I'm not perfect and neither are you.


Creating Brio sent me down a wellness rabbit hole.  I've been around the online wellness world and came back with a few questions on my mind.

Like, how did all these wellness people get to be so perfect?  Is this the result they're suggesting, is this what we're striving for?

So many in the wellness field are young but wise, shiny but earthy, soft but gritty.  They're effortlessly running lifestyle businesses and cooking natural, healthy meals for their kids in pink kitten heels.  Their websites reflect a wholesome country vibe, they're pictured in their Pottery Barn steeped homes situated on a knoll overlooking a field of wheat.  And they drive vintage Chevy trucks to abundant farmer's markets where the stands are run by young, handsome men with dirt under their fingernails and shiny white teeth.  And they have no belly fat even though they talk about it constantly because they practice what they preach. 

They do not err.

My sarcasm rears because this contradiction, this idea that you can be perfect and have it all in the real world with not a grey hair in sight, not a wrinkle, not a blemish, not a mistake, not a tragedy, not a diagnosis...well - it rings false because it is false. 

These imperfections exist in the wellness fairies' worlds too, most certainly.  It is life, after all.  But the wellness fairies conceal their imperfections because of something misunderstood, something wrong.

So then I ask, can I really do this, can I succeed at building something right in this space for you, the people that really need freedom from illness, no matter their scars? 

I worry that cancer survivors will see the perfect wellness fairies and think that wellness advice is not for them, because they are tired or wounded, they have grey hair or none at all, they are below it. 

Where can you go where you won't feel ashamed or alone, where can you place the delicate flower of hope?

Cancer survivors - you can come right here.  Come one, come all.  I am not perfect, and neither are you.  Thank goodness for that.

I will take the flowers in my hands and give back something true because authenticity is just about the only thing that matters. 

I make a promise to you, cancer survivors, that I will not pretend to frolic in pink kitten heels.  I sit here with nursing clogs on my feet.  They absorb shock, they allow tireless work, withstand real time on my feet.  And if you need me, in these shoes, I can run.