The Burden of Gratitude

Working in the drive-thru the day after Christmas led to lots of conversations with people about how their Christmas was. Generally, there was a string of "goods" and "greats" and the question being reciprocated back to me. But when I asked one lady if she had a nice Christmas, she replied candidly that she doesn't really like this time of year. I was sympathetic to this sentiment because I know the holidays can feel difficult for people for all sorts of reasons. I didn't ask her to explain, but she chose to elaborate and her reason kind of surprised me. She said she just really hates having to feel grateful for gifts she didn't really want. She seemed truly burdened and I felt bad for her. She couldn't come up with anything pleasant about the holiday and couldn't even manage to be grateful for the heart of the giver, even if they missed the mark on giving the perfect gift. She could only focus on the burden of gratitude. 

As with most drive-thru conversations, it was brief and almost certainly didn't leave me with a full picture of what her life is like. But I couldn't stop thinking about the "burden of gratitude" and how that shows up in my life sometimes as well. Gratitude has gotten me through the very darkest moments of my life, and I believe absolutely in its power. It makes even the bare minimum enough. It can create a portal for joy even in a dismal situation. As Cicero said, "Gratitude is not only the greatest of virtues but the parent of all others." 

But as much as I believe these things to be true, I admit there have also been many times when I felt the burden to be grateful for the gifts Life has given me--things I didn't want or ask for, things that didn't seem to be a good fit, things that ran counter to my expectations or desires. It reminds me of one Christmas when I was in middle school and my mom gave me a cassette tape (Yes, I'm THAT old) of an artist I had never heard of. All I really knew was that it wasn't one of the cool singers that all my friends were listening to, and in all my angsty teenage glory, I couldn't even find a way to force gratitude. I threw the tape aside and declared it a dumb gift. And my mother, in her justifiable shock and disgust at my poor attitude, demanded I turn the tape back over to her. A few hours later, remorse kicked in. I felt terrible about the way I had treated my mom and understood I had very clearly disrespected her by disrespecting her gift. I still didn't really want the tape, but I did want to repair the rift I had created in my relationship with my mom. I understood that she had given me a gift she thought was good and that I could be grateful that she even bothered to get me a gift at all. I went to her and apologized, and she returned the tape to me. A few days later, I decided to pop it in my cassette player, just to see what it was. One of the songs turned out to be one I absolutely loved and played over and over throughout the next few years. I even have that song on my playlist now because I still enjoy it and because it reminds me of that time in my life. 

In that instance and many others since, I have felt the temptation to complain about gifts I have received and to justify my bad attitude. But Life often gives beautiful gifts messily wrapped. It gives things we don't think we want and that don't appear to be good on the surface. And it's easy to hate having to feel grateful for them, even when we know that gratitude itself is the secret to making an unwanted gift actually much beloved. 

As the new year approaches, I am examining how things have gone this year and how I want things to change as I step into the next chapter. I can see times this year when I wasn't grateful and times when even the idea of gratitude felt like a burden. I can also see times when I was grateful for every little thing. I know the latter are the times I felt better--happier, healthier, and more peaceful. One of my words for 2025 is contentment, and I believe that only comes from a grateful heart. My wish for all of us is that gratitude wouldn't be a burden but that it would be the activator that makes all Life's gifts absolutely perfect. 

"You look so happy"

I'm holding his bag and my breath. My baby is leaving again and, even though I know I will survive, the heartbreak feels like too much. I held it together until I released him to the gate agent so she could get him settled in his seat before the other passengers boarded. That's when the first tears started to fall. Since he is an "unaccompanied minor," the airline requires that I stay at the gate until the aircraft is airborne. So I sat there silently crying and reminding myself to breathe while all the other passengers boarded and while the gate agents waited for stragglers and then gate checked all the bags that simply wouldn't fit. For a moment, I thought I had pulled myself together. But then one of the agents--probably trying to alleviate her discomfort at my obvious distress--asked how long he's going to be in Egypt, and I lost it again. The truth is, I don't know. There is no day marked on my calendar for his return.

Eventually, it is just me in the gate area, alone with my heartache, still reminding myself to take the next breath. I am not ashamed of my tears, for it is the only way to express the deep love and pain I feel in this moment. I am so thankful for the time I had with him this summer, but my heart aches with every moment of his absence. And, as I told him before he left, I am okay, but that doesn't mean this isn't hard. Love is joy and pain, and there is no separating the two.

After what seems an eternity, the gate agent nods a slightly embarrassed nod in my direction and gives me a wan smile, the sign that I am dismissed. I make my way to the parking garage but cannot remember where I parked. So, I wander around like a crazy woman, crying harder and literally gasping for breath, with my hand on my heart, saying out loud, "It is okay. You are okay."

Just as I reached my car, I got a text from my oldest son letting me know he was thinking about me, and I began to feel less alone with the burden I had been carrying all morning. That brought a fresh wave of tears, though a different brand, that anchored me to the parking spot for many more long minutes. And when I was finally ready to head home, I circled the terminal twice because I missed the exit due to tears and brain fog.

And that brings me to the picture at the top of this post. It is me, sitting in my driveway, at 8:15 on a Monday morning, the day after my birthday, with red eyes, a puffy face, and a snotty nose. I have been awake since 3:30, and I have been crying a steady stream of silent tears for an hour. I am taking deep, lung filling breaths and am trying to calm myself and put my day back on track, because "crying in my driveway," is not even close to the only thing on my agenda for the day. It is a regular day that still requires me to show up, despite my heartache. Then, as I'm sitting there, I receive a message from a friend reacting to an Instagram post I made yesterday highlighting my lovely week and birthday celebrations, which reads, "You look so happy."

I immediately pulled out my phone and snapped the above selfie because I knew in that instant that I would share this story. My life is beautiful and wonderful in so many ways, and I am beyond grateful for all life has given me. I share weekly highlight posts on Instagram and Facebook as a digital scrapbook for myself and as an efficient way of sharing a glimpse of our family life with friends and family all over the world. Without a doubt, it's mostly pictures of good times. I don't typically take pictures of myself crying in my shower or my closet or my driveway, though there are plenty of those moments as well.

I am wonderfully happy. I am also indescribably heartbroken. These two facts are both true simultaneously. And one of the tricky parts of life for me is honoring both of those equally valid states of being. 

One thing I know for sure is I absolutely don't want anyone sitting in their driveway crying and looking at my social media pages thinking my life is all sunshine and roses and that they are the only ones who are feeling the weight of this very difficult life. I work hard to create and share the happy moments of my life, but those are far from the only moments. We are all struggling in our own ways, but so often we feel all alone with it because we don't see others struggling and "everyone looks so happy." My life is not harder than yours, but  the next time you are crying in your driveway, feeling that you are the only one, please pull up this picture of me and know without a doubt that you are not alone.

You win when you try

We live in a world that is very results driven. There is constant pressure to perform...and to outperform others. And though I do believe some healthy competition is appropriate and even necessary, I think sometimes we lose sight of how important it is just to show up with our best effort, no matter what that looks like. Whether the results produced match up with or exceed someone else's or not, the real success is in the trying. 

I have been especially mindful of this recently as I have been privileged on occasion this summer to be included in the morning workout club my boys have formed. They have been setting alarms and getting up early and spending 45 minutes to an hour working out, pushing themselves to be active, get stronger, and develop habits of discipline and endurance. I am very proud of their efforts, as this is not only a generally difficult thing to do but, from what I have observed through many years of paying attention to human behavior, a particularly difficult thing for teenage boys on summer vacation. 

The first day I joined them was push-up day, and I can tell you I did not fair very well. I struggled to do the exercises that my 16-year-old, who is an athletic specimen, did easily and with more stamina than I have probably ever possessed. And I paid for it big time with sore muscles for many days after. Another day, we went for a run. This activity was easier for me, but my body was still out of practice (and still sore from the push-ups) and the struggle was real. I vowed to stay in step with my 13-year-old, who, like me, also struggled to keep up with his brother, and we were grateful for and encouraged by one another's company. As we made our way around the neighborhood loop, he revealed a slight frustration at not being able to keep up with his older brother or perform at the same level. I assured him it was an unfair comparison. His brother is 6'7" and is one of the most naturally athletic people I have ever encountered. Meanwhile, he is 5'4" and has an entirely different body structure. To make him feel better, I reminded him that I was not anywhere close to being able to perform at the level of his brother either. I went on to explain that the real success was simply in the trying. The fact that we got up early and even attempted to run the neighborhood loop meant we were better off than we had been on the days we had slept in and didn't bother. We all did hard things that day. And we all did them to the level that we were able to. Trying was the real victory. That's not to say we won't improve--hopefully we will all improve as we continue to put in the effort. But our most significant improvements can only really be measured against ourselves. 

I will probably never be able to out-stride a 6'7" athlete, but I might be able to run a little further next time without panting. Or maybe I won't be able to run any better but I'll be able to hop out of bed a little easier.  Those are both wins. The trying is what is important. My trying and your trying may not look the same, and our efforts may not produce the same results. What's hard for me may be easy for you and vice versa. But each of our trying is valuable and is where our victory lies--whether we're talking about physical feats or mental ones. And if we focus all our attention on our own trying instead of casting jealous glances at others, our own improvement will be much more noticeable, and we will be able to celebrate it with more enthusiasm. Even my own capabilities may change from day to day. But I bring what I can and can still feel triumphant in the trying. Think of it like rugby, where a "try" is a score. You win when you try, so, whatever you are facing today, give it your best and be proud of the effort you put in. Celebrate the trying not just the results as compared to someone else. 

Kindness Matters

One day last week a woman came up to me in the midst of my busyness at work. She is a semi-regular customer, so I recognized her. I stopped what I was doing, thinking she wanted to let me know about a problem with the store or her drink. As a shift supervisor, I am used to people coming to me with their complaints. I was pleasantly surprised when, instead of complaining, she gave me the sweetest and most sincere compliment. She told me the last time she had been in (I don't remember when this was--maybe 2-4 weeks ago), she had seen me interact with a person who seemed to be in "an altered state," as she put it. She said she was awestruck by the interaction because she had observed that I had been so kind and patient. She said she could tell my kindness was coming from a very genuine place rather than just being part of my customer service focused job. She said she had wanted to say something to me on that day but I had gotten off work before she was able to do so. But she had been thinking about that interaction she observed--which I actually have no memory of--all this time and didn't want to let another opportunity go by to let me know how much she appreciated the kindness I had shown. I was so touched that she had noticed and taken the time to say something to me, and when I went back to my busyness, I felt buoyed and a bit more purposeful. 

I do not tell this story to toot my own horn but because I was so gobsmacked by the power of kindness. I do strive to be a kind person, and I sincerely hope the person I was originally interacting with felt that kindness and that it made a difference in their life. But what I know for sure is that that kindness did make a difference to an outside observer. That kindness was pondered and appreciated by someone who wasn't even the direct recipient. And then she did me the honor of showing me a kindness as well by taking the time to share her gratitude with me. Kindness is contagious, and kindness matters. So, if you have the chance, just be kind today. It will cost you nothing, but I'm fully convinced it will make the world a better place.

I am out with lanterns looking for myself --Emily Dickinson

Sometime in the last week or so, my internet wanderings brought me into the path of this quote by Emily Dickinson: "I am out with lanterns looking for myself." Even though the quote comes from a letter she wrote to a friend lamenting the tiresome and discombobulating process of moving into a new house, it has been haunting my thoughts ever since I came across it. I find it captures a feeling that has rattled around inside me periodically throughout my life but that I have never really been able to explain so clearly. 

(Can we all just pause for a moment and appreciate the beauty of this poet's writing even about a relatively mundane situation? Wow!)

For most of the years I've been living, I have been trying to discover my passion and purpose in life, to figure out who I really am and what's truly important to me. It always feels like an urgent mission, one that can't wait until morning, which is why the lanterns are needed. But it is so dark all around, and the lantern flickers and casts its own confusing shadows and doesn't actually shed much light on anything, and what I am looking for seems to remain elusive. Who is the person I am truly meant to be? Where can I find her? Will I even know her if I come across her in some wild sweep of the light? I need to find her. I want to know her. The search seems desperate but futile, and I am growing tired of wandering through the darkness with nothing much to show for my efforts. 

It isn't that I haven't found some good things in the searching. But it's like I have found only pieces of a puzzle without knowing what the whole picture is supposed to look like. I don't know how they all fit together or even where to start to arrange them into something cohesive and lovely. 

For around two decades I have found my passion and purpose primarily in motherhood, which does indeed feel like a worthy pursuit, even though there has often been internal and external pressure to be more than "just a mom." When I was able to ignore the voices telling me the pursuit of motherhood wasn't enough, it became the single most important thing in my life and I really don't have any regrets for letting it consume me. Motherhood has calmed the frantic searching for myself over the years, to a large degree because it has truly felt like what I was meant for. It has been my greatest adventure and teacher and has given me deeper meaning than anything else in my life. I absolutely adore being "mom" to my four kids, and I know I will always carry that precious title. But my babies are growing up and need me less and less, and soon they will all be out of my house and making their own way in the world. It is good and right that it should be this way, but I think contemplating the next phase of my life outside of full-time motherhood is what caused Ms. Dickinson's words to hit me so hard. 

I need to figure out what my passion and purpose look like in the next chapter of my life, so "I am out with lanterns looking for myself," and, frankly, feeling more lost than ever. The ways I have defined myself in the past don't fit anymore, and I find myself in an uncomfortable stage of life where my old self is gone (or almost gone), but my new self isn't born yet. I don't like this place of lost identity. And I don't know how to step into what is next without knowing even the smallest clue of what that is. I know I will get through this as I have all the difficult things life has thrown at me so far, but I hope to find a better search tool than these tricky lanterns. 

I know I am by no means the first mom to experience this challenging transition from full-time mom to empty nester, so if you've been through it and actually found yourself--or maybe, rather, your *new* self--please share your secrets with me. If you've been through it (or are going through it) and haven't yet found yourself, please know you are not alone. I'm out here with lanterns searching for myself, too, and am happy to share with you whatever light I do have. 

Sitting with Vulnerability Unapologetically

I have noticed that I have been trying to run from vulnerability lately. In truth, I have been attempting to run from it all my life. It feels very uncomfortable and risky, and, frankly, I don't like the way it seems to manifest as a perceived loss of control. But in the last few years, I have done a lot of work with myself to figure out how to sit with my feelings and really feel them and how to find strength in my vulnerability and to accept and love myself as I am, so I've been surprised at how my old habits have been creeping back in and how unsettled I've been feeling in vulnerable moments recently. I feel myself wanting to run and hide from my own humanity, and I have finally started to ask myself why that should be the case. I don't have all the answers, but I am starting to piece together a few potential ideas. 

First of all, for many months there has been a situation in my life that has broken my heart in new and more painful ways than anything I've experienced previously, and those feelings have honestly just felt too difficult to sit with and too heavy to hold, so I have not allowed myself to do it to any real healing degree. And, I have felt like if I let any vulnerability in, even unrelated to that circumstance, the dam will break and I will be flooded and might actually drown. Instead, I have been keeping myself extremely busy and have basically been dissociating through my life, just trying to survive each day. This is a reasonable short-term coping strategy, but it is not a healthy way to live a life, and I feel it taking a toll on me. Anything that isn't fully faced and dealt with will just continue to be a problem, growing more toxic the longer it lingers. My increased agitation to my vulnerability is a cue that I need to go ahead and face it, which means I have to feel it, which seems like opening myself up to pain. Thus, the desire to run and hide. But, like a child who fears the monster under the bed, my fear of it will only continue to grow until I stop and shed some light on it. 

As I begin to sit with it, though, I'm realizing there is another thread running underneath. We humans are taught in a million ways to fear and try to flee our own humanity. We have learned to equate vulnerability with weakness and to therefore distrust anything that makes us feel vulnerable. In general, there seems to have been a trend of boys being taught not to allow themselves to feel feelings at all and certainly not to express them and for girls to be taught that they can feel them (at least some of them) but they must apologize for feeling and expressing them. We can even be discouraged from feeling good, happy feelings because they are just "too much" for the people around us. 

I spend a lot of time with teenagers, and I can tell you these patterns to deny or apologize for our humanity are fully developed by the time humans reach that stage of life. From very early ages and especially in the pre-teen and teen years, we learn even to be ashamed of and apologize for the physical attributes of our bodies that we have no control over, like our height or our melanin levels, constantly reminding ourselves and being reminded by others that we are not good enough the way we are. And I can confirm from experience and from interacting with many people that the patterns to deny and apologize for physical and emotional attributes generally carry right on over into adulthood. Perceived flaws of any kind are highly discouraged. 

It makes sense from an evolutionary standpoint, because way back in human history the vulnerable ones were the first to die. But the vulnerability I'm avoiding now isn't a matter of life and death, and I have to remind my brain of that fact frequently. I want to run and hide from it because it feels dangerous. And I want to apologize for things that warrant no apology because sometimes my humanity is inconvenient and uncomfortable to myself and to those around me. However, as I'm starting to dig in more to this desire to run from vulnerability, I am realizing that every time I hide and every time I apologize, I keep my brain thinking that vulnerability is bad and that my humanity is somehow wrong, and then I close myself off to a well-rounded and truly healthy human experience. I love all of Brené Brown's work, and I appreciate that she reminds us over and over that "vulnerability is not weakness" but rather an act of bravery and an instrument of change.

I'm not in any way advocating out-of-control behaviors (behaviors and feelings are different things anyway), but I am not going to keep apologizing for being human--neither for my body nor for my emotions. My body does so much for me every single day, and I need to treat it with respect and gratitude. I can take care of it in ways that support its health and well-being, but I do not need to act as if it is a burden to me (or to others), particularly the parts/attributes I was literally born with that can't be changed. Additionally, a whole range of emotions have been given to me to guide me and to help me regulate. They also need to be greeted with curiosity and gratitude. 

When we can sit with our humanity/vulnerability, as a companion rather than enemy, we can make the most of our human experience and grow into true maturity. This is difficult but important. And, as I'm learning, it's ongoing work that must be practiced regularly. I accept the challenge, and I will not apologize to myself or to others for feeling the way I feel or for existing inside a unique human body. I will instead invite vulnerability for a visit and sit with her long enough to see what she can teach me.

The slow path to peace

I live a very fast-paced life. Life with my kids--and all their activities--keeps me hopping. My work is generally a whirlwind that never stops while I'm on the clock. And most of the time, when I have a day off, I have close to a million adulty things I need to get done. But every once in a while, I will have a day off with nothing in particular that I need to check off my to-do list. (The adulty stuff never really goes away, but sometimes it's not so pressing.) On those days, I sometimes have a little bit of a panicky feeling. Or feelings of guilt. Or, on my darker days, feelings of not being enough. I am comfortable with the fast pace, in part because my personality is one of a mover, but also because it's what I'm used to and because it's what I've been taught makes a life important. I actually sometimes feel a little triggered to not have anything to do--as if I will somehow not be valuable or lovable on those days. After putting in lots of work on myself, I'm usually self-aware enough these days to realize when those thoughts are creeping in and threatening to take over, so I can have a little conversation with myself and not sink into a pit of despair. But it takes some effort to overcome the voices that have been playing in your head, dictating your worth, for so many years. 

Like most Americans, I have been conditioned to believe that my worth is tied to and actually dependent on my performance and productivity. We live in a do more, have more, be more culture that looks on rest as weakness and a slow pace as laziness. But as I'm starting to prioritize peace more in my life, I'm beginning to realize that performance and productivity are not the paths that lead to peace. Quite the opposite really. They are poor measures of a life well-lived and an even poorer measure of a person's value. In fact, there is plenty of research that indicates that high-stress, performance-based, go-go-go lives lead to a whole host of physical and mental illnesses that are not seen at nearly the same rates in cultures that prioritize rest and simple living. Rest is not weakness but power. And slowing down is not laziness but an invitation to intentionality. I am serious about taking care of my responsibilities, but I'm learning that just being is enough. Busyness is not a merit badge. There isn't a prize at the end of this short life for being the most productive human (and how would you measure it even if there was?!). There also isn't a prize for being the most peaceful human. But I know for sure which kind of human I'd rather be. I understand now that I have inherent value that isn't tied to my accomplishments...or lack thereof. So, I'm learning to take those slow days as the gifts they are. 

On those rare, beautiful, slow days, I'm allowing myself to go for long walks, which sometimes lead me to lovely unplanned conversations with neighbor friends I haven't seen in far too long, and read books that encourage and challenge and entertain me, and watch magical sunsets that assure me all is right with the world, and take naps that restore and rejuvenate me when the fast pace has been too much. I have slow coffee dates and lunch dates. I engage in unrushed conversations and meaningful moments with myself and others. I sit with my thoughts and try to untangle them. I write words and take pictures that are not tied to a paycheck. I play online Scrabble and Wordle, just because it's fun for me to arrange letters into words. And sometimes I get to the end of a slow day, and I have "nothing" to show for it except a peaceful spirit, and that's okay with me. I still have to remind myself that I have nothing to feel guilty about and that not accomplishing anything of note doesn't have anything to do with my value as a person, but I'm learning to truly relish the slow path to peace.