The Least Interesting Person in the Room

Someone once told me I would "always be the least interesting person in the room." Since this declaration was coming from someone whose opinion I cared about deeply, it was a devastating blow. It cut me to my core and rattled around pretty loudly in my head for a long time. It's been a while now since this proclamation was made, and at this point, I rarely ever think about those words that once hurt me so badly. But earlier this summer, the cruel little voice that lives in my head and sometimes speaks up when I let my guard down decided to bring it up. The words no longer have the power to hurt me, but they did make me curious.

For most of my life, I struggled to feel deeply loved or truly valued--mainly, I know now, because I struggled to love myself. And I tried to compensate for that by becoming a people pleaser. I imagined if I just gave no one a reason to not like me, then I would be protected from being unloveable. So, way back when I heard these particular hurtful words, I took them to heart, as they seemed to confirm a fear that felt like reality in my mind. I have been actively working on healing that part of my mind for years. It is a slow process, and even when I think I have arrived at complete healing, I can still sometimes be triggered by old wounds.

Lucky for me, I am now able to recognize this cruel voice for the liar it is, and I'm able to see that those words that seemed directed toward me all those years ago probably had more to do with the fears of the speaker about themself than about me. I know without a doubt that I am deeply loved by some and that to a rare few I am actually quite interesting. And, honestly, that's perfect. I am satisfied with a few really genuine connections and don't need to be liked/admired/loved/approved of by everyone. It's okay with me for some to think me the least interesting person in the room, and I do not hold that against them. I'm definitely not everyone's cup of tea.

I have been reflecting on relationships a lot lately. It is important to me to pursue healthy relationships and to show up as my best self in those relationships, so I need to spend time thinking about how to do that and what that means. Part of my reflection brought me to the statement that once hurt me so badly. There is actually plenty of truth to the statement, and I have made absolute peace with it and am so grateful it ultimately helped shatter the people-pleasing mindset I carried for far too long. To most people, I will never be the most interesting person in the room, and to some, I will certainly seem like the least interesting. I am an introvert who does not need to be the center of attention. I am no longer looking for the approval of others--only the approval of myself. I genuinely love most people, but I'm not begging them to love me back. I live a very simple life and am delighted by simple things--sunrises, sunsets, flowers in bloom, watching my kids do the things they love, beautiful words arranged well on a page, waves kissing a beach, stars stretching out across the sky. Nothing flashy, nothing dramatic. Nothing to make most attendees of a dinner party stop and take note. Nothing interesting by many people's standards. But I am happy with this way of being. I'm actually not even trying to be the most interesting person in the room, and I imagine if I had that as my aim I would just end up feeling exhausted. 

I now find it really easy to know who my people are because they are interested in me precisely because I am the least interesting person in the room. They don't need me to perform or show up big and loud and impressive. They are delighted by the simple things I'm delighted by. And they are delighted by me for being delighted by simple things. They take me as I am without needing me to be someone else, and that is such an incredible gift.  

Life has a way of self-filtering for us--taking the things that aren't good for us and leaving behind the things that are just right. It can definitely feel like a difficult process, but I am thankful I have been released by the ones who don't find me interesting and that I have released myself from needing to be interesting for them. It has freed me up to invest my energy into the people who are truly meant for me. And I can't think of anything more interesting than that!

Alchemy

In June, I was honored at work as RBT of the Month. One of the ways that gets celebrated is with a little poster hung on the bulletin board, which included my picture and bio, what I like about working at T&B, and--just for fun--what my super power would be if I had one. Writing your own bio always feels a little awkward, and it's a bit challenging to hit the highlights of your life and really capture the things that are important to you with just a few short sentences. I suspected the superpower question was where I was really going to get hung up, since I'm not much into superhero movies and don't think about things like that often. But before I had even finished writing my bio, a word popped into my head that seemed exactly right: Alchemy. 

In ancient times, it was the philosophical and pseudoscientific quest to turn base metals into gold. (And even though it proved not to work as hoped, it did lay the practical foundation for modern chemistry and pharmacology). In modern times it is used more figuratively to express the concept of transforming seemingly ordinary things into things of beauty and great value. This isn't a super power I just wish for. It is one I already possess...and so do you. We all have the power of transformation within us. We can take ordinary--and even unlovely--moments of our lives and transform them into something beautiful and valuable, and we can help others do the same. 

I'll admit that I sometimes forget I have this superpower, and I get stuck dwelling on the ugly, ordinary, not-so-glamourous raw materials. I struggle sometimes with feeling I am not valuable or that my life doesn't amount to much. But when I'm in a healthy state of mind, I can see the growth, the love, the joy, the peace, the light, the beauty, the way I encourage and support others, and the overall value that I have created out of challenge and heartbreak and ordinary moments, and I am amazed. That's when I understand there is surely no greater superpower than alchemy and I am truly grateful to possess it! 

Give up control and live

I am usually pretty indifferent about movies, but I watched The Odyssey twice in the course of three days last week, and I simply cannot stop thinking about it. It is a fantastic movie, and I highly recommend it! The story is not new to me, as I have read the epic poem by Homer and several adapted versions during the course of my life. There is a reason the story has endured for close to 3,000 years and that it continues to capture the imaginations of those who encounter it. And, in my opinion, Christopher Nolan's movie adaptation makes the story come alive in newly profound ways. It certainly has plenty of entertainment value, but for me, the real beauty of it is in the rich, thought-provoking themes that run throughout the story. I think we can all relate on some level to feeling like we've lost our way as we've been overwhelmed by obstacles on our quest to find a place that feels like home. 

Without giving too much away, the part of the movie that particularly grabbed my attention and has been living rent-free in my head is the part where Calypso is preparing to release Odysseus from her island and her enchantment. When Odysseus arrived on her island, he was unconscious, but his feverish mind was actively reminding him of his failures and disappointments. He dreaded trying to live up to a reputation he didn't believe he deserved. So he allowed his mind to be clouded and gave himself permission to forget lessons he learned through the trials he faced. He allowed himself to forget who he was and where he was from. He lost his purpose and his passion. But eventually the time comes for him to remember and to continue his journey back to himself. Just before he leaves the island, Calypso tells him, "You are a man who needs to control his fate, but you cannot control this. Give up the fight. Give up control. And live." 

At one time, Odysseus fully believed he was in control of his destiny and the destiny of his men. But after enduring trial after trial and losing himself completely, the voice of Calypso broke through, and he had to face the fact that almost everything was out of his control but that good things still awaited him. Control had been an illusion all along, and he had to relinquish his commitment to the illusion and accept things as they were before he could truly begin to live and before he could come home to himself. 

I also love the illusion of control and have spent an unreasonable amount of my life desperately trying to control things that are well outside my ability to control. This war within has robbed me of peace more times than I can count. I am only slowly learning to let things be what they are, and Calypso's words were a potent reminder for me as much as for Odysseus. If I want to come home to myself and my peace--if I really want to live--I must relinquish the illusion of control and stop fighting against what is. 

The Most Serious Problem in the World

During the course of my Yoga Teacher Training, we were asked to write several essays on deeply thoughtful and fairly personal topics. The exercise was mostly to have us do some self examining so we could more clearly define what kind of people we want to be, and therefore, what kind of yoga teachers we want to be. One of the prompts asked us to consider what we, as individuals, considered to be the most serious problem in the world and how yoga might be able to help with it. After I had turned in the assignment and checked off that graduation requirement, I shared this essay with a few family members, who each asked to share it with others, feeling that my message might be an inspiration to certain people they knew. My sweet, supportive husband also encouraged me to share it with a wider audience, and so, here I am sharing it on the largest platform I currently have access to.

The Most Serious Problem in the World

    Upon first seeing the prompt for this essay, I felt overwhelmed. The world is seemingly full of problems, many of them serious, so I wondered how one would go about deciding which is the most serious. But after some reflection, I believe the most serious problem in the world is disconnection, and I believe this is the problem that essentially leads to all others. 

    First and foremost, individuals are disconnected from themselves. Most people don't take the time to truly know themselves, but instead, spend all their time pursuing distractions in every form possible. In this state of distraction, people disconnect from their minds, from their bodies, from their feelings, from their passions, from their morals, and from their purpose. Consequently, they go through the motions of living a life but miss true living. Most people even disengage from what they consume, both in terms of food and beverages and in terms of mind-shaping content. Feeling disconnected from yourself is a quick path to anxiety and depression, which leads to even more desire to disconnect from the self as a means of escape. It is a vicious cycle that starts subtly but has far-reaching and ever greater consequences. 

    The more disconnected people are from themselves, the more they distance themselves from others. When you don't really know or love yourself, it is difficult to know and love others. When you don't know your passions, it is hard to find others who share those passions. When you are disconnected from others, it is easy to dismiss and disrespect them. Even within families, there is a growing atmosphere of disconnection. Through physical distance, busyness, distractions, and sometimes necessary boundary setting, families are often completely disconnected from one another, even when they live under the same roof. Frequently, families don't share meals or conversation. And often each family member has their own device in hand that allows them to completely check out from what is going on around them. A similar thing happens in many friend groups and other communities, where the interactions are often shallow and devoid of any true meaning. And, obviously, we can feel an even greater sense of disconnection with strangers. Many false connections are created through social media and superficial in-person interactions, but at the end of the day, these can feel very empty and meaningless. In fact, in a world where we have more "social" outlets that ever before, we are facing the greatest loneliness epidemic of all time. People feel isolated and disconnected from others. They compare their very normal and mundane lives with heavily edited and curated lives they see online and feel they are lacking in any number of ways. They feel a growing sense of lost authenticity, both in themselves and in others. They feel unseen and devalued, as they also unsee and devalue others. A sense of community is lost and with it the knowing that "we are in this together." Instead, it seems like it's just "me against the world." Everyone seems too caught up in their own distractions to care much about the people around them. And when humans devalue other humans, the environment is ripe for a myriad of societal problems. 

    Furthermore, we are disconnected from nature and the natural cycles of growth and rest it has to offer us. We spend most of our time indoors with artificial heat and cooling, artificial light, artificial and out-of-season foods, and artificial images that keep nature abstract and at arm's length. Our circadian rhythms are shot, which affects our sleep, our hunger cues, and the general flow of life. As we stay indoors, we become increasingly sedentary, which affects our physical and mental health in big and small ways. And then we treat our symptoms with artificial medications that only mask diseases rather than curing them. Additionally, we limit our opportunities to notice, appreciate, and learn from the beauty of every season. We treat nature with contempt--getting angry if it rains when we have plans, killing insects and animals without a thought, and clearing life-giving vegetation in favor of consumerism. We are so out of touch with nature that we think of it as an enemy rather than the beautiful friend it is. 

Humans are built for connection, and when it is lacking, there is no end to the problems that will arise. Being disconnected from ourselves, other people, and nature subconsciously gives the impression that these things don't matter, which leads to commoditizing them and treating them with disrespect, in the best case, and utter disregard, in the worst case. Disregard for ourselves, other people, and nature then leads to some of the most serious issues in the world, including, but in no way limited to, physical and mental diseases, substance abuse, environmental issues, human trafficking, war, murder, racism, gun violence, domestic abuse, and so many others. And instead of stepping up and taking responsibility for causing these issues through our disconnection, we disconnect ourselves from all of it and just shake our heads and wonder how things got so bad. 

    I'm not sure if yoga could solve all these problems, but the very nature of yoga is connection. Stepping onto our mats asks us to connect deeply with ourselves and to pay attention to our bodies and our minds. It asks us to connect our mind to our body and our breath to our movement. When we begin to really see and know ourselves, we are more open to really seeing and knowing others. Many yoga classes are also taught in community, which demands we recognize the others on this journey sharing space with us. Communities create support and connection. They give us a sense that we are not alone in the struggle. They allow us to learn from others and to open ourselves to different ways of doing and being. Yoga also connects us with nature through the very names of many of the poses. But not only that, yoga teaches us that all living things are connected through the prana (energy) that flows through us all. When we become connected to ourselves, to others, and to nature, we begin to to find true peace. And when you think of it like that, perhaps it isn't so far-fetched to believe that yoga could actually solve all the world's problems after all. 

We bloom when the conditions are right

Humans love schedules and agendas and timelines. We love knowing when things "should" happen and then judging ourselves and others when they don't happen at that time. We start when our children are in the womb, reading books like "What to Expect When You're Expecting." Then when our kids are born we immediately start measuring them against things we've read, things we've heard, and things other babies are doing. They should be eating solids by now...they should be crawling by now...they should be walking by now...and on and on. We don't stop after infancy either. Then it becomes they should be reading by now...they should be playing a sport/instrument/role...they should have their post-graduation life figured out...etc. And we definitely carry these made up timelines into adulthood as well. Then we panic when the milestones aren't hit at the "right" time. 

But here is what we learn from Nature: Flowers don't necessarily bloom at the time we expect; they bloom when the conditions are right for them to bloom. I have two so-called "Christmas" cacti that decided to bloom in mid-January, after two years of not blooming at all. I have spring roses that decided to bloom in winter because temps were in the 70s. And I am a woman in her late 40s who is only just now starting to feel truly aligned with her purpose after years of feeling like I was missing the mark.

Nature doesn't bother with what the calendar says or with what we imagine is the right time. Nature thrives when the conditions are right, and it adjusts to protect itself when the conditions aren't right. Humans would do well to take this lesson to heart. None of us--and none of our kids--are behind in this life. We are just where we are, waiting for the conditions to be right for us to bloom. 

But that doesn't mean we don't have to put in the work to be ready to bloom when the conditions are right. Maybe we need an extra season of dormancy. Maybe we need to take in more nutrients. Maybe we need to focus our energy on strengthening our roots, doing the work that no one sees. Maybe we just need to trust that blooming is still what we were made for and that it will happen. We need to stop judging ourselves and our kids so harshly and comparing ourselves and them to others. We just need to pay attention to the conditions in our own lives and bloom with boldness when the time is right. 

 Christmas cacti in mid-January

December roses

Good-bye 2025, Hello 2026

It is very hard to believe we have already come to the end of another year. This one was a wild one that brought an abundance of both beauty and pain. Mike had four business trips to Florida this year, and I got to tag along on two of them. The two of us also took two vacations to Mexico--one to Puerto Vallarta and one to Cabo San Lucas. I took several solo trips to New Braunfels to visit Liv and a solo trip to Cairo, Egypt to attend Clay's 8th grade graduation. And we took the entire family to Breckenridge, CO for our first blended family vacation. Mike also had solo business trips to New Orleans and Las Vegas, and another to Scottsdale in October that I got to go along on. Unfortunately, at the end of that trip, he found out his company was undergoing a restructuring and that his job was being terminated, so he has bravely been going through the process of trying to find a new job, which has provided lots of opportunities for growth and self-reflection. We are anticipating him finding just the right thing in the new year. 

Other big happenings included me leaving Starbucks after five and a half years and taking a temporary nanny job. I also took as many yoga classes as I could fit in my schedule, took a six-week long pottery class, and enrolled in yoga teacher training, which I will graduate from at the end of January. Mike renovated our master bedroom after a major water leak, completely overhauled our guest bedroom because it needed some updates, and made some repairs to our garage space after a different water leak. We also did a lot of work on my Flower Mound house after all the kids moved out of it in January and were able to get it sold in August. 

We are so proud of and thankful for our kids! Liv got engaged and finished her first year of OT school. Weston graduated from WGU after just one year and is currently working on getting his teaching certificate. Max went for the second year in a row on a mission trip to Belize and has started his senior year of high school. And Clay has started high school and is excited about his wrestling season. Kai has been working at a radio station and Door Dash. Reid got his private pilot's license and his instrument rating and took Mike and I for a night flight that was absolutely incredible. Aiden is heavily involved in a leadership organization at his school and is looking forward to the upcoming lacrosse season. And Quinn and his band had an amazing marching season and got 9th place at the state competition. 

My words for 2025 were Present and Contentment/Acceptance, and I have really tried to embrace being present with myself and with others and finding contentment and acceptance in the good seasons, the bad seasons, the waiting seasons, and all the other seasons. I have worked hard to see and be the good in the world. I have tried to be grateful for all the gifts this year has given, even when they have been wrapped in circumstances that I wouldn't have chosen. I have chosen to believe the best and to trust the story that is unfolding, even if it isn't how I would have written it. 

I'm excited for all the new year holds! Inspired by my yoga journey, my words for 2026 are Strength, Balance, and Flexibility. These apply to my physical world, but probably more importantly, to my mental state of being. I feel like beautiful things are coming in 2026--for me and for you! Wishing you love and light and peace and joy in the new year! 

The Clay Will Become What It Wants To Be

I spent the last six weeks taking a pottery class where we did hand building as well as wheel throwing. I was in a season of betweenness, and I really needed a creative outlet. I specifically chose pottery because I have always had a bit of a fascination with it, and because I knew I probably wouldn't be very good at it, and that seemed like a great way to learn some valuable lessons along with some new skills. I was certainly right about that and can definitely say I learned a lot. 

At the beginning of every class we would start with a few lumps of damp, grayish-white clay that had no personality whatsoever. Then our teacher would show us an example of something we could make but would soon set us free to "create whatever we wanted." Being very new to the craft and prone to rule following, I pretty much stuck to the projects of the day, but I never really produced the true likeness of the teacher's example. And even he, with more than a decade of experience as a professional potter, said he wouldn't be able to replicate his work exactly. Perfect was not my goal, and I always felt delighted that I had managed to make anything at all and found each piece beautiful in its own way. Each classmate brought their own ideas about what they wanted to get out of the class. One of my classmates rarely stuck to the prescribed project and made some truly interesting pieces that she conjured up purely from her imagination. Another classmate broke down in tears and scrapped many of her projects when they didn't turn out "just right," even though I couldn't really see anything wrong with them. But, as our teacher reminded us over and over, there was no one correct approach.

In hand building it was difficult to get the clay to a uniform thickness or to master the detail work. On the wheel, it was easy to get the clay too off-center, leave it too dry, get it too wet, or stretch it too thin. If you had something specific in your head when you started, you could almost count on something going awry and then having to take some measure or other just to salvage the project--the image in your head be damned. And never once did all six of the students end up with things that even remotely resembled what the other students had made or what the teacher had shown us. By the third class we had embraced a motto: The clay will become what it wants to be. And from that moment, the whole class became an exercise in letting go of the idea you had in your head and just accepting whatever happened. The concept freed many of us up to just enjoy the process and be delighted with whatever we created. 

Once the clay had become something--a beautiful, wonky, lovely, unique thing--it had to dry out for a week or so before it could be fired. The heat of the kiln was sure to shrink the pieces and sometimes reveal serious and not-so-serious cracks. And once it was fired, each piece had to be glazed. We could read on the containers the colors of the glazes and, for most, see tiny example tiles of the finished colors, but many of the glazes looked almost the exact color of the clay when first applied or not at all like the finished product, as the heat of the kiln during the second firing was what was needed to bring out the trueness of the hue. There was a skill to applying just the right amount of glaze too (especially tricky since we couldn't always tell where it had been applied). Too much, too close to the bottom of the piece, and it would melt onto the kiln and pretty much guarantee chips in the finished product; too little, and the color would barely show up at all. It was super hard to predict what the finished pieces would actually look like, and it was a little like a wonder-filled Christmas morning when we arrived to pick up our finished pieces. 

I was enthralled with all my pieces and genuinely appreciated what each of them had become--with and without my help. I did a show-and-tell with my family and was practically doing a happy dance seeing everything displayed on the table. I have a couple of "bowls" that decided to become "planters" because of unplanned holes that appeared in their bases during the process. I have a vase that fell in on itself on the wheel and turned out to be one of my favorites because it is so unusual and interesting and 100% non-replicable. I have coffee mugs with awkward handles, but the coffee this morning tasted better out of a mug I made myself. None of the things I made is perfect, but every one of them is beautiful to my eyes and to my heart. I did the best I could with the raw materials I had and the skills I learned along the way, but without a doubt, the clay became what it wanted to be, which is what makes each piece so valuable to me.

Examining my work got me thinking about raising kids. It's a process. And people do it differently. And there are a lot of things that can factor in to how the final product comes out. But even if things don't go according to our original plan--which they rarely do--there aren't really a lot of ways to do it wrong. Even the mistakes we parents make along the way can become something lovely. My finished product will not look like yours. It will likely not even look like the picture I had in my head. We start with similar raw material that is moldable, but ultimately "the clay will become what it wants to be," and the only real truth is that the final product will be absolutely beautiful and unique. 

The last few months have held frequent reminders for me to accept things as they are and to see the beauty in what is. My kids are not all turning out according to the images I had in my head or according the societal "instructions," but they are all turning out to be exactly who they are meant to be, and it is absolutely the most beautiful thing I have ever witnessed. 

Rain but no rainbow

There is a pretty good chance this post may make some people uncomfortable because it's real and raw and doesn't really have a happy ending or a moral, and stories like that aren't everyone's cup of tea. There is also a chance that some people will be comforted by an untidy story that they might be able to relate to. And some people, coming upon this blog by chance, may see that it's called "Chasing Rainbows" and think it is all about positive experiences. It isn't, though I certainly do try to find the rainbows in the midst of life's storms most of the time. To see a rainbow, the sun will be behind you and the rain will be in front of you. You will not see the rainbow while looking toward the sunny part of the sky. In fact, the best rainbows will be seen when you face the darkest part of the sky. And that's what this blog is about: facing the darkness and finding the light and encouraging others to do the same. But not this particular post. 

I'm not going to candy coat it: Life has been hitting extra hard the last few months. It's not one thing, but it is one thing after another, and the pile feels pretty crushing at the moment. I have been swinging daily between anxiety, which says, "Everything matters a lot," and depression, which says, "Nothing matters at all," and PTSD, which says, "The things that used to matter most, still matter most." I'm not writing this from the other side of it like I often do, when I've discovered the lesson and am ready to implement the growth. I'm just in it. Right now, I don't see the rainbow or the sun or anything other than dark thunderclouds. The storm is too all-consuming, and new storms keep rolling in. There is not yet any light in the sky with which to make a rainbow. Today is better than yesterday--which is why I have even found the motivation to open my computer to try to string words together with the hope of unraveling some of the tangles of my mind--but the skies are still very gray. I am staring at the darkest place in the sky, wishing I could see the rainbow, and all it is doing is staring right back at me and continuing to spit in my face.

I feel a bit like Lt. Dan in "Forrest Gump" when he shakes his fist at the sky and challenges the storm to a showdown. I'm more of a tears person than a fist person, though. I tend to experience my emotions (all of them) with tears, and the tears have been pretty free flowing in the last few months, despite whatever happy images you may have seen of me on social media. (And, of course, life is not ever all bad, so those images are real, but they don't feel like the complete story of me.) I have experienced tears of sadness, hurt, anxiety, frustration, anger, fear, stress, regret, shame, guilt, resentment, helplessness, hopelessness, self-pity, compassion, concern, and uncertainty. And there have also been tears of pseudo-resignation as my higher self works to just accept things as they are. But, honestly, these have not been tears of genuine resignation, because in my heart I don't really want to quit fighting and raging at the things Life is handing out at the moment. So much of it feels unfair. So much of it feels like it is out of my control. So much of it feels unfixable. And I'm not yet ready to look for the silver lining or even to pretend like one exists. 

So here I am raging at the storm, hoping I might come out of it at some point in a peaceful state like Lt. Dan did, but not fully ready to accept the lessons (and losses) it has for me, because what I really want is for things to be the way they were before the storms hit. I want a season with calm water, with sunny skies, with time to just float and not feel like I am having to constantly bail water or exhaust myself with trying to keep the boat from capsizing. But that is definitely not the season I'm in, and it seems like a lie to pretend otherwise. 

So, yeah, no happy ending. But you can't say I didn't warn you. As much as I wish it was otherwise, not every storm comes with a rainbow. And sometimes another storm hits before you can recover from the last one. That's reality. And that's where I am. 

(I do believe the sun will come out again eventually and that rainbows are still possible. But that magic is clearly for a different time, which I could have waited for and written about, but the need to be authentically me in this moment got the best of me.)

Running together

Early this morning, my two oldest boys and I went for a run together. But, ironically, we didn't run together at all. We all had different needs, agendas, and skills. One boy was following a specific training program that required him to maintain a certain lowish heart rate for the duration of the run, which dictated he would move at a slower pace. One boy essentially just wanted to get it over with and so was trying to run the route as quickly as possible. And I took my own path and moved at my own pace, which was something between the other two. We all ran about two miles, in roughly the same location, but one finished in under 13 minutes, one took about 20-25 minutes, and one completed the run in 34 minutes. Before we parted ways and as we were reunited, we gave words of encouragement and support, and we were all proud of ourselves and each other. And we all agreed that the whole point of going together was accountability. None of us had really wanted to get up and go running at 6:00 on a Saturday morning. I think we all admitted to formulating texts to the group in our minds to bow out before going ahead and getting out of bed because we didn't want to appear weak or like we were backing out on our agreement. Knowing others were doing the hard work to get up and to go running was good motivation to just do it.

I actually love that we were all doing the same thing--and we were doing it togetherish--but we were all doing it our own way. And each way was worth celebrating. The whole experience got me thinking about how every person is traveling through life togetherish, sort of moving in the same direction, which is forward. But we will not all have the same outcomes. Some will run through it faster. Some will move deliberately slower. Some will have more natural skill. And some will have to work a bit harder to develop the skills they need just to get through it. None of us are doing it incorrectly, though if we measure everyone else by our own skills or agendas or needs we might have the impression that some people are getting ahead or some people are falling behind. Everyone is just running their own race, and all we need to do is be supportive and encouraging. We need to celebrate all the victories, because the one thing we all have in common is that getting through it is hard for each person in their own way. We can allow the way we show up to encourage and motivate others, even when we are facing our own struggles. We can run separately but still be in it together.

Jumping at shadows

In mid-July, my 17-year-old son invited me to start running with him. Trying our best to beat the heat, we were heading out just a little after sunrise every morning. But with the start of school, we have had to push our morning runs up, and now we are running while it is still dark out. Max has continued to brave the unlit, uneven, partially unpaved two mile trail that runs around the neighborhood, with the confidence of a young man in peak physical condition who has never suffered a serious sports injury. I, however, am a middle-aged woman, not in peak physical condition, who is just eight years out from destroying my ACL and meniscus and enduring the surgery and recovery that went along with that, so I choose to stay on the lighted sidewalks of the inner loop. There is some light, yes, but it's not like the areas where I am running are bright enough for me to see everything around me. And sometimes the light seems best only at conjuring extra dark shadows, which move around as if possessed. 

One day in the last week, I literally jumped off the sidewalk into the street (not to mention almost out of my skin), not once, but twice during a single run, startling at some wavy shadows dancing around on the sidewalk in front of me. And, then, of course, upon closer inspection, I felt silly for being so scared of NOTHING. Thankfully, there aren't many neighbors up and about at that hour in our neighborhood, so my embarrassment did not have any witnesses. 

But I got to thinking about this tendency to jump at shadows, and it made me consider that this concept is very similar to the way anxiety works. Frequently, with an anxious brain, there is only a perceived threat rather than an actual one. But it FEELS real. Real enough to make you jump out of harm's way. Or freeze up. Or fight imagined monsters. Or spiral into more and more worst case scenarios. I used to really hate this about my brain--making a big deal out of things that turned out to be nothing and feeling like I couldn't stop it or control it. 

I still wish I didn't have such an overactive amygdala (the "fight or flight" center of the brain, specializing in fear and anxiety), but I have learned to appreciate this part of my brain. It desperately wants to protect me. Instead of fighting against the anxiety now, I'm learning to embrace it, to say, "This feels scary, but I can get through it and it might actually be okay." This part of my brain is trying to help me, not hurt me. It is a friend, not an enemy. But even well-meaning friends sometimes need to be questioned when they are offering advice. Thankfully, I'm learning to examine my thoughts and question their validity and their helpfulness. Yes, I jumped when the shadows startled me, but I didn't stop running. I didn't refuse to go again the next day. And if there had actually been a snake on the sidewalk, I would have been so grateful for the instinct to jump. Anxiety is no small thing, and for some people it is truly debilitating, but sometimes there are ways to manage it so that you don't have to be ruled by the shadows. You may still see the shadows and they may still feel uncomfortable because of their shiftiness, but you are allowed to take a breath and ask a question and reexamine the situation once you have more information. I'm thankful I have a friend in my mind that wants to keep me safe. But I'm also thankful that I can sometimes tell her I appreciate her concern but I'm good. 

Repairing the cracks

After our road trip to Colorado last month, I noticed a tiny--probably smaller than the tip of my pinky fingernail--chip in my windshield. Having learned from experience, we immediately bought a windshield repair kit and patched up the crack to keep it from spreading. That gives me a certain degree of confidence that I will not have to replace the entire windshield for this one tiny ding. It is not really in my line of sight but my eye is drawn to it every time I get in my car, and I have been pondering that little pock mark quite a lot lately. 

The car I was driving prior to this one also had a small crack in the windshield. I didn't bother to repair it, since it wasn't in my line of sight and it didn't seem like too big a deal. But, over time, with cold winters and hot summers, the little crack started to spread. I still didn't bother to do anything about it, because it still wasn't in my line of sight and fixing it seemed like a waste of money. It seemed like a problem not worth investing in. But eventually, the crack made its way across the entire windshield, and there came a day when it actually seemed like it could possibly be a little unsafe. Like if just the wrong kind of pressure was applied, the whole windshield would come crashing in. My now-husband, who I was just dating at the time, became concerned. And one day while I was at work, just before taking off on a long road trip with my kids, he hired a company to replace the entire windshield. It was a kind gift, and I was truly touched by the gesture and may have fallen a little in love with him as a result. Ignoring the problem wasn't making it go away, and I was thankful someone who cared about me stepped in to help when I clearly wasn't taking care of the problem on my own.

So why am I thinking about cracks in windshields, you ask? Well, it's because I can see the cracks in my life, and I have learned from experience that it is better to repair them while they are small than to wait until they spread to a point of destruction. Not all of them are impeding my ability to go about my days. But they are there and they are real. There are broken pieces doing their best to act with wholeness, integrity, kindness, goodness, and love. But they are still broken pieces with sharp edges and a propensity to spread to others and create potentially unsafe spaces if the work isn't done in a timely fashion. They are easy to ignore. Until they aren't. Small issues not dealt with become big issues that demand attention, sometimes in very unlovely ways. Cars are meant to be driven, and in driving them, dings will happen. In the same way, lives are meant to be lived and there will inevitably be some collateral damage. However, if you can find the tiny cracks--the toxic attitudes, the unhealthy mindsets, the learned destructive patterns, the emotional immaturity, etc.--and work to repair them before they become problematic, you might just be able to save the whole windshield. You may still be able to see the crack, just like I see the little ding every time I get in my car. But it is only a reminder of the hazards of the road and a messenger bringing a sense of gratitude that allows me to proceed with confidence, knowing it will not destroy me or harm the people I care about because it has already been dealt with. 

Big emotions during family game night

I am embarrassed to say that last night during family game night I became unreasonably annoyed at how the games were going for me, and I decided I needed to take myself out of the last game (and out of the room) in order to preserve my peace and in order not to be tempted to say or do things that would be hurtful to my family. I think this was the right move, even though I felt pretty horrible because that is not the person I want to be...and not the person I usually am. I don't want to be a quitter. I don't want to give that kind of example to my kids of how to handle uncomfortable/unpleasant situations. I don't want to sacrifice my peace FOR A GAME. It felt like a truly ugly version of me that I wish didn't exist. I am pursuing peace like its my full time job, but, alas, I am a human, and no matter how much work I've done on myself, there are still triggers that can make the process feel like one step forward, two steps back. 

After beating myself up for a while, I decided to dig deeper and see what was actually going on. It didn't seem fathomable that I would be that upset over games of chance that I have played without incident thousands of times. And that's when I began to realize that there are some things going in my life that truly do have a significant emotional impact that I have been feeling like I need to push aside, that I need to become (or give the impression of becoming) indifferent about since there doesn't seem to be a clear resolution for them. I feel like my expression of those emotions needs to be stifled for a variety of reasons. Earlier in the evening, my sweet husband had asked me if I was doing okay with regard to something that he knew was having a big emotional impact on me, and I even said to him, "I'm just trying to ignore that."

But here's the deal about things that have a big emotional impact: they don't go away just because we don't want to face them. The emotions will find their outlet. Maybe while you sit in traffic. Maybe in the slow checkout line at the grocery store. Or maybe on family game night. And then the outsized reaction will seem ridiculous (but maybe safer to express). But those reactions are begging us to take a closer look and see what's really going on. For me, the breaking point was playing games where I was doing everything right and trying to move forward only to have the game itself and the other players block my progress. And that happens in life as well. I have often felt like I'm doing all the "right" things and still not being able to make the progress I want to make, still not being able to "win." And the way the games made me feel tapped in to how life makes me feel sometimes. It can feel so unfair and demotivating. It can feel like there are too many things I can't control, even though I am truly doing the best I can. It can feel like there is no way to win. 

My big emotions weren't really tied to the games at all. They were related to other things going on in my life and they came out in the games because I haven't been giving them proper expression elsewhere. Instead of trying to see them and understand them and heal them, I've just been trying to ignore them, trying to wish them away, and trying to convince myself that I'm okay when I really am not. Anger is a guide. It shows us what really matters to us. Our work is to figure out what the anger is telling us and to find the proper way to approach the other big emotions it is escorting. I'm thankful my family had grace for me last night. And I'm thankful family game night has given me a new level of motivation to sit with and try to resolve the underlying issues. 

If you are also experiencing seemingly unreasonable instances of anger and frustration in the "small" areas of your life,  I encourage you to ask yourself what is really behind it and then do the work to address the underlying issue, even if it is something you would rather ignore. The emotions won't be silenced. They will just find different outlets for expression.

Year of the Snake

Apparently, the Chinese--or Lunar--New Year begins tomorrow. I say "apparently" because I am not really a close follower of this holiday and typically only really think of it if I eat at a Chinese restaurant around the time it is set to kick off. This year is no exception. While dining at a Chinese restaurant recently, my dining companions and I decided to search out which animal is to be the star of this Chinese New Year. It is the Year of the Snake. Further research showed that, in fact, the year I was born falls into the group of birth years considered snake years. This got my attention, and I continued my research. 

I'll admit, I have pretty much always had a mostly negative view of snakes. My grandmother was deathly afraid of all snakes and may have inadvertently passed some of her fear along to me. I only truly fear the venomous ones, but the trouble is, it is often hard to tell a venomous one from a non-venomous one until you are already too close, so I tend to err on the side of caution and avoid close proximity to all snakes if possible. Snakes, to me,  have always felt a little dangerous, creepy, evil, sneaky, and not at all cuddly or friendly. I have frequently referred to myself in a self-deprecating way as a "snake" because of my extremely dry skin and my apparent inability to produce my own heat. These aren't my favorite traits and the comparison has done nothing to give me a more favorable view of snakes. So, when learning about this Lunar New Year,  my first instinct was to be disappointed that I fall into the "snake" category.

But my curiosity about why a seemingly unpleasant animal would be included in the Chinese Zodiac as one of the top twelve most important creatures got the best of me. What I learned is that in Chinese Zodiac, the Snake is linked to metamorphosis, wisdom, and intuition. And the Snake Year is characterized by introspection, mystery, and intelligence. The positive qualities associated with the snake include resilience, creativity, and adaptability. This means snakes are uniquely equipped to overcome various obstacles and challenges. Snakes typically shed their skin 2-4 times per year, a process that accommodates growth and the removal of parasites and damage. The new skin that replaces the old is often more vibrant in color. And with all that knowledge, my perspective changed considerably. 

In this new year, I already know I will be shedding old skins and growing into new ones. And I will continue my quest to eliminate damage and parasites from my life. There will be challenges and obstacles that will require resilience, creativity, adaptability, introspection, wisdom, and intuition. Many parts of the changes ahead of me remain a mystery. But when it's all said and done, I know for sure a more vibrant me will exist, and I'm excited about that. I am a snake. This is my year. 

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.