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As a little girl, I once asked my mom why there were so many songs about love. It seemed like every song on the radio was about some relationship gone wrong or some guy singing about  some girl. As a child, I was less than amused.  Now, as an adult, I get it. That “love” stuff is, well, life-altering. Attempting to find love, falling in love, falling out of love, or watching your love walk away changes everything. I can confidently say I’ve been in every one of those positions. It’s an emotional rollercoaster from the beginning. The worst being the feeling of heartbreak. When my long-term relationship ended and I watched my former significant other walk away, I felt absolutely powerless, hurt, angry, confused, and desperate to get him back. 4 years later, I thank God the relationship ended. It was the best thing that could have happened to my 20-something self. I grew into a stronger, better, more confident version of myself in the days that followed (see my last blog for more on this). Unfortunately, the initial days of that break-up looked like something akin to Elle Woods laying in her bed watching horrible soaps while stuffing…

My relationship sent me to therapy. Actually, two romantic relationships sent me to therapy for radically different reasons.  I thought the first was love. I really did. 2 years of sacrifice, of learned silence, of negotiation within myself as to why I should stay.  He said he loved me, and I’m sure he did. He loved the version of me I’d transformed into over the time we were together to keep him around. I’d learned how to silence the voice that said I wasn’t happy, to put his desires before mine,  and his priorities above mine. If he said he only had one night to give me each week, I’d find a way to make that okay. My only goal was to keep him. If he didn’t want me, who would?  Slowly but surely, I let myself drift away from myself. That’s what surprises people most when I tell them about that time in my life. For someone who is such a proud and public feminist, I let any semblance of equality and partnership in that relationship turn into a single-party system of power and control. He had it all – and I’m sure that’s why he loved “me”. He…

30 days in December, 1 task for each day. Sounds easy enough, right? Take what you like, leave what you don’t. Challenge yourself by stepping outside of your comfort zone to be thoughtful and reflective – especially when your inner gremlin starts speaking up! 2020 is nearly upon us: make this the year you put intentional actions before habitual actions. Days 1-10: Reflection 1.Write down 1 thing from 2019 that made you feel proud of yourself. This doesn’t have to be a revolutionary or dramatic change you made; It’s just one thing that made you feel proud of yourself 2. Write a thank you note to someone in your life for all they’ve done to support you. 3.Share your favorite picture from 2019 and explain why it’s your favorite! 4. Send a text to express gratitude or make a phone call. Write a thank you note to yourself for the last year. 5. Write a thank you note to yourself. 6. Think of one thing that changed for the better this year. Write a quick journal entry about it. 7. Reflect on 1 thing you’d consider an “absolute win” from the last year. Share on your social. 8. Write down…

“I hate her” “We hate her” They chuckled together, like the shared disdain for one human in particular created a bond. They felt comfortable standing in that statement. Or, at least comfortable enough to say those words at a higher volume than they should while in the middle of the jewelry section at Target.  I kept sifting through the earrings in front of me. I cringed as I overheard the conversation. My nose squished, my shoulders lifted a little closer to my ears, and I felt my body lean away. These five young women, presumably college students getting ready to return to class, were discussing their plans for football attire while tearing down another girl. It was simultaneously painful and infuriating to listen to.  “She talks about everyone like she’s better than them. We don’t like her anymore.”  The irony was missed entirely. The figurative pot called the kettle black, and they didn’t even realize it. They were doing the very thing they were criticizing this girl about, while trying to make themselves feel better about it all by throwing “we” into the sentence. It created the worst kind of “me too” moment while engaging in a toxic pattern –…

A few years back, I went to a new year’s goal setting workshop. My nerves were higher than normal as I walked into a room of strangers and found my seat. There were only about 7 women in the workshop, but it was enough to feel the shared desire for change upon entry. It was a perceptively exciting fresh start to a new year. It was 2017.  In the middle of the table, sat a bucket of small rocks and an assortment of markers. “Oh here we go” I thought “we’re going to have to write something on the rocks aren’t we…. How much did I pay for this workshop again?”. The cynicism I felt had already taken root and the workshop was barely underway. Yes, I, Cammy Nelson, had one foot out the door in a personal growth workshop before it even had a chance to begin. Maybe you’ve been in those very shoes, yourself? I picked my rock from the group. Per usual, I wanted something with a color in the blue family and a soft texture. Something that didn’t offer much resistance. I wanted to be comfortable with the way the rock felt it my hand. I…

I’m two and a half months into my first year of grad school. At this point, I’m exhausted, overwhelmed, intimidated, terrified of failure, in desperate search of a reason to quit, and working harder than I ever have. It was a Thursday night and I had only one more class in the morning to get through before the relief of the weekend would settle in. A “relief” that would still wake me at six AM in a panic to get everything done perfectly. These were miserable days. That night, I sat down in the living room of the beautiful condo I was fortunate to be renting and opened the assigned textbook for the next morning. That’s when it all started. As I opened the textbook, my eyes fell upon the 12 point, single spaced font. There were two columns on each page. There were hundreds of pages to get through. It  soon dawned on me there was more to read than I could possibly get through that night. Even as I write this, I can feel myself back in that moment. The sheer panic building as the tears were starting to well up for the umpteenth time that week and…

My boyfriend recently told me that I “should buy some bigger pants” (insert sound of every women shaking her head here). Poor guy didn’t even realize what he was saying. He made the comment and my thoughts went in exactly one direction – – – > can you guess what it was?   If you’re a man reading this, you might be thinking he was just telling me that my pants looked uncomfortable.  If you’re a woman, however, you probably know EXACTLY  what I began thinking….Is he telling me I need to lose weight?Does he still think I’m attractive?Do I even look good to him?Do I look like I’m bursting out of these pants?Ugh, I’ve been struggling lately and this just proves that point. I’ve gained weight and the doctor will show me the red numbers on the screen and tell me I need to see a nutritionist again (see my previous blog post for the full story here). I can’t win this… I don’t want him to see me anymore.  Suddenly, I was quiet. I barely said two words for the next hour. He knew something was wrong, but he didn’t know what.  HE DIDN’T KNOW WHAT WAS WRONG.  Ladies, this Is what…

At my heaviest, I was a pants size 18 and an XL top. I was also a freshman in high school. My two closest friends were both strikingly beautiful and I was happy. There was no part of me that considered myself “too big”. Looking back on it, I know that there were physical indications that I was at an unhealthy weight, but I shook it off. It wasn’t a cause for concern. There was consistently raw skin on the bottom of my stomach from my belt rubbing against my belly. I remember complaining about “saggy butt problems” because the extra stretchy denim I loved  would stretch out too much and drape around my butt where there was extra fabric but not enough booty. Nearly every outfit I wore included a sweatshirt. Not because I wanted to hide my body, but because that was as creative as I was willing to get as a teenager waking up at 6 AM. There would be no makeup, no real hairstyle. It was all me and I was happy with that. In fact, I wanted to help any woman who looked at their body and felt shame. I knew I was beautiful and…

Hello, my name is Cammy and I am a recovering perfectionist. That’s a sentence I jokingly say to many if not every one of my audiences. People can relate. Women can relate. I can laugh it off, just as they do, knowing that it’s not my entire identity and that using the word “recovering” in the sentence is like throwing everyone a liferaft before getting uncomfortable with my story. There’s no chance to drown in the pain and I’m able to keep it light enough that they feel secure in their continued listening. As an audience, they’re likely stuck with me for an hour, so we might as well laugh about it together. In reality, many of the women in that audience will feel what I’m saying deeply. We are recovering perfectionists. A struggle that is entirely mental and presents itself physically in multiple different ways. A monster that is subtle at times and all-consuming at others. It’s an experience that isn’t discussed because the secret, the imperfection, is revealed when you really talk to people about what’s going on. The nasty little voice keeps a perfectionist isolated, pained, searching for some way to fill the bottomless pit of desire…