Rosie Glow Wellness

Mind body health for the deeply fabulous


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Going and Getting

As with any neglected practice, writing for the first time in a long time feels foreign and uncomfortable — like pulling on an itchy sweater. Or drinking craft beers (ack!) at an arcade bar (double ack!). But once you’re in it, you want to stay there. So maybe this metaphor lacks follow through. So what? I’m rusty. And reeling from craft beers.

Yesterday, I came upon a feel-good listicle-type thingy (journalism is dead) during one of the ravenous internet crawls I only succumb to when reeling from craft beers. It quoted my main man, Voltaire, who said “perfect is the enemy of the good,” and reminded us that we’re never going to feel truly ready — we’ll never have the funds or the moral support or the expertise we think we need to accomplish whatever we’d like to accomplish. And we should do it anyway; perhaps badly.

I think the same part of me that will always be self-conscious has become too patient in some regards. I’ve been working so long on acceptance and trusting the Universe that I don’t always actively do. I don’t necessarily go after what I want, I just vaguely expect to be smacked in the face by my wildest desires at some point down the line. Furthermore, some of the negative things I’ve accepted about myself — the things that unabashedly slow me down — don’t have to be true, i.e. I’m always broke, I don’t prioritize travel, I’m very much afflicted by rabid workaholism, I’m a hopeless people pleaser. I could just change my story. I could take more time for myself and see what happens. I could go out and get what’s not mine yet.

Just some Monday thoughts from a slow-moving overachiever. I’m going to go watch music videos whilst elipticaling leisurely and call it exercise now.

XOXO
Rose


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On Love and Diffidence

The Weather Girl 2, by perennial favorite Alexandra Levasseur

The Weather Girl 2, by perennial favorite Alexandra Levasseur

Last Valentine’s Day, I wrote a step by step guide on how to be your own damn Valentine. This year I’d rather highlight the flaws in our collective consciousness as they pertain to love and self-actualization, meanwhile owning up to my own foibles. Because times they are a changin’, mama, and I am chock full of foibles. Also feminist rage. … Also coffee.

First, I take issue with the idea of self-love as a checkpoint en route to “real” love, involving two people. Or three people — I’m not here to judge. The belief that one cannot fully love another human until one loves herself, while likely true and wise and well-meaning, still identifies romantic love as the end goal. And though I’m not anti-relationship (at least not currently), I think slapping the onus of completing you on someone who, while lovely, is not you demonstrates blatant disregard for all of the work you’ve already put into becoming your best self.

Further gumming up the works, there’s the “kiss enough frogs” mentality that grotesquely suggests every partner we mount, each supposedly less amphibious than the one before, teaches us a subtle lesson about what we really need in a relationship. But what about kissing frogs for its own sake because making out is the best? What about kissing frogs as a means to personal achievement; connecting with others as a means to further solidifying your own autonomy?… Not so you can more effectively love your soulmate when said soulmate finally floats by on his/her resplendent lily pad, but so you become unsinkable on the murky pilgrimage to your own place of peace.

The thing is, relationships come and go, but the focus will always come back to you and your opportunities for growth. Or, because this is my blog, ME and MY opportunities for growth. One such opportunity: I am a deeply self-conscious soul. I always have been. I was not a rascally, bed-headed tomboy running amok through the neighborhood. I was an abnormally precocious indoor kid: easily embarrassed, with early onset OCD and the obsessive need to prove that I was smarter and more talented than the boogery masses surrounding me. I think most creative people suffer from a similar paranoia that simultaneously keeps them from being present and gives them an impetus to make. I write to remind myself that there are valuable thoughts scurrying around in my cerebellum, along with some truly insipid thoughts, i.e. I am adding nothing to this conversation, my arms feel chubby today… my nail beds suck. Whatever. Self-consciousness is a little shadow succubus I have trained to serve me. It’s just one example of a hangup, and relationships are really great at shedding light on hangups.

Relationships can be really great in other ways, too: friendship and sex and closeness are all terribly important life components. And for the record, I am very much pro-love. But personal growth shouldn’t stop when you find someone you adore. Romantic relationships should be another channel to your aforementioned place of peace, another mechanism for working through your hangups. Because you’re enough, all by yourself. And every day, you’re better.

Just two cents from a wizened cat lady, one day too late. Happy February 15th, everyone!

XOXO,
Rose


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2015: I want to be a goddamn mermaid

Hi Darlings.

Screen Shot 2015-01-17 at 11.04.30 AM

Impermanence by Laura Berger

 

So this is 2015. I haven’t quite given myself the space to reflect on what it means that the universe is one whole year older until this moment. Back when I blogged almost daily, I did a sh*t ton of reflecting. Now, not so much. I think that’s okay for now.

There are moments in life — sometimes year-long moments — wherein everything you’ve learned about yourself thus far does not seem to apply at all. Of course, that’s not the case. I’ve been collecting life lessons and vital means of self-preservation all this time, but figuring out how to apply the wisdom I’ve earned to new challenges can be so tremendously overwhelming that I don’t “waste” any time in conscious thought. Without mental preparation and foresight, I move to the next thing. I face my demons with an entirely inadequate amount of chutzpa and perhaps a limp balloon. No one is convinced, least of all myself, and I forget that I possess any wisdom at all.

Let me tell you, IT FEELS WEIRD to swim through transitional phases of life this way. When you abruptly find that you’re a little fish in a school of very large fish, it’s easy to dismiss all of your little fish acumen up until that point, and thus approach new experiences without recollecting your old experiences. To reference a cinematic masterpiece that is no longer culturally relevant but fits nicely with this paragraph’s vague sea theme; during said transitional phases, our innate response is to “just keep swimming.” If you’ll recall, however, the fish who said that was the dumb fish (voiced by Ellen DeGeneres who’s the antithesis of a dumb fish, IMHO) and I don’t want to be no dumb fish. I want to be a fish who knows my intelligence and my worth. I want to be a goddamn mermaid.

To achieve mermaid status, or goddess status, or functional 27 year old human being status, a person has to have confidence. And to gain confidence, one occasionally has to call to mind all of the terribly valuable knowledge one has already accumulated so that one is made aware of how ready one is. As usual, one is me. Hi. We’re talking about me. Here’s what I’ve learned this past year, and how it will help me going forth:

Vulnerability is powerful sh*t. I feel very lucky to be part of Generation Overshare (I coined this term just now, it is not a thing, but IT WILL BE) because I think I’m awfully brave when it comes to sharing my story, or offering up my personal battles in the hopes of helping others open up. A lot of women I look up to in almost every way are less forthcoming than I when it comes to shedding light on the dark stuff. I think these women admire me for expressing my truth, when honestly, I don’t know any other way to behave.

- It takes effort not to be a bullsh*t person. One of my resolutions this year is, simply, “no bullsh*t”. I don’t want to take it. I don’t want to give it. But a lot of bullsh*t practices, namely avoidance techniques I’ve developed to close myself off, are deeply engrained in me by now. E.g., I don’t acknowledge acquaintances I see in public when I’m not feeling particularly good about myself; I ghost potential suitors whom I don’t have the courage to outright reject; the first thing I do in the morning is mindlessly peruse Instagram because I’m afraid to face the blank page and write. It. Out. Bullsh*t practices are fear-based, and if I’m thoughtful about my actions, I can refrain from being a bullsh*t person. The struggle is real, but I’m getting there.

If I’m not open to good things, they won’t happen for me. Here’s a really lame thing that I do: I claim that I have no interest in love partially to justify the fact that I’m not in love. It’s true that I haven’t been making room for love — I’ve been focused on work and my family, and that’s all right with me. But it’s absolutely not true that I don’t want love. Because I do when the timing is right. Same thing goes for financial stability and general comfort and those kinds of markers of adulthood. I don’t need to carry on the facade that I’m thoroughly enjoying the life of an impoverished bohemian any more than I need to carry on the facade that I’m too independent to give a fig about dudes. Because I do. I give multiple figs.

- Perfection is unattainable. Duh. One lie that I continue to hold dear is the possibility of a “perfect day”. A perfectly productive day wherein I wake up feeling incredible after a perfect 8 hours of beauty rest and tackle everything on my list and more… which happens sometimes. But if I only manage 5 hours of beauty rest and I’m too busy and headachey to go to yoga and all of my clothes are covered in Elmer’s hair and I happen to be fresh out of those sticky lint roller thingies… is my day ruined? No! I can accept the less than stellar, and know in my heart of hearts that planning on perfection is futile.

- Family is the most important thing. My family had a tough year, but we’re stronger than ever. I love you, Mom!

- Friends are family, too. And mine are beautiful, inspiring and 100% there for me. Holler.

- I know what’s best for me. Sometimes I need to disconnect for a little while so that I can come back and CRUSH IT. I’m a grown up and my creative and professional output is better on my terms. I don’t think anyone ever doubts that but me, but… boundaries are hard.

- Sticking up for myself is hard, too. It comes back to confidence and being a little fish. Or a tall, skinny fish. Whatever. I’m worth sticking up for, and I need to remind myself of that until it sticks.

- There is so much to be grateful for. I’m working in exactly the obscure art-y, fashion-y, plant-y, female entrepreneurial world I want to be working in, and I’m so blessed for it. There are people in my life who weren’t there a year ago, but I can’t image how I ever lived without them. There are some things that haven’t quite clicked for me yet, but they will. Personal growth is my priority, as it should be, and I’m well on my way toward becoming a badass b*tch fish. Or something.

XOXO. Happy belated 2015, Friends,
Rose


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2:355 Birthday B*tch

27

Astrobazooka

Today I’m 27 years old and as a gift to myself as I enter my return of Saturn, I’m enjoying some quality 4am self reflection time. I’m also enjoying a coffee-almond-maca-cashew juice. Keep ‘em comin’ all day, garcon (there is no garcon).

This has been a year of colossal change for me, soon to be followed by — I hope — colossal growth. In July, I found a shiny new job, and to be perfectly honest, I’ve been too dazzled by said coruscating newness to truly assess what sort of person I am now, as I move about my strange days. It’s probably worth mentioning that my job isn’t just a job, but rather a wholly self-defining, passion-melding, blood and guts and sweat and tears and sleeplessness kind of job. It’s the job I’ve always wanted, with a crew to match. This terrifies me daily.

On some level, I’ve always aspired to be famous — or not famous; known. I’ve aspired to send my aesthetic, my endlessly reverberating ruminations, my self-diagnosed raison d’etre out there, for all to see. I’ve sought to be admired, certainly, but more than that, I’ve sought to be understood. When I devour an interview with one of my glamorous, accomplished peers, I latch onto the subject’s inspirations, motivations, obsessions… I guess I want people to care about what drives me because that would mean that I’m contributing something of value, or at least living a life worth emulating, which to me is the same thing. Art is life and vice versa. Someone important said that.

Someone important also said “everyday I’m hustling,” (okay, that was Rick Ross. Whatever.) and that’s real life. In truth, I don’t know if I’ll ever be satisfied with where I am relative to where my idols are… given that I’m now living in that Soho House, be your own brand, work your connections world where all my idols live and I haven’t wasted much time patting myself on the back about it. I’m grateful and I’m getting there, but I’m not fine yet. In the pith of my bones, I’m still starving. This year, I’d like to wake up one morning and acknowledge that I deserve a rest and an aforementioned pat on the back. From myself. And that knowledge doesn’t come from hustling, no matter what I tell myself. That knowledge comes from character.

I’d like every action I take to reflect the person I want to be, obviously. But sometimes I’m a total butthead. Sometimes I’m hungry or reeling from my insomniac tendencies (let’s see how today goes) or I’ve spent too much time working and not enough time yoga-ing or properly loving those dear to me and I turn into a giant monster baby. I’m better when I’m balanced — less of a monster baby, I mean — and I need to take care of myself and nurture my creative spirit so that I can be fine. So that I don’t lose sight of the fact that I’m more than my goals — that I don’t have to constantly be going somewhere: that in some ways, I’ve already arrived.

But for now — hi. I’m on my way. Happy birthday, me.

XOXO,
Rose


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2:332 Wrinkles

Discovered on Pinterest

Discovered on Pinterest

I never gravitated toward the phrase “I have to get a couple of things off my chest,” largely because it always sounded a little dirty to me in that there are exactly a couple of things on my chest #womanhood Rather, when I’m overwhelmed, I feel it in my chest, like I have hummingbird-heart. Like my innards collectively palpitate at 2000hz and the cells of my marrow chatter like so many novelty teeth. Bones made of teeth. Or something.

Right now, I’m struggling to iron out some truly spectacular wrinkles as they pertain to the fabric of my life and career and so on. Since I can’t resist a metaphor, I’ll have you know that I typically only wear polyester knits that are 100% un-rumple-able and if the extraordinary happens, I just steam my problems out in a hot shower. I don’t even own an iron. In fact, I’m fairly ill-equipped when it comes to matters of practicality. All matters of practicality. And I can’t fend for myself if I don’t have the tools or the experience… or the confidence to believe that my case is a case worth smoothing out.

I’ve always been resourceful. I’ll learn how to do something and do it myself before asking anyone else for help. I feel the oppressive need to prove myself before I ask for anything… ever. The heels of my boots look gnawed on, and my winter coat is a hand-me-down from my sister’s ex-boyfriend. I’ve successfully fooled everyone into thinking that unkempt glamour is my thing, when, in reality, I’m just terrible at asking for what I need. I’ve always been resourceful. I’ve never been good at sticking up for myself, and I need to work on that.

For a long time, this blog served as a way for me to express myself without having to fight. I’ve poured a great deal of trust out into the universe. Sometimes it feels like I’m pouring out wine; like I’m throwing away something precious. Because when real catastrophe happens — the kind of sh*t that is far beyond the dilemmas of a young, broke lass — I want badass women in my corner. I want women who don’t care if they offend anyone or embarrass themselves or ask too many questions or ask for too much, themselves. I want women wielding hot irons who don’t wait for nature to run its course, and I feel very lucky to be surrounded by women like that right now in regards to one such catastrophic thing. One private, catastrophic thing.

It’s odd that we can be bold in some ways but not in others. It’s odd, but it makes sense that our personal histories seem to repeat themselves until we learn our lesson. And life, apparently, is trying to make a badass out of me.

XOXO,
Rose

 


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2:272 How to be a Person

alexandra_lev

“Dancer”, by my girl, Alexandra Levasseur

This Sunday night, I attended my Grandma Muriel’s 92nd birthday. For those of you who have never had the honor of meeting my grandma, she’s a baller. Just by virtue of the fact that she was born in 1922, she’s original, original gangster — plus, as a young mother in the 50’s,  she started a one room library in the rear of the Union Hotel that grew, under her watch, into this library. She’s an insatiable book-eater, she makes a mean egg pancake, she will annihilate you in Scrabble — and she is equal parts kindness and sass. She’s a real lady, and I’m insanely lucky to be swimming in her matriarchal gene pool.

Longtime readers know I’m blessed with a tight-knit family. My uncle balks at my dietary restrictions (but always orders me a baby pizza sans cheese, nonethess). My godson and his sister each glom onto one of my legs and pummel each other while shrieking with glee, then abandon that game to pummel me and call me a pumpkin butt or a dolphin head. It’s basically the Kennedy Compound, but more than that, it’s emblematic of the balance I’m always seeking — all of these people in one room who ferociously love each other despite their differences; whose differences combined create stasis; consistency in chaos; a flashing, neon reminder of what matters and what doesn’t. Family matters, for example. Relationships matter.

Work matters, too. Lately, I’ve been all work, and I love my work, but when I don’t make time to diversify, my whole perspective becomes skewed. I start to forget how to be a person — how to be a friend, how to take care of myself, how very much my well-being hinges on my ability to express myself in a way that I’m proud of. It’s nice to have this blog as a reference, when I legitimately consign to oblivion the basic truths that I like to write personal essays and also make stuff; I need contact with humans who know my wild-woman roots and humans with whom I can put down new roots; I need a venue in which to be noisy and mischievous but still understood, as well as a venue to retreat to, to ponder and create and sleep sometimes and still be understood. Also, I need to remember to eat meals… which has never been a problem for me in my entire life leading up to this point, but I’ve learned that a hangry Rose is an unproductive, cantankerous, joyless Rose. See? Basic.

I’ve also learned that being a whole person takes practice, even if you’ve done the work and you know what makes you you, you actually have to keep at it. Forever. No matter what.

Sooo… that’s me. Say hi so I have reason to believe that this lil blog ain’t dead yet. Namaste.

XOXO,
Rose


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2:246 Oh Hai

julia_be

Unwitting portrait of Rose Truesdale found here.

Darling. It appears that summer’s crusting over with tangerine-lit foliage as I write this. Do me a favor and don’t Google “crusting over.” But envision it: our wet hot American selves papier-mâchéd into a festive autumnal pinata, baked into a pumpkin pie, blanketed in dry, yellow lichen. Sort of nice, yeah? Nice and seasonal.

Before I look very forward to the black capelet/opera glove/combat boot combo I hope to rock with my pink hair this fall, and the absurd amounts of squash I plan to eat until I’m tangerine-lit, myself; I’d like to acknowledge the fact that I haven’t been here all summer. In fact, I haven’t been to summer all summer… I feel like someone “forgot” to invite me. To summer.

I haven’t been to the beach. I haven’t tripped around Logan Square, rosé drunk and sticky and ready for love… I mean, I’ve done less of that than is my usual practice. Rather, I’ve been hustling, but I’ve been hustling with purpose. I find myself constantly surrounded by people who inspire me and look to me for inspiration. Just yesterday, I met with a health coach who specializes in women with disordered eating — who’s grateful for her own ED experience because it means she’s better able to counsel others. I met with a young female entrepreneur who left the corporate world to build her own business around wellness and I had the privilege of hearing her story over kale salads. I planned three upcoming events with a printmaker who’s obsessed with alchemy — a pop-up gallery, a dinner wherein chefs and local artists are creatively paired, and an  exhibit featuring delightfully creepy art inspired by our wares. I prepped for a pop-up shop featuring local artisans, I brainstormed article ideas for a plant-based column I hope to start, I looked ahead to a plant-based book launch we’re helping with… and this was all yesterday. It was just a Wednesday, like the Wednesday before it, where I got to focus my vitality on all of the things I love and obsess over. And I get to do that again today.

Woah.

That’s not to say this summer has been without its challenges — it’s been a transition, to be sure, and when I’m surrounded by so much newness and so much less time, it becomes all too easy for me to lose myself… to be eaten alive by all the ways I’m not enough. I have to perpetually check myself, say “Yo Girl. Be consumed with joy. Be consumed with ideas — focus your freak outs on how very you your life is becoming. No more I’m not experienced enough or glamorous enough or well-connected enough.” What I have is exactly enough, and I keep coming back to that. We’re enough, chick. You and me. We good.

So hai. I’m here and I love you. Who knows when I’ll be back… maybe soon! Maybe winter 2015. But in the meantime, I’m geeking out over all the stories I’ve been privy to with my new gig — stories of how so many boss-ass ladies have become themselves. I’d love to hear about your becoming you, or any stories you’ve got lately. Email me at rosetruesdaleATgmailDOTcom, leave me a comment or 4. Be in touch. Fill me in.

XOXO,
Rose

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