What Magazine Headlines are Really Saying

Statistics show that magazine covers highlighting weight loss articles or features like "best and worst bodies" sell more copies. Although men aren't exempt, female targeted magazines are littered with these your-body-isn't-good-enough messages and we, as women, snatch them off the shelves with the hopes that this issue holds the magical answer to the ever-elusive body-happiness we are constantly in search for. 

We thumb through the pages, read the article, see the same diets of weighed and measured out bits of boring foods, see pictures of smiling women who have found bliss after losing such and such amount of weight and wonder what the heck is wrong with us that after one week, the scale hasn't budged, much less shown a decrease of 20 pounds. 

It won't be our smiling faces in those perfectly sculpted "after" pictures. Nope. We're perpetually stuck in the "before" frame. But, clearly, we're at fault here. 

I call shenanigans!

How can we possibly begin to start feeling good about ourselves as long as the media tells us we are in need of change in order to be whole? 

It's unfortunate that because of the numbers, the sales driven media will continue to plaster their glossy pages with the same negatively charged message hidden as secrets to happiness over and over. After all, they are businesses and need to give their readers what they want. 

Unfortunately, "Lose 20lbs By Friday" sells more copies than "Don't Change, You're Perfect." 

Yes, I'm a nutrition counselor and a personal trainer. Yes, I am in the industry of reshaping bodies and a great deal of my clients have weight loss in the forefront of their minds. 

But, I always start with reshaping the mind. 

Only when the mind is healed, the negative self-talk stops, and external messages are filtered out can real change begin. Otherwise, any attempted work is superficial, literally and figuratively, and it won't last. 

In my practice, I always preach self-love and self-acceptance. 

Because we are all whole, complete and perfect, just as we are. 

And no amount of weight gained or lost will ever change that. 

Body-Happiness

We have become used to hating our bodies and it's a shared thought that's spreading to a younger population- an estimated 90% of teenagers are unhappy with the way they look, starting them off on a vicious and dangerous path to chronic dieting and pursuit of a perceived perfection. 

There's a reason why the weight-loss industry is a billion dollar one. 

Sad, but true, it is now more common to be unhappy with our bodies than it is to be completely content with our shapes.



We criticize our lumps and bumps in the mirror, groan at the parts that wiggle and flap and truly believe that happiness lies in the magical land of five-pounds-lighter. So, things go one of two ways: 

We make ourselves miserable on a diet only to feel it's still not enough...

OR

We get so frustrated with the confines of a diet program that we catch ourselves mid comfort-food binge feeling anything but comfortable. 

When we get a scrape, it heals if we would only stop picking at the scab. The good news here is that when given half a chance to, the body will heal itself. 

That's what this is really all about. 

There is an optimal healthy shape that each of our bodies are designed to hover around. Some call it a "set-point weight." I call it body-happiness.

Body-happiness is the point where everything in the body just... effortlessly works. It's the point where there is no struggle to maintain a number on the scale. It's the weight at which there are no aches and pains on the joints. It's where the body is not asking for caffeine, sugar or stimulants in order to get through the day. It's where our bodies want to be. 

But, we hurt it and take it away from that body-happiness. 

We hurt it with improper diet, rest and exercise, with a lack of self-love, with distrust and overall neglect. 

So, the body packs on extra weight as a response, in an attempt to protect itself from the pain. 

So, we attack the added weight with more negative energy and painful measures to make it go away. 

The body continues to respond to the negativity. 

And so on...

Let's stop this pattern before it does any more damage (because we know it's already done its share). Let's stop abusing our bodies and start realizing that since it's the only one we will ever have, we should start showing it some gosh-darn respect!

In a series of posts, I'll be focusing on body-happiness and figuring out how to get there. 

We all have what it takes to not only reach that optimal weight, but, more importantly, to give ourselves the acceptance we cry out for in the first place. 

We can redefine our paths of least resistance away from our unhealthy habits and guide ourselves to a place of health, wellness and abundant energy. It's what the body wants- to heal, to be comfortable and to find that feel-good body-happiness!

There Is No Rejection, Only Selection

Change your mindset, change your attitude, choose your experience. 

To be a hopelessly positive person, is to see that there is a silver lining no matter how dark the cloud. 

There must be.

Lost a job? = It wasn't your true calling.
Got dumped? = Bigger passion is waiting for you.
Offer wasn't accepted? = It wasn't meant to be.
Hurt yourself? = Learn from it and improve. 


Among the few emotions that are frightening to me in their pain potential, rejection is a biggie. To be rejected is to have my ego bruised, my intentions turned away and my life invalidated. 

Okay, maybe that last one is a bit of a stretch...

So let's spin this:

 "There is no rejection, only selection." 

Ah. How refreshingly painless!

Amazing how a simple reconfiguration shines light on a dark, frightening thought, revealing its positivity potential. 

In my last post, I mentioned that we are responsible for our lives and that our personal realms of control are larger than we give ourselves credit for. This applies here, as well. 

To feel "rejected" is to fork over power to the "reject-or," leaving us no choice but to become the "reject-ee." Knock it off.

Just as I have a right to choose, so too does the rest of humanity. Being turned down is the opposed's choice to go a different route. In that, I graciously accept the new opportunity that lies waiting for me that I may have missed otherwise. 

There are no mistakes in life. 

Sure, I've shed some tears or ground my teeth in frustration over what I've instinctively labeled as "rejection" in the past, but had those experiences not been, I wouldn't be where I am today. I can look back and find reason for all that has ever happened to me and thankfully appreciate them for happening in the first place. 

I willfully use my power to choose to claw out the positive message hidden in every NO, THANK YOU, each GOOD BYE and all of the NOT SO MUCHes. It's always in there, somewhere and if it isn't...

We Grow and We Change (Thank Goodness!)

eIn middle school, I was the nonathletic kid in gym class who exaggerated a wheeze in order to be deemed medically unable to complete the one-mile run. At one point I was “diagnosed” with exercise-induced asthma and was prescribed an inhaler to be taken in the nurse’s office (where I spent most of my gym-class hours). Every year students were required to have a mile run timed and only once did I drag my spiteful heels through the entire four laps, clocking in at an impossibly slow 20 minutes, stopping every few minutes to retie my self-untying shoelaces and stretch out a pesky reoccurring cramp. Getting me to run was like pulling teeth. I hated every step of it and rolled my eyes at the weekend afternoon joggers diligently hitting the pavement, confused as to why they weren’t sprawled out on the couch with a bowl of Cocoa Puffs chased by a scoop of ice cream.

Fast forward to today: Just back from a sweaty end-of-workout jog in the near 100F heat, I excitedly tack on another three miles to my ongoing outdoor mileage log, overjoyed that I have amassed over three marathons’ worth of pavement. I keep at least two pairs of sneakers in my car at all times (right now, four) along with clean socks. Instead of drooling over the newest toy, my eyes sparkle as I window shop for a runner’s wristwatch equipped with GPS. Suddenly, I had become the afternoon runner I had once scoffed at as a child; I’ve changed, to say the least.

Thank goodness we aren’t defined by our pasts. Hallelujah for being able to make decisions, create change and reform our likes, our goals and ourselves.Had you told a preteen-me that I would one day be a wellness fanatic and an avid runner, I would have laughed through a mouthful of Oreos and turned back to my cartoons. I was no athlete as a child, but today I am proud to have earned that title.

Years don’t have to pass by in order to make a personal change for the better- that’s the beauty of the power of choice. If there’s something I don’t like about myself I have two options: do nothing or do something about it. I am a constant work in progress towards the best version of myself and I intend to make daily strides towards that end, no excuses made. Since my tweaks have been constant, I don’t have to look as far back as 13 years at the “exercise-induced-asthmatic television loving couch potato” in order to see the positive changes I’ve made, but the drastic comparison it presents sure is entertaining!

The Day I Realized My Hair Was Not Straight

Every morning before kindergarten, my mom would take a blow-dryer and a round bristled brush to my hair, grooming every last strand until I was perfectly coiffed. I left the house with my locks straight and smooth, my dresses wrinkle free, my patent-leather Mary Janes shined and proper and my tights without a snag. Each morning I started the day off looking every bit the perfect, polished lady.

As hours passed, my hair would slowly lose its luster and rumple out of shape, much like my dresses. Scuff marks would appear on my previously shiny shoes and guaranteed, my tights would sport a fresh tear or, at least, a new run that stretched no less than knee to toe. As soon as my nanny got me home, I would change in to fresh clothes and attack my hair with a comb, trying my best to remove the knots and return it to the neat state my mother had sent me off to school with.

For years, I wondered why my hair was always unruly. No matter what my level of activity was during the day, it never stayed neat and straight. It became a quiet source of frustration as every Saturday at Korean school, I would see every other Korean girl’s hair reflect the light like a mirror, effortlessly hanging perfectly pin straight. What was I doing wrong?

As I entered my pre-teen years, I added magazines like Seventeen and J-14to my reading repertoire, taking high interest in the tween beauty sections. I will never forget one hair-care article featuring a picture of Mandy Moore that explained how to determine the natural texture of one’s hair. The instructions were simple: Shampoo and condition, scrunch dry with a towel, detangle with a wide-toothed comb, smooth a golf-ball sized amount of styling mousse throughout the length of the hair and let air dry, untouched-This was the first night I realized I had natural curls.

In my youth, I was only able to grasp a minute piece of the lesson held in that moment. At the time, I understood only that I no longer had to fight with the texture of my hair. It finally made sense as to why I could never keep my hair straight like the other girls could. It also became the beginning of my extensive collection of curly-hair-specific gels, sprays and styling lotions.

Today, I look back on that discovery and take a much deeper message from it all. For years prior to that moment, I had thought there was something innately unladylike about me. I thought that no matter how hard I tried, I would never be dainty like my mother. I harbored a twinge of shame within me as I felt like I was failing to be a perfectly primped daughter. Finally realizing that my hair was naturally not straight was the beginning of my drawn out development of sense of self. It was a literal portrayal of the uselessness of trying to be something I was not and the start of embracing and loving myself as I am.

To this day, I cannot keep a manicure chip-free for more than 48 hours and pantyhose is not even an option in my wardrobe. With the slightest bit of moisture in the air, my hair, despite the fact that I am genetically 100% Korean and the dominant hair-texture gene is pin straight, blows out in to a full-bodied wavy lion’s mane. Today, though, I embrace that against-the-grain-ness part of myself and wouldn’t dare fight the humidity by going at my coif with a straightening iron. I spend far less time and effort enhancing the things that I naturally am instead of trying hard to be or look like something that I am not. We hang on to memories that old certain significance to us. To me, the importance of the moment I discovered my hair to be naturally not-straight resonates throughout my daily life as I embrace my differences and create my image according to my own standards, not that of anyone else.

The Day I Went Postal on the Scale

The first installment in a series unraveling “my story…”  This process’ purpose is for reflection on past experiences in order to dig out the positive messages and lessons from the negative rubble…

Most 13 year old girls obsess about 13 year old boys, dreamy tweeny-bopper stars, the latest school bus gossip and what flavor Lip Smackers they bought at the store. As trivial as these fixations were, I would have given anything to have been stuck on the Justin Biebers of my day rather than what plagued me for years to come…

Wake up… get on the scale

Use the bathroom… get on the scale

Eat breakfast… get on the scale

Come home from school… get on the scale

Use the bathroom… get on the scale

Abstain from food and drink for hours… get on the scale…

An estimated 2.7% of girls between 13 and 18 years old suffer from eating disorders. -National Institude of Mental Health (NIMH)

From the age of 13, I became a statistic. How much I weighed and how little I ate were of utmost importance; I subconsciously grasped for a semblance of control somewhere… anywhere in my life.

My body image issues began early on and, although the core issues surpassed the superficiality of looks, I became obsessed with the number on the scale. I allowed a primitive piece of equipment rule my emotions and bar me from happiness, as the number never seemed to satisfy. If the number was too high, I failed; if it stayed the same, my efforts to bring the number down were useless; if it were lower than expected, it fed into the weight loss obsession- there was no winning situation. By day’s end, it wasn’t out of the ordinary to have stepped on and off of that device of personal torture upwards towards twenty times. I was no longer a person- I was an object.

Fast forward to today…

I look back at the days where a literal tenth of a pound reduced me to tears.  Bringing home an A+ on a paper or receiving first chair as a 7th grade flutist in the 8th grade band held no importance;no matter what I had managed to accomplish in my day, nothing could define me more than that plastic measuring device.

I cannot pinpoint the exact moment that it happened, but a switch flipped within me, shedding light on the hopelessness of my attempts to let a needle on a wheel of numbers define my “goodness.” Although I still fought a long path to recovery after this moment, I thank my lucky stars to have relinquished the obsession with the scale when I had.

I don’t remember the last time I stepped on a scale. When I go to to the doctors’ for a checkup, I insist on facing away from the display and request the number not be shared with me. I don’t remember what the last reading said, nor do I remember the exact moment when I decided “never again!” I do, however, remember the ceremonial moment in which I took a hammer to the cheap “Health-o-Meter” scale, channeling every last frustration it has ever given as I bludgeoned it to smithereens. 

Now, as a personal trainer and a holistic health coach, I preach against the use of numbers to show progress. I favor measurements in terms of energy levels, mood stability and the fit of clothing (not the actual size). Due to erratic changes in water weight, the heaviness of muscle trumping that of fat, hormonal levels in the body, etc, I don’t see such a volatile number as a fair way to determine body composition or, on a deeper level, self-worth, at all. Scales are for fish, not for humans.

Constantly a work in progress, I have morphed my sense of self far away from what my weight is. The people I affect, the changes I create, the smiles I cause are all much more indicative of self-worth than any number would ever be able to tell. The day I destroyed my scale was not the day my battle ended, but it was absolutely a landmark moment in my life in which I refused to be defined by such a worthless measurement. Even though the illness falsely made me believe I had everything in perfect order, going ape on the rectangular white scale with the bold black and red numberswas the moment I reclaimed some actual control over my out-of-control, food/image/perfection driven life.

Everybody Poops!

Clothing labels, the number of zeros on a paycheck, type of car, the amount of square footage of property- none of these things define who someone really is. Strip away all the glitz, the objective possessions, the social notoriety and to a certain degree, we are all the same. Our basic needs of food, water, oxygen and rest are all consistent across the board, as long as the genus is human. On a contemplative hike with a girlfriend on today’s beautiful morning, we both agreed that the core equality amongst all people can be summarized in the most simplistic, toddler-level statement thateverybody poops.

With all that is available in the world to class up or trash down a person’s image, a hierarchical ladder of social status is created, entitling one person to be deemed as more superior than another. On such a superficial scale, judgments are passed on people, making them sub/super human based on the goodness of what they own, rather than the goodness of their souls. When taken down to the basic degree, the glamorously famed Jennifer Lopez is no different than non-celebrity-status, simplistic ol’ me!

My point in this realization is to vow to never let anyone make me feel sub-par to them. I’ve reached a point where I am tired of defending my non-partying ways, the enjoyment I get from a Saturday night spent quietly indoors with a good movie or novel, the need for a full eight hours of sleep resulting in a before-midnight bedtime (whether it be a weekday or not), etc… I am tired of the judgment for not being the typical twenty-something year old girl that stays out late on the weekends and frequents bars or house parties. I am done allowing people to make me feel I am not acting the way I should be- as if there were an officiated social-life timeline I was veering from.

The matter of letting go of the innateneedto be accepted by others is surpassed by theactual needto fully accept myself. I have absolutely no say in how others perceive me, but I do control how I perceive my situation. My peace will not come from trying to prove that the collective “they” are no better than I. My peace will come when I realize that I am no less a person than the collective “them.” Although seemingly the same statement, the latterputs me in the driver seat(not the greatest analogy, given the roughed up state of my car).

My energy would be wasted if I tried to preach such a mature theory of the universal human need of waste elimination, but I can change my thought energy by fully understanding it for myself. So, the next time I find my automatic self-defending response to “Why don’t you just have one drink?” or “What are you doing home on a Friday night?” I will not allow that person to make me feel like I have to prove my legitimacy as a 24 year old single woman. Instead, I will smile, shrug my shoulders, remind myself that everyone, including my judger, poops, and contently announce, “that’s just me!”

Bye Bye Happy Pills

Part of being human means to feel human emotions. Each, whether they be positive,  negative or neutral, is a gift to be appreciated, no matter how difficult some may be to feel. I am thankful to be able to experience a full range of emotions from extreme, violent rage and utterly depressive sadness to joyously delightful excitement and sheer happiness (preferably not all at once nor in immediate succession).

Today marks a big day for me- over the past two months, I have taken it upon myself to finally taper off an antidepressant I had been on since my early teenage years. Despite my mother’s pleads not to, I innately felt it was the right thing to do; ten years is long enough to have this chemical in my body.

I went about this pragmatically and cautiously. I gradually decreased the dosage a week or two at a time and paid very close attention to my body and mind. Initially, I felt waves of anxiety come and go and as a knee jerk reaction, I thought it must be an adverse reaction. I feared that my body had become so dependent on this chemical that my brain would never be able to functionally create its own serotonin balance.

“Breathe!” - I demanded to myself (something everyone could do more of). I realized I had been psyching myself out and creating a self-fulfilling prophecy by expecting the worst to happen. I noticed that I was so afraid of feeling anxious that I was, in turn, creating more anxiety within myself! I was cyclically damning myself and if I ever wanted to successfully be free of taking those daily pills, I would have to trust that my able body and mind would be just fine without them!

Long story short, today was the first day completely off of the antidepressant. Over the past few weeks, my smile never left me and my anxiety never crippled me. It may be the reverse-placebo effect of knowing the medicine is not in my body, but I feel like I am thinking clearer, feeling stronger and laughing harder.

I think back to when I was first adjusting to the highest dose of the “happy-pills” I was put on and hated the numbness it made me feel. I remember hating that I couldn’t cry if I wanted to, couldn’t act on my anger if it was necessary, couldn’t feel the whole range of happiness/sadness/frustration/rage.

Sure, the depression was gone and I am thankful that the medicine did its job, but the anti-emotional side effects were something I was not willing to accept for the rest of my life. I want tears to stream down my face when I watch a sad movie, I want to be so excited about a new opportunity that I leap in the air, I want to feel.

It’s often said that you don’t know what you have until it’s gone. For ten years my emotions were suppressed in favor of a clinically stabilized state-today I reclaim my right to my ups, my downs, my smiles, my frowns, and everything in between.

**Disclaimer: I am NOT a physician and would highly recommend anyone who is thinking about discontinuing medications to consult with their physician/psychiatrist as there are adverse side effects that may occur if not done correctly**