I'm Wide Awake

Fear has been my enemy since I was a little girl. I have many vivid memories of lying in bed at night hiding my head under the covers terrified an angel was going to show up and try to talk to me. I was irrationally afraid that our house would catch fire and we wouldn't all make it out alive. I would run up the stairs as fast I could, completely convinced that a monster was breathing down my neck and would take me down.
As I got older, the fears became steeped in possibilities that were less fantasy and grounded in more realistic humanity. I was scared I'd get into a car accident, or that one of my loved ones would suddenly die. The swirling anxiety was my continual companion; hovering on my shoulder and whispering paralyzing nonsense into my ear.

So many chapters of my life have been written in a narrative I would have deleted and left on the cutting room floor.. yet some of the ugliest portions of the script have been the ones that have burned away the irrationality that suffocated me for decades. At this moment, I've found myself afraid of very little. Discovering my strength has been an intoxicating process, and I've revealed in seeing just how much I can do.
But fear is a tenacious enemy. One that works hard to linger.. cloaking itself in the disguise of lies long believed, ones that are so familiar they seem to be truth. I have hundreds of inspirational sayings, quotes, scriptures floating inside of my brain- ones that call to action, command me to reach towards my best self while leaving fear behind without the nourishment of my oxygen, my attention, my belief. Yet I find myself indulging it. Returning to the destructive momentary comfort of entertaining the lie/fear monster I've been married to.

The current wrestling is over my future. My destiny. My best life, my hopes and dreams... taking punches from the thing that is ever ready to remind me that I couldn't possibly get to where my soul knows I belong. That I don't have what it takes, that I'll try and fail. That the dreams that have swam miles inside of my brain, carving serpentine grooves into the grey matter are the unrealistic visions of a delusional dreamer.
I've worked to address the roadblock that has detoured my progress for so long and discovered the most amazing irony. This insidious poison of fear is actually afraid of.. me. My power. The ability I have to not only dream, but to chase my vision down and capture the very thing my heart and brain know to be who I am.
Marianne Williamson's powerful statement has been playing on a loop for me recently- forcing me to come to the realization that the very thing I've been afraid of is the power that was given to me.
Uncle Ben from Spiderman sums it up in one sobering sentence: With great power comes great responsibility. That responsibility is what frightens me. Can I handle it? Will I be able to write, speak up, stand up for those who have no voice in such a way that is dignified, impactful, and sustainable? I'm weary from the struggle. I think that's one of the goals of fear- to wear you out and prevent you from doing exactly what the world needs you to do. So I've decided that if I'm going to be tired of the struggle, weary from the effort, I'd much rather be tired and content- settling into my bed each night knowing I'm stewarding the power assigned to me with great honor. The revelation has been convicting, however as a great man named Jesus once said.. you will know the truth and the truth will set you free. 
We all have power simmering inside, waiting to be given permission to explode into the scenes prepared for us. I can no longer sleep with the enemy, the restlessness has grown too loud to ignore, and I'm ready to chose to live wide awake.

Full quote below: (note: This quote has been attributed to Nelson Mandela for a long time, and as much as I adore him and had believed it came from one of his speeches, research has shown that it originated with Marianne Williamson, and I wanted to give credit where it's due).

Our Greatest Fear —Marianne Williamson
It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.
It is our light not our darkness that most frightens us.
We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous,
talented and fabulous?
Actually, who are you not to be?
You are a child of God.
Your playing small does not serve the world.
There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other
people won't feel insecure around you.
We were born to make manifest the glory of
God that is within us.
It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone.
And as we let our own light shine,
we unconsciously give other people
permission to do the same.
As we are liberated from our own fear,
Our presence automatically liberates others.
—Marianne Williamson

Time Marches On

One of my dearest friends called me at 7 this morning. I don't often talk on the phone, so when I saw I'd missed her call, I knew I had to call back and the chances were 50/50 it was bad news or something wildly exciting. I took a deep breath and pressed the button. She answered and I heard the tears choking her voice. I knew.

Her last beloved dog, her sweet baby, the one I'd just held on Saturday night... had passed away.
Ashleigh and I have been friends since high school. We have lots of history and she's become part of the fabric of my family. She's never wanted children of her own, she's always had dogs, and her love of animals became her career. She left the corporate world she'd entered after college to start her own business; dog training and pet sitting. In a few short years she'd built a wonderful reputation and staff that has given her the life she's desired.
She had 3 sweet Boston Terriers. They were her world, and she's been the best dog mom. Over the last few years as they got older, the inevitable came. First one, then a year or so later the next and now, a year and a half after losing the second, she lost the last sweet pup- this Easter Sunday; three days before my friend's 40th birthday. For her, it's crushing. Her dogs have been her constant companions. She's known the time was getting short with Lila (the last dog to pass) because she'd been elderly and fragile over the last year or so, and she was 15. Logic told her that the end was near.
I listened to her cry and also find moments of laughter in our conversation. She told me she knew it was silly, but she was angry at God that he took her now... that He hadn't prepared her intuitively that it was coming. That she hated saying this because she felt dumb, but she hadn't lived in a house without a dog for 17 years and it felt weird. I cried with her, and assured her that it most certainly was not dumb and to stop beating herself up for her broken heart. To let it be as it was, and to feel all the ugly things that kept pushing themselves up into her throat. I told her I'd do whatever she needed; I'd invited her here for this coming weekend to take her to brunch in celebration of her 40th birthday, but let her know that I'd do anything. I'd go to her and sit with her and listen, if that's what she wanted, I'd have her come visit me and just be there for her as she talked, or not, if that's what would help; I'd take her to a beautiful brunch and not talk about it at all, if that would be best. I reminded her that she had no obligation to respond to my texts, but I'd be checking in. Told her if she couldn't find the emotional energy to respond for two weeks, it was ok- because I get it. Sadness, grief, depression....it can suck all emotional drive right out of you, taking with it the good intentions of calling, texting, meeting up, even reaching out. I've sat there for months; and thankfully, beautifully, I've had friends and family who continue to check in... even when I've been so tired and spent that I either couldn't respond, or couldn't offer much more than a "thank you. I promise I'm still here". She told me that the permission to just.. be.. meant the world to her. We exchanged "I love yous" and hung up.


As I was driving to work this morning, the Andra Day song Rise Up came on my play list. I was thinking of Ashleigh and her broken heart... the music faded into the background and my mind began playing scenes of my life like a movie... I could see my friend in her sweet country cottage, puttering around her house with tears sliding down her face. Lying down on the couch, or her high, antique bed with the family quilt, tissues in hand.. her heart aching and stomach churning.

The next scene was of another dear friend. She just got married to her love a little more than two weeks ago.

Lori was married before, and the good that came from that union was two amazing kids.. but not much else.  I've watched her come from despair and a broken heart that was numb and walled off, to a vibrant woman with a new home, new career, a beautiful blended family... and this weekend.. the addition of a precious, sweet, fluffy puff ball of a puppy. She's sent pictures of her kids snuggling the lovable fur baby- pink spotted belly peeking out from snow white fluff, puppy breath bathing their faces, and a wiggling tail that announces his excitement and love for his new family.



I posted on IG a couple of days ago about how sick I've been. I woke up on the day of Lori's wedding feeling like I might die. It hit me out of the blue and was horrible- I felt awful physically, and felt cheated out of feeling good and strong to be able to celebrate with her and dance and be fully present like I'd wanted to be on her special and important day. It's been more than two weeks and despite two urgent care visits, multiple medications, and time... I haven't kicked it. One of my IRL friends replied on my post that she "just wanted to hold me". Sweet, right? Most definitely, but, I was beyond humbled. This sweet friend is valiantly battling stage IV cancer.. and was showing up with compassion for my two week long illness frustration. When I responded that I was humbled by her response she replied 'nah, we both have our own full plates, I'm praying for you'.

My mind flashed to last night.. I was sitting on my counselor's couch.. talking through some of the junk I'm working on; free to be unedited, and swinging from laughing to crying, cursing, to listening to her responses. It truly is therapeutic for me, and I'm grateful for a therapist who helps me navigate some of life's landmines. It is a sharp contrast to the sessions I'd had with my ex husband... when nothing was authentic, and I would sit perched tensely on the edge of an overstuffed chair holding my breath and praying for a break through.

My brain shifted to scenes of my brother and his wife curled up on their couch.. watching their newborn son coo and squirm, and their toddler run matchbox trucks along their living room rug. My newest nephew is only a few weeks old, and holds the elixir of potential and life within the scent of his soft neck.

That vision flashed quickly in contrast to another precious friend who has been caring for her elderly mother for the last few years.. watching her go downhill in every way as my friend  resides in perpetual anxiety that she'll get a phone call from the assisted living home delivering news of a fall, or health emergency, or even of her mother's passing. My friend visits her mom several times a week... never knowing the mood she will encounter from her when she arrives- and bracing herself for the tiring, honoring, exhausting, dignity-giving tasks of bathing, grooming, listening, and spending time with her.

There is something emotionally powerful that washes over me in the wake of monumental events; weddings, babies being born, deaths and funerals- the events of raw humanity that tear away the nonsense of every day life that bogs us down and breaks off our connectedness. The events that pause time, intertwine our souls, heralding the intrinsic connection we all share of joy, and grief, and pain. The longer I walk this earth, the longer I parent people who are growing into their own, the longer I watch friends celebrate, and hurt, and wander through relationship deserts... the clearer the reality of connectedness becomes. The shared experiences we all have of victorious overcoming and devastating losses. I've quoted Glennon Doyle (speaker and author) several times before- and her coined word comes to mind again this day- life is incredibly brutiful. A commingled experience of brutal and beautiful- for every one of us. As my emotions wax poetic today, my prayer is that each of us would find the peace and rest in the knowledge of this brutiful life, and that we continue to honor the connections woven into our own life's journey.