Everything Is Possible

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.

I’ve always had an unusual heart—and not just because it’s on the right side of my chest! I feel things intensely, and I love fiercely—much more than most people. For me, there is no wishy-washy “I love you, I love you not.” When I love, it’s with every fiber of my being. I’m in it 110 percent, and I don’t know how to do it any other way. Sometimes this tsunami of emotions scares people off: it’s too much, too deep, too fast. There was a time when I actually prayed to God to take away these feelings. Why? Because it hurt. It hurt to have someone not reciprocate. It hurt to love and then lose that love when the expectations I set were too high. For the longest time, I assumed everyone felt like I did. But I learned the hard way, that’s not always the case.

I met my first real love, Dave, at Camp Illiana, the church camp I mentioned previously, when I was twelve. We barely spoke to each other that first summer, but he wrote me a letter shortly after. I couldn’t remember exactly who he was (there were two Daves at camp), so I didn’t respond. But for some reason, right before camp the next year, I remembered the letter, dug it out, and sent him an email. We agreed we’d meet up in line at registration. He told me he had blond hair and blue eyes, was about six feet tall, and would be wearing a baseball cap.

I remember waiting in line, glancing to my left, and noticing this cute guy walking by. I did a double take and realized he met the description perfectly. It was Dave! He recognized me and walked back to where I was sitting. The chemistry was instantaneous, and I think I stared a little too long. But I couldn’t help it. He had the biggest smile, a goofy personality, and was an amazing athlete (the first in my pattern of dating athletes). He played basketball and tennis and ran cross-country. Also, like me, he was a hugger.

We spent that entire first week of camp together—every event, every meal. We sat next to each other in worship, and he was so much taller than I was, which I loved. But I always felt a little weird and embarrassed when everyone else stood up and I couldn’t—it made the words on the screen hard to see. One day he noticed I was uncomfortable and did the sweetest thing: he stayed seated next to me. He never seemed to care what others thought—just that I was happy.

In only a couple of days, I was full-blown over the moon about him. I knew he was too shy to ever ask me out, so if I wanted things to go anywhere, I was going to have to put on my big-girl panties and just do it! I remember telling one of my friends in the dorm all about him, and she suggested I write him a letter, putting all my thoughts and feelings out there. His letter, after all, had started our whole attraction. What did I have to lose? So I wrote to him. I was 100 percent open and honest with exactly how I felt about him. I told him I loved spending time with him and confessed that my stomach got butterflies whenever he was around. Then I folded up the letter into a small square, wrote his name on top, and gave it to him that night before heading back to my cabin to sleep. This way, I reasoned, he’d have the night to read it, think about it, and then respond in the morning. I was anxious all night, tossing and turning. But I also knew no matter what his response was, not saying anything and always wondering “what if?” would have been worse.

I was up before everyone the next day and the first one in the shower room. I couldn’t wait to get to the dining hall and find Dave. When I did, he had the biggest smile on his face, with those perfect teeth and adorable dimples. He said he couldn’t believe how honest and bold I was. He never would have had the courage to tell me how he felt, which, it turned out, was exactly the same way I did.

Just like that, we became an item. Things could not have been more perfect. We were exactly six weeks apart in age (I was older), both just about to turn fourteen, and lived a little more than an hour away from each other. After camp ended, our parents would drive us to see each other every weekend. We met at an Amish barn called Dinky’s Auction Center about fifteen minutes from Dave and about an hour from us. It had a huge wraparound porch with chairs and benches, and we could have a little alone time there. It’s actually the place we shared our first kiss. We had been hanging out for a while, flirting and chatting, and he had his arm around me and was looking into my eyes.

“And this would be where you kiss me,” I said, teasing him. When he did, it was like the Fourth of July at Disney World—insane fireworks. Our parents soon became good friends, and Janice, his mom, became best friends with my mom, so we’d often go on family trips together. For the longest time, it was “Jen & Dave,” and we were so in love with everything about each other. For my fourteenth birthday, he bought me a gold ring with two diamonds. I was floored and never took it off. He was the first person I slow danced with at a school dance while wearing my prosthetics, looking deeply into his eyes. He told me if I would rather not wear them, he’d dance on his knees! At first I was mortified. “OMG, what are you doing?” But then I finally just caved in and let him do it.

Dave and I broke up the next year, and to say I was devastated would be a massive understatement. He was my first love, my first dating experience. He was the first boy I ever confessed my love to. It was the kind of love that is so pure and raw and exposed, the way you love before you’ve been hurt or jaded in other relationships. It was the kind of love where you hold nothing back and put every single ounce of your being into it. That was when I realized I didn’t love like most people. I was so young, but I loved with such intensity and depth that when that love was gone, it took part of me with it. If you ask me why we broke up, I can’t really put my finger on one reason. He was always more logical and analytical, the ying to my yang. He was a star athlete all through high school, received a full-ride academic scholarship to college, and landed a great job with the Ford Motor Company before he even graduated.

Although our romance faded, we maintained a very strong friendship for more than ten years. He was tough to get over. There will never be another Dave in my life, and I will always have a special place in my heart for him and will cherish all the memories we made together.

I went out on a lot of dates after Dave and I broke up, but only two or three of those men would I have actually called my boyfriend. My last boyfriend was especially different from the rest. We had a deep emotional connection, but our relationship ended abruptly. I was heartbroken on a new level. It felt as though someone had physically knocked the wind out of me. He was a solid artist and a solid Christian, and we connected on so many levels. After a year of being intensely in each other’s lives, our relationship came crashing down, despite all my prayers to God that He “fix” it. So when it couldn’t be fixed, who did I blame? Not myself, not my ex, but God. I remember saying for the first time, “I am so angry at You, God. Why would You allow this to happen to me?” I prayed for some explanation, but it didn’t come. Most girls break up with a boyfriend and get over it. For me, there was no easy getting over it. Weeks and months passed before I finally realized something: God didn’t owe me an explanation. Sometimes He’s simply protecting us, and we have to trust that there is a lesson to be learned.

A year later, I finally had closure and could see the experience for what it truly was: a test of my faith. God wanted me to continue to grow in love—for Him and for others. I see it as a journey, the same way I view the rest of my life. Eventually, I will arrive at where I’m supposed to be. Eventually, I will find a man who is everything I’m looking for. I know I will, because I’ve come very close. My last boyfriend was such a beautiful Christian man. Six foot three, 230 pounds, strong and gentle at the same time. Not only was he respectful and romantic, but at Thanksgiving, he and my mom stood side by side as he helped her wash dishes. Ladies, guys like this do exist.

So yes, I’m an eternal optimist. I believe love exists for everyone if you’re willing to put yourself out there. If you’re willing to be open, honest, and vulnerable and to lay all the cards on the table, you’ll find it. What is the alternative? To harden your heart and not let someone in? To never take the risk because you fear rejection? If something is worth having, then it’s worth fighting for. I love in a way that I want to be loved. I love with faith that there is someone out there, ready and willing to welcome all I have to offer and also to return my love. I love knowing that when my heart feels broken and depleted, God will fill it up. He will lead me to opportunities and people that build me up again.

The word love can seem a little cliché. It’s definitely overused and underrated. But don’t doubt its power. I think Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. said it best: “Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.” I love (pun intended) that quote because, to me, love can tear down all boundaries, all enemies, all walls. It can heal a heart that refuses to be open to anyone or anything. It’s very easy to love someone when they love you back. But the real test of character comes from loving someone who seems “unlovable,” showing them kindness when they’re not capable of doing the same because they’re hurt, insecure, or afraid. When you respond to that person with support and compassion, you are allowing them to feel what it’s like to be accepted, respected, embraced. You change lives. You bring someone closer to God because He is love.

I think my philosophy about love comes from a variety of places. My parents taught me what love is, not just through their words but through their actions. Nothing I could have done or said would have made them stop loving me. They might have been disappointed and had to discipline me, but I knew at the end of the day that their love was unwavering.

For a kid who fought back tears at all costs, I was actually extremely sensitive and empathetic. I could never watch Bambi, The Fox and the Hound, or All Dogs Go to Heaven because the animals dying in those animated movies was just too overwhelmingly sad for me to handle.

“Jennifer, it’s a cartoon,” my brothers would tease me. But it didn’t matter. I would mentally put myself right in Bambi’s place and could not (still cannot) bear to see his mama die in the woods. Just thinking about it, I get all choked up!

My dad liked to watch the Discovery Channel’s wildlife stories—the ones where the animals hunt and kill each other, survival of the fittest. While my brothers gathered around the TV, mesmerized, I couldn’t be in the same room.

My parents were empathetic as well, but more so regarding people as opposed to mountain lions and animated deer. I remember once when a story came on the news about a family losing their home in a fire on Christmas. My family and I were all watching together, and a sad silence fell over our living room before my mom let out an anguished sigh. Our hearts went out to them, and we felt their pain in such a powerful, palpable way.

So in the Bricker house, my heart was encouraged to grow and grow. Animals weren’t the only objects of my affection. There was Mikey, my large baby troll with vibrant blue hair and a jewel in his belly button. Mikey had a whole wardrobe of clothes that I kept clean and unwrinkled. I combed his hair so it was out of his eyes. I carried him with me everywhere (otherwise he’d be lonely) and insisted he sit at the dinner table and be part of the family discussion. My parents didn’t discourage me—they thought it was wonderful that I could care so much. They were thrilled that I naturally had compassion for the world around me and all who inhabit it.

To this day, my friends will tease me. “Jen, you’re all about strength, but you’re really such a softie.” I am, and I’m proud of that fact. Sometimes I can feel another person’s pain as clearly as if it were my own. It’s something I remind myself to be conscious of. My dad would call it “taking a walk in someone’s shoes.” We’re so busy in our daily lives, caught up in our to-do lists and personal agendas, that it’s easy to become jaded, self-absorbed, or uncaring. But compassion is something to practice every day. It moves mountains. It erases anger, resentment, and prejudice, and it brings peace and forgiveness. It plants the seeds of change. It’s right there in the Bible in Galatians 6:2, which reads, “Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.” Acknowledging a person’s feelings is one of the most beautiful things you can do for another soul. Truly, it’s simple to say, “I hear you. I see what you’re going through. I’m sorry.” The first step in healing someone’s pain and suffering is being present. Some people think showing sympathy makes you weaker, but the opposite is true. It makes you stronger and wiser, and allows you to fully realize the deep connection that exists between all people, regardless of who they are or where they come from.

Gratitude is another way to show love. I’m not suggesting you go out and buy flowers and candy for everyone who’s ever been nice to you. Simply tell them, “I appreciate that you’re in my life.” Case in point: my friend Courtney Grant. That’s his name, but my family and I call him Grant. Grant came into my life in 2008, while I was living in Orlando. My roommate and I needed a third roommate in our apartment, and he was it. We instantly clicked. I was twenty and he was nineteen. We were both just starting our careers—he was modeling and I was performing. Just two young, broke “kids” trying to live our dreams. I knew I could always count on him. He’s a hard worker and a survivor, and God put us together for many reasons. I was able to give him the love he never had growing up, and he in return gave me a solid, lasting friendship.

I remember our first Thanksgiving together—we knew with our limited income it would be sparse. I never liked to tell my parents when I needed money because I didn’t want to burden or worry them. But Grant knew I’d be bummed if we didn’t do something traditional.

I came home that Thanksgiving evening after work to find a note on the door. It read:

I opened the door to find that Grant had moved our kitchen table into the middle of the living room. The lights were dim, candles were lit, and there was an entire Thanksgiving feast laid out just for us. I will never in my life forget that moment, and I will never forget that it came on Thanksgiving, a time when we show our gratitude and give thanks. It couldn’t have been more perfect.

Grant moved to LA a year after I did to pursue his modeling/acting career. I already had an apartment for us, ready and waiting. Since we first met, we’ve been penniless, lived together in two different states, and wanted to strangle each other on more than one occasion. We’ve laughed, we’ve cried, we’ve been through serious highs and lows with our bodies, our careers, our relationships. I know at the end of the day, if anything were to go wrong for me, Grant would be there in a heartbeat.

This book lets me show my gratitude to so many people who have been there for me in a big, 200-plus-page kind of way. But it doesn’t have to be that wordy! A simple thank-you will suffice. Count your blessings—that’s gratitude to God. I find that when I do, my perspective shifts from me, me, me and what I’m lacking to all the abundance He’s already shown me. When you’re ambitious (guilty as charged!), it’s a tricky road to walk. You want things, you desire things, you are driven to achieve things. Ambition is good—it fuels your passion and your purpose. But it’s not everything. It’s important to take stock of all the good in your life right here, right now. You can do it in a journal or in a prayer. You can do it in a simple phone call or by sending an email or text. When you do, there’s an instant lift in your life and your way of thinking. You’ll feel happier, healthier, and more optimistic when you take the time to be grateful.

Romantic love is not for the weak of heart. It’s not a matter of if you get hurt but a matter of when. Scientists actually say the pain we experience emotionally when a heart breaks is as strong as physical pain. So why do we put ourselves through it? Because we’re human. Because we crave someone to come home to, to confide in, to nurture, to wake up with, and to share our deepest secrets and dreams with. Because in every loss, there is also a gain. People often tell me they’ve given up on love, and I remind them that God makes beauty out of ashes. It’s what He’s in the business of doing. I believe that true, pure love is attainable. I believe someone is out there who will be loyal and dependable, and who will fight for me. He will be my warrior and my rock, my lover and my best friend. Maybe I’m naive, but I think love is magical. It’s one of the most powerful things you can experience here on this earth. The more we understand God and His love, the deeper we can love others. I don’t think humans ever reach a “love limit.” You have to hold out for the person you are head over heels for, all cylinders firing. You have to have faith that it is not only possible, but it’s also what God wants for you.

I have tried several times in my life to reopen doors that God has closed. I can almost hear Him telling me, “Jen, this guy is not meant for you. Stop trying to get him back.” It’s an unhealthy cycle, I know. But I’ve had to go through it to realize that God knows the beginning, the middle, and the end—even if I don’t. He loves me through all things, including my failures, my faults, and my heartbreaks. Psalm 147:3 tells us, “[God] heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.” And David knew that “the LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit” (Ps. 34:18). God wants us to take comfort in knowing that heartache is temporary—He’s on it! What He has in store for us is much better than we could ever imagine.

Heartbreak is different for everyone who experiences it. Sometimes it’s in the moment—as in my awful breakup. Sometimes it’s the weight of the past and a near lifetime of regret. My birth mother, Camelia, has had an extremely difficult time letting go of the heartbreak of giving me up for adoption. That loss consumed her for so long that it was difficult for her to see or speak to me without blaming herself and reliving that dark, painful period in her life. But like me, she’s a woman of great faith. Slowly, her heart is healing. We have a long way to go in our relationship, but God is working to make her whole again, to help her regain what she thought was lost forever. That’s the other great thing about real, true love: it never dies.

You can have a happy relationship—either friendship or romance—only if you love yourself first. When you don’t love yourself, what ends up happening is that you put all your expectations for happiness on another human being instead of on God—and that’s a recipe for disaster. Human beings are fragile and flawed. We disappoint and make mistakes. And how can you expect someone to love you for who you are if you don’t love and know yourself? How can you expect to be adored and appreciated when you look in the mirror and hate what you see? Again, it’s a simple equation: what you put out there equals what you get back. Love yourself and you will be lovable.

Of course, that’s easier said than done. I’ve had a lot of body issues to contend with. As a kid I hated my big, bulky arms, but things really escalated when I was twenty years old and twenty pounds heavier than I am now. I think the weight gain was due to the stress of being on my own, coupled with the fact that I had no idea how to eat healthy. My four basic food groups were Pasta Alfredo, pizza, pop, and fast food. Growing up, it didn’t seem much of an issue to be chubby. To be honest, most people where I’m from were at least a few pounds overweight. We eat fried food and corn bread, and we’re okay with it! But once I entered the entertainment world, I realized my body type was far from ideal. Everyone looked like chiseled Greek statues to me: rock-hard abs, sculpted arms and shoulders, buns you could bounce a quarter off of!

When I started training with Nate, we would meet up five days a week and train for two to three hours. I started reading health and nutrition books, trying to figure out how to think of food as fuel—not just something to fill my face with. One morning I woke up and noticed all my clothes were too big on me. I had lost fifteen pounds, but that was just the start.

In 2011, when I was living in LA, I had my first workout with my trainer, Eric Fleishman (“Eric the Trainer”). His specialty is body transformation, but in my case, it was a mental as well as physical change. He showed me what to eat and what not to eat: bye-bye pasta, rice, potatoes, and my favorite whole-wheat bagels topped with peanut butter and bananas! My first meal of the day became an egg-white omelet with half a can of tuna and half a cup of chopped veggies, topped with a spoonful of avocado and salsa. Most of the exercises we did were for the lower body—ironic for a girl with no legs! We did crunches, kick-ups, hydrants, and endless push-ups. I was worried it would make my arms bigger—always my pet peeve. But Eric promised it wouldn’t, and he was right. By age twenty-four, I’d lost thirty pounds, nearly five inches from my waist, and six inches off my hips. I was the leanest I’d ever been and living strong in a body I had thought would never be possible for me.

Soon after, enamored with my new body, I became obsessed with being and staying thin. When size 00 shorts were hanging off me, I wasn’t satisfied. I felt myself being dragged into a dangerous and dark downward spiral. I had body dysmorphic disorder (BDD), though I couldn’t admit it at the time. It’s self-loathing: your head just gets stuck on these negative thoughts about how you look and keeps playing them back to you like a scratched vinyl record. No matter how many people told me I looked great/fine/beautiful, I didn’t believe it and couldn’t see it. I would stare at myself in the full-length mirror in my bedroom, scrutinizing every angle, standing sideways, checking out my butt, pinching every inch of flesh. With each glance, I would tear myself apart. I was relentless and merciless: What’s that poof in my stomach? Does my face look rounder? Do I look fat? I started eating so little that my hair was thinning, my periods became irregular, and I was miserable. I didn’t go to parties or meet people in restaurants because I didn’t want to be tempted by food. Instead, I would meet them in a coffee shop so I could order just a cup of tea.

My friend Grant finally sat me down and gave me a stern talking to. “Jen, you’re too skinny,” he said. “You’ve lost your butt; you’ve lost your boobs. Your eyes are all sunken in! What are you doing to yourself? You have to stop!”

I was so defensive and angry. “Are you kidding me? Do you know how hard I’ve worked to look like this?” I didn’t talk to him for a few days until I realized he was 100 percent right. I wasn’t healthy. And worse than that, this false body image I’d created for myself—this impossible ideal—was stealing my light and my joy. I hadn’t been fully Jen for a long time, and I didn’t know how to get her back. I think that whole experience brought me much closer to God because I was so far down that I didn’t know how I would get up. I had to pray constantly and ask Him to help me find my way back.

I began with affirmations. I told myself, “You are not fat. You are beautiful in God’s eyes.” I let those words sink in. Finally, I challenged myself to go forty days without looking at my body in a mirror. I covered the full-length mirror in my bedroom with photos of things that made me happy: pictures of me doing gymnastics and of friends and family and home, articles about me in magazines. Suddenly that mirror stopped pointing a finger and instead became a symbol of all of God’s gifts. That giant collage brought me back to liking and loving myself and being grateful for the body I’m in. I’m still not going to let much junk food cross these lips, and I’m still going to work out hard—but I’m going to love what God created and not punish myself for failing to fit into a certain mold. I’d spent so much of my life trying to bust out of stereotypes, and here I was thinking I had to look and be a certain way.

I’m probably never going to look like anyone else, and that’s fine. I kind of like to stand out in a crowd.

Mr. Right Is Out There

I’ve made enough mistakes in my dating life to know now the things that do and don’t work for me. The perfect man for me is someone who is trustworthy, honest, sincere, and polite, and who calls instead of texts. He has a sense of humor and a sense of adventure. He doesn’t play mind games and respects my mind. He’s out there. I’ve always said I’ll be single for the rest of my life before I settle, but I know I won’t have to. My parents have given me one strong bit of advice on the subject (since then they’ve butted out): make sure the person you choose is someone you can sit and talk with, because when you’re retired, that’s what you do all day! They should know; they’ve been married forty-three years. Love can’t just be about that instant attraction (although that’s part of it). It has to be deeper. There needs to be not only chemistry but also a connection. I do believe in soul mates, and I have faith that God has one for me.