I don’t know if I’d say today is fascinating, but I do find it very interesting. As I sit here at my kitchen table, the house is peacefully quiet.  Outside my window there are blue skies, sunshine, gorgeously-blooming red bud trees, and birds chirping like in a Disney animated classic. I see blue jays and cardinals, robins, and what I think is a yellow finch.  My ice water is cold and refreshing opposite my coffee that is hot and strong.

For me and those of the Christian faith, today is Easter Sunday—the resurrection of Jesus Christ after his crucifixion by the Romans.

For my Jewish friends, they are in the midst of Passover—a multi-day commemoration of their liberation by God from slavery in Egypt.

Commercially, and for chocolate and jelly bean lovers of the world, today is secular Easter. Where baskets overflow with goodies, plastic and hard-boiled eggs are hidden and found, and where your Sunday attire might include pretty dresses and bonnets or seersucker suits and bowties.

And for the Hokie Nation, today is the 10th anniversary of what is known as the Virginia Tech tragedy… or Virginia Tech shooting… or Virginia Tech massacre. It was unquestionably a tragedy.  It was a mass shooting. And it was, by definition, a massacre… though we shy away from that word.  While etymologically accurate, most who are close to it cannot ascribe such a harsh and painful word for what happened to such a wonderful community. We find it hard to believe that “one of our own” could cause such harm, pain, aguish, sorrow, and grief.

One of our own.  It’s a controversial thought, I know. And, I absolutely own that I might sit alone in my thinking.

I’ve always found it… interesting… how humanity copes with the unexplainable. But no matter how you wish to accept and remember reality, how you wish to rationalize and justify the unthinkable… we lost 33 Hokies that day ten years ago. Originally, 33 stones were placed at the memorial.  But as anger and politics play out, we have managed to erase him from the equation.

I won’t say his name. I can’t.  As I am still haunted by the images in my brain that I simply cannot erase.  I do not accept, condone, or rationalize what he did.  But I do think about his family… his parents, his sister.  I wonder what these past ten years have been like for them. And I think about him… and the days, weeks, and years of his life before April 16, 2007. I wonder what stone thrown in the pond of his life may have caused a ripple changing the course of all OUR futures.

I participated, for the first time ever, in the 3.2 for 32 yesterday. My walking partner for that event (because I couldn’t imagine participating solo) is, without question, one of the truest, most dedicated, and loyal Hokies I’ve ever known.  As we walked and reminisced on that day ten years ago, and the years in between, she shared a quote that I can’t remember enough to accurately attribute, though the essence of it has lingered. It was the idea that the worst thing wasn’t having your child shot, but to have your child be the shooter.  As a mother, both are truly unfathomable to me.

What I can fathom and do understand is that mental illness is an epidemic in the United States. We are woefully ignorant, severely under-resourced, and largely judgmental of those who are courageous enough to share their challenge.  The stigma is too great for many to acknowledge, much less seek help.

So, in this instance, like so many others, we “forget” the individual and the circumstances that perhaps influenced their actions.  Instead, we argue for safer campuses and tougher gun laws.  Please don’t misunderstand, I desire those things as well. But I wonder what the world would look like if, instead, we eradicated bullying… if we fought for kindness, inclusion, and belonging… if we stopped stigmatizing therapy and counseling and had ample resources to make those outlets accessible to all.

Virginia Tech is an incredible community and, despite it not being my alma mater, I am undeniably a Hokie.  This community- the Hokie Nation- showed our compassion and strength in those raw and overwhelming moments ten years ago. And, we continue to show our resilience and solidarity today.

So, yes, I find today… interesting. I’m not overtly religious. I’d say I’m more spiritual. And part of my spirituality is a belief in the connectedness of all things. It is not lost on me that the Hokie nation shares this poignant anniversary with differing religious holidays that celebrate revival and freedom, respectively. I wonder if there is divine intervention in that? A message we might receive if we can be open enough?

Today is drastically different than ten years ago.  There are blue skies and sunshine. There is hope. And the 32… no… the 33 Hokies we lost that day represent all that Virginia Tech is.  We are diverse and dedicated, beautiful and broken. We are conflicted and committed. We are enigmatic, complicated, and infinitely connected. We are imperfect and inspiring.

We are the Hokie Nation.

If I have a wish for the future, it would be that our light shine even brighter and farther. That we continue to show grace and gratitude. That we accept each other without omission or disclaimer.  That we love each other infinitely and intentionally. And that we are an example to the world of complicated and conflicted compassion.

At tonight’s vigil, as I light my own candle and spread the light to others, I’ll be singing a tune in my head.  A prayer for all of us.

This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine. This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine.  This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine.  Let it shine. Let it shine. Let it shine to show my love.

Shine on, Hokies!  Shine on!

This weekend was daylight savings time. It’s a full moon. They are calling for snow. If you’re on the Atlantic coast, those also apply to you.

Zoom in on Google maps to my little slice of small town Virginia.

I’m a single mom to three little girls ages 10, 7, and 4. I work a very demanding full-time job. I’m in the processing of moving to a new home.

I have one daughter who is a joyful living terror and gives new meaning to the term stubborn; one daughter who is beautifully unique, but navigating how to be a fish in a bird’s world; and, one daughter who is thoughtful and brilliant, yet determined to perfect the art of eye-rolling and melodrama.  I have one daughter who went to school in her pajamas today because I gave up the fight to get her dressed; I’m on a mission to teach another daughter the states of matter and whether energy is added or removed in the process of condensation, evaporation, freezing, and melting; and, for another daughter, I swear it’d be easier to shave her head Sinead O’Connor style than to put up the fight to brush it twice daily.  Reminder: I only have 3 daughters—but it feels like more given they are complex, complicated, beautiful, tenacious, head-strong, and PERSISTENT women who I absolutely adore and admire… and they wear me out.

As for me… Well, I don’t like my body. I can’t get my hair to do what I want it to. I feel intellectually inferior on my best days. I cannot keep a plant alive, even if my life depended on it. My mini-van could feed a small army of stranded gnomes with stale goldfish and crusty French fry parts.  My house could presently be mistaken for a flea market.  And my life, altogether combined, feels like DEFCON1.

I am in the last few months of my thirties and tired. Not just tired, exhausted. Exhausted like there isn’t enough caffeine in the world AND I ran a marathon… with no time to eat, pee, or rejuvenate. And, today, I am struggling more than normal.  Maybe not struggling so much as emotional.  It’s one of those days where the cups of “eye liquid” are overflowing and one innocent bat of the eyelashes in an attempt to be coy may actually result in tears streaming down. Today is the type of day where I wonder if I will get it all done… ever. A day when I think I’m probably ruining the three most important things I’ve ever created… little people who’ve been entrusted to me.  In short, I question my worth and I feel not good enough.

So, now that I’ve managed to leave work, have a parent-teacher conference with my ex as we practice co-parenting, pick up that beautiful trifecta, get them home, execute homework, put food in their bellies (via the leftovers of a kind and generous soul), and consumed one (okay, two– truth be told) glasses of red wine, I’m writing.  I’m allowing my little people to bathe themselves (no one is drowning, I promise) and to enjoy the mindless act of watching television while I take a moment for myself.

And this is what I’ve decided… there is no way that I can be the ONLY person feeling inadequate in this world.  There is no way that I’m the only person who is tired, emotional, struggling, and questioning—albeit the numerous blessings and privileges of which I’m so keenly aware. These are all first-world problems.  I get that.

In fact, even writing this reminds me of an Ally McBeal episode (dating myself here—but you can Google that lovely show if you are unfamiliar), where Ally says…

So, please don’t judge me, because I’m judging myself enough right now.  And what I’m hoping… what I’m praying for… is that one of two things happens:  1) That I find some relief in taking this 30 minutes to record my thoughts.  And, maybe—just maybe—2) That what I write will authentically resonate with another momma who just needs to hear these words so as to know she is not alone (because I, most certainly– despite whatever appearances I portray–do NOT have my shit together and you are welcome to join my club!).

That said, I’m going to do what my therapist and many a friend has said to do…  “Instead of being so hard on yourself, what would you say to a friend?”

So this is what I’d say. I figure if I need to hear it, maybe there are others out there who need to hear it too…

You are ENOUGH.  You are strong beyond measure.  You are smarter than you give yourself credit. You are courageous and have the strength of 1,000 armies. You are thoughtful, kind, and sincere. You are doing your best and that IS enough. Ignore the haters and nay-sayers.

Your children think you are amazing—yes, EVEN when you fuss, nag, yell, and scold.  That’s your job!  Be their mother.  Being their friend is secondary.

You are beautiful—a divine creation and goddess who walks this planet.  What you see in the mirror and in your mind is distorted by society and perfection and unrealistic expectation. You brought life into this world– you are nothing short of a miracle! Your soft spots are hug-able, your curves attractive, your scars proof of all that you’ve survived, and your wrinkles are indicative of laughter and smiles.

Be as kind to yourself as you are to others.  Take care of yourself. Remember—you have to put on your own oxygen mask first so as to be helpful to those around you.

Your children love Spaghetti O’s and Kraft Mac n’ Cheese… these are gourmet meals in their eyes. Stop judging yourself.  Instead, sit down and enjoy the moment– eating with them rather than worrying if there is something green on the table. If they are happy, you’ll be happy! If they are sad, be their mom—tell them you love them.  Then tell yourself the same.

You are a role model—to your children, your friends, your colleagues, and to others you’ll never even know whose lives you’ve touched.

Drink more water. Get more sleep. Exercise when you can. Take a mental health day if you need one. Breath in deep and exhale (repeat 10 times).  Enjoy some fresh, crisp outdoor air.  Take a walk or go for a run.  Have another glass of wine.   🙂

Say “no” when you need to.  Set your own expectations and raise your own bar—don’t let others define you, your work, your life, or your happiness.

Find something to be grateful for… daily.  Say nothing but “thank you” when you receive a compliment.

YOU ARE ENOUGH.

YOU ARE LOVED.

YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL—INSIDE AND OUT.

YOU ARE NOT ALONE.

Now, go read a bedtime story and snuggle your little ones to sleep.  Then watch The Bachelor or read a novel. Take a bubble bath or go to sleep. But no matter what…

YOU DO YOU… because you are nothing short of absolute inspiration, even on the days you don’t see it in yourself!

I see it in you (and I hope you see it in me too). We are the warriors and the winners and the wonder of this world!

#WonderWomen

#NeverthelessShePersisted

I originally drafted much of this on November 9 — the day after the 2016 presidential election. I finish it tonight—January 10, 2017—following President Obama’s farewell address.

I want to quit, I do. But I won’t. Instead, I’m going to write. But I’m going to write carefully and thoughtfully. I’m going to draft it, edit it, re-read it, let it sit, read it again. Maybe I’ll share it with the world, maybe I won’t. But I need an escape, my heart is heavy, and my head is a jumbled mess… so I’m going to write.

Donald Trump was named president-elect to the United States  of America in the wee hours of the morning. I’m with her… was with her. I wasn’t always with her, but I was never with him.

The range of emotions I’m feeling includes sadness, shock, deflation, worry, angst, and uncertainty.

I had a vision of celebrating the first woman president with my three young daughters this morning. To say to them, “You can be anything you want in this world!” and know—finally—that it was the truth. To see the glass ceiling shattered forever… to quietly reflect over coffee that the presidency during my daughters’ childhoods did not have a white male at the helm.

Now, let me pause right there. I’m white. I like white men. No objections to white men. I have even—wait for it—voted for white men previously (a somewhat “Captain Obvious” statement I realize).  Now, go ahead and laugh, that is supposed to be funny.

But seriously, how cool would it be after 43 straight white dudes (I meant “straight” as consecutive, but now I simply cannot correct that play on words) to have a black president followed by a woman president? Progressive, right?

Okay, let me pause again and begin to defend every word I write.

No, I wouldn’t vote based solely on genitalia or chromosome. I’m an issues gal. The whole morning coffee with my daughters thing was just a DreamWorks motion picture playing in my head. Nix that… cutting room floor material now.

So I’ve struggled. No… I’m struggling.

I’m struggling with the continued vitriol. I’ve hurt by the name calling, genuine disrespect, and overall lack of civility—that I’ve received and that I’ve seen others receive—on both sides quite frankly, for being passionate.

I’ve had to take some time to consider how 1) I might be assuming the worst of others and, perhaps more humbling, 2) how others might be assuming the worst about me. This lesson between intent and impact is one we simply must learn—as a country, yes, but perhaps more so as humanity.

While I don’t think anyone cares what I think, hell no one really reads this blog anyway, I feel the need to make clear a few things about ME. I cannot and do not speak for you. I cannot and do not speak for others. I’m speaking for me, myself, and I.

I do not think Hillary is perfect or without flaw. I do not agree with her every view. I do not represent all Hillary supporters, the Pantsuit Nation, or the Village. I represent me.

I know you do not represent all Trump supporters. I also assume that you do not think Trump is perfect or without flaw. I assume you do not agree with his every view. I assume you may not appreciate being likened to a deplorable. I do, however, hope that you found at least some of his rhetoric and behavior to be, at minimum, concerning for a person who is expected to be the leader of the free world. I also assume you might expect the same of me with regard to Hillary.

This is what I will offer… perhaps we see things differently. Perhaps we disagree. Perhaps that which we think will make America great again is drastically different from each other. It certainly seems to be the case.

So I voted.

I voted because it is my civic obligation, responsibility, right, and privilege. I voted because it is my responsibility to my children and future generations. I voted because I believe that my opinions, beliefs, ideas, and views matter… that my voice and my vote matters!

And… I voted for Hillary. By default I voted for the Democratic Party, but that was secondary. I’ve always voted for a person, not a party. My party affiliation is far weaker than my desire for servant leaders to have integrity, charisma, tact, and emotional intelligence.

I do not vote for perfection… or I’d never vote.

Admittedly, it is terribly hard—nearly impossible, but damn I am trying—to understand the affinity for Trump. I’m all for wide-open, say what you think, and throw it all out there with candid authenticity… but I think it is important to note that this freedom isn’t enjoyed the same by all. What we can do and what we should do—well, those are very different things. And, for the love of all that is good in the world… can we not be candid and real with kindness, respect, a measured purpose, sincere intentionality beyond mere shock-value, and accurate information?

I don’t understand the man (Trump). So, yes, I’ve struggled with those who support him. It is hard for me to comprehend how you can choose to ignore some of his most shocking words and actions.  These are not accusations or allegations. They are not unknowns or assumptions. They are actual words spoken and acts committed.

In many ways, his words were heard and received as threats should he win. And he did. So now I’m struggling. So many people, myself included, are just plain scared of the future. I don’t think instilling fear is a worthwhile leadership value.

But you have the right to decide what is important to you… and, for many it would certainly seem, it was about the economy and jobs, healthcare, and taxes. You need something to shift in your world, so you threw a hail Mary. Perhaps it isn’t that you don’t care, you just have a different sphere of influence,a different set of circumstances, and different priorities.

Maybe you can’t worry about race relations because you have medical bills you cannot afford. (Are you white?) Maybe you don’t worry about marriage equality for others because you are unemployed and need to provide for your own family (Are you heterosexual?).

I get it… completely logical actually. I just wonder what it’s like to have medical bills you can’t afford, or be unemployed and have a family to provide for… AND, in addition to these financial challenges, to also know that the odds are stacked against you because you are “other.” And then to know that the leader of our country isn’t necessarily your advocate.

America may be the land of opportunity, but it isn’t yet an equal opportunity for all.

I believe we know the intentions of a Trump presidency… a desire for change that is an anti-government, economy boosting commitment to make America great again. I get it.You want your small business to thrive, your insurance premiums to go down, and big government to become smaller.

I think  we just failed to have a real and honest conversation– or understanding– about what being “great again” looks like. What I know, however, is that the rhetoric didn’t sound so attractive, appealing, and reassuring to many. Surely you can see the concern… can’t you?

I love your unwavering passion as much my own. I haven’t unfriended you… because I value your perspective. Even when I cannot understand or agree with your views, hearing them makes me more knowledgeable. We could all try listening more and talking less I think.

Your spunk means you care. I know because I’m super spunky. Despite my best efforts to not be snarky, I  know I sometimes fail. Reality is — I’ll take passion over apathy any day. But I suspect you aren’t going to suddenly become a wall flower… and neither am I.

So now…

I MARCH, literally and figuratively, into an unknown future. I give louder voice to those who aren’t being heard. I will be an ally to their cause. I’ll use my privilege to advance theirs. I’ll fight to keep my body my own, because I believe that is my right– and not for men, politicians, or the government to decide.

I COMMIT to a future that, as Obama said tonight, is FAIR, JUST, and INCLUSIVE. I want to tell my daughters to change the world and have them believe they can do it! To have role models and to see others blaze a trail. I want them to work hard and earn equal pay. I want parents to not lose their children to senseless acts—whether black, brown, in law enforcement, or otherwise.

And, I LOVE. I think love is love is love. Period. We don’t live in binary. Nothing is that simple. We are complicated human beings. And I believe operating from a place of love and inclusion, versus fear and barriers, is always the best choice.

Oh yeah, and I WON’T QUIT. I’ll continue to live with intention and pay attention to the impact I have, good and bad. I’ll act in small deed and grand gesture FORWARD. I will model the way for my children. This is my legacy; they are my reason.

Lastly, I HOPE. I hope to be surprised not disappointed. I hope to see change and greatness combined. And I’ll try to offer hope to others as I live authentically and keep trying to make hearts happy — all while chiseling away at that fortified glass ceiling.

But to close, I leave you with this quote from Mother Teresa to consider…

“We think sometimes that poverty is only being hungry, naked, and homeless. The poverty of being unwanted, unloved, and uncared for is the greatest poverty.”

I was an idealistic college student when Alanis Morissette’s song Ironic was a Billboard hit. It was a cool tune with melodramatic lyrics from a bitchin’ singer-songwriter.  I thought she was a total badass.  Still do actually. Now, 20 years later (good Lord, how did two decades pass?)… life is, well, a little bit ironic.

Just for the educational value of sharing, Merriam-Webster defines ironic as “strange or funny because something (such as a situation) is different from what you expected.”

Different from what I expected.  Hmmm. Let’s break that down, shall we?

I’m blessed (and I mean that truly; no sarcasm) to be immersed in a professional environment that is learner centered… to be surrounded daily by educators who value and emulate self-authorship.  Admittedly, I often feel like a fish out of water in this environment, and at times it has been incredibly challenging, personally and emotionally. But I am right where I need to be, with the people I need to be surrounded by, doing work that I value… and, perhaps even more importantly, working on myself at the same time.

The beauty of being in this place is that the relationships don’t end at “quitting time.”  I have colleagues I call upon as true and trusted friends.  Work families become weekend playdates. Community is intentional and transcends title, department, and hierarchy.  It’s special and that isn’t lost on me.

So when I gathered recently with a group of amazing women– all of whom I met through my work life– to have authentic conversation, the dialogue led to a place that elicited a pretty strong emotional response from me… somewhat unexpectedly.  We were discussing the question, “Am I living the life I was intended to live?”

What I discovered… and what I find ironic about the irony of my life (did you follow that?)… is I’ve been living a life that OTHERS intend for me to live.  Yet, I’ve only come to know this about myself during the three years that I’ve been in my current professional role… in this inspired environment… and with these amazing educators.

In an earlier blog, I talked about how I’ve always had a plan.  And, how I pretty much tried to follow that plan to create what I thought life was supposed to be.  The plan went something like this… You go to school, you get good grades, you land a great job, you get married, you have 2 kids (1 boy, 1 girl of course), you have a dog that doesn’t shed, a picket fence around your perfectly manicured little lawn, and (hell, for good measure to show exactly how ludicrous this thinking is) let’s add a hot, home-cooked meal on the dining room table with the good china by 6 p.m. every night.

WHATEVER. I’m being a bit exaggerative, but F*#@ THAT!

This, however, wasn’t the surprising part about my realization from the discussion though. I’ve always known that I had a prescribed plan… and that plans too stringent can sometimes prevent you from new opportunities.  What surprised me is that so much of what I’ve done… the choices I’ve made, the things I’ve done… were done from a place of expectation and obligation.  They were done from a place of shame if I didn’t meet a standard, measure up, or “represent” well.  Reputation and name are everything, after all.  And, perhaps hardest to swallow, they were done from a place of yearning for and craving acceptance… and love.

I recall in high school hearing, “remember who you are, where you come from, and what you stand for.”  But that was high school.  Nobody was talking about self-authorship there.  No one stopped long enough to engage in further reflection on… “Who AM I, really?”… or, “Where do I come from and what does that mean to me or say about me to others?”… or, “What DO I stand for and believe in? And WHY?”  Those would have been incredible, and enlightening, questions to consider no doubt.

I feel compelled to say that I have lived a very charmed life.  It’s only recently that I’ve begun to understand my privilege on a variety of levels.  And, admittedly, I continue to struggle accepting it… but it’s there and it’s part of me, so I’m working hard to own it.  And, to use it for good.

I’ll catch hell for quoting him, but I’m going to do it anyway.  My dear colleague Frank Shushok is the author of one of my favorite quotes…

If you are still breathing, you are still becoming!

Thank God!  I still fog up the mirror when I breathe on it, so there is hope for me yet! Because I have so much more I want to become.  To become.  Not to have or to obtain.  Not to do.  Just to be.

I want to create a long list of “I am”– and not in relation to other, but what I am in relation to self.  Where does MY joy exist?  What are MY divine gifts and talents? How do I manifest them for myself and how do I share them authentically with others? How do I understand and, perhaps more importantly ACCEPT, the unique and complicated creature I am… JUST AS I AM.  And, how to I find and surround myself with others who love me just the same.. as I am.

The idea of legacy is one that has strongly resonated with me for some time now.  But tonight, I think I’ll begin moving away from what I hope to leave behind and start moving toward what I’m living in.

This is me, ya’ll.  I’m flawsome and glitterific just the way I am… I think I’m going to own it.

This post was originally drafted  on Wednesday evening, June 8, 2016.

Milestones. Rites of passage. Birthdays…  Anniversaries.

June 8.

Today would have been my 14th wedding anniversary.  Would have been. Unfortunately, my divorce was final 16 days ago.  I say “unfortunately” because I don’t think anyone gets married expecting it won’t work. I say “unfortunately” because the dream I had for what my family life would look like had to be rewritten.  I say “unfortunately” because of the collateral damage I’ve caused.

Dolly Parton once said, “The way I see it, if you want the rainbow you gotta put up with the rain.”  Admittedly, it’s not my favorite Dolly quote, but it is a good one!  And so very true.

Wikipedia explains rainbows as a meterological phenomenon caused by reflection, refraction, and dispersion (…of light in water droplets resulting in a spectrum of light appearing in the sky… yada yada yada).

Reflection, refraction, and dispersion have been aplenty– and true. There have been a few too many dark days… a lot of introspection and over-thinking… the bending and breaking of what I thought was normal and how it was “suppose” to be… and, the segregation of family, friends, assets, alliances, and emotions.

Rainbows don’t occur without the rain and life doesn’t happen without some weathering. Lived authentically, life is  rustic… plain and simple.  We make life so much more complicated than it needs to be.  But, it’s yours.  You are in charge.  You are responsible for your own health and happiness. So own it! I am.

At the end of this journey called life– cause it is a journey, not a destination– I am the only one responsible for my happiness.  I could pretend I’m not in charge.  I could play victim.  I could let others, or inaction, makes my decisions. But I’m not.  I won’t.

Today, as one anniversary ends, another begins.  Today, the rain has stopped and the rainbow is coming into view.  Today, I own my emotional health and happiness.

Rainbows are the things of Irish folklore (unicorns, fairies, and leprechauns– need I say more?) and, to many, a symbol of religious hope (yeah God!). So, just as the magic of fairies delights and the steadfast faith of a spiritual heart endures, life is full of ironic serendipity.

It’s a rustic rainbow and it’s rare.

Today was a hard day.  Not impossible.  Not as sad as I expected. But hard.  I did all that I promised myself I would.  I slept in, I enjoyed my coffee, I ignored work, I indulged some self-care and quiet time for reflection, I cooked myself dinner, and I’m currently partaking in perhaps too much wine.  It was a good day… but hard.

Today is my middle daughter’s birthday.  And I don’t get to spend it with her… I actually don’t get to see her at all.  I know logically that she won’t remember.  I hosted a bowling birthday party last weekend and I’m currently baking a cake to round out her “birthday week” when she comes home tomorrow.  Chocolate cake with chocolate icing and strawberries– her request!  I know her memories will hold that I celebrated her and the day she was born, not a date on the calendar.  But, as a mother, it’s pretty damn tough to not be able to hug and kiss your child on the day they changed your world.  On a day where you shared the rarest of miracles with another human being.  She came from me, literally.

All my children are my favorite… they are each special, unique, and loved unconditionally by me. My pregnancies weren’t trouble-free, I was an exceptional poster child for all-day (to hell with morning) sickness.  I, personally, had some significant health challenges following my first daughter’s birth.  But she was the first, it wasn’t like I knew what to expect… until I figured out that “this” wasn’t it.  But I always wanted multiple children and I was determined to get it right the next time.

Well the next time came and I thought we did… until she was 10 days old.  To make a long story short, she was diagnosed with meningitis.  The specifics of such are not as important now… but the 24 hour window of near death, the spinal tap, the endless poking and prodding for IVs… well, it was horrific.  There is really no other way to describe it.  And, then it lasted for 27 more days.

I promise you when you think you cannot possibly take one more thing– you can.

All in all, she spent about 10% of her first year in the hospital (cause, you know, one visit near birth isn’t good enough– she needed a reunion week at 9 months old for RSV). But I tell you what– she is a fighter!

It’s funny how things happen in hindsight.  Selecting names for our children was, how shall I say this… Difficult?  Trying?  Nearly impossible? Good thing you have to have a name on the birth certificate to leave the hospital.

When we considered names and found one (or more honestly, an abbreviated nickname of that) meant “little and strong”– well, I was all in.  And she wasn’t even born yet.  But what independent, liberal, pro-women, equal rights, equal pay, mom-to-be wouldn’t want to raise a daughter who is little and strong?  Well, let me tell you…she delivered.  And still does.  Daily. Maybe even hourly.  (Sometimes I should probably be more careful of what I wish for!)

She is an independent, tenacious, old soul who has more intuition and bad ass in her little body than I can even dream of having in my nearly four decades old carcass.

But she isn’t here.  She isn’t with me today.  And that hurts.

I say to my children often, in all my motherly wisdom (imagine that statement with dripping sarcasm)… “actions have consequences.”  Or, “everything happens for a reason.”  Well, it’s true that actions do have consequences.  And I do believe that things happen for a reason… we sometimes just don’t always have the hindsight initially to know the reason.

When I separated from my girls’ dad nearly 18 months ago now, I never pretended it was an easy decision… nor was it a quick and irrational one.  I had hopes… dreams of how my life would be.  To accept anything less than that… to admit what I viewed as failure to myself (more so than to anyone else actually)… was nearly as painful as that month in the hospital with a sick child.

The fall-out and collateral damage of that decision has presented in numerous ways. Today, in particular, it’s not being with my daughter on her birthday.  Her dad and I are attempting to co-parent. We try to acknowledge the importance of family gatherings and momentous occasions. Today is one of those.  On her birthday.  And I’m not part of that family any more.   Decisions have consequences. Things happen for a reason.

As I take another sip of my pinot grigio, I’m trying to find comfort in that.  Maybe I’ll take a few more sips.

I imagine the future… When she is setting out to find herself in a decade or perhaps starting her own family in two… maybe then I’ll understand the hindsight and its impact.  I don’t know if that clarity will come.  But I do hope that she looks back and remembers a mom who was strong, full of integrity, gracious, and with a heart so pure that every thought, step, and action of my life was intended to serve as a role model to my girls.  I hope they see the importance of authenticity and vulnerability… that they know how to be healthy and happy… that they know independence and partnership… that they have big dreams and pursue them fearlessly… that they are steadfast and resilient and learn how to fail forward.

I lovingly refer to my three girls as the “trifecta”– tonight, it is my hope they also come to know a different trifecta in this life.  The trifecta from I Corinthians 13.13.  The trifecta of faith, hope, and love.  It’s funny, these could be nicknames for my girls… my first– who taught me to trust and have FAITH that a better outcome was possible, my second– who taught me that perseverance and HOPE for a brighter day can be survival in itself, and the third– who proves daily that a giant smile and giving heart full of LOVE can not only make hearts happy, but that it is truly the greatest gift all.

I’m blessed, without question… for I have my own Gresham Girl Trifecta as well as faith, hope, and love. Today is just a day on the calendar.  Traditions and memories are timeless and non-date specific.  My girls… well, present or not, they are in my heart and on my mind.  They are a part of me.  That will never change.

Loyalty is a funny thing.  And honestly, I’m struggling with it. Not in my own loyalty to others, but rather their loyalty to me.

And, as I’ve learned about myself, writing can be the cork popper… the release of whatever pressure exists.  But like the champagne bottle, I have to twist carefully… methodically– never really sure when that release will occur. Sometimes it is the serendipitous pop at the perfect time in grand fashion. Sometimes it’s weak and what’s inside falls flat. And sometimes, unexpectedly, it fires across the room and unintentionally injures another or breaks something. But, nevertheless, I write in hope of finding the effervescent clarity and welcomed buzz of introspection.

So a few Pinterest-worthy musings about LOYALTY…

Loyalty is defined as “showing firm and constant support or allegiance for a person or institution.”  Can you really divide your loyalty?  If I think about loyalty to an institution, my answer is quickly “yes”… as I support both the Tennessee Volunteers and the Virginia Tech Hokies.  But if pushed in conversation about where my true allegiance lies, I can easily say– GO VOLS! That said, if my loyalty declaration determined my paycheck– meaning if I had to declare my  loyalty to remain employed at Virginia Tech, would I be so steadfast? Probably not.  

Some people aren’t loyal to you.  They are loyal to their need of you… once their needs change, so does their loyalty.

It’s a quandary for sure.  And it becomes far more complex when we’re talking human beings over everything else.  Now, I’m not about to say that my loyalties are absolute, but I do believe them to be steadfast.  My moral compass is pretty darn strong. Family should have your back ALWAYS– period.  TRUE friendships are rare and should be vigilantly protected.  So I become miffed when I believe an alliance to be clear and another is seemingly unaware, or operates from a place of neutrality to stay in their comfort zone or salvage their own image.  I get flat pissed off when they have total disregard for reciprocal loyalty, boldly carrying some imaginary immunity idol they believe protects them from the elimination of our relationship.

WELL, POP THE CORK!  THERE IT IS!

Reciprocity.  

The lack of reciprocity is what makes loyalty so challenging.  Can I be loyal to someone if they aren’t loyal in return?  My experience tells me this is a disappointing endeavor.

So how do I navigate relationships where loyalty isn’t reciprocal?  Hell, how do I navigate relationships where (insert ANY word) isn’t reciprocal?  I think the answer is to be fully aware of the type of relationship that exists.  And maybe to redefine the relationship so as to re-classify my expectations.  If a relationship is a shared connection, what is the connection?  Is it a single worn wool thread or a thick buckypaper-wrapped braid of diamonds? (Go ahead, Google it… I suggest your search consist of something akin to weakest and strongest materials known to man.  You’re welcome.)

Acquaintances are not friends.  Friendships come in  layers of complexity and commitment.  And sadly, family isn’t always faithful. Few things exists on solely a binary, nothing is black or white.  And, well, to quote my momma… 

Life’s not fair, get over it.

The point is… and one day I swear I’m going to “get it” innately instead of re-learning it the hard way in numerous capacities over and over again… I cannot control other people. BUT, I can control MY emotions, MY actions, and how I respond to them.  I can decide how much of MY time, energy, and attention they are going to receive.  I can determine what relationship classification they receive in MY life.  And I can define MY own expectations (or lack there of) regarding their loyalty to me.

I think it is sad to expect less of some people, but it’s not nearly as sad as expecting more and being constantly let down. 

I stayed home from work yesterday.  I was feeling a bit under the weather… worn a little thin and not taking care of myself as I should finally caught up with me.  I found little humor in the fact it was also April Fools’ Day.  It was like my body was on board with this universal prank to try to slow me down.

April Fools’ Day makes me skeptical in itself, alongside my normal dose of cynicism; but, as I lie in bed thinking—because even if my body isn’t going, my brain still does—I realized that I signed the lease and claimed the keys to this structure I reside in—this place I now call “home”—exactly one year ago today.

HOME.

It’s a universally familiar concept I think, but with perhaps universally different meanings and potential interpretations.

Home. Homesick. Homeward bound. Home-cooked meal. Home-field advantage. Homebody. Homestretch. Homemaker. Homestead. Homely. Homeroom. Homemade. Hometown. Homework. Homecoming. Home.

It is a peculiar word… or at least our myriad uses of it are peculiar. Or perhaps it is just a concept.  A concept I’ve redefined over the course of my lifetime, but in particular over the past year and a half.

I was raised in a beautiful home by catalog standards.  I had (and still have) a terrific family.  I had privilege and blessings that I’m only now just beginning to fully understand.  I went to high school football games on Friday nights and church on Sunday mornings.  I went away to summer camp, we went back-to school clothes shopping, and I was able to engage in any extracurricular activities my heart desired.  I hold many wonderful memories and have carried forth numerous traditions. My own childhood was long ago, but I cherish it to this day.

I first had to re-define home when my parents divorced.  I was a young adult, in my early twenties.  My parents had worked hard and raised their own children (me and my brothers).  Now, they were responsible for their own decisions and it was time for them to figure out their own futures; but, their empty nest was no longer going to be our family’s home.  I was never going to bring my children to the house I grew up in.  I had to redefine what I always thought would be.

And then, after nearly a decade, when my own marriage was falling apart, I had to re-evaluate and reconsider my thinking on many matters.  I’ve always had a vision for how I thought… no, how I wanted… my life, my family, my home to be. And yet somehow, I’d catered to everyone’s wishes but my own. I became passive and forgot that I was responsible for creating this life I’m living.  It was clear that I was going to have to let go of some perceptions deeply ingrained and redefine… reinvent even… what was important to me.

This all became easier the day I realized that I was quite possibly the single, greatest influence in my daughters’ lives.  I was the example they would know.  I wasn’t happy with myself, with my own life.  I certainly wasn’t living a life that I’d hope or wish for them.  But nevertheless, I was setting the example.  I was defining what happiness and marriage, partnership and communication were… or in my case, were not.  What was I showing them?  What was I modeling?

This was a powerful and pivotal realization for me.  Suddenly, I became far more concerned with creating—and maybe more so, specifically defining—what “home” would be for me, and for my three girls.

Home is so many things, but it ISN’T even more.  It isn’t just the address on your tax forms or where you receive your mail.  It isn’t the school district you live in.  It isn’t only a man and a woman living as husband and wife, with 2.3 kids, and a dog.  It isn’t the white picket fence.  It isn’t “keeping up with the Joneses.”

Home—no matter the structure, geographic location, or entity… no matter the perceptions, ideologies, or religious dogma—Home, I believe, is where truth, authenticity, vulnerability, loyalty, encouragement, commitment, and the purest form of love SHOULD reside.  Home is where you find solace and comfort.  Home is where you keep your promises, hug often, say “I love you,” and make huge messes but even bigger memories.

But those things don’t just happen, HOME is created.

So when I moved out of the “marital home”—the only home my children had ever known—I was terrified that I was taking something significant away from them (and I can admit that inevitably I was, as they too had created a definition of home).  But I also realized that I was going to be able to create a new version of home… for us.  A version that took me a step closer to the definition I wanted to create… towards the life I dreamed of… toward the person I wanted to be and to whom my daughters would look up to, admire, and respect (or that I could at least be proud of if nothing else).

So, I pay rent now instead of a mortgage.  My girls share a bedroom instead of each having their own. Things are a little leaner.  Our home isn’t big enough to hide from each other or to avoid our problems or disagreements—and that was intentional.  We eat dinners together as a family.  We have movie night on Fridays. The walls we live in are full of color, music, laughter, and love… alongside my children’s art and a splash of glitter.  We roller skate inside.  We have dance parties in the kitchen.  Friends and family stop by unannounced and are always welcomed—despite dishes in the sink or dust bunnies on the floor.  We’ve created new memories, defined new traditions, and we’ve completed a full calendar of holidays now.

And you know what?

This is the best version of home that I’ve ever known.  I’m comforted, happy, and give a sigh of relief when I walk through the door at the end of a long day.  As much as it drives me crazy, I love their backpacks, jackets, socks, and dirty clothes strewn about the floor.  I cherish the finger prints on my sliding glass door and the pencil smudges on my countertop from after-school homework.

I love that our house is truly HOME…

…where they can be whoever they are— be it the best or worst version of themselves—and know, without question, they are still loved.

…where they can act silly or serious, and be celebrated for both.

…where they can lobby and fight for what they believe, even if I have to eventually be the parent.

… and, where they learn that home is the first version of community we ever experience.

Mother Teresa once said…

If you want to change the world, go home and love your family.

To which I simply say, “Yes, mam.”

“You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him drink.” ~Proverb

I’ve heard this phrase my entire life and I’m certain that, at times, I’ve even been that horse.  But what I’m discovering nearly four decades into this crazy rodeo is that there are A LOT of thirsty horses.

What I’m working on is not giving a damn.

I don’t mean that harshly.  In fact, it truly comes from a place of well-being.  I’ve discovered that I simply must learn how to care less about others and worry more about me.  It sounds selfish… even to me as I type.  But it isn’t.  It’s healthy.  The day we learn that we are only responsible for our own actions and emotions, the better off we are.

I’ve spent most of my life trying to please other people.  In psychology terms, I could be the poster-child for codependency.  I have changed my behavior to manage the emotions of others for a very long time.  Eighteen months into almost weekly therapy and I am finally making some progress (I think?).  It’s remarkable in some ways.  And also a constant struggle.

I could probably identify a thousand reasons that I am the way I am… or was… or work hard not to be.  Likewise, I’m sure there are plenty of others who would be happy to chime in and contribute their own thinking as to why I’m the way I am.  Seems folks love to assess other people’s problems while conveniently ignoring their own.

And, though I think understanding the past and reconciling it as best you can is an important piece of overall mental health… I think an awareness of one’s OWN behavior and adjusting it accordingly is much more important.

So while I want to circle up the wagons and lasso a herd of folks who could stand a long look in the mirror… and, believe me buddy, I’m so willing to guide them to the trough… I have to reconcile the fact that they may choose (and it is a choice) to just be thirsty.  I simply cannot force them to drink.

An analogy I might make correlates to an experience I often have as a parent. Perhaps fellow parents or those who interact frequently with toddlers, especially, might understand.  It’s like that time your child wanted the red lollipop.  You oblige, take the plastic wrapper off the red lollipop, and hand it to them… only to have them burst into tears and scream as if their favorite lovey was just obliterated into a thousand pieces… all because you gave them the red lollipop.

What the hell?  The red lollipop is RIGHT THERE!

But they didn’t want you to unwrap it, or hand it to them, or get it out of the pantry from the beginning.  There’s no real logic to their thinking, but they are hell-bent on not wanting the red lollipop now.

Isn’t that what you SAID you wanted?

But what we say we want and what we actually want are often very, very different.

Seems this pattern repeats throughout our lives, we just find more socially acceptable ways to throw our temper tantrums as adults.  We project our “stuff” (let’s call it horseshit) on others.  We bring others down to build ourselves up.  We utilize only convenient pieces of the whole truth to sell some story we want others to believe.  Or we ignore our own problems by creating problems for others.

It is a phenomenon I don’t understand… and also one that I’ve been both perpetrator of and victim to.  So, I started focusing on me.  Maybe this is a “me” thing, or a gender dynamic of being female, or some “stuff” from my past that I haven’t quite worked through… but focusing on me makes me feel guilty.  I’ll work through that next maybe, but for now I’m channeling the airplane oxygen mask theory.  I have to take care of me if I ever really (and in a healthy way) want to take care of others.

You know, help lead them to the water–through MY OWN honesty, truth, vulnerability, kindness, and authenticity–and then hope they are thirsty.

The way I see it… there’s no need to be thirsty.  Everything you need is right there in front of you… you just have to drink!

(And because normally I would make some cute quip about “you just have to drink!” from the context of a wine glass or a tequila shot, I’m not– I’m being serious.  So don’t you deflect either.  It’s kind of the whole point of this blog.)

I love coffee.  I do. Truly.

It’s a recent phenomenon to me over the past decade… really since the birth of my second child when I needed caffeine to survive.  I made it through college all-nighters and even baby #1, but when I transitioned to a full-time working mom of TWO little girls (now three), it was coffee or vodka and, well, coffee seemed the better choice. Of course, in full disclosure, I started as a 7-Eleven gal, upgraded to Starbucks, and then went for the holy grail of a Keurig.

But when I initiated brewing a full pot this weekend as a house guest before others were up and functioning, I had to read the instructions.  No, not the instructions on the coffee maker.  The instructions on the coffee.  You know, like if I put water in the pot and a filter in the basket-thingy, how much actual coffee does it take?  Because there really is nothing worse than weak coffee (says the woman who uses 3 sugar packets and a healthy dump of creamer).

Admittedly, I’m not one for recipes, instructions, or directions when it comes to food prep… which I consider this to be.  I tend to think life is a little more fun with a dump of this and a dash of that.  Cooking doesn’t seem to require being so exact.  Of course, this might also reflect how often I cook.  But let’s not get distracted or judge.  And, I tend to be a control freak in every other aspect of my life, so you know—I break bad in the kitchen.

Ten scoops.  Ten scoops of coffee grounds for one pot, eh?  Seems like a lot.  But that’s what the directions say.  (In full transparency, it said one scoop per cup of water, but if you’re making a pot– I say make a full pot!)

I’ll leave you hanging for a minute on how the coffee turned out (cliffhanger, right?) to share the metaphor for life that I discovered in the process.

I’ve always had a plan… a set of directions for my life.

• Step 1- get good grades.
• Step 2- go to college.
• Step 3- graduate and get a job.
• Step 4- get married.
• Step 5- own a home.
• Step 6- have babies.
• Step 7- be PTA president.
• Step 8- retire early.

You know—have it all plus a white picket fence?

Mind you, these “directions” were self-prescribed from some set of rules or expectations that I thought I had to meet.  And largely (this is hindsight), they were driven by a need to please others.  Sometimes they got me in hot water, sometimes I came off a little too strong, and at other times I discovered I was weaker than I imagined.  Sometimes they were like magic.  Other times they didn’t quite deliver.  At all times, they’ve provided reasonable fodder, ample self-reflection, and plenty of self-critique.

My need to have a plan, however, has also been an excuse to prevent life from happening organically.  Remember me saying above that I’m a control freak? When you have too much of a plan, you don’t leave room for authentic spontaneity, for moments of unplanned magic, or for collisions of complexity that completely change your worldview. 

And… I’ve found that too stringent a plan can make you inept at handling “life” when your plan goes off-course.

Sometimes things don’t happen the way you thought they should or would.  They don’t go as you planned.  And while this use to send me into a downward spiral of disappointment and frustration, I think I’ve finally learned to be in the moment… to take life as it comes… to align how I feel with what I outwardly express… to look at life as a game of “choose your own adventure” and to find the magic in the moment.

So for me, there is a direct connection—in time and space—between my love of coffee and my desire to be awake… awake to my own life, awake to my emotions, awake to possibility.  It doesn’t mean I don’t check out the instructions or consider the directions. I even on occasion still follow them.

But, I’ve finally realized these plans are written in pencil, not Sharpie… and I get to decide when to follow them, change them, or ignore them.

Simply realizing the power of choice—whether Keurig vs. coffee pot, or in life and love—is a remarkable one!

As for that pot of coffee? I decided on 10 full, heaping scoops—because I don’t think coffee can be too strong or you can be too awake.

I’m finding both rather blissful.