What I Learned From an Evening with Monica Lewinsky

I was 17 years old when "the Monica Lewinsky scandal" broke. Like most of the world, I drew conclusions based on the storylines the media was spinning day after day. Social media didn't exist back then, but wherever you turned (newspapers, magazines, late-night television), Monica was the topic of conversation. (Note: we're all trained to politely call it "conversation," but if we're being honest, it was plain ol' gossip.) When I say the name "Monica Lewinsky," you probably have a certain storyline you default to. I did, too, at least until last week when the Jewish Federation of Columbus invited me to attend an event at which Monica was the guest speaker. Turns out, that storyline we've all grown familiar with is probably the least interesting thing about her.

Some things you might not know about Monica: She has a great sense of humor. She's a talented storyteller (and even brought the audience to tears). And she's using what is arguably one of the most difficult experiences any person has endured as a catalyst to do good -- fighting cyberbullying.

I've never fully believed in the notion of mistakes. I believe in accidents and I believe in choices. Most of the things we label "mistakes" fall into the latter category; choices in which the outcome wasn't what we intended or actions that had unexpected ramifications. I've never liked the word "mistake" because it suggests some sort of hashmark on our permanent life record. And despite the fact that we all make questionable choices at some point or another, labeling them mistakes gives those things more power than they deserve. It gives us permission to define each other based on past history rather than we are today.

I was 17 years old when Monica Lewinsky became a household name. She was in her early 20s. Through the eyes of a 17-year-old, twenty-something seemed so adult. Looking back at everything as a now-34-year-old, I have a whole new perspective. As I listened to Monica speak last week, I tried to imagine what my life would have been like had my 22-something choices and actions been plastered across newspapers and television sets, paraded out onto an international stage. I found myself thinking about how exhausting it must feel to spend a lifetime running from a past you know you'll probably never fully escape.

When you find yourself sitting a few feet away from someone whose intimate history you know better than that of your closest friends, it changes things. In that moment of vulnerability, you stop seeing them as a punchline and a headline and start seeing them as a person just like you. When you get to know the human -- rather than the spin -- the storyline we've all been fed suddenly loses its flavor. You find that you're just two flawed people trying to do something and be someone and maybe make the world a slightly better place. And there, in a hotel conference room on a random Thursday night, your choices of your past no longer hold up. Because the only thing that really matters is who you are right here, right now.

I'd argue there are no such things as mistakes. There are choices and outcomes. Some good, some bad. I'd argue it's the choices we might do differently, if given the chance, that are our unlikeliest of teachers. They change us for the better. They challenge us to define our character, to sharpen our steel, to grow, to learn, to forge onward, to take action. They call for us to stand up, stand for something and take a stand. But most of all, they teach us how to forgive ourselves, move on and do better.

A Farewell to Friend

2014 was the first time in my life that a friend silently slipped off the radar and into friendship oblivion. I guess I can't really complain. At 33, I was probably due for a big friend fallout. But this wasn't just a friend; this was a really good friend. This was the kind of friend I spent holidays with when I couldn't get home to my family. The kind of friend I lovingly referred to as a "sister from another mister." The kind of friend who was  one of the funnest -- and funniest -- people I've ever known. The kind of friend whose absence hasn't gone unnoticed. And I'm not gonna lie: it has been both hard and horrible.

In my mind's version of the story there wasn't a specific moment where things went wrong. It was more of a slow fizzle. I moved back to Ohio after an extended period of time working out-of-state and we seemed to pick back up where we had left off. A few months later, once eagerly-embraced lunch invites were getting pushed off never to be rescheduled.

At first, I tried to blame it on the age old struggle between Camp Parent and Camp Freebird. I didn't have any skin in the game when it came to Brownie gossip or ballet recitals. She had obligations and a spouse who presumably frowned on standing Wine Wednesdays. But the reality is that I have many busy parent friends. Despite the seeming differences in lifestyles, when a relationship is important to the people on both sides...you find a middle ground. Each side bends a little. You adapt and find a way.

There have been times over the past few months when I've wanted to send my friend a letter. Sometimes I'm curious to know what happened. Sometimes I'm tempted to rant for pages about how disappointed I am. Whenever I start to type, I stop myself. I stop myself because I realize whatever the case or response or reason, I'm writing to a stranger and chasing the ghost of a friendship that has already slipped away.

I recently read a post on this topic, and the author's words really hit home:

Losing a friend is very much like a break-up, in the sense that any form of interaction that you have with that person in the future will never be the same again. No matter how much either of you try, once you have crossed that line of inescapable complications and incompatibility, everything that you shared with each other will slowly deteriorate, until ultimately letting go is the only option left.

The thing about us is that we are fixers. We are the ‘Bob the Builders’ of our own lives, and it gets pretty devastating once we find ourselves in a position where the answer to "Can we fix it?" is “No, we can’t.”

Perhaps there is a point in certain friendships -- a point at which we stop seeing things -- and each other -- clearly. A point at which we believe ourselves to be patching everything together, but in reality we're just making a mess of things. As children, it's easy to know when to call it quits. The summer sun threatens to set, your mother's voice finds you beckoning to pack it in. Things get slightly more difficult in adulthood. We can eat when we want and the sun no longer tells us what to do and when. There are no rule books or guide maps for this. As grownups, we're the captains of our own sailing and sinking ships. Sometimes we surface to find ourselves the lone survivor of something we once believed invincible. Sometimes we're left standing on a shore of silent wreckage, clutching memories as the sole surviving souvenirs of a one-time forever friend.

I miss you friend. I hope your heart is happy. 

A Letter to my 10-Year-Old Self

Dear 10-year-old self,

Hi there. It’s me. You. I've been challenged to write a letter to my ten-year-old self, so here I am. And here you are. And this is what we do. And here is what I know:

You’re going to be an awkward kid. Bad bangs, weird last name, more sensitive than most. You’ll soon be plucked from a place you love, and thrust into the alien north where you’ll be the only one sporting cowgirl boots and a seriously heavy accent. While the other students spend half the year making fun of the way you pronounce “pen,” you’ll spend it trying to convince yourself they’re just really into school supplies as you seek refuge between the covers of cherished books.

You’re going to be tall your whole dang life. Pants are never going to fit you quite right, so you might as well start getting used to it now. Whatever you do, don’t shrink away from who you are or shrink away from opportunity. Promise you’ll always remember that any person who asks you to be less than you are is no one you want in your heart or your life. (And just so you know, on that fateful Halloween a year or so from now, when that old lady accuses you of being “too old to trick-or-treat” just because you’re the tallest of your friends, you’ve got my support. Go ahead and flip her the bird, because you’re really going to want to do it.)

The 90s will be chock full of life lessons. (And you’ll get to relive them all over again when the 90s become retro-cool sometime in the 2010s.) What it really comes down to is this: Lunchables are horrible. No matter how deprived you may feel at the moment, you’re really not missing out. Stock up on Clearly Canadian, though, because it’s set to go extinct. And Britney and Christina from the Mickey Mouse Club? You’ll be hearing from them again.

I’m not gonna lie. Things are going to get rocky in junior high. Puberty is going to be a train wreck. Growing boobs will traumatize you. Starting your period will traumatize you. Changing for gym class will traumatize you. Being asked to dance will traumatize you. (Believe it or not, you'll turn down an invitation at the seventh grade dance, and residual feelings of lingering guilt will bubble up any time Toni Braxton comes on the radio throughout the duration of your adult life.)

High school will be fun. You should try harder in your classes than you will, but you’re going to learn way too early that you can do just fine with minimal effort, which will free you up to focus on fun. (And that’s something you’ll never regret.) Everything – and I do mean everything – with your friends is going to feel like the center of and end of the world. Zero percent of it will matter in the long run. But those friends are still your friends today.

Little self, stand up. Stand up for yourself. Stand for something. Take a stand. You’ve got opinions and a voice – use them at your discretion and to your detriment.

Don’t ever miss a chance to take a midnight swim or splash in the ocean. The universe doesn’t care how you look in a swimsuit, and you shouldn’t miss a single opportunity to revel in creation and all His glory.

Say yes more than you say no. Accept the invitations that come your way as often as you can. A decade from now, you’ll look back and long for just one more country drive, one more night at the park, one more conversation, one more night at Burnham, one more Italian soda at Maxwell’s. When it’s gone, it’s gone. Wring every last drop you can from your marvelous existence.

You’ll be bad at being bad – and that’s never going to change. The things (and parents) you’re going to push against will keep you out of so much trouble. And you’ll be so grateful for that one day. Trust me.

Sometime around 1998 your friends are going to take a lunchtime vote. They’ll decide you’re going to be the first to marry because you’re that much of a romantic. They couldn't be more wrong. You’ll still be holding out at 33 – because you’re that much of a romantic. Stay hopeful. Stay patient.

Spend less time writing code names for boys in secret notebooks. Spend more time telling them how you really feel. Be vulnerable. Be brave. I know it's scary.

That DIY dye job the day before senior pictures? It's a bad idea that’s going to make a great story.

No matter what anyone tells you, a Manhattan isn’t a good starter drink. But that’s a lesson you’re going to have to learn the hard way.

Take sensory snapshots and file them away, because change is coming and it’s just a couple years away. Memorize the beauty of red dirt, the song of cicadas and the smell of mesquite trees on a hot Texas day. Soak up the sun from your little world of inner tubes, sunscreen and chlorine. You won’t want to go, but you’ll know you can’t say. And one day you’ll look back to realize your first love wasn’t a person – but a place.

Eventually you’re going to begin to realize you hit the family jackpot. The years and the miles will try to pull the ties that bind apart the seams. Don’t let them. Weddings and funerals will fling you back together from far corners from time to time over the years. And when you find yourself in same room once again, you’re going to quietly marvel that these are your people. And they are such wonderful people. Really.

You will make mistakes. You will have regrets. You will hurt people. You will hurt yourself. Challenge yourself to find a solution. To learn a lesson. To apologize and mean it. To forgive and let go.

Let the seed of faith grow. It really is the root of everything.

Pet all the dogs you meet. Be happy. Have fun. Go barefoot. Refuse to let the world tame you. Say a prayer of thanks every night as your head hits the pillow. Get up early enough to welcome each new day.

Never lose sight of who you are, little self. And I promise to do the same.

See you soon, 33-year-old You

I Don't Hate Hiking: A Lesson Learned On the Oregon Trails

“I hate hiking!” is a story I’ve been telling myself for roughly 33 years. It was a stubborn, silly thing to claim, especially since — until this weekend — I’d never actually hiked.

What I really meant is that hiking makes me uncomfortable. It is a new experience. It’s something I’m not skilled at. It challenges me. It pushes me beyond my comfort zone. It falls outside my wheelhouse.

Last week, I spent several days trudging my way (literally) over the river and through the woods of Oregon. At first, an obstinate little voice inside my head was urging me to dig my heels in, refuse to go on and hitch a ride back to civilization. (Or at least craft a series of snarky Tweets to send once I returned to a reliable wifi signal.) Somewhere around the five-mile marker it occurred to me that by hunkering down in my head and focusing my energy on all the comforts I was missing, I was actually missing out on the amazing things right in front of me. As soon as I hit my internal mute button, I began to discover that I kind of love hiking.

Sure, I had to stop and wheeze-it-out at various points. My body was sore in places I didn’t know it was possible to hurt. I had to use an outhouse. But that was all okay, because there, in the middle of nowhere, with no cell phone signal and just about every modern convenience stripped away, I found myself living fully present in the moment. And that is a really, really good feeling. 

I realize I may never relish having my feet restricted to “real shoes.” I may never enjoy physical exertion in sweltering 90-degree heat. I’m definitely never going to love an outhouse. But I really liked the version of myself I met at the top of the hill, the base of the falls and the end of the path.

There’s no doubt it’s easier to write something off completely than it is to try and struggle, flail and fail. But a comfortable life is a life with blinders on. Sure, you can get ahead, but you’ll miss out on the things that matter most. When we settle for comfortable, we settle…period. We end up depriving ourselves of not only experiences, but of becoming the best version of who we are.

A wise person once told me if it doesn't scare you, it doesn't grow you. Get cranky. Get angry. Get frustrated. Work up a sweat. Work up worries and doubt. Then let go of that balloon of uselessness. You don’t have to take the world at someone else’s pace. You just have to put one foot in front of the other until you find your stride… then get on with the getting on.

Say yes more than you say no. You never know. It may take you someplace more beautiful than you ever imagined.

The 33-Year List

Dear Universe,

On this, the eve of my 33rd birthday, I wanted to wish us both a happy anniversary. We've been together a long time, and have come a long way since the days of baby bottles and the summer of '81. Our anniversary poses a challenge, however. What to get the galaxy that has everything? I briefly considered a box of chocolates, but realized you've already got Mars and the Milky Way. And diamonds were out since you've got plenty of stars. So, in the end, I opted for this: a list of life lessons derived from some of our greatest hits. 

Universe, I wouldn't be here without you. And that's saying a lot, because here is nothing short of incredible. Thanks for the memories. Here's to you, Universe. To me. To us. To infinity and beyond! (Or a least the next 33 years...)

Yours, Amy

33 Things I Learned in 33 Years as a Dot in the Universe

1. Nobody knows anything at 18. You don’t have to have the entire world figured out before you can legally rent a car.
2. There’s a great big world out there. Allow it to sweep you off your feet, whisk you away and drive you out of your mind. You'll be glad you did.
3. All good things begin with some form of a "yes," Say yes more than you say no. Then hold on.
4. Champagne, desserts and massages need not be reserved for special occasions. Treat yourself.
5. Hang onto the precious few who force you out after a heartbreak, help you move in August and pick you up from the airport at midnight without complaint. They’re the real deal.
6. Live alone at least once.
7. Stop. Waiting. Around. There is no right moment. There is no more convenient time. There is only now. Take the risk. Take the trip. Make the call. Spin a globe, put your finger down and go.
8. Life is never going to hand you what you want, but you may be surprised how many people are willing to help when you muster the courage to ask for it.
9. Learn when to go with the flow and when to take a stand. There’s a time and a place for both. You will find that very little falls in the grey area in between.
10. Look up. Everything you could ever want or need is right here, right now. Look up from the screen. Put down the phone. Refuse to live your life in a state of DVR.
11. Single is much more fun than anyone ever admits, so go ahead and enjoy it. Eat cereal for dinner. Revel in pantlessness. Marathon Netflix. Someday you'll miss it just a little bit.
12. Get to know your family. Ask them questions. Soak up the stories. Write down the recipes. No matter how many years you have together, you’ll wish you’d had more. When it comes to our people, there's no such thing as "enough." Make time you can while you can.
13. You’re weird and wonderful. Accept it. All the best people are.
14. Make mistakes. Learn from them. All the best people did.
15. Creativity favors the shoeless, and genius will invariably strike while you're in the bathtub. Free your feet, free your mind and everything else will follow.
16. Heartbreak happens. Sometimes it will be your fault. Sometimes it will not. Either way, it will shape you. Be kind. Be grateful.
17. Worry is a lead balloon. 99.9999% of the worrying you do in your lifetime will be for naught. So just stop. Lighten your load. Release the balloon.
18. Become a citizen of the world. Try on a new zip code. Go forth. It's the only way you'll ever fully appreciate the roads that lead home.
19. By 30, you'll find yourself going out less and going to bed earlier. By 31, you'll find yourself liking it.
20. Real mail, old books, squeezed lemonade. For some things, there's just no substitute.
21. When you meet someone who finds you beautiful in fake pants and a messy bun…put a ring on it.
22. Dancing is meant to happen with free spirits, reckless abandon and a few drinks in the system. Never -- ever -- miss a chance to throw your arms up to "Shout" at a wedding reception.
23. God. Whatever you call Him, wherever you find Him...get to know Him.
24. Karaoke is the best worst idea. When it doubt, walk 500 miles. (Then walk 500 more.)
25. Say what you think. Love who you love. Drink what you like. Don't be a jerk.
26. Scatter love, prayers and gratitude wherever you wander in this world.
27. Whatever the plan, plan for nothing to go according to plan. That's the secret fun of it.
28. Sprinkles and sparkles are seeds of joy and fertilizer for the happy soul.  No matter what anyone says, you’re never too old for either one.
29. Make no apologies for the way you feel or the naps you take.
30. "One-size-fits-all" only works for rain ponchos and "normal" is just a washing machine setting. Defy words. Defy labels. Commit to live up the spirit inside you. Become a person who makes the ghosts of your ancestors cheer.
31. Get lost. (And enjoy my jacket, which you stole from me.)
32. When you find yourself in a certain kind of rare and special moment (and you will) -- be still. Allow the tidal wave to overwhelm you and carry you out. Let it break your heart then make you whole again. Take a breath and close your eyes. There, in the golden joy of simply being alive and part of it all, you'll see more clearly than you ever have and all will be revealed. When you find yourself back on shore, you'll swear it can't possibly get any better than this. And it won’t. And it will.
33. One day you'll see. Promise you'll tell me all about it.

"Go With the Flow" Is Terrible Advice

It’s 10 a.m. on Monday. Your week is just beginning, and you’ve already made dozens of choices without even thinking about it it. The blue shirt or the white shirt. Splenda or raw sugar. The scenic route or the quick route. Music or NPR. Though it may not always feel like it, we’re experts at making decisions. And every so often along comes a really hard choice. We struggle with it, wrestle with it, agonize over it. We draw lines down the middle of the page with “pros” in one column and “cons” in the other. We create reasons for this instead of that, blue over white, NPR instead of the playlist.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8GQZuzIdeQQ

There is an age-old tidbit of wisdom that reveres “going with the flow.” After watching Ruth Chang’s video, it occurred to me that “go with the flow” is just about the worst advice anyone could give. The happiest people don’t go with the flow, they swim upstream. Happy people don’t let life steer them down the path, they head to the top, soak up the view, then take a leap of faith.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4B36Lr0Unp4

It’s 10 a.m on Monday. Your week is just beginning. What will you choose this week?

The Power of Gratitude

“A letter is always better than a phone call. People write things in letters they would never say in person. They permit themselves to write down feelings and observations using emotional syntax far more intimate and powerful than speech will allow.” | Alice Steinbach Last night I stumbled across a powerful video. It begins with a researcher asking participants to write a letter of gratitude to a person who has greatly influenced them. Simple, right?

So they thought.

After the participants have fired off their letters, the researcher asks them to pick up the phone and call the person they’ve written about in order to read the letter aloud to the intended recipient. The immediate rise in anxiety is almost palpable. As each person lifts the receiver, you begin to see the walls of their everyday selves crumble. In this moment of unusually vulnerable truth-telling, viewers witness a transformation as each letter writer becomes a truer version of themselves. It quickly becomes apparent that this is a lesson in something much greater than letter writing; it’s a practice in expressing a deeper sense of gratitude most of us feel, but few of make a habit of regularly vocalizing to the people in our lives.

The video concludes with research findings. Participants who wrote letters, but were unable to call the recipient to share, experienced a small bump in happiness in the time between arriving at the lab and when they left. Participants who wrote a letter and made the phone call experienced a much bigger bump in happiness. Interestingly, the person who experienced the greatest bump was also the person who reported the lowest happiness score upon arrival at the lab.

The study got me thinking about relationships in general. What would happen if we made verbalizing gratitude a regular practice in our lives? How would our relationships with the people we love and the world around us begin to change? What would happen if companies put as much focus on expressing regular gratitude toward their employees and customers as they do on ROI and bottom lines?

We’d all be happier, apparently. You can’t argue with science.

Today I’m issuing a challenge to each of you reading this. (And I’m challenging myself to do the same.) In the words of wonderful Sara Bareilles, “Show me how big your brave is.” Don’t be embarrassed. Don’t be fearful. Be brave. Be happy. Be grateful.

Take a little time out to write a letter of gratitude to someone in your life today. Then pick up the phone. (And when you’re done be sure to loop back around and leave a comment below telling us how it went.)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oHv6vTKD6lg

This post first appeared on BrainsOnFire.com 

An Open Letter to All of You Good People of Earth

Thousands of shares, hundreds of emails, a handful of media opportunities, two weeks and one tweet from Rosie later, I find myself right back where I started, trying to decide how to follow up that letter.

Going viral was unexpected to say the least. When I clicked "publish" on the post, I had every intention of turning in for the night and carrying on with my evening (and life) as usual. Needless to say, that's not exactly how things panned out.

Many people have reached out in the wake of the story wanting to know how things turned out. Did Mike Jeffries respond? Was I going to participate in the Abercrombie protest? Had Ellen reached out yet? (A note to the curious: No. No. And no.)

But here is what did happen...

I received a flood of comments and emails from people of all sizes, shapes, ages, races, sexual orientations and walks of life, sharing their personal stories of bullying, body image and personal struggle.

While the vast majority of the comments were positive (a category into which I also lump comments from those who respectfully and constructively expressed their disagreement with my viewpoint in the letter), there will always be that small handful of people who chime in with hateful negativity no matter what the topic. In this instance, I think those responses served as shining examples of why this conversation is so necessary and important. At the core, the letter was never really about Abercrombie or Mike Jeffries. It was about the impact intolerance has on the world and on the individual. There is no hierarchy of hate. No form of hatred is more or less acceptable than another. Intolerance is unacceptable. Plain and simple. 

Many people have asked me when I knew this letter was "really something." While hearing from Rosie was surreal, the morning I opened my email to discover this letter from a teacher in Georgia was the moment the magnitude of everything really hit me:

"I would like to request permission to reprint Amy Taylor's article, "An Open Letter from a 'Fat Chick' to Mike Jeffries, CEO of Abercrombie and Fitch" for each student in 6th grade at [XXX] Middle School in [XXX}, Georgia.

The Language Arts Department would like to use this piece in a unit on bullying/fitting in during the 2013-14 school year, and students would need their own copy in order to annotate for understanding as they read. I appreciate your considering this request and look forward to hearing back from you."

As a writer, the greatest reward of all is discovering that your words have resonated with someone, inspiring them to take positive action. It has been remarkably humbling to hear how a single letter has empowered so many parents and teachers to start a dialog with their kids about the things they’re struggling through and dealing with on a daily basis.

Despite what some people perceived, the letter didn’t come from a place of anger. It came from the memory of everyone who has played a part in who and where I am today. Throughout my life I have known so many wonderful people who have been bullied and judged for everything from their sexual orientation to the way they speak, the neighborhood they grew up in to the color of their skin. The message of the letter belongs to all of us, I’m just the one who put it to paper.

As a marketer by trade, I’m acutely aware that every brand has a target demographic and a marketing strategy. Some verbalize it, some don’t. I respect the right of every American to speak their mind, whether I agree with it or not. Mike Jeffries’ alleged comments were simply an opening in the conversation that allowed me to share my story. The message I hope people end up taking away from all of this has nothing to do with t-shirts or jeans. We are all works in progress. We have all overcome something in our lives. We all have a story to tell. Chances are, someone out there needs to hear yours.

As for the future, who can say. In the wise words of my dear friend Josh Cox, "A hundred years from now, I’d rather be lost in the crowd of a revolution that started when everyone banded together as one to take our minds and bodies and lives back. If I do what I believe in the way I want to do it, I’ll be lost in a tidal wave of great people doing great things who never would have done those great things if they didn’t realize how great they were as people."

My sincerest thanks to every person who has reached out, left a comment or shared the post. You've given me a front row seat to the best side of humanity. For that, I will be forever grateful.

----------------------------

Like this? Check out Amy's passion project, Good People of Earth

An Open Letter from a "Fat Chick" to Mike Jeffries, CEO of Abercrombie + Fitch

I remember the moment as though it were yesterday (which is saying a lot, because it was nearly two decades ago...) Last week of 8th grade. One of the "popular girls" walked over to me in gym class and asked if she could write in my yearbook. When she handed my book back, I excitedly turned the cover, only to discover that she had written (in beautiful penmanship) the following:

Have a great summer. Stay thin.

Except the word "thin" had been crossed out with a single line. 

I have always struggled with my weight. Big-boned. Plus-size. Thick. Curvy. Voluptuous. Padded. Pick your adjective. Over the years I learned to deal with it in different ways. I learned to ignore it. Compensate for it. Deny it. Dress it up. Cover it over. Like everyone who struggles with something physical, I wear my battle on the outside for the world to see. There's no running from it, because there is no hiding it.

According to Elite Daily, Mike Jeffries, CEO of Abercombie + Fitch, has allegedly commented on everything from why he hates fat chicks to why he doesn't want "not-so-cool" kids shopping in his stores.

While I was initially outraged by the story, by the time I reached the end of the article, I felt more of a sense of overwhelming pity for the Abercrombie CEO than anything. A man blessed with unimaginable success proudly spouting off soundbites reminiscent of a cruel little girl I knew in eight grade? It would seem Mike Jeffries is a deeply unhappy man.

Mean-spiritedness aside, Mr. Jeffries' comments raise a flag about a bigger, more troubling cultural issue. Pretend, for one moment, that instead of fat chicks, unattractive people or "not-so-cool" kids Mr. Jeffries had said "African Americans" or "homosexuals" or "single moms." As a society, we would rise up and crucify any brand that flaunted that kind of exclusionary business plan.

I'm not slamming Abercrombie, proposing that they start carrying larger sizes or suggesting they welcome everyone into their stores. What I am questioning is why, in a country where two out of every three adults are considered overweight, is it acceptable for anyone, let alone the CEO of a major company, to proudly and publicly sling what could be considered by some to teeter on hate speech?

With each brand that joins arms with companies like Dove, TOMS and Anytime Fitness, opting to lead with their values in order to drive new, important conversations, a positive change is happening. Who do you think will thrive? I'm willing to bet at least two out of three Americans can answer that question...and they'll do so with their dollars.

Now on to the letter.

AN OPEN LETTER TO MR. MIKE JEFFRIES, CEO ABERCROMBIE + FITCH

Dear Mr. Jeffries,

Hi there. It's me, Amy. We've never met, but since it seems we won't be sitting at the same lunch table (or crossing paths in your stores) anytime soon, I thought it was important that you get to know me if you're going to hate me. I'm one of the two out of three Americans you can't stand and don't want in your stores. I'm your neighbor. Your doctor. The young woman working behind the hotel check-in desk. I'm your child's third grade teacher. Your sister's best friend. I'm the veterinarian who saved your dog's life...twice. And the lady sitting next to you on the flight to Los Angeles. I'm the CEO of a Fortune 500 company. I'm the housewife with one heck of an expendable income. I'm the 13-year-old teetering on the verge of an eating disorder. And the 22-year-old battling depression and low self-esteem. I'm the employee working in your office, living in fear that two pounds are the difference between my paycheck and the unemployment line. I'm the American Woman...and I've got something to say to you.

Mike (can I call you Mike?), I'm not only a fat chick, I'm also a "not-so-cool" kid. Always have been, always will be. I've had 31.5 years to come to terms with that. Along the way I have been bullied, tortured, teased and harassed. Somehow I came out the other end better for it. In case you haven't noticed, those not-so-cool kids are the ones who are passing people like you by--and doing some pretty amazing things. (You can read about a couple of them here and here and here.) Funny thing about wearing your struggle on the outside: it makes you stronger. It teaches you how to adapt. It forces you to dig deep and do more. And while people like you are sitting at the cool kids table intent on holding others down, the ragtag team of not-so-cool kids is busy pulling others up...and we've become an unstoppable force driving the world forward.

You got me, Mike! I don't wear a size 4. You should probably also know that my middle fingers curve ever-so-slightly outward and I have a Morton's toe. I'm terrible at long division and I'm not that great at parallel parking. But I'm a good person. I have an awesome job, great friends and a family that I wouldn't trade for the world. I have mentors with brains as big as their giant hearts, and a rescue dog who is always happy to see me at the end of the day. Like everyone (size 4 or size 24), I have wants and hopes and dreams. I dream of writing a children's book and inheriting a large sum of money so I can open a rescue retirement home for all the old shelter dogs that nobody wants. I'd like to pay for the person behind me at the toll booth sometime, and it'd be nice to get around to taking the "Great American Road Trip" one day. Overall I'm a pretty happy person. I'm a loyal friend and I strive to make the world better whenever and however I can. I love my community and I'm proud to call Columbus home. Although Abercrombie is headquartered here, you don't represent the voice or the spirit of the place I know and love. When people think of this city, it is my hope they'll choose to forget your name and instead think of people like Jeni Britton Bauer and Christian Long and Liz Lessner; doers and thinkers giving Columbus (and humankind) a good name.

As a marketer, I understand where you're coming from on some level, Mike. I really do. When you say "a lot of people don't belong in our clothes--they can't belong," I get it. For consumers, every purchase is a declaration. With each dollar a consumer spends, they are saying, "I am part of this brand and this brand is a part of me. I believe what this brand believes. I support what this brand supports." As I sit here wrapping up this letter, I am proud to say that I may be a not-so-cool kid and the extra pounds I carry may not be a thing of beauty, but I am nothing like you or your brand--and that, Mr. Jeffries, is a beautiful thing.

Sincerely, Amy Taylor

Dirty Hands, Better Lives: The Merits of Gardening

Two years ago, my family found ourselves crowded into a rented minivan, making our way across the country to bury my grandmother in her tiny hometown of Frederick, Oklahoma. At one point during the trip, we took a detour past the farm and home my great grandparents had called their own. As years of childhood memories came flooding back, flashing before my mother's eyes, I remember her making a comment on one thing in particular--a small plot of land where my great grandmother Mimi had once passed her days, caring for the irises. I've always enjoyed gardening, but as I've gotten older I've started thinking about my hobby from a different perspective. In a world that is so enamored with the latest technology, how can something as fundamentally basic as tending to a plot of land be such a source of immense joy?

Gardening is a connection to our food. When was the last time you really stopped to appreciate the painted edge of red sail lettuce or reveled in the divine shape of a radish freshly plucked from the ground? For me, it doesn't happen nearly enough. When I stop by the grocery after work, I'm usually in a rush. All too often, I find myself shoving hurried fistfuls of vegetables into plastic bags so I can get to the checkout as quickly as possible.

Modern convenience has driven a wedge between people and our food. This shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone--it's a regular topic of conversation, and a driver behind the "eat local" movement. And while local farms are wonderful, I feel there is an even greater benefit when we take "local" one step closer to home. It doesn't get any more local than your own backyard.

When you grow and harvest your own vegetables, it transforms your relationship with your food. You're no longer just chopping carrots or plucking basil; your sustenance becomes a direct result of your labor. The plants on your plate are no longer a food group; they're a testament to a relationship between ground and gardener. And that makes every bite taste a little bit better.

Gardening is a connection to ourselves.  Gardening is one of the few times I feel like I am able to truly disconnect from the world and reconnect with myself. When I'm wielding a trowel or elbow-deep in soil, I'm not thinking about twitter alerts or worrying about what I'm missing on facebook. I find that when I'm gardening I'm able to be truly present in the now. I relish each breath of fresh air. I appreciate the warmth of the sun on my skin and the whisper of the breeze. Gardening is my gateway and welcome escape back to the reality that really matters.

Real life, just like gardening, is gritty and dirty and unpredictable. In order to thrive and grow, our lives (and ourselves) require effort, energy, care and love. Real life won't be quantified in 140-character blips; it measures in seasons, sun-ups and sun-downs.  It doesn't matter how many people applaud what you do or say--or if they even like it all. Real life is a cycle of growth. It marches onward indifferently, regardless of whether you're a person, a green bean bush or a bumblebee.

It doesn't get much more real than that.

Gardening is a connection to God. For those who subscribe to the message behind the oldest story ever told, life and the world as we know it began in a garden a long, long time ago. The first sunrise stretched its arms wide, spreading its rays, for the first time, over an infinite bounty and everything the universe had to offer.

Maybe the affinity for gardening is something that has been hitchhiking--for centuries--on the deepest roots of our DNA. Perhaps it's an heirloom of a memory harkening back to that one first day. I prefer to think of it simply as something that brings me closer to God.

Try as we might, none of us carries on indefinitely. Like everything and everyone, we progress through a series of seasons. When our winter inevitably arrives, we return to the earth at rest.

Some churches come equipped with pews and a steeples. Others with shovels and trowels. Not every conversation with God happens in words. Some of us do our best prayer on our knees amongst the seeds and weeds. But in some way, each of us is a garden.