Grit & Grace: The Finish of One Marathon and the Start of Another

This is a little ditty about my post-marathon journey, the good, the real, and the ugly. It was written in December and so the story continues, but I'll save that for another post. 

So, a little caveat before I begin. I recognize that there are a great many people in this world enduring far greater struggles than my hip injury. This is simply my personal journey through the last three months, how my injury has impacted me and what I have learned…all of which applies to my every day life.

Find the Next Reservoir. Run Strong, Run Free.

Those were the two mantras that emerged for me during my marathon training this summer. Run Strong, Run Free had more to do with running my own race; with letting go of expectations that I perceived others had for me; with letting go of all 'shoulds;' and with letting go of my attempts to be as fast as I was pre-babies (which was never exceptionally fast). It was all about moving forward, in strength and freedom, the freedom to run my own race, my own pace, and to enjoy every step, even the painstaking ones.

Find the next reservoir emerged for me during a long training run when I thought I was toast around mile 7. And then suddenly at mile 10, I found a new reservoir of strength and energy, a reservoir that empowered me to surge for the last six miles, finishing stronger than I had begun. I wholeheartedly believe that there is always another reservoir of strength awaiting us, we just have to press on to find it. Sometimes that reservoir gives us the strength needed to keep going. And sometimes that reservoir gives us the strength needed to stop and say, "I've reached my limit." And the latter sometimes requires more strength than the former.

During the marathon on Labor Day, the further I ran, the more reservoirs I discovered. Even at mile 20 when my hip started screaming at me, everything in me, except for maybe my hip, felt like continuing on. In hindsight, knowing what I know now, that I had both a stress fracture and a torn labrum in my hip, I wonder if I should have stopped. I don't know. I've asked myself the question a million times. And countless people have asked it of me, which if I'm honest, is always a bit triggering. Perhaps it's triggering because I'm unsure. And yet, I think by mile 20, the damage had already been done. I was limping bad and it hurt just as much to 'limp walk' as it did to 'limp run,' and my hunger to cross that finish line felt more intense than it has ever felt before. It had been such an incredible race for me up until that point and I had prepared myself for struggle. I didn't know what it would be or when it would come, but I knew that it would. And I told myself that not everything about the race would be perfect or go according to plan, that I would struggle AND that I could and would still have a great race. I could hurt AND have joy at the same time. I could run with both grit and grace. Unlike in any previous race, I believed this was possible. So just past the 20 mile marker when my hip grew angry, I knew I was at the point for which I had prepared myself. And there it was, my last reservoir. It never actually occurred to me to not finish. It really didn't. For the last six miles, pain and joy ran side by side, with a limp, and crossing that finish line was nothing short of a broken hallelujah.

Little did I know that the marathon finish line was actually the start line of what would be another long and grueling race, one in which I wasn't sure I had adequately trained for, one in which I would need to find reservoir after reservoir to keep soldiering on. I follow a number of runners on social media and I've read my fair share of race recaps, comeback stories, and running related pieces in general. And while I know that runners are sidelined by injury from time to time, the focus is almost always on either the race before the fall or the comeback that follows it, but it seems that very few people talk about the barren stretch of road in between. Maybe this is because people don't care to read about the road of injury, it's not where the glory is found. Or is it? See, I actually think this is the important stuff. This is the real stuff.  How one navigates the deflating reality that injury or pain renders, the uncertainty that clouds one's {running} future, and the agonizing physical or emotional pain itself, well, that's the stuff that reveals what a person is made of. Or at least that's how I see it. And this extends far beyond running to the shattering moments of real life. It's when the rubber meets the road, when you must dance between grit and grace. It's knowing when to fight being sucked into the black hole of self-pity and when to let go of expectations, to pull up the warm blanket of grace and stay in all that you are experiencing.

You see, for me the marathon turned out to be just the training for the real race, the real life that was to follow; life on crutches with two active and needy boys, ages two and four; life in which my ability to ever cross another start line still hangs in the balance; life in which the stress is mounting and one of my biggest avenues for coping with stress, exercise, has been stripped away. That's my race right now. And I'm looking for the next reservoir on a daily basis. I thought that running marathons was exhausting, but it has nothing on crutching my way through life while attempting to care for my family, a house, and a counseling practice. I will never look at a person on crutches the same way again. I have a new empathy and it runs deep. If I ever see you on crutches, don't be surprised if I come up and hug you, even if I don't know you well or even at all!

I tend to experience life in seasons and cycles and rhythms. And there seems to be two predominate cycles I find myself in. One cycle is when it's all clicking, I'm in my rhythm. These are typically seasons when I'm running consistently, I'm strength training, I'm eating well, my faith feels strong, my heart feels hopeful, and I feel mentally strong.  It's all connected and it's all clicking. I feel unstoppable in these seasons.

And then there are those seasons, seasons like this time of injury, or really any season of struggle, when it seems the darkness, self-pity, frustration, apathy, and utter lack of motivation play through my life like a song on repeat. These are typically seasons in which I'm not running, my usual healthy eating tends to go to you know where. Apathy wins out and I eat whatever, whenever. It's when it's all too tempting to seek a false sense of comfort at the bottom of a jar of salted caramel sauce. I could get up and do plank work; I could go to the gym and work my upper body; But I don't, not when apathy is winning, not when I'm in this cycle. In these seasons, I usually find myself believing that I lack the strength to kick at the darkness until it bleeds light, to borrow the lyrics from an old favorite by Bruce Cockburn.

And I believe this type of season has its place, a valid place. I need to feel these feelings. I need to be in it. I need to recognize the darkness. Because only when you recognize the darkness do you appreciate the light. I know that I can't and I won't stay in this cycle forever, because after a while it just starts to feel like a hampster wheel of despair. But I have to let the feelings run their course. And the light always comes, the reservoir is found. Something shifts and pokes a hole in the darkness and it's flooded with light.

During the last two months I've spent some time in the downward cycle. I've cried in the shower. I've thrown my crutch to the ground in frustration. I've watched friends run races and been filled with a heart-exploding combo of joy and excitement for them and silent despair for me. But my faith reminds me that beauty comes from ashes, silver is refined only by the fire, and deep within pain there is beauty to be known. And that, that is what is carrying me through this season, looking not only for the next reservoir of strength but also for the reservoir of beauty. I feel like I'm being refined and it hurts. Yet, I have discovered beauty in the pain. Crutches have taught me both patience and rest. My humility has been summoned as dear friends have come around me, bringing us meals, getting us groceries, and cleaning our house. It's tempting to be weighted down by the panicky feelings like, I owe them, how will I ever pay them back, rather than humbly receiving these gifts of friendship with deep gratitude. This season has slowed me down, just enough to savor the beauty, the beauty in playing on the floor with my boys, the beauty in letting my husband love me with small (but really huge) acts like carrying my coffee out to the deck for me and doing all of the laundry. I'm a do-it-myself kind of girl, so this receiving thing is no easy road for me. I feel vulnerable. But there is so much joy awaiting us in the stream of vulnerability, not to mention connection.

With my running future uncertain, this season has summoned my roots of trust and faith to a deeper place. I've learned how to trust and wait and push through at a new level. I'm now off of crutches but am having some significant pain, which may very well mean that surgery is in my future. This would mean more time on crutches and more time that I am unable to run. So, I feel a little like I'm at mile 20 of the marathon but the fierceness, the hunger feels like a fading song in the distance. Some days, I feel like saying 'screw it,' I'm just going to lay on the couch and eat chocolate and get fatter and less fit with each passing painful hip day. But that's not who I am. And I think that's what pain does sometimes, it strips off the layers and exposes our authentic self. At heart, I'm a fighter and I know it. So, to deny that, even if it's a denial steeped in exhaustion, is to deny who I am and that's just an invitation to misery. So, just like in the marathon, when I sort through the pain and the fatigue long enough to remember that I love running, so too am I now at a crossroads where I will remember at my core, that I'm a hopeful, strong, vulnerable, fighting kind of person. I'm a beauty seeker. And it's in the remembering, remembering the song of my heart, that gives me the strength, the grit and the grace, to run on. Because I can. Because that's who I want to be. Because that's who I am. I will run strong. I will run free. I will find the next reservoir. I will struggle AND I will still have a great race. Or at least that is my hope.

My Journey Through 26.2

There I sat, the night before the race, in the hotel room with Tom and my sinus infection. After one last super encouraging chat with my coach, Susie, I decided then and there that I would do my best to run strong, and at the very least to run free. I knew that there would be challenges during the race, moments where I felt less than stellar. There would most likely be elements that would create a less than perfect race scenario, like it being too hot or my stomach cramping or my head pounding from the sinus infection. I prepared myself for this. And I also sat in the belief that no matter what challenges would come my way over the course of 26.2 miles, I could still have a great and strong race, challenges included. I have to say that it helps the mental game having a few marathons under my belt. I knew to expect poor sleep the night before; I knew to expect the wall; I knew to expect that my body would want to go out too fast.

I don't believe that God cares about marathons or about sporting events, in general, but I do believe he cares about people, about me, and anything that draws me closer to him. So, with my alarm set for 4:40 am, I laid in bed, totally not sleeping, which thankfully, I planned on. I prayed that God would either take my headache and congestion away for the race or give me the strength to somehow float above it.

The alarm went off as planned, always a bonus, and guess what? I kid you not, I didn't have one bit of a headache or congestion. Not one bit. Chalk that up to whatever you want, but after a week of feeling like crud, I felt extremely grateful. So, in the darkness of the hotel room, my friend Renee and I got up, got dressed, and ate our breakfasts. I made some last minute fuel changes (Susie, close your eyes or pretend you didn't read that. She has a strict 'nothing new the week of the race' policy. But those who know me well know that rule following has never been my strong suit.). Why did I change up my fuel plan? I don't know. It felt right. Or, it all felt like a little bit of a crap shoot, but at least it was one I was excited about.

Renee and I kissed our husbands goodbye and went downstairs to catch the shuttle to the start line. As I walked out to the bus in the darkness of the morning, I was reminded of a saying I declare to my kids every morning at home, as I open the curtains. My kids know it so well now, that all I have to do is open the curtains and say to them, "guess what?" And my boys will shout out with all of the excitement that a four and a two year old have at 6am, "IT'S A BEAUTIFUL DAY, FULL OF POSSIBILITY!" And as I stepped onto that bus, I thought, "Indeed it is. It's a beautiful day, full of possibility."

Upon arriving at the start, I was a ball of nerves. I think Renee, for whom this was her first marathon, must have been too, which is probably why we hardly said two words to each other before we took off. It didn't help that as we were waiting for the port-o-pots, there was a military dude shouting, "It's zero six ten!" The race will start in twenty minutes. Then he would shout it again. Then five minutes later he would yell, "It's zero six one five, that's zero six fifteen. The race will start in fifteen minutes!" I thought to myself, "Ok, we've got it! We're all wearing watches. People can't rush their business. Let it be." The port-o-pots are always a risk for me anyway. With my hyper acute sense of smell, it rarely leads to a win-win situation. Win-win would be if I could do my business AND not vomit. Let's just say I came out with a Win-Half Win...I only dry heaved. I know, TMI, but this was the start to my race, and I counted it as a win.

At zero six two five, we lined up among the crowd of runners. The energy was palpable. I set my watch, turned my tunes on, and gave Renee a hug and a "go crush this thing." The pop of the start gun echoed into the dawn, and we were off! I had my first hour of music set with calm, relaxing songs, reminding me to go out slow, slower than I knew my body would want to go. The idea being that if I restrain myself in the first 5-6 miles, I would conserve energy and have gas left in the tank at the end. I admit feeling nervous thinking that if I conserved at the beginning, I might still run out of gas at the end, and then I would feel like I had wasted that time early on when I was feeling fresh. But I realized that I had to be either all in or all out on this one. I needed to pick a plan and stick with it. So, I decided to trust my coach. After all, that is why I hired her, right? I was all in. So I set out on the trail, making myself go slower than I wanted to go. I just kept telling myself, "you're just storing it up. Take that extra energy and store it somewhere in your body for later."

The trail felt soft beneath my feet and the air, so perfectly cool. The pre-dawn red glow of the sun splashed itself all over the mountains. Sunflowers danced alongside the trail, as though they were cheering us on as they waved in the breeze. I felt good. No, I felt great. I felt strong. I felt free. The miles began to fly by, 2, 3, 4, 5. I knew Tom would be waiting for me around mile 7, simply to check in and throw some encouragement my way. I couldn't wait to see him. I also couldn't believe that I was already almost to mile 7. I felt like I was on top of the world, which most people do in the first ten miles of a marathon.

Somewhere in the midst of mile 2, I had found myself reflecting on Blake being two years old and how challenging life has felt at times throughout the last four years since we had kids. And then the idea popped into my mind as I was finishing out mile 2, to pray for Blake at age 2; and to pray for Ben at age 4 as I made my way through mile 4. As I rolled into mile 5, I began to wonder what they would both be like at age 5, and 6, and 12, and 17, and so on. So, right there in mile 5, I decided that I would spend a portion of time during each subsequent mile, praying for my boys at that age. At mile 12, I imagined them being 12 and entering the awkward middle school years, the ones where boys seem to think that it's hilarious to do super obnoxious silly things to gain attention. I call them the "only as cool as you are annoying" years for boys and the "only as cool as you are dramatic" years for girls. As I thought about them in that stage, I prayed for them to know their worth, that they would walk in confidence without feeling the need to do too many obnoxious or dangerous things. One thought would lead to another prayer, and another and before I knew it, I was ticking off the miles thinking about and praying for the people I love.

Back to mile 7. Shortly before the mile 7 marker, as I imagined Tom standing in the distance, waiting for me, it occurred to me that we would be married 7 years in October. I reflected on how my life has felt exponentially richer with him in it, and I was experiencing heart-busting gratitude for the support and encouragement that he had given me during this marathon training journey. And I would get to see my best friend in .3 miles. I was already crying...happy, happy tears. Man, I thought, if only I could feel this good for another 19 miles! But as quickly as I thought that, I cut it short because I had promised myself that I would only think of this race in sections, 4 mile sections. This race, in my mind consisted of six 4-mile sections with a 2.2 mile finale. I was already almost through section #2 and feeling good. And there in the distance, I spotted Tom on the side of the trail. As I approached him, I flashed him a big smile, grabbed some glide, gave him a thumbs up and told him that I was feeling phenomenal. And just like that, I was off again. The next time I would see him would be mile 15, when he would trade me my vest for a run belt and would essentially become my sherpa for the last 11 miles.

I had been feeling so good for the first 7 miles, that it felt as though I was holding back to maintain a pace that was just under 11 minute miles. So, in mile 8, I decided to see what 10:45 felt like. It felt fantastic, despite some hills and a decent headwind. Some people might have viewed the headwind, which picked up throughout the race, as a curse. And by some people, I mean the really fast people. I however, saw it as a blessing, because it kept me cool. The expected high for the day was 81 and sunny, and I don't run well in the heat, though I was telling myself I could if I had to. The wind kept me cool for the entirety of the race, and for that I felt incredibly grateful. I ran miles 8-14 at a 10:45 pace, and I felt like I was getting stronger with each passing mile. I did notice a little overall fatigue in my body around mile 12, but I still felt happy and strong in my mind. I convinced myself that my body was just getting warmed up, and another reservoir of strength awaited me.

As I made my way to mile 15, a song from the new Planes movie blared through my headphones; the song that the boys had listened to on repeat, oh about 20 times each day in the previous three weeks; the song that we all sing together as a family; the song that we all raise our hands in the air to when we hear the words, 'touch the sky.' This was that song that was playing:

There's a time in your life, when the world is on your side.                                                                                                                         You might not feel it, you might not see it, but it surrounds you,                                                                                                             like a light, makes you stronger for the fight.                                                                                                                                                I'm never letting go, gotta learn to grow,                                                                                                                                                    watch me as I touch the sky, still I fly.                                                                                                                                                        Now I know it's what I gotta do, find a dream that's new,                                                                                                                        and give it all I got this time,  still I fly.           

I lifted my gaze and caught sight of Tom standing there, ready to run me home. I lost it. The floodgates opened. So many tears. So many emotions. When the words, "watch me as I touch the sky" played, I almost lifted my hands into the air like the boys and I always do in the car. Man, was it good to see Tom's smile and his gentle eyes, waiting for me. My emotions erupted, in the best of ways.

After I picked him up, we lost about 4 minutes to a gear mishap. The buckle came off of my fuel belt that was holding my phone, and then it kept hitting a button on the phone, turning the music off. This happened about 6 times before Tom threw out a solution that worked. I didn't care about the time lost, but I was worried about disrupting my rhythm because I had been running so strong. The stop threw me a little, along with a series of small hills. By mile 18 I was so over the hills and found myself longing for some flat to cruise home on. I cannot describe the calm I felt having Tom by my side. We didn't talk much. When I'm in my zone, I'm focused and I don't talk. At all. In reality, he probably welcomed this gift, as me not talking is uh, rare. He tried to read me texts from people, but found it hard to both read and run. So, he relayed encouragement to me from Susie and my friends and I just listened for the pings on his phone, feeling my spirit lift every time I heard a text roll in. This season of life and running has reminded me of the incredible value of community, of sharing in life together, the triumphs and the difficulties. I could not have trained or run this marathon without community; without Tom's support; without my coach, Susie's guidance and encouragement; without the company of my girlfriends, logging mile after mile on the trail; without friends near and far sending me encouraging messages and cheering me on; without Renee to share this marathon goal with. Well, you know, I probably could have done it without these people, but it would not have been the very rich and rewarding experience that it was. I can tell myself that I can do this life alone, because sometimes alone feels safer. But going it alone would mean missing out on the connection and meaning that comes with relationship, the opportunity to know and be known. Those are the very things that deep down, I desire, and I think most humans desire.

As I neared the end of mile 18, I envisioned the boys at age 18, preparing to graduate high school and perhaps head off to college. My eyes welled up with tears once again, as I almost could not bare the thought of it. Just as Tom and I teach them by example, the importance of running and exercise, I realized that we are also teaching them to run after their dreams, to run hard after things that scare them, to run free in who God made them to be, to take the trail least often traveled. In essence, we're teaching them to run in strength out into the world, away from us. AWAY FROM US. As this thought drifted across my weary mind, I remember feeling the urge to run backwards, to fight the forward motion that comes with aging. It was as though, maybe if I ran backwards, I could stop time and they wouldn't grow up, because I simply don't feel ready for it. It might have been delirium, because as I stare at the words on the page, I recognize that they sound totally ridiculous. But I think that's when it hit me, something totally clicked. Just as the miles had been passing by so unbelievably fast, so too are the years. My boys growing. SO UNBELIEVABLY FAST. It's happening too fast, time is slipping through my fingers. Changes are happening daily. And I often find that I'm not quite ready for change, or the challenges that sometimes come with change.

I prayed for my boys at age 19, hoping that as they step out of the nest and face head on, a world that is often times harsh and cruel, that they would be filled with a humble confidence, with an unwaivering hope, passion and faith, all their own; that they would have the courage to step into the hard places, into their big dreams, and into challenging relationships. And just as I was imagining us waving goodbye to them in their dorm rooms, leaving them to survive, I mean thrive, among the wolves, I mean their peers, it happened. I felt a burning-like twinge in my left hip. In denial, I tried to ignore it for a while, knowing that when running I often feel a little tweak or pull or twinge, and if I keep going, it works itself out and I'm usually good to go. I tried to convince myself that this twinge was just that, something that simply needed to be worked out.

Somewhere between miles 19-20, I let Tom know that my hip was hurting a bit. It felt painful just to utter those words out loud because somehow saying it to him made it more real. The burning sensation intensified with every step. My body had held up for this long and now, at mile 20, it was failing, or so it felt, six miles short. I stopped and tried to stretch it out. Tom pulled on my leg. We tried all kinds of things with little to no relief. Tom encouraged me to walk. But it hurt just as much to walk as it did to run. Either way, I was limping hard at this point. Tom kept asking me what I needed. I love him for this. But what I needed, was something that he couldn't give me. I needed a new hip. I needed a hip that would let me run to the finish without feeling like it was blowing up. Or at least that's what I thought I had needed. I proceeded on, sporting a granny-style limp-walk for a ways. The frustration grew to where it would set me off into limp-run for a quarter of a mile or so, at which point I would need to stop for a minute or two and bend over, the only position in which I felt some reprieve from the pain. Why it never actually occurred to me to stop and not finish the race, I don't know. But it didn't. I really was just contemplating how I was going to get to the finish. But I was going to get there, I was sure of that. This was the moment that I had prepared myself for, the moment when things would get hard, the moment when I would have to choose to believe that things could be hard AND I could still have a great race. At one point, around mile 24, as I was limping along, I watched the 5 hour pace group pass me by. It was deflating, to say the least. Long before I toed the start line, I had accepted that this would likely be my slowest marathon to date, and it took me a while to even be excited about a goal time of 4:45. And now, I would surpass the 5 hour mark. When my hip blew up back at mile 20, I was forced to let go of my time goal, but seeing the 5 hour pace group run by me simply made it real. And sometimes real hurts.

Shortly after we passed the 25 mile marker, I caught a glimpse of the big ring statue that marked the finish area. I had been visualizing this statue ever since I had completed my last long run on the course, rehearsing the finish two weeks prior to the race. This was not the finish I had rehearsed, but there it was, that statue, peeking out above the trees and marking the finish line that I had longed to see. I won't tell you what words actually exited my mouth at that moment, but let's just say that it made Tom laugh, as he watched me take off. I could taste it, I could taste the finish, and with tears once again streaming down my face, I took my failing body on home to that finish. We entered America the Beautiful Park, the site of the statue and the finish line. A wave of relief crashed over me. I started running toward the finish with all of my might, only to be re-directed by my friend Renee and her husband, who had been done for quite a while. Apparently, I was going the wrong way to the finish and had to turn around to run a lap around the park to the finish line. Seriously, I thought? Seriously. So, there I was limp-running past runners long finished, past kids playing in the fountain, ugly crying my way to the finish line. Finally. I crossed the finish line, dragging my leg behind me, with Tom by my side. It was nothing short of a broken hallelujah. Nothing about that moment was pretty. It wasn't the smiling, triumphant moment that I had rehearsed in my mind. But somehow, I was still smiling and I still felt triumphant in a very different way. Sometimes there is an unexpected challenge. Sometimes it hurts. And sometimes it's really ugly. But that doesn't mean it can't still be beautiful.

I'm never letting go,                                                                                                                           gotta learn to grow,                                                                                                                           watch me as I touch the sky,                                                                                                                 still I fly.

Showing Up

As we approached the expansive green field, we saw it, the swarm of about a hundred 3 and 4-year- olds, all eagerly awaiting to find out which soccer team they were going to be on. My oldest, not quite four yet, clung with vigor to my leg, filled with what I imagine to be a perfect little combo of bewilderment and terror. There was a part of me that just wanted him to walk right up and grab his orange shirt and sit down with his team. I wanted it to be easy for him. I wanted him to feel comfortable. I wanted him to feel like he fits in. I wanted him to like soccer. No, I wanted him to love soccer.

But there was also a part of me that felt very connected to him in that moment, that moment where he was clinging to my leg and saying, "Mommy, you come with me to get my shirt" and "Mommy, you come with me to the team circle." And that feeling of connection is what led me to say, "Yes, I'll go with you, Monkey." Because doing new things is hard. New places, new people, new experiences. That's hard stuff. It's hard because we don't know what to expect. We don't know how things will go. And we don't always know how we're supposed to act or what to do. I get it, buddy. In this moment, you feel vulnerable and vulnerability is often scary. And vulnerability is beautiful. I get it. You know why I get it? Because I often feel the same way when I find myself in new places and new experiences. I do.

And just as my little man has been finding his way in preschool this year, and now at soccer, I am finding my way in motherhood. I had to give myself permission to be anxious and uncomfortable at preschool drop-off at the beginning of the year. Just as preschool was new and unknown for my boy, navigating the world of preschool parents and relationships was new and unknown for me. How will other moms perceive me? How do I connect with these parents? What if I don't fit in? What if I don't dress cool enough (because let's face it, running tights are not that cool. or flattering. at all.)? What if we do things differently in our family? How will the teacher perceive me? What if I am misunderstood? I hate being misunderstood. What if I say the wrong thing, or I say something that doesn't reflect how I really feel? I wish, just like I wish for my little guy, that I didn't care about these things, that I felt totally comfortable in new places. I wish new experiences felt like a breeze for me. But they don't. They don't. They feel uncomfortable and I almost always feel vulnerable. So, if they feel that way for me, I can only imagine how terrifying they must feel for my little not-quite-four-year-old. It's good for me to remember that.

      Mine is the one standing no where near the ball!

 It's good for me to identify with how he feels. Because it reminds me that the best thing I can do for me, and the best thing I can do for him, for both of my kids, is to keep showing up. I can give myself permission to feel vulnerable, to feel anxious, AND permission to be brave and show up. (Thank you, Brene Brown for helping me to realize this! If you haven't read her book, Daring Greatly, do yourself a big favor and check it out here.)

"I can see your anxiety, little man, and it's ok. It's ok to be where you are and feel what you feel, and...I may not be the hippest mom or say the right thing or be on time, but I will show up, for me, and for you. And hopefully, in doing so, I will model for you what it looks like to live bravely into life, new experiences and all."

The Story Lines

I shared a sweet moment the other day with my oldest son. We were outside and laughing about who knows what, when he moved close to me and gently placed his finger in one of the creases beside my eye, asking ever so tenderly, "Mama, what are those lines on your face?" "They're smile lines," I said, knowing this was not the end of the conversation. "Did you draw those lines? With a crayon? How did they get there? Do I have smile lines too?" he fired off in his usual inquisitive three year old style. I paused. And I thought for a moment about those smile lines, those wrinkles on my face. And I thought about how exactly one month from today, I will turn 40. That's four decades I've been on this earth. And then I proceeded to answer his questions one by one, as best as I knew how. "No, I didn't draw those lines, life did. And not with a crayon, but with moments. You see, Monkey, you know how you're about to turn 4 years old?" He nodded and reminded me of his intense desire to have a sea turtle cake for his birthday. "Well," I continued, "I am about to turn 40 years old." He chimed in, "whooooaaaah, that's a lot bigger than 4. That's more than 20!!" I probably would have been o.k. without all of the emphasis on how big that number is. "Yeah, it is more than 20. Forty is a pretty big number and it means I've lived a lot of years, a lot of life. And each one of these lines on my face tells a story from my life." I could see the wonder in his eyes as he exclaimed, "there are a LOT of lines on your face!" Thank you very much. "Yes, there are. I've lived a lot of life and there are a lot of stories behind those lines." Always wanting to know more he asked, "can you tell me some of the stories?"

"Each wrinkle and line tells a story of once upon a time,

moments where we did laugh and love, worry and weep;

each wrinkle, a mark of life running deep." ~MLM

I began to tell him about some of my memories from childhood, the good, the hard, the confusing. After a few minutes, he and his 4 minute attention span got bored and moved on to the water table, where he was quickly immersed in his own story-telling, epic tales of how the scorpion crossed the desert to sting the snake and so on. And I, I was left sitting there in a moment of quiet, thinking about all of those lines on my face and the stories they represent. They tell stories of times when I laughed and times when I cried; stories of heartbreak and trauma, triumph and healing; stories of friendships lost and friendships gained; lessons learned and mistakes made. They tell stories of when I was worried and mad; nervous and glad, times when I didn't know what to expect and was anxious about the unknown; stories of when I wanted something so bad and stories of unfulfilled expectations I didn't even know I had; stories of accomplishment and joy, and those of failure and disappointment; stories of faith, and challenge, and growth. Yes, there are a lot of stories behind those lines. Would I love it if some of those stories were absent from my life's repertoire? I absolutely would. And yet, I know that together all of those stories and moments have made me who I am today, for better or for worse, imperfectly beautiful, just like the lines on my face.

I admit, forty for me feels a bit like the halfway mark. Not that there are any guarantees that I will live to see eighty, or tomorrow, for that matter. But turning forty is giving me pause, pause to look back and to reflect, to take inventory of my life and my relationships. Just as I am looking back, I'm also looking forward. I'm asking myself what it looks like to embrace getting older and all that comes with that, and to age gracefully, whatever the heck that means. And I find myself wanting to let go and throw off all of the things that hold me back from being my real self. I don't really want to be successful anymore or spectacular, I just want to show up and be the best me, the one I was created to be. And in the moments and the days, of which there are many, where I am not the best me, I want to own it, and rest in the grace of knowing that I'm still in process. I desire to live each day more and more authentically, with actions on the outside that are congruent to what I believe on the inside. I hope that my face is radiant and my love is strong as I live into the stories yet untold. I don't want to hide those lines on my face or the parts of my story that don't shine, but rather set them free as part of me, imperfectly beautiful, wrinkles and all.

The Pain That Connects Us

Warning: This is raw and unedited, and not super thought out either. But when I don't know what to do with my feelings, I write. This is what came out.

I began writing a post after the Sandy Hook shooting, but I never finished it. I never found words that seemed to adequately capture my feelings and thoughts. So, with tomorrow being the one year anniversary of the shooting, I sat down to write again, one year later. And just as I picked up my pen, a notification flashed across my phone screen, "School shooting in Colorado. 2 injured. Shooter is active." My heart felt as though it literally had sunk to my feet. My chest tightened, squeezing the tears up and out of my eyes. "NOOOOO. Not another one," I cried, as I'm sure so many did when they heard the news. I had to just sit in it for a minute and feel the pain. Not because I like to feel pain but because I need to feel pain.

You see, I don't know or pretend to know what it's like to receive a text from my son that says there is a shooter in his school and he is safe, for now. I don't know what it is like to be emotionally strangled by hearing the news that my son was one of the ones that didn't make it out alive. I don't know what it is like to be a teacher, who risks her own life to protect the lives of her students. I don't know what it's like to be a student who witnesses the shooting of her classmates while trembling in fear beneath her desk. I don't know what it is like to be a first responder who has to carry a child's limp body to an ambulance. I don't know what it's like to be a doctor who did her best to mitigate the gun shot wounds of a 5 year old, but was minutes too late. I don't know their pain first-hand and I have not been in their shoes. I don't know their trauma. But I know my own pain. I know my own trauma. I think about these people, real life people, real life trauma, and the horrific things that they've experienced and the tears pump out even faster and harder. I don't do this to re-traumatize myself, I do it to re-connect to my pain so that I can connect with theirs. Because I think the place of pain is a place shared by the whole of humanity, a point of connection in a world of differences.

There's a reason that even those removed from the situation hear this news and we feel things, real raw things like rage, sadness, fear, and despair. We may not know anyone anywhere near this shooting and yet if we pause and take it in, we feel things. Because it touches a place in us that we all have, a place that holds pain and grief. We've all experienced loss in some way in our lives. Whether it's the loss of a person, or a job, or a dream, or the loss of innocence or safety, loss is loss, and we all know it to some extent. And loss is a strange beast, we all experience it differently and we all navigate it in our own unique way. And loss comes in waves, much like the tide, in and out. At bay one minute, crashing down on us the next. Yet there are no tide charts for grief, we don't know when it's coming or going, it just comes. And I think the tragedies like the one at Arapahoe HS today, the ones that we've become far too familiar with, touch a place of loss in us, as if removing the wall of a dam, allowing the waters of grief to once again barrel towards us, overwhelming our souls. And some respond to it by crying, others feel a deep sense of despair and hopelessness, some turn to prayer, grunting out the rawest of emotions, some feel anger and want desperately to place the blame somewhere, anywhere. Some take action, in any way they can, in direct defiance of the feelings of powerlessness that grief can so quickly effect.

We all do grief differently. And sometimes we wonder, "why is that person so upset by this? He didn't even know anyone at that school." Because that's not what the pain is about. Because when we see tragedy, be it near or far, personal or not, it touches a place in us, and has an uncanny ability to connect us to our own pain, our own loss. And one might at first think, "well that sucks. I don't want to feel pain. I'm going to do everything possible to avoid THAT." But what if we let it connect us to our own pain? And what if we let that pain connect us to each other? What if as we passed people in the grocery store, on the street, at our workplace, in our home, what if we recognized them, no matter how glammed up their Facebook timeline might be, as people what have known loss, and pain, and brokenness? How might that change how we see each other? Maybe it would simply allow us TO see each other. To really see each other. Maybe it would soften us and our responses to one another. Maybe if we allowed ourselves to see and feel a connection with people at the point of pain, we could then hold space for each other, safe space to let pain out instead of burying it deep within. What if we met pain with love, not answers, not judgment, not ignorance, just loving space to hold the pain.

This may sound like shrink talk to you. I admit, it does sound a little warm and fuzzy. Except that I've seen it work. powerfully. I've seen people hold space for each other and for me, allowing the raw discomfort of pain to emerge, only to be met with love, and thus transformed into hope and healing. I've known it first-hand. I've known how tremendously powerful it can be to have someone see through my anger or cynicism or sharp words, only to recognize the pain in me, coming out sideways. And to have that met with love and space in which I could freely kick at the walls of my pain until it bled light, wow, that has been powerful. Because of those people I have known healing. I ultimately credit the healing to my Maker, but I believe that those people were in my life for a reason and acted as vessels of healing, and for that I am so grateful.

So, I am not saying, that in response to this or any other tragedy that we shouldn't DO things, like work to pass laws, or increase funding for mental health, or improve safety protocols. I guess I'm just saying that I think we have more power to affect change than we realize. The opportunity is right there in front of us, in every interaction we have. You might be angry at me for saying this, and that's ok, but I really don't think that stricter gun laws or greater access to mental health or arming our teachers with guns is going to cut it. It may help or may not help things or prevent some tragedies. But when people are broken and in pain, the pain is going to come out somehow, some way. So what if we started by looking around us, pausing to see, really notice and see the people right in front of us? And what if we connected at the point of brokenness and pain, armed with time, space and a love that wins? This is just as much a challenge to me as to anyone, but what if???

3 years of Lessons, Love, and Laughter - A Tribute to My Son

Sometimes with writing, I don't know where to begin, so I never do. But today is my oldest son's third birthday and I couldn't let the day pass without sitting down and writing some of the things that have been stirring around in me for a while. It's a tribute to him and all that he has taught me over the last 3 years, not all of it easy to learn or think about, but needed. So, B, this one's for you, for you to read someday, many years down the road. It might not be perfect or make complete sense, just like your mama, but it is heartfelt.

My Dear B,
When I was preparing for motherhood a little over 3 years ago, I pondered the many things I wanted to and hoped to teach you someday. I honestly didn't give much thought to what you would teach me, let alone how much you would teach me. But wow, have you ever taught me a lot!

You have reminded me of what it means to be brave, to try new things. I am struck by your courage as I watch you jump into a large pool, water covering every inch of your little body, and then you pop up out of the water with a smile as big and bright as the sun on your face. You have reminded me that often the things that seem the most scary at first are the most exhilarating. I love, love, love your sense of adventure.

You have also reminded me of what it looks like to empathize with and care deeply for other people. I witness this nearly every day as I see you do things like cry when your brother gets his shots or ask me every day for a week if my eye (that I scratched) still hurts and if it feels better yet. I recall the first time that it hit me how deeply you feel. When you were just two we took you out on a boat and you bawled your eyes out every time you saw me or your Daddy fall down on the wakeboard (which I'm sad to say was quite often). We were ok, but you didn't know that and you thought we were hurt. And you hurt because you thought we were hurt. Some people might mistakenly see you as a crybaby, but I see you as one who empathizes deeply with others, especially in their pain, and it quite frankly is one of the most beautiful characteristics I've ever witnessed in anyone. And you are only 3. B, I hope you never stop feeling deeply, rejoicing with those who rejoice, and hurting with those who hurt. It takes courage to keep doing this, which is why I'm glad you are brave too. Because to feel deeply for others means you will hurt deeply for others. And hurting, as you know, is no fun. And sometimes when people feel hurt over and over again, they want to shut it down, so they won't have to feel the pain anymore. But I hope and pray that God gives you the strength and courage to keep you compassionate and vulnerable in the best of ways.

B, you have also shown me what it's like not to hide, because you don't even know how to hide yet. Somewhere along the road from childhood to adulthood, we learn to hide all that we don't want others to see, our weaknesses, our insecurities, our wrong-doings. We hide out of fear, fears of all kinds. But you, B, you haven't learned how to hide yet. I absolutely love playing hide-n-seek with you because I tell you to go hide and I count to 10 and before I can even open my eyes, you come bursting out of your "hiding spot" exclaiming, "here I am!!" Yes, there you are, my bright, beautiful, authentic, and unafraid boy. There you are. While at some point you may learn what it means to and how to hide, I hope you never do. You are too beautiful to be hidden.

B, you have definitely taught me more about sea animals and construction vehicles than I ever expected, or in full disclosure, desired to know, your thirst for knowledge knocks my socks off. It keeps me humble too. There's nothing better for the ego than having a 2 year old correct you and instruct you on the difference between a stingray and a manta-ray. Mind you, I will never confuse the two again. Yes, you are a little smarty-pants, but more important than smarts is your tenacity to keep trying and the problem-solving skills you use when you do persevere. My whole insides leap with pride and excitement when I see you place a puzzle piece in the wrong spot, and frustration creeps up, then you it again in a different space and realize that it fits. The way you marvel at yourself every.single.time and proclaim, with hands raised in the air, "I did it! TA-NA!!!" (your version of ta-da). Yes, you did. You did it because you kept trying and you didn't give up. And while there are situations in life in which giving up might be the right choice, I can tell you that many of the best things in life are not "gotten" on the first try. So, always give it one more try, and you just might get  it. Thank you for the reminder, buddy.

B, I could go on and on about the things you've taught me these last 3 years, but I want you to actually read this someday and I need to save things for other birthdays. SO, the last thing I want to thank you for teaching me on this, your third birthday of yours, is perhaps the one I'm most thankful for and it also brings the most tears to my eyes. In many of these other areas, your lessons to me have been reminders of things I maybe already knew but had lost sight of a bit over the years. But this lesson is one that you have taught me for the first time. It's a journey kind of lesson, but you have sent me on my way. It is the lesson of letting go. And that is perhaps one of the scariest things I've ever written down and while I want to keep learning it, I hope to God with all of my being that it is never fully tested. But here goes. I used to be somewhat fearless, and not always in a good way. Like, Nana and Papa had a celebration the first year that I made it an entire year without going to the ER. I was 23. I love that you are brave, B, but I'm counting on the fact that you are smart too so as to not land yourself in the ER as often as I did. Ah yes, the letting go. I once was fearless, and then I experienced some pain and losses and the fear began to creep in. And then into my life walked someone really amazing, aka your Dad, and I realized I now had something really big to lose, and the fear in me grew stronger. And then I got pregnant with you, after a long time trying. More to lose, more to fear. When they told me that you weren't getting fed in the womb and that you needed to come out a week early or else you might die, the fear soared (though it's still debatable whether that fear was actually medically warranted, but that's another story). Then you were born and it was like, holy frijoles, it's my job to keep you alive (or so I often let myself believe). More fear.

And then there were all of your skin reactions, the allergy diagnoses, the epi-pens, and that day last fall, when you were just 27 months old and your airways almost completely closed and they told us that we got you to the hospital just in time. I've never been so afraid in my life. But that's when it finally happened. All that built-up fear needed a place to go and it just kind of erupted. And that's when I realized, like deep in my heart realized, that I'm not in control, despite my best efforts to convince myself that I am. And I realized that  you are a gift from God; That God loves you even more, way more, than I do, which I can't honestly wrap my brain around; that you are God's, and it's my job to do my best to take care of you, and I can assure you, I will do my darndest. But that ultimately, it is God who keeps your heart beating, and your airways open, and wakes you up each morning with all that energy that I can't always handle at 7am but am sure glad you have. Yes, you have taught me, or shall I say, have begun to teach me what it means to relinquish my illusion of control, and trading it in for trust in God and his deep love for you. Big, huge knot in my stomach right now as I write this, but one that leads me to pray the prayer that I have prayed over you and your brother every day since you were born (it was spoken to the tribe of Benjamin but we include your bro in the prayer because we totally failed him in the name department. Not only did we not give him a biblical name, but more importantly, we gave him a name that means dark and hairy and well, with his white like the sun hair, yeah, big-time name fail. But don't tell him that just yet, k? I'll confess to him in one of his bday tributes down the road). The prayer I pray over you every night, "Let the beloved of the Lord rest secure in Him, for he shields him all day long. The one the Lord loves rests between his shoulders." - Deuteronomy 33:12. I think about this and I am reminded of both my desire to protect you from everything awful and bad in this world. But I'm also reminded of the reality that I won't be able to. And that is a very painful reality for me to swallow. See, just because God loves you, B, doesn't mean that nothing bad will ever happen in your life. God doesn't promise us a happy, perfect, pain-free life. But he does promise to walk us through whatever comes our way. And I've had just enough hurt and loss to believe that promise. And I hope you believe it too. Thank you, B, for teaching me how to let go and to live into faith and trust on a daily basis. I hope that no matter how big and dark the storms in your life grow, that you are reminded that the sun always still shines somewhere above the clouds and I hope that you keep tracing rainbows in the rain. I hope we both do, whatever comes our way.

I love you, my strong, beautiful B. Happy, joyful, 3rd birthday. Love, with all of my heart, Mom

Why Tragedy Unites

Tragedies like the one in Boston are wild, unbelievable, strange occurrences. Yet they have a unique way of bringing people together. We feel connected to the tragedy in various ways, strangely wanting to be close enough to feel like we are a part of something. But fearfully wanting to be just far enough away that the tragedy doesn’t actually touch us directly. But what is it about tragedy that draws us in? I admit, as a runner, as a mom, as a human being, I was drawn in earlier this week. Though I felt rage and sadnes at what I saw, I could not stop looking. When I first got word of the bombings, I immediately wanted to feel connected, first to my family, then to my friends, then via social media, to the world. Why? I believe, at our core, we all want to feel connected, we want to feel like we are a part of something bigger than ourselves. And tragedies bring us together. But why? Maybe we somehow feel unified in our disbelief, our sadness, our anger, our fear, and those feelings have one thing in common: vulnerability.

So tragedy has a way of bringing us together because when tragedy strikes, we feel raw and vulnerable, so vulnerable that we are stripped away of the pride and prejudices that keep us apart on any other day. We are connected at the core of our humanity. On Monday, when brave men and women ran straight into the bomb area to help those wounded, do you think anyone said, “wait, are you a Tea Party member? Because if you are, I can’t give you my shirt to stop the blood gushing from your leg because I can’t stand the Tea Party.” Or, do you think that those heroic runners who finished the race and kept running on to the hospital to donate blood stopped to ask, “Um, is this blood going to be given to a liberal? Because I refuse to give my precious blood to a filthy liberal.” NO, I guarantee you that people did not pause to give thought to the race, religion, or political party of the person they were helping. They saw hurting, vulnerable people, and in their own raw vulnerability, they ran head-on into the darkness with light and love. Tragedy has a way of stripping us down to our most vulnerable selves. And when it does so, we come to find that we have a lot more in common with each other than perhaps we once thought.

On this 14th anniversary of the Columbine shootings, I am reminded that I was not in the school when the massacre happened. Yet I found myself living smack dab in the middle of that community working with Columbine students and their families a year later. I was not in NY for 911, nor do I personally know anyone who died in that tragedy, though some of my family lives in Manhattan. I was not in the Aurora theater when someone opened fire on the innocent victims inside, but I do live in Colorado. I do not know anyone who was directly affected by the Sandy Hook shootings, but I have a son who I am preparing my  worried little heart to send off to pre-school next year. When most tragedies happen we can find ways in which we are somehow connected to them, maybe more accurately to the pain and fear that those tragedies render.  I believe deep down, we want to feel. We want to be vulnerable. We want to feel anything other than alone. We want to feel connected. We want to feel understood. We want to feel loved. But vulnerability isn’t usually very comfortable. And daily life often doesn’t force us to be vulnerable.  We can live at the surface far too easily.

But tragedy has a way of shaping us forever. As does the way we respond to it. We proclaim such statements as ‘love wins’ or ‘we’re stronger together,’ and they are true, yet it is that person who has run into the darkness and come out the other side into the light for whom those statements hold weight and take on deeper meaning. It is that person who has allowed themselves to be stripped down to their most vulnerable state, exposed, and in that place has both offered and received love and help. It is that person who knows both the depths of tragedy AND the depths of love and beauty.

Like I said, I haven’t personally been directly affected by any of the horrific tragedies we’ve seen in the last couple of decades. But when I think about the ways pain and tragedy have directly touched my life, I wouldn’t wish those things to happen on anyone. Yet, I can honestly say that going through those things has made me both stronger and softer, and they have caused me to love deeper. Or at least to try. I still struggle or perhaps I should say, resist vulnerability. It is so much easier to keep my walls up, my pride and prejudices as my shields. Because in doing so, I live under the illusion of control, the idea that I can keep pain at bay, prevent myself from feeling any kind of hurt. But what I have come to learn, stubbornly as I may, is that it is through the deepest hurt and pain that we find the deepest love, connection, and strength. 

Another Sunrise

I had a blog post whirling around in my head after the Aurora shootings. I actually wrote out a post on a Starbucks napkin after Sandy Hook. For some reason or for many reasons, I never actually posted them up on my blog. But today, the day after the bombing at the finish line of the Boston Marathon, I had to write. First I had to run. I woke up to about 8 inches of fresh snow and 24 degree temps. On any other day at this stage of the game, that probably would have been enough to keep me inside. But I knew that I needed to run on this snowy morning. I needed love to win out in my heart over fear and anger. And the two spaces in which that most consistently happens are running and writing. Running seemed like the most fitting option for today.

Darkness still filled the sky when my alarm went off this morning. I stalled and snoozed, a little more so than usual. I finally talked myself into getting out of bed, throwing my running clothes on and strapping on my shoes, Yak Trax already attached. The air cold, my muscles still stiff from yesterday, I ran into the darkness.

Because, as Bruce Cockburn so aptly puts it, sometimes you “got to kick at the darkness ‘til it bleeds daylight.” So I kicked and I ran, and the light came as it always does each morning. It wasn’t even a full-on sunrise, not even close, more like a heavy, foggy, grey light, but it was light and light is the only thing that pushes out the darkness.

And so on my run, I was reminded of how we, or at least I fear the darkness, the ugliness, the messiness of this life and world in which we live. And often times all I want to do is run away from the darkness. But sometimes you can’t outrun the darkness. Just as if you were to run West in attempt to out-run the sunset, the darkness would still catch you, the sun would still set and darkness would eventually fall around you. But what if we were brave enough to turn around and run straight into the darkness with the light of love, like the many courageous individuals who turned around and ran back into the bomb site to help people yesterday? What if we were brave enough to face the darkness, to wrestle with it, and kick at it, knowing we would come out the other side into the light of the sunrise? Because no matter how dark, the sun does always rise. And being a believer in God, I hold fast to the belief that his mercies are indeed new every morning.

What does it look like to run into the darkness? Sometimes when I run in the dark, my headlamp seems like such a small light in the midst of such vast darkness. But it is light nonetheless. It lights my path and it is light enough for people around me to see it and hopefully not run me over. I believe that light comes in the form of love. I believe that a major way God expresses love is through people loving each other. I believe that no act of love is too small, for it still casts light in a dark world. And collectively, all those little acts of love make for some big, bright light. And that light chases the darkness away. Love wins. But love is messy sometimes. It might include acts of kindness, but I believe it goes beyond that, deeper than that. Love sometimes looks like stepping into someone’s messy life and just being there, shining light and hope. Love sometimes means saying the hard things and sometimes it's receiving the hard things said to you. Love sometimes means needing to let go of pride, anger, control, judgment. Love sometimes means admitting you’re wrong even when you want so badly to be right. Love sometimes means forgiving when everything in you wants to hold on to the hurt with an iron fist. Sometimes love means speaking and sometimes love means not saying anything at all, no matter how much you want to defend or defame. Love often means sacrifice, of one’s time, of one’s energy, of one’s needs, and perhaps even of one’s own safety as many brave ones demonstrated for us yesterday. Because life is messy, love has to be patient. It has to be. This is hard for me. Really, all of it is hard for me, really hard, all of the time.

But I don’t want to run from the darkness anymore. Because, like the sunset, it always catches up with me anyway. I want to run with the light of love head-on into the darkness and love hard with those around me until nothing but light remains. Who’s with me?

Rocky Mountain Heartbreak

When we put our townhome on the market, I can't tell you how many people said to me, "selling your home is the hard part. Once you do that, the fun begins!" As in, house hunting is fun. Maybe it is if you're on the show House Hunters, which by the way if anyone knows how to get on the show, we're all ears! But if not, I beg to differ, at least in the Denver market. For us, house hunting thus far has been little more than stressful and heartbreaking.To be honest, it reminds me a lot of dating in high school.

In our search for 'the one', we initially found several prospects. They possessed some of our desired characteristics, but were lacking quite a few others.  I tried to convince myself that they might be a good fit, trying really hard to envision our life together.  But let's face it, when you have to convince yourself that the love is there, it's probably not. Then there were a couple of homes, one in particular, that had a major "wow factor." You see, I am easily wooed by a nice kitchen. I get all lost in the granite and the stainless steel appliances, and the gas stove and ahhhh, I become completely blind, donning my beer granite goggles, blind to the many major flaws, like the cracks in the foundation, the shifting basement wall, the high potential for water damage...oh but the kitchen is sooooooo amazing. People tried to warn me that this was not the one, that it just wasn't a good overall fit for me, but I could only see what I wanted to see and that was the double pantry with the slide out drawers and the 6 burner gas stove and the double oven. But deep down inside I knew it. I knew that when my infatuation with the fancy kitchen wore off, reality would set in and I would be left with a home with major foundational flaws and the relationship, I mean the house would eventually crumble to the ground. So, as heartbreaking as it was, we ended the relationship with that sweet house on Arbutus St., trusting that there would be a better fit out there somewhere. It was hard to say goodbye. I was sad, it was a loss, and I needed to grieve. I also needed some chocolate.

Then there was the one that got away. Actually, there were two of those. The first was a beauty, I'm talking serious eye-candy as far as homes go! But it was more than just eye-candy, it had personality too. It was everything we were looking for and more, or so we thought. This one felt a little out of our league, but we took a risk and went for it anyway. Apparently though, some other prospect swooped in before us and caught the seller's eye, offering up a little more than we were willing to give. And so went our, "as close to the whole package as we've seen so far" property. Heartbroken again. This one called for more drastic measures, so I got myself a spoon and drowned my sorrows in a pint of Bluebell ice cream.

We really didn't believe that we would ever find another one as amazing as the one that got away. We just couldn't imagine anything better and that was discouraging. But people say that the third time's a charm, right? So, we held out hope and after a little mourning and eating of the Bluebell, we got back out there again. Not much time had passed when along came another prospect. This one didn't have the wow factor that the previous ones had. But we were kind of over that anyway, tired of getting all excited and wooed, only to be let down and dumped on our... Anyway, along came this new one, a little bit aged but young at heart and offering the promise of steadiness (and great views) that we longed for. This one came with all of the non-negotiables. It was solid, strong and had a lot of heart. We were in love. It was for real this time. This was not the infatuation of the past, but a real, legitimate, deep love. This WAS THE ONE, we were sure of it. So sure we were that I was already making plans for how we would spend the holidays decorate the living room. But apparently, God had other plans for us and we would not in fact be building a life together. Because when we finally got up the nerve to make a move, we discovered that someone else had already made their move...again. This one hurt...bad. I was devastated. I cried and I cried hard. Then I was angry. And then I was just sad again. I just wanted to crawl in a hole and not talk to anyone. And I was tired of this rollercoaster. How could this happen? This was the one, we were SOOOO sure of it! But it was not meant to be. And as with any heartbreak, there were lessons to be learned.

Right after the heartbreak, I didn't want to think about what lessons I was supposed to be learning from the whole ordeal. Maybe I didn't want to see them. I just didn't want to believe it was really over. But time does do wonders for a broken heart and after a few weeks and some more ice cream...and chocolate...and wine, I am finally ready to let go of that one. And I'm ready to acknowledged what I have learned. For starters, I was reminded to stay focused on the important things. I have to be honest, it took me a little while to see this last one for all that it was. I wish I had realized what a gem it was a bit sooner. Next time I will see it sooner and I won't be so hung up on superficial things. I also learned that if we see something we like, we need to move fast and I mean lightning fast. There just aren't a whole lot of quality prospects out there, so when we get that "this is the one" feeling, we need to go for it that day (in case you forgot, we're talking about houses here. I do not necessarily endorse jumping into the deepend right away when it comes to dating!). And in the big picture, I think there are two big lessons to be learned. The first is simply the reminder to focus on all that I have rather than on what I don't have, to be grateful and count my many many blessings. And the second big take-away, is the lesson that the right one is worth waiting for. Umm, I'm pretty sure I learned that one already in a big way nearly 5 years ago! But I guess someone wants me to learn it again. So here we are again, attempting to wait in hope AND live in gratitude at the same time. Somedays are harder than others. Somedays I still have to remind myself that it's really over with that last one and that I need to let go and look forward...forward with hope and gratitude and a bucketload of patience, trusting that the right one is somewhere out there waiting for us!

Release

Wow. So, this is what typing a blog post feels like. I forgot. A number of people have been asking me questions lately that go something like this, "Where have you been?" or "Are you ok? I haven't heard from you in a while" or "Did you stop blogging?" Well, I didn't stop blogging, at least not in my head. It's just that what was in my head never made it to the blog! And while I wish I could say that during the time that I haven't been posting anything on the blog, I was off on some crazy advenure or embarking on a new exciting project, but truth be told, I've been doing neither of those things. Or wait, maybe I have, if you are so inclined to think of changing a LOT of poopy diapers as an adventure, which believe me, it can be. Or if you think of trying to show and sell a home with two kids under two living there as an exciting project, then yes, that is exactly what I've been up to. I've wanted to blog so many times throughout the last 7 months (yep, it's been that long) and have had so many different thoughts whirling around in that head of mine, but I've had neither the mental nor physical energy to work them our on paper (bc yes, it's true, I still handwrite everything first that I eventually type!) And even if I did happen to have a burst of mental energy, it was often impeded by the mounds of pressure I heaped onto myself to transform whatever those thoughts were into coherent and profound sentences. And well, that's just not happening.

So, why today to start blogging again? Well, for starters, I have released myself from having to say anything coherent, let alone profound. I hope you will release me too. (Read: this might be somewhat meandering and perfectly raw and unprofound). More than in any other season of my life, as a mom I have come to recognize the importance of "releasing myself" from the highly unrealistic pressures and expectations I place on myself. I now call it the "bringing myself back down to earth" talk that I have been having with myself lately. It goes something like this, "No, Melissa, you cannot wash the dishes, stuff the diapers, make yourself lunch, clean up your lunch, check your email, spend some time writing, check your email, prep dinner, pay the bills, call 2 clients back, call your sister, find a condo to rent in Winter Park, upload the trip photos, and take a catnap during the 1.5 hours (at best) that you may have if (big if) both boys are miraculously asleep at the same time. You just can't!" I argue with myself, "But I need to get those things done. The kids need clean diapers, dinner needs to be made, the bills need to be paid, I need to call the clients back..." And the voice of reason stops me in my tracks, "You can't do it all, Melissa. It doesn't mean that you're a failure. That doesn't need to be cause for feeling overwhelmed. Think of it as your personalized invitation to prioritize. What is most important today, Melissa? Choose 3 things." I fight it with a toddler-esque whine (all in my head, of course), "But I..." "3 things, Melissa. Period. 3 things. Choose wisely." "Ok," I say to myself with a sigh, donning somewhat of a forlorn look on my face, "3 things." 

And so I go about choosing the 3 things that I'm going to do during whatever unpredictable amount of time I may have. And to be honest, I don't always choose the most healthy 3 things. I often either choose those seemingly urgent tasks clamoring for my attention the most loudly or those totally mindless time-drainers aka facebook. But today, I chose wisely. I chose to make lunch for myself AND to actuallly sit down and eat said lunch, to clean up from lunch, and to read and write a little. And literally, as I wrote that sentence, I heard the crackle of the monitor quickly followed by the dreaded cry signalling my time has come to an end. I didn't even finish the 3 things I set out to do. Imagine how defeated I would have felt had I had intentions to do all of those things I mentioned earlier in the post. 

But that is my current reality as a wife and mom of 2 boys who are only 16.5 months apart, mostly staying at home but also working two very part-time jobs. Everyone has their own reality, and no one reality or set of circumstances is in and of itself better than another, it's the attitude with which you see your reality and the way you respond to your circumstances that is perhaps more important. And I'll be the first to admit (my husband will most likely be the second) that I don't always respond in ways that I am proud of or would like other people to see. But the truth is, I wouldn't change my life right now. Ok, so maybe I secretly (or not so secretly) wish for a reality in which I got more than 4 consecutive hours of sleep at a time. But other than that...

You see, part of my journey as a mom so far as been about learning to accept my limitations. There is a lot of talk out there that says, "Reach for the stars! You can do anything you set your mind to!" And some days, that kind of talk is good for me to hear, motivating me to dream big. But other days, I feel like saying, "I'll show you where you can put your stars..." (exhibit #1 of not always responding so beautifully.) As much as we need that kind of hopeful, motivational, positive, "you can do it" talk in our lives, I believe we also need to be talking about how to gracefully accept our limitations, the things we simply cannot do. There are times when life calls us to reach hard after our goals and I believe there are times when what we really need is to reset our expectations and perhaps establish new goals, more realistic goals. Because let's face it, some days I have about as much of a chance of playing Center for U.S. women's basketball team as I do crossing off everything on my to-do list. No amount of 'setting my mind to it' is going to make it happen! Don't get me wrong, I'm a goal-oriented person and I like to, I mean really like to achieve things that I didn't initially think were possible. And I very much want to encourage my boys to dream big and to dream boldly AND I want them to develop realistic expectations, as in I really hope Ben (who is in the not-quite-0percentile) doesn't spend a whole lot of his time dreaming about being a linebacker. Because apart from a supernatural growth spurt, that's just not gonna happen for him. 

So, I guess all of this is to say that I'm finding that I need to make sure my goals are realistic and more importantly, that they align with my priorities and values. If not, then maybe just maybe I need to stop all of my frenzied movement in the wrong direction, release myself, and set some new goals, goals that are challenging AND attainable AND fulfilling. Therefore, today, I released myself from doing the laundry and calling people back and instead I ate, I wrote, and I conquered took the boys to the pool!

Ahhh, that felt good to write! And it only took a total of 4 days to get from my brain to the blog!