Descent

I've been working on my manuscript that I plan to self publish and also hope to one day publish traditionally- I thought I'd share a chunk today as it's fresh on my mind and heart and I thought you might appreciate reading a bit of it.
So... here you go!

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I wasn't allowed to stay with him. My not-quite-yet four year old son would be in the hospital without me for several days. Parents weren't allowed to stay outside of assigned visiting hours, and I would have to leave him in the care of strangers. We were four hours from home and my temporary bed would be at the Ronald McDonald House located a few blocks away. Heavy with the knowledge that I would be leaving him there, those two blocks felt more like a million miles. I had no way of absorbing that pain in the moment. I had to be strong for him, and reassure him that all of this was perfectly normal. He takes his cues from me, and I drew on every ounce of strength within me to present myself assured and calm.

After we'd arrived on the ward and been given the tour, a nurse led us back to the main area and I knew it was time for me to leave. He'd lagged a short distance behind us as we'd woven our way through the halls, his ruffled blond hair bouncing atop his head like a buoy in the ocean. Eyes wide with curiosity, he seemed to believe we were on a grand adventure. I avoided looking down at him to keep myself from feeling anything. I was numb; the overwhelming reality of my young son entering psychiatric care had washed over my senses like a sticky film. I'd nodded in recognition when she had shown me the room where patients gathered to watch movies and play board games, and as she led us through the rest of the wing, I'd scanned the halls for signs of comfort and reassurance that my oldest boy, the one who had thrust me into motherhood with gusto, would be safe and well cared for.

We circled back around to stop in front of the charge nurse's desk. I looked down into his bright questioning blue eyes to tell him I loved him and would be back in the morning. My smile felt borrowed from someone else and I knew he could sense my hesitation as he stared back at me. Breaking our unspoken communication, I bent down to pull him close, nuzzling my face into his neck and reassuring him he was okay and I loved him desperately. He was silent and stoic, tilting his had like a beloved family dog trying to comprehend words flung into the air. As I straightened, I was suffocated with feelings of failure laced with the thin thread of hope that maybe I had rescued him. Maybe this time real help would come. This time we'd find the elusive freedom. My heart split wide open under the pressing weight of guilt and shame. Tears threatened to slide down my face, and I refused to allow them access in that moment. Lies of inadequacy hovered around me like thick smoke, and the slash in my heart gave space for them to take up residency. Walking towards the heavy grey metal doors meant turning away from him. Turning from him felt horrifically symbolic and I rebelled against the wretched feeling. I felt as though all of the air had been sucked out of the room and the carpet seemed to stretch in front of me for miles. The rock in my chest grew heavier with each step I took; creating space between us that felt both visceral and emotional. I swallowed and tried focusing on the colorful childish paintings hanging on the walls. Reassuring myself we'd come to a place of help and treatment became my mantra, threading itself through my brain to keep thoughts of panic and desperation from landing. When I finally put my hands on the door, the steely cool of its surface bore testimony to the atmosphere; cold and sterile. Turning my face back to him, I was relieved and crushed to find him still watching me. His features were so baby-like, innocent and fresh. he understood I was leaving for the night, but thankfully, he didn't have the maturity to grasp the gravity of this dramatic initiation into psychiatric care at such a tender age. He stood rooted in the same spot, next to a faceless nurse wearing cheery, bright scrubs. He was so small. So young. How was I to leave him here without me to protect him from unseen dangers, from others who might not understand his behavior and words?! I was pierced again with the default statement I'd adopted as a mother at some point on my journey: I was a failure. I could see him struggling to fight back tears, and fresh grief washed over me knowing I couldn't run back to wrap my arms around him with protection, reassurance, and comfort. There was no comfort for us to be found in that moment, only the stark reality of reaching for support for our future to buffet me from complete wasting.

The Post That Meets My #2 Goal for This Week

I've worked on a manuscript for my book on and off for years. In 2017, I won a contest with a few of the chapters from my book and was given a trip to a writing conference and workshop complete with a writing coach. My coach was a best selling author and I learned so much from her- but her recommendations on how to change my writing brought me to a full stop and stunted a lot of my growth for the last year and a half.

She was complimentary about my work, but she told me if I wanted to sell copies that I needed to shape it into a self-help book and to dumb it down to a middle school reading level. I was deflated. That wasn't at all the vision I'd had for the work I'd bled into, sweat through and gutted my soul out onto the pages. But, I knew she was the expert and I was not. She'd sold thousands of books and I've only had essays published. I felt I needed to consider her advice.
Books have a way of birthing themselves to some degree. My book has grown organically into part memoir and part self-help, if for no other reason than I offer information and resources as a natural progression of my story. I was loathe to chop it into short chapters with three alliterated bullet points  and a cheesy anecdote...and trying it felt forced and disingenuous. As every writer does, I write with a certain cadence, vocabulary and tone- and it's not far off from how I speak. It hit me hard to think that I'd have to 'dumb it down' in order to connect with my audience.

But I can't let it just sit. I've had too many interactions with people who want and need to hear what I have to say to keep it to myself; and I'm ready to move forward into being a more vocal advocate for mental health. I pulled out my manuscript yesterday and read through it. I was relieved to still connect with what I wrote and found it powerful and captivating. It's tough to read personal work- it's a pull back into dark times when life was scary, confusing, traumatic and chaotic. Much of what I had written was taken from my journals; entries often written with clinical sterility, solely for the sake of charting my son's moods. But those entries jog my memories, and the the memories give way to the words pouring onto the pages. Rereading them in part is reliving them, but with the scratchy comfort of having come through it and the knowledge that somehow we've made it.

I'm meeting with a friend weekly- one who pushes me and texts and gets on me when I'm not completing the goals I've set for myself. I've wanted to have my work published and to have the chance to speak in front of groups again for years; but I've allowed fear and the words of other people to hold me back. I'm tired of waiting for permission. I'm annoyed with myself for the myriad of excuses and reasons as to why now isn't a good time. I'm done letting my work sit in a drawer. I have no idea if anyone other than my family and few close friends will ever read what I write, but I know that I can't keep spinning my way around this universe year after year without trying. I don't have a new year's resolution, but I do have a promise to myself- to finally try. To give myself the chance to do what I've always wanted to do. To keep meeting with my friend, keep setting goals, keep writing a paragraph at a time, and to see where it leads me. In fact, that's one of the reasons I'm writing here. Goal #2 for this week has now been met.
I may not ever be a best selling author, but I refuse to be one of the bazillions of writers who are 'going to write a book one day'. I want to be able to look at myself proudly in the mirror, so for me, pursuing what I love has become a vital part of my well being. So instead of 'new year, new me'... I'm choosing to embrace 'new year, true me', and find out what happens when I just keep putting one foot in front of the other.
Cheers to showing up for our real lives!

Fighting Through Crazy

When I was in my late teens I watched the movie Schindler's List. It's a little over 3 hours long, but it took me almost 9 hours to get through it. I could only digest a chunk of it at a time because the overwhelming emotion and grief prohibited my ability to watch it straight through.
I had no personal understanding of the pain and suffering the Nazi's inflicted on others, I had no place to pull from to begin to comprehend the gravity of evil that devoured all but a remnant of a people hated solely for existing; and yet my soul broke as I watched the story unfold, and my heart ached to know the telling was of people's lives and not the dramatization of ones imagination.

I started a book last night called Crazy, by Pete Earley. I read the first page of the introduction and had to put it down. I couldn't catch my breath and my entire body went cold. It was a surreal feeling to read something written by another parent that I felt I could have penned myself. I've looked in books for years to find myself there, the sometimes hard to explain experiences and emotions I live as the mother of a child with mental illness. Our stories aren't the same- his son didn't have bipolar disorder until late in his college career- as is common we've come to learn- but his emotional trauma at watching his son suffer, and the ridiculous fight for health care was identical to mine. Usually, I'm a very fast reader. I devour books quickly and my ability to absorb what is being shared is fairly strong- but this book is forcing me to consume it in small bites. I'm both relieved and angry. I'm grateful for his candor, and and yet it sickens me that there are so many of us fighting like hell to get what our family members need only to be sent away, under serviced, dismissed, or forced to wait for something bad to happen before intervention occurs.

He titled his book Crazy not as a descriptive of his son, but as a statement of the 'search through America's mental health madness'. In a country where so much of our health care is reactive instead of preventative, it's no surprise that the mental health system is the same, but it never fails to shock and sicken me to be told to my face that 'there is nothing we can do until something bad happens'. I've sat in countless doctor's offices, ER examining rooms, at desks of program directors, counselors, psychiatrists, teachers, begging for help, support, something that would keep him and the rest of us safe- and give him a chance at the life he deserves. They have all told me the same thing that Pete Earley was told- until he does something big to hurt himself or others, there just isn't much that we can do. 
This is insanity. This is the life that those of us caring for people with mental illness have to navigate daily. I wish i could say that in my reading I'm finding respite and encouragement, but all I'm feeling is understanding, grief, and anger. It continues to fuel my fight for my son's life- and reminds me that I'm not alone, but it also disgusts me that so many of us feel as though we're fighting in vain to protect our children and allow their brains to be treated with as much dignity and compassion as they'd receive if they had a cancer diagnosis.
The truth is, we're lucky. I have fought long and hard to get my son the treatment he's needed and deserved and it's been a long, painful, expensive battle- but after residential treatment, where he was treated holistically, treated with love and compassion, and chose to dig in and participate, he's doing really well- better than he's ever done in his almost 17 years of life- but the fear lingers. He's manic right now. His sleeping schedule is off, and he isn't sleeping much at all. He's up most of the night, eating, watching videos, roaming through the house, playing his guitar, laughing loudly at funny things he finds on the internet- and I lie awake in bed a floor above him- grateful he's safe, relieved he's happy and here at home with me, but acutely aware of the fact that bipolar is a disease of sharp ups and downs- swallowing the anxiety that rises in my throat at the knowledge that we're at the start of autumn, the time of year he typically crashes into depression- depression that rots his good thoughts, causes him to either withdraw or fling painfully poisonous words my direction.
He's brilliant- as many people with mental illnesses are- and just like every other parent- I simply want him to have the best life he can; one where he's safe, healthy, doing something he does well and enjoys.

Depression that often results in holes in the wall, broken things, fits of rage, and days of sleeping. I prefer the mania to the depression, but even that doesn't mean health or stability. His brain is tired from the continual onslaught of thoughts and information rushing through it. He exhausts me with the flight of thoughts, and level of energy, but also makes me laugh with his crazy sharp wit and goofy antics.

I'm grateful I found the book nestled deep inside of a shelf in a used book store- it's a bizarre feeling to find myself in the pages, and I'm not sure I would have been able to read it just a few years back. I'm thankful other people are willing to pull back the curtain of their lives and expose places that most of us want to keep hidden- if only so that people like myself can nod in agreement whispering 'us too'. That's what drives me to keep sharing parts of our journey- the continual hope that someone else will find us here and link hands with ours as we fight to stand upright in violent waters.

If you have someone in your life who struggles with bipolar, or who loves someone with the disease- I recommend the book wholeheartedly. Together we must keep using our voices against the insanity of the system, determined to make some shred of sense out of the crazy making battle.

Family Infected

Every family develops dynamics over time- based on birth order, personalities, external stressors, etc. when one of the members of the family has a chronic illness, the dynamics can be skewed in ways that can become unhealthy in the long run in order to operate in the immediate. 

Samuel is doing better overall than he's ever done. We've had rough days, days that stir up latent anxieties simmering below the surface that come hurdling into our throats when his mood or behavior tastes familiar, and we recall older days when the behavior was so unpredictable that none of us felt truly safe in our own home. But as a whole, he's doing so well. I force myself to remember some of the darker days to contrast how well he's doing now- but the dynamics, the structure of the family, the codependent tendencies linger- and pushing back against what has been our norm for so many years is a daunting task. 

For many years, life in our home was survival in a war zone. He was imprisoned in his illness and the rest of us became collateral damage by default. My younger children learned to both revere and fear him- never sure which mood would surface and if they might become caught in the crossfire. When he wasn't stable- not properly diagnosed, nor properly medicated and treated- his behavior was often violent and aggressive. My son Asher was often the focus of his rage, and if he wasn't, then I was. Many many days I would tell the younger three to run to my room and lock themselves in while I worked to calm the volcano of mood explosions and keep all of us safe. That kind of chaos means that simple family things such as delineation of chores and help never happened. I would create chore charts with all of the hope of a fresh spring day, and within days, the volcano erupted again, and the workload fell to me as the younger ones sequestered themselves out of the reach of aggression. 

The result of living in the moment day to day for years on end means that I didn't have practice parenting over time- I didn't learn as I went- to delegate work load, dole out appropriate discipline, and create strong boundaries. I've come so very far- we all have- but I am acutely aware that my kids don't support the running of the household at the level I believe they should. With Samuel's stability, I've been able to enforce more structure and more boundaries- but as foreign as it is for them- it's equally strange to me. I'm not used to living a life that is planned out past today's activities- save for doctor appointments, therapies, and the occasional fun outing. I have become accustomed to making plans and having to cancel them, or asking for help around the house only to be left doing it alone as everyone hides in their rooms. I want to get better at this- I want my kids to get better at this- I know it's my job to prepare them for life outside of my home, and when I think of all they have left to learn, sometimes I feel the crushing weight of failure. I remind myself that comparison of our family dynamic to the perceived dynamics of others is not only ridiculous, but toxic, and that we have struggles and hurdles that other families don't have to take into account- and to remember how far we've come, how much better we're getting at operating in a more healthy way- but it nags at me. 

I wonder when Asher will need therapy for feeling as though I didn't protect him the way he needed me to, or when Tucker will finally express that he feels that Samuel gets the most attention, or when Ivy will get angry at me for being exhausted at times when she wants my energetic attention. The reality is that we all fail our kids somehow- often in ways we aren't aware of- needs they have that they are unable to express that aren't met and create wounds- life is like that for all of us... so I try and talk to them- to let them know I'm aware of these dynamics, and aware that I haven't done it all 'right', or even to their expectations- that I see their hurt and fear, and that I've shared the same hurt for them, to acknowledge that life with a chronically ill sibling feels so unfair- and that it can be confusing to both adore and fear the same person. My prayer is that those conversations will go down deep and work as an inoculation against bitterness or anger festering inside of their souls. I want to believe that the struggles we've endured will create strong character and incredible compassion- but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't worried at times.

I think that this is an issue for all families with a chronically ill family member. It changes everyone. It alters the fabric of life for everyone woven into the unit. I have no answers other than to encourage those of you in the same place we find ourselves to talk and talk and talk. To choose to call out the pain and injustice and hurt- and give it a place to sit- without judgment, fear, or defensiveness. It's hard, it sucks, it's easier in the moment to avoid those conversations; but somehow, I believe that the ache of the conversations today is far easier than a lifelong sentence of bitterness and a fractured family. If you find yourself here- know that you're not alone, you're not crazy, and doing the best you can is the best you can. <3 

Wanna Bet? Try me.

Last week was difficult for me.

I had a meeting with a board of people who work together to determine if Samuel needs certain kinds of support, how much of it he needs, and how much the county is willing to cover financially. Caring for kids with chronic illness is beyond expensive. Whether physical or mental; the appointments, therapies, medications, tests, caseworkers, hospital stays, specialists, blood draws, etc. all cost money. We have insurance, but the co-pays for all of this rack up quickly. One of the things I didn't know until the school system shared it with me was the assistance of the community services board and/or department of social services. I'd thought DSS was only in existence to work with families who had been flagged by child protective services- I had no idea that they did other things. Mothering a special needs child requires so much; there are countless things to tend to in order to create stability and ongoing health. When searching for support,"You don't know what you don't know", and for many years I've muddled through trying to find the place of support and help that would actually do something for us. But, how and where can you ask for help when you don't know what kind of help is available to you? That problem is one of the huge reasons I am so passionate about sharing our story. There is no need for families to have to reinvent the wheel over and over to get to the sweet spot of support and health and stability.

Anyhow! I had the meeting with the board who I've been working with for the past 3 years. It consists of multiple representatives from several community entities: someone representing DSS, someone representing the juvenile justice system, one from the county school board, a school transition specialist, someone from parent services, the community services board, and sometimes a few others. I also have my caseworker and our in home therapist's supervisor with me. We meet on average, every three months, to discuss how he's doing, what, if anything needs to be changed, and what the plans are going forward. They were the support system that helped me get him into the residential center which has changed our lives. The meetings are always a bit nerve wracking- it's never fun to discuss difficulties and struggles with people who don't know you outside of this one dimension. However, I've become more comfortable with them over the years, and they truly do care about Samuel and our family. The meeting went as usual. The caseworker gave her update, I gave mine, the therapist's supervisor shared hers too. The board asks hard questions and then discusses what needs to be changed to best support us going forward. After suggesting we increase our weekly in home therapy for him, they turned the conversation to concerns for his future.
He will be 17 this year. Which is only one year away from 'adulthood', which is one year away from losing a lot of the support that is available to minors. The board was concerned about his ability to get/hold a job; live on his own, continue to take his meds properly... and on and on. I could feel my head swimming. I've been more aware recently that he is heading towards manhood, and I've wondered what it might look like for him, but as they talked around me about bringing in disabled adult services, and trying to get him job training so that he could have the best shot in spite of his disability, I was numb. Every time they spoke the word disabled or disability, my heart stopped. I guess in reality, and on paper, he has a disability, and I'm more aware than anyone of how hard he works to live in a world where he doesn't quite fit and doesn't always understand- but I've never thought of him as a disabled person. His dreams for his future aren't always realistic, but I've always chalked that up to the dreams of all kids- sometimes seemingly far fetched, but usually settling into something more realistic as they grow and mature.
 I signed the paper to get a referral for the department for disabled adults, and walked out of the building to the parking lot with my caseworker. We talked a bit and she asked about Tucker too. (She's also the caseworker for him). He's going to middle school next year and I had my meeting with the school earlier this week to go over his special education plan to get it ready for the transition. I've been concerned that it's going to be difficult for him - his autism creates anxieties and quirks that can be incompatible with the highly transitional style of middle school classes. I've put multiple things into place for him that will help support him as he transitions; from working in a small group that will focus on what to expect, to getting him a private tour and access to meeting his teachers alone without the swarm of other kids on orientation night, to signing him up for a summer program at the new school that is solely focused on preparing kids like himself for the change. But as I stood there in the lot, my caseworker told me she was very concerned about his transition and just knew he was going to have a difficult time.

It was more than I could handle. During the conversation I'd held it together, and she wasn't saying anything I hadn't already thought on my own- but as I got into my truck and headed home, it nagged at me. Over the next few days it really bothered me greatly. I've given my life to try and stabilize and provide the best chance for my kids to lead as normal of a life as possible- and while I'm hyper aware that they have issues that can bring challenges, I've also always encouraged them in their talents and skills reminding them of all of the geniuses, world changers, artists, out of the box thinkers who are different. Being reminded by a group of people of how incredibly challenging my kids' lives will be- statistically- was heart breaking. I sat in that low spot for a couple of days, and then one morning, a friend texted me the video I've posted. It was exactly what I needed to pull me out of the discouragement loop. I've read articles and cases about people who have lived wonderful lives- against all odds- due to the encouragement, hope, and affirmation of one person; a parent, teacher, pastor, friend. One person who didn't give up on them and reminded them of their greatness.
It's true that on paper we don't look so great statistically - in terms of having 'normal, successful' lives. But in my reality, I've been kicking statistic's ass for years, and have no plans to stop anytime soon. Call us the underdogs, overlook our abilities, be concerned for our futures- then watch as we blow through the low expectations every.single.time. I'm more than happy to be the test study for this group of board members as a representation of what tenacity, hope, and effort can do; and maybe in a future meeting with a single mother afraid about her kid's ability to have a good life- they'll tell her that he has just as good of a chance as anyone else; because they've seen the odds defied before.

(Please watch the video- it's incredible- whether you can relate to 'special needs' or not, it's inspiring)

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.