Should......The Other "S" Word

 Last week my oldest child turned 16.

There was no party, no used car bedecked with a flouncy red bow sitting in the driveway, no begging for a new video game, paint ball with friends, or plans for homecoming. There was only me, my three younger kids, a birthday teen several hours away, and deafening silence.

I couldn't post on FB. I always post photos and sweet comments about each child's personality on their special day, but I couldn't do it. I don't often struggle with the comparison factor that drives people to quit social media to avoid the steady diet of carefully edited words and photos- but last week? I could barely touch the blue F icon on my phone to open the endless stream of daily fodder and initiate the familiar scrolling that has become part of my mindless routine.

Last week was hard. Hellish. Ugly. I'd had a phone call earlier in the week from a no-nonsense nurse at the facility where he's living who delivered news to me that literally knocked me off of my feet. I fell to the ground in sobs, aching, as her perfunctory words ravaged my heart. Supposedly he'd been in an altercation with another resident. It had become one person's word against the other. The few details I was given stole all of the breath from my body. As I struggled to draw enough oxygen into my lungs between loud sobs under the still, starry, autumn evening, she asked if I had any questions. I know her job sucked. I know hearing my hurt was difficult, and I'm quite sure she wanted nothing more than to complete the task she'd been given and hang up the phone. But it stung. I managed to laugh sarcastically through tears and tell her that I had none. "I can tell you're teary, so I'm going to let you go now. Have a nice night". <click>
 I must've looked like a character out of biblical times- wailing in the dirt, my forehead pressed into the cold ground as I rolled over into the fetal position. I'd been burning leaves before she called, and was covered in soot and ash- a fitting backdrop for the rending of my heart and spirit in lieu of my clothing.

I was broken. My precious son, who'd been making such progress, seemed to have had a big setback. I was reeling. He called moments after the nurse escaped my crying, and once he realized I was upset, made sure to tell me the incident 'never happened'. I tried to maintain hope. To entertain the possibility that the story I'd just been given by the nurse was flawed. But our difficult history, and the long list of circumstances where he'd been dishonest, or manipulative, or sneaky, washed over any ember of hope I was carrying and left only grief, loneliness, and hurt in its wake.
I tried to reassure him I was processing. But I knew my words were hollow and fell flat. I hadn't had time to process what I'd just heard, much less get myself to the place where I could encourage him in the mess. He changed the subject to his birthday- secure in the knowledge that he was telling the truth- but I couldn't follow him in the happiness; and I broke some more. His 16th birthday. A big one. The last big one before 'adulthood' in the eyes of the law. A birthday we should be celebrating, enjoying, anticipating... and I only felt robbed. Shortchanged. Angry. Alone.

The short version of the story is that he was telling the truth. It never happened. The longer version had me barely breathing through grief for days, carrying hurt and sadness around that I had no idea what to do with.
I called him on his birthday. Too broken and weary to sing loudly- which I would usually do. Guilted and shamed for my inability to rally myself in the moment for a milestone event the world tells us we should celebrate.

 A grocery store sheet cake in a conference room on Sunday in place of his much loved homemade coconut cake. A few simple gifts which he was excited about, lots of hugs, and then games in the cafeteria for a couple of hours. Enjoying ourselves, sharing some laughs and smiles, and time together- but hovering over us was the weighty cloud of our circumstance. One I'm grateful for and angry about at the same time. A circumstance few people in my life can begin to comprehend- and one I work hard to not think about much. I ached as I watched him- the small child almost gone, being replaced by a tall, muscled man who talks with his large hands, charms with his stunning blue eyes, and entertains with a keen sense of humor.

My life has become very small again. I move in and out of this space in relationship to the level of stress and grief present in my life. There are times I'm carefree and have the ability to engage with a larger group of the people I love, and who love me, and then there are times I retreat. Unable to talk or expend the energy to engage. There is nothing left in me after work, kids, life.. to give anything else to anyone.

One of the hardest parts of raising a child with a chronic illness- whether physical, mental, emotional... is the grief that is never resolved. There is no closure for anyone. There are victories and progress and surprising strides made- and then, like the 16th birthday that came and went without fanfare- there are those times where the stark reality of this life is laid bare against the vibrant, technicolor idealized life I anticipated; and I feel punched in the stomach, sent stumbling backwards, trying to steady myself again.

My counselor said what I already know. The grief comes because there are still places in me where I hold on to my idea of what 'should have been'. This is nothing new to me, and often, I'm able to embrace the difficult, painful, beautiful, rich life we have- in spite of its opposition to the life I dreamed I'd have. But sometimes, I get angry. I want to punch someone or something for denying us the 'normalcy' I long for: The mundane, typical, frustrating teenage angst so many parents wrestle with. I want to apologize to him- beg him to understand how the mental illness, the autism- none of it is his fault. Instead, I keep walking forward. Screwing up royally, falling short over and over, frustrated at myself for not being further along, then reminding myself of how far we've come. My counselor reminded me quietly through my tears last week- none of us are really living the life we thought we 'should' have. It's different for everyone, but the truth is that we don't get to leave the confines of this planet at the end of our lives without having experienced pain and disappointment. While that doesn't offer much solace to a broken mother's heart, it gives me pause. It's my choice. I can succumb to grief and shatter into a devastated shell of a woman, or I can grieve and be gentle with myself. Patient in the process. Real about the hurt and disappointment, and guarded in how I spend my time... protective of my heart and state of mind.

Should have been will kill us if we let it. Suffocating the beauty found in the what truly is. I've not yet come back to the place of joy and energy I enjoy inhabiting- but I know it will come. I've learned to not try and force it anymore. To recognize that the pain is a tool, a teacher, a refiner. Nothing is wasted, and I've no doubt this most recent dance with grief will do the work it's meant to do. In the meantime, I've pulled inward to preserve my emotional energy. If you've wondered where I've been- now you know, it's not you.. it's me. And I promise I'll rise once again, <3

Labeled

Healing and growing take work- often painful, gritty, I'd-rather-run-away than face this stuff kind of work. But, as with most anything of value, it's always worth it.

A couple of weeks ago, Samuel and I returned to the doctor's office where he had done the ADOS assessment for autism. We were there for the results and to go over the full report from the clinician's observations of how he completed tasks, how we answered one bazillion questions about his development, behaviors, understanding, and communication, and his medical history.
She handed both of us copies of the full report which spanned four pages. We flipped through the papers and scanned the medical description of what has been plaguing him and our family for the better part of 13 years. Her conclusion was Autism Spectrum Disorder (high functioning), and Bipolar I.

The black ink that bore his diagnoses swam in front of my eyes as tears formed. I wasn't so much upset, as relieved. He's had both of these diagnoses before- however- never both at the same time. He was given the diagnosis of bipolar when he was just three years old. It was shocking to me then. It seemed too big of a struggle to lay on shoulders so small, yet, the behavior and moods we'd experienced fit well within the perimeters of the disorder. But, when he was given that label all those years ago, it wasn't enough to explain everything we were dealing with. I knew in my gut there was more to it, but his young age made it difficult to tease out what was going on.
At that age, he'd been hospitalized for the first time. When we were discharged, he left with BP as the main diagnosis, and we were thrust onto the path of psychiatric care. What followed was years of running into dead ends. Psychiatric care is overwhelmed by the demand and not enough providers; psychiatric care for children is even harder to find, and children under the age of 8 are often refused service by doctors. It's not considered 'good practice' to diagnose children with such a heavy label, and for the next 5 years, we were given a myriad of other diagnoses instead- all of which essentially were symptomatic of bipolar. Right when he turned 9, we saw an incredible doctor at UVA. She was highly sought after and we quickly understood why.

Her ability to draw out what she needed from her patients, compile information given to her, and her uncanny skill in understanding family and behavioral dynamics, allows her to dig through unnecessary detail and identify the underlying issues. She diagnosed him with autism. I was relieved. I stopped taking him to the less than helpful psychiatrists. Instead, we stayed with Dr. Anderson (developmental pediatrician), traveling several hours one way for appointments regularly, and she helped us with med management, recommended therapies, and education about autism. I'm embarrassed to admit that because I was keenly aware of how autism was more 'glamorized' (for a lack of a better word) than the 'run of the mill' mental illness, it was easy to latch onto the autism diagnosis and forge ahead. Autism had risen into the collective awareness of our communities, and explaining to outsiders that questionable behavior stemmed from autistic struggles was more easily understood and accepted than sharing the painfully stigmatized information about mental illness. Dr. Anderson was incredible for us. She found a combination of medications that helped immensely- though our lives were anything but 'normal'. Still..... I knew there was more.

To get this combination of diagnoses; explanations of why and how his brain works the way it does, and education on what to expect, how to respond, and the types of support we need was ... a huge relief. The two together answer so many questions. They make life hard. For him, and for the rest of us. The two disorders buck up against one another and can exacerbate many of the symptoms he wrestles with. It's a sobering diagnosis- one that will require him to be diligent for life in taking his medications, eating well, resting and sleeping enough, exercising, and intentional social interaction balanced by intentional solitude. It's a lot for anyone- and certainly for a kid who is weeks away from his 16th birthday- and yet, there is relief. Comfort. Words given to years of hardship and confusing moods and responses. A real, tangible explanation as to why this has been so hard and so traumatic for all of us. Validation that he's not a bad kid, I'm not a failing mother, and our effort to push back the weight of this hardship has been nothing short of heroic.
He's one of the strongest people I know. He's had to live through being my first child- and my early years' lack of understanding about the brain and mental health and illness. He's had to endure my anger, fear, grief and inadequacies as I suffocated under the weight of scathing judgment heaped into my lap by doctors when he was young, and some extended family (who are no longer involved in our lives).

We've grown so much together. I have learned to trust my intuition. I never stopped seeking, begging for help, researching, trying everything I possibly could with the knowledge I had- but I also took on the burden of judgment from others who had no idea what life looked like for us. I allowed ugly words spoken in ignorance take root in my heart and spirit and regrettably, I mothered all of my children from that place of wounding for too many years.

We are survivors. He's done incredible work in the program he's been with for the past 4 months. He's talked, journaled, asked questions, read, participated in specialized therapies, gotten upset, angry, sad; he's engaged in vulnerable conversations with me that are hard to digest, yet powerful in their sharing. He's not a statistic. He's not crazy, or broken, or out of reach. He's a mighty powerhouse of talent, intelligence, ability, compassion, and maturity that comes with walking through the darker places of life.
I'm so proud of my son. We are the faces of people living with special needs and mental illness. We are warriors fighting a broken system, a challenging chronic health problem, and navigating a world that sees mental illnesses as excuses, or humanly inferior, or frightening. Neither of us would have chosen this for him. But it was chosen for us. And both of us are passionate about sharing our experience with the world- to offer hope, understanding, education, and connection.
I'm grateful for his tenacity. And I'm honored by his willingness to pull back places he struggles and share those vulnerabilities with me and others. He's something else- that kid of mine. And I have no doubt that he's going to change the world.

Speak now, or forever hold your peace

I've been going through Beth Moore's Breaking Free study with a couple of friends over the last few months. It's been a good place to examine myself; how I operate- in relationships, in my expectations, and life in general. It's been hard, and painful, and beautiful. (I highly recommend it!).  I'm in the beginning of week five, and the last couple of weeks have had us digging into our backgrounds to discover hard things passed down in our families as well as the really beautiful things. All of us carry both within our families of origin, and all of us will continue to pass on good and bad to the generations coming after us. The goal of the study is to discover, with intention, those things you desire to grab hold of and continue, and those things that have created difficulty, struggle, pain or dysfunction and in identifying those things- let them go.
Interestingly, I watched the video kicking off week five on Friday night. (start at 45:40 for the clip I'm referring to). The night that hate descended publically on my hometown of Charlottesville and made a blatant display of evil personified. The video addressed what Beth considers the most poisonous 'legacy' of many families: Racism. 

She does a great job of calling it out without mincing words, and without painting an ugly, insidious 'tradition' with sugared words to help us digest them. She calls it an abomination. A sickness based in fear and ignorance. She calls us to stand against it- with courage. Knowing for some, standing against the covert and overt racism in family relationships will cost something. She passionately argues that the ideology of being 'color blind' is a disservice, a farce, laughable. I'm with her all the way. She says when we are raised to believe that we are different because of skin color, then by default, it means someone has to be better. Yep. Amen. All things I am on board with. My only disappointment came when I realized she missed an opportunity to make another powerful, needed point. I would add this to her message:
Serving a creator God means we believe He has created all. All creatures, humans, plants, living things. Calling them good. As women, we frequently remind society that when we were created we were also deemed good, and also created in the image of God.
So... for my brain, for my logic, for my reasoning.. this seems a simple analogy. None of us look at the gorgeous blue butterflies flitting around our lawns and think "Man. Those blue butterflies are so much more important and valuable than the orange colored Monarchs. In fact, we should really try to get rid of those Monarch butterflies because they are in the way and annoying me by trying to get all of the nectar from these flowers! Dont they know they don't belong here?! We should make them go back to Mexico." We don't visit the animal shelter and tell the staff that all of the yellow dogs shouldn't be allowed to be adopted because they aren't as good as the other dogs; becoming incensed that the yellow lab is taking up space they could use for a chocolate lab and getting violent when told we are off our rocker for using such warped logic.

This is an overly-simplified analogy, stripping history and pain and wounding from the subject for a moment; but my point is this: Especially for those of us who love our creator God- why would we even consider the thought that skin color determines levels of value?! God is creative. Artistic. Intentional. We have no problem accepting that in the animal world, and with various plants and flowers- yet we stop short of offering the same effortless acceptance to the creatures called humans that He has created in.his.image. 
Beth Moore is correct. In many families of every color (especially here in the United States where our history is marred with horrific crimes against humanity based on skin color), there has been a passing down of racism at some level. It can be difficult to look at. She speaks of her grandmother who faithfully served others, loved her church, spent time in her bible every day and then spoke disparagingly about a group of people- made in the image of God. It's based in fear and ignorance and continues through generations with the subtle (or not so subtle) rhetoric of : if we are different- then someone has to be better. 
Pastor John Pavlovitz posted on his website this weekend calling those of us with white skin to speak up. To call out racism for what it is. To call out our white counterparts engaged in this disgusting display of fear and hate and brutality. To refuse to stay silent in our protected lives, and largely disconnected communities. His message is powerful and necessary- and I want to push it a step further.
I have heard many of my friends of color say that they are tired. They are no longer afraid- knowing God holds them. But they are tired of fighting. Of trying to speak out to deaf ears. Ears deafened by the noise of ignorance- never having faced ugliness directed at them or their families or communities based solely on skin color. Ears deafened by the rally of voices around them telling them that 'the American dream is available to all- if they would just work harder'; or 'black on black crime is worse than white on black crime.', or 'they need to get over it. I never owned any slaves and I don't understand what their problem is. I have tons of black friends.', or the more "accepted" statements such as; 'black people are so much better at sports than white people'; tossed out as though it is a compliment and should be received with gratitude. What about,  'well, he had been arrested before, so I'm not surprised'; and the ever-present: 'why do they have to say black lives matter?! Don't they know ALL lives matter?!'. Those continual sound bites.. perpetuated in our communities, churches, families, friendships, social media, television... they drown out the voices of the oppressed crying out to be heard.
They're tired of competing with the hum of words soothing the nagging worry in those of us with white skin who dare to consider that all of this is so horrifically, terribly wrong... and that maybe, somehow, we have played a part.


Yes, John Pavlovitz. We must speak. It's our turn. It's the responsibility of those of us with white skin to tell our friends and brothers and sisters with brown skin that 'we've got you'. You don't need to keep fighting. You can rest. We will fight FOR you. In love. In honor. And to tell our white brothers and sisters, no. No. We won't stand for this. It's evil.
To my white brothers- your voice carries the most weight. You have the 'in' to those who perpetuate this violence of word and deed. You have the highest probability of being heard by other white men- because you look like them. You have to be brave. Selfless. Honorable. Bold. To call out the coworker who makes a joke that turns your stomach. To challenge your child who makes a blanket statement about 'black people' that he picked up in the lunch room. To tell your family- No. That's not true. And it's hateful.
You have a huge responsibility to use your unearned place of privilege for good. Not to apologize for it, to feel guilty about it, or to try and deny it. No. To use it. For such a time as this.
To whom much is given, much is required. With great power comes great responsibility. Please. For the literal love of God and those created in His image. Use it wisely.

Bring It

Facebook has the 'memories' feature where it shows you things posted on this same day throughout the years. Sometimes this is a fun app, other days it can be a bit painful, and on days like today, some memories prove powerful.
One of the photos that showed in my memories feed was this one from 7 years ago.

When I saw it, I gasped. I don't know this person. Obviously, it's me, however I don't recognize me in her at all. It's a hard photo to look at- So much was gong on under the surface- and a lot of it I only felt the negative energy from- but I had no idea what was truly happening in my life. No tangible evidence had been uncovered to release me into the awareness that the crazy I was feeling wasn't me at all... That would come a couple of years later. If you had asked me how I was at this time, I would have told you that life was challenging, but I was happy. I'm not sure that I believed that, or wanted so badly for it to be true that it became my mantra. And when life was painful- I bowed to my conditioning and believed I was the problem.

I believe I was depressed, and broken, and completely lost. I felt like a total failure as a mother, and my marriage simply existed; it didn't have the beauty, safety, fulfillment or growth I'd always assumed I'd experience. I had no idea who I was, how strong I could be, nor how wildly capable. I'd bought into the lie that I was crazy, incompetent, 'too much', inadequate, and a nuisance. What kills me the most though, is that I absorbed all of that- and began to believe it. And it shows. My eyes are tired and sad, I'm heavy, I look timid, and I only remember many weeks and months of survival and simply getting through one grey day after another.

This weekend is my 40th birthday. It's a strange thought, as I don't feel what I thought 40 would feel like- and yet, I'm also aware that in more recent years, 40 has become a poster child of renewal, rebirth, authenticity, and health- and if that is what 40 means now, then I welcome it with arms open wide. Some friends and I talked about turning 40 when we were in our late 20s and early 30s. We would talk about how we wanted to be better at 40 than we were at 25- and I can honestly say..... I did it. When I look at this recent photo- I see peace.

 Acceptance. A woman who knows her worth and just how incredibly strong and competent she truly is. I see a woman who recognizes places in her that need growth, and yet celebrates places where she has busted out of cages of expectations to prove to herself and her children that she can do anything she puts her mind to. I see freedom. A warrior who has taken the stones life threw at her face and instead stacked them under her feet. I see someone who no longer fears what others say because she knows her heart and her value and what she has to offer the world. I see a woman who rests knowing she is truly, fully loved by her God... no longer shrouded in shame from self-inflicted condemnation. I see life. I'm proud of this girl. I'm amazed by her. Sometimes I sit back and marvel at how far I've come and the ways in which I've grown and risen to each occasion. So I've decided not to fear this culturally labeled 'milestone birthday', instead, I'm going to grab 40 by the horns and make 25 look on with jealousy.

Rerouting

I've started this post several times- not exactly sure how to peel off parts of myself that I often long to hold tight, yet understanding that my heart for change in this world often means allowing discomfort to lead me to share things too many keep hidden.

My oldest son has been in Hampton for almost two months now. He's at a residential treatment center to address the struggles that have plagued us for well over a decade.

I used to read a blog by a mother whose daughter had bipolar disorder. Her daughter lived almost exclusively at a residential treatment facility and will remain there long term. I remember my feelings of confusion, sadness and admittedly; judgment. I couldn't understand how a mother could 'give up' on her child in such a way and leave the raising of her to others.
Life has a funny way of bringing us face to face with our own bias. Our criticism of things we can't possibly understand often sizzles in the fires of similar circumstances later on in our journey.

The truth is that this has been the best thing that has happened to our family in terms of support and treatment. He was ready to go and did so with a positive attitude. I have told him over and over that his willingness to not only go to the program, but to engage in it wholeheartedly, has been a gift to me. I couldn't be more proud of his courage and hard work. Driving away from the building in silence for the several hour trip home, I was grieved over the stark reality of our lives, but filled with gratitude for the support.

Mental health treatment in our country is broken in every way. Millions of people languish under sub standard care, or none at all, and many more of us fight a losing battle to get the help needed for our loved ones. The disconnect between all of the players in his care has led to many misdiagnoses, a lack of support and understanding in the school environment, acute hospitalizations, dozens of medications, chaos at home, and years of hurt and distance in the family relationships. What this incredible facility is providing is a streamlined team of engaged and connected support members. He goes to school there- and his teachers are part of the team. He has a nurse, a caseworker, a counselor, an autism educator (to help him understand how he operates in the world), an art therapist, a doctor, and other support staff to encourage him and push him to be the best young man he can be. The entire team shares what they observe, recommendations and suggestions. It creates a holistic approach that addresses each part of him- mind, body and spirit.
The staff there love him, and, they love working with each other. Their passion for my son and his incredible gifts and abilities make my chest swell with pride. I am aware that many facilities don't have this incredibly wonderful attitude and atmosphere, and I'm ever grateful that our experience is proving positive.

This program is one of the longest in the country. Their success rate is sky high with patients leaving their treatment never again needing acute hospitalizations or bumping up against the law. Their expectation is that this level of treatment is the last stop on the tumultuous ride of health- and they pour everything they have into the patients there to ensure that it happens.

I go to visit and have counseling with him almost every week. The drive is hard and long- but it's a small price to pay for the healing it's bringing. His counselor is a seasoned autism expert and is adept at giving words to dynamics I have felt but couldn't address until identified. The work he is doing through his transparency and openness is bringing incredible change that is even evident on him physically. His eyes are sharp and clear- his growing, muscled body is stilled in peace and self acceptance. His voice is steady, and his ability to articulate his emotions, frustrations and needs is blowing me away. While he works there- we work at home. Undoing dynamics long etched into the structure of our family. I am digging deep into the places of fear, codependency, feelings of failure and defeat and pulling out roots of poisonous paradigms that have no place in a healthy family.

It's disappointing as a mother to come to the place where treatment of this level is necessary- the team-centric support we are getting as a family unit is what I've longed for for many years- however, it's simply not available here outside of residential care. Had he been angry with me for taking him, I may have suffocated under the weight of grief and guilt- thankfully, his eagerness to get better and feel better and do better and be the healthy man he is, has inoculated me against that wounding- and I'm left free to revel in the incredible changes our family is experiencing.

I don't know how long he will be there. While he's doing better than I dared to dream, this isn't a story of unicorns and rainbows. It's hard work for all of us. It's been almost two months now, and we all have a long way to go. It could be up to a year before he comes home again to stay. But I trust the process. I trust God. And, I'm learning to finally trust my ability. The program requires all of us to be ready for him to come home- we get day passes with him to take him out, then move on to overnight passes, then weekend passes. Easing us all back into life where we can try out the new dynamics and process through the changes with the support of the team as we learn. The education for all of us, the family counseling to address years of misunderstanding, the love and care of his team, and the positive attitude of my incredible young man have lifted my heart and soul into hope again. I can see his future now- and feel like I did when he was a chubby, wide-eyed newborn- his future is bright and the sky is the limit.

Stretched

I have always believed there's a 'perfect' exercise and a 'perfect' way of eating for each of us. The routine and nourishment that works well with our body type.

I tried running for a handful of years because many of my friends are runners. I wanted to be the girl who got up early and hit the pavement with the wind on my face and the pounding of my feet the only sound in my ears. But I hate running. I enjoy it for about 1/2 a mile, and then I want to lie down on the ground to catch my breath and look at the sunrise. I tried all kinds of aerobics, thinking with my dance background I'd find it enjoyable and easy, but I was the girl tripping over the step blocks and banging into the people beside me because I would be several counts behind. I never went to more than a handful of classes because I soon learned that I hate aerobics. I convinced my incredibly fit and strong friend Thera to train me in in Cross Fit. I wanted to quit every time within 2.8 seconds of starting the workout, throw the kettle bells at her face, never utter the word burpee, and while it's revered in the Cross Fit community to throw up after working out, I didn't find that to be a particularly fun part of the process because I hate Cross Fit. I tried Pilate's again, but quickly realized that.. nope....Nothing had changed since I'd taken it in college as part of my required curriculum. It wasn't that I didn't like my professor, I just hate Pilate's. I joined a gym and decided I preferred the steam room to the weight room, because I hated the gym. I wasn't sure I'd ever find exercise I truly loved.
And then I found yoga.
It was like coming home. I realized I'm not lazy in working out, I was just doing the wrong type. I amazed myself with how hard I would work, how much strength I have, and how I delighted in the effort it takes to steady my body and overactive mind.

I am a member of a local yoga studio. It's not far from my house, and I love the staff, the classes offered, and the community it pulls together. For more than a year I was in the studio faithfully. Twice a week I would go to my mat and strengthen my body while quieting my mind. It was a place where all stress, fear, worry, and schedules would dissipate and I was left with peace and stillness. However, last year brought many changes, many challenges with my children, and a much busier schedule. I wasn't able to get into class as often, and as I drove past the studio, sadness would catch in my throat. I could feel my body softening, and my mind hardening. My back was stiff and my irritation rose. I knew I needed to get back, and yet each time I made plans to go, something would get in the way. As we crossed into the new year, I was keenly aware that attention to my personal well being was and continues to be a crucial element in my ability to parent well. I was determined to carve out space for myself in order to offer a healthier mother to my children. I finally found my way back to my mat today. As I sat in the heated room and waited for the class to begin, I was able to breathe deeply and settle my mind and body. 75 minutes later I was soaked with sweat, muscles shaking, and my mind was completely stilled. The combination of physical movement, focus on breath, and attention to balance allows my mind to rest. There remains no energy left to analyze, worry, or plan for my day. I find time daily to pray, I do well with reading scripture as well as other books.....but there is no other place in my life that affords me the ability to settle every piece of me into calm contentment. I know I have to make this a priority again. I'm so very grateful to have found what works for me- the rub is in finding the time to execute it. Today was a powerful reminder that disciplining my time to create space for self-care will always be worth it.