Metaphorically, speaking

Dear you,
or me.

Today, something great happened. As you were slicing your Kraft cheese, you glanced at the expiration date. And I know, why do we always start these letters so strangely? Because I'm me. or you. or whatever. The date just so happened to be October 16th. The day you and Dean so lovingly picked out together after finding you had to wait another eight months to be married.
Four months and two weeks, exactly.

And as a Heavenly Father devotee, you instantly felt it was a gift from God. I know, I know. An expiration date is a gift from God? Now everyone just sounds pathetically insane. But you never look at the expiration dates (unless they are in yours and Dean's fridge--and then who knows how long that cheese has been in there.)

BUT ANYWAY. That just made your day so fantastic--to finally have something expire in your wedding month. And then, your dad just plants a giant, fantastic, surprising, metaphorical gift right in your metaphorical lap that you have the option to open now, or wait to open.
And you've decided to open this beautifully metaphoric gift from God.

And now you and Dean will be able to grow together closer to God nightly, weekly, monthly--or whenever you please.

And that is enough to make these next four months and two weeks a piece of cake.

love always//talor

they don't teach you to write letters to yourself;

My whole life I have written letters to people.
The second I learned how to fill out an envelope and put a stamp on it, I sent letters.
I had a pen pal once.
I wrote to my best friend when she moved in elementary (no cell phones for children back then).
I wrote my friend who disappeared to her dad's in the summers.
I wrote to my friends that served LDS missions.
I wrote to one of my dearest friends when she was finding herself in Washington.
And I wrote letters to God when I was losing myself.

I write letters to my fiance.
And I've started to write letters to myself.

What? I know. That probably sounds a little crazy. Almost like when people talk out loud to themselves in the grocery store and everyone gives them a weird look.

But I have always been one that's bad at journaling.
I'll be good for like a whole week, or maybe a whole summer, and then I just get so tired of repeating everything I've done!

And writing letters to yourself is kind of like writing a journal.

I write letters to my future self, my past self, or my present self. To help me to remember to be kind to myself, to have patience, and to be happy.

So I think this blog will be officially that.

Just letters written by a 21 year old girl to herself.

P.S.

A Letter to Myself

 Dear Me,

I cannot expect my body to be overly muscley, stick thin, or perfectly perfect. Why should it be? Will it make more people love me? No. Will it really make me happier? Probably not. Does it really matter? Not in the long run.

The women I look up to, who I inspire to be, I inspire to be not for their thigh gap, their toned arms, or their perfect body. I look up to them for their determination, their strength, their ability to love and to laugh and to be courageous. There is no correlation between thigh gaps and courage. So I should stop treating it as though it will give me such.

The man I want to love me for eternity will not love me more for having perfectly shaped legs or a perfectly flat stomach. Because eternal love is unconditional love, and he will love me when I work out and he will love me when I gain 5 pounds. Why? Because a flat stomach doesn't give me love and respect. Because a thigh gap doesn't tell you how lovely my personality is. Because there is no correlation between love and perfect curves. So I will stop treating it as though it will give me such.

 And how sad that I should be so harsh on my own body? The body that wakes me in the morning and puts me to rest at night.
The body that cradles my soul.

So, instead of striving towards a thigh gap, or for sleek arms, or a flat six pack, I will wish for other things.

I will wish to always have legs that can carry me up into the mountains and back down to my home. I will wish for lungs that make it so I can laugh for hours and run for miles. I will wish for arms that hug perfectly and cradle little souls. I will wish for a backbone that stands straight and firm. I will wish for hands that can always paint and inspire.

Because those things create love, laughter, determination, strength and courage.

Breathe.




I deserve love--whether I'm perfect or not.
(repeatx10000)

I love you.

Love, Me

Chop chop.

Okay so after everything that has happened the last little while, I really felt like I needed a change. Not a simple change like painting my nails, or rearranging my room. Something a little more drastic. A little more permanent. And if I had done this in high school, I would have balled my eyes out. But right now, I feel pretty dang good. 

I cut my hair off. A seven inch difference. 

And I know, I know. What's the big deal? 

Well I was SUPER attached to my hair. In a way, it defined me. But I also felt like it hid me. And to be honest, a big reason I kept my hair long (for like a decade) was because everyone told me to NEVER cut it and how pretty it was, and how boys liked long hair better. Blah blah blah. So I kept it. 

And then this week I cut it. Soooo refreshing. It's just so nice to have a change and say goodbye to the "old you"--even though nothing has really changed. 

And Dean told me I looked like a Romney. I think he meant to say I looked political--which is fitting because this week I'm officially declaring my major in political science. 

Cheers to short hair and politics.