It started with loneliness. Deep, unbearable loneliness.

The day that changed my life in 2005.

I was driving to a friend’s birthday party with that pit of dread in my stomach. During the 40 minute drive, I practiced politely refusing the birthday cake.

I’m not feeling well.

I just had a huge dinner.

I . . . I . . .

What if it’s chocolate? What if it’s an ice cream cake?

I was so preoccupied with agonizing over how to resist a birthday cake I had never met, that I swerved over two lanes to keep from missing my exit.



I was 25, and the two cops were young. They let me go with a warning and some flirtatious words.

Lucky, I thought. Dear God, what am I doing. Get a grip.

Thirteen years later in 2018, I remember nothing about this party– except for the cake. It was a specialty lemon cake, a homemade family recipe made by a friend of the birthday girl.

Anybody who knows me knows that normally I won’t touch a non-chocolate dessert with a ten foot pole. I’m a chocolate woman, through and through. And don’t try to put raspberry sauce on my chocolate. That’s just bull.

A lemon cake?

I’m safe, I thought.

But . . . slightly disappointed.

A piece of chocolate cake would be so good right now.

Who doesn’t have chocolate cake at a birthday party?

I had been obsessing over this cake for hours. And because it was lemon, I didn’t want it.

I could resist.


Until . . .

. . . this girl at the party made this cake, homemade!

At her home, from scratch.

This wasn’t store-bought!

It took about 90 seconds of the birthday girl and the cake baker extraordinaire asking why I don’t want any of this special homemade super secret family recipe birthday cake before I started shoveling in a sympathy piece.

I didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings.

I left the party in a panic.

I could barely drive. I had vowed that I would not eat anymore sweets until I got to my target weight– the weight I thought I needed to be for people to love me.


What the bleep did I do?!!!!!

And now the last, final dessert of my life wasn’t even something I enjoyed. I felt like erasing history. How could I be so stupid? I ruin everything.

I pulled into the gas station by the 134 on-ramp.

My hands were shaking as I bought a two-pack of hostess cupcakes.

This should do the trick.

I wasn’t yet back into my car before eating the first cupcake as fast as I could.

There, like nothing ever happened. It’s as if I had a dessert that I actually enjoyed. Now I can start over.

I looked around the gas station. I’d hate for someone from the party to catch me eating cupcakes in my car.

No one is around. I’m safe.

I’ll save the other cupcake.

I can do that.


No, I can’t do that.

Instead I’ll cry, silent tears while I eat it. Fat, silent tears. Alone tears. At a gas station in Glendale, CA, eating a gas station cupcake, with gas station tears streaming down my gas station face.

The race home begins.

I. Cant. Get. Home. Fast. Enough.

I know what must be done.

I have to stick my finger down my throat really far and many, many times to get the food to come up. I’m not a natural at bulimia. I don’t have a great gag reflex.

I cried the whole time until the food was out, and the relief washed over me.

Getting it out of my body felt really good. I could erase my mistake.

I sat alone, on the floor of my bathroom in my one-bedroom apartment in Studio City, mascara streaks covering my face.

Silent and still, I held myself.


No, I can’t keep doing this.

I won’t be a prisoner to this anymore.

I can’t live my life like this.

I have a life, and I want to live it.


I thought of my future family and how I would be responsible for feeding others, caring for others, and teaching others how to care for their own bodies.

I needed to know how to care for mine.

This was my journey to creating my body blueprint.

The next step of my journey is to help you create yours.