I spent my weekend at the Big Traveling Potluck, a super fun conference for food bloggers. It was awesome. But before we talk about the weekend, let’s talk about the drive home.

I drove down to Temecula, where the conference was held with Drea, meaning I stopped in LA. I left LA around 2 PM and was making killer time. And then I had to get gas. Also peach rings, because I require gummy candy when I travel.

I stopped in Avenal, CA, which is a rural town just outside of Coalinga, which is home to a million cows and dairy. It smells like death, but I was desperate. As I pulled out of the gas station, my oil light came on.

Here’s the thing: I’ve been meaning to get an oil change. For a long time. It’s been on my to-do list for months. I can feel the cringing of my dad, Andrew and every boyfriend I’ve ever had. I get it. I need oil changes. I’ll own it: I’ve totally let it fall by the wayside.

I looked in my manual, assuming that it would say, “Get an oil change within the next 500 miles! No biggie!” Instead, it said DO NOT DRIVE ANY FURTHER OR YOUR CAR WILL DIE A FIERY DEATH. I mean, not in those words. But I understood.

I’ll spare you the details, but basically, my hood was stuck shut, and I couldn’t add oil myself so I had to call the town’s traveling mechanic, who came out and rescued me. He fixed my hood and added oil and checked a bunch of other things to make sure I’d get home safely. As he was leaving, he said something that I’ll probably never forget:

“You got really lucky, you know? If you’d gone any further, you’d have ruined your engine. You gotta take care of the little things to keep running.”

In my last post, I eluded to the fact that I’m feeling a little busy and worn down — that I’m asking hard questions about how I want to spend my time. And this weekend was another reminder of that. To be honest, I felt like a total fraud going to a food blogging conference because I’ve been living off Chipotle and Starbucks oatmeal. I questioned why I was even going.

Of course, that all changed once I arrived. I got to catch up with Drea. I spent a ton of time with Joy and Tracy, laughing and talking. Those ladies fill my soul right up, truly. That alone made the even worth it. I felt so lucky to have time with those three.

The conference programming was amazing, and just what I needed to hear. The focus of the weekend was about investing in yourself so you can be creative. Melissa Lanz, who wrote the new cookbook The Fresh 20 talked about the importance of a personal mission statement, and letting that guide you. It was so refreshing to hear this woman, who is so accomplished, speaking about how if you’re doing things that make you unhappy, you have to stop, even if they’re lucrative or fancy or awesome. Helen Jane (who I’ve adored online forever and who I just loved in person) spoke about the freedom of being creative, and how it’s vulnerability and humility, and the stories in those spaces, that make a difference.

There’s something that feels selfish and indulgent about blogging. Do I really think that my life matters so much that I need to document every thought I have? I occasionally feel the same way about eating well and spending time making good food. Lately, I’ve found myself eschewing cooking healthy food in order to do things that feel more important.
When I left for this event, I was asking a ton of questions of myself: Why blog? Why does making (and sharing) good food matter to me? What’s the purpose of all of this? Do I have anything to say? Am I offering anything of value to this space, or should I just shut it down?

It turns out that this weekend reminded me of all the important things. That I have to take care of the little things (like oil changes) in order to take care of the big things. I think feeding myself good food seems small, but really, it keeps me going. I have said many times over my weight loss journey that learning to feed myself well changed my whole life, and I forgot how much I believe that, and how much I love sharing that with others. My food photography might not be perfect and I’m not a trained chef, but I believe in the power of food and taking the time to feed yourself well, and the power in that. And somewhere along this blog journey, I forgot that what I love most of all is sharing my story — it’s messy and weird and probably a little too emotional sometimes, but it’s mine and even when I don’t see it, there’s value in sharing it in a way that’s real.

Whether it’s getting an oil change or taking the time to be on my yoga mat and eat a meal that’s beautiful and full of good ingredients, the reality is that it’s all of these small things — the little choices we make every day — that help us show up bigger and brighter for everyone around us. I’ve said it before, and heard it over and over again, but I think it was at the world’s smelliest gas station in Avenal, CA with a kind traveling mechanic named Rafael that I finally got it.

From Lady Lovely Locks costume in the 80′s to a ridiculous cat hat in my classroom. I don’t even know.

—

I’m 30 today. Holyyyyy crap.

It’s actually fine. I’m not freaking out. I feel like a legitimate adult. I’ve got a career and a relationship and a fantastic family and family of friends, a cat, and a really, really full life of joy and love.

My 20′s were a crazy decade. They started off beautifully, before taking a sharp detour into the most painful experiences of my life. The last few years have felt like a rise from the ashes of all the things I thought I knew and wanted and felt and seeing my life completely differently. My 20′s were all about working through hard things. But I did it. I made it through. And now, I want to move forward. I want to stop talking about all the things that went wrong and look at all the things that are right and good, and thankfully, there are too many to count these days.

When I was in Lake Tahoe two weeks ago for my yoga teacher training retreat, I was sitting alone on a rock overlooking the water and it struck me that for the first time in my life, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. I’m not where I thought I’d be when I turned 30. I thought I’d have kids, be a wife, be someone totally different. And I realize how cliche it is, but looking back now, I wouldn’t trade any of it for anything. Not a minute. I felt that sitting on that rock, and my eyes filled with tears — the happy kind — because I realized that all of those awful days and nights were worth it if it meant I get to be right here, living this life, surrounded by these people.

Here are the things I know for sure, in 30 years of living:

• Everything counts. Even the silly things, like being nice to the barista or not flipping off the person who cut you off, it matters. It took me a long time to realize that: I MATTER. I have value. I have things to offer, imperfect as I am. And that realization, that small thing, makes all the difference. It makes me want to live my life in a big way, but also do a great job at the little things, because it matters. Everything matters. Don’t forget that.
• People love the best way they know how. Very few people set out to cause harm or hurt you. Everyone’s doing the best they can. So when people hurt you, let go. Trust that they’re doing their best, just like you. See beyond the flaws. It doesn’t mean you keep people around that make you feel like crap, it just means that you take the sting out of the actions. People love and live the best they know how.
• I know that yoga changes things. Maybe for you, it’s running or CrossFit or hiking, but for me, yoga has changed everything. There’s something powerful about setting aside time just for you, to be quiet and go inside — to breathe and to feel. There are few things that I’m more grateful for than my yoga practice and that time every single week. 
• Never hold back on being kind. Ever. I find putting myself out there to be completely terrifying, but as of late, I don’t even care. Full throttle kindness. If people aren’t into it, that’s them, not you. Being extraordinarily kind is a downright radical act. Do it.
• Learning to feed yourself is revolutionary. Not just food, although definitely food, but feeding your soul. I’m a happier person on green juice, fresh veggies, lots of sleep, time alone, good books and lots of nature. Learn how to fill your own well. It’s so much easier than being pissed off all the time, or expecting someone else to do it for you.
• No one is perfect. This is such a biggie. For years of my life, I went around thinking other people had a secret I didn’t and if I could only get so-and-so to like me, things would be amazing. Everyone has flaws. No one is more capable than you and there’s no need to put others on a pedestal. Trust your own inner wisdom, and take people as they are. 

I contemplated a post about 30 kind things I want to do this year, but then I decided that’d be silly, because I want to do way more than 30 kind things this year. I feel so hopeful, so excited about what’s to come. I don’t want to make items on a list — artificial things to check off as a sign that I’m livin’ right. Instead, I want to be fully engaged in this decade — to see opportunities to shine, to be kind, to be 100% in my life, and enjoy.

Let’s do this, me.

—

My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird—
equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast there the blue plums.
Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect? Let me
keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,
which is mostly standing still and learning to be
astonished.
The phoebe, the delphinium.
The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.
Which is mostly rejoicing, since all the ingredients are here,

which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart
and these body-clothes,
a mouth with which to give shouts of joy
to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,
telling them all, over and over, how it is
that we live forever.

— The Messenger, by Mary Oliver

I spent last weekend in Lake Tahoe graduating from yoga teacher training. I keep sitting down to write this post and being distracted: the computer stops working or my cat spills remnants of green smoothie or I remember a homework assignment that’s due ASAP. Additionally, I’m really unsure of how to sum up one of the most incredible experiences of my life. Writing about it confirms that it’s really over, and part of me is still so sad that these 200 hours of yoga teacher training have come to a close.

When I first considered teacher training, I’d been practicing all of two months. I was high on yoga and my teacher told me she thought I should sign up. I thought she was crazy. What on earth would I have to offer as a yoga teacher? I put it off to the back of my mind and decided that no, it wasn’t for me. Over the following months, with continued prodding from her and my other teachers, I started to seriously consider it. Not because I decided to teach, but because nothing had ever changed my entire life as rapidly as yoga did, and I wanted to learn more about my practice.

The other main reason was that I turn 30 in a few weeks, and this seemed like a really amazing way to close out my 20′s. I’ve written about it a lot here, but the early years of this past decade were really rough and I wasn’t very kind to myself. It seemed like a good idea to finish strong, in part to celebrate how far I’ve come the past 10 years by delving into learning more about the practice that’s changed my life.

This process was challenging, and there were many moments when I wondered if I’d made the right choice and if it was worth it. I’m so glad I decided to do it, because despite the hard moments, I don’t know that I’ve ever been more grateful for an experience, and I’m not really sure how to sum up everything I learned. Yes, I can teach a sun salutation and a yoga flow now, but the lessons I learned from this training went so much beyond that level.

I learned a lot about compassion, for myself and others.

I learned that everything is connected, and even when things are rough, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

I learned to see where I’m holding myself back, and started to see where I can let go and move forward.

I learned what it feels like to have people call you on your bullshit, and love you anyways.

I learned that in order to heal, you have to really feel.

I learned that I have amazing things to offer, things I had no idea I possessed.

I learned that I have literally no idea what’s next for me, but if I’m quiet, I know I’ll figure it out.

I learned what it’s like to fall in love with 39 beautifully imperfect human beings, and to have them love and support you back.

There was a moment during a practice at our Lake Tahoe retreat this past weekend when I looked around and saw these people I love so much and couldn’t help but cry, not because I was sad, but because I was so grateful for the people in the room and for the experience I’ve had. There’ve been times I’ve wished over and over to not have experienced some of the struggles I’ve had over the past 10 years, but as I sat there and looked around, I realized I would do it all again if it meant that I would wind up in that room, with those people. That might have been the biggest revelation of all: to finally see my past as a gift instead of a curse, and even better, to be fully ready to let go and see what’s next.

I’m sad that this experience is over. I will miss long weekends full of ugly cries and teaching and re-teaching the same sequences, as well as hysterical laughter and big hugs and an incredible sense of camaraderie that can only come from an experience like that. But the larger part of me is so excited to move beyond the walls of teacher training and see what’s next. I don’t know yet where and when I’ll be teaching, or what that will look like, but I firmly believe that even if I never teach a yoga class, the friends I’ve gained and the personal transformation that took place was well worth this process. To say I’m grateful hardly seems like enough, so instead of just saying it, I plan on living it, every single day.

I’ve been carving out more and more time for reading these days, and I thought I’d share a few of my recommendations with you. Looking at my reading list, it’s fairly obvious that I’m in some sort of spiritual transformation and also doing a lot of health-related growth. No fiction on this list.

Here are my current favorites:

The Yamas and Niyamas, by Deborah Adele. This book has been the main text for my yoga teacher training, and if you’re interested in the ethics of yoga, or how you “live yoga” off the mat, I think this book is FREAKING AMAZING. I learned so much, and I know I’ll be re-reading it for years to come.

Balance Your Hormones, Balance Your Life, by Claudia Welch. I heard about this book from a post on Pink of Perfection, and while I sometimes feel too young to have “hormonal issues” I definitely felt drawn to this book when I read the description. Within the book there’s some amazing advice about creating routines, simple meals, and dissolving stress that causes us to be “out of whack” not just in our ladyparts but in general.

Daring Greatly, by Brene Brown. I’m actually re-reading this book, but I cannot stop thinking about it or talking about it. Brene is a “shame researcher” and she discusses how important vulnerability and what she calls “whole-hearted living” and more importantly, how to do that. This book is healing and amazing.

Help, Thanks, Wow, by Anne Lamott. I love Anne Lamott so much it’s absurd, and this book is a joyful, simple and interesting book about prayer. I love Anne Lamott’s irreverent and funny writing, and this book may not be earth-shattering, but it’s a delight.

The Anatomy of the Spirit, by Caroline Myss. This book is a mindblower, for reals. If you’re into the energetic body or chakras, this is by far the best book I’ve come across. There is a plethora of good information and a bunch of phenomenal reflection questions at the end of each chapter. Read it.

You Can Heal Your Life, by Louise Hay. Focused on the belief that with the right thoughts, you can change your life, this book is a staple for tons of people I know and respect. It’s interesting on many levels — the affirmations to help with your health and strong emphasis on mental work to help you change your body. Additionally, there’s a glossary where you can look up your “ailments” and see what’s really going on, and it’s interesting. Definitely a hippie must-read.

What are YOU reading lately? I know I’ll emerge from my yogi book phase soon and will want plenty of suggestions. Tell me what’s on your nightstand/bookshelf/Kindle.

This past weekend, Andrew and I headed down to Stinson Beach to hike and hang out for a weekend away. I get a little crazy if I don’t get some nature in my life every once in awhile, and getting to the ocean and the trees seemed pretty perfect.

My body has been a little achy recently. No, not pregnant or sick or anything, just tired. Yoga teacher training (with it’s hours of practice) and teaching and grad school and life have left me a little worse for the wear, and not two miles into our hike, I got sore, tired and whiny. We hiked from Muir Woods to Stinson Beach via the Dipsea trail, which is only six-ish miles, but there are 676 stairs and my right knee was aching. Several times, I told Andrew I thought we should turn back, but then I came up with a brilliant plan: instead of going there and back together, I’d go one way and then wait on the beach while Andrew ran the trail back (I’m absurdly slow and he was itching to run) and then he would pick me up. This meant I would have a little time alone on the beach, which is ideal because I get pretty giddy.

We decided to go our separate ways about a mile before Stinson Beach, and as I descended the path down to the beach, I felt my frustration and exhaustion give way to total joy.

It sounds super cliche to say just about anything profound about the ocean, but damn, it does something for me. As I sat on the beach, I was overwhelmed (as I always am) by its size and power. Sitting near the ocean always makes me feel so safe, so taken care of, because if that huge body of water can find its way, surely my problems are tiny enough to be handled. I wrote in my journal for a few minutes, mostly a list of gratitudes, but I put it away quickly, because I realized that what I really wanted to do was just sit and be there.

I thought about the walk I’d just taken, and how exhausting and painful it’d been to get to be there, sitting on that beach, but I realized that there’s nowhere I’d rather be: that the dull ache in my knee and the exhausting, steep parts of the hike had been worth it to be right there.

I’ll spare you the life metaphor (I’m sure you understand what I’m getting at here), but what struck me over and over again as I sat there was the number of times life has totally redeemed itself for me. I’m in hyper-reflective mode as I inch closer and closer to 30, and as I sat on the beach, I mentally scrolled through the journeys I’ve been through in this decade of my life, and wow, there’ve been some tough ones. But all, without fail, ended up like that hike did: in a place more beautiful than I could’ve ever imagined, a little sore maybe, but so much better as a result of having taken the journey.

If there’s one thing I want to take away from the past 10 years, it’s this: things always work out. Even when it feels like there’s no way. Even when your heart hurts so bad it seems unbearable. Even when you’re scared shitless about what’s to come. Also? Maybe try to be less scared shitless, because you know it’s true: things work out. Just keep going. Worry less about how hard things are now, and instead, get really stoked about the view, because it’s coming. It always does.

“But you can’t get to any of these truths by sitting in a field smiling beatifically, avoiding your anger and damage and grief. Your anger and damage and grief are the way to the truth. We don’t have much truth to express unless we have gone into those rooms and closets and woods and abysses that we were told not go in to. When we have gone in and looked around for a long while, just breathing and finally taking it in – then we will be able to speak in our own voice and to stay in the present moment. And that moment is home.” — Anne Lamott

—

My life is considerably more together than it once was, even two years ago. All the things that supposedly make up a happy life are there, and in my clearest moments, I am insanely grateful, yet, there’s a heaviness in my heart a lot of the time.

I remember being in middle school and working so hard to be seen as “perky.” My girlfriends and I wore smiley face t-shirts and all tried to be the happiest, cheeriest girls we knew. Looking back, I think we all struggled with some sort of depression, but at the time, I felt so alone knowing that I felt sad inside.

As I got older, I stopped trying to be the perkiest but I continued to wage a war on sadness and anger. Nice girls don’t get angry. Being sad is selfish. I disguised those feelings with sarcasm, caustic jokes, and a biting wit that often cuts a little close. As I’ve matured, I’ve prided myself on not crying very much anymore (except for in yoga) and chalked it up to just being more together.

Yoga teacher training has shifted something in me, though. I’ve written a lot about the feedback I received, about showing up authentically, and while it did spur deep reflection, it also set off two weeks of crushing sadness and an anger I wasn’t aware existed.

Last Friday night, as part of our training, we had one of the most difficult practices I’ve ever experienced. It was awful. As I sweated through the poses, I got angry. Angry at my teacher, both for this horrible class and for the harsh feedback from weeks prior. Angry at myself, for all the things I perceived as doing wrong and at my body for being unable to move through the practice gracefully. Angry at things I had no idea I was still angry about, big and small. As the anger built, I started to cry. Not just because I was pissed, but because I didn’t realize how much sadness I had inside. I’d gotten so good at avoiding it.

My teacher walked around, and then paused. “Sometimes,” she said, “You have to go through ‘F*ck you!’ before you can get to ‘Bless you!’”

She pointed to me: “I know right where you’re at, sister. I can feel you a mile away.”

I was embarrassed, but then I realized that she was right (again, DAMMIT). To make peace, I had to go through this. I had to feel things. For the rest of the practice, I let myself be mad. I let myself cry. I thought terrible thoughts about people who’d wronged me and let myself stew in sadness, without judgment or feelings that I should know better by now.

I wish I could say that at the end of that practice, I felt magically better. I felt tired. I felt raw. I felt. I didn’t try to stop it, or judge myself for what was coming up. I just let it be there. And slowly, but surely, I could feel an opening and a clearing inside.

We moved through a few other intense experiences throughout the weekend, and while I definitely had a ton of feelings, a different sensation arose: it was the feeling of competence, and trust in myself. That yes, I might feel sad or angry, but that whatever came up, I could trust myself to handle it. I didn’t have to sob or run away — I could just be at home in myself, and with myself.

At the end of the weekend, I felt different. Have you ever worried about something so intensely that it felt like it was physically weighing you down, and then, felt the glorious relief of letting go? That’s how I felt: the joy, freedom and lightness of making space.

I can’t explain how good that feels — to feel like those things that have been taking up space have evaporated, and to feel light where there was once only shadow — to feel like I can trust myself to look inside, see what’s there, and be strong enough to deal with it without running away.

Touching your own pain is difficult. It’s hard to realize that you have an abyss at all, to admit that despite your best efforts, things still hurt and you’re still sad, long after it seems rational. I’m not naive enough to think that there aren’t further abysses — but the freedom that comes from at least admitting they exist and being willing to sit in the dark for a little bit is overwhelmingly worth it for the true, light freedom that sits just out of view on the other side.

“Sorrow prepares you for joy. It violently sweeps everything out of your house, so that new joy can find space to enter. It shakes the yellow leaves from the bough of your heart, so that fresh, green leaves can grow in their place. It pulls up the rotten roots, so that new roots hidden beneath have room to grow. Whatever sorrow shakes from your heart, far better things will take their place.” — Rumi