Category: Beauty

2 Years Max…

As I’ve shared many times, I was an anxious kid and continue to deal with quite a bit of anxiety. As I am getting older, I am coming to terms with different aspects of my anxiety and where it comes from. Recently, I have noticed that my anxiety and my identity might be more intertwined than I previously realized.

This month marks 2 years I have been living in my apartment. While to most my age, this would seem a rather ordinary landmark, for me it is somewhat of a feat. I haven’t been able to sit this long before. Since I graduated from college, I have lived in 3 different cities, rented 5 different apartments, and held 5 different jobs. In fact, other than school, I have shown a complete inability to sustain any aspect of life for even 2 years… not a goal, not a career path, and certainly not a meaningful relationship. While hitting this 2 year mark seems that it would indicate growth, rooted-ness, or even increased contentment, instead it is riddled with anxiety and unrest. And here’s why…

I’ve never been truly comfortable anywhere or with anyone. I used to think this meant there was something wrong with me, but as I dig deeper, I am learning there is something entirely different going on here. When I walk into a space, I never know what I am going to get. As a kid, other kids might insist I was adopted because I looked so differently from my mother, call me Brillo head or state I had pubic hair on my head because I had a fro, or children and adults alike would just blatantly stare. In college, it was hearing racial slurs because I was in the presence of people who didn’t know I was half black and constantly explaining my racial make-up. Then in adulthood, it’s people still attempting to ignore my blackness and/or whiteness to make themselves feel more comfortable, not include me because I don’t look quite right or get all the pop culture references, or include me because then they get to up their diversity quotient. In fact, it is so tiring, that I can’t believe I am just now realizing how stressful it is to not be able to walk into a job, or a church, or a store, or wherever it is you want to go without someone touching your hair without permission, making an ignorant comment that directly impacts you, or just downright making you feel like you don’t belong.

Believe me, I get it, my fair skin and mixed identity come with SO many privileges, beyond that I have the privilege of having both an undergraduate and graduate degree, excellent health, no disabilities, and the list goes on and on. I’m not afraid to own that. But… what I am coming to terms with as well is that I am not afraid to own that most of the time, in fact all of the time, I feel uncomfortable. Not with myself (though for a very long time that was the case) and who I was created to be, but more so the world and whether or not it has the capacity to receive me. I’ve reached a decision. It doesn’t… and I don’t have a clue as to what to do about it. Now, as evidence of that, here is the time when people chime in, “you do belong!” Except for the older I get I don’t know what’s worse, the people I don’t know being unbelievably hurtful or the people I do know and love making me feel crazy for sharing what has been true time and time again about my experience. Whether it is friends, family, colleagues, or acquaintances, people are so uncomfortable with me being uncomfortable that they engage in tactics that make things even more uncomfortable for me just to ease a little of their discomfort. It is so confusing to be a little kid who is constantly being told you are “just like the rest of us” when all the while how you are being treated could not be farther from “the rest.”

All that to say, I don’t think the answer is moving and changing jobs every year and a half. I also don’t think the answer is holding people at arms length as I have often done. I do think sometimes the answer is saying “no” more boldly to situations in which I already have some awareness that I will not be received well. The answer can also be honesty when I’ve been hurt and refusing to be gas-lighted when I genuinely express that hurt. Part of the answer is certainly continuing to celebrate myself and fully enjoy and honor mixed-race spaces whenever I have the chance to be in them, regardless of how infrequent that may be.

I wish I could provide a happier ending. I wish I could be oblivious enough to think that there are more mixed people now and the world is becoming more welcoming of us. I especially wish I could believe that children of mixed-heritage were born into families that love and accept all angles of them and are leeched of all racist tendencies upon first glimpse of the beautiful child. I’ve lived too much of this uncomfortable life to buy into any of those fantasies. This, however, I do know to be true… discomfort will not kill you and it certainly can’t rob you of the joy of moving forward, that is if you don’t let it.

Cheers to the 2 year mark.



When I was in California last month, my sister introduced me to “My Fitness Pal,” a new app for my phone. I resisted purchasing the app while visiting my sister despite her encouragement because I didn’t want its initial use to be skewed by my poor diet while on vacation. The minute I got home, however, “My Fitness Pal” was up and running. Though I’m only three weeks in, I love that little thing. No matter where I am, I can document what I am eating or exercise that I’ve done and it’s fun for me, like some bizarre sort of game. As much as I am enjoying my newly discovered toy, I feel the need to be very careful.

Weight has always been a tricky topic for me. Unfortunately (though probably not all that uncommon), my life has been filled with people very dear to me that have struggled with issues of eating. Though some went out of their way not to eat as they obsessed over every crumb entering their mouths and others ate everything in sight, all had an impact on me and how I saw food and myself. In fact, there was a time in my life when it seemed like food was the most common way in which those around me went about regulating their pain. During that time, I thought the healthiest thing to do was to think about or talk about my weight or patterns of eating as little as possible. Expressing either contentment or discontentment with my size seemed dangerous, unkind, and unfair to those around me, so I kept how confident or dreadful I was feeling to myself.

Once I entered my mid-twenties, my metabolism slowed down just as everyone had promised and I began to realize that it was time to wrestle with issues of food and weight on a more personal level and not just as they pertained to those around me. With genetics out of my favor and terrified of “being fat,” I went out of my way to make changes that would positively affect my appearance and my health. Just as I had hoped, the changes I made worked! Unfortunately, they weren’t always easy to keep up with. Being an RD makes it very difficult to keep a strict exercise schedule or diet. Add going to school part-time and living in a city where food is often more of an art form than a form of sustenance and it gets even tougher. Throw someone who really LOVES her cupcakes and often lacks self-control into that situation and the odds get worse (as my fluctuating weight indicates). It’s a constant battle between my brain, my heart, and my stomach, and though I would love to win the battle, I just want to make sure I am fighting it for the right reasons.

So what is a twenty-something supposed to do? Do I eat what I want because I want to feast on the beauty of life, never holding back, taking in each moment, and enjoying each experience? Look how I want because the construct of “beauty” is a joke and gorgeous and wonderful people come in all shapes and sizes? But what about the values of restraint and perseverance that can come from maintaining a healthy lifestyle? And then there is the belief that my body is a temple to be loved and cared for… It seems the slower my metabolism gets, the faster my mind swims with all the choices and possibilities.

What I have learned is this… For the rest of my life, people I love will probably have issues with weight and food, (pardon the expression as I don’t perceive anyone dear to me as an animal) but “you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink.” The best I can do is use honesty, kindness, and concern to offer the love and support these friends and family members need. While I can point them to resources or keep them close to my heart and in my prayers, I can’t heal them and I certainly can’t control them. As much as this crushes me, I am slowly releasing my grip and letting it go. And another thing, I don’t have to feel guilty when it comes to the topic of food or weight. I shouldn’t feel bad about feeling good about the way my legs look in a certain outfit any more than I should feel bad about enjoying a slice of cheesecake or pizza every once in a while. The key is moderation. Fixating on how good/bad I look or how much/little I ate will only lead to trouble in every case and scenario.

I think the important thing is some seasons I’ll be thicker and others I’ll be thinner, some days I’ll eat more and others less, but no matter how I look or what I eat I must remember a few concepts… 1) If I don’t like how I tackled food and exercise today, it is never too late to handle them differently tomorrow. 2) It’s ok to have adult conversations about weight with those you trust. Actually, it’s better than ok! It keeps you grounded, focused, and accountable to healthy mindsets and lifestyle choices. 3) Your value, beauty, joy, and experience cannot be boiled down to what your food diary, workout schedule “My Fitness Pal,” or waistline say about you. And well, I suppose if they can, then it just might be time to put some effort and energy into aspects of your life that even Jillian Michaels can’t fix.

What did she do?!

Ever since I started this blog, I have tried to write a post every 3rd Thursday. Once a week or every 2 weeks seemed too frequent, and once a month didn’t seem quite enough. Somehow I landed on Thursdays and for the past 4 blog posts, I haven’t looked back. This Thursday I was due for a new post, but I just couldn’t write. I only had one thing on my mind and today, that one thing occurred…

My whole entire life I have had a love/hate relationship with my hair. In most recent years, however, the hate has dissipated leaving only love behind. For that reason, the past few months have been hard. In the last year, I started noticing that my hair was thinning. For a long time I tried to ignore it, then I started doing things that would help distract people from noticing it, but in the past few weeks I have started coming to terms with it. Maybe it’s genetics, my diet, known or unknown health concerns, or the weight of my heavy hair, but for some reason, the thickness at the tip of my long hair was starting to look drastically different from the thinness at the top. After talking to my mother, sister and a loctitian, and crying it out a bit, I knew what I had to do. Some (or rather most) of my hair would have to go in order the leave the new growth strong enough to be sustained.

It’s funny how something as simple as a haircut can really shake you and change how you view yourself. In the last couple of years, my hair has been one of the largest, if not the largest, source of the compliments I have received. It has felt really good to be showered with those praises. It wasn’t abnormal for me to have 5 to 10 strangers complimenting my hair on any given day. Friends took part in the practice as well. Just a couple weeks ago I had a fun shopping day with friends and got countless positive comments on my locs. Little did the commentators know that I had be using headbands to cover up my thinning hairline for weeks. Most of my friends haven’t even noticed. Yet still I arrived at today and I had to face the truth.

What made losing my hair or cutting it so hard in the first place? Sure I might not be as “beautiful” as I was before or I might not have the versatility of doing as many styles, but that wasn’t really what it was about was it? My hair has become and will probably always be a piece of my identity. The truth is I was (and still am) scared of what will or won’t be left when this thing that has become such a big part of me disappears. When I am not getting compliments on my hair anymore, will there be anything left to compliment? Now, for many of you reading this (especially males) this probably just seems like a lot of random, useless personal thoughts, but it isn’t. What I am saying applies to everyone out there. Maybe for you “that thing” is your hair like it is for me, but maybe it isn’t. Maybe it’s the fit figure you lost after you went through a difficult stage of life where working out wasn’t a priority. Perhaps it’s the job you were fired or laid off from, the significant other you thought you were going to marry before the relationship started deteriorating, or the career, dreams, or free time you had to release after you had a baby.

We all have those things we hold on to in order to help make sense of our identity. Whether it is something seemingly shallow, like my hair, or far more complicated like goals or ambitions, at some point most of us have to ask ourselves the question, “who would I be without that one thing?”. Would I matter? Would others still like me? Will I still be me? I debated with myself about whether or not to write this post. I was afraid I was being too personal for the online world or that I’d feel ashamed  if people knew about the situation I am in, but then I decided I have no reason to be ashamed of something I ultimately had no control over. I also decided that, fortunately, I am rooted in an identity far more unshakeable than my hair. Even if someday every last hair falls out of my head, I’ll know the truth is that my hair never defined me in the first place. So in the meantime, I’ll be humming along to India Arie’s “I Am Not My Hair,” and hope that my words caused just one person to do some soul searching and realize he or she is far bigger and better than that flimsy thing they spent so much energy hanging on to, believing their identity was hinging on it… IMG_1003

I’ve been hearing the question “What are you?” my whole entire life. Sometimes I hear it from curious little children and other times I hear it from adults it seems should know better. There was a time I wasn’t sure I knew the answer, but as I’ve gotten older, I have gotten closer. Today is the last day of this year’s Black History Month. It’s a month that always makes me a bit reflective. I think about the warriors who came before me such as the Lovings who made a marriage like that of my parents possible. I contemplate what it means to be black or white or both. I wonder if someday my children will grow up around people who have found a kinder way to get the question “What are you?” answered.

As a teenager, I always hated the way I looked. Tears would roll down my cheeks as I stared at myself in the mirror despising my pasty-white skin, giant forehead, curly hair, and gap-teeth. I couldn’t believe how ugly I was. I’d put on a brave face and wear big dangly earrings, pleather pants, and silvery lip gloss, but I still felt the same. My style never fit, my hair was labeled as sponge-y, interesting, or weird, my taste in music and movies was nothing like that of my peers and my skin was too pale for most of the people in Maine to realize at first glance that I was mixed. Boys never liked me and girls never envied me. I wasn’t white enough to fit.

I was so excited when I got to college. I was no longer “Caitlin,” I was now “Cat” and I could be anyone I wanted to be. I could be loud and smart and quirky and cool, but most importantly I thought I would no longer an anomaly! Chicago was this glitzy, glamorous place in my mind where black women were proud to wear their hair in afros and mixed college students were a dime a dozen. People of all colors and background would mix and I would finally find my place. If I had done my research, I would have found that Chicago was far from the promised land I had pictured it to be, but instead I found myself in one of the most segregated cities in the States and mixed people over the age of six seemed no where to be found. The few I did spot didn’t seem quite as anxious as me to talk about it. I discovered that black people in Chicago are very different culturally from my mother’s family in New York and I didn’t fit in with them any better than I had in Maine. In addition, I found myself at a college filled with more tall, thin, blonde women than I realized it was possible to contain in one place. When you lined me up next to them, I might as well have been an alien from an entirely different planet. Boys still didn’t like me, girls didn’t want to borrow my clothes, nobody wanted to burn my cds or borrow my movies, and it was beginning to look like no matter where I went my problems would follow me. I blamed everyone else for a really long time. They were all closed-minded, ignorant, mean, superficial, and the list went on and on. I was angry at God, angry at my parents, angry at my friends, angry at those tiny, toothpicky blondes and angry at myself for my inability to fit in. Why couldn’t I be normal for once? Why did I always have to stand out? Why couldn’t my skin be a little bit darker, my hair a little bit straighter, my waist a little bit smaller and my stature a little bit taller? I’d never be white enough or black enough or the perfect blend of both like the women you see in the magazines would I?

Sometimes things in life just click. We have a magical moment when we are reading something in a book or having a conversation with a friend and we’re given an epiphany and we see things clearer than ever before. This isn’t one of those times. I can’t pinpoint a moment when things changed, but for the first time in my 26 years, I wake up and I love the women I see in the mirror. She is beautiful. Her hair is long and gorgeous, her eyes are a bright, bold blue, her short stature is endearing, she has great fashion sense, and her makeup is stunning. Men may never like her, women will absolutely never envy her, and she will never be good at being black or being white, but now she knows she doesn’t need to be. The Lord made her to be unique with fair skin and curly hair and the question “What are you?” doesn’t scare her quite as much anymore. She is who she is and she doesn’t plan on changing for the comfort of anyone.