#haleydrewthis

[thinfatfit]

instagram.com/haleydrewthis

[the-pursuit-of-happ-y-ness]

from Instagram: haleydrewthis

GIVE YOUR ATTENTION TO YOUR DREAMS INSTEAD OF FEARS AND INSECURITIES. LET YOUR DREAMS GROW, WATER THEM, NOURISH THEM! YOU'LL ACHIEVE EVERYTHING YOU'VE EVER WANTED.

[onthequestforadecentusername]

[nobodylivingknows]

Why doesn't gratitude journaling work for some people?

If you're like me you are a. pedantic about the word gratitude and/or b. not interested in doing something quite so wholesome as 'gratitude journaling.'

I never meshed with the 'write 5 things you're grateful for' prompt, especially because the examples were all like 'a safe house, clean water to drink, good friends, etc'. It always felt like the wrong angle - I'm happy to have those things, but I don't think I should have to feel grateful for them - that implies that they're not necessities, things everyone deserves to have. They're also so generic and come off a bit froufrou.

That's when I saw this art from @haleydrewthis and it helped me shift to a better prompt for actually useful positive appreciation of things in my journal.

The key difference is the prompt becomes "what's something that made my life better today?" - something that elevated it from just an average day, or something that you felt special appreciation for. "A safe house" can become "relishing my cozy sheets in the cold." "Clean water to drink" -> "trying a new tea I was excited for." "Good friends" -> "texting A for hours dying laughing about X meme". It makes it personal, and helps you see how your life is enriched by things around you if you stop to notice them.

It's also not as repetitive, and the bar is low - you can almost always identify something that made your day slightly better without ignoring the bad parts or trying to gloss over it all. It's about the practice of appreciation, which circles back to what gratitude journaling is trying to do in the first place!

[whatwedointhedarkness]

Artist: @HaleyDrewThis

[lemonbombsfjl]

[haleyheadswest-blog]

Chicagooooo (8/26/2017 - 8/27/2017) I love Chicago. I love the way it all glitters: the water and the skyscrapers and the cars and the people. I was here last in 2014 with one of dearest friends from college. We spent our three day trip drinking blue moons in dark comedy clubs and taking distorted selfies in the side of the bean. I texted her as my mom and I drove down Lakeshore Drive: I’m in our city without you :( But it’s not just our city. It’s home to so much—deep dish pizza, the Bears, Lincoln Park (where we grabbed sashimi before heading to our destination), and a bulk of my mom’s friends from her alma mater, Indiana University. That’s how we ended up in La Grange, a Chicago suburb that could easily have been the set for an HBO dramedy about the intertwining lives of four families with seemingly perfect lives that, as the season wears on, are revealed to be peppered with dark secrets…I digress. In this instance, La Grange is home to two college friends: Jules and Jane (yes, all of my mom’s friends have names that start with J. This coincidence is not beyond us). Both have adorable families and furry pets and a love for retelling the past—my mother’s ridiculous wedding, for example: “the bartender had to cut us off,” they both laughed over mixed drinks—Deep Eddy’s Grapefruit vodka and grapefruit La Croix and a splash of orange juice, in case you were wondering. I love watching my mother and her friends. Jules, her college roommate, and Jane, her postgrad roommate, both knew my mom when she was my age—something I often forget she ever was. They talk about old friends, about when my mom began dating my dad, and my favorite: the “makeout chair.” I sit mostly in silence, watching them laugh, remember, and it’s warm, wonderful. Maybe my mom and I have been out of the loop for a bit, but when we had arrived to La Grange in the first place, Jules’ husband Steve greeted my mom and I with big hugs and, with poorly hidden excitement, said, “I bought the fight!” He, of course, was referring to the overhyped boxing match between Mayweather and McGregor, but my mom and I were not aware this was a scheduled event. “There’s a fight tonight?” I said. “Starts at eleven!” And suddenly, an event I knew nothing about became the centerpoint of my time in Chicago. The fight, I learned, cost $99, and Steve was one of the few neighbors who had shelled out the big bucks to watch packed punches and reddened skin in HD. Their living room was soon crowded with suburban male testosterone. I fit in perfectly in my overalls and pained expression every time Mayweather’s glove met McGregor’s cheek. Thank god for Deep Eddy’s Grapefruit vodka for making the blow a little more tolerable. The next morning, we sat at Jules’ kitchen table looking at her wedding album. I laughed at a picture of my mother, two steps down from Jules in a cerulean blue dress with shoes to match. “Those were in style,” she said defensively. “Aw, and there’s Marty. Does he still live around the corner?” “He does,” Jules said. “Let’s see if he’s up!” He was, and that was how the tail-end of our time in La Grange was spent in the most incredible house I’ve ever set foot in—and no, it’s not because of the high ceilings or dance studio or the handcrafted furniture. It was because of the birds. It started off simply enough: a parrot balancing on a golden ring in the family room. Marty, who was another dear IU alum, showed us how the parrot would kiss him and promptly fart loudly right after. “Every time!” Marty was cackling. “Let’s go outside. The chickens!” Three adorable chickens emerged from the shrubs near his back door, pecking at the worms and cornmeal in Marty’s outstretched hand. And then, we rounded the corner to a square pen containing one eighty pound tortoise named Rico. And then, a cage of birds near the side of the house. And then, the aviary. Now, I’ve been in a few aviaries in my twenty-four years—they were just always at zoos. Never have I stepped into a home aviary—much less one in a basement and decorated like an bohemian Anthropologie display. Rustic wooden and metal walls, sumptuous couches, and a giant room of upwards of thirty birds: a peacock, some parrots, some brightly colored smaller ones, a hairless guinea pig, a fluffy rabbit named Nora, to name a few. “That one,” Marty pointed at a bird pecking at the ground, “his name is Chris Brown. I’ve given him three girlfriends to mate with, and he keeps beating them up and killing them!” Chris Brown the bird does not see offended by this clear insult. We step into the glass room and I wondered if I should have paid more attention in school to what bird flu was. Marty gives me two vibrant parrot feathers to take. I joke about making them earrings, and then wonder if that would actually be possible. When we left, I thought about how maybe I was kind of like a bird—leaving the nest, flying away, but the metaphor felt too cliché, so instead I looked up the menu of the place we’d be getting brunch. Brunch would be with another blast from the past who, yes, has a name that starts with a “J.” Jackie, another college roommate, met us over steaming cups of black coffee and cheesy omelets at a restaurant right off the busy streets of downtown Chicago. If Jackie were a holiday, she would be Fourth of July, every statement and movement not unlike a firecracker—bright, exciting, joyous. We stayed for three refills of coffee before tearing ourselves from the table and hugging her goodbye. Sadly, our destination was bleak. “We’ll need to find a hotel somewhere along the highway,” my mom said, handing me her iPad. “There’s an AmericInn. That’s punny.” I drag my finger along I-90, quickly realizing that our next stop would probably not be as dazzling as Chicago. And that will bring me to our next stop soon: Fairmont (aka the middle of bumfuck NOWHERE, USA). Oh joy!

[haleyheadswest-blog]

Fun and Unpopular Opinion: St. Louis has Great Food 8/25/2017 - 8/26/2017 Greetings from the middle-of-nowhere, Illinois! My mom and I left St. Louis about three hours ago, and there have been little-to-no changes in scenery: trees, trucks, the occasional wind turbine, and some inspiring messages about the importance of keeping America safe with lots of guns. Oh happy day! St. Louis, fortunately, was much more exciting. My mom was particularly pleased because St. Louis is not only home to the Gateway Arch, but also home to her childhood. More importantly, St. Louis is also home to Judy (my mom’s best friend from middle school, high school, and beyond), her husband Todd (another dear friend from high school and beyond), and their wheaten-terrier-poodle named Chili (not a high school friend, but perhaps the most important character we’ve seen thus far). Our time in St. Louis was dictated by food and nostalgia, in this order: 1.Arrived at Judy and Todd’s beautiful home in the St. Louis suburbs. Their house has the perfect balance of art and fantastically posed pictures of their three children. Also, Chili was there, so I was ready to give up the road trip and just stay there. 2. Went to The Hill for the first St. Louis specialty of our 24 hours: toasted ravioli. We also agreed that Rosé was the only option in terms of beverages. The Italian entrees that arrived at our tables two glasses in would’ve been incredibly delicious even if I wasn’t perfectly buzzed and watching my mother revert to her high school self with her friends. 3. I suggested (read: insisted) that we stop at the legendary Ted Drewe’s—home of the concrete (which I soon learned was the inspiration for the Dairy Queen blizzard…well played, Dairy Queen). I was overwhelmed by the menu—so much so that after my mom ordered, my mind went blank and I asked for the same thing. Fortunately, she picked something with brownies and caramel swirl, so I finished mine in three minutes and then conveniently remembered how lactose intolerant I was. 4. However, I quickly dismissed my lactose intolerance when Judy offered me a bite of her concrete. I don’t even remember the flavor—just that Judy was wonderful and let me eat her dessert with gusto. 5. Todd may be the most sentimental person i have ever met—he takes pictures of everything and saves them all in scrapbooks, which are kept in order of year in their basement cabinets. Of course, that meant we let our Ted Drewes digest while looking at pictures of Todd, Judy, and my mother in high school—shout out particularly to my mom and Judy for having the most hideous collection of sweaters I’ve ever seen. Additionally, all of the pictures looked like they had the Nashville filter from Instagram on top of them, except it was the actual tone of the picture! How retro! How fun! Urban Outfitters will probably start selling photos from the 70s for $35 a pop and call them the original Instagrams. You’re welcome, Urban Outfitters. 6. In the morning, we ate poppy seed bagels on the porch and Todd and my mother decided that they, along with their spouses, would rent a Winnebago and drive across the country together, but stay in hotels overnight. This detail is not super necessary to the recap of St. Louis, but I feel like it describes the personalities of Todd and my mother perfectly. 7. We drove to my mom’s childhood home in a neighboring town called Chesterfield. We took pictures of her in front of it, and she showed me which window was the one to her bedroom, which she also insisted she never snuck out of during high school. We also passed Judy’s house, which was a few streets over. We ended the tour of sentiment at Parkway Central High School, where my mother peaked as homecoming queen and Todd and Judy started dating—truly a historic site in the bustling city of St. Louis. 8. After we hugged Todd and Judy and Chili (and Todd and my mother reconfirmed the aforementioned plan to rent a Winnebago), my mom and I headed to the Gateway Arch in order to ensure we were as touristy as possible in her hometown. We did what all dedicated tourists do: complained about the heat, asked a park ranger to take our photo in front of the site, and then retreated into an air conditioned coffee shop for gooey butter cake and caffeine. And that brings us once again to middle-of-nowhere, Illinois. Next stop: Chicago.