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the struggle is real. FIGHT.
I don't think people truly understand why I write. How can they, when I'm not always sure of the reason myself.
I never wanted to be a writer. There were many things I've wanted to be:
Oceanographer
Lawyer
Surface Warfare Officer
President
Doctor
Artist
Entrepreneur
Forensic Accountant
Professor
All of these careers were--at one time or another--a passionate dream within me. These lofty goals drove me to be my best. Unfortunately, they often got the best of me.
But writing? That one never made it anywhere near the list. Maybe that's a good thing. Since my aspirations have a tendency to ultimately become my downfall, it's better that this remains a hobby.
I've had people tell me a variety of things about my writing. And my life, for that matter.
Mostly, they say that I'm lucky. Which floors me. Lucky? I'm sitting in 12-step meetings because I'm lucky? Signing myself into treatment for the gazillionth time because I'm lucky? Seriously? You call this luck?
I can think of one situation in particular. A young woman was confiding in me after a meeting. She spoke of her struggles and the life-changing decisions that she was now faced with. I shared with her my own experiences and she shook her head. She told me we were different. Told me that I'm lucky my life crumbled in the spotlight. That I didn't have to hide my struggle because people saw it firsthand. It was justified. Understandable. Accepted as a cruel twist in the plot that was my life. She called that luck.
I don't know whether or not she's right. There is some truth to her statement. She made an undeniable observation. One that caused me to think. For months now I've been thinking. Turning her words over in my mind. In my heart.
They say that secrets keep you sick. My life fell apart in such a way that there really were no secrets. No hiding the destruction. And maybe that was a gift. With nothing to hide, I was able to heal. But there's always something to hide. Even in the spotlight there are costumes, masks, and makeup. I'm certainly guilty of trying to act my way through life's great tragedies. Yet still, she had a point.
With my luck comes a responsibility. My struggle is accepted by many. At times it is even respected. Yet there are many who hide their struggles. They are ashamed and embarrassed. They feel their struggle is not justified. That there is no satisfactory evidence for the legitimacy of their struggle. They think they don't deserve support. They feel unworthy of help. Of healing. Of freedom from their struggle.
No more.
I don't care what your struggle is. Wether it involves drugs, alcohol, food, pornography, perfectionism, codependency, grief, or any other form of oppression. Your struggle is real. It is valid. It is unique and sad and hard. Man, is it hard.
You might not see the luck in your struggle. And that's ok. But at the end of the day, you have 2 choices: give up or fight. I challenge you to fight.
I'm currently running a Teespring campaign. I've designed a shirt that can be purchased in 3 variations: short-sleeved (grey for $15), long-sleeved (black for $18), and a hoodie (hot pink for $25). The shirt was inspired by the countless people I've encountered who've decided to fight in the midst of their struggle. People like you.
I'm hoping the luck that has allowed me to reach people through my writing will help bring awareness to a worthy cause. That it's ok to struggle. That mental illness is nothing to be ashamed of. That you are justified and accepted in your struggle. And that you have the power to fight.
The profit line is small on this campaign. Half of the funds raised will be donated to organizations that provide healing environments for those who struggle with life-controlling issues. The other half will be put toward the development of this website so that more individuals can come to know that they are not alone in their struggle.
I encourage you to become part of a movement. Visit www.teespring.com/reali and order your shirt today! The shirts will be printed and delivered in time for National Eating Disorders Awareness Week (February 22-28, 2015), but know that they were not designed solely for this event. The shirt is representative of both my struggle and yours.
Thank you for your support of this cause!
If Only You Could See
It's funny how I can go a whole day receiving no texts, Facebook messages, or phone calls...then get bombarded when I sit down to paint my nails. I mean giving yourself a manicure is hard enough, people. Try doing so while engaging in 3 conversations at once...all while watching a movie. It takes talent.
But I would never let those conversations sit unanswered. I can't.
Suddenly, I'm transported to a time at Mercy. My hardest week there. Without a doubt. We were blessed with the opportunity to share 2 days with a woman who had just released a book. She spoke with us and shared the most vulnerable pieces of her own story. She challenged us. It was during the second morning of her visit that I received earth-shattering news. I couldn't stop sobbing. All day I cried like I've never cried before. My counselor sat next to me while the speaker taught. At one point in her teaching, the woman looked up and her eyes pierced my soul. "You," she said. "You have a soft heart."
More tears. Where were they coming from, anyway?
Maybe it's my soft heart that overwhelms me with empathy and compassion when my phone blows up with messages from the hurting. Those yearning for someone to listen. With a love for these women who want to share their lives with me.
My Dearest Sister,
You are beautiful. If only you could see.
See the flawless features of your face. Your captivating personality. Your laugh. Oh, how seldom you laugh. But when you do, it's glorious. It fills a room. Like your smile. Your real smile. Not the one you put on for the world, but the one that comes from a peace. A peace that's so elusive. I see the way you strain. You twist and turn and grasp and cry. If only you could see how close it was. A state of rest. The one you so deeply crave. The one you deserve, despite your doubts. If only you could see.
See that you are not alone. That even as I speak to you, there are 3 others doing the same. Expressing their state of brokenness. Their shame. Their hopelessness. Their disappointment in what they've become. You are not alone in your desperation. In your struggle. See the anger in my eyes. The fire in my heart that burns with rage at the evil one who crushes your spirit and those of the ones I love. If only you could see the lies. That you have been deceived. Oh how my heart breaks for you. For us. If only you could see.
See that the world is more than a shadow. That you are more than skin and bones and blood coursing through your veins. You have a heart. A beautifully intricate heart filled with unique passion. Talent beyond your comprehension. You are an all-consuming radiant being. Carefully crafted by an Almighty God. If only you could see that "complicated" meant complex, not tormented. Intricate in the most compelling way. If only you could see.
See the light that is your life. The darkness that would fill the world if you were not in it. The richness you bring to the lives of those who love you. See that you are loved. Not for what you do. For who you are. See that perfection is a myth. One that torments lovely women like you. The trap. Oh, the trap that leads to death. Darkness. See that grace covers everything. That you are enough. Now. In this moment. If only you could see.
See that you are where you're supposed to be. That you are fulfilling God's will for your life in the present. I see your yearning. The way you punish yourself and wonder. Oh, your restless heart. It searches and searches and searches for answers. The fear. The fear that you are not where you're supposed to be. That you made a wrong choice. That you're on the right path. See, sister. See! That every choice was a right one. That you are always in God's presence. Even in this season. If only you could see.
See the end of the story. The one that culminates in the ultimate victory. The crown upon your head. See that you are a princess; a daughter of the King. Oh, the beauty of your character. The loveliness of your heart. The purity of your spirit. That it's okay to yearn for more. That you were never meant to be satisfied here. That you were created for a different world. A better one. If only you could see.
See, my sister. We are blind to the truth of our identities, yet we see it so clearly in others. Believe, my sister. That these words are true for you. That you are beautiful. Brilliant. Radiant. Unique. Priceless. That you are not alone. Oh, if only you could see. That the stories you hear are rare. Embellished. Edited and revised to convince you that you are not enough. If only you could see my heart behind this letter. That your story...your doubts...your loneliness...your shame...your restlessness...it is universal in a way that is devastating. If only you could see.
See yourself in the mirror. See the glow. See yourself surrounded by your sisters. Feel the love you have for one another and...for a moment...have compassion on yourself. Let your love for others reflect in your own eyes. See the truth and not the lies. See the beauty within yourself.
See, my sister. See.
Maybe They’re The Crazy Ones
She laughed at me.
I didn't crack a smile.
Half a second later she stopped, suddenly realizing that this was not a joke. I was serious.
It was that time of the week. The time when I meet with a staff member for a "check-in." She asks me about my week, goes down a list of questions, then asks me to set three goals. Some check-ins last longer than others. This was one of the longer ones.
Impulsive was the only word I could use to describe how I'd been feeling, but I knew it was wrong. My definition of impulsive didn't match the world's. I wasn't spending massive amounts of money or engaging in risky behavior per se.
I was raw with emotion; wearing it on my sleeves. My filter had vanished. I was recklessly truthful. I laid it all on the table. To me, this was impulsive. It was different from anything I'd ever done.
She asked me a question. One I hadn't considered. "Is this impulsivity positive or negative?" Like I said, I hadn't really considered it. I had assumed it was bad. I mean that's what the world tells us, right? Being impulsive is bad?
For a moment I considered the idea that my behavior was neither good nor bad; merely different. It screamed in the face of the secrets, manipulation, lies, and deceit that had sabotaged my treatment for the last 3 months. My impulsivity was an act of defiance against my eating disorder, which I had considered a friend. So yes, it felt bad.
I thought they'd look at me like I was crazy if I tried to describe this unique feeling of impulsiveness. I thought they'd panic. They'd think I was getting worse and raise the alarm--who knew where I'd be next week. I didn't expect them to call it growth. Progress. Maybe they're the crazy ones.
It was towards the end of my check-in when she laughed and my impulsivity shattered the glass room in which every one of our previous conversations had taken place. I was no longer predictable and compliant. I think it took her by surprise. It sure did catch me off guard.
I had listed my first 2 goals for the week and she asked me for a third. "I want to finish my Christmas cards."
Laughter. Her laughter would have crushed me last week. But not today.
"Hey. I'm serious, ok? I ordered my Christmas cards in November. They're the really awesome kind with pictures of Skylar and I from throughout the year. But I couldn't even bring myself to do anything with them until just this past week. I practically missed Christmas to my depression this year. So yes, we're halfway through January. And yes, the cards say 'Merry Christmas'. But I don't care. I bought the cards and I finally found joy in preparing them and I'm going to mail them this week. So write it down."
It was then that I realized my impulsivity was not something to be feared. Her laughter allowed me to answer that question for myself. I could feel energy flowing through my body again. I was engaging with people, my environment, my dreams. I had leapt off the sidelines and into the game. I was out of practice; it was exhausting. But it was exhilarating.
I could tell she was thoroughly horrified by her own foolish laughter. She offered an unnecessary apology. Her reaction was innocent and I like her too much to hold a grudge. When she saw that I was not hurt by her laughter, she smiled. "Thank you," she said. "You spoke up. You found your voice and used it. You called me out and stood up for yourself. You taught me something. Look at you."
I felt alive. Empowered. Hopeful. Courageous. Challenged. Vulnerable. All at the same time.
I no longer feared myself, my growth, or my journey. I chose to run with it. To be swept up in the whirlwind. To lead a recklessly radical quest for life and purpose. Not next year. Not after treatment. Not tomorrow. Today.
The Perfect Oatmeal
I've written several serious posts recently and I decided it was time for something a little bit more lighthearted.
When recovering from an eating disorder, it is very easy to get stuck in a rut. We go through meals like robots. Our minds still perform countless calculations a minute as we strategically compose our meals to fit the "plan."
It doesn't matter what treatment center you go to; the plan is complicated. Whether you call them exchanges or items, the does and don'ts of a meal plan can be overwhelming. So we simplify it and then we stick to it. Some of us get stuck eating the same breakfast every day...the same lunch every day...the same snack every day. You get the idea.
When such a pattern catches the attention of your dietitian, you are likely to see a sheet of paper stapled to your food logs. A list of 20 different sandwiches you could make. A chart full of different snack options. Pictures of 7 different breakfast ideas.
It can actually be quite helpful. Even for people without eating disorders.
I received one such list (ok, ok...all of the lists). But one of the breakfast ideas actually caught my interest: overnight oats. If you haven't heard, it's a serious thing these days. The general idea is that you soak oats in milk and/or yogurt overnight. The next morning you can add pretty much anything your little heart desires. Google "overnight oats" or look it up on Pinterest and you will be overwhelmed with the countless recipes. You almost don't know where to begin.
But I have 2 issues with the overnight oats craze:
It is not very yummy to eat overnight oats cold. The recipe my dietitian gave me did not say whether or not to heat the oats up the next morning, so I had to Google it. In my research I discovered that most recipes instruct you to eat your overnight oats cold. Ew. I tried, folks. I like to do things the "right" way, but this just wasn't going to happen. I caved and threw my oats in the microwave. Now they're delicious. I don't care if it's wrong; I will always microwave my overnight oats.
The whole mason jar thing. Nearly EVERY picture you see of overnight oats displays the oats with all their glorious toppings carefully placed in a mason jar. They're beautiful. Who wouldn't want to eat the stuff? Except you can't. Ok? Really. Look at one of those pictures and think about it. The only way to actually eat the stuff (and not just drool over how perfect it looks) is to eat the toppings first, then eat the cold oats. The opening of the mason jar makes it impossible to stir everything together without making a mess and loosing half the toppings on the kitchen floor. It doesn't make any sense.
I'm not going to give you a recipe because there are already plenty out there. I have nothing unique to offer you ingredient wise. I will, however, reveal my secret to the perfect overnight oats:
Forget the mason jar. Fix your oats in a tupperware container, then dump them in a regular boring bowl before adding your ingredients the next morning.
Microwave your oats before eating them. One minute should do the trick.
Your tummy will thank you.
Have you ever fixed overnight oats?
Do you eat them hot or cold?
Share your favorite recipe!
This Time Around
I knew it would happen. Still, I wasn't prepared.
I've spent a lot of my past in eating disorder treatment. When I agreed to this intensive outpatient program, I knew the chance of seeing someone from my past admissions was high. I was right; one of the IOP dietitians was a familiar face.
"You had a good run this time around," she said.
I didn't want a good run, I wanted a good life.
The words cut me to the core.
I swore I'd never go back there again. I had been set free. Jesus broke the chains of my eating disorder back at Mercy. I claimed His victory over my life. His light had cast out the darkness.
But the chains had dragged me into depression yet again. I was back at the very place I had worked so hard to escape.
I had failed.
No wonder it took me so long to admit to a relapse. It was shameful. It was embarrassing.
I had disappointed so many. My family. My friends. Mercy. God. Myself.
...or so I thought...
Anyone who has struggled with mental illness or addiction will tell you. We all see and hear the stories of those who surrender their lives to God and are instantaneously transformed. They no longer crave their substance or turn to their addiction as a coping mechanism. The darkness is shattered with light. Their transformation is radical. Captivating. The miracle is undeniable.
We yearn to experience recovery in such a way, yet the truth is most do not. We think there's something wrong with us. We wonder where we strayed. We torment ourselves with guilt. With shame. As if our struggle isn't enough, we condemn ourselves for our humanity.
The world we live in is full of polar opposites. Right and wrong. Black and white. Good and evil. There is no middle ground.
Some chant the words, "Once an addict, always an addict." But say this phrase in a church and you will likely come under attack. "Jesus can set you free," they say.
"Your addiction is not your identity."
"The struggle is real."
"Surrender control."
"Fight for your life."
"Embrace your weaknesses."
"Stay strong."
My spirit is torn in 2 trying to decide whether to struggle, surrender, fight...be strong or weak. And it doesn't matter what I decide. Any choice results in failing to fulfill the others. I will always come under attack. Every choice is wrong.
Yet if I have any shot at recovery, I cannot stay where I am. I must choose to move in a direction. And any direction will do at this point.
So this is what I know to be true. I am not anorexic; I have anorexia. I am not depressed; I have depression. My identity is not in a diagnosis, but in Jesus.
He HAS set me free. I still struggle. These 2 statements CAN coexist. Although one can demolish the other, it does not always do so. One gives purpose and the other serves one. I cannot deny either.
The world demands that we step into the black or the white. Rarely are we allowed to place both feet in the grey and stay. Confidently. It takes something special to do so.
We hear the perfect testimony and we immediately see the massive miracle of redemption. We look at ourselves and we see only flaws. But there are miracles within each of us. Grace invades our lives every day. Inviting us into another chance. We are not set free to live perfect lives. We will struggle. We are set free to struggle WELL.
I DID have a good run, and I WILL have others. Combined with the bumpy roads, my runs will comprise what ultimately becomes a good life. Of this I am sure.
Tomorrow’s Great Story
I should have stopped at 2. Surgeries, that is. 2 hip surgeries per saga. 3 is just too many.
I'm not going to blame my relapse on my hip injury. Actually, I might. I think I'm entitled to that.
I first injured my hip exactly 10 years ago. I had 3 surgeries over the course of a year. The third one broke me. I had no idea what was happening to me. My world spun out of control. I eventually withdrew from school and dove into a rather extensive eating disorder treatment process.
By the grace of God and a place called Mercy Ministries, I've walked in recovery for 2 years.
But the last year-and-a-half has involved another 3 hip surgeries. When I found out about the last one, I knew that I had to be vigilant. My body and mind were growing weak. I was tired. I knew that I would have to be emotionally strong to remain in recovery. I thought this awareness would save me.
It didn't.
The surgeries aren't to blame. I know that. But they do have a tendency to create an environment ripe for relapse.
I can't tell you when it began. The eating disorder is a chameleon. It blends in with its surroundings. You grow comfortable with it sitting in the room because you hardly even recognize its presence. Then it starts to move. It shows itself. But you're not afraid because it's familiar. With an eating disorder you are never alone.
When your life starts crumbling beneath you, the eating disorder is a comfort. It offers control. Satisfaction. Security. Success. It's reliable.
My body was failing me. Again. For 10 years my body has failed me. Repeatedly. I have the scars to prove it. I've done everything they've told me to and still...still I spend most days in pain. Only my eating disorder allows me to have some sort of say over how my body performs. It's twisted, I know. But it's true.
I recognized the chameleon in September. He'd grown far too large and active to ignore. I thought that I had "caught it early." I started an intensive outpatient program in October with the intention of finishing treatment in 6 weeks. It's now January. You do the math.
I'm going to go ahead and pat myself on the back because I was able to recognize that there was a problem and I asked for help. I never would have done that 3 years ago. I'm all about progress. But I think I did myself a disservice in the process. I tried to convince myself that all I needed was a quick tune-up. I recoiled when people used the word "relapse." I refused to identify with the term. I had forgotten how rapidly the eating disorder deceives and destroys. There's nothing quick or easy about recovery.
Even though I'd asked for help and agreed to treatment, I was still in denial. I had relapsed and I could not begin the process of recovery until I recognized and acknowledged it.
On Wednesday, December 3rd, I watched a girl fall apart in IOP and I was suddenly faced with the paralyzing truth of where I had allowed the eating disorder to take me. When I got home that night, I wrote this short but meaningful passage in my journal:
“Seeing the pain in someone else makes you realize the pain inside of you. Your perfect world comes crashing down around you. You realize that you’re not just sitting in the audience anymore. You’re a player in some great tragedy. The story you’ve been watching is yours. We tell ourselves we saw it coming. Or that it took us by surprise. Either way we’re wrong. The plot’s alive and it keeps us guessing, but it’s always in line with the story. Think about all of the great novels out there. They’re full of anger, pain, and sadness. Pain is unique to the human experience. As much as we love joy, it’s pain that lets us know we’re alive. So when I feel a deep, heart-wrenching pain, I remember that every decent character does. I’m just fulfilling my role in one of tomorrow’s great stories.”
December was rough. Once I acknowledged my relapse, there was a lot to work through. There still is. But the depression is lifting. The meal plan is a little bit easier to follow. I laugh. I experience motivation. I'm feeling hopeful again.
I'm sorry that I wasted 2 months trying to deny my obvious relapse. I've lost a lot. Some things I won't be able to get back. It makes me sad, yet I know that there is much to be gained. The power of experience is undeniable. It gives me words. Wisdom. Compassion. It puts me in touch with the deepest, most intimate layers of humanity.
Experience may be painful, but it's priceless. This one is mine.
The Not-So-Christmas Spirit
"I feel like I'm out of control. I have no way of channeling my emotions," I said.
"I was hoping your blog would help you do that," replied my mother.
"I can't write about this. Not really. I have called myself The Realistic Optimist, but I am anything but optimistic right now. I'm drowning in darkness."
I know that my mother is wise, but she caught me by surprise when she looked at me and asked this simple question. "Who are you to withhold your words from those who might need to hear them the most?"
She's right. I was wrong. And for that I'm very sorry.
I am The Realistic Optimist. Sometimes I'm heavy on the optimism. Other times the scale tips deep into the real. I'm always seeking balance, but sometimes I fall short.
The reality of my situation hit me while sitting in Sunday school right before Christmas. The rest of my family had already left for vacation and I was left in an empty house. Our Sunday school class had been covering various individuals in the Christmas story. This final week was spent talking about Herod. The pastor leading our group asked us which of the characters we identified with the most in the story of Christ's birth. We talk about Mary, Joseph, the shepherds, and the wise men. Even the little drummer boy. But rarely do we consider the role that King Herod plays in the greatest story on earth.
As we talked more and more about Herod, I came to the startling realization that there was no one in the entire Christmas story that I identified with more than King Herod. It was everything I could do to contain my tears in that moment of revelation.
Every year after Thanksgiving, people refer to something called the Christmas Spirit. It usually involves a joy of decorating, singing, and baking. This year I experienced none of it. I did not want to decorate. I avoided Christmas carols at all costs. And as for baking...and here's the "real" part folks...that just wasn't happening. I'm knee-deep in eating disorder treatment and festive food is the last thing on my mind.
(That's right. You read correctly. Eating disorder treatment. Today it may seem like I'm glossing over this radical life event, but I promise to address the issue in the near future. For this story, however, you only need to know the nature of my struggle.)
Back to Herod.
While everyone else in the Christmas story joyously celebrated the birth of our Lord and Savior, Herod saw the event as a threat to his kingship--his power and control--everything he had worked for--his life. The presence of Jesus in this world was a direct challenge to everything that Herod valued.
This year the Christmas spirit haunted me. It burdened my soul. It was not until that day in Sunday school that I realized the truth. That the coming of Jesus threatens the control I've tricked myself into believing that I have. My ability to control my food intake and body is an all-consuming illusion. An illusion that brings me nothing but complete and utter misery. An illusion that extinguished the true meaning of the birth of the King. It robbed me of joy, left me in a perpetual state of exhaustion, and slowly drained the warmth from my skin and the sparkle from my eyes. Yet I clung to my illusion and avoided anything that threatened its existence. The thing I feared was the very thing I needed--the only thing that could save me--Jesus.
I'd like to say that this realization changed my heart and allowed me to joyfully celebrate Christmas with my family.
It did not.
Revelation does not always breed immediate change, but it does aerate the heart. Which is exactly what I needed.
People often confuse the Christmas spirit with Advent. They become blended together; a single entity. But Advent is a season of preparation and anticipation. It involves the heart and the soul, which means it might not always be cheerful or involve and upbeat melody. For me, Advent meant observing my role in the story and realizing my devastation at what had become my reality. In it's own way, the Advent season prepared my heart to realize the magnitude of what was to come: an all-powerful King who destroyed my very need for an illusion of any sort.
I know I'm a little late in sharing this story. Most people have already begun taking down their Christmas lights. We're going back to work and school. Walmart is already filling their empty shelves with Valentine's Day candy. But I thought it was a story that deserved to be shared. Because I have a feeling I'm not the only person who found Christmas difficult this year. Perhaps you don't have a heart like Herod. Maybe illness has shaken your world or a valued relationship has been destroyed. There are many forms of pain that can keep us from experiencing joy. Often our knowledge of this fact can be more devestating than the pain itself. And that's ok.
It's ok to admit a hurt. It's ok to feel sad. It's ok to cry while everyone else appears to be laughing.
Because a King has come and the story has a happy ending. The pain will not last forever. This is not the end.
So cry. Mourn. Scream.
As long as you are breathing, there is room for a revelation. One that will aerate your heart and provide a breeding ground for hope and renewal.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Wait. He will meet you here.
One of Those People
Today I realized something about myself. You know the people who don't respond to emails, texts, messages, voicemails, tweets, and comments right away? Those people drive me crazy. Especially if you know they received and read your message, but fail to respond in a "timely" manner. Gosh darn it, even as I write about them it gets my blood boiling. Especially because...I am now one of those people.
These last few weeks have been completely and utterly exhausting. I wake up at 5 am and don't pull in the driveway until 8:30 at night. While I glance at my phone and read messages from time to time, I rarely reply right away. Sometimes I don't reply at all. By the time I get home, I usually only have enough energy to eat a quick snack and pack my lunch for the next day. Then it's an early bedtime so I'm prepared to get up and do it all over again the next day.
So I've convinced myself that it's ok. It's ok that I fail to reply to texts, return phone calls, and comment and pictures and posts. During the week, that is. I'm a busy working woman. But I should be making up for it on the weekends, right?
Wrong. You see, there's been a sense of freedom that has come from being too busy as a result of this semi-out-of-control life. It's taught me that it's ok to leave the phone in another room. Not every text needs to be answered (at least not right away). It's not necessary to read every post in your newsfeed. You don't need to send a personal message to every person who follows you on Twitter. The sun sets at night and it rises the next morning. Your friends are still there and most of your readers haven't lost interest in what you have to say.
Right now I'm a slave to my schedule more than a slave to my phone. Things should be letting up soon schedule wise. These marathon days are catching up with me, but I'm hopeful that things will be returning to "normal" within the next few weeks. But--in a way--I'm hesitant to return to normal. I don't want to return to the way things were. I want to take the lessons I've learned while running this marathon and live my life in a better way.
The truth is this: I don't have to be a slave to anything. Not my schedule. Not my phone. And I'm ok with being one of those people. While my response time will most likely improve once my schedule lets up, I intend to maintain my identity apart from my phone. I think we confuse relationship with texting. Friends with follows. Fellowship with an lol. While technology can enhance relationships, it can also deceive us into thinking we have something that we're missing.
I have a new appreciation for those people. The ones who can separate the important from the mundane. Who can have a fun time without checking Facebook every 5 minutes. Who are confident that their relationships don't hinge on how quickly they respond to texts. Who are free from the anxiety that an unreturned phone call can sometimes bring.
In all honesty, I hope to become more like one of those people. And I'm thankful for the circumstances that brought me to a place of clarity; a place where I can finally see this characteristic as a virtue rather than a flaw.
What are you unintentionally slave to?
P.S. None of this changes the fact that I love my phone. Technology is not evil and neither are iPhones. Life is a balancing act, folks.
Just Keep Showing Up
About a month ago, I was on the phone with a friend who I admire a great deal. Actually, I must say that I admire all of my friends in one way or another. Whether it's for their strength, character, vulnerability, or sense of humor, each of my friends has at least one quality that I personally desire to possess and grow in. But I digress.
This particular friend lives far away (I can say this without revealing their identity because, unfortunately, many of my friends live far away). We don't talk frequently, but that doesn't mean our few conversations don't run deep. We typically don't waste much time discussing the superficialities of life, rather we dig beneath the surface and address the core issues that we are experiencing on a day-to-day basis. I believe this is want makes a true friendship.
It's no secret that I've faced some serious trails in my life. I think everyone has. Mine just happened to occur in the spotlight rather than the shadows. I've been told that this makes me one of the lucky ones, but that's a story for another day. During our conversation, this friend shared with me her recent struggle and her decision to work through the issue with a therapist. She said to me, "Brittany, some days I don't want to go and I don't know why I even bother. But I just keep showing up."
I laughed a little, not because it was funny, but because I thought she might finally understand a piece of my own journey. The kind of piece you can only understand having gone through a similar experience yourself. Our conversation didn't solve any problems or reveal the mysteries of the universe, but I think we both hung up the phone feeling a little less alone.
Her words have clung to me even now...more than a month later. I think we all seek healing of some kind. There are times we want to give up the fight; times we don't even know why we bother engaging at all. But whether it's to a therapy session or life in general, we just keep showing up. Sometimes we're fully clothed in armor and other times we hang our heads in rejection and exhaustion. But we're there.
5 Reasons Why I Keep Showing Up
It never leaves me any worse off. Sometimes showing up to life or to an appointment doesn't seem to make much of a difference. The things that cause us pain are rarely resolved in the short-term. But I'm never any worse off as a result of showing up. So I do.
It gives me something to do. Having something on your mind is annoying, but not being able to do anything about it is even worse. It can drive you crazy. Showing up means you're taking action. You might not be sure what the action is or what the result will be, but at least you're doing something. It makes me feel better about myself.
I'm hopeful. Not everyone has this reason; I've lacked it a few dozen times myself. Today I'm here to attest to the fact that hope can be restored. Lives can be transformed. I've seen it and I've experienced it. So even when I don't see hope in a situation, I am hopeful.
It's all I've ever known. It's hard to break a habit, and showing up is one that's been etched into my character since youth. If I felt unprepared, I took the test anyway. If I was exhausted, I ran the race anyway. If I was nervous, I recited my lines anyway. If I was scared, I woke up anyway. If I was weak, I asked for help anyway. If I failed, I tried again anyway. You might not see it in yourself, but I'd challenge you to search for it anyway. If you're reading this, I'm certain you've had every reason not to do something...but done it anyway. You keep showing up because it's all you've ever done.
I'm not ready to give up. I've felt like a failure many times over the years. Just when I think I've defeated a stronghold, I find myself under yet another attack. It's discouraging. I've had many opportunities to give up. Some would say I've even had good reason to do so. But you know what? I'm not ready. I still have fight in me. Each time I admit my weakness, I find a little bit more strength in Christ and suddenly I'm back in the ring. I'm not ready to give up because I know that the battle has already been won. Victory is mine. Who gives up a battle they've already won? While I may have been called crazy a time or two, I'm not foolish. So I keep showing up.
Before I close, I want to make one thing clear. "Showing up" is not equivalent to "fighting". You can still show up, even if you don't have much fight left into. Showing up just means walking through the door. Being present. Engaging in the process. Sometimes you're conquering dragons and other times you're crawling out of bed in the morning. Either way you're showing up. See, you're already doing it :)
Why do you keep showing up?
Creating An Eternal Moment
I've been a bit delinquent in my blogging over the last week, so I'm going to let you in on a little secret. I usually compose my blog posts the weekend before you see them. I write one post on Saturday and one on Sunday, then schedule them to go live during the week. It decreases my stress level and allows me to follow my heart while writing. Plus it provides my readers with a bit of reliability and routine. My hope is that you grow to anticipate my Monday and Thursday evening posts.
So scheduling blog posts seems to be a mutually beneficial practice. Except when my weekend gets crazy and I don't have time to write. I'm usually able to squeeze in the time, but last weekend was my sister's wedding. My family was in town, our schedule was packed, and your little sister only gets married once, right? Besides experiencing the joy of my beautiful sister marrying her soulmate, I figured the weekend was also bound to provide me with some sort of blogging inspiration. I knew my readers would understand.
The weekend was magical and I was caught up in a whirlwind of excitement. Before I knew it, I was colliding with reality Monday morning as I woke up at 5 am and downed 2 shots of espresso. When my coworkers arrived at work, I found myself bombarded with questions about the wedding. They wanted pictures. Pictures of the flowers, my sister, my daughter, the dresses, the groom, the church, the food. And you know what? Besides a few snapshots of the girls getting their hair and makeup done, I had none.
What kind of maid of honor spends an entire weekend with her sister on the most important day of her life and walks away without a single picture to capture the epic event???
I've realized a few things about pictures and cameras over the years and I've come to believe there are 2 kinds of people: the ones who make memories and the ones who capture them.
There's really no right or wrong way to go, but the fact still stands. Some people find joy in living in the moment; fully throwing themselves into the present and become a part of whatever is going on in their environment. Other people are happiest when they're capturing the moment; experiencing the present by stepping outside of their environment and observantly photographing the people and surroundings that currently comprise their life.
Both kinds of people make life richer. Without those living in the moment, the capturers would have nothing to capture. Without the capturers, the doers would have no memories of their experiences. Both kinds of people are important. Both contribute to a joyful and memorable life.
Me? I enjoy having photographs that capture the moment, but I enjoy the moment more. I believe life is a balance. I've seen people so obsessed with capturing the perfect shot that they miss the moment itself and find themselves miserable over it. I think we have to work together to combine our joys into something greater than ourselves. The result is something beautiful: an eternal moment.
In search of an eternal moment last weekend, I surrendered to delayed gratification. I fully immersed myself in the experience and let the paid photographers do the capturing. I might not have had photographs to share at work on Monday morning, but I got to have fun and have documentation of the experience at the same time. Even though I was a little bit sad not to have pictures to immediately post to social media.So what kind of person are you?
Are you a person who makes memories or one who captures them?
(remember, there is no wrong answer!!!)
Why Crutches Still Stand By My Mirror
It's been 2 months since I've needed them, but my crutches still stand by the full-length mirror in my bedroom. My daughter pointed them out to me the other day and asked why they were still there. I didn't have a very good answer for that one. It wasn't until later that I discovered there are actually...
5 Reasons Why I Still Keep My Crutches Handy
I'm lazy. Part of the reason the crutches still reside in the corner of my room is that I've been too lazy to move them elsewhere. It's just that simple.
I'm scared. I'll be the first to admit that there is a sense of fear involved. I've experienced enough to know that pain does not discriminate between days or seasons. My hip can feel just fine one day, then cause me excruciating pain the next. When experience mixes with the unknown, a degree of fear is not a surprising development. So it doesn't hurt to be prepared.
They're a part of me. There have been long periods of my life during which my crutches were just another accessory that I wore daily. Just as I clipped on my watch or slid on my Mercy ring, so did a grab 1 or 2 crutches to get me through the day. All of my most necessary accessories are within arms reach of my mirror. It's natural.
They inspire gratitude. When I look at my crutches, I'm reminded that there is much to be thankful for. There were lots of things I wasn't able to do while using crutches. Most things that I could do took a lot longer to do. One of the most devastating realities of being stuck on crutches was my inability to carry a cup of coffee. Now that's a rough life, folks. So when I see my crutches at the start or end of the day, I'm encouraged to think of life's simple pleasures that I am free to enjoy.
They remind me. It's true. Those crutches remind me that anything is possible. Both the good and the bad. The world will try to knock you down, but there's always someone who will carry you. Setbacks are practically guaranteed and nearly always unexpected. But they don't last forever. In a way, my crutches symbolize Jesus. I don't put them away because I don't put Him away. I always need Him and I always look to Him. Some days I lean on Him more than others and that isn't necessarily a bad thing. It's okay to need some help guys. Jesus would rather me lean on Him in painful circumstances than try to tough it out myself. He's strong enough to bear the burden that weighs me down.
I know it's a mixture of simple, silly, and serious, but it's all true. You probably won't see or hear of me stowing away my crutches in the near future. They're an important part of my story and I can't say for certain that their role is finished in the plot that is my life.
What random item have you been reluctant to place in storage?
“Someone Should Have Warned Her”
It was my first day of training and there I sat in our team meeting. The meeting had started late because I was late. I was in a car accident the day before and had to rent a car that morning. Not at all the way I had planned on starting my brand new job.
The meeting was unlike any other I'd been to work-wise. We started off in prayer, then went around the room sharing how our weekends had gone. The women listened attentively as I shared the story my accident on Monday. They shook their heads and said, "Someone should have warned her."
Warned me of what?
Well that requires me sharing a bit of the backstory. One that very few people have yet to hear.
I recently began looking for a full-time job. There were many factors contributing to this decision and maybe I'll address them in a future post, but it is not today's mission to defend my decision. I wasn't desperate for work--I had a great part-time job--so I didn't want to settle for the first job that I came across. I trusted that the right job would present itself, even though I continued to be impatient.
Meanwhile, it turns out that my blogging has served as a vehicle for reconnecting with distant friends. After reading one of my posts, a friend reached out and we got together. We live less than 20 minutes apart, but rarely see each other. I let life get in the way of that. After spending an afternoon together, she invited me to her church that weekend. My family had flirted with the idea of visiting some other churches, so we embraced the invitation and gave it a whirl.
I'm so glad I was vulnerable and wrote that post. I'm so glad my friend read it and texted me. I'm so glad we got together. And I'm so glad she invited me to her church because it just felt like home.
We found ourselves there for a second Sunday and my dad leaned over to me and pointed to the bulletin: there was an advertisement for an accounting position at the church. I composed a cover letter and submitted my resume that afternoon. I didn't have the experience, but I had some skills and figured there was nothing to lose.
Later that week I had an interview, then there was a second interview, and before I knew it I was on the phone accepting an offer for a staff accountant position at the church. There are a few other pieces to the story that make things even more interesting, but I'll just say this: only God could have brought things together in this way. I would have been a fool to refuse.
So with a story like that, what should I have been warned of? What did they forget to tell me during the interview process?
Well it turns out that even though I'm working in the business office, my career is still rooted in ministry. We're working for the kingdom of God, which makes us prime targets for the enemy. In accepting employment with the church, I was accepting a degree of spiritual warfare. Although devastating, apparently my car accident the night before my first day was really no surprise to my coworkers. It simply comes with the territory. Someone should have warned me.
But I don't think a warning would have changed my decision very much. And the accident certainly didn't cause me any regret. I know no job is perfect, but this one is about as close as you can get. I thought I would have to compromise. I loved my job at the college and thought leaving to seek full-time work would mean I'd have to settle. There would be no way I could find the kind of nurturing, challenging, and fulfilling environment that I experienced at CCC. But I was wrong.
God has blown my mind yet again. He does so much more than merely provide for me. He blesses me beyond measure and I'm continually astounded. And he does it in these beautifully intricate ways that let me know how deeply He cares for me as His child. I don't want to come across as noble and important, but the price is one that is worth paying. I've been desperately praying for purpose and meaning. He answered my prayers. I'd rather be doing work to further His kingdom and paying a small price than piddling away my time and energy settling for whatever comes along.
The people I'm working with are incredible and the environment is rich with passion. I know there will be tough times, but I also know it's worth it. I'll remember how blessed I've been and lean into Jesus for the strength to pull me through. The hard days are made a little bit easier when you know your work has purpose.
There has been a lot of anxiety throughout the last 2 weeks. The stress of the unknown combined with limited amounts of sleep will do that to a person, I'm told. But I believe things will settle out as I move forward. God has brought too much together to let anxiety rip things apart.
If there's anything I should have been warned of, it's the overwhelming love and support I've felt this week. My last day at CCC was emotional. My boss, coworker, and former professors all surprised me with a farewell lunch. It was so sweet and thoughtful. A bittersweet day for sure. My new boss brought me a beautiful flower on my first day of work. The support and encouragement have been amazing. I couldn't have asked for a more loving transition; once again reassuring me of the fact that this step was the right one to take.
My life felt like it was falling apart in August. I decided to take a break from school and I actually feared I had refracted my hip. Life hasn't been all roses since then, I'm still struggling in many ways, and I really didn't see how things were inching towards this gorgeous season. Someone should have warned me.
How have you been unexpectedly blessed in the midst of waiting patiently?
What I Miss Most About Jasper
You don't know how much something means to you until you lose it. Jasper was more than just a car to me. He was my friend. He literally carried me through life. We've only been together for a year, but it's felt like eternity. I can't imagine my life without Jasper. He's been there without fail; for the good times and the bad. Never wavering. Never asking me for anything but a sip of gasoline. He let me live.
Until last week when he was tragically injured in a ruthless car accident. It could have been a lot worse, but that doesn't mean it wasn't traumatic. I was obeying traffic circle rules (a concept foreign to most Americans), when an SUV cut me off and clipped Jasper on the front end. I let him down. I just couldn't slam on the breaks quickly enough to spare his precious front bumper. The sound that poor Jasper made as I drove down the street to park at a curb was disturbing. My jaw dropped when I got out of my car and looked at the damage.
If Jasper could cry, I'm sure he would have been shedding tears of pain and sorrow. His entire front bumper was torn off, dragging, and attached to his body by only a few small pieces of plastic. His lights were busted and his insides were revealed for all the world to see. The police man quickly assessed the damage, then sealed the deal and separated the injured bumper from Jasper's body and shoved it in the back seat. I drove him to the safety of a parking lot where he spent the night until a tow truck could take him to the hospital.
Poor Jasper. I can certainly empathize with an injury that takes you by surprise and wrecks your former glory. But he's a tough cookie and receiving excellent care. He'll be back in no time, they tell me. Well their definition of "no time" fails to take into account the unique relationship that I have with my car. We've been separated for nearly 2 weeks and this rental doesn't cut it. I'm sure it's trying hard, but it just doesn't measure up to...
The 5 Things I Miss Most About Jasper
His backup camera. What did I ever do without a backup camera?
His fabulous bluetooth. I miss being able to make phone calls and listen to my music while driving.
His size. I knew exactly where his front and end were. I could park easily and maneuver between lanes on the beltway.
His supportive nature. He was a pillar in my support system and he carried a substantial piece of my life. I left many things in his care that I'm currently missing: sunglasses, my favorite black sweater, my parking tag for work (which means I have to park forever away), sneakers, an umbrella, my rain boots, and the half-consumed tall unsweetened iced green tea from Starbucks. Sigh.
The way he waved goodbye and hello. His side mirrors fold up when I lock the car and back down when I unlock it. It's like he's waving at me every time. I love it.
When Jasper and I are reunited, I will truly appreciate him for who he is. He plays a special role in my life and I have a new appreciation for him. I won't say he completed me, but he definitely lets me be who I am and do what I do. It's rare to find such a fast and loyal friend.
What makes your car special to you?
Stripped Away
Raw. Naked. Vulnerable. This is how I feel.
Stretched to the max. Out of my comfort zone. At the breaking point. This is where I am.
Crying. Laughing. Straining. This is what I do.
In the past, I've written posts that draw the parallels between the lives of humans and rose bushes; I strongly believe that we must be pruned before we can grow. I know that our lives have seasons, but what I'm experiencing is more.
Right now I feel like a tree. I am stripped of all that flourishes. The things that made me beautiful, that rustled in the wind, that provided a place of refuge for others, that protected me...my leaves have fallen. I can hear them crinkle beneath boots. While they no longer clothe me in brilliance, they provide joy for others as they jump into colorful piles of my former radiance with both feet.
I stand bare before the world. Vulnerable to nature and the storms that threaten to overwhelm me, but strong nonetheless. For my roots go deep and are nurtured in rich soil. My vulnerability reveals the strength of the solid ground on which I stand. It is good.
This feeling, place, and process is not without meaning. With my leaves stripped away, I am free to see myself as I am. Not as who I've imagined myself to be and not who I aspire to be in the future. I see myself in the present. Whole. I make no judgement, but accept myself for who and where I am. Now.
And that's when God begins to work. Just as a tree must shed its leaves to give way to new life, so must I let go of defining characteristics to embrace my future. God cannot bless us with newness until we have let go of the old. We must be willing to sacrifice the beautiful in faith; trusting that the best is yet to come.
I am bursting. While there are losses to mourn, the brightness of the future overwhelms me. I am astonished at the blessings that are being bestowed upon me in my present condition. In the past, this "raw" feeling would have destroyed me. I would have been imprisoned by fear.
This week I've had several people ask me what has changed. What allows me to function in these simultaneously joyful and sorrowful times? That's simple: I've been set free. I am no longer a captive of hopelessness. The veil of darkness has been torn. I've broken through the lies and I've seen the truth. I still struggle. I'm human, imperfect, and flawed. But I struggle well.
The leaves on the trees turn lovely shades of red, orange, and yellow. They fall to the ground. And I'm reminded that we exist in a state of constant change. I honestly wouldn't have it any other way. It's painful at times, but I have no desire to stay as I am. And the future is brilliant. Transitions are scary and unsettling to say the least, but the tree doesn't die when it looses its leaves. It lets the leaves fall because it knows there's newness in store.
God continues to strip away the comfortable to lead me into a greater story.
What does fall mean to you?
What To Do With A Set Of Wings
We recently watched the new Captain America and I was enthralled. I mean that movie held my attention like none other. I tend to be a multi-tasker while watching movies, so the fact that I spent the entire 136 minutes glued to the TV is really saying something.
I'm not going to bust the plot for those of you who haven't seen the movie (a problem that you should probably consider fixing in the very near future), but I am going to introduce you to a character named Falcon. At first you think he's just an ordinary pilot, but then you find out that he doesn't fly planes, he actually flies. Like himself. The moment they reveal his wings is one of those wide-eyed childhood moments of disbelief and awe in which you whisper "I have GOT to get me one of those." And just like a kid, the wheels started turning as I began to come up with...
5 Things I Would Do With a Set of Those Awesome Wings
Fly to visit friends and family who live far away. Many of the people I love live far outside a day-trip visit. These people are dear to me and I miss them a great deal. A set of wings would allow me to visit them more often. Bear hugs, laughter, and comfort would be only a short (and fun) flight away.
Fly to Disney World whenever I want. Because Disney World is awesome, but it currently requires 4 days of travel just to get there. Flying means I would need to take less time off of work and would give me more time to play. Once again, you're getting a glimpse of my childlike nature.
Set up a business and charge a fee for personal flights. People pay mad money to go skydiving and ride hot air balloons. I know I could make a living by offering premium flying packages. Perfect for birthdays, graduations, retirements, anniversaries, or any other special celebration :)
Meet Iron Man. Because he's the bomb. I think having wings would make me intriguing enough to peak his interest. I'd warrant a visit from my favorite super hero: Tony Stark.
Save the world. Because wings would make me a super hero and that's just what super heroes do.
This list is just the tip of the iceberg. Think about it, guys!
What would you do with a set of wings?
When Frustration Gives In to Blessings
I've been frustrated. Beyond frustrated at times. In the middle of the summer I decided to start taking my blog more seriously and switch to self-hosted WordPress. At the time I was using Squarespace for design and hosting; I had even purchased a custom domain name. I put a lot of time and energy into my decision of when and how to switch to Wordpress. When I was finally ready to go live with my new website, I discovered that there was a waiting period before I could officially transfer my domain name. While www.realisticallyoptimistic.com would get a visitor to my blog, the URL would change to something funky was they navigated away from the landing page.
I (not so) patiently waited 23 more days until I could transfer the domain name, only to find out that I had to reassign administrative rights. Which took another 7 days. Only to find out that they "give me" another 7 days to "change my mind" before processing my request for a change. I was frustrated. Beyond frustrated at times.
I was pretty discouraged and wasn't going to post to any of my usual blog hops that week. One day I decided to check in on one of my favorite blog hops and discovered that I was a featured blogger. The next day I saw my post featured on another blog hop and the next week posts were featured on 2 more parties. I was elated.
First of all, I never expected these posts to reach so many people. Even though I hope my writing will touch at least one person, I never expect it to make an impact within a community. I always considered that hope to be on nearly the same level of my childhood dream to be president.
Second of all, I suddenly realized that there was a purpose to my frustration. Had I been able to transfer my domain name in a timely fashion, all of the links to my featured posts would be broken. No additional people would be able to access my posts. The very thing that nearly caused me to pull out my hair had suddenly become a massive blessing.
I've realized that this is not an isolated situation. God has used frustrating or painful circumstances to bless me more than once. He strips away the things I cling to the most in order to draw me closer to Him. This usually involves Him causing me to look at myself in the mirror; to see the positive and negative aspects of myself and allow Him to heal the broken pieces and make something beautiful out of my mess. People call it "beauty for ashes", but I'm coming to understand that life doesn't always have to turn to ash before it can be turned over to the Lord and made beautiful.
The simplest things can cause us the most frustration, yet they can also be used to bring us a greater joy. It's easy for me to see my blogging as frivolous at times. A waste of time, money, and that priceless thing called energy. But then I see the amazing ways God is using it to teach me lessons, bring richness to my life, and touch others in a broad way. To do something I could never do in isolation. Never do on my own.
I'd like to thank my friends, family, readers, and fellow bloggers for making this hobby a truly rewarding experience. For giving purpose to something I love. For being a part of God's plan and the lessons He's teaching me on a daily basis. We all have something to learn and we all have something to teach. Thank you for being faithful. Even those of you who don't realize that's what you're doing.
What frustrating experience has ultimately left you with a blessing?
What life lessons have you been taught through frustration?
The Written Word: An Art Form
Last week I wrote a post called A Mother & Her Uppercase R. I received stories and encouragement from various readers, but one request caught me off guard. A fellow blogger asked me to post a sample of how I write my daughter's name. Why didn't I think of that?!?! So I decided to focus my next post on handwriting.
I'm a writer. Long before I began blogging I was an avid journaler (And yes, I believe I just made up a word. Writers get to do that, you know.). I rarely go anywhere without my notebook and planner in hand. There's something about a pen and paper that speaks to my soul.
I remember things better when I write them down by hand. The handwritten word is art to me. Each letter is an expression of my life and energy. I've written posts on the power of words, but I believe that a word written by hand carries even greater power. I love blogging, but my handwriting allows me to express myself on an even deeper level. It's an extension of my personality.
So here are a few samples of my favorite art form. As requested, I'm including a sample of daughter's name and (and yes, I used a capital R). It's adorable because right after I made it, she erased my version and drew her own. So I posted her's too and saved the best for last. It just goes to show that our children really do mimic us in nearly every way.
5 Examples of My Favorite Art Form
No. 1
No. 2
No. 3
No. 4
No. 5
What is your favorite form of art and self-expression? What about it speaks to your soul?
Why I Didn’t Attend My High School Reunion
Last weekend was my 10 Year High School Reunion. If the Liberty class of 2004 had a 5 year reunion, I was either uninformed or oblivious. This was the first reunion I'd ever heard about.
I've had people ask me if I was going. This post will be pretty straightforward. The answer is no. No, this former high school valedictorian would not be attending her alma mater's reunion. 10 year or otherwise.
I think many people are surprised with the directness of this response, so I decided the topic was worthy of a blog post.
5 Reasons Why I Didn't Attend My High School Reunion
I am not friends with anyone from high school. I seriously don't talk to a single person that I attended high school with. Why would I pay to go to an event full of people I haven't talked to in 10 years. That is awkward.
All of my friends went to different schools. From the above statement you might assume that I have no friends. This is not the case. Most of my friends attended other schools in the region (or were in a different grade), so they would not be attending this event. I'd rather spend my money traveling to see these actual friends.
I have no fond memories to reminisce about with my fellow graduates. High school was not a pleasant experience for me. I was not popular, I was not a star athlete, I was not stylish, I did not have a boyfriend, and I did not have a car. I had my academics and my future. All of my energy and attention went into these 2 things. I viewed fun as a roadblock to success. This doesn't make for a humorous recollection of my foolish youthfulness with my rebellious comrades.
I do not have anyone to bring with me. The only thing worse than going to a party full of people you don't know is doing so alone. I'm not one to sulk in singleness. I even enjoy going out to eat by myself at times. But voluntarily walking in to an uncomfortable and awkward environment all alone is just straight up unnecessary.
I am not who I once was. Or who I once thought I'd be. I think this goes without saying. I was class valedictorian with a full scholarship to an out-of-state university and a bright and shiny future career as a naval officer. Ten years later I'm a college drop-out and single mother living with my parents. I'm not embarrassed by my life because that sentence is not how I see myself. I am a miracle whose life is full of undeserved blessings. But you can't deny the blatant difference between my aspirations and my reality. I know that our lives rarely turn out as we imagine at age 18, but I think it's safe to say that mine took an unusually drastic detour in the grand scheme of things.
I am not embarrassed by my present reality, but neither do I deny it. Why would I place myself in a position of having to justify my life to a room full of faces I can't remember and people I don't know? Why would I pay money for that kind of torture?
I'm not bashing the idea of a high school reunion because, for most people, they are truly something special. A time to reunite with long-lost friends and laugh at countless memories. But I don't have friends and I don't have memories. I probably would have come home from the reunion drenched in tears.
I feel a little bit guilty because there are people who can't attend their high school reunions. They'd love to meet up with old friends, but live too far away or believe the venue to be inconvenient. I could go if I wanted to, so it saddens me that there are those who can't. But to them I'd say this: treasure your memories, for they are far more precious than you know them to be.
We each have different life experiences, so we each tend to treasure different aspects of life. It doesn't mean that one of us is wrong, it means we're unique. Life would be boring if we all loved high school and the potential for a reunion. So whether high school memories bring you laughter or tears, know that you are not alone.
What is your BEST or WORST high school memory?
A Mother & Her Uppercase R
I knew there would be moments that I'd feel like the worst parent in the world. That there would be times I'd look back and wish there was something I had or hadn't done. That I would say something and instantaneously feel like a complete idiot. I knew it, but that doesn't mean I was prepared it. I'd like to say this was the first time, but it wasn't. And I know it won't be the last.
Skylar's preschool has a pretty structured morning drop-off routine. I hand the teacher Skylar's lunchbox, hang up her coat in her cubby, then she goes and washes her hands. Next, she goes over to the dry-erase board and writes her name to sign in. Then we walk over to the easel containing the "Question of the Day", which is usually a simple yes or no question. I read the question, then Skylar takes the magnet with her name on it and puts it under the answer she thinks is correct. Then it's time for goodbye hugs and we're off for the day.
As I was hanging up Skylar's jacket on Friday, one of her teachers walked me over to the dry-erase board. She said, "We're going to start working with Skylar on writing her name in lowercase letters. She's really good at writing her name, but she usually uses all caps. Especially her 'R'."
To most parents, this would probably be exciting. Me? I was mortified.
See, while I wouldn't consider myself an artist per say, I am slightly obsessed with typography, calligraphy, and the written English language as a whole. My handwriting changes every few months. I like to play with letters and create new styles. I enjoy addressing envelopes and I still journal by hand most nights.
My current "thing" is to make every letter "R" in uppercase. It doesn't matter if it starts a sentence or makes an appearance in the middle of a word. It is R. Never r. I think I've always written Skylar's name as: SkylAR. It looks much cooler when I write it by hand. I assure you.
So imagine my utter devastation upon learning that my one and only form of artistic expression may be the downfall of my child's preschool career. Okay, okay. I might be overreacting just a little bit.
I think we each have things that hit us with some force. We know that children imitate their parents, but we each have a brutal "aha moment" when the matter becomes real to us. I guess I'm lucky that mine came in the form of an uppercase R at the end of a word rather than my daughter repeating unkind words in the middle of the grocery store.
My daughter is amazing and I'm betting your kid is pretty awesome too. They soak in everything, man. Kids are always on. Skylar's memory astounds me daily. She observes the way I cross my legs, the way I say certain phrases, and--apparently--how I write each carefully crafted "R".
We always tell our kids, "Hey, I'm watching you!" Then we make that motion with our fingers from our eyes to theirs. You know what I'm talking about. Well I think we've got it wrong. The truth is, our children watch us more intently than we will ever watch them. It's time we noticed.
What is the strangest thing a child has done to imitate you?
Therapeutic Blogging
Our culture revolves around the idea of self-sufficiency and independence. We don't want our survival to be dependent on anyone besides ourselves. But I'm pretty sure our culture has it wrong. Community is important. It always has ben and it always will be. We're born into families, we play on teams, and we're assigned to work in groups. We're designed and engineered to function not in isolation, but in relationship with other humans. Even us introverts.
After writing my most recent post on physical, emotional, and spiritual therapy, I realized that something was missing. I threw out a whole lot of information about the various forms of therapy and I neglected to talk about one of the best forms of therapy I have ever found: BLOGGING! I realize that some of you might not believe this fact, so I decided to make a list of the...
5 Reasons Blogging Counts As Therapy
Blogging is a team sport. It is impossible to blog in a bubble. Blogging forces you to engage with the world and make new friends. It's exciting!
Blogging is synonymous with being vulnerable. When people think about therapy, they usually think of a hopeless case sitting on a sofa confessing their deepest darkest secrets. Well, while you might not share the depths of your soul with the world, you will be sharing a small piece of yourself with cyberspace while engaged with the blogging community. Even if you refuse to share a single personal detail, you are being vulnerable simply by putting your words out into the world. It's brave.
Blogging makes you process your thoughts. In order to compose a blog post, you have to organize your thoughts. Whether you do it before or during your writing process, you must slow your mind down long enough to process some piece of the world around you. It's important.
Blogging requires commitment & maintenance. If you want loyal readers, you have to post to your blog consistency. This requires a certain degree of commitment to yourself, your blog, and your fans. It forces you outside of yourself and outside of your "issues." It also requires investment and passion. It's hard work.
Blogging is a form of self-expression. You get to design every aspect of your blog. The theme, name, color scheme, logo, topics, layout, and writing style are all little extensions of your personality. Your sense of humor permeates your writing. Creating a blog guides you in a journey of discovering who you are. The bonus is that other people get to become part of that journey and become awestruck by your creation. It's beautiful.
Blogging is exciting, brave, important, hard, and beautiful. You get to discover new parts of yourself and share your gifts with the world. A blog is a collaborative effort that requires diligence and love. In my previous post I claimed that the goal of therapy is restoration. So how does blogging therapy contribute to this pursuit of restoration?
Blogging forces us back into community. To value relationships. To engage with other humans. My generation is easily condemned for its reliance on technology. I've had people say to me, "You guys don't even know how to hold a real conversation." My blog is my ammunition against such statements. I use technology to pursue engagement, not flee from it. To create relationships, not destroy them. Blogging is therapy because it restores relationships in what could easily become a disconnected world.