Health, Gently
I have always believed that health reveals itself quietly, long before it is ever named. In the skin. In the hair. In the way a body carries itself through the day. Long, thick hair. Soft, luminous skin. A certain steadiness in the eyes. To me, these things have always felt like signals, not of perfection, but of nourishment. Of something working as it should beneath the surface.
What we put into our bodies, and what we don’t, eventually shows. Stress leaves its mark. Poor sleep does too. So does living indoors too much, moving too little, eating foods that ask more of the body than they give back. And perhaps most deceptively, using products that promise beauty while quietly introducing toxins into systems already doing their best to cope.
Staying healthy has not been effortless for me. It has required attention, humility, and more trial and error than I ever expected. I have been misled. I have believed the wrong people. I have trusted industries built on appearance rather than truth, especially the beauty and wellness worlds, which so often speak loudly while saying very little of substance.
Pregnancy was the turning point. It has a way of stripping everything back. Suddenly, the stakes felt different. What was “fine” before no longer felt acceptable. I wanted to understand, truly understand, what supported the body and what quietly depleted it.
It was during this time that I met Jamie Anne, who was working as an aesthetician in Los Angeles. LA is full of green juices and beautiful food, and yet so many unwell people, bodies that look healthy on the outside while minds and nervous systems tell another story. Jamie was different. Alongside her partner Tyson, she was deeply committed to real education: real ingredients, real sourcing, real effects on the body. No fear-mongering. No trends. Just clarity.
Since knowing Jamie and Tyson, I have felt more like myself than I have in years. More grounded. More alive. My skin, despite the undeniable toll of pregnancy and postpartum, feels healthier than it ever did before. My energy is steadier. My weight has settled naturally. Nothing drastic changed. I simply returned to basics.
I began eating real, seasonal, nourishing food. Enough protein. Fewer foods that my body consistently struggled to process. I learned that many leafy greens, often celebrated as universally healthy, can inhibit iodine absorption in the thyroid and contribute to bloating and discomfort, at least for me. I listened. I adjusted. I no longer force foods simply because they are labeled “good.”
Now, I choose what feels supportive: arugula instead of heavy greens, cucumbers, squash, zucchini. Avocados, olives, onions, peppers. I limit beans and oats, even though I love them. I prioritize gut health, because when the gut is calm and clear, everything else follows. Sourdough has become a staple. Slow, fermented, forgiving.
And seed oils, once I noticed how inflamed my body felt after consuming them, there was no unseeing it. That awareness changed the way I read labels, the way I shop, the way I cook. It even planted a quiet vow in me: to grow my own food someday, when I can. To know it. To trust it.
I am not perfect. I don’t live untouched by processed foods. But I try. And trying, consistently, has mattered.
Caring for my gut changed my health more than anything else I’ve done. And with that clarity came another decision: to step away from medications unless absolutely necessary, and to support my body instead, patiently, intentionally, rather than override it.
This is not a prescription. It is simply where I am now. What my body has asked for. What I have learned by paying attention.
There is also the matter of environment, which I once underestimated entirely.
I have learned, especially after becoming a mother, that my nervous system requires far more care than I ever imagined. More than discipline. More than effort. More than willpower. It needs gentleness. It needs consistency. It needs peace.
As important as what I put into my body is what I allow around my body. The rhythm of my days. The pace of our mornings. The way noise enters a room. The energy of the people I am near. My body responds to all of it, quietly, faithfully, without asking permission.
I have come to understand that health is not only built at the table or in the kitchen, but in the spaces we inhabit and the relationships we tend. In clean, honest environments. In calm exchanges. In a mutual respect for stillness. When those things are absent, the body notices. It tightens. It holds. It struggles to regulate.
This part of health is harder to measure and easier to ignore, yet it may be the most important of all. My body does not thrive in chaos, even when the food is perfect. It does not rest when there is tension in the air. It asks, again and again, for peace.
And so I listen.
I write more about Jamie, her work, and the products I use quietly and in depth in my letters.