I’ve been home from New York for nearly a week now…and I’m still recovering. Emotionally. Physically.

It was a much needed trip to add some normalcy to our otherwise ‘school, work, doctor’ routine. It was a much needed trip to remind me that I am more than my illness and I am capable of greatness even with this illness.

But most importantly, it reminded me of how far we’ve come.

This carefree couple that haphazardly ended up together in the oddest of ways, never fully believing what we were doing until we were so far in we couldn’t imagine life any other way. From the highest of highs to the lowest of lows and everything in between. I was content to just have some time in a quiet hotel room with my best friend, spending more than a few minutes without being interrupted by the need for more chocolate milk or help with a video game.

And then returning home with a thud, as most vacations do, to absent chauffeurs and delayed flights and kids in need of extra attention and cars breaking down and doctors delivering treatment and news of what a simple flight across the country does to my body.

But we did it. And we had fun. And I managed to remind myself OF myself while there. The self he fell in love with that I am fighting to bring back through all this bullshit piled on us. Just being capable of doing it helped me reach an arm out and break through- grabbing him and holding tight.

He’s still here. I’m still here.

NYC, I thank you, even if you battered me a bit. As my doctor said…’these numbers are nothing compared to the smile I see on your face. Next time I’ll send you for longer!’

I will admit it: I’m a blog snob.

Those silly fashion blogs? Pfffft. So long as they don’t take over the political news of the day, or the REAL news (as I stand tall and like to remark) then fine, they can have a headline or two. But they aren’t important and are fluff and as far as I’m concerned have no place getting higher ratings or more coverage than what I consider to be more important- real news.

So when the BlogHer team asked me to be a model in the first EVER BlogHer fashion show this year at BlogHer ’12 in New York, I had to laugh.

Hard.

Not only was I being asked to participate in a space I had very little respect for, but I was struggling with coming to terms with a body that is not my own. One I have written about time and time again since I began steroid treatment for Lupus. The dramatic shift from my 119lbs self to my now steroid induced 219lbs self has been life changing. Nearly as life changing as the disease trying to kill me.

The truth of the matter is I have not felt beautiful, or even comfortable, in a long time. 18 months, to be exact. I’ve learned to shop in the plus sized section, and cry when things even there didn’t fit.

I sobbed uncontrollably when all I wanted to hear from those I love was “you are beautiful no matter what” – which was said early on but after so long that sort of talk seems frivolous. Ok so I haven’t heard it in 15 months, to be exact. Not because they don’t love me, but because it seems unimportant in the sea of things going on. Treatment, medication, plans of action. My appearance should be the least of anyone’s worries and it would be insulting to even bring it up. Vain maybe. And down right stupid.

But as it turns out, you notice and remember things when you don’t recognize the person looking back at you in the mirror. You crave to know you are still beautiful to those who love you, if not in words, than in a kiss on the forehead or an arm around the waist. But that waist is now double in size. The forehead round and moon shaped from the drugs, and I certainly wasn’t feeling worthy of a kiss.

That’s not the Erin I know. But I was cutting her some slack, considering the hell we were going through.

Everyone treats you differently as a big girl too. Everyone. My kids love “squishy” Mommy. In fact they want to make sure I don’t lose ALL the weight I have gained as I diet because they insist some squish remain for cuddle time.

Then I realized how the outside world treats larger people. They aren’t nearly as nice to me as they used to be. At first I was angry, I wanted to wear a big sign that said “I AM ON A STEROID THAT SAVED MY LIFE THIS IS WHY I AM FAT.” And then I got even more angry, realizing that no one deserves to be treated differently simply based on looks and size. From those of us here involuntarily to those beautiful women born with curves to people who just are who they are.

So I said yes to being a model. Because my self-esteem needed a boost, I knew I had to learn about other blog communities, and most importantly, I wanted to show the world every size, shape, and sass of a woman is beautiful.

But could I really do it? Could I walk a runway in front of hundreds in New York knowing full well I’d be in tears and hating the body I’m supposed to show off and love? Would it be a big lie?

No. No. I could do it. I just had to believe. I had to believe, I had to get comfortable in this body of mine, and I had to own who I am now. OWN IT.

So with that thought in my mind, and some nudging from some people reminding me that others like me might be inspired and get that “you are beautiful” comment they too have been waiting for…I said yes.

Flash forward to rehearsals, fittings, hair, make up, shape wear discussions, stretch mark discussions, bra discussions, heels or flats, order of models,  how to walk, how many beats to count before posing…and on and on and on.

And at every point I wanted to bail. To run out of this thing that put butterflies in my stomach. Would the community think this was lame? Would anyone believe I was beautiful and model worthy? Would they see all the hard work and diversity of women of every stripe and say “that is awesome” or would they say “where are the supermodels?”

And I stood on the steps off the stage, music blaring, and knew there was no turning back. I was told that if I could do it, maybe next year another woman afraid to show her cancer scars might say yes too. Maybe, just maybe, a blogger who feels like the ugly duckling due to a birth defect will volunteer and say “ME NEXT!”

And I closed my eyes, and I counted my beats, and I believed, for the first time in so long, that I truly was beautiful. I believed what I had always written and told my daughter- it’s not what is outside, it’s what is inside that makes you pretty. My inside has sass, and silly, and attitude, and  power. POWER enough to be winning against a disease that kills. Power enough to be humbled by the “fluff” bloggers who I realize not only work hard, but work super hard to show every woman is beautiful, fighting the stereotype that you need to be a tall, skinny, white, blonde female to be the ideal.

They taught me everyone is the ideal woman, and I most certainly was welcome in their ranks. Not everything needs news and politics, but everything DOES need beauty.

So for every woman who isn’t society’s usual cover girl… I stepped on stage, walked to my mark, and soaked in what I KNEW was already there: family and friends who love me for me. And who all taught me EVERYONE in this community and beyond has an equally important voice. Because that voice gave me the confidence to return to who I really am.

And I am beautiful.

*With special thanks to 6pm, Elizabeth Arden, Paul Mitchell, Monif C , and Marc Jacobs. And the wonderful team at Zappos.com. Fashion show guru Kathryn Finney and her amazing team. Photo caught by Kelly Cheatle. See more at Blogher.com.

The kids cried last night as my husband and I put them to bed. Cried because they were tired. Cried because they are kids. But cried mostly because we were leaving, while they slept, for New York.

This will be our longest trip ever away from the children. And our first since everything in our home has changed. Life operates differently with Mom not working, and undergoing treatment for Lupus. Cuddles are a nighttime ritual. Therapy for worries, a new childhood experience.

I explained to the children how important this trip was for me, and for our family. It means that I am getting better. And this trip is a big step in testing to see what my body can handle…and what it can not.

While I am very excited to speaking at BlogHer ’12, to be staying longer in New York than planned so that I may be a guest on the new Katie Couric show, and to travel on a plane-cross country no less- I’m also very much feeling what my children were feeling last night…

Fear.

I’m pushing many of the what if’s out of my head because I know that my body is ready. My doctor is confident and he wouldn’t have let me travel if he weren’t. This doesn’t mean I can handle this often yet, or even that I will be anywhere near full strength soon. But this is a step. A big step. And one I had hoped would make the children feel more secure, make me feel more confident.

Instead this morning my hands shook as I tried to take my pills with a glass of water, and I nearly called off the entire thing before we walked out the door. And nearly called it off again as we drove to the airport.

Yet here I sit, on the plane, blogging from the sky and trying to muster the old Erin that usually emerges right about now.

I’m just so determined to beat this, so determined to NOT go backwards, so determined to never cause the kids or my husband another thought of fear or pain that even taking this trip has me rethinking everything I do. Everything I am. Everything I WANT to be.

I’ve been doing my best to take those baby steps at home, from home, that feel comfortable and natural and don’t disrupt the worries of the household. I’m so proud to have been asked to blog for the President’s re-election.

And I’m proud to be doing more around the house, slowly, steadily, and with great care.

I just wish I could shake this weight in my chest over this trip and all it’s implications. So many fantastic opportunities, so many chances to relapse.

So if you see me in New York, and I’m not entirely myself, please don’t take any offense. I currently have a one track mind that includes keeping my voice and hands steady, my head held high, and a fierce determination to turn around and go home if my body says it’s time-regardless of what opportunities I miss.

The crying children I left behind, and the man who accompanies me and has stood by my side through this hell deserve that much. In fact, they deserve much more.

I’m in control, even through my tears, and I will NOT go backwards.

FORWARD.