We just finished celebrating my sweet Momma’s 70th birthday. In classic Sherry style, it was a destination invasion of the Charleston, SC area. With sixteen individuals in a house on Isle of Palms, multiple parties (including a “Through the Decades” themed costume party), good food (my first oyster roast), ample booze, great tunes, dancing, singing, and a TON of laughter, this had to be one of the most bucket-filling moments of my life thus far… and I’ve had a few, so that’s saying a lot (especially since it wasn’t even MY birthday)!

My daughter, Karlyle, said it best tonight before bed…

“I want to rewind and do it all again!”

It is hard to look at my mom and actually believe that she is 70 years old. She’s a whippersnapper of the most energetic kind. She literally does not know how to be still. Her body is always on the go, her mind manages to keep up, and her mouth is either false starting or leading the way (it just depends on the day).

We have always been close, my mom and me. I was a precocious child, my teenage years were not overly dramatic nor tumultuous, and, as adults, we are great friends. Now, don’t get me wrong, she is quick to comment on my hair, my outfit, my household, and my parenting as any mom might do (despite my being a dutifully employed, home-owning, 41-year-old grown ass mother of three). However, I’ve learned to either ignore her or speak freely back to her with, “it’s my hair,” “don’t care,” “feel free to clean it up if it bothers you,” or a “you raised me, so trust me to raise them.” Strong women breed strong women. Just sayin’!

Nevertheless, at the end of the day… literally EVERY, SINGLE DAY… I count my mom among my greatest blessings. She is the kind of mom that every child should have and that every grandchild would want. I mean, she could drop fewer f-bombs per week, but I’m not going to be that picky given all the other “pros”—we’ll just call it her expressive and feisty spirit.

I’ve decided that my mom has done something right in life. Why? Because she clearly does not know a stranger. There’s a song I adore– the “theme song” of Up with People– and it says, “you meet ’em wherever you go.” THAT is my mom. Need proof? Check out those in attendance at her party. The friendship, support, and genuine love that was shown to her this weekend was humbling, impressive, beautiful… and kind of random.

She had family…

• Her three children
• Her two daughters-in-law
• Three of her five grandchildren
• Her niece
• Her sister-outlaw
• Cousins of all ages on all sides

She had friends old and new(er) from…

• High school (Go Churchland Truckers!)
• College (Go Hokies!)
• Her teaching career
• Our old neighborhood
• Her current hometown

There was…

• Her hairdresser
• Her financial advisor
• Her DirecTV/home surround sound installer
• Her gardening/yard buddy
• Her beau
• Friends of friends
• Siblings of friends
• Her children’s friends
• Friends of her children’s friends
• Friends by marriage
• Friends by circumstance
• Friends by chance
• Friends by choice

In short, a whole bunch of people who love mom took the time and made the trip to celebrate her! And, that is just who attended… her dentist, jeweler, interior decorator, my dad/her ex-husband, and more were on the list too, but couldn’t make it.

I often tell my three daughters that experiences and the memories made are what matters in life, not gifts or material things. While the party was just for a weekend, the planning, costume selections, and preparations were all part of the fun, all part of the memories made.

I feel certain that my girls will recall this party—their Nana’s 70th birthday—as one by which all other parties are measured (at least for the foreseeable future). I’m so happy my girls witnessed firsthand how much their Nana is loved… beyond their own love for her. I know there are songs, pictures, and moments forever etched in their minds (and mine!) that will elicit happy feelings.

These are the stories and souvenirs from life that echo through the years… the ones told at weddings, funerals, births, and holidays… the ones that shape you, mold you, and make you.

I think my mother is a one hell of a remarkable and special lady. I’ll also admit that I don’t always make time to tell her how much I appreciate and love her. Moreover, I’m so happy that others feel the same way– enough so that they took time out of their busy lives, took a day or two off work, and left their own families, responsibilities, and obligations to show her how wonderful she is by celebrating this milestone birthday.

To all of you who were with us this weekend in person or in spirit, THANK YOU!

To you, momma, well I might as well use the lyrics from “your” song:

“Oh [Sherry], our love…Holds on, holds on.”

Happy 70th Birthday, Mom! I love you!

P.S.—Let’s start planning your 75th!

Leading into my 40^th birthday, I had a 40×40 bucket list. A list of things that I wanted to accomplish that would challenge me—physically, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. I accomplished much of the list and had some awesome experiences as a result. But, despite my best efforts, they weren’t all checked off.

I recently found myself at the end of another (rather difficult) calendar year… in my early 40s, a full-time working single mother of three beautiful girls (who are my world, purpose and joy), in a job that had lost some of its appeal despite my amazing colleagues, navigating the end of another romantic relationship, and in an overall somewhat melancholy state of mind.

As such, I went back to my bucket list. A list that was all about re-discovering me and saying “yes” to myself. On my 40×40 bucket list I had included “Do a classy boudoir photo shoot.” It was originally put on the list because I’ve never really liked my body… more modest than not, uncomfortable in my own skin, shy in terms of sexuality. If I was intent to challenge myself, this seemed like a good endeavor. One that never happened.

While considering the things I hadn’t accomplished, I was simultaneously intrigued by an opportunity I saw on Facebook… with a new year price discount (and I love a bargain). It was a “Glam Session” with a local photographer whose work I’d admired from afar and with a hair/makeup artist that I quite adore.

Now if you are part of my generation, you likely remember the old-school glamour shots of the 90s. You can imagine the potential ridicule, not to mention the ridiculous (and inaccurate) image in my head (feather boas, big hair, Olan Mills-esque cheesy, fisted hand-to-chin poses). But what the hell? And when was the last time that I did something fun and girly and just for me? And while it wouldn’t be a boudoir shoot… I promised myself I’d push my comfort zone limits and aim for one “sexy” look in the mix.

I had my Glam Session a week ago today and I cannot even begin to articulate how good this was for me mentally and emotionally… but also how fun it was! To take a few hours and focus 100% on me. My instinct going into it was that it was selfish and vain. But there is nothing further from the truth. It was bucket-filling, confidence-building, empowering, and fulfilling. It was safe, supportive, and encouraging. The focus was entirely on me… which took a bit to be comfortable with… but also incredibly rewarding once I gave into the insecurity and doubt and just became someone’s muse and inspiration.

While I’ll get to see the full lot of photos in the coming weeks, the photos are merely a keepsake by-product of a much more powerful process. The true outcome was learning that it is okay to do something that scares you… that intimidates you… that is uncomfortable… and that is entirely FOR YOU and no one else.

I think, as women, that we need to do this more. We need to understand that until we take care of ourselves… in whatever way, shape, and means makes sense for each individual… and do so without judgment of self (or others!)… that we cannot give our best selves to anyone else… not our partners… nor our children… nor our friends… nor our work.

The “process” of this photo shoot was a truly powerful and special one for me. And though I’m writing this blog to document that experience for solely myself, I also wanted to express my gratitude to Debbie (the photographer) and Charmaine (the hair and makeup artist) in a different way… so I wrote the below poem. FiftyCentLove Photographie is Debbie’s photography business.

When we did our initial consult, I asked her about her business name. She shared a sweet story that is hers to tell, not mine, but that epitomized for me the love that we—as mothers, sisters, girlfriends, spouses/partners, caregivers, and nurturers—give to the world. It struck inspiration and sparked this writing. I’m no Poe, Frost, Dickinson, or Whitman, but the below flowed from my very appreciative heart.

I encourage you to give yourself at least 50 cent of your own love.

Debbie and Charmaine… from the bottom of my heart, thank you!

FiftyCentLove

As women we are told
To give everything we’ve got
To everyone around us
Depleting our whole lot

It’s not that we don’t adore them
And want to give our love
To show that we are kind and care
But the others get most of

All we are and have to give
Focused outward not within
So this challenge I will issue
You’re as beautiful as you’ve ever been

If your whole life were a dollar
With 100% to give
Could you take just 50 cents
Say yes to yourself, give in?

To focus on who you were
Before you were, well… not
To indulge in your own dreams
Do what you want, not ought

You spend your life caring
For everyone all the time
Without realizing you are special
And really quite divine

So maybe just this once
Give in to your own desires
Say “yes” to yourself and go
It’s all that is required

A little attention on yourself
You will not regret nor second guess
You deserve perhaps more than anyone
To take a vacation from the stress

To do so isn’t negligent
No less your big heart is
It’s merely shifting your attention
It’s self-love that you give

Indulge your inner goddess
No matter how uncharacteristic of
And give yourself permission
To at least fifty cent of your own love

Planes, Trains, and Automobiles.

I LOVE to travel.

At 41 years old, I’ve been to 42 U.S. states, multiple U.S. territories and British islands in the Caribbean, as well as 16 different countries (mostly in Europe). If there really is an elusive travel bug, I’ve got it!

I don’t love the airport delays or flight cancellations, nor the lost luggage and long days that make you weary. And being that I’m seriously cursed by the travel gods, I’ve had more than my fair share of ALL of these.

That said, every minute of inconvenience and annoyance is worth the hug of friends not seen in a long time or embracing the spirit of a place I’ve never been. I love the energy of big cities and the quaint nature of small villages– the sights and sounds and smells. I love the unknown of foreign lands– the language, the food, the culture. I love the way a smile is universal. And, I love the experiential learning that comes from sheer exposure to places and things unknown.

As a mom, I think exposing my children to travel is one of the most important things I can do. Something I’m blessed to be able to do. I’ll often forgo a repeat vacation or the latest toy or technology device they want for a trip because I know another toy will come out and the battery life of that device will eventually die, but the memories and knowledge gained will last forever. I also believe travel offers you simple reflection… the recollection of moments and re-telling of stories, each adding to the insight and awareness of what has been gained.

It is for these reasons that I am trying to take my three daughters to all 50 U.S. states before they graduate from high school (for maximum clarification, by the time the youngest graduates which should be 2031 if my math is accurate). With 6 years between my oldest and my youngest daughters, I wanted to ensure two things:

1. That the youngest would be old enough for her own memories
2. That my girls experience traveling to all 50 states together

The only other “rule” is you can’t just do a drive by… the time doesn’t need be several days, but it must be memorable.

Which is why as soon as the 2018 new year rolled in, I began to plan an epic family trip over Thanksgiving (11 months away) on an Amtrak tour (The Empire Builder) of the Midwest and Northwest. I’m a single mom and share equal custody with the girls’ father, so timing and advance planning are important. Luckily, my own mother is a fellow travel lover and was more than willing to come along too!

The girls hit state #10 in September with a random, last-minute weekend getaway to Kentucky. But our traveling Thanksgiving added 8 more states to the list. To date, my three girls (ages 6, 9, and 12) have been to 18 U.S. states. And though they don’t know it (Shhh! Don’t ruin the Christmas surprise), they’ll secure a few more between Christmas and the new year. I think I’m doing pretty good on this self-initiated challenge if I do say so myself!

So, for the adventurous thrill-seekers out there, and all who inquired about our trip, I thought I’d share some tips, hints, tricks, and facts that we learned from this most recent expedition.

First up, if you are traveling by train—you cannot be claustrophobic, or shy. Train travel was so fun and different… and so much more pleasant than the airlines.

The five of us were in two sleeper cars which measured around 9’w x 5’d x 7’h. That’s tight for three people, even little people. No real storage. Beds fold down from above. Chairs convert. Tables come out of the wall. Bathrooms are community style down the hall… and no bigger than on an airline. Oh, and there is no WiFi on the train, other than whatever service you have in the location you are.

One important lesson we learned… don’t check your bags, or at least not the ones you need anything from as checking a bag on a train is the same as the airlines (I’ve no idea why we assumed something else)—but rest assured it disappears until your destination. Given our first stretch on the train was 30 straight hours, that would have been an important thing to know in advance. (Oops)

And, prepare to make friends. You’ll be seated beside people in the dining car to fill the tables. You’ll have to turn sideways to pass people in the train cars. You’ll share close proximity in the lounge cars. But it’s wonderful. From infants to elderly, all races and creeds… we met others headed home for the holidays, on their own adventures, or searching to find themselves or their next calling.

In terms of places we visited along the way, we learned so many cool little nuggets of information. I feel sure I’m going to win Final Jeopardy with one of these one day! For instance, who knew that…

• The Palmer House Hotel in Chicago is where the chocolatey goodness known as a Brownie originated?
• That Willis Tower (formerly Sears Tower, also in Chicago) has 926 toilets with 25,000 miles of plumbing and is the tallest building in the western hemisphere?
• Watertown, WI is where the first kindergarten in the United States was started by German immigrants?
• Or that Wyocena, WI is home to the Grande Cheese Factory? And that Wisconsin produces 20% of all the cheese in the U.S.? (Those who know me know how this fact exited me!)
• The geographic center of North America is Rugby, North Dakota?
• Stumptown is a nickname for both Whitefish, MT and parts of Portland, OR, because of the impacts of the logging industry?
• The Space Needle in Seattle, WA, measuring 605 feet tall was constructed in only 400 days?
• In addition to Gresham, Oregon, there are 8 other places called Gresham in America, 2 in the UK, and 1 in Ireland? (So cool, right????)

And then there is this quote from Mark Twain which I whole-heartedly believe…

“Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one’s lifetime.”
― Mark Twain, The Innocents Abroad / Roughing It

So in addition to traditional travel lore, I apprecite the more organic learning that also occurred, like…

• Who Harvey Milk was (because of a street sign bearing his name and, well, my liberal nature)
• The truth of Thanksgiving and the great harm done by colonists against native and indigenous people
• Being brave enough to overcome fears (like me stepping out on the observation deck plexiglass floors of both the Willis Tower and Space Needle despite my fear of heights)
• The unavoidable reality of homelessness in larger cities (which was hard for my compassionate children to really understand)
• The practice of extending a hand to shake in introduction of self to others; and,
• That despite how big the world it is, it can feel small too… like finding Virginia Tech Hokies in multiple places!

We all (my daughters, my mom, me) captured not just memories for a lifetime, but also learning that shapes who you are, how you think, and what you feel… experiences that were, are, and will continue to be transformative.

I can think of no better gift to give my children than this… and my unconditional love.

“Why do you go away? So that you can come back. So that you can see the place you came from with new eyes and extra colors. And the people there see you differently, too. Coming back to where you started is not the same as never leaving.”
― Terry Pratchett, A Hat Full of Sky

Oh, life… you are fitting in so many tough lessons this month. And Mercury Retrograde— Goodbye! I’ve already had enough without you rolling in. I’m wondering if there a cosmic quota that somehow overlooked me for the first 10 months of 2018 that is being made up now? Did I unknowingly score a fast pass through a year’s worth of stuff that has an impending expiration date? You know the phrase, “If it doesn’t kill you, it makes you stronger”—I’m starting to wonder if I’m on the journey to a slow and painful death. (Okay, maybe that was a little dramatic.)

I’ve spent more time alone in quiet reflection over the first sixteen days of this month than I have in the last decade. As I’ve tried to figure out what lesson it is that I’m supposed to be learning, I’ve discovered a few things. Not that I have all the answers. I don’t. That would be far too easy and perfectly packaged. And, let’s be clear, I’m clearly working on more than one lesson (classic overachiever). Nevertheless, if I put words to life’s not-so-little takeaways of late, this is what I’d say…

• Life Can Change in a Moment
• Everything Happens for a Reason
• Your Mistakes Don’t Define You

I won’t offer the specifics of my past month… but I will reflect further.

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Life Can Change in a Moment

I’ve gone from blissfully happy to devastated and back… Timid and scared to outraged… open and vulnerable to shut down and closed off. And that was just before my second cup of coffee yesterday. While this roller coaster of emotions has taken both a physical and emotional toll on me, what I’ve come to know is how fleeting life can be. Not just life—the physiological living, breathing, dying one—but life, the daily moments and memories, interactions and connections, causes and effects, decisions and consequences. Now, I’m not a science buff. I’m much more right-brained than left. So Newton’s Third Law (“for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction”) isn’t exactly one I locked away in my memory bank from elementary school… at least not from a scientific perspective… but, it seems more than fitting of late from my perspective.

I’ve learned that some actions have impact on others in ways you’ll never know and the residual of such can linger for decades, redefining and reshaping people in ways you cannot imagine.

I’ve learned that one more hug, another “I love you,” and not leaving things unresolved can be the difference between living with regret or living in peace.

I’ve learned that nothing is promised or guaranteed.

I’ve learned the only thing I can control is myself. (That one is going to take more practice.)

I’ve learned that I’m the only one responsible for my own happiness… AND that I am not responsible for others’ happiness.

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Everything Happens for a Reason

For as long as I can remember, which includes traipsing as a young child to Sunday school in my best dress and shoes, I’ve loved Ecclesiastes 3:1-8…

To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:

A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;

A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;

A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;

A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;

A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;

A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;

A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.

(~King James Version, Public Domain)

Call it fate, coincidence, or divine intervention. It matters not to me. Because what I’ve learned (though I already knew it inherently to be true) is that everything happens for a reason… in its own time, in its own way, and for reasons that we may or may not understand at the moment, in hindsight, or ever. Of course, knowing this and trusting this are two entirely different matters.

I am learning to trust.

Which takes me to my last little life takeaway…

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Your Mistakes Do Not Define You

Snap! This is and has been one of the most difficult lessons for me to learn. I’ve also discovered this is not a challenge I face alone. It’s one I’m seeing others grapple with too, which reminds me how important showing up authentically can be. We are so hard on ourselves… far more unreasonable to ourselves than we’d ever be to a friend, colleague, or family member. I’ve had enough counseling and talk therapy to identify where some of the origins of my need for perfection come from, but I have to admit—knowing the why you think/feel/do something doesn’t immediately stop the act of doing it.

I understand the illogical thinking. I get the inability to not forgive yourself. And, I know that I am my own worst critic. So having made what feels like an enormous professional blunder related to my own cultural competence and unconscious bias… I’ve been pretty hard on myself. When everything you think you know and want to believe about who you are is called into question, that’s a mighty big pill to swallow. In fact, much of my hiding… ahem, time alone in quiet reflection… has been related to this mistake in particular.

What I’m trying to learn… to trust… to believe… is that I am not the mistake(s) I make. A singular moment does not define the totality of all I am… of who I am. I am the sum of many wonderful parts– both old and new– of plentiful words, actions, and deeds that are good…  and right…  and kind…  and real.

Humans are complicated and tangled messes of beautiful. I seemed to be a particularly  knotty jumble of that charm. When the tangled mess is all you see… when the chaos blocks the beautiful, we can become downright cruel, even abusive, to ourselves. I’ve been solidly locked in this dark space for longer than is healthy, but I’m starting to see the light again. With the help of some dear friends… friends who have been there quietly, without judgement, showing empathy, and reminding me of my worth… I’m seeing both the delicacy and tenaciousness, the clarity and clutter, of who I am.

I am more than the mistakes I’ve made in the past. I’m more than the ones I’ll make in the future. I will make them, whether I want to or not, because I’m human and I’m living.  And as my colleague would say, “If you’re still breathing, you’re still becoming.” I won’t make the same mistake, because I’m growing and learning… The next mistake will be a new one… and I’ll grow and learn again. Because I’m still breathing… and becoming.

I have to.

I must.

Because there are three little girls who are watching my every move… who will learn from my actions… who will reap what I sow.  I love them far too much to not love myself… to not try to make right any harm I’ve caused… to not fall down and get back up… and to not extend to myself the same grace and compassion I would to them.

I hope to raise strong women. But that also means I have to be one.

So watch out world! You can kick me in the ass, but you won’t keep me down. I got this!

July 24, 2018 (Part I)

Five years. It seems like both an eternity and like yesterday all at once.

I’m sitting on a plane at 41 years old heading to the 20^th reunion of what was the most magical, transformative, physically exhausting, and personally rewarding year of my life.

In 1998, I graduated from the University of Tennessee-Knoxville, not even old enough to buy an alcoholic beverage. I came home for a few weeks, worked a terrible temp job in a loan shop (if you have to finance your vacation to Dollywood, stay home!), and I departed on what was my 21^st birthday headed to Denver, Colorado. I was joining the international organization Up with People (UWP) where I’d spend the next year as a global ambassador, cast member and performer, and host daughter. I had packed my bags for six summer weeks amid the Colorado Rockies (okay, it was pretty much only Ranum High School) with nary a clue about the year in front of me. All I knew is I was going solo, ready for an adventure, and that I wouldn’t be home for a visit (or to change out/add to my limited suitcase contents) until December.

It was AH-MAZNG! Hard- yes. Awesome- yes. 120 students of 23 different nationalities. We traveled to 14 countries. I lived with 65 host families. We danced, did community service, traveled by bus, plane and train, and experienced culture shock.  I learned so much about myself. It remains the single most-transformative experience of my life thus far.

The other thing that happened… I found the most important people in my life outside of my own family.

Members of Cast C98 became, and still are, some of my best friends in life. In addition to our time on the road, we’ve experienced dating and Halloween parties, marriage and concerts in Vegas, babies and football games. We’ve brunched and lunched and drank too much. We’ve lounged by pools and sat at bars. We’ve laughed. We’ve cried. We’ve laughed so hard we cried… or peed our pants (just depends on which instance you are referring to). We’ve shared joy, success, happiness, achievement, and made memories that will last a lifetime. We’ve also shared pain, loss, fear, frustration, and humiliation. It seems in life you don’t get just one side of the coin. But who better to share it all with?

Up with People Cast C 1998… you are my people! Damn, 20 years. How did that happen?

My Papaw Jack always said, “The older you get, the faster it goes.” I’m realizing now how right he was.

While the origins of how this all began are important context, they aren’t the point of this blog. One would expect things to change, rather dramatically even, over twenty years. As I contain my excitement headed toward what I know will be an equally amazing four-day reunion, I can’t help but reflect on my own past five years.

We last convened in 2013. The update I gave to my cast at that time was something like this: Happily married. I’d had my third daughter (the final child) a year prior. I loved my work but needed and new challenge. As such, I would be interviewing for a new job via Skype upon my return home. My brother was in ICU after a head injury…which was all the more painful given my best friend from this shared UWP experience had lost her younger brother to the same the year before. I was, as the Indigo Girls’ song says, “heavier by the year, and heavier by the load.” But I managed, 15 years later, to crank out some old-school dance moves in our Era Show on a stage, under spotlights, in front of a live audience… and didn’t die.

You’d think after three kids in six years that one’s world might already be turned upside down; and, it was. However, nothing like it has been since giving that update five years ago.

Let’s see… flash forward to now. 2018. This year’s reunion update synopsis: I got the job I interviewed for right after our 15 year reunion, which also was a new career, and I’ve changed jobs and my career again since. I separated from my husband and am now divorced (a process that occupied 2.5 of the 5 years). I’ve moved three times but now own a beautiful and colorful home that makes me smile when I walk through the door, with ample space to be the place all my kids and their friends convene (or, you know, to host Up with People should they ever come to town!). Oh, and I glittered the garage floor just because I could. I’m in a “new” relationship (by “new” I mean post my ex-husband) where I’ve found a best friend, partner, confidant, cheerleader, hopeless romantic, big-hearted, wonderful man who is also divorced, also a single parent, and also fiercely loyal and annoyingly doting… which I adore. Unfortunately, he is also 1500 miles away. Oh, and the other/older brother of that BFF I mentioned above (that situation was only incredibly awkward for like 18 months).

Not five years ago, and certainly not 20 years ago, would I have predicted all of these changes. And, though you won’t know it because I just died my hair pink, those life changes have made me significantly more grey, a little older (wrinkles are wisdom etched in), and a whole lot happier.

Going through these changes are what brought me back to who I was 20 years ago. I don’t know how it happened, nor when it happened. I can’t explain it, justify it, or even understand all of it. All I know is that in those first 15 years, I slowly and incrementally lost pieces of me. I’d rarely find and experience the “old me” EXCEPT when one of these reunions rolled around every five years.

When that happened, well… I was overcome with anticipation, excitement, joy and enthusiasm at the prospect of each reunion. I was going back to people who knew me just as Hunter. Not Mike’s daughter. Not Aaron’s wife. Not as the Gresham girls’ mom. But as Hunter– a gal from Tennessee with a southern accent and the trademark ribbon in her hair who laughed too loud, loved to dance, and was ready to take on the world (literally and figuratively). My cup runneth over for four days every five years.

I would depart ecstatic… and return deflated.

It wasn’t that I didn’t love my life. I did. I’d checked off many of the requisite and milestone to-dos (in hindsight I might have pitched that shitty must-do list out the window early on). I was a good and loyal wife. I had a successful career and a steady paycheck. I was (still am) a loving, caring, and engaged mother. But there was a version of me squelched, squandered, smashed down, and stuffed away when I wasn’t with my Cast C98 family.

Coming into this reunion has felt different. It took me a while to understand fully why, but I finally have. It’s because I’m not running toward who I use to be… I’m her each and every day now! I’m comfortable in my own skin (for the most part). I am more emotionally connected. I have a greater understanding of my own wants and needs, and can articulate them to others. Though I still struggle with this idea, I know deep down that I am worthy of happiness and love, and that I am enough.

I’m just as ecstatic as always to be on my way to a reunion. I also know I won’t return deflated this time. I will come back to three beautiful daughters (my Trifecta) who are each unique in her own way, whom I love unconditionally, and of whom I’m so proud. I’ll return to a house that is a happy and cheerful HOME. I’ll report back to a career I find rewarding with colleagues I admire and respect. And, I’ll share these moments, these feelings, the nostalgic stories, and the memories made with a man who not only understands, but who also respects why July 1998 to June 1999…one blip on the map of my 41 years on Earth… and the those people who shared it with me, mean so damn much to me.

Sometimes (always?) the path to becoming your best self is hard and complicated, messy and disruptive, even maniacal. And, radical as it sounds, it requires knowing, wholeheartedly, that the person is and has always been within you. You might have to dig. You might have to take risks. It might be hard. But you can do it. Ignore the expectations and the social pressures. Focus on you and do what might possibly (maybe inevitably) even feel selfish. In short, listen to your heart more often and trust what you know.

You might just be amazed as the person you find.

I am, and I’ve never been happier!

July 29, 2018 (PART II)

Aww, man. When I wrote the above, I didn’t expect there’d be more I’d need to process and get out. Yet, here I go pecking on my keypad. And I cannot quite believe I’m about to quote a fictional teddy bear but…

“How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.” –Winnie the Pooh

I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to say goodbye. I don’t want to wait five years to again see the beautiful humans with whom I just spent the past four days. Carolyn Lee told us this would happen in staging when we traveled 20 years ago… That the time would go too quickly, but that was for our year on the road. She didn’t warn us about the incredible and bucket-filling moments that would continue for the rest of our lives.

I’m feeling the feels differently this time. I think because of all I explained in Part 1 of this blog. I’m not sad to return home… at least not for the fear of losing the true me (as I have felt previously). I’m sad because I’m realizing now more than ever before how much I love each and every member of Cast C98 because of who THEY are… because they let me BE ME… because we love each other for WHO WE ARE INDIVIDUALLY without the need to change another… because we shared something INCREDIBLE… because we’ve GROWN together even while apart, transcending time, space, and change, quite literally… because they comprise some of the HAPPIEST time periods of my life… because they make me BETTER… and for 1000 more reasons.

I am simultaneously exhausted and rejuvenated. I can’t stop the tears—both happy and sad. I’m convinced the person seated beside me on this plane thinks I’m having a mental breakdown. Between the videos of singing, dancing, and shouting that I’ve played, to my less than inconspicuous wiping of tears that just keep rolling… I worry someone might offer me a straight jacket and padded room.

If only they understood.

If only I had the words to explain it.

Now, in all honesty, I’ll gladly trade this Arizona dry heat for my Virginia humidity with cooler temperatures. I am ready to be home—in my own bed, not living out of a suitcase (how did I do that for an entire year?), with my amazing Trifecta nearby to make me laugh and to distract me with the daily mundane tasks and miraculous moments that are part of motherhood.

Even looking forward to all that, I wouldn’t trade one second of the past 96 hours.

Oh, how I wish I could bottle up this feeling. To take everyone home with me. To find the energy that I get when I’m around this particular group of old friends and bring it into my daily life.  To have my children play in a swimming pool with the children of my international friends—where language is a barrier but smiles are not.

I don’t want to say goodbye to these people I love and not know for certain that I’ll see them again. That may be the hardest part. Perhaps it isn’t sadness. Maybe it is fear. Fear that I or someone I love won’t be there the next time… that there won’t be a next time.

Many know that when I struggle with my own words, I most often turn to the words of others—specifically, to music and lyrics that inspire me. Music is another very strong braided tether for this shared experience.

So when I am struggling, I turn to music. And, I think for now, lest they remove me from the plane for a psych eval, I’ll leave you with some Up with People lyrics that apply…

“I saw the world without any borders, Without any fighting without any fear. So Captain give the order, We’re going to cross the next frontier. I know this view won’t last forever, Soon I’ll be back to reality. But isn’t it the way we perceive things, That makes them what they will be?”

Cast C98- you opened my eyes, broadened my horizons, taught me about limitations and breaking them, and make me look at this world, complicated and compelling as it is, in a completely different and beautiful way than I otherwise would have.

“Wherever you may live, whoever you might be, What’s happening to you, is happening to me. How can I turn away, pretend that I don’t see, What’s happening to you, is happening to me…

…And when we cry, we cry together, When we survive, we survive together. And when we rise we rise together, Our destinies are tied together.”

Though we are far away from each other, I see you… all of you Cast C98. I care for and about you, your hometowns, and those you love. I’ll fight for you, your rights, and your happiness just like I’d fight for my own children and myself. May the entirety of the world one day understand that we can be brought together in friendship and understanding (and maybe with a little music).

“There are many roads to go. And, they go by many names. We don’t all go the same way, but we get there just the same. And I have a feeling, that we’ll meet some day. Where the roads come together, up the way… together…”

I know we each have a journey of our own and I feel tremendously blessed that our paths have crossed at least once. I hope for all of us, that they cross again in a way and place that I can hug your necks. My belief structure gives me hope that even if our passing again isn’t in this Earthly world, that we will meet again in the afterlife. ‘Cause I’m pretty sure none of us are getting out of here alive anyway.

“One to one we change the world by giving to another. A helping hand along the way. A simple act of love is what changes are made of, so one to one we change the world.”

Cast C98—you have given me SO much! Your love and friendship have claimed a permanent space in my heart. I will never be able to repay or replace any of you. You absolutely and unequivocally have changed me for the better.

Thank you, Cast C98, for being you, for loving me, and for sharing this remarkable journey. Until we meet again…

 I’ve been thinking a lot about civility lately. What does it mean? Whom does it help? Whom does it hinder? How is it defined? Why does it matter?

I work in Communications for Student Affairs at Virginia Tech and we (Student Affairs) have five Aspirations for Student Learning. The Aspirations speak to me, personally, and were one of the reasons I accepted a position within this division of the institution.

I’m also a mom and the five Aspirations are what I’d hope for my own children’s lives. It’s not that I don’t try to instill these values on my own as a parent; I do. And, I think the developmental stage of life at which point college traditionally happens is significant. It is often during this same period that a young person first experiences true independence. So I value that Virginia Tech’s education is about more than just a degree. The Aspirations are about thriving in life… not just in a job or career.

One of our five Aspirations is “Practice Civility.”

As a lover of words, I appreciate the succinct clarity with which the Aspirations are written. I love the call to action that exists in each.  You should note this one says “practice.”

prac·tice [ˈpraktəs]

VERB

1.      perform (an activity) or exercise (a skill) repeatedly or regularly in order to improve or maintain one’s proficiency

It doesn’t say, “exhibit” or “display” or “portray.” It says “practice.”

I understand the basic rules of chess, basketball, and baking, respectively; however, it doesn’t mean I’m good at any of those. Sheer understanding does not necessarily improve one’s skill set. I’m certain I’ll never be as good as Jose Capablanca, Chamique Holdsclaw, or Yigit Pura. Perhaps your grandmother offered the same rhetoric as mine… “Practice makes perfect.” As with most old adages, therein lies a wealth of truth.

So while you may hold the door for another patron or mind your manners with a frequent “please” and “thank you,” what would it look like if we ALL really, truly PRACTICED civility? In deed and in word.

Our country is in a very curious place right now. We are deeply divided in ideology, politics, and values. Perhaps we’ve always been and the change I’m experiencing is more about a robust free expression of those beliefs without concern for delivery or impact… and, in some cases, without concern for the truth.

As I grow in my own cultural competence, I continue to reflect on my privilege, experiences, and learning. The blind spots (as an individual who lives largely in the majority) are many. I experienced my entry into this personal growth endeavor as a very public and painful “calling out” of me as someone so opposite who I thought I was.

Yet, in life, we have choices so I decided to work hard to become who I thought I was… who I wanted to be… instead of avoidance, denial, and a steadfast holding on to who I was. I didn’t do it alone. Growth is seldom a solo act. I was extended extreme grace, patience, love, and education… civility if you will… from those who owe it to me least. In fact, those individuals OWE me nothing. Just the opposite really.

It hasn’t been a smooth or easy journey. It is downright hard and exhausting at times. I also know that my own discomfort in awareness and growth is not nearly as difficult as life, in general, is for a person of color… or for an individual who is gender non-conforming… or for those who are homosexual… or who are not able-bodied… and the list goes on. My journey has really just begun. This isn’t an endeavor where one ever “arrives.”

Back to “practicing civility.”

I’ve been considering the benefits extended to me with regard to civility that others don’t receive. For example, I am allowed to become passionate and emboldened. I can raise my voice. I can use well-placed profanity to make a point. I can sit comfortably in a belief that “this or that” justification and accusation, so long as delivered with my typical charm, is normally received as a form of civility.

The reality is that others can’t do the same. Civility, as a concept, is used against them. Individuals exhibiting the same behavior as me, but who reside in the margins, are called out for being angry, unreasonable, even raging. We, the majority, often don’t allow our colleagues and acquaintances who are different from us the same privilege. Privileges we expect and demand, but don’t extend.

AND, I can identify the ways I can shut down a conversation. How I try to “win” a dialogue as if it were a debate. How I get in my own way on this growth journey toward cultural competence… frequently against my own well-meaning co-allies. In particular, I know I’ve been accusatory and demeaning of my Christian peers and white male counterparts, as a collective. Unintentionally of course… or maybe just unaware (until now). Unfair for sure.

Dialogue, discussion, and effective communication only happen when all parties share an equal voice and are able to exchange ideas and truths. No matter how difficult to say or hear. While so many have been silenced for too damn long, we must work hard… PRACTICE if you will… not to disenfranchise those individuals firmly planted in the majority who, like with so much of our history, hold the greatest power to affect systemic change.

All of this to say, I think the brilliant minds who created the Aspirations for Student Learning understood far greater than I the power of words and the aspirational concept of civility. AND, I think we ALL have to do better and work harder to invite in voices different from our own—even if they look like us. We need to ask ourselves when we are “taken aback” by the comments or emotional response from an individual in the margins if our reaction would be the same if it came from our mothers, fathers, brothers, and sisters. Do we hold implicit bias in ways we don’t even recognize? Are we working toward understanding or winning? Have we done our own work to educate and understand the perspectives being shared?

We won’t always get it right. But we have to keep trying.

I’d say we need all the practice we can get.

It’s beginning to look like Christmas…

Okay, who am I kidding? It is freaking Christmas!

The tree is decorated, and the stockings are hung. School is out. We’ve already logged several hundred miles in the minivan visiting family and I’ve consumed more than my fair share of sugar cookies and red wine. We’ve even had a fleeting flurry of the white stuff. This is, without question, my favorite time of the year. By October 1, I’m craving a peppermint mocha and some Christmas music. By November 1, I’m Amazon Prime’s favorite customer. Come December 1, we’ll geez, it’s like I’m an elf stuck in a disco-themed, greased up, spiral ice luge shooting downhill toward New Year’s Day.

It can be hard to maintain focus on the truly important things. It’s the Disney World of holidays for children—where they go from elated to meltdown in 3.5 seconds. Society’s demand sometimes take control. Elves need to be moved. Presents need to be wrapped. Christmas cards need to be signed, stuffed, stamped, and licked.

But as I sit here at 6:59 a.m. on Christmas Eve morning beside my lit-up tree and mantle, looking at stockings I made by hand (just as my mom made mine), I cherish the quiet of the world.  The sun isn’t up yet… neither are my girls. Rosey, our cat, is a spaz—but that is her normal. A cup of coffee is brewing, and, for just a moment, I have some me time to reflect.

In the past 24 hours, I’ve cuddled and cooed a friend’s baby and cried over the loss of another friend’s father. I’ve hugged my own tearful and exhausted daughter, as well as my incredible and helpful mother. We’ve sung carols, laughed with friends, and missed those who are far away. Our elves, Sparkle and Rocky, have found their final perch for the 2017 season and I’m mentally thinking about how to keep today calm and the focus on kindness, love, and the real reason for the season.

2017 was a good year. I turned 40, which is mildly liberating. I traveled to new places as well as some old favorites. I’ve watched my daughters come into their own pursuing passions old and new… I have an accomplished gymnast, equestrian, and ballerina. We moved into a beautiful new home that makes my heart happy every time I walk through the door. I have love and a best friend wrapped up into one amazing man who accepts, supports, and encourages me. My work is rewarding, and my colleagues are creative and inspiring. And my family, immediate and extended, has enjoyed good health. We’ve laughed a lot and loved hard. From blue ribbons and leading roles, to quiet moments and girly giggles… my cup runneth over. It is no exaggeration to say I’m blessed beyond measure.

So as the final days of 2017 come to a close, I’ll cherish them all—the easy and hard—and pay forward the goodwill, gratitude, and generosity.

 

 

Some day we will both look back and have to laugh

We lived through a lifetime and the aftermath

 But this is the time you’ll turn back and so will I

And those will be the days you can never recall

There are moments in life that bind us in ways we sometimes don’t realize. And there is something rather amazing about real and true friendships, the kind that last for decades. Friendships that have peaks and pits, curvy roads and stand-still traffic, U-turns and roundabouts… but no dead ends.

I’m not an open person. I’m authentic—what you see is what you get—but I don’t offer my most vulnerable self to many people. In true Cancer zodiac form, I’m a crab. The hard exterior shell is pretty accurate—the protective suit of armor is always on, because I’m soft and easily wounded beneath that shell. Reciprocity and loyalty matter to me… maybe more now than ever before in my life.

I spent four years in high school with folks I’d now refer to as mere acquaintance. My time in college, even as a member of a sorority, yields less than a handful of, again, present-day acquaintances. Facebook says I have nearly a thousand friends, but that’s a hyperbolic misnomer… nothing more than a modern-day electronic Rolodex with photos and status updates.

So having formed friendships in my twenties that are still going in my forties is a truly special thing. Maybe it was the travel and the long bus trips, the culture shock across more than a dozen countries, the “Broadway-style show” plot or how they understand my music, the life-altering and transformational experience, or perhaps just common moments shared with people who become your makeshift family for a year. That year, by the way, was 1998.

It wasn’t even a year, really—a mere 348 days if the specifics matter to you. It’s not that the year itself wasn’t incredible… I mean, it was, obviously. But I’m not sure I knew twenty years ago that the real gift of the experience was going to be a lifetime of friendships. This group, these friends, it’s different with them. And I can’t quite tell you how or why.

I adore these people… and I’ve been disappointed in them. I’ve cheered them from afar and cried in their presence. I’ve supported them in their best and worst moments, even if I wasn’t physically present or as vocal as I should have been. I’ve annoyed them and they’ve irritated me. I’ve caroused with them, sang and danced with them, laughed hysterically with them, and loved them. Actually, let’s change that to present tense…

I LOVE them… unconditionally.

Maybe that is it. The unconditional part.

We’ve traveled, moved, and relocated again—my address book now a memoir of our lives.

We’ve started careers, quit jobs, chased dreams, and sometimes just stuck with the less fulfilling.

We’ve mailed treats and goodies, baby gifts, and holiday cards not just across state lines but also country borders—hoping to lessen the distance and feel a bit closer to one another.

We’ve fallen in love and broken hearts—our own and others, and in some cases each other’s.

We’ve been (are) single and quite saucy. We’ve gone on blind dates, dabbled online, and tested every hookup… ahem, relationship… app known to humankind. We’ve gotten married, and divorced. We’ve chosen life partners. More so, we’ve chosen love.

We’ve chosen love that doesn’t care about idiosyncrasy or oddness. Love that ignores status quo and antiquated standards. Love that accepts and honors. Love that lets you be you. Love that may manifest outwardly as picked at or picked on, but is far more kinship than cruelty.

It really is the old adage… “a friend is someone who knows all about you and loves you anyway.” Let’s suffice it to say I know A LOT about these folks, far more than I should. (Oh the tangled webs we weave, eh?)

And you know what? I cherish everything about them. It is a privilege to have them in my life and call them my friends. I’ll honor  the friendship we share as long as I’m on this Earth.

(Cheers kitties! I’ll see you at happy hour, if not before.)

Time. It’s a funny thing. 60 seconds to each minute. 60 minutes to each hour. 24 hours to each day. 365 days to each year (a bonus day even if it’s a Leap Year).

It’s so… measured and predictable.

The Earth spins on its axis every 24 hours and goes around the sun every 365 days.

I turn 40 years old in 49 days. When I was creating my 40×40 bucket list, I added a rather random item. I said I wanted to “chase the sun”—to see it rise on the east coast and set on the west coast in the same day. It was both romantic concept and travel-karma challenge.

Those who know me and follow me on social media know that I have been—still am?—airline travel challenged. I don’t know what travel god I pissed off, but it seems my punishment includes delays, sprinting through airports, missed flights, cancellations, and lost luggage. A trip that goes uninterrupted by these is much more the anomaly. To think I could actually accomplish this feat was… well, going to be a challenge.

I actually thought at one point that I’d have to finagle this bucket list item—considering how I might get across the state of Florida or perhaps Virginia’s Eastern Shore in the same day—to accomplish at least a modified version of the task I’d defined (spirit of the law sort of deal). But that just didn’t seem right. So I did some research and planning. I looked up flight times, connections, first daylight and sunrise schedules, sunset and dusk calendars, and I decided what better opportunity than to also accomplish another bucket list item:

Take a vacation alone.

I’m a very extroverted introvert. I can pull out the charm, put on the schmooze, work a room, or be spunky for whatever occasion or duration calls. But once done, I’m exhausted. It does not give me energy. It sucks it out of me. And, I’m a single-mom to three little girls– ages 10, 8 and almost 5 years old. So the idea of free time, relaxation, or doing nothing—or doing ANYTHING actually ALONE—well, um, foreign concept. I’ve barely peed alone I the past ten years, much less taken a vacation.

So I’m off. I’m chasing the sun. I’m vacationing alone across Memorial Day weekend 2017.

I departed Virginia on Friday night—perfectly timing a Fancy Gap sunset.

I woke early in Charlotte on Saturday morning to catch Mr. Sunshine and his orange-pink skies come up over the Queen City’s skyline.

And Saturday night, I enjoyed a glass of Prosecco and some lobster risotto as the San Diego sun began its decent into the Pacific Ocean, moving outside to sit among the Mission Bay rocks as it crept lower and more beautifully behind the Mission Beach palm trees.

I effectively and without interruption chased the sun. And it was glorious. Especially since the Pacific Coast concepts of “May Grey” leading to “June Gloom” were not shared in my trip-planning tourism research. It is a fair and accurate statement to say that there were no other sunsets during my visit. Or rather, I’m sure it set—just behind some very thick “blackout” clouds. It was a whole new twist on Fifty Shades of Grey. I got pretty lucky I’d say.

I must admit the vacation alone concept was a nice thought but the reality was quite glorious. I’ve finished a novel and started a new one. I’ve written two blogs. I’ve colored in my stress-free meditation coloring book. I rented a city bike and putzed around for nearly 2 hours (which my ass still feels). Despite the cooler than I expected temperatures, I donned my bathing suit and sat by the pool. Delightful idea, but deceiving given my new UVA/UVB damaged skin– my thighs, forehead, and nose are proof courtesy of the sun burn that resulted. I ate multiple meals alone, perfectly content. I put my phone and technology aside. I slept 12 straight hours (what?!). I enjoyed spa treatments without guilt and stayed super slick, slimy, and greasy for hours after just to indulge the moisturization saturation.

And, 36 hours in… I was going a little bit stir-crazy.

Don’t get me wrong, it was great. And I was all good. But I discovered I want an afternoon or a day off occasionally, not a life (or vacation) alone. I want to be adventurous, spontaneous, and people watch my way through life with others.

So, when my handsome Coloradoan beau Jack said, “I’m here” through my iPhone– I’m pretty sure the cove seals heard this human squeal. My buddy, compadre, and partner in crime came to save my stir-crazy self. I’d chased the sun, vacationed alone (as much as I wanted to), and now had my better half by my side. We were silly with in the Lyft singing Madonna’s Like a Prayer, shared a Deuce Coupe in Balboa Park (scaring the bejesus out of him while driving a bit wildly and laughing like a hyena), walked aimlessly around Coronado Island and shared a gigantic pretzel (with a un-labeled spicy mustard that was so hot my nose hairs singed and Jack’s head itched), and enjoyed a meal not alone, but rather in the company of another over a wonderful bottle of red and some enlightening and amusing conversation.

I’d had 48 hours alone and 36 hours with my best friend. I’d choose the latter a thousand times over.

I chased the sun and found my sunshine. I vacationed alone and explored in tandem. And I realized that, while I need moments of peace and quiet occasionally, I absolutely adore my life and the chaos of my normal. I missed hearing my Trifecta’s giggles and arguing—as well as the word “mom” uttered 22 times per minute. I missed my cat Rosey crawling into my lap and demanding a head scratch. I missed my mom’s loving, supportive presence and occasional nagging about laundry piles, scattered shoes, or the girls’ bedtimes. And I realized even more how much I miss having Jack as part of my daily… the laughter he elicits, the encouragement he provides, and the unconditional love he gives.

The very dear Patty Perillo often says, all good things happen in the context of relationship. And I couldn’t agree more. Being “in relation” with others—whether co-workers, family, or the random Lyft driver who attended Virginia Tech—is what makes life worth living. The capacity to share, love, and connect is one of life’s greatest joys. I’m lucky to have so many people whom I miss so readily.

Farewell San Diego and California sunsets, I’m heading back to my East Coast chaos and carrying Colorado with me. It’s been real.

If I cannot do great things, I can do small things in a great way. ~Martin Luther King Jr.

I just finished one of the best books I have ever read. Small Great Things, a novel by best-selling author Jodi Picoult. It’s poignant, complicated, informative, and powerful. My colleague and dear friend, Holly Paulette, recommend it to me. After several months of it sitting by my desk at work, as I admired the colorful Polaroid-like squares on the cover, I finally picked it up and started to read. Now, having finished it, I know that while I’ll return Holly’s book to her, I will also be purchasing a permanent copy for my personal bookshelf. And, you should too.

We live in interesting times. Turning on the television, radio, or scrolling through your social media feeds, it is hard to deny that we are a country… maybe even a world… divided. The inequity and injustices are plentiful. Which, I think, is why a line from this book hit home a little harder than others (and there were many!).

“We are supposed to be the [legal] guardians of a post-racial society. But, you know, the word ignorance has an even more important word at its heart: ignore. And I don’t think it’s right to ignore the truth any longer.”

October 9, 2013, was- without question- one of the hardest days of my professional life. Why? Because everything I thought I believed about myself was brought into question, put on display, and held up as a shining example of white privilege—though I wasn’t even familiar with that concept at the time. It was like I had been stripped naked and put on display in the town square, each and every flaw being pointed out for others to see.

I had just started a new job as the chief of staff to Vice President of Student Affairs, Dr. Patty Perillo, at Virginia Tech. I was attending a leadership team meeting, a fall retreat, with more than 20 directors of various departments throughout the Division of Student Affairs. Our retreat focus was intercultural competence and our facilitator that day was the Rev. Dr. Jamie Washington.

Per his website, he is known as “The Engagement Specialist,” and sees himself as an instrument of change. It goes on to note that he works every day to help people find the best in themselves and others, and that he lives by the words of one of his favorite songs:

If I can help somebody as I pass along, If I can cheer somebody with a word or song, If I can show somebody that he [or she] has traveled wrong, Then My Living Shall Not Be in Vain.” ~Mahalia Jackson

Of course, the problem with learning you have (are?) traveling wrong, as Dr. Washington pointed out to me, is you sometimes get lost more before you find your way. And that is exactly what happened to me.

I’ve always been a hard worker, earning “my keep” so to speak. I spent a year traveling with the international organization Up with People, whose entire purpose and mission is “bringing the world together.” I was cognizant of slang, derogatory terms, and off-color jokes… and I avoided uttering them. I thought I understood the concepts of prejudice, racism, and social justice.

I was wrong.

And on this day, with Dr. Washington, it was made abundantly… and publicly… and painfully clear to me.

It also created a tsunami of personal discomfort, reflection, awareness, and realization about who I really was… and, more so, who I desired to be. And while the waves of that massive tsunami are now gone (almost 4 years later), the debris and destruction… the scars… remain. Destruction means you can rebuild. Scars mean you survived. I’m different, but better. I’ve been rebuilding me. I’m not ashamed of who I was, instead I’m inspired to do and be better. I’m willing to be uncomfortable, admit I’m wrong, and do my own work. And, I’m awake.

I will not conspire with ignorance, because I will not ignore the truth.

The truth is I’m white. I’m Christian. I’m cisgender. I’m heterosexual. I’m formally educated. I was raised upper-middle class, now upper class. I hold a full-time job. I own a car and a house. I am debt-free. I have good health and quality health insurance. I have access to childcare for my children, and can afford it. I don’t worry where my next meal will come from and never have. I travel for fun. I’m a single-mom and wear that adjective as an honor badge more than a scarlet letter.

I could pat myself on the back. I could say I’ve earned everything on my own through hard-work and dedication. I could talk about how blessed, lucky, and fortunate I am (or shall I say privileged?).

I could be ignorant.

I could ignore reality.

I could lie.

But I won’t.

Because the truth is that I was born into and have been surrounded by privilege and a system that benefits me.

I can walk down a street in a hoodie without fear and with my head held high. I can get pulled over by a police officer and not fear for my life… likely even receiving only a warning, not a ticket. My name doesn’t give away my gender, nor does it imply ethnicity of any kind, when I send an email or apply for a job. I present female and date men– society’s status quo. I have visible tattoos as well as dark hair with streaks of blue, purple, and green—and it doesn’t affect my career, doesn’t call into question my ability to mother, and draws more positive attention than negative.

This is privilege. And not everyone has nor enjoys it.

I used to hate the word. I remember one time when I was told that I was “born with a silver spoon in my mouth” and I fired back, offended. I remember another time when I argued with an individual who said, “you didn’t get here alone” wanting to believe I worked hard and did it all myself. And I still cringe at that date in October 2013, when a colleague said to me, “It must be nice to sit in such a place of privilege to not have to think about [what makes us different].”

Oh, how her words caused a visceral reaction in me. How I cried, shook, got nauseous, became angry, and went home and straight to bed sick with the reality of who I was… a fake, a phony, an unknowing closeted racist. It hurts to even type that now. It was all so different from my own impression of self. Because of the color of my skin, because I’m financially stable, because the system is built for me, I qualify. My lack of awareness and education on the topic of social justice was contributing to the problem. I didn’t like that. And I decided this is NOT who I wanted to be, nor how I wanted to live in this world.

I could have chosen ignorance. I could have chosen to ignore the facts slapping me hard in the face. I could have pretended to not see, refuse to acknowledge, and gone on about my life. That’s what privilege allows. Choice… ah, the epicenter of privilege.

Despite the Pandora’s Box of emotions and realities I needed to acknowledge… the self-awareness and self-education I needed to embrace… ignorance wasn’t isn’t an option. And, this is a project and process that I’ll never finish, a task I’ll never complete. I will never arrive and claim success. Because every day a new facet of my privilege is highlighted—my ignorance unveiled.

If you are reading this and you think… “I’m not like that” or “This doesn’t apply to me.”

Here is a mirror. Check yourself.

Racism is individual, institutionalized, and systemic. It’s about power—who has it and who doesn’t.

I know, I know… you don’t see color, you have Black and Brown friends, your cousin is gay, ALL Lives Matter. (Step 1: Stop saying these things immediately!) Yep, yep… the world is so much better now than it used to be. (Have you ever stopped to ask, for whom?) This– these reactions and responses– they are called deflection.

Are you white?

Are you male?

Are you straight?

Are you Christian?

Are you cis-gendered? (Do you even know what cisgender is? Because several years ago, I didn’t.)

If you answered “yes” to any of these, allow me to introduce you to your privilege.

If you are having a reaction right now, it is okay. You will be okay- I promise! I invite you to Google search the term “white fragility.” Or HERE, I’ll help by making it easy. It’s real. I experienced it and you might be experiencing it too.

Claiming you aren’t prejudice, saying you aren’t racist – it doesn’t make it untrue, it just is either you 1) claiming your privilege or 2) embracing your ignorance.

So, all of this “me-on-my-soapbox ranting” is to say, take one step. Just one. It’s easy. Read Small Great Things by Jodi Picoult. It’s beautiful and complicated and a perfect first step toward considering how you might be contributing to and benefiting from racism.

Oh, and Dr. Washington, your life is most certainly not in vain! Case in point: ME! Thank you, sir. You’ve been one my life’s greatest lessons.