relery.untamed
Open Hearts Open Minds
Today is Christmas Eve, year two-thousand and twenty-two. This day holds a large amount of space for the events and emotions it's occupied over the years. In other words -- the bandwidth for utter chaos. For starters, today is my parents' thirty-second anniversary. Unfortunately, that doesn't hold the same significance for me or for them as it does to many long-time married individuals. A congratulations is far from earned. My extended family would come over to our house for a few hours every year and try to pretend as though things were "normal" -- whatever that means. We'd joke & laugh, gift them funny cards mocking their marriage, and figured that if we all united in making fun of it, then it might make everyone feel more comfortable. Mom and Dad would sarcastically side-arm hug, pretend to peck and wipe it off while I rolled my eyes. The night would carry on and we would graze, frantically open presents, and socialize. We'd do the things families were "supposed" to do. Mine is extremely small, so making the rounds wasn't difficult. We'd play pool, sing karaoke, and dance ridiculously depending on my Dad's mood-- which was quickly malleable. He was the life of the party and knew how to put on quite the show. But there was always an expiration date and a ticking time bomb waiting to explode behind closed doors once the party died. My Mother would worry for months leading up to Christmas Eve, trying to get the house ready to occupy anyone other than us inside of it. We would frantically hide away the turmoil behind curtains and cabinets in an attempt to fix a whole years' worth of neglect and piling compulsions that filled every room. She became a drill sergeant with impossible standards and expectations that couldn't be met. Though, one of the things I love about my Mom is her exquisite taste for all things in life. She appreciates high-quality and the idea of establishing traditions in a formal way. It means something to her to try to make things "how they ought to be". She never wanted the Subway sandwich trays or the veggie and dip platters. She wanted specialty meats and made-from-scratch, everything. She wanted joy, laughter, and genuine belly-aching fun. She wanted things to be special. Unfortunately, her attempts to perfect everything became a part of what ruined everything. The pressure and comparison to other families. The resentment & frustration to work so hard in her job and then have to slave away, pulling all-nighters to make her signature sauerkraut & kielbasa and clean. Feeling like she had to do everything on her own for it to be good. It was not uncommon for her to not sleep, but on this occasion it was more about "what she had to do to make everyone happy and try to create something nice." This always left her in tears, feeling as though all of the effort never mattered. And it always left me absolutely shattered inside watching the dominos fall. It was havoc and sorrow with glimmers of happiness and a few really good memories tucked away in there which left that child-like hope of something to look forward to each year. Like a starving dog hopeful for a treat. But in these attempts to normalize what would never be "normal" for us -- this time of year just triggered very high stress, lots of arguing, yelling, tears, name-calling, and lots of hurt feelings. The worst part is that this wasn't much different from any other day -- only amplified. We all wanted things to be different today. And different for us was as simple as having home-cooked meals, a chaos and clutter-free space for at least 24 hours, and peace. Even though I can't say we ever fully experienced "different", we sure as heck tried. (Thank you, Mom. I always saw you) Something I looked forward to most was having my Grandma Jane stay overnight after the other families left. She knew how hard this time was for everyone sharing my roof, and she purposely positioned herself there as a beacon of peace. A mediator. Someone to say "enough is enough" and give me the eyes of support I needed to know someone was with me and affirmed me. We would wake in the morning and chat in bed, have tea and coffee and open presents that my parents always put a ton of effort into. Gift giving was a big love language for them, and I always appreciated their intentionality with it. But to be honest - I never really cared about the gifts and thought they brought about more stress and hurt feelings than not. They also used to love showing me videos from when I was young, maybe 4....5....6 years old. My Dad would pull out the video recorder and I would peek my head out through the upstairs balcony. My tiny shy voice would say "Merry Christmas" as an excited grin spread across my cheeks. I would slide from one stair to the next on my bottom until I could see the tree. My face lit up as bright as all the lights combined. My parents cherished that image of me closely. They always wanted me to feel that way, even though they knew that smile had grown faint as the years passed.
Fast forward and at least a decade of my life has been spent with others' families for the holidays. There's something so kind and wonderful about being welcomed and feeling a part of something that isn't "yours". But to be honest, there's a sadness in that as well that I've always felt guilty for. I can't really explain it other than immense gratitude and grief.
This holiday season has been especially challenging. Entering year 3 in another state. Sometimes not really even knowing why I'm here, but also not knowing where else to be. Moving for my 4th time since Michigan. Counting up the amount of times I've moved in the last 7 years of my life feeling embarrassed by my inability to feel "home" anywhere. What is "home"? Transition after transition. Loneliness. Idealizing the life I could have had if I'd made different choices. Would I be happy with that life? Wondering why I've done everything I've done thus far in my life to end up on the same hamster wheel. Knowing I still have so much hard work to do to experience freedom of my fears. Spending the holidays alone and watching families celebrate through a screen. Missing my family and also creating boundaries around my family. Wishing I was with them and also knowing the ache I'd feel around them. When I was a Christian, all of these feelings felt invalid because this time period wasn't supposed to be about me. It was easier for me to express gratitude and grant positive perspective, omitting my feelings like I was conditioned to. When I unbecame a Christian, I was frustrated by not knowing why me and half the country were celebrating this day in the first place? I grew angry with the materialistic, surface-level presentation of this day and how to be a part of it authentically. When I sat with both versions of myself, I opted to find an in-between. Something that said....
The truth is, this isn't the most wonderful time of the year for everyone. For some people, it's extremely busy and stressful and hectic. For others it's isolating. But for a lot of people, it really is beautiful. And intentional. And warm, and uniting, and special. I've tried to spend today asking myself, "What does this time of year mean to me?" "Why does it hold significance?" "What do I want this time to look like for myself now and in the future?" Some people never really have to ask themselves these questions because they just do what they've always done, or tag along to whatever they feel obligated to attend. Then there were others who were forced to ask. But that's in part why I'm writing this -- Because you don't have to experience the same things to experience the same feelings. And that can be uniting to people who might feel that no-one understands or feels the way they do, even though there are probably a lot more people that do than you realize. Sometimes when we are in deep, we don't even want to feel that we are not alone. We don't want to believe others feel the same way, because that taps into our wound of feeling invalidated for OUR experiences and OUR feelings. We get absorbed into a self-wallowing protection mechanism we use to feel deeper loneliness than we need to. Ironic, isn't it? So, for those of you who feel that weight today and every year, this is for you. I'm forcing a virtual hug onto all of you this year. Especially those who need one more than they want one. For all the things I can and cannot understand. I consider it a pain and a privilege to have to redefine this time of year for myself. Because the holidays aren't always happy. And Christmas's aren't always Merry. And even though I don't think I was ready create my own traditions this year, I look forward to the opportunities I have to part ways with chaos and make room for solace. We all deserve to rewrite our futures.
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You know when time just hits you? The abundance of it; The limitations of it. The inability to rewind it or see beyond it. The flashbacks and memories that you love and hate. The regrets and mistakes. The breakthroughs and the nuances. Everything that is wrapped in past time: old faces, love, hurt, and the journey. The point when your mind catches up to the pace of your life and you ask, "How did I get here?" I sometimes envision walking back through the timeline of my life in the setting of a forest. Beautiful trees down a long dirt path filled with snapshots in memories of people, events, and words that meant something. Years and dates marking each tree as I walk by. Some groups of trees are lush and green, flourishing in growth and abundance. Some are orange and red, fiery and burning. Some are fading. Each grouping highlights different faces and different places. Music changes with each step, time-stamping a feeling that takes me back to those moments when I hear it. I walk by as though I’m reading through chapters of my personal autobiography titled “How I got here and how incredibly messy it was”. But also, “Where I’m going and my gosh, is it beautiful.” I struggle with past time. How deep I feel my chest ache when I look at a picture of what once was. How my stomach rises to my throat when I think of past mistakes or who I once was and never wanted to be. The sadness I feel in loss, even if it was necessary for my growth. The beauty and grievance of change. I struggle with present time. The anxiousness I feel trying to balance what I need to do and what I want to do. How much of a battle it is for me to sit still in a moment and also feel urgency to act on goals and dreams. I struggle with future time. How terrified I feel thinking about death and not living the life that I “should have” lived. The fear I have in not accomplishing all the things I want to do while I’m here. The fear of choices. The fear of loss. The fear of the unknown. I went to a concert last night and time was highlighted by one of my favorite artists, Dermot Kennedy. I admire him for his poetic nature and depth of his lyrics. In one of his songs, he had us sing with him: “And even though this life, this love is brief - I’ve got some people who carry me.” I stood hand in hand with my boyfriend and slowly lowered my head to his shoulder as I let tears fall. This life. This love….. It’s brief. It’s not forever. There are no guarantees. There is no crystal ball. There are no take-backs. There is no explanation. There is no stopping. There is just time. And it is brief. The vastness and the fleeting nature of time are both things that overwhelm me. But no matter where I’m walking, whether it’s through my past, present, or daydreaming about my future, I see love. Lots and lots of unwarranted, sometimes undeserved, yet never-ending love in the people who carried me. In big ways and small. In soft and loud words. In timeless hugs and heartfelt tears. In placing a roof over my head and food on my plate. In listening for hours on end. In asking how I was doing. In everything in-between. The tears fall in appreciation for the time I have had. The time I still have. The time that I'll never know. And the people who carry me through each chapter of my life. Passing me off from one to the other, year by year, place by place -- some hands are familiar and some are new. But I remember the touch of each one, and I could never forget. Who and what are you carrying or being carried by in this season of your life? I encourage you to acknowledge those things. Those people. Because this time is brief. Fill it with love, with people, with play, with laughter, with hard work, with fulfillment, with nature, with travel -- fill it with what carries you. I knew what I wanted to be when I “grew up” when I turned 11 years old in Mrs. Bennet’s 6th grade English Class. I wanted to be a writer. I was reading the book, The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle which was a story about an upper-class 13-year-old girl who boarded a slave ship crossing from England to America in 1832, highlighting themes of gender, socioeconomic status/class, heroism and friendship. The day I finished the book was the day I requested to be excused during that 6th grade English class to go down to the library and start working on the sequel. I needed a place that was quiet with no distractions to mimic a true author’s habitat, obviously. I carried my little blue writing book down to the library everyday for over a month, freshly sharpened pencils in hand, with at least 5 large pink erasers for every one pencil I had. And that's where I began to write my little heart out. I wrote and erased and wrote again, tore out all the pages and started completely over. I felt like I was the main character in the movies I’d seen where the writer is surrounded by crumpled up pieces of paper, coffee mugs surrounding their desk, hanging their heads in their hands while experiencing a “writer’s block”. Replace the coffee mugs with styrofoam cups full of water and eraser remnants and we looked about the same. I think I wrote a whole 14 pages by the end that I felt were “worthy”. I can’t remember if anyone ever read it, but I came home and put it in the keepsake drawer of my dresser where it sat to rest until I found it my senior year of high school. By that point, AP English readings for grades and three varsity sports schedules on top of homework and orchestra had made reading and writing that was once for fun, impossible. I remember pulling it out one day and thumbing through it, proud of 6th grade me. But I also remember thinking, “Why did I ever think I could do this professionally? "Why would I ever have thought I could have been good enough to actually do that?” I'll never be as great as them. I asked a friend the other day when he thought we lose that confidence. The boldness we have as children to try, dance, sing, imagine, and create without fear of judgment or an ounce of doubt. It's likely a complex answer that shapes and evolves as we grow up, influenced by our experiences and our wounds, our interpretations of the world, the expectations we have and the ones that are placed on. us. Something I’ve always admired about children: they are fearless and often take risks, even if they might get hurt. I also wanted to be a meteorologist/astrologist/anything that studied the sky and it’s operations. I used to grab my blankets and go lay on my driveway when I was young or sit on my front porch and look up at the stars nightly, thinking how big the world was and how small I felt. The mysteriousness of it all, the vastness, and the unknown. It was never terrifying to me like the unknown of the ocean is or being lost in the woods. It was just fascinating and trance-like. I got lost in it. My Grandma started buying me educational books with pictures of constellations, space, and stars, and my Dad used to bring out binoculars so I could see the divots in the moon just a LITTLE bit better. I still love the sky just as much as I did then. And then came the lawyer. My Mom told me I’d be great because I was really good at saying “no” and having the last word. I watched Elle Woods in Legally Blonde and used to practice reciting her lines towards the TV in hopes that I might absorb it and sound professional enough to become what she did someday. I also wore lots of pink for a second, but that’s neither here nor there. Then I wanted to be a veterinarian. I got in an argument with my best friend Chelsea when I was 8 and ran home from a sleepover because she killed a spider that I was trying to save. That’s when I learned my heart couldn’t handle that kind of loss. I wanted to be all the things when I was young, and then I started forming what I wanted to be based off of what others told me I should be. Because how the heck else was I going to figure out what I wanted to do for the rest of my life at 17 years old? Beats me. My parents worked for PepsiCo and FritoLay, big corporate companies, and hated their jobs. I knew I didn't want to go anywhere near the business side of the working world, so I followed the "job security" and people service field advice from my parents and at-school advisor who thought I would do well in the medical field. That sounded more up my alley, anyway. I went on to get my Bachelor’s Degree in Kinesiology with a Specialization in Health Promotions from MSU and my Master’s Degree in Occupational Therapy and Science from GVSU which awarded me a career in Occupational Therapy. I combined this with coaching at a Crossfit gym, working at a restaurant, catering, dog sitting and walking, and personal training. I’m not really the type to do just “one thing”. I was working primarily as a PRN/resource float traveling between acute care, inpatient, long term care, and skilled nursing facilities within the healthcare system, growing frustrated with the process and procedures, the formalities, insurance, the “factory system”, and the lack of creativity and authenticity that I was able to execute on a day to day basis. I appreciated the flexibility, the speed, and the lack of pressure I felt to meet standards since I was not a full-time employee, yet working over 40 hours per week and still not receiving benefits including health insurance and comparing myself to my peers who appeared to be doing much less work for way more reward really started to get to me. I felt under-appreciated, under-valued, irritated, and stuck. What other title do I type into a search engine other than "Occupational Therapist" and get the monetary value that I feel I deserve for the schooling I underwent and the debt I accrued? I unfortunately didn't even feel I received that in the position I was already in. I’ll never forget the moment it dawned on me. We were sitting in our main office during lunch, scurrying to catch up on our notes from the morning that no one ever had time to get to. An announcement shouted through the room, “Everyone, let’s take a moment to celebrate Jan! This is her 40th Anniversary working with us and we are so proud of and happy to have had her service all these years.” My heart sank into my stomach and I felt a bulge in the back of my throat. Tears welled in my eyes and I remember thinking, “Is this it? For the next 40 years, is this what I’m supposed to be doing?” Now, don’t take me wrong -- I find this to be EXTREMELY admirable, and I am almost envious at times of the simplicity of life others practice. But I knew her life trajectory wasn’t for ME, due to a hundred different factors that influence why people stay in anything as long as they do. Fulfillment, security, passion, enjoyment, comfort, contentment, excitement, convenience, effort and time invested. Whatever it is. There was dissonance, and I couldn’t sit knowing that would always be there for me. Eventually, everything piled up and I imploded from the inside out. And that’s when I left traditional medicine. I’ve always had a hard time answering the “what” when the “why” came easy. I don’t know WHAT exactly I want to do. I want to do a million things, and I hate that I can’t do it all and that I get so overwhelmed with how many things I want to do that I don’t do any of them at all. But I do have an answer for the “why”. It’s simple to me. I can dress it up or make it more elaborate, but at the center: I just want to help. I want to be someone who makes a difference in big and small ways, and who lives outside of a box or conformity in order to do so. It’s not complicated, and I wish it didn’t have to be. I wish helping was free. I wish helping was unregulated. I wish helping didn’t mean I had to have 67 certifications or letters after my name to prove something to someone or to increase my value to 1/8 of my peers who sit behind a screen. But that’s not the world we live in. During a therapy session, I was asked to describe my “perfect job scenario”. This was my response via e-mail: “My perfect job description…. It has taken me a week with this in the back of my mind and I STILL can’t come to a conclusion. That’s the thing though - I can like just about anything for a short period of time. But after that- it’s gone. I cut my list down to 4 answers even though I had at least 6 more to add. I didn’t want my therapist to think I was COMPLETELY off my rocker. Her response was, “I think you may have won for largest variety of dream careers, which is not a bad thing, but it makes me curious as to what jobs are more 'thinking" brain inspired and what are more heart-centered. The theme I am seeing is that you have a heart to serve, but how can you do this authentically while not going broke and feeling that you cannot fill your cup in the process? When you meditate on your career/life what shows up for you most then? She asked the jackpot question. How can I serve others and do so authentically without going broke, depleting my tank, and losing my flame? Something I’ve been trying to figure out for years and am still working on. In a world where everything costs and the cost continues to grow, when we have to be better than/different than/have something that sells, when there is so much information being put out there that it’s almost impossible to sort through, when it became HARD to help without feeling helpless. What can I do to genuinely, authentically, and whole-heartedly make a true and honest difference on this planet and not completely drown while trying? I still don’t know the answers. But I took a leap of faith and packed my car, and moved to Colorado a month ago to get a step closer to what I’m not sure I’ll ever have entirely figured out. I decided the best chance I had was working at a gym owned and led by people I admire and respect because of the adversity they have faced, the inclusivity they invite, and the work they are doing on this Earth to make people feel less alone and more accepted in any and all states of being. My friend and gym owner, Kevin Ogar, sustained a spinal cord injury after a lifting accident in 2013 that almost cost him his life, and his wife, Shannon, had a stroke which left her with residual vertigo and vestibular/proprioceptive deficits and a facial droop. Together they have made large waves in the Crossfit community by assisting in creating, developing, and advocating for adaptive divisions through programming, certification courses for coaches and trainers to practice inclusion/program adaptations in their spaces, and cultivating a space that is accessible and catering to all abilities. There are a variety of athletes that come to our gym who have traumatic brain injuries, neurological deficits, spinal cord injuries/are seated athletes, and who have other complex diagnoses that invite challenges most of the population will never experience. These are ongoing, everyday, physical mental and emotional trials that impede on their independence, confidence, and overall well-being. Despite the differences, at the end of the day, everyone wants to be treated with respect and with the same amount of hope and aspirations as everyone else. No one wants to be stereotyped or put in a cage with a lock on it. I want to be a part of a movement that breaks the confinement walls our society has trapped different populations of people inside, the ones that are labeled "you can't do this" and "you'll never do that". We've been told by our media and healthcare professionals far too often that squatting over the age of 50 is "not advised", to "be careful" when lifting weights or participating in any high intensity activity, or even worse, "just stay away from it" or "take a pill" when something hurts. We've been over-looked and misinformed. I've seen some incredible outcomes from sheer willingness to try and choosing to just show up when the rest of the world doesn't. I've met some of the strongest, most inspiring humans in the last several years. And now I'm coaching some of them daily. To be a part of something that tells people "you can" and promotes continuous growth, improvement, and constant adaptation to meet someone where they are and help them through tough days is what I get to do for everyone I come across as a coach. I think it's a very under-valued role that wears so many hats. And I think my aspiration is to try to wear as many of those hats as a coach as I possibly can to provide what I think people truly need. Support. Love. Patience. A push. Safety. Instruction. Encouragement. And a place to fall apart, too. I don't know where I'm going, but I'm glad I'm here, where I am, at this very moment in time. Just like most things to me, figuring out exactly what I want to do with my life is not a one-way ticket destination that I land on and say, "I've finally made it!" Some people seem to find that, and I think that's such a gift. But I also think there's something beautiful about the hunting and gathering process. The continuous hunt and search, collecting and gathering as we go, and it being never-ending. Most often we find the greatest treasures hidden on the roads less traveled where most aren't willing to go. I'm on one right now , and can't wait to see where it leads. On Tuesday, November 17, 2020, I learned a few things.
I don't believe I'll ever forget that day. I can still see most of it in vivid detail, though while it was all happening, I didn’t feel fully there. I woke up with heaviness. It didn’t feel the same as every other day; though this had been building over a period of time. Typically I’m able to identify signs more clearly and unavoidably -- extreme IBS (irritable bowel syndrome) and hives are my tell-tales. These stayed on the back-burner this time around, as if they were waiting for the larger motion picture event. And then I received a phone-call; my mom was crying heavily on the other end. These unfortunately were not uncommon calls for me, but I knew this was different. My Mom, Grandma, and Papa Joe had all contracted Covid-19 after following very strict and limited exposure guidelines, and my Papa Joe wasn’t going to survive. He was 74 and had been declining in health over the last several years with a suspected condition called CTE (Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy) and progressive Dementia. We knew if he were to get sick with just about anything moderately serious, that he would not be strong enough to fight it. And he wasn’t. My family was unable to be with him as he passed. It all happened so fast. I stopped working, slid down the wall behind me and sat on the ground. I placed my head in my hands and sobbed, hoping no-one would hear me through the walls. I allowed the tears, and then I fought them. I allowed the gasps for air and then I stuffed them down. I made myself gain composure and got right back to work, because this was what you’re supposed to do, isn’t it? Just keep carrying on. That was what I’ve always done, anyway. I couldn’t control my tears off and on throughout the day, one second feeling completely lifeless and the next with water covering my face. I went home, slid into my robe and fuzzy slippers, and sat around the table with my roommates to eat tacos that Mark had brought over. I felt detached. Completely removed from everything going on around me and I couldn’t pay attention. Noise was drowning out, faces were becoming blurry, and I knew something was wrong. I looked up and said, “Guys, I don’t think I feel very well. I’m going to go lay down for a few.” I retreated to my room in the basement and laid down, eyes wide and thought-less. That’s when it began. About 20 minutes went by which felt like 2 seconds. Mark came down to check on me and make sure I was okay. I cried, “Something is wrong. Something is really wrong with me...I don’t feel right.” He said, “I know, that's why you need to try to rest and close your eyes.” I laid down, trying to quiet my mind, but it was getting loud. My body was even louder. My hands began to go numb and started tingling. I felt like I had electrical impulses going up and down my arms and legs. I was involuntarily twitching and zaps of energy were firing through my extremities that were visible to the eye and palpable to the touch-- that was when Mark started paying closer attention. I would lay down and sit up repeatedly, confused and distraught. That’s when my brain started going through the worst possible scenarios. Was I having a stroke? I’d worked with thousands of stroke patients in my career as an OT, and I was sure this was happening. Or wait, was my brain swollen? Did I have a tumor? I swore I could feel it. The pressure. My lips felt heavy and my mouth felt like it weighed 100 lbs. Words became hard to pronounce and it felt as though my motor functioning was slowing by the second. I took my temperature over 6 times within 10 minutes. The more I fixated on these things, the more paranoid I became. I went from laughing out of nowhere to gut-wrenching cries within a millisecond. My body and my brain were doing and saying things that I didn’t feel I could control, though part of me felt entirely present and aware at the same time. That was the saddest part of all, because in those periods of lucidity -- I couldn't figure out why this was happening and I couldn't do anything about it. My subconscious brain was in full take-over while my conscious brain was sitting in time-out. My underlying thoughts were packed with fear, anxiety, comparison, minimization, mistrust, and persistence. It wouldn’t let me rest. And I was terrified. I needed to sleep so badly, but I was scared I wouldn’t wake up if I closed my eyes. I thought I was dying. After wrestling with this up/down, rest and restless pattern which lasted far too long, I was almost asleep until I decided suddenly that I needed to go upstairs. I was dizzy, bumping into walls all the way up until I landed in the middle of the living room in front of Claire who was sitting on the couch. I don’t remember what exactly I said other than “I feel weird”, but I stood with my eyes barely open and collapsed towards the ground in tears. Thankfully Mark had followed me up and caught my head as it fell towards the ground, landing in his lap where I curled up into a ball and cried. Claire fixed me a bath that I refused to get into time and time again. Once I finally agreed and made my way to the bathroom, I collapsed on the floor again. I had never felt so weak. I sat up stating, “I think I’m going to be sick” and as fast as I spoke it, it was happening. And it repeated over and over and over again until there was nothing left. I would lay down and sit back up -- more dry heaving. I was falling asleep on the toilet and on the floor, the only places that felt comforting at the time. I laid there and remembered thinking, “What are they doing to me? What are they talking about? Are they working together to try to hurt me?” I didn’t trust them at all, and they’re currently two of the closest people to me in my life. I finally agreed to go downstairs and carried a bucket with me, climbing into bed where Mark said I mumbled, “I feel like I’m not me. My brain and my body are somewhere else. When will this go away?" And I was out. I woke up within a few hours, feeling less confused though completely disoriented to the whole event. 10 hours passed and I felt like I went through a washing machine on the highest settings. Still not completely put back together, though everything was settling. Five days later of hardly anything but rest and sleep, and my chest still feels like an elephant made a home there. My appetite has been suppressed, my chest hurts to breathe or exert energy due to a combination of localized stress and strain from vomiting, my brain feels foggy and as though it’s being rewired one synapse at a time, and I’ve had little to no energy to do much of anything. My head has been pounding, I’ve been unable to sustain prolonged attention and feel overwhelmed at the slightest provoking. I also haven’t wanted to see or talk to many people at all, which is very unlike me. I’ve been experiencing the hangover of the depression/anxiety cocktail concocting itself in my mind and body, and I had NO idea that this was happening to so many others. SO. MANY. PEOPLE. You can't know this kind of pain unless you've experienced it, and this is one instance where it's absolutely heartbreaking to be so related to. I am a human who absorbs the emotions of everything and everyone around me. On top of my own heightened emotional awareness, the addition of others’ pain can be dangerous. But I can’t help it. I feel everything, and it is a gift I cherish and a burden I will forever carry. I'll even carry it for you if you need me to. I’m very quick to minimize my circumstances and dictate what I should and should not “feel” something for.
I knew I’d been struggling with ongoing build-up of about a hundred different things, though I didn’t realize they were breaking me. I have learned to push through a lot of pain over a long period of time, but sometimes pain paralyzes you and forces you to face it. Not only are you obligated to look straight at it, but then to dissect it, acknowledge it, and if you choose to, heal from it. And my gosh, that’s so hard to do. It takes a lot of intentionality, and a LOT of time. I never, ever want to experience this kind of emotional and physical pain ever again. Even more so, I never want anyone else to experience what I did. But in a way, I’m grateful I went through this for the sole purpose that I believe I exist on this planet to help others not feel alone, to feel heard, to feel seen, and to feel understood. I have a life story that has fortunately and unfortunately given me a LOT of tools to be able to do that. And this is another experience that I can say shook me to my core and made me realize how much I need to start advocating for myself and for others as humans with needs. Those needs being rest, safety, love, kindness, and normalization. We need to normalize this. Not because it’s okay that this level of pain exists for so many and manifests this way, but because it IS okay to have needs, to be hurt, to feel pain, to feel stress, to be sad, to grieve. It is OKAY to feel. Heck, it is GREAT to feel. But we have to allow ourselves to, and we have to take the appropriate time to take these assessments of ourselves. Daily. Routinely. Without disruption, without cell phones, without work, without anything other than you and your heart/mind/soul. And that’s extremely difficult to do now in our current operating world with millions of distractions, but this is a call to arms. For your health, for my health, for the health of those that you love. This is happening much more frequently than we realize to so many people around us, and our overall mental/emotional health is poor as a whole. It's not prioritized, understood, validated, or supported from the top-down. And that has to change. Lives depend on it. I am committed to healing, to greater awareness, and to growing from this experience. Life is hard, and everyone is living a different kind of it. Please love each other well, and please check in on yourself/those around you. It’s important. What does it look like to create a life and a faith centered on shrinking fences smaller and building tables longer? To kick down the slabs of wood dug in the ground side-by-side and cut the wires woven together, creating the divide that was put in place for protection. If we think about the purpose of a fence - what is it for? To guard; to separate “what is mine and what is not mine”; to keep intruders out. Fences provide a sense of safety. The fences that protect our homes also mimic the kinds of fences that protect our hearts, our identities, our beliefs, and our opinions about the way in which we and others choose to live our lives. Living in the space between fences is safe. We can sleep at night knowing that the chances for break-in are small; that people are likely only going to peer in from the outside because it would take a LOT of work to climb over. And I’m not saying that fences aren’t necessary sometimes. Unfortunately, for a multitude of reasons, there are many physical and emotional boundaries that need to be put in place to protect ourselves and our loved ones. But I do believe that sometimes our fences are a little too high, a little too boarded up, and a little too inflexible. We spend a LOT of time looking in on everyone else’s property from the outside. Judging based on appearance, what we’ve heard, and what we take in with all of our survival senses; instinctively developing a position on where we stand relative to what we are observing. We all fall victim to this - I know I do, and I hate how uncontrollable that feels sometimes. But what does a world look like where it would be common practice to lean in to the curiosity we feel as we peer through the gaps in our fences with a desire to bridge the spaces and move closer to one another? Intentionally and willingly. To embrace differences and smile at the challenges they may pose because it’s uncomfortable. What would it look like if we could learn to listen and empathize with one another, regardless of our differences? And what about if we didn’t offend so damn easily? A group of 6 of us sat in a circle around our hostel room in Dublin, all from different parts of the world: Argentina, Texas, the Philippines, and Andrea and I from Michigan. Our friends we met from Argentina invited us to have Mate’ with them (I had to say this at least 12 times before I got it right because Sophia's accent was beautiful and thick). Mate’ is essentially steeped herbal leaves - much like tea - prepared in a calabash gourd and served with a metal straw. They explained that every night back home in Argentina, they meet with family and friends for dinner followed by Mate’, spending about an hour handing it from person to person after taking one full sip. The gourd is passed until the reserve of hot water is gone, which they make sure to prepare a surplus of to maximize the amount of time spent with one another and encourage slow turn-taking. I can’t tell you how excited I was to be invited to join this daily tradition that they brought along with them. It translated to me as, “Hey, we’d love to share this experience with you of drinking water that tastes like burnt wood through this super flaming hot metal straw that you’re going to burn your lips and tongue on when you take a sip - will you please join us? Because this is important to us and we want to spend intentional time learning more about you.” My eyes lit up and we nestled into a spot on top of our bunks, close enough to be at arms-length. We spent over an hour asking each other questions about what life looks like where we live, what we do for a living, what type of climates we live in, and what we do for fun. They shared that their communities go to work late in the mornings, return in early evenings, gather for dinner and Mate’ around 10 PM and head to the disco every night until about 3:00-4:00 in the morning. I questioned if I could ever survive living there on the mere thought of mass sleep deprivation. Life was work, community, dance, sleep (a little), repeat. And they loved every bit of it. They were a few of the kindest and most gentle people I had ever met. When they talked to us, they looked us in the eyes. They kissed our cheeks with greetings and goodbyes. They hugged us like family. I remember thinking….”I wish we were this intentional back home. I wish we invited everyone into our circles, passed around tea with a straw for an hour with no distractions, asking each other about how we are and what’s going on in our lives.” It was beautiful. What if we could all adapt to a similar way of life that invited people to sit at our tables, no matter where they're from or what they do? Desperate to listen to lives lived by people who have seen the greatest beauty and the most disgusting ugliness in the world. Embracing people who have climbed to the peak of the mountains but who have also walked through the fire and come out with many burns, lungs full, and eyes blurred- but alive to share the story and how it changed them from the inside-out. We need more of those kinds of people at our tables-because their stories change us, too. I idealize the image of building a life and a faith grounded on breaking down the unnecessary divides we build and replacing them with tables where all are welcome. The longer and wider, the better. Each seat labeled with a personalized name; there is room for everyone. The atheist. the Christian, the Buddhist, the all-star, the addict, the priest, the rich, the poor, the homeless, the gay/bisexual/transgender/lesbian, the famous, the outcasts. Any and all abilities, colors, cultures, races, titles. Republicans, Democrats, and the non-voting. Even the ones who don’t like me. In a perfect world, everyone would take off their shoes and jackets, smile at one another and sit down; stare into the eyes of strangers and share their lives with the exchange of, “I hear you, and I see you.” We would hold hands with those who cannot see so they can feel. We would share hugs and tears and struggles and triumphs and colossal mess-ups and success and the complete and utter mistakes that cost us everything. We would be intentional to create a safe space that allows psychological safety to exist for every single person. Where whatever we share would cost us nothing and we wouldn't be rejected for simply being human. A place where wounds could be exposed and redemption could be celebrated and healing could begin. A place where similarities could be examined and connection could be created - but more importantly, where differences could surface. Opinions and beliefs that would cause discomfort, forcing our internal voices say “I can’t believe they did that….or would think that….” But what an extraordinarily powerful platform to stand on that now grants us the opportunity to ask better questions that can help us understand and reshape our initial responses. There’s a reason why differences exist in the first place - whether by product of our surroundings, personal experiences or backgrounds, individual personalities, teachings, and even sometimes can be due to our own or others' ignorance or built defenses. But dare I say it's likely that we're all a little ignorant when it comes to understanding others, and it can be death-threatening to our identities when someone taps on the cages of our hearts. There’s so many factors that collaborate in shaping who people are, why we respond or think the way we do, and make the millions of choices we make that cannot be fully understood by other humans. One of the best things we can do to better understand each other is to approach with openness to listen and to receive - without it meaning that it has to change A THING about what we think or feel. Or maybe it does and should. But either way, it might help us empathize with, appreciate others and ourselves a heck of a lot more. We say we want life to look this way. We “like” and “love” instagram posts on topics that scream for unity and collaboration, and we read books that are inspiring and paint examples of how people move towards these ideas daily through life works and brave conversations. We even tell ourselves that “it shouldn’t be that hard.” And that’s true. It doesn't seem that hard when we look around us at the tables we’ve already created, filled with familiar faces, beliefs that align with our own, common interests and perspectives and goals. We claim them to be inclusive; not exclusive. But all the sudden someone pulls out a chair and sits at your table who massively shakes things up. What then? When we strip everything we believe down and expose the core of who we are and what we care about; forget the rules and the practices, the verbiage, the bible verses, the customs, the political stances, the labels, degrees, and colors of our skin -- forget all of it for a second and ask yourself, “What matters to me? If I had nothing else, what would I truly care about?” I would like to think most people might discover that with nothing left to cloud vision or judgment, answers like, “people, family, love, purpose, relationship...” and other heart-centered values would surface. I think that’s because human connection is such a gift that we get to experience in this life. For whatever reason we are here, if any at all, we get to have relationships with one other. We get to create them, grow them, sustain them, lose them, rebuild them, evolve them, and deepen them everyday. I think it’s important to detach ourselves sometimes, not to throw away what we believe or hold close to. But to see without bias or situational influence so that we can be more relatable to others. Because we desperately need to be. We need to love each other better. We are living scared. Responding scared. Acting out in fear. And quite honestly, destroying each other because of it. Recent news highlighting cases like Ahmaud Arbery's murder while out for a run, posing no threat other than his skin color to two armed white men that he didn't stand a chance against. Ahmaud running scared, his killers shooting in response to what could be argued as the unfortunate effects of systematic racism. Fear can look a lot like hate without taking a hard look inside to understand where strong responses come from. Absolutely zero justification for this horrible crime and the beautiful life it took -- and this isn't even close to the first or last time something like this has or will ever happen again. How do we make it stop? I recently watched the short series "Waco" on Netflix during this stay-at-home order (I'm not one to watch TV, but this was too good to pass up). It is based off of a true-story, and gut-wrenchingly heartbreaking. It outlines a religious group of individuals participating in what would appear as "cult-like" practices justified by their faith, congregated together in a large gathering home in the middle of Waco, Texas. No harm or bother to anyone, with quite a vibrant family - highlighting the dynamics of celebrations and children playing, laughing, a lot of love and deep care for one another. Legal forces caught wind that there may have been illegal weapons within the home, growing suspicion of the groups' leader, David. After doing their research, David began to pose as a threat to the law on accounts of flirting with state regulations of under-age sex and marriage, and ways of life that weren't widely accepted outside of their religious community. Some of these customs included engaging in sex with and marriage to young girls ages 14-16 by David (and David, only) that were approved with consent by their parents due to the belief that David was "The Chosen One" whom God spoke to. Rules and behaviors by David that appear much more like a manipulative abuse of power being exercised on vulnerable populations than anything spiritual. But the power of believing in something superior can change you and overtake you. It can fill you with confidence and enlightenment -- and often times, is actually what most are convinced to be truth that can help or save others. Even if it seems crazy or harmful to everyone else. Most research and information about the case actually shows that the Davidians were abiding by state laws within the parameters of marriage age and consent, and were also under pending approval of the weapons permit they had applied for which was halted by the ATF so they could "search the property". Before you know it, lethal shots were fired from the ATF towards the home (prematurely) and people were severely injured and killed, which forced the Davidians to grab their weapons and try to defend themselves. Two sides firing in fear. Sounds like more of a legal issue than a people issue to me. The saddest part (sorry if I spoil this for you) is that throughout the entire 6 episodes, you can see the breakdowns in communications. The fences lowering and relationships between sides being built to better understand one another, and then one or 5 people coming in to bulldoze over all of the progress made. Creating a bigger divide, distinguishing trust, and causing one misunderstanding after another. All in response to not one obvious thing, but two: fear and reputation. "What will we look like to our citizens if we can't be strong enough to protect them? We have to have authority and hold power." This short series paints such a beautiful picture of how one man (Gary) stands between the fences, loyal to his job and communications with the FBI while also acting as a mediator between the Davidians and his bosses and learning about this group of individuals as people. He learns about the men and women inside the walls, and he TALKS to them. He builds relationship and is honest with them. While he may not have aligned with everything they believed in, he didn't have to to understand that they were people, just like him, who weren't intentionally trying to cause harm. They just believed in something with all of their hearts enough to stand for it. The FBI chose to respond to the delay of the Davidians surrender with fear tactics instead of trust building, against Gary's wishes, which prolonged the resistance of the religious group to evacuate the home. Fear fueled on fear; further perpetuating the issue. You can see both sides as you watch the show, feeling stuck sitting on this fence often in between the groups - able to see why each is protecting their own side. But the tragedy that results is the devastating reality of what can happen when people close themselves in to their own yards and replace their fences with walls, unable to see through to the other sides. Miscommunication and misinterpretation, lack of ability to see outside self, impulsive responses, lack of patience -- a recipe that concocted the completely unnecessary and horrible death of a few dozen Davidians residing in the home (a large percentage being children). You're now left sitting with tears falling, stomach in knots thinking, "If only" to what seems like limitless scenarios that could have changed the outcome entirely. But when you continue to stir a pot full of the recipe listed above -- you're bound to overflow, spill, and make a mess that you could have avoided had you turned down the heat, put a cover on, and let simmer. Maybe even thrown in a dash of compassion, love, and empathy. My heart hurt for weeks after watching. I don't live in a make-believe fairy tale world where I believe all people are kind or that we shouldn't be scared of each other sometimes. I've been exposed to all walks of life in my short 29 years of being a therapist, coach, and constant observer of people. And trust me, at times I've been very scared. Heck, I'm scared just sitting here in bed writing this with all the doors locked. But often times I don't think we try hard enough to ask all the tough questions first. We assume too easily, fear too quickly, and are too far rooted in our own dirt to set foot inside anyone else's. So ask yourselves this: how quick am I to assume this overarching thought about that demographic, those types of people, this belief system or opinion, that specific action -- and where do these assumptions come from? While driving by a few homeless veterans on the street earlier today off of Ann street. one of the men holding a sign waved as I stopped at the light. We held eye contact and I smiled, waving back. I felt instantly overwhelmed, searching my car for items of anything I could give to help and realized the light had turned green with a lot full of cars behind me waiting to go. As I left - I waved again, he waved back and we smiled. I drove away wiping tears thinking, "I was quick to assume he wanted something tangible from me. But maybe that was all he wanted - a smile, and a wave. Acknowledgment. Just like any human does. I can't imagine what kind of life he lives and where he has been. I wish I could sit down next to him and ask sometime while knowing that I'm safe." I wish safety hadn't been a concern. But it's IMPORTANT to screen safety when it comes to inviting people to our tables. We have to care, because some people abuse the safety that is extended to them as they are invited to sit. Sometimes we unintentionally compromise the safety of the people we know and care about, too. But that doesn't mean we should be leading with rejection as opposed to extension. And that also doesn't mean we have the right to assume the full story on anything regarding anyone that we haven't willed to ask the the hard questions to. Be willing to stand where others stand. Be willing to see the world they were forced to figure out how to survive in through their eyes, and maybe then you could stand up from your seat, pull out a chair and invite them to sit down at your table. You never know, they might change your life. won-der-luhst : A desire or lust to wander. Most who know me best would probably say that’s an accurate word to describe my spirit. Always wandering, always searching - wanting to be free. I used to be the girl that answered the question, “If you could be anywhere in the world doing anything, what would it be…” with, “Sitting in the best coffee shop in town, maybe somewhere in Paris down a cute alley, writing as I look out over the people, observing them as they go by…” Something romantic of that nature. I’ve always wanted to be anywhere other than where I am, doing something entirely different than what I'm currently doing - even if there’s nothing wrong with either of the two. A constant battle with restlessness. I’d never been on a family vacation growing up. I was fortunate to go to Florida and Myrtle Beach with my Mother when I was in middle school, and I cherish those trips. But the most exciting thing my Mom, Dad, and I had ever done all together was create the yearly tradition of a Christmas-time Frankenmuth trip -- and don’t get me wrong -- I loved it. Charlie Brown’s Christmas album filled the car with noise all the way there and back. I would stare out the window of the backseat, hoping snow would fall to paint the perfect Christmas story I’d created in my head. We would pull up to the lodge with the views of huge, beautiful Christmas Trees and pass by the largest Christmas store in the country. German culture, fudge shops, and a village surrounding us with a rustic feel to it, smelling of pine trees and cinnamon and warmth everywhere. I got to be a kid there, and it always meant a lot to me that no matter what the situation was back home - my parents went out of their way to make that trip happen each year and make it fun for me. These small memories and travels made me appreciate the bigger places so much more. When I was in college, I started venturing out a little more - going to California and Hawaii. Hiking the Na Pali Coast in Kauai (which was absolutely incredible) where I could have EASILY died, but where I also saw whales and dolphins riding on top of the water, triple rainbows, hidden waterfalls, and meteor showers. My curiosity continued to expand as I entertained other parts of the world, not knowing where to begin. But the elusive romantic places from the movies I'd seen and the poetry I'd read always stood out; Rome, Greece, France, Scotland, Ireland...places that held so much beauty, history, and art. I wanted to be engulfed in it. This past summer while sitting in the middle of my living room floor with my roommate, Andrea, the conversation came up that we’d both always wanted to go to Western Europe. We researched plane tickets, found great deals, looked at hostels, and within an hour we were asking each other, “Are we really doing this? Because if we are, we just need to do it now.” That was all it took for us to decide to book a two-week trip, one month in advance in the matter of almost 24 hours. One of the more impulsive things I’ve done, but it doesn’t take much for me to be all in on an adventure. Especially with people I love. Were the details figured out? Absolutely not. But I had full faith in Andrea, and Andrea only, that we would have a fantastic trip ahead. I’m more of a “you plan, I’ll be there ready to go” type of gal. And I was right -- she made sure we were organized and routes were aligned. Before we knew it, we had a very loose itinerary trip planned starting with our first location in Paris, followed by London, Scotland, and finally, Ireland. We'd both never been to Europe, so we decided we couldn't go wrong starting here. We walked between 10-15 miles per day, checked in and out of hostels, and kept an open agenda for our days with a flexible plan of “must-sees”. We shopped at local markets for food and snacks. We found out how to use foreign public transportation, made friends with people from all over the world, laughed a lot, saved a dog, had dinner with a traveling musician, got an inside-tour of “Big Ben” by a guy we met in a pub, rode a 4-hour train while sitting on the floor with a group of people, were moved to tears by live singers and violinists in the streets of Scotland, embarrassed myself in front of at least 100 people during a street production skit I was a part of, watched the Tour De France live without realizing it was being held the week we were there (this should tell you how unplanned we were) -- but we had the trip of a lifetime. While I’d love to share more about the trip itself, my intention for this writing specifically was to tell you about what I learned about myself and about the way I viewed the world while I was there. I brought my journal everywhere I went to try to capture every detail in each significant moment that happened. We took time to write on the hills and mountains, at night while in our hostel beds, at breakfast, while taking the train - we did a lot of reflection. Being that intentional allowed for my eyes to open wider so that I could pay attention to not just what was in front of me, but what was around me, too. Going into this trip, I’d sensed that I was going to have some sort of "awakened" experience while I was there. I didn’t know how or in what way. But fortunately, I wasn’t wrong. Here’s some common themes I found when I re-read my journal.
I think traveling is one of the best ways to open your mind. It allows you to observe and be a part of different human connection and interaction, to navigate unfamiliar territory (literally and figuratively), to be pushed out of your comfort zone, and to adapt. It shows you how other parts of the world live (Europe with much less processed food that I wish America would hop on board with) and dress, what they do for enjoyment, what they sound like. And sometimes the littlest differences can make you appreciate where you come from so much more. Like free and plentiful access to public restrooms, no communication barriers, cleanliness, and currency. We take convenience for granted. We take lots of things for granted. And this is one of the largest reasons why I love traveling so much and why I want to continue to do SO MUCH MORE of it. So I can, of course, experience the greatness that other places have to offer, but so that I can also truly appreciate where I come from. So while traveling often creates wanderlust for most, leaving us with a desire for more once we get a taste of everything the world has to offer; I thought I’d be on fire to get out further. Planning the next trip right away. But as incredible and important as it is to expose yourself to different cultures, scenery, values and societal norms; to fully immerse yourself in it and appreciate it for all that it is, don’t forget what a special gift it is to be right where we are. To see what we see, be surrounded by the circles of people that we love, and to have roots. So I reminded myself that it was OKAY to bask in where I was for a while, and that I wasn't truly missing out on as much as I thought I was. Sometimes we need reality checks to recognize that things that are different can be great and amazing and surreal, but that doesn’t always make them better. It just makes them different. These recognitions are complimentary to the process of experiencing life at its fullest capacity. And more importantly, being present and awake to what’s in front of us. So If you’ve been waiting to go and made every excuse not to, just DO it. There will never be enough time, enough money, enough opinions, enough convenience or enough reasons not to. Go, because going might change the trajectory of your life. It might make you come back and hug the people you left a little harder. It might make you pack up and leave, or it might just leave you with amazing memories and reflections you wrote about in your diary. Either way, you’ll be glad you did. None of us have ever experienced what is happening in our world today. When things change, it can be uncomfortable; raising confusion and dissonance inside of us that we weren’t expecting. My experience with our current global situation has taken me down what feels like an internal “memory lane”. Lights that were bright got a little more dim, and then without warning, everything suddenly everything goes black. Groups of specific animals and species live in this darkness, thriving while the rest of the world sleeps. I’m envious of creatures who feel alive in the night when things appear silent and inactive. I wish I could relate to a nocturnal sense of living while “in the dark”. For me, it just feels like what it is. Dark. I was diagnosed with clinical depression at the age of 17. I believe I had been living with it for years prior to giving it an official title which helped explain the throat closing, lung-emptying pit of nothingness I felt more prevalently. Depression was something I was very familiar with. I’d observed it on a daily basis growing up, existing at extreme levels between my mother and father. I’d unintentionally been granted a front-row seat right in the middle of it all -- nowhere to hide and nothing I could do to help or fix it. I remember one day in particular. It was during my senior year of high school. I walked into school, feeling completely numb. The colors didn’t look as vibrant as they usually did and my mind didn’t wander or get lost like it always seemed to. All I wanted to do was hide and make myself invisible. I weaved throughout the hallways, mindless and entirely blank. Gazing into the eyes of people passing with no connection or desire to engage. Feeling a complete shutdown of my natural instincts to connect with everyone at any given time. The best way I can describe what I was experiencing is feeling everything so deeply that I actually felt nothing at all. This seemed like a strange concept to me until I realized much later in my adult life that this was a very strong protective mechanism I had built to block out pain. I’d gotten so used to having to shut my feelings down and swallow them that it became second nature for my guards to go up before I even realized something was wrong. Something I still battle today. That day, everything around me seemed to slow down and blend together - nothing coming in, nothing going out. I felt extraordinarily lethargic and flat; I couldn't produce a smile if I tried. It felt almost as if someone was operating all the functions within my body, puppeteering my legs to move and head to nod on autopilot. I ate lunch in my orchestra room to avoid conversations or ridicule for why I appeared “down”. My nickname had [sarcastically] become “sunny” - and it wasn’t because anyone thought I was positive or brightened up a room. They just didn’t know. After lunch, I returned to English class where the tears that began to fall wouldn't stop, watching as the ink on my papers collided together. I couldn’t explain why, and they fell without asking. I removed myself and hid in the bathroom until I’d synced up class time well enough to know that when I walked back in, I wouldn’t be noticed. I went home that day expecting to walk into an empty house. My parents were rarely home or present most days. No cars in the driveway, coast was clear. All of the feelings that had hid themselves deep in the crevases of my heart were now feeling safe to come out --All at once. I walked in through my front door and collapsed to my hands and knees. Sobbing gut-wrenching, horror cries. I remember searching for something I could grasp onto in my mind to conceptualize the way I was feeling, but all I could pay attention to was the desperate sinking and emptiness of my stomach as it exhausted air. Feeling as though my chest was closing in on itself, picturing it caving in and collapsing my insides. Everything tightly bound with restraints within me, crying to break free in the next breath. I desperately gasped as I drew the air in, feeling that no amount would ever be enough to bring relief. That’s when I felt a hand on my back, realizing my Dad was kneeling down next to me on the floor, asking me what was wrong and how he could help me. When I heard his voice, I cried even harder, realizing that the only word I could mutter was, “Nothing”. Because that’s what I felt. Nothing; And everything; All at once. Flash forward 12 years and I remember these feelings like it all happened yesterday. They don’t come around as often, but when they do, I can spot them quickly and try to draw as much awareness to them as possible. One thing that took me a long time to discover was how "good" I was at protecting myself. I’d adopted busy-ness as my primary coping technique -- it appeared safest. Sports, orchestra, AP classes - be on the go, do all the things. It was an easy excuse to spend way less time dealing with myself and my home life. Now I'm an adult and still find myself crowding my plate and overflowing my glasses, Though, while a forced slowdown was likely needed in my life- it doesn't make it any less difficult to cope with. Truth is, these past few weeks have been HARD. Way harder on me than I ever thought it would be. And to be completely honest with you, sometimes I feel ridiculous for having the array of emotions and feelings I’ve been experiencing much more frequently than I'd like to admit. But I believe the most obvious reason they’re here is because I don’t have anything to distract me from them. They don’t have to hide from people, or jobs, or conflicts. My shielded heart protector is furloughed along with me, taking a break and telling me that sometimes it’s even good for me to do the same - even if it hurts and even if it's hard. The problem is, I don’t know how to take a break. My core fear in life is not having significance or purpose, and it terrifies me to live life meaninglessly. To understand this, we have to understand what defines purpose or what measures "meaning" - but I have a mindset that sets me up for failure. Because even if something is extremely significant and meaningful - I find myself constantly questioning if it's enough. I place an incredible amount of pressure on myself to create that along with expectations that are so high that I forget to enjoy the journey and the re-routes; the trenches and the airplanes. I forget that creating significance and fulfillment for ourselves in our lives doesn't show up with the snap of a finger. And I often forget that significance and purpose lies within the confines of one's own perspective - it can’t be measured. It's entirely subjective -- and it is whatever we create it to be. Glennon Doyle quoted in her new book, Untamed, She couldn't be more right. So when things grow dark, and when it seems others around you are thriving or embracing a period of life that you aren’t in. When your chest feels tight and when you sleep in until 1 pm. When you struggle to feel anything at all. And when it gets hard to navigate your path because everyone around you seems to have been given a pair of night-vision goggles that ran out when it was finally your turn; Remember that no one else in the world knows what you should do. Because no one has ever lived or will ever live a life you are attempting to live. Our lives are ours. And we need to stop asking for directions to places that others haven't been. Glennon was spot on -- there's no map to this thing. There's no right or wrong way. We are all pioneers, constantly discovering new land and territory to settle into. So own where you are, heaviness and all. It's a part of discovering how to find our way in the dark. “Be gentle with yourself. Be kind to yourself. Give yourself grace” Words that cut deep. It’s like tearing off the sticky part of the band-aid that was stuck to the scab and hadn't fully healed yet. Painful, exposed, and back to step 1 of wound care management. Naturally, you grab another band-aid, smother it with ointment to prevent any further damage, and cover it up to protect it --yet again. Scabs that are removed over and over peel back an additional layer each time. New skin exposed revealing the tender and sensitive tissue so desperate to advance to the next step; a scar. And each time it re-opens, the development of the scar becomes a little more pronounced. More defined. Scars leave all different sized and shaped internal or external reminders that never fully go away. Sometimes they’re painful to look at, carrying a traumatic memory of a specific event or experience. Sometimes they symbolize healing and growth. Sometimes they're something we are proud of. And sometimes they're complex. They have stories. Scabs, though; scabs are different. They still have tendencies to reopen with the slightest bump or catch. They’re delicate and desperate to heal, but they have to go through stages. They take TIME. I’m still waiting for the scar that will replace the scab labeled, “Be gentle with yourself. Be kind to yourself. Give yourself grace.” Why is it that the words we need to hear, said by the people we love the most, can hurt the worst? I think it's because we know how bad we need to hear them. Seems strange, doesn’t it? Something we know we need, and something that is GOOD for us, creates so much dissonance inside that we might just instinctively reject it altogether? This response created by a trigger of something that disarmed us along the way, never giving us a fighting chance. Something that forced us to design a new form of survival. A way to withstand the arrows being shot repeatedly right towards our center. So we decided to weld a new suit of armor to preserve and protect, to fight whatever tried to make its way in. This feeling of dissonance and hurt starts to look a lot like an inner conflict between hearing the truth and believing it. Two VERY different things. I had a very vulnerable conversation with my Dad about a year ago, telling him the truth about the deep wounds I suffered growing up and how they have affected me as an adult. His response was something like this: “When you were born, I thought you were the most perfect thing I'd ever seen. You were amazing, and I couldn't believe I'd helped create something so beautiful. You were mine. Talented, creative, intelligent. So when I would see you struggle with things - not understanding something, or not performing as well as I thought you would - I didn’t understand it. It didn’t make sense why you weren’t doing better than this person or better at that one thing. I didn't understand why you had such a hard time. I just thought you'd be better.” Well, there it was. One of the many narratives I'd begun writing about myself based off of the thousands of times I'd been hurt by this expectation. Hurt by the things that created this narrative. The times I didn't get a second chance, was ignored, was called stupid, was rejected, or not even given a chance at all. That narrative became: I am imperfect. I am flawed. I am not able to live up to the potential that my parents expect of me, that I expect of me, that my coaches/teachers/instructors expect of me -- all because of the immense amount of pressure that I feel to be perfect. Good enough never is. It just doesn't exist. The drawbridge lowers, and in floods the self-sabotage, paralysis under pressure, and plummet of self-confidence and self-esteem. All quickly knocking over the small sand-piles I'd started building and even the fortresses that I'd worked so hard for so long to create. The problem was, they were all made of sand. Fragile. Defenseless. And defeated. Looking at the damage that had been done, all that was left was fear and shame. Fear of failure. Fear of rejection. Fear of disappointment. Fear to try again. I've been constantly faced with: What's worse? Trying my best, while kicking and screaming throughout the process just waiting for my confirmation of failure? Or never allowing myself to pour my heart and soul into anything, because if I don't commit myself fully- then I can't say I gave it my all and still fell short. Sounds a lot like a lose-lose situation to me. And sadly, I've frequently chosen the latter of the two. This mentality made itself quite comfortable in the most tired parts of my soul, and it has stolen a lot from me. One of the most significant things I've learned over the last several years is how powerful our minds are. It's a statement we hear all the time, but until you experience what your mind can take from you emotionally and physically - it doesn't quite hit home. When your pain manifests in hives all over your body, panic attacks out of nowhere, debilitating spasms, or complete mental and physical breakdown -- it becomes very real. The weight of it all. And the worst part is, no matter how aware of it you are and how hard you try to tell yourself that your narrative is different -- that wound bleeds and it pins you against a wall with what feels like no choice but to surrender. Truth vs. Feelings. Two VERY different things. I am so unbelievably, relentlessly, exhaustingly hard on myself. That can manifest in all kinds of ways - but over the last few years, I've found that it hasn't made me work harder. It has left me feeling defeated, blank, passion-less, and lost. Searching for purpose and significance. I don't hide from my pain - that's one of the reasons I created this space, to embrace and bring hard things to light. But I have an outer image that represents what some might view as strong. Confident. Driven. One that might make some reading this think, "I would never have believed you battle with...." But that's only because we are conditioned to take the snapshots of ourselves that present us at our best. Despite that reality, I don't ever try to paint an image of myself that is false and work hard to reveal the most raw and truest self I can to those around me, shattered pieces and all. Being open about the cages I live in alongside the taunting enemies of comparison to past versions of myself and to others, self-criticism, and inability to receive love. This is not a pity cry. And it's not a lack of acknowledgement of the love that I have for myself and who I'm becoming. It's being honest about the strong innate responses to messages that I received through my experiences since I was a young girl:
It's challenging for me to hear "I'm proud of you" or "I love you". My insides scream, "that can't be true". It's not because I don't believe the people saying it. It's the dissonance: truth vs. my narrative. It's almost like having an inner conversation that goes something like this: "Well...they can't have gathered that strong of an opinion or statement about me based on those things. It's not enough. Even if there's 10 things that are true, there are 393 reasons to refute them. There's still TOO MUCH WORK that needs to be done before I feel I deserve even one of those truths." That's when I pull out the letters and notes from people who know and love me most. The ones who strongly stated, "Be gentle with yourself. Be kind to yourself. Give yourself grace." Those words hurt. I love them for saying it and I hate reading them because I don't know how to be. But I need them. We all need them. We are far, far too hard on ourselves, trying tirelessly to measure up to the manicured and curated things and people that we think we want to be more like. But behind all things lie scars, and scabs, and stories. Pasts and histories and narratives. I don't know who needed to hear those three statements - but I think it's more of us than not. Write them down, store them somewhere you can find them easily, and pull them out often. Because you are worthy of kindness, and grace, and gentleness. Just like I am. In March of 2020, Americans across the country were faced with one of the largest obstacles that we will likely see in our lifetime. A global pandemic that reached the United States in the form of a deadly virus that we weren’t prepared to take on; COVID-19. This forced government officials to take action -- and fast. It started as a trickle effect of suggestions and precautions, pushing the boundaries of what we could keep up and running as a nation. Drawing our own lines for how close we could get to one another. What we could do to adjust our workplaces to get away with the most and try to control the situation as best as we could until we were told otherwise. Well, that didn’t last long (thankfully) and strict measures were taken. The emergency brake was pulled on the train, forcing large parts of the country to go on a “break” -- and we were told to STAY HOME. What? Stay Home? Unemployment for millions of people? This screams rest and a hallelujah stay-cation for some (at first, anyway). For others, this is terror. Loss of income. Loss of structure. Loss of sanity. For some, this is a loss of years of work put in by small business owners to find out that they won’t be able to climb out of this. For some, this is being forced to stay home in an unhealthy environment. In toxic or abusive relationships, with neglectful parents or spouses. While some don't even have a home or a place to call "safe". An increase in anxiety, depressive thoughts, hopelessness, and fear quickly rises. Separation from friends and family, detachment from any sense of “normalcy” we’ve created in our lives to stay sane. There’s a million scenarios that fit the mold of how this pandemic is affecting us. All of us. And as a former healthcare professional, I understand the severity and seriousness of COVID-19 and the threat it poses to our service workers and anyone genetically or medically compromised. The reality is -- we don’t know enough about this thing to have opinions on how to handle it. We're better off leaving that to the epidemiologists and hundreds of others who study these trends and patterns for a living. All we can do is listen and respond responsibly, despite frustrations, opinions, or feelings. You wouldn’t think a stay-at-home order would be so difficult. I mean….someone indirectly tells you to stay in your pajamas if you want to, sleep in until you feel like it, and ride this thing out in order to keep our country safe? Under any other circumstances, this would feel like a slam-dunk win to me, who often feels burnt out and as though I need a breather from the routine day-to-day. But the reality is, this is far from “rest” for a lot of us. We can try to embrace parts of this experience, because there is definitely some good to be taken away. Especially learning to slow down in a world we’ve been conditioned to run so fast in. But this is a traumatic event. Healthcare workers are crying out to be protected and facing death counts that they can’t process or keep up with emotionally. Grocery stores are working fast and hard to keep everything as safe and clean as possible, stocking as quickly as they can. Some children aren’t being fed at home. People are having panic attacks regularly, thinking, “What’s next?” This is affecting everyone differently, as it should. And that is OK. It is OK to feel all of the things, always. Your feelings are yours; you’re allowed to feel whatever you feel. Relief, stress, guilt, anger -- It’s real. I’m currently furloughed, playing the waiting game with a couple hundred-thousand others. I’ve been struggling the most with lack of motivation, and quickly entering cycles of self-demoralization and guilt due to feeling like I’m wasting precious time. There are people making a difference and working for something to contribute to this, and I’m here proud of myself for taking a walk everyday (not that this isn't a great accomplishment, so if this is you - GO, YOU!) I heavily struggled with these feelings prior to COVID-19, always justifying to myself that “if I just had the time” then I would accomplish so much more. I do believe at one point I wasn’t always this way. But it really does feel like it’s been a very long time since I’ve known the girl that was able to push herself from something stirring within. Who wasn’t so dang scared of just TRYING. Taking one step towards something. Something to know about me, and I’m sure I’ll talk about much, much more about this in the future -- I am extremely hard on myself. So much so that it numbs and paralyzes me from acknowledging what it is that I even feel or want on a regular basis. Everyday I feel an immense amount of pressure that no-one has placed on me except for myself. And that pressure doesn’t push me to do whatever I can to minimize it -- it shuts me down. It blocks my passions, my motivation, and any other stream of confidence I have to believe that I could contribute anything of significance to the world. When I first learned about the stay-at-home order, a part of me was so excited. It was the chance I had always hoped for to accomplish all of those things on my invisible checklist --- write a book, read 10. Exercise more. Teach myself this, learn how to do that. Join this volunteer group or organization. Make a difference. I’m sitting approaching week 5 of quarantine feeling as though I’ve accomplished next to none of those things, and my daily expectations of myself have had to shift drastically. Hell, I’m a fitness coach for a living and can’t motivate myself to exercise regularly or even close to the intensity that I was with no excuse anymore for it. It makes me feel like a fraud. How am I supposed to represent or stand for, encourage and empower others with something so important that I struggle to do myself? But I realized that it’s less about upholding an image of someone that you believe others expect you to be, and more about being honest about how you feel and what you’re experiencing. It is a weird time filled with a lot of uncertainty for many, and even more unknowns. What will the world look like when things start picking back up? What businesses will be up and running, which ones won’t make it back? How will our interactions and relationships with others be affected by this? Will this caution us to maintain more distance and precautions while in public, or will this bring us together even closer? Time will tell. But in the midst, know that you’re not alone in whatever range of feelings you’re experiencing. Whether they may seem silly, unjustified, irrational, frustrating, insensitive, or whatever else exists in the parameters of the millions of feelings that we are more than allowed to feel -- remember that no matter if you’re the healthcare worker, the stay-at-home mom/dad or single parent, the child with emotionally or physically absent parents, the ventilator production companies, the grocery store employees, or the unemployed -- We are all in this together. |
Becoming who I am without the world telling me who to be.-Rachel (R) Elery Archives
March 2021
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