BONUS XOMU: Remember when I wouldn't talk about my hair?

Today's Melissa is more confident, far happier, and takes herself way less seriously. Here's why.

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If you’ve been following me on Instagram since the early days (pre-divorce, 2014 or 2015), you may remember a few things I was a stickler about. I didn’t use emojis, for one—I insisted they were silly and “preferred to use my words.” I posted few selfies, and never shared a photo in a sports bra or bathing suit. And I refused to talk about my hair, despite the fact that people constantly asked.

“I love your hair! What kind of products do you use?”
“I love your hair! How do you get those curls?”
”I love your hair! How does it look so good even on a hike?”

People would post these comments in places where I definitely wasn’t talking about myself or my hair, and I would tersely reply, “I don’t want to talk about my hair—let’s stay focused on the topic at hand (mental health/Whole30/recovery).”

“What a bitch,” you might be thinking, and I don’t blame you. It probably seemed like I was holier-than-thou; beneath talking about “frivolous” stuff like hair or clothes. That’s not at all what was happening, though.

October 2014, taking headshots for Whole30 while quietly separating

It wasn’t you, it was me

At this time, I was in a tremendously unhealthy marriage—one foot in and one foot out while still firmly entangled in the business of Whole30. Throughout the relationship, I spent most of my days feeling not smart enough, not good enough, not anything enough.

Sometimes, these things were directly stated—I wasn’t educated enough to speak about the science of Whole30. I was a desperate attention seeker when I posted a selfie—any selfie, but especially a selfie where it looked like I had boobs, a butt, or a sliver of bare stomach. (I remember taking a picture of the back of my pants in a mirror because I had been walking around with the tag on all day. Funny, right? I got so much shit for that photo that I took it down, re-cropped it, and posted it again.)

Most often, though, it was just implied—or inferred by me. (The first time your partner cheats, you think, “Oh god, maybe it’s me?” The third, fourth, fifth time, you’re convinced it’s you, because how dumb can you be?)

I had come to believe that if I wanted anyone to take me seriously, like me, and respect me, I had to be the most perfect version of Melissa—“Whole30 Melissa”—all the time. I always had to look “classy” and perfectly groomed. I could never afford a typo, a misspeak, or the admission that I didn’t know. I couldn’t disclose weaknesses or vulnerability, nor even hint at trouble in my marriage. And by no means could I dispel anyone’s perception of me as a Very Serious, Smart, and Successful Person by using the poop emoji or talking about my hair.

I wasn’t a bitch. I had just completely lost myself.

July 2016 in Banff, my first solo trip post-divorce

Letting go of Whole30 Melissa

After we separated, I realized I had no idea who I was anymore. I had spent so long giving away pieces of myself in the name of “compromising” or “making it work” that I no longer recognized myself. Who was this armored, brittle, cowering woman, and what had she done with my self-confidence, optimism, and joy?

I spent the next few years digging myself out of the rubble and giving me space to breathe, play, and discover. I started showing up on social without makeup, in my pajamas, in the car. (Not all at once… probably.) I started talking about my insecurities, the things I struggled with, the things I was working on. I became ruthlessly committed to showing up only as myself, whatever that looked like, and gently allowed Whole30 Melissa to rest.

She served a very important role during a very difficult time. I’ll always be grateful to her for the way she showed up and saw us through. But I didn’t need her anymore.

September 2023, at church in Salt Lake City

Just Melissa

I started using emojis—how delightful! An entire language shared through pictures, allowing me to be creative in a whole new way. I started sharing my workouts exactly as I existed in the world, abs and cellulite and all. I started talking about the stuff I knew I wasn’t good at, and unapologetically celebrating the things I did well. And when you asked me about my hair, my lip gloss, or the shoes I was wearing, I’d tell you all about it. Even if we were chatting on a serious post, where I was talking about my trauma or recovery or mental health issues.

I embraced the idea that you can care about—and be—more than one thing at a time. I can be a badass CEO and share hair tutorials. I can be a bestselling author and post a thorough review of my Amazon running shorts. I can be a champion for inclusivity and take gratuitous selfies because my skin looks amazing.

To paraphrase Walt Whitman, we all contain multitudes, and over the years, I’ve been able to meet you on so many different levels in a way that feels immensely fulfilling and deeply connecting. So if I ever refused to answer your question or made you feel weird about sending me an emoji—thanks for still being here. Today, I hope you can know you can ask away, and I’ll always share the deets.

XO, MU