Rachel

Rachel calls herself funny, easygoing, indecisive, happy, passionate. She is single and shares a home with her best friend: it is like living with a sister. Her degree is in exercise science; her current job, she notes, has nothing to do with my college degree, but it is enjoyable at the moment. In her free time she leads communications for a community fundraising walk against cancer. She is Jewish, learned kindness and equality from her grandparents, and calls her father probably the jolliest person you will meet besides Santa.

She tried to draw her lifeline as a graph, then wrote it out. Her first college reached a point where she had no more classes to take but could not get into the program she wanted, and she cried in my club advisor's office. She took time off and started again somewhere else. That same year an uncle she loved died after six months with pancreatic cancer; she remembers him as an advocate for inclusion and writes, I miss him a lot, but his love lives on through us. In 2016 she finally was able to walk across the stage. In 2019 she began anxiety medication, a moment she holds both ways: Negative in a sense of I had gotten so bad that I needed medication intervention. Positive because now there was an explanation.

Her anxiety is part of ordinary life. She takes medication at night, and on bad days may stay in bed; her close friends know her triggers. She has a mantra: I am okay, (the stressor) is going to be okay, nothing right now is going to be detrimental. breathe. She does not stress eat. Instead, I cry, and before she understood her attacks, it would feel like the emotion was leaving my body. Her 2 a.m. person is her mom: She will always talk me down and out of a panic attack. Seems like sometimes she knows me better then I know myself. Her superpower, which she credits to her parents and grandparents, is Positivity and optimistic.

Her food words are picky, saucy, snacky, caffeinated, and sweet. Her grandparents ran a Jewish delicatessen, and at about six she told her grandfather that a plain corned beef sandwich wasn’t the good stuff. Her own dish is matzo ball soup: all my friends are always wanting it, and it feels homey and warm. Her day is iced coffee, fast food at lunch, and steak tacos or chicken parmesan at night, while her roommate cooks lighter versions of classic meals. She knows nutrition from her studies and is frank about the gap: I know I am not fueling my body to the best of my abilities right now, partly because she has been living paycheck to paycheck. One reading is that what she lacks is not knowledge, which she has, but money and time.

On Day 5 she wants to eat more vegetables and enjoy a lighter dinner, But I just cant get over lettuce. She would like A dietician to be able to make a meal plan specific to my needs, and, with a laugh, a really nice big money allowance for food. She is ready to find my partner in life and moving into the next life stage of being a mom, and on her vision board I forgot I put a family on there that is a hope for my future.

Her letter, which she says she meant to finish, is one hopeful sentence: I am so proud that you realized once you took the first steps, it would get easier!