Friends gather around a table at a local bar. Each are there to wind down from another long day. With each sip and bite, they create distance between themselves and the demands of their shared office, their often exhausting profession. The conversation starts the way it always does. One-by-one telling a story about the drama of their day, laughing at the jokes only people in their job can understand, and then feeling relief when all can commiserate with the daily annoyances. Eventually, the alcohol starts to set in, the fried food silences the stress, and the stories move from venting to divulging. This is the part of the evening where these friends begin to bond over something other than work, in fact, over everything but work. After all, lately their best stories exist in their personal lives. So, they begin to share their moments of embarrassment, invited recklessness, transition, excitement, and sheer abandon. Stories of the secrets of their past, one and more night stands, dating, and the spectrum that exists between the thrill of singlehood and true commitment. For me, this is when that voice in my head starts to speak up.

I am not a stranger to these situations or conversations. I am often the one who can make a table laugh, and am never shy about pointing out the hilarity in the simplest thing. But, there tends to be a point in the conversation when I no longer have a story to contribute, and that usually occurs about the time we discuss putting ourselves out there.

Dating. It is one of life’s true tests. It’s one of the arenas where we see whether all our training to become a certain person proves successful. This arena implies certain expectations and we all fall victim to the demand. We wear what we can to hide the flaws and accentuate the flawless. We strive to display our endearing qualities while storing away our specific kind of crazy. And, we decide where we are going to set the bar and who we are going to allow to clear it based on what we perceive to be our own self worth. This is where we must be brave. We expose ourselves figuratively and often literally, and allow another to determine what is likable and what is not. We face rejection head on, and if we collide, we face the terrorizing consequences. The bravest know how to deflect this terror. They can avoid the immediate urge to cover themselves, leave the arena, and never enter again. Others deploy various tactics to self protect. And there are some who give up entirely.

It’s around a table in a bar with a bunch of friends that one often gets to hear how others handle themselves in this arena. And it’s after the sips of beer and bites of fried food that some may begin to reflect on their own skills in this particular battle. So, what happens when you are the one reflecting, and when that reflection reveals the fact that you aren’t in the arena?

I don’t think it’s uncommon to remove yourself from various arenas in life when you lose faith that you can survive in them. I think it’s natural. We are built to survive, and sometimes that survival mechanism effects removing ourselves from threatening situations. However, if we allow this belief that we cannot survive to always consume the possibility that we can, we are left with removing ourselves not only from the bad, but from all the good. We are left with living life as a spectator, often falling silent when the conversation turns to stories of glorious battles and well-worth-it wounds. We are left without stories to share.

Theodore Roosevelt apparently figured this out long ago and employed people to live in the arena. His famous “man in the arena” quote, although surely meant for greater battles than simple dating, is one that comes to mind when I’m faced with the daunting decision about where to stand.

It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiams, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.

This quote gives the visual of a true gladiator, one who is deserving of respect and awe instead of criticism and judgment. Is the dating arena this grandiose? I don’t know. But, I do think there is something to be said about putting oneself out there. There is something to respect about the decision to live life available. Or, just the bravery necessary to allow possibilities, even if some might sting.

I don’t know what it will take to get myself back in the arena, but I do know I’m going to figure it out. Because I want the dust on my face. I want to know great enthusiams and great devotions. I want to spend myself in a worthy cause. And, if I fail, I want to fail daring greatly at all things.

For those who are with me, let us find a way back into all the arenas of life. For, this is where we earn our battle wounds and the stories that follow. This is where we experience excitement and abandon. This is where we feel the rush of living life. And living in this spot will ensure that silence never befalls a night around a table with friends.

Have you ever felt like you were living in a box? A box that defined what you were allowed to do. A box that determined what you could like, wish for, expect. A box that dictated how you could act, whether you could be loud or quiet, confident, smart. A box that told you whether you could feel beautiful and whether you could expect to be loved. A box that said what you could wear, decided whether you were someone who knew how to have fun, and told you whether or not you were capable of doing certain things. For the longest time, I lived in a box, until finally the box became too small and I had to break out to avoid suffocating.

If I had to draw a visual representation of what my life used to be like, I would write a bunch of words to represent all the amazing things I had: family, friends, laughter, an education, intelligence, creativity, a kind heart, dreams, the cutest kitty that ever was, and a lot going for me. Around all of these words would be a box made up of a very thick black line, and written inside of that black line would be phrases like: weight problem, poor self-image, pain, loneliness, “I don’t know who I am,” and “I don’t know how to love myself.” On the outside of that box, I would want to write all of the things that I hoped for, but I wouldn’t be able to. So, in reality, the outside of that box would remain blank white paper, and that nothingness would represent my hopelessness. The blank white paper would be the perfect visual representation of the fact that I didn’t know how to really want or hope for anything, because I felt like I was never going to have anything more.

The problem is that there is only so much that can fit inside a box. So, for me, the more I was able to achieve, the more suffocated I felt. It was almost as if even the good things became bad because they took up space that I desperately needed. And because I didn’t know how to break out of the box, I started to push things away. Eventually, I felt very limited. I only had what I could fit into this little box, and the physical barrier between me and the rest of the world prevented me from sharing all of the beautiful things I had, and from seeing all the brilliance that was to come. I was angry. I didn’t want to be in a box anymore. I was mad at the people who put me in one in the first place, and eventually realized the only person to be mad at was myself. I put myself there, and I let others keep me there.

For the longest time, all I was was overweight. Others might have seen more, but, to me, I was just a person living inside of a tiny box that was sealed by her weight problem. It made me feel like I was only allowed to be a certain way. It made me feel like I was only capable of doing certain things. It made me think that I wasn’t worth all of the things I wanted in life, that I’d never truly be seen, loved or understood, that I wouldn’t get to travel and explore the world, that I probably wouldn’t have a family of my own, get the fairy tale wedding, or ever be genuinely happy. I felt like others limited me, too. In my head, people saw a lot of great things about me despite my weight, never realizing that my weight was a part of me. It left me feeling unacceptable as a whole. It made me feel that I was never going to be good enough or deserving just as I was, and of course, the unrealistic and superficial societal expectations nowadays didn’t help anything.

But, none of this was actually true. It was just the world I let exist in my life because I didn’t know how to see outside of my box. From my perspective, my weight quite literally sealed my fate, until one day I realized we are not meant to live in boxes. We are not meant to be defined by the problems or limitations we have in life. We are not the sum of our struggles. We are adaptive creatures who can rise above and live life loud. The struggles are there to help us become our best, not stifle all we can be. So, whatever it is that is sealing your box closed, keeping you from sharing all of the things you have achieved and acquired, and preventing you from seeing all that you are capable of, break through it. My struggle with weight can no longer trap me inside of a box unless I let it. Likewise, you will not exist in the confines of your box unless you let your struggle keep you there.

If I drew my life now, the image would look very different. I would be standing in wide-open space. There would be recently-cut green grass under my feet that goes for miles, and a clear blue sky above me. And I would be writing words and phrases to express all of the amazing things I have, wonderful experiences that got me here, and then all of the things I am so excited for. I would write everywhere- almost as if the world was a dry-erase board. Memories of traveling to soccer games with my dad, teaching my brother how to treat women, laughing attacks with my sister, the ways my mom became my best friend- all of these would stand in the grass. In the air would be all the places I’m going to travel, relationships that have come and gone but taught me something about myself, the goals I’ve achieved, and what I’m capable of. And the sky? It would be full of all of the surprises that exist outside of the box. The support system I now have that loves exactly who I am, the confidence I feel comfortable exuding, the phrase “I am absolutely stunning inside and out,” a drawing of my future family, hearts, sound-bytes of aha moments, and pictures of aging happiness. There would be the feeling of growth, acceptance, and fulfillment. Oh, and I would write the word “ice skating,” because, yes, I can do that now. In my new world, there is no box around me, and no room for anybody who tries to put one there. I exist freely, I am happy, and, guess what, I am even still overweight. And I love ALL of me.

So, what does your drawing look like? Are you in a box? What keeps you there? And what are you going to do about it?