and attention, I hadn’t had a moment to think about the possible consequences of putting myself out there so vulnerably… until I could.

In that gap time I started to panic. Online commenters on the Free Press website are notoriously cruel - I started to imagine all the “fatty” names there were going to call me and the shame there were going to try and lay at my feet for not having the will power to be a skinny girl.

My excitement turned to dread and I began to hope that the story would be postponed indefinitely. I kept my therapist plenty busy that month. We made a plan of action that included, among other things, not reading the comments when the story was published.

I Read the Comments

The story came online the night before the paper made it’s way to physical doorsteps. I abstained from reading the online comments for approximately a nanosecond and, as feared, the VERY FIRST comment was some anonymous man who quickly pointed out how fat I was and what a shame it was.

It was exactly what I had expected. Exactly what I had feared.

What I hadn’t expected, however, were the number of women who came to my defense in subsequent comments. And the women who reached out to me to thank me for voicing the shame they had long felt. And the total strangers who reached out to share their own stories with me.

It was life affirming to know I wasn’t alone.

Your People Will Your Hear Your Story

That anonymous man - the one who wanted me to know I was fat (as if it was a secret I hadn’t yet discovered)? He wasn’t my audience. He wasn’t “my people.” The story and the lesson wasn’t for him. I told my story for me - and for women like me everywhere whom I wanted to know that it was possible to feel joy while wearing a pair of size 22 pants.

His feedback didn’t matter. Theirs did.

You ARE an Expert

​I know many of us are scared to share our stories because, as our inner critics and many others are quick to remind us, we’re not experts. When I shared my story in the Free Press I wasn’t a body confidence expert, or a psychologist, or a health coach, or a fashion expert - I hadn’t even started Grad School and my coach training at the time.

But what I was was an expert on my own story. No matter how others viewed it - I knew my journey and the lessons I had learned and that was all I had to offer.

And it was enough.

No one knows anything more about you than you know about yourself.

What Survival Guides Do You Have to Share?

What story do you have to share? What survival guides might you begin to lay out for others? Your stories - and your journey - have value.

Need a platform to share your story.. any of your stories? I’d love to hear it! Shoot me an email at ursula@theshehive.com or comment below.

With much love and gratitude,
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Ursula Adams, MSPOD
​SheHive Founder
3 Comments
Amy Landingham
7/5/2021 04:33:34 pm

I cannot get over the fact that you named your inner critic! I’m so doing this! Love it!!!

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Gloria J Irla-Marlow
7/9/2021 10:44:42 pm

After my parents and my husband died I moved into a house all my own. I had been having problems with my youngest daughter for some time and my husband always interceded on my behalf but he wasn't here to help me with her any more. She blamed everything that happened in her life on me whether I was involved or not. This was my first Christmas in my new home. I don't know what it was I said but it infuriated her and she again stopped speaking to me. My middle daughter suggested we all meet at my therapists office and try to work things out so I agreed and set an appointment with her. The day of our appointment came and the three of us assembled in her office. I was still raw from all the losses and being left alone for the first time. We began to talk and my youngest lit into me with a vengeance. She blamed me for her COPD, for her anger issues. She called me two faced and said that no one could ever respect me and that I manipulated everyone to think I was a nice person but I was horrible and a bitch. She went on and on almost getting up to strike me but thought better of it. My therapist tried to calm her down but she kept going saying I had no right to mourn my father because I had him for my entire life and she was cheated out of her father. My therapist tried to remind her that I had not only lost my parents but my husband. She didn't care and kept going. I was now sobbing and apologizing for anything I may have done. But she was not having it. My therapist ended the session and sent them away and kept me to make sure I was alright. She told me my daughter was despicable, That she had never heard anyone speak like that to another person before. I composed myself and told her I was fine. She let me leave after setting up a new appointment just for me. I left but I wasn't fine. I was destroyed. I had lost my parents, my husband and now my girls. I had had enough. I was going home and swallow every pill I had in the house. Now my dad had two Christmas Cactus that he loved and I brought them home to care for. I had watered them the day before and they were just plain as usual. But I came home that day and passed the counter they were on and stopped dead in my tracks. They were both covered in blooms. Not buds but full blooms. There were no buds on them the day I watered them. Nothing but here they were covered in dozens of flowers. My dad was telling me to hang in there. Don't give up yet. So crying I said out loud "okay dad, I won't give up yet" and I took a deep breath and went about cleaning the house and making myself busy. My daughter is speaking to me at the moment and we have had another bout of silent treatment since. But my dad saved me that day and I won't let my baby hurt me like that again. I am very careful around her. I know she is miserable at home. Her marriage is not good, her daughter is just as angry and mean and the whole family is a mess. She takes it all out on me because she knows I will always love her and I am a safe target. So I avoid talking to her and my middle daughter warns me when she is having a bad day so I can be prepared for the attack that may come. I have had to harden my heart to protect myself because no one hurts you like your child. Now when she has a fit I let it go because I can not take it personally. She tears me apart so I am very careful around her. It's a terrible thing to be afraid of your own child but I have learned how to protect my heart. It is one of the many lessons I have learned since my husband died. And I go on whether she is angry or not. I know the anger is not really at me and no matter what she says it's in the heat of the moment. I let her stew and eventually she comes back to me. these past three years have forced me to be strong. But I know I can handle anything now. Even an angry daughter.

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Gloria J Irla-Marlow link
7/9/2021 10:14:58 pm

part two of "i get knocked down but I get up again."

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