On Loving Your Village

I think sometimes we forget that life is not an island. We think that we live in these remote places of our mind, all alone; making new memories, healing past wounds and discovering a new self.
Yet we forget.

We forget that our decisions, actions, our immense pain... all ripple. Our experiences radiate out and extend to the people that care about us most; whether we want it to or not.

Sometimes things happen.  Sometimes life happens. Sometimes it happens in tiny little increments as the days and months pass.  Sometimes it happens all at once...at two o'clock in the morning...while the rain pours down outside your bedroom window and you can barely keep your eyes open and stop the tears from soaking your pillow.

Either way, sometimes...it happens. And if you're lucky (really fucking lucky) you have a handful of people who will raise you up and meet you at the shore. They draw you out of your secluded mind and remind you that you aren't in it by yourself. They will sit next to you, listen to you and bring you out of isolation.





The last year has been challenging for me in a lot of ways. But if it has taught me anything, it's that I'm one of the lucky ones. From the unexpected phone calls; to the code red tea dates; to the text messages that made me laugh. It was a reminder that my struggle isn't an island either. It never was and it never will be. As I start to pick myself up off the rocks I can see the waters begin to calm and the tide begins to change... the ripples begin to calm.

I am beginning to see a familiar reflection staring back at me once again. The gratitude that is flowing from my soul is immeasurable.

Love your village hard, my friends, because of them, you will float instead of sink.

On Learning From Experience... the hard way

As we drive home from daycare I often ask my son, “What did you learn in school today?”  Lately, his answer is “the usual.” And so I have to prompt him a little to be more specific – "what is 'the usual”?

“Oh, math and reading…same as always.”

“Well what kind of things did you learn in math?  Did you ask any good questions?”

This will usually elicit more detail and I’m glad to hear him itemize the small parts of his day, to hear him attend to detail about the time he's spent away from me. Some days he tells me he doesn’t remember what he learned that morning. OK, that’s fair; some days I don’t remember what I had for breakfast. Or if  I had breakfast. I'm grateful that at least (so far) he hasn’t told me he learned nothing.

Recent events in my life - more specifically some failed relationships - made me think about how innocently K explains what he learned.  I wondered...

How often do we minimize or discredit what we’ve learned from an experience?

As parents, we teach our children by modelling behaviour. When I talk with K about things that have happened in his life, I do some role playing and have him try to view the situation compassionately from multiple angles rather than to judge. I often ask him, “OK, so what have you learned?” His answers are surprisingly insightful.

When given the opportunity to think through a situation, to empathize with another’s position, it’s much easier to answer the question, to have someone guide us toward that realization, than it is to asses a situation on our own.

But we don’t always have those prompts when faced with real life and that’s where learning self-reflective behaviour is good. In fact it’s imperative. In order to truly grow as human beings, we must put self-reflection into practice. We must be able to not only understand a life experience, but also understand what we can learn from it.

I recently read that: “Knowledge can be acquired only by a corresponding experience. How can we know what we are told merely? Each man can interpret another’s experience only by his own.”

How true is it that no matter how often we hear something, we don’t truly understand until we’ve experienced it personally? For me the last year and a half has been eye-opening in that regard. I have faced surprising and unexpected challenges in the pursuit of my goals and I’ve learned a few things for certain as a result:

You cannot change people. You may get them to change their habits, perhaps. But ultimately a person will not change unless it is their desire to do so. and if that happens, you won’t get a vote. You can only choose to disassociate from the situation if that is a healthier option. You can only control your own decisions.

You will not hear an apology from someone who does not believe they have done anything that warrants one. Don’t try. Move on.

It does not matter what other people believe. Whether complimentary or not, what other people think of you is simply their opinion. What you think about yourself matters a whole lot more. Just make sure you are thinking clearly.

Everyone has days they believe only the worst of themselves. Self-doubt is normal; self-brutalization is unhealthy. When you find yourself awake at night questioning every choice you have ever made, do some self-assessment, re-focus on your goals, and screw your head on straight.

Don't Chase People.  People can say a lot of things just to keep the peace.  They can say that they value you. They can say they like you.  They can say that they miss you.  Don't chase after people based on their words alone.  My experience has taught me to keep an open heart and mind but DO NOT chase after people who pay lip service.   Allow people to show you their hearts and feelings in actions.  Believe them when they do.  

Life is hard. Even the most exciting or desirable pursuit will still hold challenge. There will be days you wonder why you thought your goal was a good idea; remember the reasons why it is. If it is your passion, do not give up. Strap on your crash helmet and keep going.

On Watching the Tower Fall

When I was about ten years old, I can remember one particular Christmas. My family and I had all driven to Hanover to spend the holidays with my grandparents.  The traditions that we established each year remain as some of my fondest memories.  There was lots of snow on the ground and I remember having the most beautiful Christmas tree that year…filled with what seemed like a million white twinkle lights.  There were more presents under the tree than I could count and homemade sweets by the plateful.  But, what I remember most about that particular Christmas, was the night that my Aunt, mom, and cousin stayed up until all hours of the morning playing Jenga.

Do you remember that game?  You start with a tower of wooden blocks and for each turn, you’re required to take one block from the middle and move it on top.  The idea is to build your tower as high as you can…until eventually, it comes toppling down…and it becomes time to build a new tower.  The intensity of that game almost made me crazy with anticipation.  And I remember us laughing!  The 5 of us – my family – laughing until our stomachs hurt.  Laughing until we just couldn’t take it anymore.  Laughing until we accidentally knocked the kitchen table and the tower came falling down!

That was almost twenty-five years ago now and every year – around the holidays – I find myself thinking about it.  Remembering it.  Wondering about it. I find that life, in so many ways, is just like that tower; we have all these blocks that shape our reality; work, family, friends, home, hobbies, and countless others.  Together – they create this beautifully strong structure.  Solid.  Balanced.  But, individually, if moved to the wrong place or at the wrong time, they can throw everything off and bring your whole world crashing down.

I would know.

I work really hard to keep my tower stable.  Really hard.  I always have.  Over the last few years there have been more blocks added to that tower than I ever imagined possible…and all the while, it remains standing.  But I have watched it crash on more than one occasion and trust me, it isn’t pretty.  It’s loud.  It’s messy.  And it’s incredibly disappointing when you stop to consider how long it took to build in the first place.

I have recently been recovering from such a crash.  Pieces everywhere.  Dents in the floor. As I pick up the pieces again, it seems that they fall again. More crashing.  More dents.  More shattering.  And honestly, watching the pieces fall out from under me was devastating.  It used me to make me feel like a complete failure; to myself and everyone around me.  The recovery from that feeling alone was enough to make me want to put all the pieces back in the box and hide them in a closet.  But in the aftermath of this most recent mess, I did something that I had never done before;  I actually took the time to look at the mess.  To look at the pieces scattered around my feet.  To look at the infrastructure that clearly wasn’t working.  And as I sat there, with all of these wooden blocks staring back at me…I began to notice that it was the same blocks that were knocking my tower over every single time.  Furthermore, they were blocks that I had never intended to build with in the first place.  They were blocks of guilt…disappointment…expectations.  And they were just too heavy.  The weight of them was constantly throwing everything off balance and destroying everything I had worked so hard to build.

This wasn’t an easy realization for me to have.  It was rather heartbreaking actually.  But it was also an incredible blessing because in order for something new to be built…something had to fall apart.  I had to fall apart.  And once that happened, I could start the process of putting the pieces back together again…and this time, I could leave out the ones that didn’t fit.  Ideally, to be replaced with blocks of acceptance…forgiveness....grace...love.

And so…I built.  I continue to build. 

Today – less than a month after Christmas…and almost half a year since I began to pick up the pieces…I can’t help but remember that little girl inside of me; our tower fell that night.  The pieces strewn everywhere.  A loud crash came with it. And yet, what I remember is the laughter.  I remember the company.  I remember building the tower…not losing it.  In fact, that little girl screamed with excitement as the blocks came crashing down. I think because deep down, that little girl knew.  She knew that our towers inevitably fall.  She knew that, sometimes, things just can’t help but give way.  And she knew that maybe – just maybe – once you’ve gathered up all of the pieces, the best part is actually starting all over again…

On Being Vulnerable

Thanks to the Internet and social media, we now live in a world where our lives are on constant display (of course by our own choosing). It’s a territory that our generation is navigating for the first time in history- raising kids in the era of the Internet. I can’t help but think that this culture of show-off, do-more, glorify busy, and be picture-perfect doing it has an impact on our “IRL” (in real life) relationships too.

Vulnerability is already hard enough. Allowing another person to see some of your faults and realities is overwhelming because it opens you up to judgement. But when we’re used to being able to filter out all the junk, edit our image, and share only what we want on-line, I think our ability to practice vulnerability in relationships is even more challenging.

Ever since I was young I have struggled with the concept of vulnerability. But once, I graduated high school it became near impossible.  Prior to high school ending I felt the freedom to be myself- with all my faults, insecurities, and chaos- but once I left and moved onto college, university and graduate school, I felt like there was an unwritten rule that I had to have it all together. Coincidentally, this was also right around the time that Facebook was really taking off. I suddenly found that I was self-conscious in conversation, reluctant to share my fears, struggles, and realities even with my closest friends. THEN when I became a mom, it was like the universe doubled-down on the “must have it together” rule. I felt like I was supposed to raise the perfect kids, have the adorable home, be a great hostess, find success and fulfillment in my career, cultivate some hobbies, volunteer, stay fit, remain relevant, and do it all with a smile on my face and a sense of accomplishment when I laid my head down at night. But all it really left me was exhausted and longing for more. In the midst of trying to “do it all,” I felt like I couldn’t even tell my best friend that I had a bad day because admitting that I had a bad day might be admitting that I’m not as good or as capable as she thought I was or that the image I was trying to maintain would be damaged.
 The me that gets presented.  "She's got it together today". 

 

The me that sits here writing about vulnerability.    
      Feel honoured....not many see this side.                         

Here’s the deal- motherhood is hard. Relationships are HARD. Life is hard.  But, when we close ourselves off to key relationships, fail to share some of the truths in our lives, and isolate ourselves in an effort to maintain the perfect image, we run the risk of feeling very alone and very weary. I want to find freedom from this perfect image rat race. Freedom to be myself, freedom to celebrate other women right where they are at, freedom to own my emotions and my realities. And I want anyone reading this post to feel that freedom too.

So what can we do to start cultivating the art of vulnerable motherhood and womanhood?

Here are some things I am working on:

1. Making time for in-person connection with my female friends– without kids! If you don’t have time with friends, how can you ever connect on a deeper level?
2. Taking a risk and sharing something with a close friend that I am struggling with. Often I think relationships lack depth because both parties are scared to be the one to open up first. But the truth is, when we are able to be vulnerable, it frees others to follow suit. And whatever it is that is weighing on you- odds are your friend has experienced it too.
3. Embracing myself and my life right where it is. Until I was able to sit down and accept how exhausted I was and how some of the things in my life were draining me, I wasn’t able to move forward. Own where you are so that you can make a plan for how to get where you want to be.
4. Asking for help! I am terrible at this. We live in a culture that so values self-reliance that we have become awful at partnering together in life. 
5. Practicing self-care. Developing deeper relationships is hard work, and sometimes it might feel awkward or exhausting especially if you are an introverted vulnerability-hater like me. Honour your need for alone time. Schedule time every week to do something for you- something you enjoy that is relaxing and that “fills your tank.”
6. Telling people how much I value them. I can think of at least five people off the top of my head that I truly value.  I make sure that I tell these people from the very deepest and honest part of my being what they mean to me.  This could mean taking a few minutes to just encourage them- tell them they are a great mom or a beautiful woman, tell them that I value them as a person. In encouraging and celebrating others we are able to let go of some of our own pride, our own need to be recognized. And when we learn to celebrate others right where they are, we are better equipped to celebrate ourselves right where we are.
7. Letting go of the mask.  You don't need to be perfect all the time.  Letting people see the tired and frustrated mommy, the friend that is hurt that you haven't made time, the girl that doesn't feel so independent, the woman who loves too hard-too soon, simply opens you up to be surrounded by people who love those things about you. 

On Saying Good Bye

Sometimes I write things with the clearest picture in my mind of who I am writing for. It is like I can see you. You, with the red lipstick that you just got confident enough to start wearing. You, the one who doesn’t really understand the unique thing that people see you to be. I can see you sitting there. Reading me. And I search the ground, sort of like an Easter egg hunt, for the things I think you’d want to read.

And then sometimes I write something just so that I can go back and read it. Maybe once. Maybe twice. I write the words for myself, pretending that someone else is writing them for me. I do this strategically. I do this so that I don’t have to feel like the one who is alone– her hands full of unanswered questions– in the middle of something I don’t fully understand.

Goodbye is one of those things.

In my life I've collected enough life experiences to write this post as a self-proclaimed expert in the field of heart-breaking good byes.  I've said good bye to my mom while she was in a casket, and my dad over months of him withering away.  I've parted with friends with amicable "can't wait to see you's" and anger filled "Fuck-you's".  I've ushered out relationships with dying whispers and others with bursts of tears. I'm beginning to get the hang of this.  So, this post will be dedicated to the life lessons that the "Good-byes of 2015" have brought me.  

Good-bye is one of those things I don’t fully understand yet. I’m no good at it. I’d rather not go there. I’d find it better to beeline the whole entire thing. I don’t want to miss people. I don’t want to know they are growing in my absence.

That’s the secret pain of goodbye: people still have the permission to grow into their own skin without you. And that feels very strange. I’m tempted to just say, “No, you can’t. Please. Just don’t. Just stay as you are.” But that’s selfish. You don’t get to keep people, selfishly, just so you don’t have to be so fearful they’ll find a way to live without you.

The only thing I know for certain about this whole “goodbye” thing? You have to say it sometimes. You have to get real brave, and bite your bottom lip, and let people go sometimes. Fully, fully. Even when you don’t feel ready.

They always make the point of goodbye seem so romantic on the television.

Someone is always waiting by the airport terminal. Someone is always asking you to stay, hurdling suitcases so that they can clutch your face. I used to watch Dawson’s Creek and imagine I’d get to have all the long, gruelling departures one day, just like Joey Potter. I thought that would be the real golden duck of adulthood– when people found it terribly hard to release me.

It isn’t. And Joey Potter should have just been honest and told us all the truth,“Goodbyes suck. And there’s no eloquent way to say that. There is no poetic way to talk about ugly crying on someone’s nice shirt. There is nothing in the moment that makes walking away seem reasonable. It’s just hard.” You awkwardly just sort of hope that someone will tell you not to go. Because maybe you would listen to them. Maybe a big white poster board with the letters “STAY” written in black Sharpie would convince you to do just that. Just stay. For little while longer.

Goodbye is hard. Goodbye is the starting point you don’t see because the finish line is so piled high with tears and last words and fears that this– this thing you have right here– will never be the same. Don’t fear that. Don’t fear that because it’s already true. It won’t ever be the same. It could be over. It could be final. But it could be better than the two of you could ever predict. That could happen too.

And yes, it feels like something in the room is dead or dying or about to die. And the scary thing about that? That’s already true too.

Something is dying. We can’t even ignore it. It sounds so morbid but goodbye is really just admitting that something is dying. You two came together– for a month or for a year or for five of those years– and you built something. You breathed your whole little life into that thing. Your secrets. Your fears. Your laughter. All into that thing. That friendship thing, that “I’ve never really met someone like you” sort of thing. Then, out of nowhere, it feels like something comes along and lobs the whole thing into pieces. That’s what a goodbye will do.

Goodbye is the fear– temporary and real– that we’ve carried for years up until that one word– short & stout– made it all tip over and all pour out: I am afraid to leave. I am afraid to change. I am afraid to be vulnerable with you. I am afraid you'll abandon me.  Can you just keep me here? Can we never move? I’m afraid you will forget me and what we felt.

When I stood at the door to say goodbye, I muddied up the whole thing.

I let the fear speak louder than the genuine thing inside of me that knew goodbye was the only road to take.

“I hate goodbyes, I'm so fucking sick of them” I told him. “I’m sorry. I’m just so bad at them. I wish they didn’t exist. I want to be like an octupus who has 8 arms and can just hold onto everything always. I wish I could just go in the night.” It was all my fears and insecurities that I would never have it this good again, all mounted and stored up inside of that word.

He stopped me. “It’s goodbye,” he said. “And then you get over it. Let me go.”

That’s all he said before he pulled me in for a hug. And then he let me go. And everything about his gesture of letting me go so quickly– nearly like a band-aid you rip off and pretend there is no sting– seemed to hum the truth:

"You, I believe in you. That is why I am so quick to let you go. Trust me, trust me, the human thing inside of me wants to keep you right here. Right where I can see your eyes and I can hold your hand. But even if you can’t see it, I can see it and I can not ignore it any longer: you are ready. It is time. If I held you back, I’d be the one doing a disservice to the parts of this world that so deserve the blessing of “you” for a little while.

So cry your tears. And say your last words. And when you are emptied out, let me go. Please let me go. Don’t live in your memories, making tents and tiny houses out of the way we used to be. Something really wonderful awaits you. I need you to step inside of it.  Say goodbye because something new is about to start right here.

And me? Well I’ll carry the thought of you doing just fine. I’ll carry the thought of you meeting new people, and holding new pairs of hands, and clutching people closer than you ever clutched me. I’ll remember that when you came to me it was a blessing. A temporary blessing that we’ll one day see if we can make permanent. But for now, it’s you and all the little lives you’ve got to go out there and touch.

You’re ready. That’s why I’m letting you go. And everyone else? Everyone else who gets you for this next little “I’ll see you everyday” sort of while? They win. I don’t feel like much of a winner in this moment, but them? They absolutely win.

On Glass Houses, Betrayal and Ashley Madison

This week I have heard and seen countless rants about how the cheaters are going to “get what they deserve” after the Ashley Madison data leak.  I find this kind of rhetoric unnecessary.  Who is really going to suffer from the narcissism that is cheating? The liar and cheater?  The ones who will be most impacted are the families.  Why gloat?

I was never really into the Duggar’s TV show. 

Maybe it’s because the thought of tater tot casserole makes me queasy or because I stopped watching most reality shows after Season 2 of Survivor. But mostly, it was because I didn’t identify with the large, homeschooling, “good” family. (They just made the unruly, eye-rolling, sarcastic people in my house look even more unrighteous.) While I’m sure there was some common ground, I could only see the things we didn’t have in common.  However, this week I have felt a certain amount of intrigue with the family’s struggles. 

When I read Josh Duggar’s statement this week, admitting he not only struggled with a pornography addiction, but was also unfaithful to his young wife and children–I didn’t rejoice. I felt sick to my stomach. Knowing what his family is enduring is heartbreaking. And I don’t have to be a “fan” to recognize it.

No, I didn’t gloat and point a sanctimonious finger. My first urge was to shout, “Man down!”

It’s what I screamed last week when I found out through the town rumour mill that a trusted friend was sharing my own life’s struggles. A person that I had deeply trusted decided to point that sanctimonious finger directly at me, judge my choices and short-comings and then to top it off share her thoughts about my life with complete strangers.  I was gutted. 

It’s hard to know if Josh’s Duggar contrition this week came because he got caught or because he was truly repentant or because he has nothing left to lose. We might never know. While I think it matters privately to his wife and family, it’s really none of our business. Just as my choices in life are none of this town’s business.  This is ground zero for a family and hopefully redemption and help will follow.

Should the TV show be off the air? Absolutely. (Maybe the real question is should it have ever been on TV?) Should this family be taken off a pedestal? Definitely. (All families are messy, even the “good” ones). Should we pick up a rock and join the mob? Only if we’re perfect. Should we worry about our own hypocrisy? Probably. Should we take a moment to clean the windows in our own glass houses? You bet!  Should we avoid tater tot casserole at all costs? You know it.

The world may never understand that many families are a mess of sinful humanity trying to sort this life out, but they will see that we eat our own and wound our wounded.  This “kick her, when she’s down” approach, was my heart-breaking revelation this week and has been the cause of a painful end to a meaningful friendship.

It’s easy to use “love” as an action word for our lost world–those we don’t agree with in alternative lifestyles, but it’s harder to show it to people who are more like us than we care to admit.

How then shall should we respond to the falling of Josh Duggar or anyone else? Our heart should cry, “Man down! Family shattered! I’m going to live the best life I can live (in my glass house, with dirty windows)”

Because someone probably shouted it for us.