Dress: Chi Chi London |Shoes: JIMMY CHOO |Hair: Camisha Rivers Hunter
“High Fashion” Jumpsuit: Fashion Nova | Eyewear: Ray-Ban
Do pink and red go together? Should I wear white after Labor Day? Am I too old to wear skinny jeans? Is it tacky to wear sleeveless?
These are all versions of the same questions to me: “Is this outfit too much? Are people going to think I’M too much?”
And the longer you ask those questions, the less fun you’re going to have getting dressed or doing “too much” of anything else.
Wear what you want. And get busy living.
I was an artist’s model for a minute in undergrad. I posed for hours in my swimsuit while students stared, took stock and drew. I was scared and deeply embarrassed until I saw their work and realized that what I perceived as physical shortcomings, they saw without judgment.
They made it art.
Writing about myself is much like that: scary, exhilarating and very freeing. It’s looking at my flaws and foibles as honestly as I do my freckles, gray hair or dimples: as interesting highlights on the roadmap of an unexpected but beautiful journey.
It’s seeing what is, as it is, and letting it be.
I’m getting nearly “naked” again soon, in front of an audience. (My days of posing as an artist’s model are long over, Mom.) I’m scared to death but ready to show my emotional scars and spiritual stretch marks with no shame — to interpret them for clues, search them for lessons and find the beauty in them.
I may bomb.
But I may blow up.
(Either way, Roy Wood, Jr. promised me it will be fun.)
I promised on Facebook that I’d second line if Bama beat LSU, so enjoy this modified version since I didn’t get a parade permit.
This special parasol was a gift that was made just for me, and I’ve been saving it for a special occasion. Last night’s 29-0 win over the Tigers (the eighth time in a row) definitely qualifies! I do go a little bit overboard on Game Day, but it’s all in fun. I love having a parasol that celebrates my favorite football team (next to the New Orleans Saints) as well as my family’s heritage.
Cue up Rebirth Brass Band, because the Crimson Tide is rolling straight to the SEC Championship game!
Hat: Aviate | Blazer: Tuckernuck | Denim: J. Crew | Tank Top: Target | Scarf: Madewell
Have y’all missed me? I’ve missed you, and it’s so good to be back!
I’ve been working like mad (with the Birmingham Association of REALTORS and The 1987 Supply Co.) making a documentary celebrating the 50th anniversary of the Fair Housing Act’s passage! I am SO happy I got to wear my “journalist” hat again, and have had an amazing experience talking to people who fought and worked for years so that we have the ability to live where we want. You can find out more HERE, and if you’re in the Birmingham area on October 12, I hope you’ll join us for the premiere in Railroad Park!
P.S. I hope my opinion on wearing white after Labor Day is clear: it’s a definite “DO,” with a few exceptions. Save your summer-weight fabrics for the warmer months and wear your more substantial fabrics when the temperature drops. White pumps? Yes. White nurses shoes? No ma’am!
T-shirt, skirt, sunglasses and bracelets: J.Crew | Clutch: Clare Vivier
Shoes: Steve Madden
Rarely do I buy an outfit exactly as it is displayed on a mannequin or in a catalog, but when I saw this look at J. Crew a while back, it was “me” from top to bottom. I love to mix casual and super dressy pieces, and I also love neutrals. Need I also mention I’ve been collecting cheeky graphic tees since middle school?
Throw a pair of hoops, a bit of fierce animal print and some “barely there” heels (which I’m obsessed with!) in the mix and this is textbook Alexis.
If I’m being honest: my outfits are my way of expressing my feelings. My clothes are my armor. And if I look good, I tend to feel better. I stand taller. It’s that little boost that gives me the motivation to attack the day with my head high. This post is for all the other up and comers fighting battles daily for equal pay, for better opportunities and for the love and light they deserve.
I’ve answered phones, I’ve cleaned offices and I’ve been made to count pencils (yes, really). I’ve been counted out, overlooked, laughed at and rejected more times than I can count. I very nearly flunked out of college. I’ve doubted myself. I’ve felt invisible. I’ve been underestimated, undermined, underpaid, overlooked and overworked. In spite of that I’ve worked my narrow behind off, and I never let other people’s issues and “-isms” determine my self-worth. I’ve delivered under pressure that has seemed insurmountable, and performed when my heart wanted to give up. But I’m still standing. And I know I’m not alone.
I’m honest about my journey because I’m grateful for it. If I can make it, God knows you can, too.
I am still overwhelmed from yesterday’s Top Influencers Under 40 luncheon! Birmingham Magazine made it a beautiful day for us at the City Club.
And Rent The Runway really came through in a pinch. I’ve lost so much weight that most of my clothes don’t fit, and I literally had nothing to wear! Having been through several physical changes over the last couple of months, RTR, Kim Colvin and James Adams, Jr. all helped me look my best.
It meant so very much to me to not only be in the room, but to have my mother beside me and to celebrate so many other amazing people, including one of my best friends!
Congratulations to all the honorees!
Everyone on this list — change agents, professionals, and movers and shakers from a wide variety of industries — is a force to be reckoned with, and I am very honored to be included.
Click HERE to see the inaugural list of honorees. It’s first class! (See what I did there?)
I’m watching happy mommies, round with bumps.
Some are accompanied by partners. They stand close. They rub their bellies. They smile and speak softly to each other.
A pair of women sit together.
Others like me, sit alone. Arms folded, eyes closed…or methodically turning the curling pages of a magazine. Some tap tap tap on their screens. Like me, right now.
I watch the ones who are visibly pregnant. One mother-to-be pulls out snacks and water. Her outfit, a striped knit bodycon dress, a jacket festooned with brassy buttons and suede flats, is sharp.
An athleisure-wearing, topknotted mom comes in with a baby riding silently in a stroller, little enough to need a cushion around its tiny head.
Others, like me, are not pregnant at all.
The desire to at least be able to give birth almost overwhelms me. It is the one thing I can’t do. Yet. Or maybe ever.
We all wait.
The waiting room is rust with shades of apple and sage green. The wall coverings are alternating panels of wheat-colored and puce brocade-print paper.
Then I am called.
No tussling with a paper gown, this time.
Just a plop of warm goo on my bare belly. The sonographer glides the wand across my flesh, and the wall-to-wall flatscreens light up.
There I am, inside out.
And there they are, all three of them that are immediately visible. Seven, hiding. Growing, insistently. Constantly. Feeding off of me.
But they aren’t babies.
Ten noncancerous fibroid tumors take up all available space. They’ve been growing there for years, in the place where a baby should be. Maybe the seed of them is genetic. Or maybe it’s environmental. One thing is for sure:
They have to be removed, in order for any baby to grow there.
I almost don’t believe what I’m seeing. I want to look away, but I can’t. When I finally close my eyes, they fill with tears that spill over onto my cheeks and run into my ears and splash onto the paper covering the exam chair. I want to scream. Instead I just cry silently in the dark. And when my doctor tells me to prepare for serious complications that could mean the end of my life I begin to pray out loud.
I shouldn’t have come here alone. I am so shaken that I don’t know how I will find my car, or get home. And I can’t stop looking at the flatscreens.
They’re huge. So huge they’re pressing on my stomach and other organs—which explains why I’m always hungry but can barely eat. Why I’m so tired all the time but can’t really rest. Why I’m in pain but can’t get any relief. Why I feel like I can’t breathe.
“Wow,” says the sonographer as she peers at her screens. “You’re so thin that I’m sure you can feel them,” she says.
They’re hard to miss, since they announced themselves with a 25 pound weight gain and 24-hour fatigue and breathlessness and mind-numbing cramps and back aches.
I’ve had so many side eyes at my expanding midsection the last two years or so that I’ve lost count. Now I no longer notice. There are only so many times you can fake-smile and explain a belly away as a food baby. And I’ve given up hiding it with Spanx.
I’ve suffered through the persistent stomach ache, the damage it’s done to my body image, my self-esteem and my emotions and the problematic monthly cycles.
Add to that the constant stress I’ve been under, which releases a hormone that (surprise!) only makes the tumors grow faster. Because the world doesn’t care if you’re sick: it’ll demand more and dump more and wreck you, regardless. I’ve been through so much personally and professionally in the last six months that I’m literally turning it into a book.
But relief is held out to me, swinging like a pendulum for me to grab and hold on to. And I grab it.
It will mean an open procedure similar to a c-section, only I will go home with no baby.
It will mean that there is a possibility the fibroids could return, since the only way to get rid of them for good appears to be to have a hysterectomy — an option that is not an option for me right now.
It will mean all my dreams for a doula-assisted natural childbirth, with soft jazz and Beyoncé and candles and my mother and mother-in-law holding each other’s hands in prayer around us, for the boy and girl fraternal twins I keep dreaming about, won’t happen.
But at this point even that doesn’t matter anymore.
Because this weight has broken me down and I can’t carry it or drag it anymore. Not one more blessed step.
And I’m ready to be delivered.
Well, here’s your #nofilter outfit of the day and post, over a week after my open myomectomy has been successfully completed. I’m home resting, and will mostly be offline in the interim.
Why be this transparent? I debated about whether sharing this is TMI, but the truth is not enough women are sharing the reality of their experience with fibroids. We’ve been taught our bodies are shameful and dirty and that what happens inside them should be kept secret. But who does that help?
I’ve been anxious, afraid and ashamed for SO long. And it’s time to let it all go.
Life got real, real fast last week and in the last few months. There’s nothing like planning your own funeral to make you reevaluate the direction your life is taking. I feel silly complaining now because I know it could be worse.
The important thing is I woke up and I’m still here, thank God. And I’m going to be fine. One day at a time.
I do not have enough words to thank my family and friends for their support, prayers and practical help. My surgeon/doctor says bikinis and babies are definitely in my future.
What I know for sure is, life can only get better from here. No matter what I’ve lost through this process, I have retained my sense of humor, my grasp on reality and my ability to overcome anything. So my foot is on the gas, from here on out. And with a flatter stomach to boot. Yassssssssssss!
Now before Mama takes my phone and pc away: who can I talk to about improving this outfit they make you wear? It’s the real tragedy of this story.
P.S. There are several options available to treat and/or remove fibroids, depending on their size, location and the patient’s preferences. The purpose of this post is not to recommend any particular course of action or treatment. I AM NOT A DOCTOR OR MEDICAL PROFESSIONAL, and I cannot treat or diagnose you. If you’re dealing with fibroids, please consult with a trained medical professional to make the best possible choice for your personal situation, preferences and goals.
For more information about fibroids: