The Love I Believe In

I've always sort of loved Valentine's Day. Sure, it's corny and commercialized and various other things that people hate on it for, but giving/receiving gifts is far and away my top love language, and I love any excuse to celebrate things. Plus, I am of the opinion that love deserves it's own holiday. Historically (more specifically, in the context of my marriage), I was made to feel dumb for getting excited about it, which often resulted in a certain degree of shame. Currently, I'm in the business of reclaiming the parts of me that I allowed to shrink and that began to suffocate as a result. That said, I'd like to make it clear that I like corny/commercialized holidays, i.e. Valentine's Day and also that I'm not sorry about it.

That I'm reclaiming the part of me that loves Valentine's Day probably sounds relatively insignificant, but it represents something so much bigger. I made myself so small for so long. I'm rediscovering the parts of myself that shame taught me to hide and shrink and edit. I'm rediscovering them and learning to love them. Reclaiming these things like this feels being able to breathe deeply for the first time in a long time. It feels like coming back to life.

This time last year, I was in a very different place than I am today; separated, halfway through a months long communication hiatus, constantly in or on the verge of tears, still trying to piece myself back together enough to make a decision about the fate of my marriage. My sweet family rallied around me with distraction and preventative measures in the form of gifts and breakfast dates and expensive steak dinners and bottles of wine. This year, surprisingly, I'm somewhat unfazed. I'm not sad, exactly, and I don't have the urge to destroy the Valentine's displays when I go to Target.

This feels like a pretty big victory to me.

For the longest time, I felt caught between a rock and a hard place; stuck between believing that big love exists and also feeling so bitter that it was stolen from me. Discouraged to think that maybe I never even had it in the first place. I've seen love twisted and distorted until it's completely unrecognizable. I was deceived and betrayed and lied to, supposedly because of "love." I'm still dealing with bitterness and disappointment at the unfairness of it all.

Over the last year and a half, though, I have been shown love that is bigger and deeper and more real than I've ever experienced in my life. If I'm honest, my family and handful of close friends are the main reason I believe in love at all anymore.

But I do believe in love.

I believe in love as a force. I believe in love that serves and heals and believes for good things. Love that unites the masses.

I believe in a love that is blind.

I believe in love as a decision. Love that resolves to sacrifice and negotiate and compromise.

I believe in hard love. I believe in love that exists even and especially where feelings are fleeting. I believe in love that stays. Love that fights. Love that keeps promises no matter what. Love that stands in the gap.

Do I believe in fairy tale love? Sure. A version of it, anyway. But most of the time I only believe in that love for other people. (For now).

It occurred to me recently that I don't really think of myself in terms of a relationship status. Saying that I'm single feels weird, even though it's true. Saying I'm divorced feels worse, even though that's also true. I guess I don't feel the need to assign myself a category. I'm just here; which honestly, I'm so completely okay with. I'm not anti-men or anti-dating by any means, and I'm also not pining for love. For now, I'm content, and ready for whatever comes next. Honestly, I'm surprised by how true that is.

It feels like hallowed ground.

Thoughts on Forgiveness

Sometimes forgiveness is simple.
Sometimes it can be hard and fast and over before you even have to think about it.
But sometimes it's not simple.
Sometimes the thing you're trying to forgive feels too big to even acknowledge, let alone afford the conscious thought required to process it.
Sometimes forgiveness is complicated by too many moving parts.
How do you forgive what doesn't change?
How do you forgive the person who isn't sorry they hurt you?

I'm learning that it's okay to forgive in parts when forgiving all at once feels impossible. Healing occurs gradually and in stages. Forgiveness can, too.

I'm learning that sometimes forgiveness has to be fluid. You choose it and you keep choosing it because at the end of the day, you're only human. But maybe one day you choose it, and the next you feel so much that it seems impossible again. Two steps forward, one step back is 1,000% an an acceptable model, because emotions are hard and feelings are valid and "pain demands to be felt*."

I'm also learning that forgiveness is for me more than it is for anyone else. For so long, I resisted; in part because forgiving something this big felt like letting them off easy, or like I was doing them a favor. It felt like self-betrayal. But recently, I've begun to truly appreciate what it means when they say that to withhold forgiveness is like swallowing poison and and waiting for the other person to die. It's been costing me. Whereas to forgive, to let it all go, and to move forward without any of this holding me back or weighing me down feels like the best gift I could ever give myself.

And so slowly, clumsily, I'm learning how to dance this particular dance.
Always to the tune of grace (upon grace, upon grace, upon grace).
In the name of healing;
In the name of moving forward;
And in the name of freedom.


*John Green, The Fault in Our Stars

#kailatakesLA

So, I did a thing:

I went to California.
For 3 days.
All by myself.

My primary motivation was to see my very favorite author, John Green, on his Turtles All The Way Down Tour, because unfortunately the tour didn't make any stops in or near Colorado. At first I just couldn't find anyone to go with me, but then the thought of going alone turned into this exciting, bucket list caliber idea.

I'm not exactly sure how or when I became this person who is completely comfortable traveling across the country alone, but it feels pretty great. I never even felt nervous or awkward, really. It kept reoccurring to me at semi-regular intervals, this somewhat alarming realization of what the heck I'm 1,000 miles away from home and I'm not scared and I don't hate it and I'm really enjoying myself and what is happening.

I did things I wanted to do, and I did them on my own time; it felt like this incredible gift to myself. To feel that level of confidence and independence was such a new/strange/unreal experience for me. It was all so liberating.

I ate alone in restaurants.
I took a narrated tour of the city.
I saw Justin Bieber's house (which I'm still low-key freaking out about).
I did the Hollywood Walk of Fame.
I saw John & Hank Green at the Alex Theatre for the last stop of the Turtles All The Way Down tour.
I walked around downtown L.A.
I took a shameless amount of snapchats and selfies.
I ate Sprinkles cupcakes.
I saw dolphins at Venice Beach and walked up the coast to the Santa Monica Pier.
I watched the sun set over the ocean, which is one of my all-time favorite things.
I had brunch in Pasadena with a girlfriend I went to Burkina with in January and hadn't seen since.
I even obnoxiously (and mostly satirically) live-tweeted it all with my own hashtag and everything. (Shoutout to my tweeps who totally humored me on this. You are the real MVPs)

I loved every minute of it.

I've had a hard time giving good enough words to how this experience has made me feel, I think because part of me is still pretty surprised at myself for doing it. Surprising myself has become something of a theme lately. I don't think it's a secret that I've struggled a lot and for a long time with my self-image and self-worth. I've always had this negative, condescending view of myself: I've always thought of myself as this small, anxious, fearful, insecure person, and my self-talk has always erred on the side of unforgiving and critical. The more I'm learning about myself, the more I'm understanding exactly how distorted this view has been. I'm surprising myself over and over again by proving myself wrong. My comfort zone is turning out to be so much bigger than I thought it was. I am turning out to be so much bigger than I thought I was. Honestly, I think one of the most prominent things I'm feeling right now is pride. I'm really proud of myself for doing this. It's taken me a while to call it what it is because I don't actually know the last time I felt proud of myself. It feels completely amazing.

Sometimes I don't even recognize myself anymore.

I've said these things before. Usually I say them in attempt to encourage and convince myself. But today I can confidently say that I believe them to be true:

I am brave.

I am strong.

I can do hard things.

I can do scary things.
I can do impossible things.
&

I know I'm gonna be okay.

Time & Metaphors

It's been a year, two months, and a week now. Apparently I'm still counting, and not even really on purpose anymore. It's true what they say, that trauma changes the way you perceive time. Everything gets categorized and processed as either before or after. I'm so painfully aware of the reality of my particular after; especially when it feels like all I can do is impatiently wait for it to hopefully become a different kind of before someday.

It seems like waiting is all I ever do anymore.

I have this fear that moving on and being okay will somehow invalidate what I've been through. That this earth-shattering thing that happened to me, this thing that caused my gravity to shift and damn near killed me will fade into the background and somehow become null and void. This pain, this grief has been my lens for so long now. It's changed me. It's not nearly as big and ominous as it was in the beginning, but it's still my constant reality. Maybe I'm hanging on to things I shouldn't be; maybe the grief has become too familiar. Maybe it's the uncertainty of whatever is next that scares me. Until last August, I had a pretty good idea of how my life was going to turn out. Now, my future feels like a giant question mark, and that's terrifying. Everything I thought I had is gone, and I have no way of knowing if it will ever be replaced.

Please don't misunderstand me; I want to be okay. I want to heal and be whole and fall in love again. I ache for the day that this is all a distant memory; a before that hopefully precedes something loosely resembling a happily ever after. But I'm already watching the people around me forget. It's not that I need those people to stay constantly aware of it, but I am still constantly and very aware of it. It's hard when something that still feels so huge and difficult to me is becoming a thing of the past to other people.

This morning, I got a text from my mom sharing part of her morning devotional:

"I've heard that the hardest part of running a marathon isn't the end. It's the places along the 26.2 mile route where there is no one along the path cheering. The hardest sections are those places where you feel like you could quit running and no one would even notice. I've found the same is true in life." - Adam Weber

I'm a total sucker for metaphors, and this one rings so true for me. Realistically, I know I still have people cheering me on. That's the whole reason my mom texted me, to remind me of exactly that. But right now I feel like I'm running a part of the race most people can't see. Most people don't see how hard I'm still working or how tired I'm getting or how often I still feel like giving up. But somehow, my feet are still moving beneath me and I'm still breathing. I know that my people are still cheering me on, even if that looks different now than it did when I started.

And so here, again, is where I have no choice but to dig deep and find my stride. Where I wait and where I keep waiting. Where I remind myself that I am strong and brave and I can do hard things.

Because I can do this and I will do this. Because I've been doing it. Because I am doing it.

The Wave Is Not The Sea

My therapist warned me early on that the pain, grief, rage, depression, etc. would come in waves, and it's true. She also warned me that when the waves came, there was really nothing I could do except be in it and feel it. Nothing would make it go away or stop or hurt less. As pessimistic as that sounds, it's just true, and it was helpful to know that it was simply out of my hands. Numbing and distracting (for me, in the form of self-harm) were dangerous options that I was trying my best to avoid.

At first, and for a long time, the waves were huge and came one right after the other, so close together that I couldn't even come up for air or catch a break in between. I've said before that I don't have very many memories of the first couple of months, and this is why. It's virtually impossible to be mentally present anywhere when your mind and heart are under water. Very, very gradually, the waves began to spread out ever so slightly, and the more times I got knocked down, the easier it got to stand back up after it passed.

I mentioned to my therapist at one point that I felt like the waves were starting to get smaller. She countered by saying she didn't believe that wasn't true; the waves weren't getting smaller, I was getting stronger and more capable of handling them.

I came across this quote last year and it has become something of a mantra for me:

"When our days are turbulent and troubled, our challenge is to remember that the wave is not the sea."   - Mark Nepo

These words have brought me so much hope, because for so long my life was nothing but turbulent and troubled. Nothing but huge, painful, devastating waves that felt completely impossible and unbearable. I couldn't even imagine an eventual version of myself that wasn't constantly being mercilessly thrashed around and pummeled by this. It felt like everything and it felt infinity and it felt like forever. But when I take a step back and look at how far I've come in the last year, I can appreciate the truth of these words. I still have days where I have to work hard to believe them, and the occasional day where I give up believing them completely. And therein lies the challenge.

So, remember:

The wave is not the sea:
This horrible, impossible thing you are doing or feeling is not everything and it's not forever.
(Even though it absolutely feels like it. That's okay. You can't see past it when you're in it).

The wave is not the sea:
What you're experiencing now is a part of a greater whole; a chapter, not the book.

The wave is not the sea:
There is so much more. There is hope.

The wave is not the sea:
Hold on. Give it time. Don't give up.

For me, it still comes in waves, but it looks very different now than it did a year ago. While all of the pain, anger, grief, etc. persist to varying degrees, and while waves still knock me down from time to time, now I can see the horizon. Now I know I can do this rather than just hope I can. And now I'm learning to skillfully swim at depths that I never thought possible.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

On August 24th, exactly one year since learning that my worst nightmare had become a reality, and on the day that my divorce was final, my sister and I got these words tattooed. In honor of their truth and of the fight to believe them. In honor of the breaking and the healing. In honor of the wave and of the sea and of each other. In honor of surviving. In honor of hope.

the wave is not the sea

Sand & Salt Water

"The cure for anything is salt water: sweat, tears, or the sea." - Isak Dinesen

There's something about the ocean. The vastness of it, maybe, or the wildness. Something about being near the ocean allows me to experience God in ways that I don't anywhere else. A year ago this week, I took a trip to Cancún with two of my very best friends. It was there that I wrote the following:

I am reminded this morning, as I stand in the ocean and feel its power and listen to its roar, that God is bigger than my pain. I am also reminded of the beautiful truth that He knows the depth and magnitude of my pain, and that He is feeling it with me. While knowing this does not lessen the sting, it helps put my aching, restless heart at peace.

I am reminded that He delights in me. That He knows every inch of my wild and desperate heart and He delights in me, in all the ways I've always longed to be delighted in. He knows me in all the ways I've always longed to be known. For Him, I am enough.

I am also reminded that He doesn't need my words. He sees and knows my every thought, every feeling, every fear, every wish, every hope. For now, perhaps, it is enough to simply be broken in His presence and to know that I am understood. (09.09.2016)

Like I said, there's something about the ocean.

I've known for a couple of months now that I wanted to go back to the ocean after the divorce was final. To be away, to clear my head, to say goodbye.

There are so many rituals associated with marriage: the wedding ceremonies with the rings and the vows and the unity ceremonies and what have you. There are no rituals when you get divorced. It's just over. For all of the rituals that marked the beginning of my marriage, there are none to acknowledge the end of it, to represent the breaking and the undoing. There are no separation ceremonies. It's a death without a funeral. This has been a difficult thing for me to process, wanting and needing closure and having to stumble around in the dark to find it all by myself. It has made grieving all the more difficult.

Unity ceremonies are common wedding rituals. A physical representation and reminder of two becoming one. At my wedding, we poured sand.

Three days ago I poured that sand into the ocean.

I fought hard for a long time in hopes of salvaging what was left of my marriage. Once it became clear to me that I was the only one fighting a losing battle, I had to start fighting to let go. I still am. Standing in the ocean that morning as the sun came up was a big step forward in that fight. It didn't occur to me until afterward that pouring my unity sand was just like spreading ashes. For me it was an acknowledgement, both of my marriage and of the death of it. A way to honor my breaking and the end of something that was so sacred to me. It was a release, a farewell. This was my letting go.

I'm beginning to notice a shift. It feels a little like transitioning from moving through to moving away from. I still have a long way to go, but it finally feels like forward motion. It finally feels like healing.

And I know I'm gonna be okay.

The Notes Between the Music

I'm currently reading Present over Perfect by Shauna Niequist, which I am about halfway through and already highly recommend. I read this particular paragraph the other day, and this idea really grabbed me:

"Whatever it is that you clutch onto with angry fists, that you grab like a lifeline, when you release that thing, when you let it go, that's when you'll hear the notes between the music. That's when you'll feel the groove, the rhythm you were made to feel, that you've covered over a thousand times with noise and motion and fear and all the things. When you hear it, you'll realize it sounds a lot like your own heartbeat, the rhythm of God, of life, pumping in your chest, the most beautiful song you've ever heard."

The notes between the music. I love that.

Earlier in the chapter, Shauna mentions that her husband is a musician. "His all-time favorite base players play relatively few notes, and the beautiful thing they make is all about the space between the notes--that's the groove."

I'm no musician, but I know enough to take this metaphor and run with it. I know that every rest and every space between notes is necessary to create the intended sound. And I love the idea that maybe seasons of silence and waiting are a necessary part of the music my life is making. For me, the last ten months have felt like one giant space between notes. The longer the space gets, the harder it is to remember what the last note sounded like, and the harder it is to believe that the song isn't just over. But I'm believing for the music. I'm choosing to believe that this space is only a space, that the song isn't over, and that the best is yet to come. I'm choosing to relax as best as I can, to listen, and to trust that I'll hear it.

Believing that feels like hope, and not the exhausted, grasping, about-to-give-up kind.

It feels like the beautiful kind.

Just Do It

If there's one thing I've learned in the last 8 months it's that life is  f r a g i l e. It's so easy to get caught up in believing that you've got your whole life ahead of you -- the long, [mostly] happy and healthy, [generally] disaster-free life where you fall in love, get married, have kids, have a career, and die of old age. We forget that tomorrow was never promised to us and that life can drastically change course in a split second.

The fact is, you never know when a bomb is going to go off. You don't expect a best friend to get a terminal cancer diagnosis, or your marriage to explode, or to get t-boned by a maniac in a stolen Prius going 90 mph. For a long time I believed the lie that the really devastating things happen to other people. Friends of friends. Close enough to cause me some discomfort without really having a direct impact on my life.

Consider me humbled. Anything is possible and I am not immune.

As a result, I'm learning to hold loosely to things and take nothing for granted. Things are things and can be replaced. Plans can change without it being the end of the world. Other people's opinions of me are none of my business (and I'm much happier not caring what they are, anyway). I'm learning to relax my grip, let go of my need for control, and take things as they come. I can't afford to waste time sweating the small things anymore.

This change in perspective has been a pretty serious wake-up call for me. Life is far too short to waste it creating a long list of "maybe someday"s. Someday isn't even a real thing. So now I'm constantly asking myself questions like why not? and if not now, when? I cringe at the thought of leaving this life with a bucket list of things I never got around to doing. I'm the only one that can make them happen. And so I find myself with this new, super cliché, Nike-esque just do it attitude. Because I can't come up with a single good reason not to.

Instead of talking about doing things I want to do, I'm figuring out how to make them happen. For me, that most often looks like just booking the trip or buying the Justin Bieber tickets. It's getting my Pediatric Nurse certification and applying for my dream job. It's training for the half marathon. It's dying my hair pink and blue and purple and whatever color I happen to feel like dying it next. It's trying new things and going places I've never been. It's letting my dreams get big and doing whatever it takes to make them a reality.

I'm not endorsing a frivolous, irresponsible lifestyle here. I'm simply pointing out that life can tend to get away from us. If you want something, find a way to make it happen. Don't make excuses not to do the things you love and dream about. Go get them, because chances are they won't just fall into your lap. Life is fragile, and you only get one. Make it count while you still can.


"Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing at all." - Helen Keller

Empathy Part II

Over the past six months, I've had this shift in perspective. Walking through something so painful and so seemingly impossible has made me extremely aware of the fact that every single person I encounter is dealing with pain to some degree. Maybe it's simply having to experience this great pain, or maybe it's the handful of people who have shown me such great empathy, but these are things that I have become almost constantly aware of lately and are becoming important parts of how I love people.

1.) Say what you see. This one is so simple but has been so huge for me. A genuine, heartfelt compliment can really go a long way, especially when someone is having a bad day. If you notice someone looking especially nice that day, tell them. Noticing things like that and keeping them to ourselves doesn't serve anyone. There is absolutely no sense in having a kind thought and letting it suffocate. Release it and let its magic surprise you! Draw attention to the good things. Sometimes acknowledging the seemingly small things is enough to draw attention away from the bad ones, if even for a little bit.

2.) Tell people when they're doing a good job. This seems like an obvious thing, but I really don't think we do it enough. I'm someone who tends to get stuck in my head a lot. Having my efforts acknowledged in a positive way, even if they're an expected part of the job I do every day, is huge for me. Being told, "good job" feels a little like being told, "hey, I see you," and being seen is one of the best feelings.

2.5.) Tell other people when someone is doing a good job. Manage people up!

3.) Acknowledge the hard things. It's okay to acknowledge that what someone's dealing with is hard. Personally, it's one of the very few things I never mind hearing, because it's always true. Hearing someone say something like, "I'm so sorry this is so hard" is unbelievably validating. When someone's doing something hard, acknowledge it and remind them how great they are for doing it. This type of validation should always be paralleled by encouragement.

4.) Say true things. This one isn't just about not lying. Be intentional about honoring what's true. Speak truth and speak life.

People are fragile, but we are also resilient. I'm finding strength I never dreamed I was capable of. I'm currently learning so much about who I am, what's important to me, and what I need, and I'm beginning to see how these things impact my relationships and interactions with other people. My heightened self-awareness is turning into a heightened awareness of the people around me.

We need each other. (Pass it on).

2017

The best thing I can say about 2016 is that it's over now. It was easily the worst year of my life. Did good things happen? Yes; but unfortunately if we're making lists, the bad far outweighs the good.

In 2016, I could have checked out. I've wanted to so many times. Checking out would have been the easy thing. I could have let this big, horrible, impossible thing swallow me whole. But here I am, on the brink of 2017, about to step into something completely new. A blank slate. The clock will strike midnight, and while it won't erase 2016, it will put it where it belongs: behind me.

I'm painfully aware of the fact that the new year doesn't actually change anything. It will still be the same going to bed and waking up and going to work that I did yesterday. But I need the symbolism, because I have had to fight hard for 2017. To me, 2017 is full of possibilities and trips and bucket list check marks because I desperately need it to be. I need to believe that 2017 can be better because I can't imagine how it can possibly be worse. Every day I'm fighting and clinging so tightly to hope that it hurts, and I need the newness, even if it's simply buying a new day planner and training my brain to write a 7 instead of a 6.

This year is about healing and taking good care of me. It's about challenging myself and putting myself out there and doing things I've always wanted to do, because why not? If not now, when? Right now, so much of this new year is a giant question mark. The only things I know for sure are the very few plans I've made, which is just the way of it, but it's still completely terrifying. I have no idea how a lot of things are going to shake out. So many things that I entered 2016 believing to be true have turned out otherwise. As necessary as the newness of 2017 feels, the uncertainty of it makes my head spin.

But.

I know that I can do it because I've been doing it and I am doing it. I am living and breathing and doing this thing that feels impossible. Who I am today is so much stronger than who I was at the beginning of this year, and that's a big deal. I still have a very long way to go, which is discouraging most of the time. The shitty thing about knowing that I can do this is the reality that I have to keep doing it. But recognizing how far I've come makes me excited to keep getting better.

So, here's hoping. Cheers to the year I fought for and to doing impossible things.

Anxiety is:

Anxiety is being indecisive, because you are convinced that there is always a right choice, and you're genuinely afraid of making the wrong one.

Anxiety is walking into a room and immediately feeling like the smallest, least qualified, or least important one there. Every. Single. Time.

Anxiety is assuming and expecting the worst, no matter how much evidence to the contrary.

Anxiety is reacting physically and emotionally to a "what if" scenario that may or may not even happen.

Anxiety is frantically filling in the blanks. (Silence is loud).

Anxiety is constantly worrying that all of your worst fears will suddenly come true.

Anxiety is carrying the weight of a bad dream into your day.

Anxiety is mental, emotional, physical.

Anxiety is being afraid that other people will notice.

Anxiety is being bombarded with a constant stream of lies about your identity and self-worth, and feeling as if you have no choice but to believe them.

Anxiety is believing you're the only one, that no one else could possibly understand what it's like.

Anxiety is feeling like at any given moment you're only barely holding it together.

Anxiety is believing you fall short of every expectation. Yours, and everyone else's.



Anxiety is a lot of things and it can look different for everyone. This is what anxiety looks like from my perspective.

Feeling Deeply

I am a feeler. I feel a lot of things and I feel them deeply. You could call me emotional, but I'm not sure that's entirely fair in this particular context. I am, in fact, emotional. I always have been. It might even be the truest thing about me. But I believe that I am emotional as a result of my feeling deeply. Labeling someone as "emotional" almost always has a negative connotation attached, hence the unfair part. What's wrong with feeling deeply? Can't "emotional" be a symptom of having a big heart instead of a dismissal?

I'm learning that there are a lot of different ways to carry emotion. It's not something to hide behind. For a long time I let the fact that I am "emotional" be my banner, but feeling deeply is not and cannot be an excuse for inappropriate or manipulative behavior. Emotions can be completely valid and also completely subjective. I tend to be about 80/20 when it comes to emotions and logic. I think that can be okay as long as I learn to tread wisely.

I'm currently reading Rising Strong by Brené Brown. Early on in the book, she uses the phrase "the stories we make up" pretty cavalierly, and as soon I read it, all the lights went on. It was one of my biggest ah ha! moments in a long time:

Other people do it too.

I've always referred to it as "filling in the blanks." When I'm anxious or afraid or worried, or if I don't have all the details about something, or if something's making me feel uneasy, I fill in the blanks. I make up stories with the information I don't have. This is something that has always come so easily to me. I make up stories and I believe them. I react emotionally, even physically to them. A lot of the time, once the story starts to take shape, I almost instantly accept it as truth. I behave as though it's the truth. And in my head, it makes sense (of course it does, I'm the one who made it up). But once the story is there, it's as if nothing else could possibly be true instead. There is no alternative.

This is a very dangerous and painful habit.

I've known for a while that I do this, and I've slowly been working on unlearning some bad habits. In Rising Strong, Brené talks about meetings she has with her colleagues, and how they all routinely use the phrase "this story I'm making up is..." in order to be transparent and honest with one another. She raves about how much stronger this tactic makes her team and how much respect they all have for each other's honesty. Not to mention the fact that it often helps to clear up simple misunderstandings. I'm slowly learning to do that. I'm learning to ask direct questions instead of make assumptions, and I'm learning to be honest (and sometimes blunt) about what I'm feeling or afraid of in order to be understood. It's weird and it's hard and it really goes against the grain for me. It's uncomfortably vulnerable. But the peace that follows clarifying things I don't understand and knowing what's true is infinitely better than the downward spiral that is believing the stories I make up. I'm always telling the patients I discharge, "If you're unsure about something or you have a question, don't hesitate to call your doctor. Even if it feels small or silly or it's the middle of the night, it's better to know than to wonder and worry." I'm realizing as I type this that I need to do a better job of taking my own advice. It's better to know than to wonder and worry.

Although maybe on varying levels, making up stories is something we all do. Knowing that feels so unbelievably validating. Acknowledging and understanding it for what it is is huge, and it feels like a big step forward for me. It feels like getting better.

The thing about feeling deeply is that while I feel things for valid reasons, I also feel deeply as a result of the stories I make up. It's emotionally, mentally, and physically exhausting, and at times it has caused me hurt the people I love. To feel deeply, whether a blessing or a curse, inevitably results in feeling deep pain. I often scrape the bottom of the barrel, so to speak. But I want to believe that that means that my emotional range goes both ways, that I am also capable of feeling joy unspeakable.

I'm learning, and it's helping me hope.

I Can See the Sun

I need to believe in better things
All I can see is the ocean inside of me
And I'm drowning
I never meant to need so much
Or be so hard to love
All I've ever wanted is to be whole

Tell me something true
Give me something to hold on to
Because I'm drowning
But I can see the sun
On a good day, I can see the sun

Is silence too much to ask for?
I only hear the ghosts that haunt me
And they're screaming
I didn't hear you whispering my name until you stopped
I need you more than ever now

Tell me something true
Give me something to hold on to
Because I'm drowning
But I can see the sun
On a good day, I can see the sun

Please don't go
Say you'll never leave
This heart is much too heavy
Will you hold it for a while?
Because I'm drowning
But I can see the sun

- k.n.

(2015)

Broken

This morning I read a devotional by Ann Voskamp and came across this thought:

"Never be afraid of being a broken thing...unless a seed breaks, there is no life."

I have two initial reactions to this:

The first is encouragement, because I feel so broken. I so badly want life to come from this brokenness, and I want to be comforted by believing it will come. But the second reaction is bigger and is exactly the opposite: discouragement, because I feel so broken. There is a lot of fear surrounding that for me. It's so much easier to say something like "don't be afraid of being broken" if you're not broken, or if you were broken a long time ago. But if you're in the thick of it? When every single day feels like the waves are beating you against the rocks, but you can't escape and you can't drown? When your only option is just to feel it?

The small part of my heart that is capable of hope loves this idea. But my heart is still very much in the breaking process, and a large part of me feels like this statement belittles that in some ways. I want this break to result in life, I'm just not in a place where I can see that yet. One of the hardest things in the world for me has been hoping for something that I can't believe is true. Hoping for life and healing when all evidence is to the contrary, when all I feel is pain and anger and grief. And I find myself wondering, what good has getting my hopes up ever done me anyway?

My perspective on this flips constantly. This is far and away the hardest thing I've ever done. I've never hurt this badly. Pessimism and hopelessness are so easy, and they're comfortable. Familiar. I am grieving, heartbroken, and angry all at once. There is absolutely no pattern or system, so I never know how I'm going to wake up feeling, or when it's going to change, or when something will trigger some random memory or realization to add to the giant pile of things I'm having to process. I never knew it was possible to feel and believe two (or more) completely opposing emotions at the same time. Let me tell you, it absolutely is. Most of the time I feel completely crazy.

But there are glimmers of hope. When I feel discouraged, and when I think about how impossible this all seems, and when I don't feel like I'm strong enough, I remember that I am doing this thing that feels impossible. I've been doing it for months now. Has it been pretty? Not even close. Have I done and said things I regret? Absolutely. But I am stumbling, tripping, falling, and crawling my way through this the only way I know how. One minute at a time. I'm stronger now than I was in August. Knowing that is encouraging, but also exhausting, because I still have a long way to go. But I'm doing it.

When I think about a seed breaking and a sprout forcing it's way out of that hard shell, I think there's no way that wouldn't be painful. Probably unbearable, actually, if plants felt pain. But the process is necessary and the result is worth it.

And I so desperately hope that's true for me too.

The World

This is the world.
It's a mess.
People are going to do some terrible things.
But they'll also do some pretty great things.
There will be devastation.
But there will also be beauty.
There is life and there is death.
There is love and there is heartache.
A lot of things will fall apart.
Most aren't fair.
A lot of things won't make sense at first.
Some never will.
The important thing is not to let the bad cancel out the good,
Or the fear blot out the hope,
Or the pain reduce the probability of finding love again.
This is the world.
It's yours for the taking.

- k.n.

How are you?

Lately, I find myself so irritated whenever someone casually asks me how I'm doing. My honest answer is never "good" or "fine" anymore, but I don't think people are prepared for or even expect an honest answer. This is a simple and seemingly polite exchange that happens to everyone several times a day. We ask people how they're doing like we already know the answer. We ask the question without really putting much thought into the response, because we expect to hear "good, how are you?"  We ask the question and then tune out, because our part of the interaction is done. It's like "how are you?" has become more of an acknowledgement than an actual question. We ask each other how we're doing because it's something to say.

For this reason, whenever someone asks me how I'm doing, I cringe. I've started alternating between "okay" and "doing alright." It's not the truth, but it's more honest than "good."

How am I actually doing? Depends on when you ask me.
Sometimes it's sad.
Sometimes it's angry.
Sometimes it's anxious.
Sometimes it's distracted.
Sometimes it's crushed. (Usually it's crushed).
Sometimes it's tired. (Always it's tired).
Sometimes it's heartsick.
Sometimes it actually is okay or doing alright.
Sometimes it's even hopeful.

I'm pretty confident that if someone asked me how I was doing, and I replied with any of the above responses, that person would be extremely caught off guard. I'm generalizing here; there are a handful of people who intentionally ask me how I'm doing because they know the circumstances, but you catch my drift. Maybe I'm being sensitive or pessimistic here, but there's a part of me that almost gets offended by the fact that this question gets asked so unintentionally so often. "How are you?" is an extremely loaded question for me, which gets me wondering how many other people for whom it's a loaded question. Shouldn't it be a loaded question for everyone? How you are is a big deal! Being a person is hard. Shouldn't we do a better job of acknowledging that? Shouldn't we be more validating of other people's experiences? Shouldn't we stop trying to believe that everyone is good all the time?

Disclaimer: Right now, I don't actually want to have to give an honest answer to 99% of the people who ask me how I am. I'm not looking for everyone (or anyone, for that matter) to come try to pry my feelings out of me. I don't want to go there most of the time. It's just the principle that gets me. And I am so guilty of it. It's easy to pretend to connect. I've just recently become aware of how cheap it feels, and it's giving me a lot to think about.

"Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle." - Plato

Title

even so

I struggle with pretty significant anxiety, and I have for a long time. I remember several months ago, my anxiety got so bad that I started to tell myself that even if all of my worst fears came true, and even if every "what if?" turned out to be real, it wouldn't kill me. I would be okay. I would survive. I can very clearly remember sitting on the back patio one evening and telling this to my husband, and even saying that I thought it would be cool to get a tattoo that said "even if." (The fact that I remember this so well is saying something, because due to the fact that my anxiety tends to make my entire thought process blurry, I don't usually form very clear memories). Even if was my banner, and sometimes telling myself this was all that could get me through a bad day or a panic attack: the simple thought of, "At least I won't die."

In August, my worst nightmare turned out to be a reality. Every single fear was confirmed, every single "what if?" was validated.

There are still times when it feels like this is killing me. It has actually occurred to me that this might be what dying feels like. I am convinced that it is.

But I am alive.

Sometimes it feels like the only thing I have going for me is the fact that I'm not dead. But then when you think about it, even if that were true, being alive in and of itself is a pretty big deal.

I am alive.

My even if became an even so. It's been almost three months, and here I am. Sometimes barely, but here just the same.

This thing feels completely impossible, but I'm doing it. When it feels like I can't do it anymore, I remind myself that I am doing it. I've been doing it. I am doing the thing that feels impossible.

I have watched my entire life and everything I thought was real burn to the ground around me.

Even so, I am alive.

Even so, I am standing up under this.

Even so, I am doing the thing that feels impossible.

Even so, I will heal.

Even so, I will be okay.

Self-Love & Superhero PJs

Before I left for Cancun back in September, my sister bought me a pair of superhero pajamas for my trip. They are super cute, and I tend to love all things Marvel; plus I wanted something to sleep in that wasn't an old t-shirt from high school. But beyond that, I've found that there is something strangely symbolic to me about wearing superhero pajamas to bed as I stumble along doing this thing that feels impossible. Nights are still generally the hardest, but back in September they were so much worse. I wasn't sleeping. If I did sleep, it was a direct result of crying so hard and for so long that I was too physically drained to stay awake. When I slept, I had nightmares. It is for this reason that wearing superhero pajamas feels symbolic. They make me feel like I can do it. Maybe that's silly and dorky, but I am silly and dorky, and I kind of love that about myself. Yesterday, I bought a second pair of superhero pajamas. I'm a big believer in retail therapy, so purchasing them gave me a little burst of happy. Putting them on last night gave me another little burst of happy. I live for my little bursts of happy these days.

Let me explain: My life right now is a big, messy cycle of emotions and questions. Grief, anger, despair, fear, hopelessness...just to name a few. Life really is like a box of chocolates, only in my case it's that you never know when the entire box is going to spontaneously combust. My thoughts, emotions, and questions feel like a constant and literal weight, and they tend to cast a shadow over everything. I'm learning to be okay with the fact that right now, it is what it is, and there's not much I can do except the next thing. All that to say, I still find things to laugh about or that temporarily lift my spirits, and that is a big deal. These are my little bursts of happy. Sometimes it's just a moment or a flicker, and sometimes it sticks around a little longer than that. I am so grateful for them all the same. My little bursts of happy are also my little bursts of hope.

My superhero pajamas are not necessary for me to make it through the night. But they help. They are a simple statement to myself of, "I'm strong and I can do this." Wearing them is such a small thing, but it's something I can do to improve my mood. It's me taking care of me, and that is an act of self-love. The self-love thing is new to me, but it is so important and so necessary. Especially now.

Great Pain

They say that great art comes from great pain. If that's true, I'd like to know how these artists keep themselves upright long enough to create anything in spite of said great pain, let alone something others might consider great. My great pain has me in a crumpled heap. Always mentally and emotionally, but often physically too. The last thing I feel capable of is creating art worthy of sharing with the world.

And yet.

Here I am. I suppose that "creating" technically applies to what's happening here, but my emphasis tends to be on the great pain as opposed to the great art. I would be lying if I said that I didn't have hopes and dreams for this, but as a general rule, hopes and dreams feel more like a "someday" thing to me as of late. So for now, let's just call this what it is: a start.

So far, my great pain has not inspired me to channel whatever creative energy is lurking within me. Perhaps that will change. I hope it does. For now, though, my great pain is doing a stand-up job of making itself known, every minute of every day. As one of my all-time favorite authors writes, "Pain demands to be felt." No five words have ever felt truer to me than these. However, most of the time, there isn't any verbiage (in the English language, anyway) that could adequately describe what I'm feeling. Assigning words makes it feel smaller than it is. Containable. Words don't even begin to do it justice.

And yet.

Here I am, dedicating a blog to the seemingly indescribable. Is that ridiculous? Maybe. Is it 1:04 in the morning? Yes. Yes, it is. I'm not entirely sure how or where this will go. Maybe poorly and nowhere, but maybe great and somewhere important. I don't have anything to lose, so I'm going for it. Shooting for the moon, if you will.

Maybe that in itself qualifies as great art.