Fasting.

Day One: 

Yesterday I started my 24 hour fast. I have been struggling immensely with my anxiety and depression. Yesterday I felt like I was having panic attack after panic attack. I was absolutely desperate to stop feeling this way. Just getting out of bed in the mornings became a monumental task, and going into public seemed like the most inhumane torture possible. 

It's weird because people see me as a super, sociable person. I am naturally funny and use that comedic relief to my advantage especially when I am feeling self conscious. It's a defense mechanism I think every overweight female has. Take Rebel Wilson, for instance. She is overweight compared to all the other female actresses her age. She very rarely plays in serious movies because she has painted herself as this super funny, comedic actress. (Honestly, I don't think she's very funny.) Melissa McCarthy is another example though, whom I do find entertaining to watch. Though she did recently play in a more serious film (Can You Ever Forgive Me), she is most known for her comedic roles like Bridemaids and, my favorite, The Heat. My point is, your fat friend is probably your funniest friend. God didn't just sprinkle us with more "humor" sprinkles. No, we took on that humor role as a defense mechanism. 

I started doing research and found myself getting even more overwhelmed. I don't have health insurance, but, knowing myself, I knew I wasn't going to commit to taking an anti depressant to fix my depression (not that there is anything wrong with this method). I had tried Zoloft in the past (just recently actually towards the end of my pregnancy with Charleigh) and I never saw a change in my mental state. 

Deep down, I knew from trail and error, that eating like shit made me feel like shit. 

But, guess what my favorite thing is to do? Eat like shit. 

Food brings me joy. Sure, my kids bring me joy but, lets be honest, kids also bring stress, aggravation and exhaustion. Food had never let me down or hurt me. Anytime I was sad or upset, food was always my "comfort". After reading more articles on binge eating and the emotional effects, I realized the "comfort" I felt by eating mass quantities of food was actually just my way of putting a physical feeling to a mental thought. 

If I was sad or upset, I would just eat and eat and eat until I gave myself a stomach ache. I would take a stomach ache over guilt, ridicule, or shame any day. Achieving that physical pain helped drowned out the emotional pain I was struggling with. Maybe I had, had a fight with my husband and was feeling unheard or unappreciated. Maybe, as silly as it sounds, seeing the kids toothbrushes left all over the bathroom counter after I had JUST pleaded with them about cleaning up after themselves was enough to make me feel unappreciated, unheard, and taken advantage of. 

Every emotion had an effect, and my "go to" effect was over eating. So, maybe I did "good" all day and then something happened and I found myself knuckles deep in the peanut butter jar. I would get the "two wrongs make a right" mentality and move from the peanut butter to popcorn or from popcorn to a box of Cheeze Its. I couldn't just have one slip up because that slip up had a domino effect on my emotions and the thought of guilt and self hate (HOW DARE I EAT THAT PEANUT BUTTER) just sent me into my downward spiral of binge eating. 

I know all these things. I know my triggers. I know my weaknesses. I know how to achieve mental clarity by eating all the "good foods", but I still continue to struggle. Why? Because I am human. I am going to mess up. I am going to have bad days. I just have to remember to get back up on that bike and keep going. 

I have read over and over again that binge eating is intensified when you put yourself on a strict diet. I have read that time and time again but I know my body and mind needs a strict diet. As a desperate attempt to "jump start" my mental clarity, I did a 24 hour fast yesterday. Sure enough, I woke up this morning feeling SO much better. It's insane, and I know fasting cannot be the answer to my problems (because you have to fuel your body) but it's definitely a A+B=C equation. Depression and anxiety is intensified for me when I eat like crap. By taking a 24 hour fast, I woke up with more mental clarity than I have in the past three weeks. Just think how I will feel if I can just fuel my body with healthy, whole nutrients for the next thirty days. Forget the scales. Forget the weight goals. 

Do it for your mental health. 

*To add, I am taking Hydroxycut as an appetite suppressant and energy booster. I take one when I wake up, one at lunch, and one at the children's snack time. I also take a night time appetite suppressant and sleep aide (Nobi Nutrition Night Time Fat Burner) and I am on day two of taking my Dopa Mucuna which is suppose to raise dopamine levels. None of these I make money on by promoting on this blog, btw. I will be giving an honest review on Dopa Mucuna in the next month or so. 

Here is to hoping for a positive day today. 

Binger.

As usual, I have been MIA for the past three weeks due to my depression and anxiety being at an all time high. I can't even blame it on postpartum, even though I desperately want too. 

I know this has nothing to do with postpartum. Now, don't get me wrong. Charleigh has her moments that make me feel like an insane, new mom but, for the most part, she is pretty consistent with routine and ritual. 

I know, deep down, my anxiety and depression isn't postpartum related and that I am not going to wake up one day and Charleigh will be eleven months old and my anxiety and depression will be something of the past. Who are we kidding? I have been dealing with anxiety and depression for years and it's not going to magically get better. 

Things I know- 

Diet is a direct link to my depression. 

My body has a, "Eat like shit, feel like it." motto. 

It's honestly a hard pill to swallow because I am a food addict. Love food. Love ALL things carbs. Love sugar. Love cheese. Love. It. All. Food is most certainly my drug, and, according to my waste size, has been my choice of drug for years. 

Some of my readers might not know, but in 2018 I suffered my first miscarriage at 468 pounds. There I was, completely naked and vulnerable, laying on a table with a stranger who smelled like stagnant cigarette smoke and dollar store perfume attempting to give me a vaginal exam while I literally bled out. In that moment, I got my first glimpse of my second child for the first time. Little did I know the next time I would see that baby, it would be in my bathroom, seven hours later after I birthed it out into the toilet. Graphic, I know. I see no reason of covering up the true, graphic details of a miscarriage. Especially in a state that is 80% pro-life. All these people who preach pro-life yet you see NO ONE standing up for miscarriage victims who are forced by our healthcare system to deliver these BABIES (you know, because anything with a beat heart is NOT a sack of cells but actual human beings) in the privacy of our bathroom- scared and in immense pain- and then forced to throw away these fetuses because hospitals send actively miscarrying moms home to this fate ALL THE TIME. (...this post wasn't intended for this soap box, but here it is.) 

Anyways, the point is, following my miscarriage I chose diet and exercise and lost 130 pounds in a little under 10 months. It was hard. It took A LOT of will power and determination. I had gotten down to the smallest I had been in almost eight years, and I was in the best head space I had been in since college. 

And, then I got pregnant and everything "healthy" was overcome by pregnancy cravings and, "I am eating for two" excuses. 

Fast forward to January 2020- post baby- post 60 pound weight gain. I was depressed and anxious. Constantly picking fights with my husband and choosing to yell at my kids more than they deserved. I was spending more time laying in my bed with Charleigh and Taytum eating foods that came from the freezer section or with a shelf life of 38394 years. Exercise? Ha. I was lucky if I left my house once a week. I knew I had to make a change, otherwise, I was going to be right back where I was. 

21 days. It takes 21 days to break a habit. Sure enough, on the 20th day of dieting, I gave up. I allowed myself one "cheat day" and then the guilt consumed me. 

I felt like a failure. 
I had given in to the "bad food list" that I had been strictly following. 

Looking back I can't even remember what exactly it was that I had given in to. But one day turned into one week which ultimately turned into one month and here I am.. blogging about depression and anxiety because, you guessed it, the depression and anxiety came back as quickly as that extra weight in my ass. 

It. Is. Not. Worth. It. 

Donuts are good. Chocolate is heavenly. Cheese is my ride or die. 
But, it is NOT worth it. 

I can tell myself that over and over. I can blog about it and admit to it publicly but I would have these moments where I would absolutely cave and binge eat ALL those toxic foods on the "no-no" list. 

I started doing research on eating disorders. At 370 pounds, if you asked me if I had an eating disorder, I would have laughed in your face. All these years I thought an eating disorder meant you could NOT eat. Bulimia and anorexia are two conditions I watched several of my friends- my skinny friends- struggle with. I never knew that binge eating was an actual eating disorder- none the less that I actually suffered from it. 

Binge eating has been something I can remember doing my entire life. 

Emotions = eating. 
Eating = joy. 

Sad? Eat.
Mad? Eat. 
Stressed? Double eat. 
Happy? Eat. 
Bored? Oh, yeah. EAT. 

Eating became my response to everything. Here I am, almost 28 years old and I am having to rewire my brain and how I process emotion. Having to teach myself how to not only process emotions in the present but also process emotions in the past that I have covered up with food for years. 

I want this blog to be a "how to", but, honestly, I don't know "how to" yet. Hopefully seven or eight months down the road I can rewrite this blog and share all my secrets as well as my success but right now I am just focusing on admitting to what I know is the problem and taking the appropriate steps to achieve my goal. 

Do I want to loose weight? 
Sure, who doesn't. But my pants size is not what is the most important thing for me. No, I want to achieve mental clarity. I want depression and anxiety to stop ruling my life. I want the fears of the things inside my head to stop preventing me from living my best life for myself and my children. I want to stop suffering in silence because I am embarrassed by my own problems and, instead, embrace them and talk about them because I know I am not the only one. 

Check Engine Light.

I just spent two days laying in bed, binge eating on unhealthy foods and contemplating every momma mistake I've ever made. I neglected my friends [on this group, because lets face it "outside" friends are a scary thought..] and completely shunned away from my blogging. There was absolutely NO way I was going to blog about how crazy I was feeling.. I kept telling my husband I thought I had the flu, but I was just have a "momma mental breakdown".

We are responsible for so much, regardless if we stay home all day with our rugrats or if we work a full/part time job. We have so many responsibilities that might sound "small" at the time (for example getting our child to soccer practice) but really it's just something else we have to micromanage. Every single thing we do is based around our children and our husband/partner. Housework consumes us (lets face it, as soon as you get the kitchen clean SOMEONE is going to dirty a dish...), laundry is overwhelming (it's winter in Alabama and I swear- SWEAR- I still find bathing suits in the dirty clothes, meal time (especially for a larger sized family) is completely time consuming when you factor in meal prep, grocery shopping, preparing and serving, and don't get me started on school, extra curricular activities, doctors appointments and more. We become immune to our daily work load and everyone just assumes because it's repetitive that it's easy.

It's not. We are under worked and under appreciated on the daily. My husband is a great father and husband but there are still days where I feel like he just doesn't appreciate ALL the things I do. My husband has a thousand hats. He has one head, yall. Why does he need a thousand hats? I swear I spend 5% of my day picking up his thousands of hats and trying to arrange them in a more organized manner than just "toss it on the dresser". If there was a "hats anonymous" club, I'd sign him up. He should be embarrassed by how many hats he orders online. "..but they were $5 a piece," is his favorite excuse but I still can't justify why the man needs so many damn hats...

The point is, two days ago I broke. I crawled into my bed in the middle of the day and just broke down like a dirty minivan five months post "check engine light" and "change oil soon". How many times do we ignore our own check engine lights? How many times do we ignore our own mental and physical health just because we are a Mom and we don't get a break from daily duties and our overworked schedule?

What does your check engine light look like? I'll tell you what mine looks like.. First I start getting aggravated more often than usual (I'll be the first to admit my kids can be SO annoying..). I notice I am shorter with my children and that simple things like them telling me how their day is or giving me random hugs while I am scrubbing the toilet or something just drives me absolutely insane. I start feeling myself get more and more overwhelmed by small things like a $10 field trip form or an invitation to another birthday party. Then I start taking it out on the men in my life... my husband and my two oldest teens. Bless their hearts. My husband normally gets the brunt of the anxiety but my two older boys take a pretty direct hit from the "eye of the mom-a-cane". I start getting particular about their grades, appearance, or the quality of their chores. These are literally all signs of "this car is about to break down". I think the "oh shit, you need to pull over" sign is when I notice myself starting to eat unhealthy, lessening my water intake and then, last but not least, I stop going outside my house. I start making excuses for why I didn't show up for this or that.. I start ordering simple things like diapers or shampoo off of Amazon, and I will ask my husband or my sister to stop by the store and grab me this or that. Then, guess what happens? Smoke starts billowing out from under my hood, car shuts completely off, and all four tires seem to just disassemble and roll away. Broke down.

The good news is, a broke down momma isn't near as expensive to fix as a broken down vehicle. I spent two days in bed. Mental health was lower than a college graduates credit score.. I was questioning myself as a mother. Everything I had done in my 27 years was wrong. I was mad at everyone, but really I was just full of my own guilt and embarrassment. I completely ruined my diet by a long shot- and by a long shot I mean two cupcakes from Publix, a pan of cream cheese frosted brownies, and a huge box of chocolate covered cherries (I begged my husband to get me some and, bless his soul, I think he found the BIGGEST box in the world). I was angry, embarrassed, overwhelmed, stressed, and just sick to my stomach. I slept on and off for two days. I took a complete break from house work, running errands, and everything else from under the sun. My husband picked up the slack with the errands and my children picked up the slack with the chores. Yesterday I had Taytum and Charleigh with me and they just stayed in bed with me all day. Taytum played with her iPad and ate Roman Noodle cups and grapes all day and Charleigh napped, cuddled and did tummy time on her tummy time nap (on my bed). At one point, Taytum had taken over and was engaging in Patty Cake with Charleigh while I did just what I needed to do- absolutely nothing.

And guess what? Everyone survived. This morning I woke up completely renewed. I told myself my diet would resume as normal. I wouldn't dare weigh myself for another week or so. I filled up my water bottle and promised myself I would chug water all day. I cleaned the house some while getting the kids ready for school. I made a list of things I would do today (that actually involved me leaving my house). I even managed to make homemade french toast with sprinkles and dehydrated marshmallows for the kids. I feel refreshed, renewed, and just whole again. I don't know crap about cars but I assume I feel just as good as a Honda who just got it's tires aligned and a fresh oil change.

Listen to me.

This is normal. You are normal. Feeling overwhelmed, anxious, frustrated, and angry is NORMAL. Your feelings are justifiable. Your feelings are important. Just because you have a moment of depression doesn't mean you have a bad life. It doesn't mean you hate your children or your husband. It doesn't mean everything you have done, every good thing you've managed to do is wiped clean and you have to start all over with your goals, your family, your New Years resolution, whatever.

I have struggled with my weight ever since I was a kid. I managed to loose 150 pounds following a miscarriage. I gained about 65 pounds with my last pregnancy and a little more postpartum. I promised myself I would get back on the weight loss train as soon as the new year started, and I was doing really good. Twenty four hours ago I was stuffing a cream cheese filled cupcake in my mouth while counting how many chocolate covered cherries I had left to eat.. But, it's a new day. I can start over.

We are allowed to break down sometimes.

Lamborghini, Bugatti, and Ferrari's all break down at some point. 

Don't measure your worth by a simple bump in the road. 

You are enough. 

Hell, you are EXTRA. 

Stop judging your worth and your motherhood off of a simple, check engine light. 

We all break down.

We all require maintenance.

We all have moments where we feel like a crushed up, broken down, Oldsmobile. 

You. Are. Perfect. 

Just don't forget to check yo' oil sometimes. 

And, if you break down, remind yourself that you are not alone and that YOU are a Lambo. 

This too shall pass. 

Never in a million years would I post a picture of myself like this, but it’s so important that I truly advocate for all my momma friends and their mental health. So, take it in! Take it ALL in. No make up, hair hadn’t been brushed in days, and my fact was all puffy from crying and the effects of junk food purging. But, even on my bad days- I AM a lambo 🤪 

Going, going, gone.

The next time someone says "garage sale" I will probably have a full fledged PTSD moment. The amount of stress that goes into "yard sale prep" is insane. I couldn't imagine starting a literal business from the ground up. This garage sale, itself, had me thinking we were about to open a Walmart Super Center. 

I kept blowing off the idea because I really just didn't think we had enough "stuff" that was actually of value. I realized I probably had hoarded too much baby gear and that MAYBE we could get rid of five of the baby bouncer seats. I mean, I have one for every room of the house and Charleigh is almost five months and has never sat in one. I convinced myself it was time to purge. 

My garage looked like Babies-R-Us had blown up. Bouncy seats, high chairs, ride on toys, walkers, bumbo seats, and bassinets were lined up from one wall to another. I purged the girl's clothes, which took an insane amount of time and effort. We moved onto shoes and ended up with 166 pairs of shoes that my kids either didn't want or couldn't fit anymore. Next we purged our own closet and emptied it of "one day we will wear" and "but what if I need this for an event that I'll never attend" clothes. Before I realized it, the garage was packed full of yard sale crap. 

Between sorting, pricing, and organized the load of items for sale, I also had to make signs for the neighborhood and market, market, market on social media. We don't necessarily live in a highly trafficked area so I had to make sure I could get the word out enough to generate a decent amount of traffic. After what felt like a century of work, we were ready for shop to open. 

My sister convinced me to have it on Friday, as well as Saturday, and I am really glad she did. We ended up making a pretty decent profit on Friday. We had sold a lot but there was still an ungodly amount of clothes, shoes and baby stuff. We drug the stuff back in Friday and were back at it Saturday morning. We were super busy and even had repeat customers. 

I have pretty severe social anxiety. Not a lot of people know that about me because I present myself as a very socially confident person. It's part of my defensive mechanism though. I will carry on conversation and engage in social situations but as soon as I am done, my anxiety literally drains my body and I am left with a high functioning, panic attack forcing me into a fit of emotions. 

At the end of the weekend, we made a pretty decent profit and were able to donate the rest of the unsold clothes and shoes to an organization that offers free items to families that loose everything in house fires and natural disasters. Needless to say, I will never ever own my own business, nor will I have another yard sale. 

Nickle and 22 Pennies

The Rogers' household is just like any other. We have some of the same struggles as other families (just x12). Recently I've noticed an ongoing trend of dishonesty among my kiddos, and if there is one thing that grinds my momma bear gears, it's lying. 

I decided an old school lesson was in store for everyone. All twelve kids gathered in our front living room while I prepared a shallow bowl of water. Zeek, being our oldest and our "role model", started off the lesson by taking a silver nickle. All the other children got a penny. 

I explained to them that Zeek's silver nickle represented a lie. I told Zeek to stand over the shallow bowl of water and drop his nickle in. After the nickle fell, I had each child take their turn to try and cover up the silver nickle by dropping their penny in. After eleven attempts (daddy attempted it for Charleigh) the nickle was still visible. I let my kids all have another turn of dropping another penny into the shallow bowl in hopes of covering the shiny nickle. No one managed to cover the nickle completely, though Peighton got pretty close. 

I explained to them that every penny in the bowl represented a lie used to cover up the original, silver lie. So far, we had 22 pennies in the bowl and the original lie was still visible. When we tell a lie, we spend so much time and effort trying to cover that lie up by telling several small lies. In the end, the original lie was still visible for everyone to see. 

It was a fun activity but by the end of our lesson everyone had a better understanding of why it's important to just tell the truth the first time. The very next day, Paisley was caught with her tablet in her bed. She is currently grounded from electronics due to watching something inappropriate. When I approached her about the situation, she immediately told me she wanted to tell the truth regardless of the consequence. 

That's progress.

I like progress. 

I am attaching a worksheet that I've been using for all my children when they get caught for making a poor choice. 

PhD in Packing Play.

Whoever created the pack and play was not- has never been- and probably will NEVER have children. Triple negatives might be grammatically incorrect but it is so SO appropriate this morning. 

Why is parenting so hard? I mean, all I needed was to be able to pop open the pack and play for the sleepy toddler that I watch during the week but it obviously is not that simple. There are instructions, "pull here". No where on the damn thing does it say, must unlock bottom before securing sides. After several failed attempts, I flocked to the internet for advice. 

YouTube: How to assemble pack and play. 

Hell, I even found the same EXACT pack and play with the same damn zoo animals (that are secretly mocking me at this point..)

Naturally, the video would start by showing me how to disassemble the son of a bitch. Hello? Why would we start the video with disassembling if we don't even know how to assemble!?!? 

Five minutes into the video- toddler still actively drifting into a nice, promising, early morning slumber.. finally, this Home Improvement looking dude is about to show me- THE MOM OF TWELVE- how to open my pack and play. 

Got it. Unlock the bottom, to snap the side pieces. 

Five minutes later, pack and play is STILL not fastened. 
Re-watch YouTube video. 
Contemplate this motherhood bullshit. 
Question humanity. 
Try again...

Got it. 

Just in time for the toddler to wake up.. 
Current situation: PJ Mask, 2nd sippy of milk and three iced cookies later... chance of toddler napping? Not a chance. 

This is so parenthood. 
P.A.R.E.N.T.H.O.O.D 

As soon as we think we figured it out, we forget something. 
Something we did last year or for the last kid, magically no longer works. 
If parenthood did come with instructions, they would be just a vague as the pack and play instructions. 

"Feed child." 

Feed child what? Breast milk? Formula? Which formula? Start baby food now? Or lead weaning? What if they don't like peas? Oh, shit. Did I give them fruit first? Did I ruin their taste buds for, forever? Why doesn't my toddler eat meat? Is this the second or third time this week I've served pizza? How do I get my kid to drink water? 

Often times we turn to google, forums, social media, you name it for advice or validation of our "loosing my mind" mental status. Sometimes we get what we are looking for.. sometimes we don't. 

Sometimes we watch someone open the pack and play and we STILL can't do it. No one feels like a failure like a mother.. on a DAILY basis. 

Am I doing it right? 
Am I doing it right like Susan?
Wait, is Susan doing it right? 
Shit, what is right? 

Parenthood is hard. 
Putting together a pack and play is hard. 

Thank God for forgiving children and late afternoon naps.

Labels.

The moment a child enters into DHR/CPS custody they are automatically labeled. 

Foster child. Case Number. Placement. Sibling group. 

These are all words generally used to describe a foster child within minutes of them coming into care. They are stripped of their belongings, their comfort zone, their families, and now their identity as they go from being Sally to being "the foster child". 

The labels don't stop there. 

There is a stigma that follows foster children with a genre of their own labels. 

Delayed.

Hyperactive.

Lack social skills. 

Deceptive

Run away.

Angry.

Food Hoarder.

Withdrawn.

Drug dependent.

Empathetic. 

Depressed.

Anxious.

Shy. 

Rude.

Broken.

Abused.

Too far gone. 

I've seen it. 

I've heard it.

I've been guilty of doing it my own. 

Can you take a nineteen year old foster child who was disrupted from his current home due to known drug use? 

H.E.L.L N.O

Coincidentally, my best friend took a leap of faith and fostered him for two nights. Most respectful, kind teenager she had, had in a long time. 

Presley has wanted to do this beauty pageant for a few months. I was hoping she'd forget about it or the loose the registration form. Two weeks before the deadline to register the registration form reappeared on the front of the fridge. I couldn't hide from it. She was determined to take part in these beauty pageant festivities. 

I couldn't understand why. None of our girls have ever been interested in pageants. Kenzie and Hayden both competed in our local elementary school's small pageant, only because it's "church attire" and really just an inexpensive social engagement. 

We had someone donate a beautiful dress for Presley to wear. It was everything a beauty pageant dress should be- a beautiful color, shiny with jewels and embellishments and, of course, big and fluffy. Unfortunately, it fit around the waist but wasn't long enough and the straps were too tight. I spent all morning wrestling this beast around while I loosened and resewn the straps to add length to the dress. This helped one problem but just created another as now the back of the corset sat too low on her back. 

I decided we would visit every thrift shop and consignment shop in the county because, let's face it, this Mom of 12 kiddo's budget does not have room for a $600 new dress. Presley never complained, even when I had her try on dresses from the thrift store that I am pretty sure Dolly Pardon herself wore at some point. She was absolutely content with whatever I chose for her, and her expectations never exceeded the small dollar amount that I was able to afford. 

We just couldn't find anything. There were tons of nice, short dresses her size but they were more "Homecoming" worthy and not beauty pageant attire. We found prom dresses that were somewhat decent, but the plunging necklines and thigh high slits just screamed eighteen, and definitely not eleven.

In an attempt to at least find out what size Presley wore, we wound up at a local pageant dress shop. Judging by the fancy string lights and shabby chic decor lining the store front windows, I knew this was definitely out of our price range, and so did Presley. 

We decided to go look anyways, with one understanding- no disappointments when we leave empty handed. I know we stuck out like a seashell in outter space, but we pressed forward. Once we entered the building, I immediately asked if they could point us towards the clearance rack. I am almost certain they did everything in their power to keep from laughing. Apparently there is no such thing as "clearance" in pageant world. 

We aren't in Kansas anymore, Toto. 

Presley's eyes lit up as she thumbed through multiple colors and styles of dresses. She was speechless when one of the women asked her if she'd like to try one of the beautiful gowns on. 

She looked at me.. 

I looked at the price tag..

The attendant must have read my face. Within minutes Presley was in the dressing room and beautiful women with perfectly polished make up and hair styles came flocking from all directions. One was getting shoes while one was passing the other different dresses of all colors and styles. It was nothing short of the Disney scene in Cinderella when the fairy god mother turns Cinderella's rags into riches. 

I was getting nervous.

Palm sweating, heart racing, anxiety thickening nervous. 

I couldn't afford this. Not now, not later. 

After they found the most amazing dress and matching silver shoes, they twirled Presley up onto this stage lined with mirrors and bright lights. Presley's face lit up, and that's when I realized why we were doing this. 

Just like that, it was like the years of foster care labels broke completely off in chunks. All the negative thing she had grown to hear about herself were just rolling off of her like a rock slide. You could see the weight literally lift off of her shoulders as she peered into the mirror and saw herself for the first time in two years. 

No more foster care. 

Now forever adopted. 

No more foster care stigma. 

Just a beautiful girl, in a beautiful dress. 

In the midst of all these women that I swear co-hosted those dress shows on TLC, stood the owner. She was so friendly and had lots of knowledge about pageants and dresses. She could literally see the anxiety setting in my face as I was fumbling through my wallet trying to figure out how in the world I would be able to afford JUST the rental fee for such a beautiful dress. Without hesitation she told one of the assistants to take the dress up to the counter and that she would ring it up. 

Y'all, this woman blessed us by cutting the rental cost by almost 65%. I was absolutely blown away by this stranger's generosity. She most definitely did not have to do this for us, especially since her shop is one of the most busiest pageant and gown retailers. I stood there in complete shock as she just typed up the paperwork and took care of the whole nine yards. 

I learned two things-

Not everything is what it seems. I had absolutely no idea why Presley was so persistent about this pageant. Though she was absolutely thrilled to be adopted, I think she desperately needed a moment where she defined the stigma that follows her history. 

And.. Kind people are the best kind of people.