My grandmother Marilyn Lundgreen passed away on June 28, 2024, at the age of 93.  She had assured us ever since my grandfather passed away in 2018 that she was ready to move on to the next life, so though we will miss her, we know that she looked forward to joining her spouse in heaven. 

 I'm officially 37 weeks pregnant, and the time can't go by any slower. Although most SLPs in my district took the summer off before resuming work last week, I was one of three SLPs who worked the extended school year summer program. I'm not returning to work for the next school year, so I decided I might as well. But the summer program was only a few hours a week for four weeks of the summer, and then it was over.  So most of my summer consisted of moving to our new apartment, decorating and organizing it, visiting with family members who came in town here and there, and, well, being pregnant. It really does feel like an occupation sometimes, with how much effort it takes just to do simple things. My sleep schedule is WACK. Currently it's a vicious cycle of getting sleepy during the day, falling asleep for a few hours in the late afternoon/early evening, being WIRED at night and not being able to go to bed before 2 AM, then sleeping in till 10:30 or 11:30....and so it continues. Dallin's friends will hear my voice over Discord and be so confused how/why I'm still awake, since usually I go to bed hours before Dallin. But I figure why try to fix my sleep schedule when the baby will have me on an even wackier sleep-wake cycle? 

A few other things have happened this summer:

• My high school friend Hayden got married at an art museum, and it was absolutely lovely.  The next day Hayden toured the rest of us around the local aviary.
  

• I went paddle-boarding with my BYU friend Haylee. It was a very windy day and I was glad I didn't fall off the paddle board, because there is no way I could have climbed back on with my big belly! Afterwards we enjoyed ice cream and were able to talk and catch up on the years we have missed together.
• My cousin Paige had her baby, and now I am SO anxious for my baby to arrive. Some babies are born looking a little squishy from their delivery, but Paige's baby is so cute and perfect.
• Dallin's sister Olivia moved up here, and she has come over a few times.  The Urness parents also fly up a lot to work on rebuilding the house that burned down. Over two years later, it is so close to being done!
• We got a text that Dallin's brother Cooper fell off a ladder and dislocated and broke his wrist. This is within the same year that Cooper had appendicitis AND also tore his knee followed by a really complicated surgical recovery that ended in some level of sepsis.  When we found out about his wrist we were just like, you have to be joking.  

 

• Dallin and I went to a Tabernacle Choir concert with our friends Kenzie and Connor, who we haven't seen in ages since they moved. 

 

• My friend Chantel called me about a seriously injured kitty she found on her way to work, likely hit  by a car. He was calm and had no open wounds but had very limited mobility--we were concerned about paralysis. I picked up the kitty from her and took the poor little baby to my house to rest quietly on a soft blanket in my bathroom while called I around multiple rescues and organizations. I tried to assist him in getting water or eating softened food, but he was uninterested.  I was worried a shelter would euthanize without giving him a chance, but after waiting an hour for Best Friends to open at noon, I discovered they only had automated messages on the phone and it took way too long to figure out they don't even typically take animals from the public. It was the same for every other rescue, and I couldn't even get an actual human on the phone to tell me the best place to take him. This poor little guy needed treatment. But of course all the shelters in the valley closed at noon for a 1-2 hour lunch break.  Because of where my friend found the kitty and after being assured by their website that they try to avoid euthanasia whenever they can, I decided to take him to the shelter thirty minutes south of me. I gently placed the kitty in the carrier, trying hard not to jostle him too much even though he never acted in any way to indicate pain. The girl at the front desk of the shelter was very kind and gave me the intake number to call back in case he was able to be treated and adopted by me or a friend.  She said the vet would evaluate him and see what the best thing would be for him. I gave the intake number to Chantel and told her she was welcome to call.   I realized that it was likely not going to be a happy ending, and Chantel realized this too.  We hoped that the injuries weren't as severe as they appeared, and even then we'd both seen Instagram accounts of paralyzed cats going on to live happy lives...but we also knew that these outcomes were unlikely.  The vet ultimately decided to help this sweet little kitty pass over to the next life.  Chantel and I wish there is more we could have done for him, but at the end of the day we are grateful he didn't have to suffer a worse death, which is what would have happened had Chantel not found him. 
• 
  
  
  
  • My cats don't know it, but they are enjoying their last few weeks of the quiet. Arlo loves laying on my belly and Atticus too has been increasingly snuggly. It could be because he is no longer a kitten, or it could be all my pregnancy pheromones. People keep saying, "Aww, I bet your cats will be so cute with your baby," but honestly I'm just hoping they can tolerate him, haha. I'm aware that babies come with a lot of weird new sounds and smells! 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  We got a cat backpack since the cats are no longer allowed outdoors--the location of our new apartment is not safe for kitties!

  
  

  We got a automatic cat feeder so that the cats would stop waking me up in the mornings, but instead Atticus has learned that if he knocks the feeder over or even drags it around, he can get some extra kibbles out of this. Of course then it doesn't go off because it's unplugged, and he wakes me up anyway.

  
  
  
  
   
   

 I was 4 when I started begging my parents for a cat.  Specifically a white-furred princess cat, perhaps a Persian. That's when Jasmine came into the picture.  Jasmine (named after the Disney princess) was a rag doll kitten with silky white and gray fur. She entered the family before 3 of the 6 kids were even born, and moved with us from Massachusetts to Arizona. She is featured in many-a-childhood drawing of mine.

 I think the reason I'm such a cat person to this day is because Jasmine was a constant in my life.  Growing up in a family that bred show dogs, I quickly learned to become detached from the dogs and puppies in our home. We only ever had one cat, Jasmine, and she was always there (and the dogs knew she was boss).  She accidentally became an indoor-outdoor cat when my family moved to Arizona, because once she got a taste of the outdoors there was no going back. In spite of her thick coat, she loved to bask in the sun in our family's front yard and to explore the neighborhood. She was loving, but she had a quirky habit of nipping your elbows or back when you were on the computer or playing piano. She drank her water out of a Harkins Movie Theater cup that was always left in the bathtub for her.  She would jump into bed with us kids for no more than 45 minutes before wanting to be let out of the room.

Jasmine grew more affectionate with age. Even in her last months, she would still jump up on the couch to sit next to you, and she purred when petted.  She loved to be bundled up and carried around like a baby in a swaddle, although she would not have liked such a thing when she was younger.  In spite of her age and in spite of being outdoors so much of her life, she only ever went to the vet when she was a kitten.  Her increasing age meant wet food, caloric supplements, and getting shaved at home a few times a year since she could no longer groom herself,  but she generally was healthy for most her life.  

During her last week, several of the family members were home for Christmas. We all got to spend time with her and tended to her during moments we thought would be her last. Even the dogs could sense that she was declining.   She had a last rally during the last few days in which she was more energetic than we'd seen her in years. I let her outside a few times for some beloved sunshine and was shocked when she did loops around the backyard and even hiked down the block. 

She passed in the presence of my mom and sister after the rest of us had returned to our respective homes. Of course we were sad, but we were at peace knowing that she had a good, long life and were grateful for the loving companionship she gave us!

Flowers that died in the fire:

It's been three months now since I accidentally burned my house down, and I can confidently say that I am doing significantly better than I was.  

The thing is, though, I was already clinically depressed before that happened and had been denied from receiving services through the university counseling center due to my history of anorexia.  I required "specialized services," but the only actually specialized services I could find outside of the university, covered by my student health insurance, had a wait list several months long. Being me, I didn't sign up for the wait list and cut off contact with my case manager, who couldn't understand that someone outside the university counseling center who "specialized" in 20 things--with eating disorders being one of them--was not truly an eating disorders specialist.  I was told when I was first diagnosed with anorexia that I am stubborn with a will of steel, and I guess that hasn't changed. It's not a good thing, so I'm not bragging about it.  I guess I'm just baffled that a progressive university wouldn't offer services for their students with eating disorders, because heaven knows eating disorders run rampant among this age group.

Fires don't help depression, and depression doesn't help healing from the psychological "burns." I've stopped having nightmares about fire finally, but people can't talk about their pet fish without me biting back tears.  Looking through my phone photos or old blog posts, something that would usually be sweet, is now bitter as I remember the house I burned and the beautiful clothes I will never wear again.  Hell, going through the candle aisle at TJ Maxx or having a campfire makes my mind flicker back to the fire and think about what could happen if I dared tempt fate again by striking an innocent match.  I love my new home, and I am beyond grateful that my husband, roommates, and cat are safe, and usually if I avoid those triggers that bring back the memories, I don't feel residual trauma. And, well, as long as I triple check that I turned the stove and oven off or didn't put the fork in my bowl in the microwave or leave the curling iron plugged in, then I don't fear starting another fire.  The suckiest thing is being paranoid every time I leave the house that my upstairs neighbors will start a fire while I'm gone and that my cat will be trapped. I kid you not, this thought goes through my head every time I shut the door.

I'm doing pretty good in school, but I find myself forgetting meetings or not meeting as high of a standard as I should. Mostly I'm just worn out, but every three weeks or so the depression sucks me back in.  I had written this rant of a poem a few weeks back to describe the feelings I thought no one else could understand:

 i feel like im drowning in a vast ocean. my body is pulled in two directions, by the current and by the boat that pulls me by a rope, and in the struggle i am choking on the waters, unable to come up for air. more often than i want i wish that i could just cut my life vest,  sink into the dark depths and succumb.  

I promise that I am not posting that as a cry for help now, it is just me trying to explain the rollercoaster of emotions I have going on for far too long. My meds have stabilized, so I don't feel that dark anymore. Really, I'm pretty good 80% of the time. But that doesn't mean I didn't burst into tears today during a meeting I showed up to 15 minutes late because I forgot about it. 

I don't have a tidy way to wrap this up. I know I might get calls from people worried about me.  Maybe it's unorthodox to be this straightforward in public.  It's just honesty.

I found a nearly finished draft from September 21, 2020. I never published it because I felt it was too negative, and shortly after writing it I was able to bounce out of these feelings for a little bit. For a couple of months there I thought I was recovered. OK, yeah, I thought, I can still be KINDA weird about food, but I definitely don't have an eating disorder anymore! Heck, I thought my depression was a thing of the past too. Then in February I found it again and added several paragraphs more of thought. About 60 seconds after publishing it, I freaked out and unpublished it. Do I dare be this vulnerable? Do I dare make the ones who love me worry about my well-being? 

 

It's been over a year since I first heard about the infamous coronavirus. In a few weeks it will be the anniversary of the day I found out my college education was going online, my graduation was cancelled, and church gatherings were going to be limited. This was less than 24 hours before my BYU grad school interview, and needless to say I was NOT in the proper state of mind for that interview, and I did NOT do well. There were people that I sat next to in class that I never saw in person ever again. I mean, we knew that was coming--we were graduating at the end of April, but when the pandemic shut things down we never had the change to say goodbye. 

It's been almost a year.  At the time, with so much fear and uncertainty, I was at peace with giving up my social life for the sake of the greater good. But now...I am so lonely. A year is a long time to go to be by yourself most of the time. One plus side of the pandemic is that my husband and I are both at home almost 24/7, and it's been a blessing to be around him so much. But he has a lot of responsibilities on his computer -- working not quite full time for an online startup company while also being a full-time student in his last semester. So really, I'm alone most of the time. It's not like my days pre-Covid when my friends and I would sit together in class, walk together between class, and meet up together to study or hang out after class and over the weekends. Now, everything is over video chat. Occasionally our professors will have "break-out rooms" where groups of 2-5 classmates can discuss some study questions, and my cohort frequently texts each other in a group chat. But it's not the same as real live human interaction. I haven't had the opportunity to make good friends at my new school like I did at BYU. I meet up with my cousin and with other friends here and there, but it's so different now that seeing people outside of my household is considered an anomaly. 

I guess I had just hoped that being vaccinated would change things somehow. But even though I got vaccinated, nothing has changed.  My school is 100% online, you can't go anywhere without a mask, and everyone is still being asked to "stay 6 feet apart"and otherwise socially distance. 

I shouldn't complain, because I am healthy. I got Covid and I recovered. My loved ones have been safe.  But I think I am allowed to say that I am lonely, and I am sad. 

 Today was my last day working at the treatment facility because I am starting grad school. I told them in my interview that I could only work through the summer, but still I dreaded today. 

I was working with the same "cottage" of 10-16 girls for most of the time I worked there, but ever since I came back to work after having corona, I was instead place on the quarantine cottage with patients who contracted the virus. Because of that, I didn't have the chance to give my other cottage a heads up about quitting. When I went to tell them goodbye, they had already heard the news, and most of them hugged me and didn't want to let go. Two of the girls, however, were  very bitter. These are girls that I feel especially bonded to, girls that have been in the facility for a very, very long time. One of them refused to look at me.  "It's just how it always is," she muttered.

I sobbed on the way home.  What if, by leaving, I undid any of the good I might have done for them this summer? Have I just reinforced the abandonment theme in their lives?  I feel racked with guilt.

You see, the theme on Instagram lately has been about ending human trafficking and pedophilia.  These girls that I work with have been through hell and back--most of them sexually abused, many by their own family members. These girls have lived through neglect, drug abuse, physical abuse, desperate self harming and suicide attempts. 

And yet I abandon them. 

All these girls at the facility have changed my life.  I didn't realize how peachy my life was until I met them and saw their resilience. I hope that as they one day discharge and remember that they are worth more than the hellish backgrounds they come from. They are cared for, and I am one of the people who cares. 

I just wish it wasn't against privacy laws to keep in touch.

     A few days ago, a black man named George Floyd was killed in Minneapolis after a white police officer kneeled on his neck for eight minutes. Despite pleading "I can't breathe," and bystanders trying to intervene after he stopped responding, the officer would not release the restraint. Floyd's crime? A counterfeit $20 bill.
     Now, the entire world has erupted in angry response.  First, it was peaceful protests, but then it evolved into violent riots that forced the National Guard to get involved.  In Minneapolis, five-story buildings burned. In SLC, a cop car was flipped over and burned and a man with a bow was shooting arrows in the open before other people knocked him over with their skateboards.  Targets nationwide closed their doors after a looting, and countless other businesses--big and small--have suffered smashed windows, theft and other devastation.  My dad's friend is sleeping in his dental office because the business next door was vandalized. In Washington D.C., fifty Secret Service agents were injured in riots that sent President Trump to his bunker, flags were desecrated, and St. John's church was reduced to ashes. People have rammed their cars into police officers, putting one in critical condition, and in another city a journalist went blind in one eye from a rubber bullet fired by officers trying to control the crowds. Many cities and even whole states, including Arizona, have issued 8:00 curfews.
     Last night the Orem PD sent out this message:

I didn't feel it, but it woke all my friends up.

     The title was originally lighthearted, but no one is feeling that way anymore. At first, it all seemed like a joke, But now I think we're all just feeling devastated.  At first, we made fun of the world-wide panic, but now we realize that this is actually very serious.  I went to bed with a stress headache and woke up with it still here. Yesterday I couldn't stop myself from crying because I am just...sad.
     Am I worried I am going to die? Absolutely not. But do I worry about millions of people in the United States alone who are elderly or have other underlying health conditions that put them at risk? Yes.  I have friends who over the years have been hospitalized multiple times with pneumonia because of asthma, and I fear that their damaged lungs could not handle this. I worry for my friends who live and work and a funeral home.  They are the ones responsible for picking up bodies of the deceased, and it makes me sick to think about what would happen if we had an outbreak in the area.
    As for myself, "statistics" vary very very widely in regards to what happens to the young and healthy, but I wonder about this mystery breathing difficulty that has plagued me for the past year...{the doctor is assuming it is exercise-induced asthma because the inhaler works}...and I know that I was hospitalized for just having bronchitis on my mission.
    I worry for medical staff, who already in California are working for days on end and have so many patients that the medical staff are no longer allowed to use the breathing masks to help mitigate the risk of getting COVID19. They have to wear surgical masks instead because the other masks are reserved for patients. In Italy, which was the hardest hit outside of China, frantic and exhausted doctors have resorted to not treating anyone over age 80, because they do not have enough ventilators for everyone. What will happen if we too run out of beds?  Analysts have predicted that the United States will start to look like Italy if we don't slow the spread now.
    Luckily, just about every leader has stepped up to slow the spread of the coronavirus.  Much international travel has been banned; people must not meet in groups of more than ten which means all public gatherings are cancelled; countless stores have closed; dine-in is banned; grocery stores have an hour for senior citizens only; pretty much all schools that I know of are closed {universities went online, K-12 are just on pause}.
    While these safety pre-cautions are all very smart and are meant to protect vulnerable people from getting sick and prevent people who aren't as careful from spreading the illness... It's affected everyone's lives. I only know one person with the coronavirus {she went on a trip to London and contracted it there}, but EVERYONE I know across the world is "socially distancing." Graduations, concerts, sports {including Dallin's volleyball season} and other events and activities have been cancelled. Travel plans are completely haunted.  Missionaries from many countries across the world are being sent home.  An elder from my home ward was supposed to serve in the Philippines until July, but since he only has a few months left, he won't be able to go back out once the craziness ends. Just like that, his mission is over.
     I'm anxious to see what will happen to the economy.  I can only imagine the stress being a business owner right now as people isolate and stop going out and spending money, either by choice or not.  I am so lucky to have two jobs with the school that allow me to work online; a lot of people are struggling to pay the bills because they cannot work when their place of employment is shut down.

    That being said, there is still much to be grateful for. So far, my loved ones and I are healthy. And I haven't had this much time with Dallin probably since we got married. This virus is forcing everyone to slow down and really enjoy the little things.

• I became extremely depressed to the point where I dreaded every day and felt guilty about everything {not just food, but how I was a "failure" as a student, sister, girlfriend, daughter}. 
• I had no energy.
• My heart rate dropped under normal BPM.
• My hair started falling out.
• When I started recovering again, my body acted as if it had been injured, which it had.  For a month of two, my stomach and limbs swelled up with edema as my body brought in fluids and white blood cells to heal my damaged organs and muscles. I had little fat to begin with, so pretty soon after I started losing weight my body turning on itself as an energy source.
• Trying to eat semi-normal quantities of foods again caused heartburn and discomfort because my damaged digestive track wasn't quite sure how to process normally anymore. 

 I am not sucking in, holding my breath, flexing, or standing in any way to stretch myself taller or thinner. The frustrating thing is that I LOVE my stomach at this weight...but I hit 100 lbs when I was a tiny little cheerleader my freshman year of high school! I know that I was still a child when I hit that weight, and yet 100 lbs is the weight I was OBSESSED with from then on. I never, ever wanted to gain more weight than that, and it was when I started gaining weight my freshman year of college and on my mission that all I could think about was losing the weight again.  I hated my body when I got up to my max of 114 lbs, thinking that I was chubby and had no self control, never stopping to think that maybe an adult body was supposed to be different than a child body.

     It's not like Dallin and I always had this perfect relationship.  We rarely ever got in disagreements,  but it was also a little nerve-racking to think about the future when we knew we were high school sweethearts and therefore hadn't dated around / "gotten as much experience" as much as people said we should.  And like all couples, there are always going to be little issues here and there.

     In my case, it didn't help that I had depression and anxiety and didn't realize the full effect it was having on me.  Sometimes, like when we were in San Francisco, I took it out on him.  Often though, like on Pi Day when he had arranged a fun and elaborate pie- and circle-themed datenight, I tried so so desperately to just feel happy. Dates like that were fun-- and the sad and painful feelings would go away for a little bit, but I felt nothing more than numbness. It was the very night of our Pi Day date that we pulled over on a dark street overlooking Provo, and Dallin finally said, "I feel like I'm not making you happy."
     That statement broke my heart.  Immediately I jumped up to defend him.  "Dallin, I promise, it's not you!" I said, and finally, slowly, attempted to explain for only the second time to anyone in 4.5 years, something that was really wrong inside of me.  I opened up a little bit.  Dallin, carefully, pressed further.  We both were left sobbing. Dallin finally expressed, "Katie, I think you have a problem with eating.  I think that might have something to do with this."
     I was in denial about the eating thing, but I was very embarrassed and ashamed of what I had shared with him.  Scared that he would feel trapped, that he would feel like he was was stuck dating this out-of-control girl who he couldn't leave if he wanted because I was too emotionally unstable, I tried to offer him a way out.  Since he had to leave the next morning for spring break in Arizona, I told him that we wouldn't talk for a week, and that he could do WHATEVER he wanted {including go out with other girls} for that time.
    Looking back, I realize that was my Starved Brain talking {it's actually a thing}.  Of course Dallin wasn't going to leave me and date around just days after I had admitted some very vulnerable things to him.  It probably scared the living freak out of him that I suddenly didn't want to talk.  He respected that wish for a little bit, but he called me not longer after he had left Utah to make sure that I was OK. I was happy to hear his voice. Still, even though I had brought this upon myself, it was a very long week with him away.  I was relieved to see him again and to realize that none of his feelings for me had changed during the ten days that I had given him to think through the situation-- that he was dating a girl who was out of her freaking mind.  

     At the same time though, Dallin wasted no time to get me help.  Since I refused to do anything myself, he {in his loving wisdom, bless his soul} called BYU counseling against my will and literally walked me to my emergency session. After my first-ever session with a therapist ended, Dallin was waiting on the couches and went with me to the BYU store to bye himself a snack.  He split the banana in half and tried to offer it to me, but I wouldn't take it. 
     "I already had lunch," I replied defensively.
     He cocked his head, knowing without a word that my "lunch" couldn't even count as a meager snack.  "Did you tell the therapist about the eating thing?"  
      "Dal," I protested.  "No, I told him about the other stuff. He said I have depression.  Look, I'm just trying to deal with one thing at a time here."
       "Gosh dang it Kate, I'm going to march you right back in there!"  He tugged at my hand, but I planted my feet. 
     

     That was in March.  In April, my weight dropped to its lowest as I prepared for finals.  I was no longer in denial that I had a problem with eating, but I didn't want to do anything about it because honestly I liked not eating, in that sick and twisted way.  Although I pretended to be freaked out by it, I was admittedly proud of myself for "finally" getting my weight down into the 80's.  Dallin, on the other hand, was actively seeking ways to help me.  He figured out my "safe" foods {trail mix and protein smoothies} and offered them to me almost every time I came to his house.  Heaven knows I needed any calories I was wouldn't blatantly refuse. He talked with his friend Nicole, who herself had dealt with anorexia as a teenager and had talked about her symptoms and experiences with all of his roommates a few months prior.  Dallin had picked up on some of the symptoms that I had in common with Nicole-- tearing my food with my fingers and eating it slowly...constantly baking and giving all the food I made away... 
     One day, Dallin arranged for Nicole and I to talk privately in a bedroom.  
     "I know you won't want to listen to me because you think I'm fat now." When I tried to shake my head, she called my bluff. "Trust me, I used to think exactly the same way."  
     She told me that now, her weight didn't matter as much as being healthy and being able to enjoy a brownie with her friends without stressing about it. "Katie, have you thought about what it would be like to be happy again?"  
     I honestly didn't think that was possible.  Nicole shared some very personal experiences with me, and eventually I had to sit down on the floor. 
     "You're lightheaded," she noticed, and just when I started to think that it was weird because I had eaten dinner, she added, "you haven't eaten enough." 
     Nicole was kind but blunt with me. As she talked about the possibility of getting checked into an in-patient therapy, I was mortified.  "I don't want my parents paying for my therapy!" I defended.  
     She shook her head. "Either your parents pay for your help, or they pay for your funeral.  It's that simple." 
     The statement hit me like a ton of bricks, and tears rolled down my cheeks as I realized that I was so so sick and had no idea how to change something that I didn't even want to change. I was so depressed that it made no sense for me to make choices based off of my own future well-being, because I didn't really care about my future anymore.  Nicole knew that. She'd been there.  
     "I'm here for you," she said gently.  "I know you don't want a hug, because people like us don't like touch--" {that was mostly an emotional truth, but recently I had become so physically fragile that when my boyfriend and I kissed, it felt unnaturally like I might just break} "--but I'm here for you.  And you have to promise me something.  What do you want to name your first daughter?"  
     "Vienna," I answered, eyeing her warily.  
     "The next time you have a cruel thought about yourself-- you try to tell yourself that you aren't beautiful, or that you aren't worth it-- I want you to replace your own name with Vienna's."
     "I could never say something like that to her!"
     "Exactly."




   It's not like Dallin and I always had this perfect relationship.  In September, we broke up, too anxious about the future to be able to stick together.  I relapsed a bit, yet in that entire month and all the nights I couldn't sleep, I couldn't help but think about how the way Dallin had dealt with me and my trials was such a reflection of how great a father he would be to his future daughters.  In a world where everyone is flaunting something for money -- a tiny waist for a swimsuit brand, a bubble butt for a YouTube workout channel, a lowcal entree for a trendy diet-- I realized how valuable it was that Dallin had always seen through the bulls**t that the world pushes on women.  He had always emphasized my health above ALL ELSE, and yet all the while {no matter what I weighed} always made me feel like the most beautiful girl on the planet.  When I really thought we were broken up for good, I wondered if I would ever find another guy that treated me like that.
     When he came back a month later, that was one of the reasons that I knew just as strongly as he that I wanted us to be together.  When we got engaged three months after that, that was one of the reasons I was able to shout YES so emphatically. He had always made me feel worth it. He never demeaned me or made me feel like a crazy person despite all the mental ups and downs that resulted from me starving my own brain tissue. He saw my potential and talked about it, like I was meant to be a strong and composed mother-figure somewhere down the road, I just had to figure myself out first.   

     Now, I am doing leaps and bounds better.  Something clicked after I had a mild relapse over Christmas break, and now for whatever reason I have suddenly felt completely motivated to take care of myself and my body, no matter how much food and rest it takes.  I tell myself that my eating disorder is in the past, and while that may be an illusion, it's been incredibly empowering to to put that label behind me and really focus on feeding my needs.  Dallin always keeps a close eye on me, and he is more aware of my unhealthy thoughts or decisions that I am.  He will always bring me an extra granola bar or stop what he's doing to make me an egg because he knows I'm often too hesitant to get myself another snack after a meal, even when my stomach is grumbling.  He is ALWAYS positive regarding my body, but he expresses excitement at me continuing to gain weight for my health's sake...and honestly because what man doesn't love a little more womanly shape! 

     One of my biggest fears is not being able to set a good example for Vienna and my other future daughters, and sending them the wrong message about their relationship with food and their body.  Heaven forbid they ever go down the path I took, but regardless of what trials or struggles they may face, I hope they can have people in their lives like Dallin and Nicole who truly make them feel like they deserve every ounce of health, happiness, and self-love. 

Buying oranges at the antique general store.

 Now that we're approaching on our official fourth dating anniversary, Dallin and I have gotten much closer with each others' families, and I am very grateful at how inviting they have been.   Along with festive activities, eating crepes and Christmas shopping,  I was also invited to attend a lunch interview.  His stepmom is one of the most creative, fun and festive people I have ever met, which has made it a blast to spend time there!
 My Grandpa Paul and Nana Hanny drove in town from Texas.  My mom's dad still remains #1 on my list of most intelligent people I know.  The first time meeting Dallin, they started talking about old Greek battles. 
We continue praying for my Grandpa Lundgreen, who in this last month has started suffering with dementia.  My dad has been so kind and patient, giving him his full attention,  going along with his stories and offering to do whatever he has the means to do, without treating him with any less dignity.  Dementia is scary, because it takes away rational thoughts and creates fantasies that are painfully real for my grandpa.  So if my grandpa insists that he is in desperate need of something, even if it's something my dad bought him the day before, my dad will drop what he is doing to again take my grandpa to the store in order to soothe his worries. 

Decorating gingerbread houses at the Urness home.

Decorating sugar cookies at my home. My sister couldn't eat the cookies because she is avoiding gluten, but she was by far the best decorator.

Funniest comment of the night: when 14-year-old Meg commented on how she was excited to get Victoria's Secret PJs, 22-year-old Kendall reminded her that when we were her age, we probably all got PJs from the Children's Place.