364

Tomorrow is a beautiful day. And tomorrow is about joy and wonder and life and love.

So tonight we'll talk about something to the left of all those things. Not quite in opposition of, but nearly adjacent. A window's view.

My daughter was born on a Thursday. I don't remember what the weather was like or what was going on in the world. Facts that nearly never escape my elephant memory are ghost like wisps of a thought. A dream. A forgotten story. But sometime after 7pm, she was removed from me and revived to life. She and I didn't meet until hours later, and there is very little that I can remember from the following moments.

This is a deep, cold, hard sadness that I will hold forever. My body failed and everything was wrong and sometimes it is too much for me to think about.

But.

I have decided to focus on what I do remember. Because within the fog there are beautiful, wondrous things that deserve time and space to live. And sometimes those moments take 364 days to sprout roots, dig into the surrounding soil and push through everything else. These moments are strong, resilient rays of light, parading to the front of my memory to remind me that in struggle, there is a terrible beauty. A pulsing warm river of life that helps to push out the cold and hard. And that after 364 days, perspective can cure all matters of terror and pain.

So I remember.

I remember deep blue eyes staring directly into mine and tracking every person that walked into our room. I remember knowing that those eyes would stay blue despite everyone telling me that they would not. I remember peaceful sighs and an easy sleeper. I remember how easily a tiny face could contort into different expressions and hold a gaze. I remember weeping at desperate cries as we navigated the next four days of medical testing. But mostly, I remember how we knew each other instantly.

I remember my husband desperately fighting for me when I couldn't fight for myself. And being the first face I saw when I woke up. I remember how proud he was. And how concerned he was. And how resilient, beyond all expectations, he was. He changed the first diaper. And fed when I couldn't. And held when I slept. He walked me to the bathroom and reminded me to slow down. He carried the burden of two healing people and never hesitated. Never wavered. And mostly, I remember him standing strong when I certainly could not.

My daughter is God's reconciliation for a whole slew of things that weren't right with my world. And things that didn't make sense before have tumbled into place easily since she's been here. Of this, I have no doubt. Our experience means something and has had an impact on everyone in our lives. She is the rock in the pond, extending rolling ripples in circles around us. We are banded together and I have finally learned how to hold on.

For the first time, I am tethered to life. And it is blindingly beautiful.

Warrior

Recovery feels like a rollercoaster. You are dipped and turned at will; the wind piercing your cheeks and burning your eyes. The air comes too fast and it's almost impossible to breathe. You are blind to what is in front of you and at mercy to the ride.

I had a traumatic delivery with my daughter. It contributed to my postpartum depression and is the reason I struggle with PTSD.

I had no romanticized ideal about childbirth, nor did I have an official plan of what it would look like. I didn't listen to adorable music or dance around my hospital room. It was rather boring for the first half, honestly. Breathing and pushing and sweating and sometimes laughing, the time seemed to blink by.

And then.

The second half halted with squealing brakes, practically audible. It is when every preparation I could have made was shattered. A handful of things went very, very wrong, very, very quickly. Time was no longer blinking speedily. It slowed down and stretched out before me. Each frightening detail had its own breadth to it. Each second a lit and snuffed match, burned into my memory. These moments get stuck in my throat and make me hoarse with tears if I try to explain them. The mental and emotional scars are raw and somehow worn.

I didn't meet my daughter until hours after she was born. I barely remember anything of that moment. There's nothing poetic I can say to make this sound more horrific than it was. These words are as straight and ugly as I can make them. I don't remember. I don't remember most things from the coming days. I don't know why, and I'm not sure that I care to. And this is what I obsess over when it's just me. In the minutes before I fall asleep, or when it gets too quiet. I think about her. And I think about me. And I hope she knew that she was loved the millisecond she was removed from me, even though I wasn't a part of it.

I want her to know that I'm sorry my body failed me. And I'm sorry things were so terrifying.

But I also want her to know that we fought side by side. And we always, always will. My warrior girl.

The 3rd Floor

My windows looked out onto a small parking lot. The building across from me was nondescript; maybe an apartment building. At night, I would see a patchwork of windows lit up and wonder if anyone was inside, peering back at me. I could close my blinds whenever I wanted of course, a set of shades incased between two panels of thick glass. There was no cord. Instead, a small dial affixed to the outside of the window frame. It matched the window on the door into my room, where the dial was set outside so my nursing staff could look in whenever they wanted or needed. Which was often. Every fifteen minutes to be exact. And at night, the door would remain open.

I checked into Swedish Hospital Psychiatric Unit, located on the 3rd floor, on a Monday night close to 8:00pm. My eyes burned at the fluorescent lights and I could barely feel my legs as the lead nurse walked me around like we were touring a home for sale.

"Do you need this?" She asked, pulling the drawstring out of my sweatpants that had been hastily packed into my luggage. We were rummaging through my belongings, item by item, and removing things that could have been used to harm myself or others. I shook my head and she snipped the drawstring with a pair of safety scissors.

"I don't think I need to be here," I choked out through a cascade of tears.

"Well, 24 hours ago you wanted to kill yourself. So I say you're in the right place."

And she was right.

Postpartum depression snuck up on me silently and suddenly. Like a quick rolling fog, before I had noticed it, it was there. And it was thick and deep and terrifying. I had my daughter just two weeks before. Two weeks before I sat on my couch while tears flowed. And flowed and flowed. They rarely stopped and I was always some level of frightened, suffocating in fear. I reached out to my doctor, but it was too late. The Zoloft he prescribed either didn't work or cursed me with a severe set of side effects. The fear and sadness violently increased, a weight dropping onto my chest and settling into my lungs, strangling me. And with every thud of my heavy heart, a voice reverberated within my bones, keeping me awake at night...

You are not good enough.

You are a burden to your husband.

You are unfit to care for your baby.

Life would be easier for them if you weren't in it.

Just die.

I convinced myself that the voice was right and true. It was then that I knew I needed help.

Walking into the Emergency Room at Good Samaritan was the most terrifying moment of my life. Hard sobs racked my chest and I could barely get the words out. Would they take my baby away? I wondered over and over, rationally knowing that they would not. I had read about postpartum. I am sure every woman has, at some point. So it is no secret that it happens, or could happen. What they don't tell you is how deep and sharp it hits. And how horrific it is. And how you want to tear your own skin off. And run away. And just not be anymore.

But.

The help came. Immediately. Once I spit out the poison, I began to heal.

That very night, a tiny speck of light began to show up at the end of the tunnel. The hospital social worker interviewed me and deemed me unsafe to return home. She advocated for a bed for me at the closest psychiatric facility that would benefit me the most. (And yes, Seattle was the closest. The lack of proper psychiatric care in Pierce County is astounding). Logistics aside, I was checked in and settling into my bare-walled room at Swedish 16 hours later. It was there that my medical team (nurse, psychiatrist, medical doctor and social worker) decided to change my prescription to another, lower dose antidepressant. That, coupled with a routine of group and occupational therapies, is what started me on the path back to normalcy. A week later, I returned home and wept as I held my baby daughter.

But hear this:

The apex of my healing lay within my support system. My husband, my M2, my mom, and my friends. Equally holding me along the way, allowing me to lean on them harder than I ever knew I would need to. They carried me across the finish line.

Actually, they may still be carrying me a little bit. The finish line is damn close though.

(If you're experiencing postpartum depression, or think you might be, you are not alone. Don't be scared. You will get help, I promise).

https://www.nami.org/#

http://www.postpartum.net/locations/washington/

If you, or someone you know is contemplating suicide, please reach out. https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/#  (1.800.273.8255)

Choice

Let me tell you a little story about choice.

I got married at the age of 32. This was a conscious decision. Not to search out a rightful partner and marry them, but to make a commitment at an age where I was ready to respect everything it encompassed.

We've talked about what life would look like had we not met; or if (God forbid) something happened rendering either of us spouse-less. And my answer is the same.

It's always been the same.

I would go on living my exact same life, partnerless. Maybe a dog or two, maybe a change of location, maybe a tweak of habits here and there. But mostly, my life would look the same.

And I think that's what life... marriage... partnership is all about. Two people stepping toward one another, closing the crevices of experience and doubt and opinion and individualism to form a cohesive unit. A team. Forging into life as a united front. A choice.

Sometimes daily.

Sometimes hourly.

Sometimes, albeit rarely, minute by minute.

Our society and celebrity have lent us to the notion that partnership and romance cannot exist without one another. And while each complements each other, they do not need each other to survive in each second of each moment of life's microcosm. Life is not always romantic. And that's okay. You choose your partner beyond what romanticism will offer you. This is the person you will trudge through the mire and muck with. Your trusted confidant when you can't bear to open your eyes upon the glare of the real world. This person is designed to reach out a steady arm when you're stumbling. When the decisions hold too much weight. When it all just doesn't add up or make sense.

This is your second brain. Your additional set of legs.

Your subsequent heart.

Your only choice.

You choose this person every minute of every hour of every day.

And oh, how lucky you are.

How lucky am I.

Walls and Ceilings

I think I may eventually get to the point where I can just lay all my insecurities out there plain as day. When someone will ask me, 'What's wrong?' I'll be able to answer truthfully justlikethat.

Last night, I had two of my closest friends over and for the first time (in ever) I was comfortable enough to lay out my anxieties willy-nilly. They tumbled out of my mouth and danced between us while I laughed them away.

This is just me, I finally thought.

'This is the weird stuff that goes on in my brain,' I said out loud.

And for once, the weirdness didn't feel like a burden, but rather a banner. And suddenly the banner was easy to carry and didn't feel so neon and white hot to the touch.

I think this is what love is all about.

The one thing (if I can really call it a thing) that I can't write about is my childhood. I wouldn't even know where to begin and if I began, I think that the words would never stop. They would be loosely strung together and trip over themselves to the point where it would just be rambled pain. And the point wouldn't be the pain, but to open the door to a dust filled room. To show you that light can creep in and make the bad stuff good.

That it isn't always all dark, all the time.

That abandonment isn't a life sentence.

That being forced to believe that you are unlovable and not worth fighting for isn't forever.

That friends and other families and husbands and wives and dogs can come in and breathe life where there wasn't any. That things can be re-taught. And relived. And rehashed. And it isn't your fault.

That you are an incomplete human being trying to patch the holes in the drywall and sometimes you're ill-equipped. But sometimes, life will bring you someone, or multiple someones, that will have tools and experience and patience and love and before your very eyes, will rebuild your walls. And those walls will have plenty of windows and doors to let in the sun and the breeze.

That this life can be owned, created, loved and celebrated multiple times over. And the shadows of memories that wake you in the middle of the night, cold sweaty and tear stained, are only fleeting. That there is a warm body next to you with a strong heart, and big arms, and even larger shoulders who will, without fail, carry your burdens around for you while you sift through your own mess.

Life will provide you a way to talk about it without talking about it. And sometimes, that's just enough.

Love Letter (to J.K. Rowling, and Harry Potter)

I shrugged my shoulders and finally picked up a copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone when I was 21.

I was on 'vacation' with my boyfriend-at-the-time's family. More accurately, he and I had driven down to Newport, Oregon to spend time with his father. This side of my ex's family was relatively estranged. The visit had multiple purposes... But, we'll get to that in a minute.

In hindsight, I can piece the puzzle together quite easily. My ex's parents split while he was very young. He then lived with his mother, who was a drug addict and blatantly neglectful. This side, the father's side, was so ridiculously stable, it was almost laughable. But that's how families work, right? Function and dysfunction. Yin and yang. The yo-yo leads to instability, which leads to a very broken human being.

I never knew the truth of what happened and why these people were so far away, both geographically and emotionally. However, they were wonderful people. Sweet, gentle and kind. Involved in their church and community, and clearly in love with each other. To put a finer point on my confusion, my ex was abusive, controlling and miserable. (I wrote about it here).

This visit was my attempt to patch together what was so very broken and lost in my ex. I naively thought that if he spent time with his estranged family, something inside of him might repair. And if it repaired, I would be safe. It was selfish and silly and wrong. But I was alone and I too, was in need of happiness, stability and a father figure.

Mostly, I wanted peace. And safety.

And that's what I remember. My ex's step-mom was reading Harry Potter to her two sons. She handed me the first book and told me to read it. This was 2001, and the Harry Potter notoriety was just beginning to crest. I began reading that night, before bed, and was hooked from the very start. I felt safe. And peaceful. For the first time in so. very. long.

The vacation, and my peace, lasted a very short time. As soon as we were back on the road, the abuse picked right back up. There was no wasted time in his verbal backlash... probably years of anger and confusion and neglect from a life so wonderfully paraded over the past week. And I was a very easy target.

I went home with the first three Harry Potter books. And reading them was my only respite in a tattered and shorn time. It was a world I could fall into easily, and in those days and hours and minutes reading, I would remember what joy felt like. Reading helped me remember that there was a life outside of abuse. And that words were magical and beautiful and melancholy and poetic and full of life. The life that I couldn't be a part of, but remembered.

These sacred moments with J.K. Rowling and Harry Potter brought me back from the brink. They brought me back from depression, fear and anger.

I left my ex in a fighting fury one night. But I never stopped reading Harry Potter. Those three books were lost in the wreckage of that relationship, but I have the hardbacks of the last four. And even though the last four books were read during a significantly lighter period in my life, they have been read and re-read during the most trying of times.

These reasons are why people read, passionately. This is why people like me (and you) love Harry Potter. Or whatever else happens to tickle their fancy. The memories are tied together...life and words. Seasons and stories. Packaged in worn bows, taped together with a little love and a lot of gumption.

I guess you could say this is a bit of a love letter to Ms. Rowling. Who saved me, many times over, and didn't even know it. She, and Harry, gave me life in a time where I could barely hold on long enough to breathe.

Happy Birthday, Harry Potter.

Elephant

There are plenty of secrets to be held. Plenty of elephants in countless rooms.

The thought of laying any vulnerabilities out makes my throat tighten and my heartbeat thud in my ears. Suddenly, breathing becomes a chore.

Sort of like anxiety.

Or exactly like anxiety.

But this is important and important things deserve time and care and space and kind words. Just like you. Just like me.

My freshman year of college was, at the very core, a blur of survival. I can clearly and acutely recall several moments where the weight of life was just a tick away from being unbearable. I was constantly dancing on the edge of clarity, my sanity a foggy mess that dangled itself in front of me, hovering just beyond the horizon. I clawed and grasped, desperately wanting to be ever closer, holding my breath and counting my tears. At my weakest, I just did not want to be anymore.

Let me be clear: I did not want to die, but I did not want to be in this life.  It had simply become too much.

And this is where the anxiety festered and took root.

That year came and went, but my anxiety stayed. I attempted to cope on my own by smothering any anxious thought that entered my brain. My concentration and life's focus aimed at overcoming it by achieving.

Success was my antidote.

Avoidance was my mantra.

Do you know what antidote means? A substance that counteracts a poison. A poison. Anxiety, when left to run amok, is a dramatic and systemic poison to your mind and body. And this is how I operated - by running - for a considerable amount of years. My value was measured in mental strength; a stiff upper lip and sharp tongue. I don't think that it is much of a surprise that my tightly wound galaxy eventually imploded, collapsing in on itself.

I think it's vital to point out that I have never been cured of anxiety. And since we're almost down the rabbit hole, I might as well pull you all in for a tumble:

Things that seem mundane to some people can trigger years of obsession in me. Counting repetitive behaviors, while soothing, can become mentally draining. I tangle myself in compulsive loops over certain things (the garage door and my hair straightener). Social settings can be downright over-stimulating to me. Some days, I barely have a hold on it all. Some weeks, the really bad ones, are peppered with intrusive thoughts (those are fun), considerable amounts of coping skills, and constant reminders that I am neither crazy nor weird.

And neither are you.

Just know that I get it. If this is you... if you're reading this and you're nodding along, take away this one point: I. get. it.

I get you.

Silver and Gold

I watched my dog root around the patio this evening. His nose was intently pressed into the aggregate concrete, wrinkling into rolling folds with each sniff, passing over and wading through scattered pieces of wood chips that he had chewed through earlier. Soon, he would take off like a terror, splash landing into a plastic pool full of icy hose water.

The moments are simple. Bare. Light. Like the breeze through the vegetable garden, unexpectedly easy.

This is a life that I didn't dream putting together.

Ease is so often under appreciated. Don't you think?

Death Cab for Cutie released a new album a few months back titled, Kintsugi. And while I'm not overly fanatic about their music, I do listen. But more importantly, I listened as they dove into the definition of kintsugi, a Japanese technique of repairing broken pottery by sealing the cracks with a lacquer infused with metallic dust. So the cracks aren't hidden, they're highlighted.

Celebrated.

The repair becomes a part of the story of the item. It is equal to the history and just as important as the pottery as a whole. The reparation reaches to illuminate the vulnerability to breaking and the beauty of resilience.

I'll be 35 here, soon. And I cannot think of a better way to view my life. Age has never been a cause for concern for me. My vanity hasn't been tested and I don't know that it ever will. I've never been the person to put timelines on my life; I've never had a checklist of things to achieve. I haven't felt like I have failed at much, which is either ridiculously naive of me, or incredibly lucky.

The sharp edge of this is that I have had enough thrown at me to turn cracks into jagged shards. And I can unabashedly admit that some of those breaks took years to fix.

All I've ever wanted was to be at ease. And I am.

The cracks are healed, sealed with silver and gold, glimmering veins connecting all the solid pieces together.

Flood

I haven't been able to write lately.

Or at the very least, write the way I like to when I want to and how I have to in order for the right things to get out onto paper. I have a process. My process. And it is the only process that works for me. I can't sit and toil and think-think-think myself into making the words string together. 

That scenario only ends with a rapid-fire delete assault.

Things come to me in a flood. The words spill out in front of me and I can't focus on anything other than getting them out. 

But I've had a dam as of late. Or, had.

You see, extreme stress will ruin a multitude of things. It robs you of energy. Of light. Of happiness and laughter and will remind you in those free moments that it still lingers. So the cracks of joy aren't as sweet because they have a bitter shadow. 

Stress will sneak in when you're attempting to be still, and wag its finger at you while you plead and dig at your brain to please be quiet. It is persistent if nothing else. And it will not fail at taunting you that it is there, in between your ribs and your belly button, nesting in and taking root.

I had been in a constant, gnawing and grinding state of stress for so long that I literally forgot what it was like to not be. 

And now I'm not. The how, where and why isn't important. Yet. 

Maybe, one day, I'll write about it. When the words start to come again.

Balance

Balance is a fickle beast.

The pendulum swings back and forth, briefly hesitating over moments, steadily swinging to and fro. There is simultaneously enough time and not enough time to ruminate in the rhythm.

I am lucky enough to see a big change on my horizon. The pendulum has paused just long enough for me to duck through its bow, and run along the threshold. This change did not come easy, as big things rarely do (as they say). But I'm aware enough to give a nod to timing.

So I see a change building to a crest in the distance and I get to wait for it to crash at my feet. In the same turn, I hang in the balance on another, less tangible decision.

I was approached to pitch some content ideas for a pretty significant website. So pitch, I did. And I heard back, requesting more. Again, I did.

And now, I wait.

It's the waiting where the worry sneaks in. Smoke under the doorway, seeping its way in and under, giving me pause for my purpose. Doubt rides its coattails and I am left second guessing every word I think and type.

But with balance, comes a fantastic set of cheerleaders.

And on this very day, I balance between their two birthdays.

Butterfly

There's a glass ornamental butterfly attached to my grandma's sliding glass door. One of those decorations that substitutes as a warning that there is, in fact, glass attached to it. And, pay attention so you don't bust your face.

It sits on the sliding glass door, where it's sat for who knows how long. Standing guard over the yard that I've spent plenty of time in my youth; and not nearly enough as I've grown older.

The pavement of the patio is cracked and waning. Four separate slabs that have been pieced together, built in 1951 when things like that didn't necessarily matter. The wooden frame of the awning has been painted and repainted and is now covered in bits of moss and mold; weathered by time and rain.

It is this backyard where I learned how to do a cartwheel and attempted (and subsequently failed) at performing a handstand. I've laid in it's grass, listening to the whir of motors and honking of horns in the neighboring McDonald's drive thru. It is this backyard that has been breached by unsavory characters, running from the police, in efforts to bypass a very busy intersection of southwest Tacoma. Where my cousin and I had listened intently, each 7 and 8 years old, to the knocks at the door from Tacoma PD... a momentary and dramatic interruption to our sleepover on my grandma's pullout couch.

It is this backyard where I pulled my nephew in a red wagon, all giggles and fat rolls. And where I chased him around a Walmart-special above-ground pool, all limbs and energy.

It is this backyard where I wandered, picking up the spiked shells of the chestnut tree seeds and chased crows away. Where, before my grandma lived there, I counted corn stalks and zucchini plants that her mother had planted.

This is her place. My childhood.

And she passed away.

But everything else still lives.

Rest in peace.

Anniversary

Well.

It's darn near a year that I started this creative adventure. What I thought would be an outlet to showcase some photos ended up being a conduit to another world. And that world had always existed inside of me, knocking at the door and peeking in the window, waiting for me to invite it in and give it a permanent home. This is where words and sentences and phrases and jokes and melancholy all live. Twisting and turning around each other; spindling stacks of ideas and scratch paper.

Writing is where I am and where I always will be. And I am so humbled by the love and support of all of my friends and blog readers.

I still have so much to tell you.

xo

(Some of my favorite moments behind the camera).

Kids

Are you going to have kids?

I've never answered that truthfully. If we've talked about it, I'm sorry. You have never been given a straight answer. Because I don't owe you one.

I've said yes, no, maybe, someday, I don't know... All of the things that you say when you're uncomfortable and don't know what else to say. And all of the things you want to say are the things that you're taught not to say because they're impolite. And all of the things that you're thinking are convoluted and the answers measure far heavier than the intended weight of the question.

So, like me, you lie. Because ambiguity is easy.

But here is the real and only truth you will get out of me, on this subject:

Being a parent terrifies me. Because I know my own crap. I am intensely aware of my shortcomings. They blind me in the mirror and shout at me when I'm trying to sleep. They call to me when I'm alone. They whisper to me when I'm not. They laugh at me when I'm around others' families and I don't quite know how to be. My skin feels odd on my bones and I can feel the blood behind my eyes and hear it pounding in my ears. I don't know how to watch people love each other because I feel like I'm observing animals behind glass. I feel like I'm intruding. That my insecurities call out and glow like a giant, shining arrow. 

Because I know that I'm not like everyone else. And that everyone else isn't like everyone else, but you get it nonetheless. I know that I'm missing things. I lack binding. That is to say, I feel little to no emotional responsibility to anyone. Save my husband and my younger brother. 

But that is it.

That's all.

And I know it.

I've known it for longer than I think I care to recognize. This is what makes me different. And this gaping hole is the cliff I stand before, palms clammy, throat tight and chest heaving, knowing that I can't make the leap or close the gap on my own.

These things are taught.

These skills are given. 

What I know is that abandonment is extremely easy. Even more so if you don't think about it. And compartmentalizing is a skill that I have mastered. This has colored everything in my life. I also know that I don't fear much. I don't have the connecting skills enough to fear things not being anymore. All I have...or had, rather, is control. Control is the only thing my broken world had leant me in order to build things back to normal. My normal.  

I joke that I am a broken robot. A malfunctioning mass of computer and digital parts. Cold and unfeeling.

But those things aren't entirely true. I feel. And I'm recognizing the areas that need to be patched and re-seeded. I'm terribly and deeply in love with my husband. And, if we're going to strip down to the bare bones of it, I might as well tell you that it is only through him (and faith) that I've come to learn emotional responsibility.

Some things are not innate.

And some people need patient teachers to show them the way. A lantern holder on a very dim path. And so he has been. Unbeknownst to me, he has lit a torch, grabbed my dirty and barren hand, and dragged me into the light. And this is where he has shown me that fears are fought together. That life is not meant to live alone. And that the missing parts can be replaced.

 

So.

 

Here it is. In the best and only way I know how to broach the subject. And the only form of an answer that will ever be given.


 

Hiatus

I always write when it feels right.

That's the method to my madness. It hits me out of obscurity and I stop whatever it is that I'm doing, and walk straight into my office at home. There's a three minute bout of anxiety that rushes over me while my computer wakes up.

The words are coming and I can't stop them.

And then I don't stop until it's finished. It's a purge, really. I have this panicked, fevered fear that if I don't get it all out it won't come out at all. And if it did, it wouldn't be the same as I had originally intended. And the sounds won't come out right, and the words won't fit together in their perfectly jig-sawed places.

Words sit in my brain, waiting to be plucked out and used. I hear something I like and it gets stored there. More times than not, the words are thrown together in phrases; brief snippets of the possibility of a full thought. And I'll say, 'Yes, I'll use that here when I write about this.' And those phrases hover in the haze, patiently waiting their turn. They always do. And they always get one.

So this hiatus of writing has been a jumbled mess of words and phrases and topics and ideas and so many things to say that the jar became too full. And the air was vacuumed out. So opening it was a little tough. It's probably exactly as you imagine it: jar open, worms everywhere.

And I have so much to write about but the words are all pushing their way to the exit. Stampeding over each other and it's torture to get them into single-file.

I say to them, behave.

And they don't.

Because they're mine.

And I rarely behave, generally speaking.

And in that vein, I had struggled with my voice. Because I write here and here... And here is me. And there is me, plus more. And it wasn't until this weekend, and three people telling me the same thing (mostly) independently of each other, that I realized that both are me. I can be all of it at once.

So.

The crux of the hiatus, and this particular set of words, is to say that I'm here. The words are here... Good Lord, are they. And I intend to use them.

Let Your Heart Be Light

I have a Noble Fir in my living room. Full of lights and hangings and glitter and memories. It dazzles and catches the light, just the way I like it to. The ornaments are as symmetrical as they're going to get, no matter how many times I place and replace, searching for an impossible balance. But such is life. And how my mind works.

I was staring at the tree this morning. And again, tonight.

Because I never pictured my own Christmas tree. With balanced or imbalanced ornaments. Or a thousand lights that my husband wound and wound until every piece of wood and greenery was touched.

These were not the things that I thought of when I was younger. This wasn't the life that I dreamt about, because I didn't dream about such things. They were too pretty. And perfect. And I didn't think I was worthy of those things; of this life.

I didn't dream about a wedding, much less a husband. I didn't dream about a home. Or a family.

I just thought it would be me. Forever. Maybe a dog or two. And a small place by some water.

And that would have been my life. I kind of just assumed and accepted that notion of solitude...and the span of forever.

So I have this tree and yes, it's just a tree, but it's not just a tree. It's a tree that will be used to celebrate life and love and family. It is a tree that was plucked from a mountainside. By my husband. On a tree hunting expedition that I have been enveloped into year by year by year. It's a tree that annually marks a twinkling dot on a timeline, reminding me of when Justin and I got together. It holds memories and offers a reminder that life is more.

So much more.

The Fear

I was chatting with a friend of mine about the creative process and how damn scary it is.

She's experiencing the freak-out phase of development. It's the fear that hits right before you show the world what just came out of your brain.

It's naked and scary and awful and blissful and so many things all at once.

I rarely get so cliché as to mention song lyrics, or quote poetry, but I did mention a phrase to her that has resonated in my mind since I heard it first -

'And when the world finally sees his art, he wishes that he never would have made it...'

This.

Is.

Exactly what it feels like to push 'publish' on a blog post. Or to submit drafts to an editor. It's opening your world up to ridicule and inspection. And for me, a 70/30 introvert, this is harrowing.

My next article is about something so terribly personal, that I'm terrified of pulling the trigger. It deserves the highest honor in my emotional task force and I'm so worried that it won't translate. Adversely, I'm apprehensive that it will translate too well and show too much of something that I just can't fully expose.

So, I'm here and there and wanting to show but not tell.

But somewhere in the shadows is a positive email, or a comment, or a nudge from a friend that what I'm doing is right. And moreover, that it means something.

And resilience overrides fear.

(This is really a roundabout way to say thank you. You know who you are. Your words mean...well, everything).

(Girl) Friends

I get a little soapbox-y about certain things. Sometimes it's warranted, and sometimes it's frivolous. Sometimes, I get riled up at a news story, or see something dancing around pop culture that just burns me up. I know my opinions aren't facts, and I don't try and convince people I'm right...at least on most things.

I know I can be a bit ridiculous. And a touch dramatic.

...sometimes.

I think there's enough in the news as of late regarding a general lack of respect for women permeating our culture. And while I'm overjoyed that these conversations are being brought to the table, I think there's one that deserves a little nod of recognition:

Women respecting and uplifting other women.

More pointedly, and perhaps to speak in clear and concise terms:

Stop calling your female friends derogatory names.

You know the ones I'm referring to. I don't even want to type them out. Not because I don't say them (*ahem* probably far too frequently)...but because in this context, at least this time, I don't think it's necessary.

I think the spirit these terms are meant in is one of camaraderie, to show familiarity, to show that we (we, as in women) have the power and wherewithal to use those words in a joking manner that are typically meant to demean us... I get it. I get it all.

But still.

It's tacky. And unnecessary. And rude. And, honestly, still demeaning. The gender of the person speaking doesn't dictate how the word is going to sound spilling out of their mouth. A mean word is a mean word.

And really, don't we hear those things enough?

Reconciling an Athlete's Body

My body doesn't do what I want it to do anymore.

And sometimes that physical frustration bleeds into an emotional frustration. All of my formative years and a large part of my adult years, I had complete control over my physical being. I could bend, stretch, wrap and move. Effortless and fluid and poetic and strength and lightness and joy. My knees and hips and ankles did whatever I tasked them to do.

But sometime in my mid-twenties, my joints stopped responding to my every command. Instead, I was met with resistance. And awkwardness. And weird noises. And yes...pain. My body felt foreign to me. I'd watch myself in the mirror of a dance studio and see something alien. Not me. Not my movement. Not my ankles. Not my knees. Not my flexibility.

Years of injuries and a diagnosis of 'pre-arthritis' (whatever that means) took it all away. Right from under me.

Any long-term athlete will tell you what years and days and hours and minutes of practice will do to a body. It strengthens and weakens. It lifts and tears. It responds and resists. And years later, it stops. Like a cold rubber-band, everything tightens and constricts and seizes.

So I went from ballerina to runner. Because I had to do something. I had to know that my legs could go. And do. And keep going and doing. An athlete is always an athlete and the body is the vessel.

And then the running stopped. Three knee injuries and some major health problems (that I've written about here) forced me to (literally) slow down. The state of my body had become a perfectionist's worst nightmare - inability to complete a task that I had practically mastered.

So, yes... I get really down on myself because I can't run long distances anymore. And I can't stand on my toes or throw my leg over my head. But then I remind myself that I have run hundreds, perhaps thousands of miles over the last 5 years. I have danced a million dances on a million stages under a million bright, starry lights. I have crossed finish lines to a cheering crowd and had roses thrown at my feet after a 3 hour performance. My knees and ankles are muscularly destroyed, but have put up with a lot of punishment and continue to hold up my body. My hips, after a lifetime of rotating unnaturally from ballet, have slowly deteriorated into rusty cogs, aching every morning and sometimes waking me up at night. Sitting hurts just as bad as standing, which is just as bad as laying. And sometimes my legs go numb. But I'm still here. And I'm still trying.

I'm extremely lucky. 

Grace and the Dark Days

I, like most, can split my life up into phases. Clusters of years; different versions of me. And I used to be ashamed of certain periods of my life. But that shame is ushered in by confusion, and gracefully swept out by patience and the knowledge that I've done better since.

Time mercifully brings transparency. I am so stupidly humbled by what my life has brought me over the last handful of years. A healthy mind, a healing body, a divine love and a family. Right under my nose, I sprouted a huge net of beautiful, loving people.

Damn, that's an honor.

So, thankfully, I can ruminate on the ghost of decisions past and forgive myself for being blinded by pain and desperation.

Love will do that to you.

Almost a year ago, I had someone reach out to me via Facebook. And this person was such a beacon of everything that went wrong in the dark days. He was the catalyst and the ringleader of a multitude of bad things. Chaos and dramatics hung around him in a hazy smog and everyone within his radius was touched by it. We were all pretending to be happy in this dizzy, fast life of debauchery and whiskey that he evoked.

The version of me that existed in those days was so terribly sad and angry. I was desperately running... no, sprinting... away from my past and jumping on any train that took away the compounded years of abandonment, abuse and rejection. An exhausted shell. And for some odd reason, that's when the leeches come out to help you waste away. And so this person, and his band of merry fools, brought me under their bone-picked wings.

That is what happens to the lost ones.

But this post isn't about the Facebook message and what was said. It's about grace. And how it pulls you out of the obscurity and into the light. And holds you there until your legs are strong underneath you and you remember what it feels like to have hope. Grace is abundant and does not discriminate. It gives you life. And light. And love. And it doesn't. ever. stop.

Grace just is.

Sweeps out the bad.

Calls home the good.

And tells you that you are worthy of more.

On Pain

I do pain pretty well.

That is to say, I can write about pain very succinctly and very easily. And I used to think that that was weird. Or that I was weird. Or that I needed a psychiatrist.

As it turns out, all of those things are true... but the words are my therapy. The bad memories are sharp and when they're at their darkest, they can be unbearable. But then I sit and type and breathe and think and before I'm done, I'm lighter. The room is lighter and I'm lighter and the weight that can anchor my heart has been pulled up and in.

The hard stuff is the stuff that matters. That's what my friends keep telling me. And I know they're telling me the truth because that's what they do. So I sit and let the wounds have their time with words. And it's a sacred healing to have them laid out in that way.

That's why I do write about pain. I'm far enough away from it to look at it objectively. And I know that timing is terribly beautiful.

That's why I can write about pain.

It's yours and mine and universal. I say what you say. Sometimes out loud and sometimes internally, but always written out. And that's when I know I'm not so weird.