A Bump in the Road (or at least on my belly)

“Having spent my life avoiding commitment and running away from jobs and relationships when the going got tough, I wondered how on earth I would ever cope with the enormity of the life-long task ahead of me.”

~Lucy Taylor (Pregnant and Terrified)

Not wanting to admit it to myself or anyone else for that matter. Not wanting to be anything but what you’re supposed to be when pregnant – glowing and blissful. Excited about the endless possibilities this new life will bring to the world. But at close to twenty-five weeks pregnant, it would be silly for me to not accept responsibility for what I am feeling…feelings that are anything but blissful. Feelings that are complex and contradictory. I’m scared. I’m questioning if I’m doing the right thing. What makes me think I am going to be capable of this? And where the hell is my pregnancy glow?

I don’t know if I fully understood what was going on inside until about a month ago and have since been trying to figure out how to work with whatever it is. It was triggered by a little road trip we took to visit my husband’s family in Eastern Colorado.

To get to where his family lives, we had to drive past the airport. The airport is already far enough east of the city that there is rarely a need to go past it. In my very biased opinion, the state line ends just beyond the airport. Sorry Eastern Colorado. Park the car and get on a plane if you want to go any further to the east.

But we kept going this time.

As I watched the planes take off, I couldn’t help but feel as though I wanted to jump from the moving car and grab hold of their wings. I don’t think I could have spoken, feeling so choked up inside. But I wanted to yell, “take me with you! Don’t leave me behind. I’m not ready to let go.”

But what am I not ready to let go of? Not able to accept that everything is constantly changing and that change is neither good nor bad? Not being able to be in the present moment, this present place with people I love and care about, and be perfectly ok with it?

I thought about it a lot during that car ride and for weeks after. I’m still thinking about it. The best way I can put it is that I’m grieving a previous life – a pre-pregnancy, carefree one. Was I the happiest I could possibly be? No. But it was different.

How could it not be? In that life I could wake up, having rolled onto my back somewhere in the middle of the night, and not be concerned that I’ve just spent minutes or maybe hours cutting off blood supply to my unborn baby. Worried that this child might have some deformity all because I couldn’t stay in one position all night.

I’m already feeling like a bad mom and he’s not born yet. But maybe that’s what I get for reading all the blogs, sites and books that tell you how what you’re doing (or not doing) simply isn’t good enough.

And so I think back to the planes. I very selfishly wonder when I might fly again. When I might get to see somewhere other than the Denver skyline.

After that last flight with the child who screamed for the full two hours we were in the air, I decided I wouldn’t subject anyone, including myself, to that until I felt confident I could either calm them, or they’d be able to calm themselves. How long that will be, I’m not sure.

And then I felt incredibly shameful and guilty for even asking these questions. Millions of people never travel. Never been on an airplane. Are content being right where they’re at. No, not just content, but happy. Here I am feeling this incredible sense of loss having not lost, well, anything. All because I don’t have an impending plane trip planned and I’ve imposed a travel restriction on myself.

Ok, then just stop the grieving already. You haven’t lost anything and you’re about to gain a whole heck of a lot. Should be easy, right? But what about the ambivalence I feel?

While I was hoping that once I decided I was ready to have children I’d be able to with no problem, there was also this part of me that thought ‘what if I can’t?’ Maybe not being able to wouldn’t really be such a bad thing.

And so, at the same time as trying to have a child, I was planning for not being able to have one. Maybe we’d pick up and move across the globe. Do something spontaneous and adventurous. Pursue other passions. Life without a child would be just as ok as life with one. It would be just as rich and fulfilling. Wouldn’t it?

There was relief in seeing my monthly visitor come, knowing I could go out on Friday and indulge in a glass or two of wine with no concern. Yet, that relief shared the same space of sadness in thinking my body was rejecting being able to procreate. It wasn’t ready. When would it be ready? Would it ever be ready? What if I really do want this to happen and it’s not meant to?

Maybe I’m experiencing a little of what psychologists call antenatal or prenatal depression. Not given as much attention, or even acceptance, as post partum depression, I’m betting there’s a lot more women out there who feel this than are willing to step forward and admit it.

And while it would be easy to use this label as a scapegoat, just another condition in a long line of many and that maybe I should go see someone about it, I’m not convinced that’s the best approach.

I recognize these feelings as happening, but I also know I’m creating the stories that keep them circulating around and around in my head. No one is forcing me to stay in this space. Those planes aren’t leaving me behind. This isn’t personal. No part of me has died.

I don’t have nine lives. It’s not like one has been taken away and now I’m living another. It’s the same life, and I feel foolish in not appreciating its impermanence with every single moment changing.

I’m scared. Of course I am. I’m terrified of being a bad mom, responsible for someone else, not loving every minute of it. Can I handle giving birth, breastfeeding, sleepless nights, and eventually having to discipline (something that is not my strong suit)?

But maybe by being honest with myself and with the lovely little boy inside who will be making an appearance in three months or so, we will both have a richer, more fulfilling experience. A mommy who is far from perfect but wants to give him a happy and peaceful life in the face of anything thrown his way by doing my best to teach him that he doesn’t have to choose suffering.

I’m hopeful that being conflicted is normal, during each stage of this pregnancy and motherhood, and the more I try to deny that any of those negative, scared feelings exist, the more depressed I am thinking I’ll feel through blaming and shaming.

The lesson I am still learning is in not reacting to the negative risings. They will come. I have to choose to let them go.

I recently read about something called the sky mind in the book Mindful Motherhood by Cassandra Vieten. Thoughts, feelings and sensations are a lot like the weather. Sometimes the weather is awesome. Sometimes it just plain sucks. Like how this year’s May felt as though the incessant string of bad weather days would never end? But then they do. And the sky is blue again.

That’s because weather takes place in the larger sky; the sky that is always there. The sky that contains a bunch of different weather patterns, but remains inherently clear. We tend to attach to the weather patterns asking when is the next day of bad (or good) weather coming? How long will it stick around? When will it finally go away? Kind of like how I’m attached to the weather app on my phone. Maybe it’s time to delete it.

Putting a ton of energy into trying to change or control what I’m experiencing while pregnant, or any other time in the life I have left, is as futile as trying to change or control the weather.

The ultimate goal then is getting myself to realize that either the experience (this pregnancy, motherhood, my next flight with baby in tow, and on and on) will have me or maybe I can just have an experience and simply be aware of it.

“The lightning is what you’ll never get back. Watching these storms is like spending the night in life and death. A strike of lightning is a moment in time. We get thousands of moments, but the lightning reminds us that they’re all temporary.” ~ From  Phenomenal by Leigh Ann Henion.

A letter for a friend

Dear friend,

You don’t understand. I know you don’t.

You wish you were pretty, you wish you were brave.

You think, “how did you come to this?” After all, you dream yourself a thousand times around the world, but cannot get out of this place. There’s an emptiness inside you and you’d do anything to fill it in.

You feel like kicking out all the windows and setting fire to this life. You would change everything about you using colors bold and bright.

But changing everything? Unattainable. Why would you change everything anyway?

Still, I know you’ve felt lonely times when you could not find a friend.

At night, you find it kind of funny; you find it kind of sad. The dreams in which you’re dying are, sometimes, the best you’ve ever had.

The morning comes. The day brings together the mixing of colors. But it breaks your heart when all the colors mix together to grey. Will that ever change?

Trying to understand, you sing along: It seemed to me you lived your life like a candle in the wind. Never knowing who to cling to when the rain set in. I would have liked to know you, but I was just a kid. Your candle burned out long before, your legend ever did.

You think about his song. It plays over and over in your mind. Though you see yourself a ‘nobody’ in comparison to his muse, something makes you think. It isn’t how you want to go. You don’t want to be snuffed out. Maybe there is still time to be a – somebody.

You are sitting outside. It’s the smell that stops your thoughts. It may be the last whiff of fresh cut grass this year. The days are getting shorter. The nights colder. The grass will no longer need cutting.

You feel an urge to give yourself a chance, an opportunity. To see another summer.

You fold your legs under your heavy body and push up toward the sky. It is not over.

You think about now. You’ve got the sun up there to clear away the clouds. So, why look back when there’s a stunning, blazing, so amazing…now?

You are potential. You are loved.

Signed,

Your friend,

who cares.

 

*Thank you to Sara Bareilles, Dave Matthews, James Taylor, Gary Jules, Elton John, and SheDaisy for helping me put her words to lyrics.

 

I’m a bad person because I don’t have a job.

Yes, the title of this sounds absolutely terrible, because it is. But worry not, I don’t actually think I’m a bad person or lazy for that matter.

Before explaining how important it is to back up from going down that road, here’s a story.

The story is not mine, but I like it. It’s one I heard a teacher at my 10-day mindfulness meditation retreat recount. This story occurs before his 3-year retreat in the Himalayas (and I thought 10 days was tough!).

He decided he’d go over to India few months early to experience the country. When he reached this particular city (the name escapes me), he asked his teacher, or Lama, for a recommendation of somewhere inexpensive to live. His teacher told him there were many vacancies and introduced him to a friend of his to locate an apartment.

Turned out there weren’t many vacancies. He did, however, find him an apartment above a tire shop in the center of town. Inexpensive? Yes. Might it be a bit noisy? Sure, but he figured he’d be gone most days exploring anyway. He unpacked his things, settling into this place that should promise a peaceful place for meditating in the evenings and set out to explore the city.

He returned that night to begin his peaceful sit when he heard the loud noises filtering up through the shop below. He tried to sit through, but they kept getting louder and louder with no reprieve. He wondered why they were open so late. Asking around, he found out that tire shops in India tend to stay open through the night to change truck tires as they are passing through larger cities.

And so he tried to live there a bit longer before going to his teacher and asking him what to do about the situation. He assumed his teacher would tell him that he needed to power through and should be able to sit with any distraction. A good meditator could. When he asked him what he should do, his teacher said with no hesitation, “move.”

There’s no way to do this story justice especially because most who hear it don’t know the background of the man who told it, but take from it what you will. Let it give some inspiration.

Had I heard this before I quit my job, it may have inspired me to do so. Or going further back, it may have given me the motivation to move…as many times as I did.

The meaning I take from listening to this story today is quite different. Something more along the lines of a change in the direction I want my life to go without trying to have a job or make a physical move in this present moment.

Ever read the children’s story We’re Going on a Bear Hunt? My nephews had this book and liked it when we would read the story to them. In my opinion, it’s actually quite terrible. Wasn’t a fan when they would pick this one to read.

The premise is this group of children, a baby and a dog go out on an adventure to look for a bear. The first page they leave the house. The next page, over a hill. The next page, through the water. Then through a snowstorm. And on and on. You get the idea. Or maybe you don’t. It drags until they get to the cave, wake up the bear, and run as he chases them. They run all the way back through all the places they’d just been until they get home and decide they’re not going on a bear hunt again. As my brother-in-law would say, you only have yourself to blame for going on a bear hunt in the first place.

What the hell is the point of this story? Seems like it hasn’t got one, right? But if I told my nephews when they wanted to read it, “Um, no. This story is total crap,” It might not have gone over all too well.

To be fair to the authors who took the time to write it, I did a little research to see if I could find any meaning. The illustrator said that she drew the bear with slumped shoulders modeled after a friend of hers who has depression and walked around hunched over all the time. She says he was likely depressed because he wanted to maybe play with the children and not eat them.

In the end, it’s just a book. It has repetitive verses and stuff that rhymes. Kids enjoy its sing-songiness.

The story has no meaning. And unless you want to try and explain the idea that maybe the bear has depression to a two-year-old, let it just be a book kids can enjoy even if it is annoying.

Why did I go off on a tangent of telling this story? Because I’m good at both going off on tangents and at telling myself stories that have no real meaning. Not to mention, they’re not even true. Stories about why I can’t possibly do something or why someone may not like me or why it’s my fault the world isn’t at peace.

I like to get caught up in my head telling tales of woe and drama. I’ve done it my whole life. Somehow it makes things more interesting. Somehow I think that it makes me more interesting to others. Somehow it justifies the times I want to feel depressed, angry or anxious. And in some sick way, it’s more fun!

But what I’m finally starting to understand is that most of them are made-up very much like a depressed bear chasing me through the woods. It’s all fantasy…and not a very good one at that. I’m completely responsible for everything that is going on up in that head of mine. All. The. Time.

Telling myself that I’m lazy because I don’t have a job or assuming that others think I’m lazy because I don’t have a job isn’t useful for anyone involved.

The silver lining? None of it is true.

Here’s the thing. We’re unique as human beings. We can reason our way out of our own suffering (side note: we cannot reduce the suffering of others. Believe me, I’ve tried). No other living creature can. Animals, for example, live their lives with instinct. They eat each other or get eaten and then do it all over again the next day. Can they be happy? I suppose. But they cannot choose to reduce their own suffering.

It doesn’t mean just because we can choose to reduce suffering that we will. In fact, maybe it can be argued that most of the human race makes the choice to live by instinct instead. “It’s a dog eat dog world.” If you don’t make yourself the “leader of the pack” you’re bound to get trampled. We live in one giant marketing campaign telling us to go, go, go all the time. If you’re not multi-tasking in your life, you’re wasting it.

Here’s the other thing. Our death is certain, but our time of death is not. Just because aunt Flo lived until 103 does not mean you will. It’s just the story we like to tell ourselves to make us feel better. And it does! It sounds morbid and terrible, but the mere acceptance of this truth is actually life affirming. In the end, none of those material possessions you gathered over your lifetime are going to go with you.

Understanding life’s impermanence might be the best way to live in the moment. To be present. To pay attention to thoughts and feelings without judging them. To be responsible for your own actions. Trust me, there are people who’ve been practicing this for years and are no where near perfect. I, myself, have a long way to go!

I know I’m not a bad person because I don’t have a job. I’m simply learning to sit with this really uncomfortable feeling trying to make myself believe I’m not wasting my time, my skills, my qualifications. I’ve just been given the fortunate opportunity to take the time to figure it out. I better be thankful for that at the very least.

If you have 10 minutes, please watch. It might give a little better context on mindfulness.

https://www.ted.com/talks/andy_puddicombe_all_it_takes_is_10_mindful_minutes#t-540079

 

Addicted to stress?

It’s something I hear constantly and yet it drives me absolutely crazy. So crazy that I try my very best to not say it when people ask. And, if I do, I give myself a little scolding for committing the deed. It’s that moment when someone asks another how they are doing or what’s been going on in their life. The response? “Busy, so busy.” “Things are really crazy right now.” What does that even mean?

So then you either feel compelled to ask them about what it is that is keeping them so busy even if you don’t actually care, or you just let it go at that believing they really are just too busy to give a more in depth response.

I’m guilty of these words myself. I used to be worse at it, if you can call that a silver lining. Especially in the workplace. It was my fallback response. It probably is still my fallback response. It’s what I would tell someone as I passed him or her in the hallway. I would see them coming. I knew they were going to say something to the effect of ‘Hi, how are you?’ I knew I would either say ‘fine’ or ‘busy.’ I knew neither one of us would actually care what the response was anyway as it usually came after we had already passed each other.

On a side note, I always thought it would be a fun experiment to say something like ‘terrible’ or ‘my dog died’ just to see if they might stop and listen. Maybe care about my words? But, alas, I never did. Now that I’m not in a corporate office, someone try this and tell me how it goes.

Which brings me back to the question of are we actually addicted to stress? I didn’t come up with this on my own. It’s been a busy last few months starting with a nose surgery, buying a house, moving and writing a first draft of a 70,000-word novel. Not to mention throwing in the holidays, which most people find to be incredibly stressful even though it truthfully should be a peaceful time of year. Maybe if it weren’t for the gift shopping, juggling to fit in every possible Christmas event with family or friends, or keeping off the inevitable weight one gains after all the holiday sweets, it might actually feel a bit more serene.

Have I been stressed? Absolutely. Does it feel like the easiest feeling to feel right now? Absolutely. Do I want to be addicted to the feeling? Absolutely not. But I do it. We do it. We like being busy. We like feeling important through our business. Having downtime is unfortunately considered an act of laziness. I admit I use it to feel important. Gives me something to talk to people about. Something to make my life seem more dramatic than it actually is or should be. It’s not exactly something I’m proud of, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t let it have that kind of power over me.

I was confronted with this idea after attending a meditation session a couple weekends ago. I’ve only made it to one in the last few months, and it will probably be the last one of this year given the events of the next few weekends. Too busy, remember? But knowing how peaceful and calm it makes me feel, I have to wonder why I don’t make a whole lot more time for it. Ah, the secret’s out. I’m not actually addicted to peace and calm. Stress is so much more fun?

And so, after spending thirty minutes in silence trying my absolute best to focus on nothing but breathing, we discussed what was really going on. One of the guys brought up how anxious he was when he started into the session. He was thinking about everything aside from the very simple, yet often overlooked fact of what gives us life: breathing. He told the rest of the room that instead of fighting it, he let his mind wander. Eventually, the thoughts subsided and his mind silenced. Bummer. If I’d only known that trick. I fought my thoughts the whole time. I never found tranquility.

Our guide (I’m sorry if I got the terminology of the leader wrong), asked him to explore further. She wanted him to say what he actually felt. When he came out with the idea that he prefers fear or at least the awareness of fear as being a huge part of life, it was hard for any of us to argue. And so she wrote it on the board for us all to see. We are addicted to stress. Given the choice between suffering and non-suffering, we choose to suffer without utilizing the tools to deal with suffering in a productive way. We seek out fear. We manufacture it. Entire industries are focused on it. War? Gaming? Scary movies and haunted houses?

I left the ninety-minute session feeling calm, promising myself that I would be better at recognizing my stressors, and challenging myself to turn them around. It didn’t take but five minutes in the car for a another to cut me off. Stressors back. I had lost the momentum I felt exiting those doors.

I am an addict of stress. Which, I suppose is quite similar to other addictions. Admitting you are one is the first step in the healing process, right? I am an addict even knowing there might be a strong correlation between feeling stressed and anxious and my hair falling out. I am an addict even knowing how it affects relationships with others and the relationship with myself where I tend to revert to blaming me for all the things I do wrong.

It’s true that not all stress is bad. Some is necessary. Think about fight or flight situations like bombings, school shootings, car accidents, you get the idea. If that stress hormone didn’t kick in, would we survive? Stress and fear is also good for competition. Good for adventure. It’s fun. It can push people out of their comfort zone. But don’t cross that line from the good stress to the not-so-good stress. That line that dumps you so easily into that world of I’m busy.’ I’m far too busy to give any sort of appropriate response to a question in which I would hope you are being sincere. Not being sincere is another story for another day.

I catch myself the moment the words come out of my mouth. It’s a challenge to not say it. I really am busy. But my business isn’t really all that important. I need to push myself to be more aware of my addiction to stress. I need to do something about it through constructive channels.

Ok, addiction recognized. What to do about it?

Even Donatello is addicted! In good company…

In search of a Personal Legend

I just finished The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho.

For those who haven’t read it, it’s one I would recommend reading at some point in your life. For those who have read it, you already know its meaning.

I was told, in the last week, that hopefully one day I’d know what it is to work full time. Kind of a stinging blow knowing that I’ve been working full time since graduating college.

Instead of dwelling on it, I have to know that anytime you try to do something a little out of the ordinary, off the track of what is considered ‘normal,’ there is going to be pushback, lack of understanding and maybe even resentment. To expect everyone will be outright happy with you for pursuing a dream is an unrealistic expectation. I’m becoming more ok with that. I’m realizing more about myself. I’m enjoying my days more and more.

Now that the book is done, I wonder if it won’t help me in helping others understand the need to seek and even understand something this book centers around. Your Personal Legend.

The story is about a boy, Santiago, who dreams he must go to the Pyramids of Egypt to find a treasure. With the instruction of a gypsy and a man claiming to be a mysterious king, he sells off his sheep and travels to Africa.

“To realize one’s destiny is a person’s only obligation,” the old man tells him. “And, when you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it.”

At one point, much further on in his long and arduous journey, the boy tells the alchemist his heart is a traitor and does not want him to continue. The alchemist encourages the boy to continue listening to his heart or he will never again be able to keep it quiet.

“You will never be able to escape from your heart. So it’s better to listen to what it has to say. That way, you’ll never have to fear an unanticipated blow.”

A few pages later, the alchemist, with whom the boy is traveling, tells him to continue in the direction of the Pyramids and continue watching for and listening to the omens.

“ What you still need to know is this: before a dream is realized, the Soul of the World tests everything that was learned along the way. It does this not because it is evil, but so that we can, in addition to realizing our dreams, master the lessons we’ve learned as we’ve moved toward that dream. That’s the point at which most people give up. It’s the point at which, as we say in the language of the desert, one ‘dies of thirst just when the palm trees have appeared on the horizon’.”

I focus on these three quotes because they struck a chord with me. In talking with another about this book, he told me he had read it five times now. He said he reads it when he needs to. When he knows he is in a spot where he has stopped listening to his heart and encountered challenges he was not expecting.

Following the path of finding the treasure, understanding the Soul of the World, and realizing his Personal Legend, Santiago teaches us a few things about the obstacles which stood in his way. The obstacles that ultimately can stand in everyone’s way.

Negativity. As we grow, negativity grows. We are told certain things are not possible or cannot be done. Not letting the noise drown out passion is the key to overcoming this negativity.

Love. We do not want to disappoint those we love. But those we love, want what is best. They want us to be happy and realize our own personal legends.

Failure. Obstacles will be encountered along the way. Falling down is just as important as getting back up and trying again. Even the not-so-direct path can lead us to a sought after destination.

Guilt of Success. Believe you are worthy of your success. Even if others have not yet realized their personal legend, don’t let that stop you from reaching yours. Don’t stop short of the palm trees appearing on the horizon. You’ve worked this hard. Keep going.

Just something to think about.

“The secret of life, though, is to fall seven times and to get up eight times.” ~Paulo Coelho

 

The Death Clock

Eek! This sounds like a terrible name for an entry, doesn’t it?

Maybe it’s the crummy weather that’s been hanging around for the last couple of days that piqued my interest in something I read while reading one of Gretchen Rubin’s blog entries. I’ll blame it on the grey clouds that just can’t seem to keep the rain from spilling out.

So, she’s usually all about the happiness side of things. This is why I was surprised she was even poking around the Internet in such a way that she would come across a site called Deathclock.com. I wasn’t going to click on it. But I guess much like her, I had a strange morbid curiosity.

Put in your birthdate, sex, BMI, whether you’re a smoker or not, and your mode. Mode meaning are you optimistic, pessimistic, or normal? And that’s supposed to tell you when you will die!? Really? So, of course I did it.

I struggled with Mode. As much as I hate to say it, I have teetered more on the glass is half empty zone during a lot of different periods in my life. In trying to be truthful, especially feeling a little stuck at the moment not sure how I’m going to make this novel thing come true, I went ahead and chose pessimistic for kicks or to seal my fate in cutting out from this life thing sooner. That was enough to scare me. February 24, 2042. I would live another 29 years and die at the age of 61. Going to this site was not a good idea. Or was it?

Haha. Luckily I get to alter the clock. Cheer me up a little. I went back and tried “Normal.” Phew, May 4, 2060. But after doing the math, that only gives me 47 more years and I would die at 79. One more alteration. I’m going to choose “Optimistic.” Yes! I’m now making it to 92.

I should have slapped myself for even doing this. Accurate? Not really. I tried all three again and got different answers. At least it makes me feel a little better that this is all based in, um, malarkey?

Why would she have brought it up and what was it telling me? Well duh, become an optimist. Don’t become an optimist because of what a dumb death clock tells you, but become one because there is some evidence which points to the fact that happier people do live longer, beat out diseases, are way more fulfilled. Optimism is, in one word, happier.

Obviously the end is inevitable. And while we don’t have complete and total control over our lives, we do have the power to make changes that will ultimately give us a better life.

The real reason I got sucked into the vortex of the Death Clock entry is because I’ve spent most of the day poking around on other people’s blogs to spark creativity and ideas for how to find a way to make my blog better. Part of a new commitment of about 24 things I am trying to be a better writer. Today’s task was to read through at least 3 other people’s blogs. Tomorrow I get to overhear conversations and people watch. That ought to be fun!

I’m doing this to help develop the characters, plot line, tone, point of view and genre I will use when I attempt to pump out 50,000 words during National Novel Writing Month in November.

If interested in these ideas, click on this link: Write to Done

You’ll also be happy to know that in looking through other people’s blogs, I needed to do some updating on the About Me and Inspiration sections. I’ll probably add another new page in the next week or so.

By the way, I’m not endorsing anyone should do the Death Clock exercise themselves…unless you’re needing a really big kick in the butt to get yourself to finally be an optimist!!

I had to have some fun with this…:):):)

Day 25: Afraid to fly.

Reality is that thing that makes you mortal. Makes you realize you are not invincible. Makes you have fear and learn to overcome it. Makes you expose things you are not necessarily proud of.

Reality hit as I was flying home on Sunday, I sensed a nervous twitch in my stomach as we took off. Something I hadn’t felt in a very long time. I had fallen asleep before taking off and tried my best to pretend I was still sleeping. Tried my best to make it not look my hands were clenched. I was actually afraid. The ground was getting farther away.

As a kid, I was afraid to fly. I want to blame it on the fact that my sister told me while flying over the Atlantic that if we crashed, sharks would eat us. Older and wiser, I now understand that I wouldn’t need to worry about sharks, the crash itself would probably kill me. It left an impression nonetheless. She was the older sister and it was her duty to antagonize the younger, impressionable, little sister. Regardless, I still love her.

Then, I then went through a phase where flying no longer bothered me. It was exciting. Turbulence put me to sleep.

Once I reached college, the fear re-emerged. I was convinced during a flight back from Maui I would not survive. Every few minutes, the shaking would lead to a drop. We’d level off and then drop again. The cold and unforgiving Pacific Ocean was not that far below. Even if the turbulence didn’t kill us, my anxiety very well could. Based on what I learned in flight attendant training and my own knowledge, no plane has ever crashed from turbulence. It was an irrational fear. Luckily, few years of fear every time I flew went away.

I questioned what was I so afraid of? Not being able to live out my life should there be an accident? I would simply say to myself after sitting in my seat, I have no control over what happens. What’s meant to be is meant to be. It seemed to work.

Even though it’s not the first reason I did it, taking a job as a flight attendant was one way to conquer it. Hundreds of flights a year in all kinds of weather and circumstances, you better not be afraid. And I wasn’t. I felt completely in control.

Thinking about it, the times in my life where I feel the most fear – be it flying, being alone, taking chances, adventure – are the times where I feel the most anxious. Could feeling out of control correlate?

In a previous entry I discussed that maybe my pursuit of happiness is making me more unhappy. I needed to approach this whole idea of happiness differently. I think I may have found another facet. Control. I am not feeling in control of my life and am becoming afraid of things that I should not. How and when will it return?

Small steps.

Now that I am not working and making my own income, I am having to rely on someone else’s. I have struggled with this even though I know I am fully supported. At first, it felt scary. I was no longer in charge of my finances. I would need to make decisions based on what is best for the both of us. I admit it means letting go of the independence I once had and learning to become interdependent. Shock to my system. I felt guilty. I wanted to make sure I disclosed every single thing I spent money on and would be sure to be as frugal as I possibly could. I would be a good girl and he would be proud of me. I started feeling like I was losing control to no one’s fault but my own. No one was taking it from me. I was taking it from myself.

Very slowly, it has gotten a little easier. After the feelings I had on the plane I knew something was seriously wrong. It has to be corrected. Feeling shook up and at a loss of what to do. There has to be something I could take back.

Realizing that I may not be able to run the marathon in October if I cannot get my ankle back to running shape, and knowing my fear of spending money on something like sports recovery is something I will feel guilty for, I decided to do it anyway. I was walking back home. Instead of going upstairs, I walked across the alley to the newly opened sports recovery center and signed up. I was proud of a tiny victory. I decided to not ask permission because it was somrthing I really wanted and needed to do.

I am going through the pain of the process that will hopefully lead me back to running sooner rather than later. I even let the chiropractor stick a bunch of needles in my leg and foot to speed up recovery. Called dry needling. Epic fear of needles, but I did it. The results are promising. Best my ankle has felt all summer. Taking control of something I was letting get out of control.

I recall conversations with passengers who would come back to the galley during the flight. Some were really afraid. I would talk to them about my theory of why people are afraid to fly. Unlike a car where you can see out the front window and you know you have the power to make decisions on where to go and how to avoid an accident, you don’t get that power in a plane. All you really can do is put faith in the mechanics and ability of the pilots to get passengers from destination to destination safely. Talking it through seemed to help them. Not surprisingly, it gave me a sense of control.

What to do now? That is up to me. Feeling overwhelmed in trying to figure out happiness and now control of my life, I may need a little guidance. I need to keep pushing myself to do things I fear. Making and reaching out to friends. Social situations. Taking a shower and not letting the inevitability of my head’s decision to shed hairs bother me. Lately, these have been the biggest struggle for me. I find myself wanting to run and hide unsure of who I am to others.

A little Buddha graces my computer screen every time I log on. I downloaded it from a site called Tiny Buddha. He tells me “All that we are is the result of what we have thought. The mind is everything. What we think we become.” He is right. I read it everyday and yet nothing has changed. I tell myself I’m too busy to work on this, even though it is the most important thing I can do right now.

To do. As soon as I feel like I’ve lost control.

1. Offer to help others.

2. Look at the event as a not so gentle reminder. Be grateful for the people who matter…including yourself.

3. Respect and accept the strength of forces larger than yourself.

4. Appreciate twists in the adventure.

5. Consider how it helps you grow.

6. Be proud of yourself.

Day 24: Could’ve, Would’ve, Should’ve

I’m going to take a moment to sincerely apologize for my lack of commitment to this project. I should have completed Day 30 sometime last week, and now am just getting to Day 24’s entry. It’s not that I don’t want to see through what I’ve started and would feel undeniably guilty for not keeping a goal that has been so publicly shared. It’s that life gets complicated.

I started last week with the intent of getting through as many entries as I could before a brief planned break for an out-of-town wedding. It didn’t happen.

I had been thinking a lot, as I often do, about visiting my grandma. She is the only living grandparent I have and will be turning 92 in a little over a month. She lives in an assisted living home not that far from me, and yet it is so easy to let time, sometimes months go by, without going to visit her. I make excuses and then feel badly I don’t go. Even though she has been a huge part of my life, I struggle to make the time. I am aware of how selfish it is.

She has never been much of what I would consider to be independent lady. After moving in with my parents in early 2000, she left her familiar surroundings, gave up the few friends she was in contact with, discontinued her activities and stopped driving. I always thought it was too early. She wasn’t even 80 yet. But this was her choice. I worried she had already decided to give up and wondered how much longer she had.

Over the next few years, life changed for everyone in the family with marriages, divorces, kids, and new jobs. Dementia was developing. I still get confused on the differences between dementia and Alzheimer’s. She has never been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, which has been a blessing. Doctors say that dementia is a symptom and Alzheimer’s is the cause of that symptom (but not always, in this case). Regardless, her short-term memory went from bad to worse and she had trouble recognizing people she had been the most close to.

When she went to assisted living, she was still relatively capable of taking care of herself. Then, she fell and broke her wrist. She was going to need more help. Still in assisted living, she is rarely left alone and is no longer cooking for herself.

Keeping track of when her fall happened or even how long she has been under assisted care is a blur to me. She has been one of those women who, despite the feelings of wanting to give up from time to time, muscles through and lives on. It’s remarkable really.

She is a little woman. Fragile and frail. We knew if she were to fall again, it would be bad. It could mean the end of her quality of life.

And so, as soon as last Monday, I was making my promise that I would go visit her when I got back from vacation. I needed to be better about it. On Tuesday, my mom called to let me know she was in the ER with a broken hip. I was too late on my promise.

Below the blankets in the hospital room, I swear I couldn’t even tell she had legs. It looked like her body was part of the bed. She has become so skinny I don’t know how her organs can pull her through this even though the doctors determine she is strong enough for surgery. But, she recognizes me. She says my name. I feel an overwhelming sense of guilt knowing I haven’t seen her most of the summer, but have to let it go realizing she doesn’t care, she is just glad to see me. I want to be strong for my mom. I know this is very hard on her.

Statistics state that about 25% of patients who go through breaking a hip in their advanced years are gone within a year. Even though she had the surgery, she will need to be able to recover. To move freely. To walk. If she cannot, it is difficult to know what will happen. Inevitably, it could mean that I will never again visit her in the place she was living. She will have to go to a nursing home. And then what?

I don’t know how to handle aging. I don’t think I’m afraid of death, but at some point, I seem to tell myself I can’t deal with it. That I don’t know how to deal with it. I’ll just close my eyes until it’s all over. If it’s part of the cycle of life that everyone goes through, why is it so hard for me to see? For me to accept?

I remember how excited we would get knowing grandma was coming when living overseas as kids. It was awesome to have any visitors from the U.S., but there was always something special about her visits. I remember her townhouse, her pool, how she would let us pick out a toy at the grocery store, trips to Disney and other fun destinations, her peaches and sugar dish, cobblers of every kind, how she was the only other person in the world I would allow to sleep with my stuffed dog Baxter when she’d come to stay overnight, and her support of me no matter what it was I wanted to be. Soft spoken and kind, it’s always difficult to see what something like dementia can do to the mind.

The beauty of the symptom, if there can be a silver lining? Long-term memory is crystal clear even if she cannot recall two hours ago. It would be a shame for me to let her slip away without getting to hear everything she may have to say. I have to believe I will get to do this. I will not sit idly by waiting for the call.

Before surgery last week, I sat by her bedside with my mom and aunt in the room. For as weak as I thought she looked, her grip on my hand was stronger than I thought it could be. Not being as big on physical contact other than the hug here and there, I could not remember the last time we had sat like this holding hands. She told me she loved me and I told her I loved her. I kissed her on the forehead before leaving. From this moment forward, things would be different.

She told me on her birthday last year that she hoped she would not see this year’s birthday. I explained to her how much she has to live for and how loved she is. She is so strong, she’ll be around for a long time. But I am not her. I cannot know what is going through her mind. Her soul. She has lived a remarkable life and if she could think through even the most recent years, would not be disappointed with all she has done and how much she means to so many people. But I do understand that, at some point, you decide enough is enough. You want to go out on a good note leaving a legacy of happiness and goodness. I know this is what she wants.

Even though I keep hoping she is not right in what she said to me last year, I know only she can make that decision. When God says it’s time, it’s time.

Could’ve, would’ve, should’ve. I hate that. I hate that I do that. It’s never too late, right? Until one day, it is.

Day 18: A matter of opinion

It’s the First Amendment to the United States Constitution. Freedom of speech. Sometimes I think that we’ve taken that liberty maybe a little too far, but that’s another discussion for another time when I actually feel like discussing politics (which I rarely, if ever, do). I’m talking more about opinion. When is it ok to give your opinion and when is it not?

When it comes to opinions, it seems more common for people to have to be told to hold back maybe indefinitely or maybe until a more appropriate time. Me? I have been told I should actually voice mine. It’s not that I don’t have opinions, it’s just that I don’t speak them very often. Typically, it takes 5, 6, 7 times of something happening or someone asking before I’ll say anything. It’s probably why I have never had a roommate problem. I accommodate. I didn’t share disagreeing thoughts. It’s probably why I have done so well in customer service. Again accommodating, making sure people are happy at any cost.

I admit I have an inclination to put everyone else first. Unfortunately, it can be detrimental. Especially when I get to the point where I can’t take it anymore. My reaction can be irrational.

Thus, I have agreed to no longer say “I don’t know” when asked my opinion on something. Instead, I must either say what I actually feel or ask for more time to think it over when nothing is coming to mind. No more “I don’t know” cop outs.

Ironically, I got the chance to put this into practice and decided to act on it. No one asked me what my opinion was in this particular situation, but instead I decided I would share because I felt strongly enough to do so.

Caution: Here’s my rant…

I have been going to a coffee shop in the neighborhood for a while now mainly because they have pretty reliable WiFi and it gets me out as I tend to work better when surrounded by others. As a point of clarification, this is a different coffee shop than the one I talked about on Day 9. I’ve come to the conclusion that the WiFi is just about the only redeeming quality of this place.

Here’s what’s wrong. The food is overpriced and sadly not very good. There seems to be an non-proportionate ratio of people to flies. I usually leave smelling of sandwiches, but necessarily the good kind of sandwich smell (if there is such a thing). Most importantly, when walking through the front door, I am greeted with a sense of hostility so strong it’s difficult to not wonder if I am displaying signs of leprosy and should therefore leave the premise immediately.

If that isn’t bad enough, getting a menu is like asking for a million dollars. Ordering food? They will likely be out of one or more ingredient, so be sure to have a back-up plan. Also, better be prepared to go collect your own napkins and silverware. The familiar stop by after you being eating or drinking to ask if everything’s alright and if you have everything you need? Don’t expect it and you won’t be disappointed. Refills require going up to the counter even if you are supposed to be receiving “table service.” And getting the check will take 15-20 minutes if you can even get anyone’s attention.

I’ve learned these things over time. I make sure to ask for the check as soon as my drink or food is dropped off. I know where to go to find the napkins and silverware. I accept walking to the counter for a refill often accompanied with a roll of the eyes after overhearing them complaining to each other about how much they hate being at work and can’t wait to go home. I understand I am a bother to them, but have managed to tolerate it giving the benefit of the doubt in that maybe they’re just having a bad day. Everyday.

Today, it didn’t work. I felt like I was blatantly being ignored. Ok, my fault, I had forgotten to ask for the check when my drink came, but today I couldn’t excuse the behavior. I pulled out my wallet and started shutting things down. She walked by again and again. Didn’t make eye contact when I tried to get her attention. So, I pulled out money and laid it on the table. Haha, that should be a trigger. It wasn’t. After her last pass-by she disappeared. Never saw her again.

Fair enough. I wasn’t going to walk out without paying, but I wanted to leave as soon as possible. I left the amount of money I thought I owed on the table and vowed I wouldn’t be back. Not this time.

I realize it sounds a little silly to get so flustered over a coffee shop experience. There’s plenty of others to go to where they care about me being a paying customer. But, this was a huge step for me. I don’t like being…not nice.

Deciding to never go back didn’t seem like enough of a commitment for me. They wouldn’t actually care if I came back or not and it’s not like I have friends who frequent the place to recommend they don’t continue to go. I thought about what to do and decided to get online and write a review. Freedom of speech, right? Plenty of websites out there to speak your opinion. I felt apprehensive, but had to do it.

One such is called Yelp. I don’t know much about it and have never actually used it to get a review, but it seemed like a good forum knowing how popular it is. Funny thing is that the already written reviews for this place were hauntingly similar to mine. Overpriced. Horrendous service. Considering I’d been going there to suffer my cruel and unusual punishment (ok, it hasn’t been quite that bad) for a while now, I was starting to wonder if having a bad attitude was part of the prerequisites for getting hired.

I wrote my review. It was tasteful and respectful. It felt nice to actually say something and commit to taking a stand, small as it may be. I even emailed the owner. I don’t know that they ever read the reviews on Yelp, but felt compelled for them to know what was going on in their establishment – even if they already know and don’t care. I felt guilty about doing it, but if they never know, how can they fix it?

Good for me. I just gave a strong opinion and actually did something with it. Was it right? I’m not sure,  but baby steps on a road rarely traveled for me. It feels somewhat liberating, but don’t expect I’ll go to the extreme with it. Think about it. I had to be going there for 2 years with terrible service before I finally felt like I had enough reason to say something. Goal for next time? Try to get my opinion out in less than a year;)

Day 7: Writing what you don’t want to write about.

It was in an article I read a while back. Ways to spark your creativity include writing what you don’t want to write about. Write for 10 minutes straight. At the end, don’t go back and read it, just tear it up. Delete it. What if you don’t want to delete it? Here we go.

I can still see her. She would sit in that closet when the world felt like it was caving in on her. It made her feel safe. The darkness. The ability to shut the world away if only for a moment. She could be sad. No one would ever know.

She had a very normal childhood. Good food on the table, roof over her head, more travel opportunities before the age of 6 than most people get in their lifetime. There was nothing wrong with the world in which she was growing up in, except herself. She didn’t like who she was. Taking for granted the life she had been given.

She told her mom after the haircut she received when she was 10 she hated what she looked like. She looked like a boy. She looked like a really ugly boy. The kids at school tomorrow would be relentless. She cried that whole day, refusing to eat, to talk, sitting in the corner of the living room. She was too exposed and looked ridiculous. She knew it, but didn’t care. That’s when she discovered the closet.

As the esteem started slipping farther and farther away, she fell into an eating trap. Proud of the day she showed up at school and realized she did not need to eat her lunch. She could throw it away and not be the slightest bit hungry. She was thin, she had a problem. But that wasn’t enough. People still picked on her in the very best way middle school girls can. She would spend hours the night before choosing clothes and deciding what to do with her hair just to have it all fall apart the next morning when someone told her she looked ugly. She felt incompetent in almost everything she did. She didn’t think she was good enough in dance class, she had been terrible at tennis, she cried when she had to do math, she wasn’t as smart as her sister.

She would listen to her parents argue over her mental state. She was pretty sure she was crazy. She would go back to her closet and cry. Talking to the stuffed dog she’d had since infancy helped. He just listened. And listened. And listened. She really was crazy.

One night while in high school she took too many pills. She didn’t think she wanted to die, just wanted help. Stop spending so much time in the closet crying to a bunch of stuffed animals, regardless of how much she loved them, and tell someone, anyone who would listen to what she was feeling. She didn’t die and she never tried again. It was a scary night.

When the psychologist asked her if she had ever thought about suicide. She lied.

Years went by. She didn’t feel good all the time, but it was infinitely better. People complimented her even if she never complimented herself, or believed what they were saying. It made her feel good. She relied on others for her happiness.

After college, weight gain happened. She was too focused on superficiality of her appearance. She stopped eating and exercised far more than her body could sustain. The result of her hard work gave her eight stitches in her head after passing out in an elevator while at work. Everyone knew. Everyone could see what was going on with her. She tried to go back into her closet, but it was too late.

She needed to run. To try and be her own person away from everything that she knew. Start new. Maybe she would find out who she was and learn to truly enjoy the company she kept.

It worked for a while. For the first time ever she had some confidence. People gave her respect. Gave her compliments she listened to. She felt in charge of her life. She loved the people she was meeting.

She couldn’t sustain it. Eventually she thought she was losing who she was or who she thought she was. She was listening to too many other people who were trying to give her advice on what to do with her life. She wasn’t sure if she had ever made the right choices personally or professionally. It felt disconcerting, meaningless, hopeless. Maybe she needed help…again. Someone else to give her the happiness she sought.

Her dad was diagnosed with cancer. She cried a lot thinking about the relationship that should have been. She should have been trying harder. She started spending more time in the closet thinking. She had kept all her animals. Too sentimental to let go. They continued to listen. She was spending too much time alone. Her problems were trivial compared to what he was going through.

He beat cancer because he had the will to live. He was strong. She felt inspired by his determination but was still struggling with her will.

She finally gave in to the asks for a date. She moved in with him. She conceded to his ways of never wanting marriage or kids. She needed someone to give her happiness, even if it wasn’t really happiness he would ever be able to give. It was good enough. Maybe this would be as good as it got for her. She found herself settling.

She didn’t cry in the closet. She didn’t really have a closet. She shifted her time alone to the workplace and hid her sadness from him. Some days it was five or ten minutes alone in the bathroom until she could make sure co-workers wouldn’t notice her puffy eyes. Some days she would sit on the curb outside the office trying desperately to convince herself to go back in.

By this time, she had stopped sleeping. Insomnia became her best friend. While the world slept, she could be alone to think. She thought far too much. And then one day, without telling anyone, she decided to apply for graduate school. She spent a very gray and dreary day inside a coffee shop writing essays in an effort to convince admission this was the right program for her. It worked and she got in. It made her proud for the first time since making the decision, without anyone’s input, to move across the country for a job flying.

Then she told people. He feigned support. When she told him what she wanted to do with her degree, he told her he had no reason to move. She knew it was over. She probably knew it was over even before it began.

It was January, her least favorite month of the year. She had been dumped, had no where to live, just started grad school, was incredibly sick from a medication withdrawal, and was about to turn 30 in less than a month. This was not exactly how she had pictured her life.

Then, it started happening, and fast. Her hair was coming out in clumps. She had to make the appointment to chop it off. It was too hard to see the long strands falling to the ground. She knew she had an autoimmune disease. Knew it wasn’t life threatening. Knew it was ridiculous to be caring about her appearance. It didn’t matter what she knew. Her thoughts took over and she sunk into deep depression.

She barely saw friends. She did most things by herself ashamed of who she had become and ashamed she was letting something so like this take over her life. It was not as much a physical disease as it was emotional. She hated seeing the magazines focused on beauty. She knew she would never pick up a fashion magazine again.

She hit bottom. The insomnia was the worst it had been. She was unable to sleep in her bed and spent most nights lying on the couch just staring into the darkness. Waiting. Waiting. It had to get better. It got worse.

It was the first panic attack she’d had. It will probably be the worst. Lying on the floor unable to move she could not go to work. She would not have been able to drive. Her mom spent the day with her, first at the hospital and then on her couch watching TV trying to forget what was happening. She wasn’t able to be alone.

That night, a dear friend who had seen her through most of her life, the ups and the downs, sent her a message. Told her to read Jeremiah 11-13. “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” Crying because it was the first time that year she felt hope, she was able to get up off the floor. She slept that night. In her bed.

She decided she was supposed to do something with this. She had some purpose even though she was not sure what it was. Maybe she should move to another country and provide something to those less fortunate. Maybe she should help girls overcome issues of insecurity. Maybe she would lose every hair on her head, but be able to show people how strong she was. It wouldn’t matter what her appearance was, something she been obsessed with most of her life since she was 10 years old. She would be brave.

She agreed to take a weekend trip with some friends. She was doing an excellent job in school and getting congratulated on her writing. She was seeking out networking opportunities to find a new job in the field she was pursuing. She finally went to the running group she had wanted to go to for so long. She went alone, talked with complete strangers. She realized she could make new friends. She met him.

Her hair started to regrow. She bravely decided she would quit her job even though she had nothing specific lined up aside from an unpaid internship. Her boss wouldn’t let her go and wanted to help her until she found full time work. It meant a lot how much they valued her as a person. A month later she got a full time internship. Her persistence had paid off. Her sleep was slowly getting better. She loved being with him. He pushed her. Challenged her. She needed him. Things were going uphill, fast. She couldn’t believe what was happening to her. It all started with a bible verse.

She wasn’t able to sustain. The slip happened. She started losing even more hair than she had before and had to cut it even shorter. She hated it, and made the appointment to get it shaved off hoping it would stop her obsession. She changed her mind last minute and cut it even shorter. Stress had caused it to start falling out again, and the stress of it falling out sustained the loss. She couldn’t do it. She was worried he might leave her. She was sure he was going to that day up on the mountain on their trek to base camp. She had really messed up this time. She had gone too far and would never have it this good again.

But he didn’t. He stuck with her because he believed in her and knew she was capable of pulling through this. She knew she was capable. She had a track record of pulling herself through. Getting up and keeping going.

She pulled out that verse again and again and again. For some reason, it did not have the same meaning. Why? She didn’t understand. She tried other quotes, other verses. She gave herself pep talks. She talked to her stuffed dog that she still had. She desperately wanted to go back into the closet and hide. But knew she couldn’t and had to power through this regardless of who noticed or who did not.

A year went by. It had been three years since she found her first spot and was told about what was happening in her body. This was going to last the rest of her life. A part of her image would never be the same. She thought back to the ridiculousness of her childhood, adolescence and early adult years when she was overly concerned about her appearance and was sure it would be the only way anyone would like her. Funny how life comes full circle.

She felt lost. He had committed to wanting to be with her the rest of his life and so had she. Yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that if she could not find her confidence, this would not be able to last. He would regret his decision. It was not something she wanted to happen.

How does one change something they have dealt with their whole life? They say it takes at least 6 weeks to break a habit. But she had been insecure more than half her life. So insecure that she had become afraid to be alone, something she had never feared before in her life.

After her last breakup when things started to spiral, she had come to the conclusion that if God had meant for her to be single the rest of her life she would be ok with that. She would do something to make a difference and to leave a legacy on this world. She wanted that back, not afraid to be left.

She realized she needed so badly to open up to friends, but felt foolish doing so after holding it in for so long. Her problems so trivial. She was having difficulty opening up to him. Trying so hard to put on a brave front and then falling apart over the smallest of things. It was unfair to him.

Some days she feels like she is standing on a platform in the middle of all the holes she has dug for herself. They surround her. If she steps forward or backward she will fall in. She must stay where she is. She must give herself credit for being able to stand in the middle of challenges. Give herself credit for taking small steps to recovery. What exactly did she need to recover from? Hopelessness.

A few days back she looked in the mirror. She has been afraid of mirrors most of her life. Her family used to wonder why she cleaned bathrooms with no light on. Promising them they were cleaned, she told them it was because she didn’t want to have to see herself in the mirror. As though she was ashamed. They thought she was ridiculous, but it was who she was and they let it go. This time, she forced herself to look. To really look. She felt pretty. She didn’t know why, but she did. It made her smile.

There is nothing anyone can tell her. No book she can read. No video she can watch. She will never give up. She has pulled through far too many times and knows it gets easier with each passing day even when she feels lost and confused about the cards dealt. Maybe she is stronger than she thinks.

I needed to tell someone even if it is difficult to confess. A creative writing teacher explained that even in fiction there is always an element of yourself in the story. You cannot avoid it. Each experience I have had will bring the novel to life.

Seven days in, I don’t necessarily feel like I’m changing. Maybe I won’t notice it until day 30 or 3 months from now. Don’t stop hoping. Find that faith I know is there.

My new word: “Blesson.”  It’s when you’re able to view painful lessons as blessings.  A blesson is what happens when you see the blessing in the lesson that your challenge taught you.

~Karen Salmansohn

Finding beauty in each and every picture along this journey. The transformation, but with the same smile: