Monday, February 5, 2024

habit

 I’ve been thinking about habit.   

Admittedly, I have not read the viral Atomic Habits book yet.  I'd imagine my thoughts aren’t so revolutionary.   

But when I stop to think about all the changes I need to make in my daily life, I can get incredibly overwhelmed.  Unless.  Unless I remember everything I do is a choice. 

Well.  Most of everything I do is a choice.  

I choose when I lay down and get up.  I might not "choose" when I am awake and asleep, but the actions of laying down and getting up can help ensure sleep comes sooner or later.

I choose my meals daily.  Maybe I chose earlier based on what I bought (or didn't buy) at the grocery store.   

There are parts of my life I don't choose.  Like what comes up in the day or how other people act.  In both those scenarios, the choice is my response.  

The basic habits I am trying to transform are actually just... choices.  

It is not always easy to make the healthier choice.  Depending on the day or the circumstance or the budget.  But it is often an available choice. 

It sounds so simple.  To pick up a book instead of Instagram.  To pick up water instead of coffee.  To spend an hour on Sundays prepping meals so you have the choice to eat healthy food during the week instead of spending $15 on take out.  To wake up at 4:45 instead of 5am.  To add some protein to those carbs.  To meditate instead of ... again... scrolling.  To move your body rather than ... scrolling.  To take a deep breath, count to ten, to give yourself space to see someone else's perspective.  

There are other habits that are not as related to physical health.  Like friendship.  Community.  connection.  These get trickier because, well, everything gets trickier when you involve other people.  But do I make the choice to reach out to my friends?  Do I make the choice to intentionally carve out space?  To offer my home even when it isn't spotless or "ready"?  

These choices, which turn into habits, are about showing up as the woman I want to be, before I just intuitively am her.  Or, perhaps, it is about knowing who I am and honoring her.  

Either way.  One step at a time.

Tuesday, February 21, 2023

a parenting thought

8/23/22

 My parenting journey has been anything but "normal".  

Sometimes I am envious of mothers who have a linear parenting story.  Who, if they want to, have a private parenting story.  

My story, our family's story, is anything but linear.  And in some sense, is anything but private.

I am suspicious, though, what we are experiencing as a family of eight is not unlike what you are experiencing.  We just have a few dynamics making the experience extra interesting. 

A trend I am seeing on social media is one of holding boundaries with our parents or holding our parents accountable for how they hurt us, or how they failed us.  I am about a decade older than most who are exploring this wild territory and I have some thoughts.  

Each generation, hopefully, does better than the one before it.  Because my parents evolved, I was not raised the way they were.  Because I have evolved, I am not raising children the way I was raised.  

However.  The pendulum seems to be swinging too far right now.  

As a bonus parent to two teen (ish) girls, I am seeing this trend promote blurry lines between entitlement and respect.  

As a bonus parent and a bio parent and a mental health professional, I am seeing this desire to have make sure our children are "heard" and "validated" turn into a lack of guidance and correction.  

Gentle parenting turning into little more than permissive parenting. 

I keep thinking about what my goals are for parenting and for my children.  I want them to know how to communicate.  But I also want them to be empathetic.

And just because someone is a child or just because someone is a parent doesn't mean they automatically are wrong.  This is the balance we are trying to find.

I have to do better about learning what really is a threat and what isn't.

And my children have to learn ... well.  How to be kinder.  


on being a parent

 Parenting thought of the day.

 If I were to replay the tape to figure out where most of our conflict originated, I think (I know. I’ve thought about this extensively) at the core I’d find a lack of mindfulness.

Six kids are screaming/arguing/roughhousing. Tv is blaring. Dog is barking. Someone’s hungry. Something just broke. No one can find the remote. No one has clean socks. Someone spilled water… or someone peed. Someone looked at the other wrong. There’s a sharpie lid.  Somewhere, a tiktok video is playing.

 In that chaotic moment, a statement is made or missed, a snide remark, or a need is expressed in a round about way. Mine. His. Theirs. And in the whirlwind of Big Family Life the ability to “pause” seems to be lost.

 Remember when our moms said, “it’s so loud I can’t think”?

When an accusation was made and in the heat of the moment, I took it personally. But if I’d taken a pause, I probably could have seen it as a fight, which didn’t need to be picked.

When a rule is broken. When, in complex dynamics, a parent is pitted against the other.  When eyes are rolled or siblings argue.  

In my trauma trainings I‘ve learned about “perceived threat” and the dominance game. And the remedies to handling those “knee jerk” reactions, which happen because our brains have been conditioned by past events, which settled into past painful memories.

I keep thinking , what is wrong with me that I have THIS much work to do? 

Can you possibly be a good mother and have to work this hard at it?  Some days I want to review tape.

The core belief, slowly being exposed, is that I have too much work to do.  You can't be a good mother and be this bad.  

There are days I can't quite tease apart what is hard because raising kids is hard, and what is hard because our family is blended.  For example, the days they don't listen or roll their eyes or a decision gets undermined or maybe I made a mistake, but it seems no one has any grace for me.  

Do we not have grace for moms?  Or is it just step moms and bonus moms who are held to such high standards?  

Would I take it so personally if our blended family dynamic was more peaceful and mature and trustworthy?  Is the struggle here because there are actual grown ups in our lives who don't want us to do well?  

I've been desperately trying to learn.  

The answer really is mindfulness.  The answer is showing up as the mother I want to be, rather than the mother I've been.  For us, specifically, the answer is all the work we can possibly do on our trauma.  

There is an answer in rituals as well.  This is what feels like so much work.  Back to the core belief that if this was right and we were good at this, we wouldn't need to do so much damn work.  But we do.  We need night time rituals to get ready for morning rituals and we need meal schedules and routines.  We need more water and more sunlight and more vegetables and less screens. There are too many moving parts to not have theses strategies in play. 

But even when I get that part right, I am burdened by the memory of everything I got wrong.

Just today I was flooded with guilt over an area I have grossly neglected.  Weighed down by the realization of how hard it is to like myself, let alone expect my family to like me.

I originally started this post in August of last year.  Cue my age old guilt trip of how long it takes me to learn. Today, when half the kids are home sick and I'm using naptime to write instead of clean, I really hope the effort of learning counts for something.  

Thursday, May 19, 2022

On Being

 It's been so long, I wonder if I've forgotten how to write.

I am almost certain things might work themselves out if I process my thoughts in this way, but I've felt resistant because, oh god what if I forgot how.

What if I used to be "able" and I'm not "able" any more.  

I want to tell you about being a mom.

I want to tell you about being a wife.

I want to tell you about being a bonus mom.

A therapist in training.

I want to talk to you about religion and spirituality and what it's like to go looking for one without the other and finding precious little of what we need.

I want to talk to you about what Friday night dinners at my house might look like.

And I tell myself, I am not qualified to talk to you about anything.

I will say, I am learning nothing is solved by doing nothing. I suppose there are situations and circumstances in our life where riding out the wave is exactly what is needed.  But even then, relaxing is something.  Resting is something.

Particularly what I mean, more than anything, is we don't get better at the things we don't do.

We don't get stronger unless we pick up heavier things.

We don't become less angry, unless we learn to manage our anger.

We don't eat healthier, unless we choose healthier food.

We don't learn unless we listen, read, or do.

This space was just always sacred.  In the very middle of things.  I shared and you met me here and that's about all I have to offer. 

But this sharing muscle, this story muscle, this writing muscle is atrophied to a nearly unrecognizable extent.  

So what if that's what we do now.

Just a few words here and there.

On being.


Monday, May 10, 2021

Birth Story

 

Damir was due mid January and his due date came and went, just like Silas' had.  

We had bought and moved into a new home, the holidays had passed, I had experienced some excruciating pregnancy symptoms including pubic symphysis dysfunction and numbness in my hands.  Due to COVID I stopped working in person at the end of the year and logged in remotely every day.

I was extremely concerned about going too far past my due date and having to be induced, partially due to my history with Judah and epidurals and mostly because of COVID.

The Friday before Damir finally was born, Silas and I both came down with a terrible cold and had to be COVID tested.  We were both negative, thankfully, but the symptoms were extremely uncomfortable and to this day I really believe Damir was holding out for me to feel better.  

The Tuesday after his due date I went back to the midwife for another non-stress test.  They had attempted to sweep my membranes twice already with no luck.  But that morning I was having some intermittent contractions.  After a very active NST, the midwife was able to try one more time to sweep and I was finally at 4cm.  

We decided to go ahead and COVID test one more time and go home and wait on contractions to pick up.  She said, I bet he will be here today or tomorrow!  But I knew it would be that day.

Tony was working and my mom had Judah and Silas.  When I got back from my appointment, Tony decided to wrap up working because contractions were already 3-4 minutes apart.  

Contractions were frequent and consistent, but they were not very intense.  So we ate and packed up the boys and sent them home with my mom.  And Tony and I decided to go for a walk.

COVID vaccine rolls outs had started that week at Kroger field and the way to the hospital from our new house was right down Alumni Drive. So we decided to go park on campus and walk there, just in case vaccine and rush hour traffic got too backed up near home.

It was a gorgeous day.  The sun was shining even though it was chilly outside.  We knew the boys were safe, our bags were in the car, we had no where else to be.  So we started walking.

I don't know that I've ever enjoyed an afternoon with Tony the way I enjoyed that afternoon.  We logged four or five miles, walking around the hospital to campus, up stairs, down stairs.  We stopped to get ice cream and ate it while walking.  My contractions were getting much stronger and around 5pm we decided to check into labor and delivery.  We made that decision based mostly on Damir, wanting to make sure that he wasn't in distress.

My mom and sisters were texting in our group chat all afternoon.  And I walked, waddled, into triage for labor and delivery and immediately texted them. This did not feel good.  "Why does it feel safer out there than it does in here?"

And my contractions stopped.

When I say stopped, I don't mean got farther apart. I don't mean, alleviated some.  They just stopped.

They got me into a room and hooked me up to the monitor and Joanne the midwife came in to check me and I was only dilated to 5.  The contractions that had made me stop in my tracks during our walk, that I hadn't been able to talk through, were barely blinking on the monitor.

And so Joanne gave me options.

She said, "you'll have this baby before my call is over tomorrow morning".  And I explained what I was telling my family about not feeling safe.  She nodded.

My body was having a stress response.

She encouraged me to stay, said she felt ok with whatever decision I made, but that her midwife heart wanted to keep me where she could help.

But I knew.  I felt embarrassed, disappointed in my body, frustrated.  How could I get through labor and then delivery, if I couldn't even listen to my own body?  If all the trust was gone?

Tony sat in front of me and we talked and quickly decided.

I told Joanne, "we need to go home.  I need to go home and get back in touch with my body. Because right now, I don't trust myself. And if I don't trust myself, we won't get through this."

Recognition, affirmation, lit up her whole face and she nodded. No arguing, no debating.  Just nodded and said, "let's go.  We will see you soon."

Tony and I left the hospital, walked to the parking garage and started driving down Nicholasville Rd.  We decided to eat, and pulled into Planet Thai's parking lot.

And the contractions kicked back in.

We waited twenty minutes for noodles and curry and I experienced contractions the entire time.  Contractions that were increasing in severity , that were consistent.  Soon I was turned around backwards in the parked car, gripping the back of the carseat for support. 

I remember telling Tony I felt so frustrated.  What was my body doing, I had just been at the hospital.  We had just been where we needed to be, and my body hadn't done what it was supposed to do. 

We got home and I immediately got in the tub, leaving the dinner we bought uneaten.  Contractions picked up and by 7:30 we were headed back to the hospital.

We'd realize later that I started transition while walking from the parking garage to L&D.  Down the huge hallway through Chandler's Pavilion A. 

When we got back to the labor unit, the nurse who had triaged us previously saw me at the elevator and said, "oh.  Now you're ready.  Good luck!"  She could see on my face what had changed.

We ended back up in the same room as before.  When Joanne returned to the room I was 8+ centimeters and it was after 8pm.

Damir's heart rate dropped once during contractions, so our original plan of laboring in the tub wasn't an option anymore.  Joanne and Simone, the nurse midwife student, provided support over the next hour and a half.  Tony, just like with Silas, didn't leave my side. More than once, someone commented on our team work. 

I distinctly remember while laboring with the squat bar, looking up and seeing Joanne sitting across the room.  Legs crossed, arms folded in her lap, just waiting.  Even in the middle of back to back contractions, I noticed.  I still don't know quite what to call what I saw, except I was watching her hold space for me.  I was watching her bear witness. Between contractions I remember thinking, that's what being a midwife is all about.

Eventually she said, "girls, those sound like pushing contractions", and she was immediately on her feet. 

Damir was born after just a few contractions.  I was able to reach down and pull him to me.  My last baby.  A head full of dark hair and dark eyes.

It was Mother's Day last year when I found out we were pregnant with him.  Right now he's sleeping downstairs in his bed, already almost four months old.

I won't ever be able to do our birth story or the miracle of his existence justice.

Friday, January 15, 2021

Damir

Damir, My boys always wait on me. Looking back, there's always been work on my heart that needs to be done before each of you have been born. And even though you are probably the last, I don't think you will be any different. Your due date has come and gone, my anticipation and apprehension are growing. This pregnancy has flown by in some ways and I can't believe that I'll be able to hold you soon. But holding you hasn't been on my mind much yet. We've been trying to prepare a place for you. Settling in a new house , with more space. Working hard at my job, getting your brothers and sisters through school. The world around us is a mess right now. Sometimes I feel so guilty for bringing you into this world that is so scary. It's been the hardest year of so many of our lives and I can't believe that such a hard year is going to bring us, you. We are so thankful for that. I haven't stopped for long to think about you being here because so many other things needed to be done. You are coming right after the holidays, which you'll quickly learn your mama doesn't love at all. But most of all I think I haven't stopped for very long because I am afraid. I've been a mama long enough I don't worry too much about admitting my fear. And I certainly am not afraid of you. But I'm afraid I won't do a good job of being your mom. That I don't have enough to give, or what it takes. But our family needed you. Silas needed you. I can't wait to learn how to love you. I hope you want to snuggle my neck and until you get here I will be wondering about the color of your eyes. We will do our very best for you, I promise. It is safe for you to come. We are ready for you. We have your place ready. We will do our best to keep you safe. You are loved and wanted. And even when I feel afraid, it's only because I want to do my best for you. It's because I don't want you to feel like you got what was leftover. Or that you weren't chosen. My prayer is you bring completion and peace to this family. And that we will work so hard to allow the peace you bring to overflow into every part of our lives. We are ready for you now, Mama

Wednesday, January 1, 2020

To my 21 year old self, who wondered if she would ever get married, wondered if she would ever graduate college, wondered if she would ever have her own children.  To my 21 year old self who was newly sick, newly in debt, the new kid on the block, new to service.  I was new to adult relationships, new to prayer, new to the working world.   I was new to exercise. 




To 21 year old Anna, I would say:




It won't take quite the whole decade, but almost. 




It will get tremendously worse, before it gets better.




It will take more than a few years ahead of you, to get it right.  Or at least to get a few things right.


You will be poor.  You will be hurt.  You will work harder than anyone.  You will fight harder than anyone.  You will be lonely.  You will be scared.  You will be angry.  You will be really angry.  You will be betrayed, you will be left.  You will excel.  You will learn.  So much.   You will make bad decisions.  You will learn not to judge others.  You will be in danger.  You will be the protector.  You will be held and kept and loved.




You will come to the end of every year for the first eighty percent of this decade and breathe deep, wondering how this year didn't manage to kill you.  How did you survive?  Somehow you will. 


You'll come up, worse for wear or swinging.  Until that 8th year.




You'll forget to even tell anyone about that eighth year, but that's how long it will take. 




How long it will take to find some peace.  To find some healing.  To find the ease you've been looking for.




Right now, at 21, you are always telling others you don't mind to wait.  It's the fear that there's nothing to actually wait for, that's the hardest.  And I wish I could tell you, it was just right there.  Nothing would be in vain.




The family and the life and the love and the dreams. 


In ten years, you will travel the world.  Not nearly as much as you'd hoped, but it will happen.  You will recover from medical debt, return to school.  You will learn heartbreaking truths and experience painful rejection and repeated abuse.  You will take a positive pregnancy test and no one will keep that secret for you.  You will navigate the waters of motherhood alone, working, learning, building.  Judah will come.  Even though you never thought you'd get to be a mommy, there he is.  Your brown eyed boy.  If I could talk to my 21 year old self now, I would say: just wait.  He's coming. 


You will figure out how to take care of both of you, and you will find new jobs and buy a new home.  You will allow people in, give them time and space, who do not deserve it.  And if I could tell you now, to let go so much sooner, I would.  If I could tell you to ignore a phone call, ignore a text, to believe someone when they told you who they were, I would shout that from the rooftops. 


Because the people you will encounter over the next decade are not safe people.  Very few are good. 


There's no way to tell the future, though.  Halfway through the decade you will meet someone who will change your life and maybe you'd believe me, if I told you.  But probably not.  Knowing would probably change everything and trust me when I say, you don't want it to change.


Right now, here at the end of 2019, Judah is laying on the floor with him and your second son.  Judah's baby brother.  His son, too.  They are napping and there are candles burning and a movie playing. You will love this life.


If there was another way to get you here, I don't know it. 


But you will get here.  That seventh year, your phone will break and you will lose all your numbers and all your pictures.  And that eighth year, he will wish you happy birthday. 


And what was started halfway through the decade, will start to weave itself together again.


And that last year, that last year of the decade you will bring this baby boy into the world.  And he will give you a ring.  There will not just be one little boy, but three.  And two little girls too.  There will be a wedding.


21 year old Anna won't believe me.  How could she?  How could you look at someone and say, all of your dreams will come true at the end of this decade, and expect her to believe you?  At 21, maybe she might feel lucky.  But my god.  It has nothing to do with luck.


You will learn how to use your breath, how to move better; you will learn how to help others.  You will learn how to cook, how to build muscles, how to keep a household, how to manage finances, how to build credit. 


The only thing I would tell 21 year old Anna without a moment's hesitation is, don't take out those student loans.


I don't know how that would change the trajectory of our story, really.  But I'd be willing to risk it.



Tuesday, October 22, 2019

Franklin



I have a mental snapshot of this moment. 

In the cinematic montage of our life together, this is the image I remember as the beginning.

The opening of a door.  You standing there, all darkness behind you.

If I could go back and tell us both in that moment, “this is it”, I wonder what we would have done differently.  There he is, there she is.

In the years following, I wonder how we would have chosen differently or how much harder we would have fought.  If we had known.

It took years for the knowing, though.  And the knowing didn’t heal.  You describe it as a funnel, two stars in orbit, with each rotation drawing closer until unity.  The knowing happened before the collision and beforehand we spent time close and reaching and healing.

Sunday night I stood in front of you, your hands in mine, and we vowed to love and protect each other forever.

We committed to the work of a lifetime of love.

And in brief, fleeting moments the image of you standing in the doorway transferred over yourself in front of me like a kaleidoscope. 

The obstacles we faced leading up to our wedding day were not unlike the challenges we’ve faced over the years.  Everything that it took to get to this day, every battle we fought, every plan changed, every moment of celebration was an effort to get us here.  To the merging of our lives.

Our children watched and celebrated and wept.  And so did our parents and our siblings and our friends.

All we had to navigate to get to this moment swirled around my head like the market lights and I have a deep knowing it took every hardship to build the resilience we now have.  I know it took the coming and the leaving and the staying and the birthing to build us up to be the two of us standing there.

We couldn’t have bypassed it all, and still ended up here.

But for the decades to come, where once I saw you standing in a doorway, I will now see you standing in the light.  Eyes on mine.  Hands over mine.

Thursday, April 11, 2019

Silas


I laid in bed next to Judah, as I have for six and a half years, and wondered if tonight was when his baby brother would come. 

We are less than a week away from Silas' due date and ten days away from being done with work for a few weeks and twelve days away from needing to schedule an induction. 

I had walked three miles and climbed eleven flights of steps yesterday, my app said.  And as I laid there with Judah while he fell asleep I felt the cramping ebb and rise and somewhere in the back of my mind I thought, “no, not tonight”.

And that’s when I knew.  I had been looking around for the work left to do before Silas comes.  I had washed all the laundry and I had swept and mopped the floors and contemplated scrubbing the baseboards.  I had sorted through papers, bought diapers, arranged medical leave, called all my clients.  I did my eight year old daughter’s hair, teasing her that Silas wouldn’t come until it was done.

Everyone has advice.  Be open.  Imagine openness.  Have sex.  Drink raspberry tea.  Walk, exercise, do yoga.  Eat dates, eat spicy food.  “Don’t worry”, as if that’s even remotely possible.  Almost six weeks ago my little sister had her second baby and first daughter and we talked at length about trusting our bodies, about trusting our babies. 

I have learned to trust Silas – and I learned that last week when a doctor tried to tell me my littlest boy had flipped back to breech.  I knew better.  Because after ten months of this, I know him.  I knew he was snugly head down because I could feel him.  But the doctor wasn’t sure.  When I was right, I internalized the truest lesson about trusting my good baby. 

I am not sure yet if I trust my body or not.  But last night when I laid down next to Judah I knew last night I didn’t want it to be “the night”, not because I’m not ready to meet Silas, but because I knew this was the work I had to do. 

I could use the physio ball, get my hair cut, get a pedicure, go on walks, download the meditation app, shave my legs, pack my hospital bag and be completely ready.  But if I didn’t work to get my mind and heart ready, he wasn’t going to come on his own. 


In May of 2018 I turned 30, graduated top of my class in my graduate program, passed my licensure exam, was offered jobs in different states, and came home to my true love.  Over the summer we consolidated houses, I sold my first home, I enrolled Judah in kindergarten, and I started a new job.

We had had a negative pregnancy test a few weeks before the new job started.  And on day two of the job I cut my thumb open on a disposable razor and I spent the morning in UK’s Emergency Department getting my first set of stitches and being told I was, in fact, pregnant.  I went to the doctor that afternoon and confirmed we would be having a baby in April.

In the last year, Judah and I went from a family of two to a family of six with a seventh on the way. 

Since then we have combined and merged our household in a seamless way that’s made Tony and I a better team and better parents.  We’ve worked through a diagnosis with our youngest boy, learned to coparent in a blended family, and three weeks ago now we got engaged.

Now Silas is coming.

We have a bassinet and hooded towels and diapers and tiny onesies and gripe water and swaddles.  I have a goal and a plan to have an unmedicated birth for at least half a dozen reasons.  And so I feel a certain amount of anxiety as my due date approaches.  Yesterday I finally came to peace with an induction scheduled for 41 weeks and preparing mentally and physically for enduring Pitocin without medication.  For my sake and for Silas’.  I felt a certain amount of peace in knowing that if he doesn’t come on his own he can come on a pre-planned day so all our kids are safe and settled and I can knock out my teeth cleaning and Judah’s ENT appt and one last date night.  I still hope he chooses to come on his own. 
But after last night I know he’s waiting on me.

Not on the baseboards.  Not on the dental appointment.  He’s waiting on me, his mama.  To let him know it’s safe and good. 

Yesterday on the phone one of my favorite clients told me that Silas knew how the world was and he was choosing to stay where it was safe.  She’s a victim of horrendous abuse and trauma.  She is solution seeking and we are good and gentle with each other.  And she was right.

The world we are bringing this fifth baby into is a scary one. 

But the family we are bringing him into is a beautiful one.

So while I think about how to ready my heart and open myself up to be ready for this experience, this is what I want Silas to know:

 

Silas,

 

Four years ago your daddy knocked on my door and we sat on opposite ends of the couch and all the life that has happened since then has bridged space in a way that is healing and redemptive and sure.  I believe in soul mates because of knowing him – I believe in reincarnation because I know this is not the first time we have met.  And so as I wait to meet you, I cannot wait to get to know who you are and which parts of my soul recognize you.  Daddy described our journey as a funnel – two pennies journeying around and around towards the opening, coming closer to each other with each rotation.  Every time we tried, we got it more “right”.  Every time we tried to love each other, we came closer to you. 

You are not responsible for holding this family together.  That is mine and Daddy’s job.  But we are so grateful for what you mean to us.  The love you represent.  The unification you represent.  The gift you are to your brothers and sisters.  Especially to Judah, who has never shared DNA with a sibling before.  You are not going to be responsible for keeping this family together, Silas, but you are the product of a love that was so fervently fought for.  You are here because we believed in our love enough.  You are here because you were missing from our family.

So while you are waiting to come, I am thinking about who I want you to be. 

I used to tell Judah what I wanted him to be when he grew up.  Not his profession, not the job I wanted him to have or the degree I wanted him to pursue.  But I would tell him who I wanted him to be.  In a way, I believe I’ve been speaking this over him for seven years now.  Silas, I told your big brother I wanted him to be brave, curious, kind, strong, smart and gentle. 

I want these things for you too.  But you will not be the same as Judah.  In the same way you will be different from big brother Elijah and your big sisters.  You may share their blonde curls or their sweet lips or their brown eyes.  But you are your own.  Coming as the fifth, coming as the baby, I know there may be days in the years to come when the comparison is hard.   When your family leaves big shoes to fill or has left big mistakes to clean up.  But you are not the same. 

I hope you are curious just like Judah. And brave just like Elijah.  And kind just like Brielle.  And smart just like Lailee.  I hope that you are sensitive and gentle and strong.  But as I feel you kicking and pushing, as I wait to meet you, my prayer for you is that you are hopeful.  That you are full of peace.  That you are full of joy. 

Your name means “forest” or “woods” and while that may not seem significant, the symbolism is often of enlightenment as if someone is exploring something that has yet to be explored.  With your arrival we are building a family, which has never been built before.  And my hope for you is that you carry on a legacy of true love as we learn how to do this together.

I wish more than anything that I could be with you every single day as you grow up.  I wished that with Judah too.  That no one else would have to help raise you, that I could do it without any help. 

That’s not our story.

But I want you to know that the time I get to have with you, just you, here in the beginning is something I already treasure with my whole heart.  As I wait for you, these are the days I look forward to the most.  Learning who you are.  Looking at you and seeing your daddy.  Looking at you and seeing someone brand new and letting my love grow for you.

I trust you to come when you are ready.  I am honored and blessed that you will trust me with your life and with your arrival.  We are ready when you are.

Monday, July 23, 2018

7/23/18

I sat down on the couch the other night and Judah snuggled up under one arm and looked at little Elijah and said, "you can snuggle my mom, too" and then looked up at me and said, "you have two boys who love you".

It is July.  Almost August.  And the last time I was here, I anticipated telling a very different story about my summer.  I planned to tell you about an adventure far different than the one I came to tell you today. 

Let me start with an expression of gratitude.

Deep, deep gratitude. 

I am so grateful I don't tell the story.

I am so grateful I don't always know what's best.

I am so grateful my ideas are not the only ideas.

Saturday night, one little boy who looks like me fell asleep under my arm.  Another little boy who doesn't look like me launched himself across the room to kiss my forehead, screaming "I love you!" with eyes bright and wide.  And a little girl sat in front of my knees letting me comb her hair, while her big sister fell asleep by my feet.  All while we waited on a daddy to get home.

A daddy. 

There's a man, now.  And I am so immensely thankful for him.  And all his goodness. 

Last night I watched him in the yard at his Oma's house.  It had just stopped raining and our four had been playing outside throughout the shower.  They were soaked.  And there he stood, with baseballs in his hand, trying to juggle.

And I watched four, wet, little faces look at him.

And I wondered if his mama was watching him from the window.  And I couldn't fathom how she could be more proud of him than I am, but I know she is. 

And I wondered if his granddad saw.

I wondered if his granddad saw him standing there with the most beautiful smile on his face, juggling for four small humans who love him.  Who look up to him.  Who admire his strength.  Who depend on him. 

I wonder if a granddad or a mom could have imagined this for their oldest?  Who grew up in that same yard.  Who struggled in that same house.  Who left and came back and fell and rose. 

I know my pride can't match theirs. 

But my whole heart was swollen with it. 

Pride.  And love.  For the ones who are mine.

Sometimes, I suppose, we can't know things will work out for sure. 

Sometimes, if you're told the plan ahead of time, you'd not believe it.  You'd not do the work that would make you ready.  You'd not heal in a way that was needed. 

Sometimes, you just can't know.

But I sit here today because of a screw in a tire, waiting on him to come back and get me.  And my eyes keep welling with tears. 

Tears just like the ones I cried two days after I turned thirty.  Two days after I expected life to change forever, when in fact it did. 

Tears of remorse, of hope, of love.

The kind of tears that happen when you walk back into a house that used to be home... and find it still smells the same. 

Find there's still room for you.

I had to come with a lot of grace, asking for a lot of forgiveness. 

And these days I exist with so much gratitude in my heart for the forgiveness I didn't deserve and for something, while it looks like a second chance, is much more simply a story, which deserved to be told.  A story, which deserved to be lived. 

Joy and pride and thankfulness for a man with light in his eyes; who tickles me, who thanks me, who makes room for me.  Who makes plans with me.  Who asks for me.  Who sees me. 

I don't deserve it.  This love that multiplied.  This family that grew. 

But I've made it my life's mission to not lose it again. 

There my treasure is.

Monday, May 7, 2018

5/7/18

I am 30.

It's 9:15 on a Monday morning and I am thirty years old. 

Yesterday I graduated with my Master's Degree in Clinical Social Work. 

This time last year I packed up the house I own, put it up for rent, sold 90% of my belongings, and moved to my childhood home for the first time in over a decade.  I quit my senior position at a long-term care facility and started classes. 

When I started the program last year they told me this would be the fastest year of my life. 

I think I've told this story a thousand times and it feels as though it's lost its magic. 

The amount of hard work and sacrifice of this last year feels normalized. 

I'm still coasting.  That long-legged run at the end of a sprint, to prevent the startle of a dead stop. 

This morning it's all done.  This part of it anyway. 

And I've normalized it, but in so many ways that's dangerous.

Dangerous to believe this amount of stress is manageable long-term, dangerous to not acknowledge what it took to survive, dangerous to not learn how to be proud of yourself.

I told my clinical supervisor the other day that when I started this journey, I didn't start it because I knew I could do it.  This was not a shoe-in.  I started because I was faced with a choice.  A fork in the road.  To the right would have been a cliff, I think.  Or a path of a lot of the same.  Maybe not something as obviously malicious as a cliff -- but life wasn't in that direction.  Growth was.  Flourishing wasn't.  To the left was a bridge.  A precarious rope bridge.  And I had no idea where it led.

No one needs to understand why I made the decision I made.

As that same clinical supervisor said, "desire is enough".  I might quantify that with a "sometimes", but what she meant was I didn't owe anyone an explanation. 

But what I want you to understand, even if you don't need to know "why", is that I did not know if this would go well.

I did not know if this would end well at all. 

I came into this season of life with an empty cup.  I had experienced more loss and grief and hardship and sabotaging than I'd ever care to admit-- a season of total deconstruction.  And I truly wasn't sure I had what it took.

But the risk of trying was worth it, compared to the risk of taking any other path.

So here I am. 

I am 30.

It's 5pm now because I don't know how to write this.

But I have a Master's Degree.

I graduated with a 4.0, departmental honors; was awarded student of the year, and passed the state licensure exam last week.



And now it's all over.

I'm laying on the couch, 30 years old, with a Master's degree.

When I was 20 I wrote, "it's only weird when you think about it."

There's no eloquence to be had right now.  There's poetry in it, somewhere.  It's a story worth telling, certainly.  But all my good words have gone missing.  It's taking all I have to string sentences together coherently.  Because this is all over now.  And what comes next will be hard in a different way.  What comes next will be a brand new adventure.  And honestly, I'll have to wait until more words come to process that.

All I know is that last night it rained.

As it should. 

Stormed and flooded; lightning and thunder.  My god, it rained.

And Olivia said it first.

Washed it all clean.


2/2018

this morning i was driving into lexington and behind me the sun was rising and in front of me the darkest storm clouds were churning.  it looks like spring.

a song came on pandora and all i heard were the words, we don't get to be here long.

i spent the morning in an interdisciplinary meeting, shadowing, pretending i don't know what i came to learn.

bereavement risk.

spiritual risk.

grief.

loss.

thankful.

loss of control.

words being thrown around in the way that only professionals can throw them.

all ive been thinking about all morning is how short of a time we have.

that at the rate we are going, and if im lucky to die of old age, fifty or sixty more years doesn't seem like enough.

its not enough.

and my eyes are hot and puddled as i say that.

i hope for reincarnation.

i hope there's a pause.  of glory and relief.

and i hope one breath rolls into another and you are crying as you are rebirthed.

not because heaven isn't real.

or because i dont believe in what comes next.

i just hope that's what comes next.

and i hope that we get enough life that we eventually arrive to the end and we feel satisfied.


Friday, May 4, 2018

5/4/18

Someone in my family mentioned the other day about how they had spent their whole childhood wondering what they would be like when they were 30. 

I did too.

I remember when women I love turned 30.  My mom.  My aunt Donna.  Lea.  Each of these women were in a very different phase of life by the time they turned 30; their lives looked nothing like mine.  My frame of reference for 30 did not prepare me for what life looks like for me right now. 

As I crept closer to 30 I met peers whose lives looked like mine.  Single parents, unmarried, college graduates, homeowners.  Beautiful women who were either role models or cautionary tales.  Women who've loved us, uplifted us, led the way.

But I have very few people to look up to who knew how to navigate 30 the way I am going to have to. 

And that's the only part of the new decade that scares me. 

Otherwise, I am happy to be here. 

I struggled for days after my family mentioned how during childhood we daydream about 30.

I grappled with what my 12-year-old self would think of me today.

I worried that I have not made her proud.

The truth is, I wouldn't have.

There's no way 12-year-old Anna would be proud of who I am now, because 12-year-old Anna would have zero frame of reference for what it took to get here.

She'd not understand that being married and having a house and being a writer was not the only life worth living. 

Recently I left a really hard thing and paused, telling myself and the people standing with me: there are things in life that I am very thankful we don't know how hard they are before we go into them.

There are seasons of life, tasks, events, milestones, jobs, relationships, roles, that had we known how hard it would be... we'd have never started in the first place.

I'm afraid had you told my 12-year-old self I wouldn't have any of the things I wanted back then... she would have tapped out.  Run for the hills. 

I am so thankful we can't always see what comes next.

I am so thankful we don't encounter something until we are almost ready for it. 
I am so thankful for attributes of resilience and flexibility.

We've all seen the movies.  The Kid, with Bruce Willis, comes to mind.  As does Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs.  A character travels back in time and meets themselves as a child (in the case of the Meatballs, he travels forward and meets his future).  Ultimately a character is given a decision.  Do you alter your life by interrupting the course of events?  Or do you allow your former self to experience life as it comes?

I'd tell my 12-year-old self to be prepared.  To get ready to be surprised. 

That life would be hard. 

That even the next year of her life would be unbearably painful and scary.

But that life doesn't have to look like we planned to be good. 

I might be tempted to tell her what catastrophes to avoid.  When to leave and who to walk away from and who to speak up to.  But even then, I risk unraveling the whole story.

A story that, I hope, is nowhere near ending. 

A story about a lot of hardship, a lot of loneliness, but about a lot of adventure.  About a brown-eyed boy who thinks you are the most beautiful.  About rediscovering your strengths.  About being brave.

I'd tell her, just wait.  It's not easy.  But it's going to be good.

Wednesday, April 25, 2018

3/27/18

I lodged the ball in a hidden space between my back and shoulder.  A tight, locked and tender place.  And then I leaned.

Leaned into my bad side.  The side that is deformed.  The side, internally rotated, causing so much grief.

I leaned into the pain, into the sharpness the ball found.  The place where blood wasn't flowing.

I leaned and pressed and turned, finding what hurt and working there.  In the hurt.

I pressed, and my mind flooded.

This is what I've been doing.

In every facet of my life.

I leaned and exhaled, thinking about distortions and schemas and thinking about driving hours to talk to people and asking to do a job I've never done.  Thinking about saying no.  About walking away.  About asking for more. About risking all over again.

Breathe out, realizing what had once been a year-long commitment is now five weeks away from being over.

The hard thing, the impossible thing, the painful thing... at least this one... is almost over.

I have spent almost a year laying on the proverbial lacrosse ball.  Manipulating the fascia of my mind and heart and spirit in order to be able to navigate this life with less suffering and more grace.

Some lessons it feels like I'll never learn.  That no matter how long I lay there, applying pressure in order to release the sinew and tissue... there's no relief.

But I am almost there.

And much like mobility work, the proof is in the re-test.

The evidence that your hard work and the discomfort paid off is when you re-test your ability to approach a challenge.  What was maladaptive before, what was compensated, is less so now.




Sunday, February 18, 2018

gun control, part 2

Judah will go to kindergarten in the fall.

And I do not want to send him.

I've been thinking about this for a few weeks now, because even before another mass shooting occurred in Florida, I was faced with the very real reality and concern that it could happen.

Late last year I wrote a post about gun control that helped me, not anyone else, wrap my mind around how I felt about this issue.

This time around, I am overwhelmed with the task of processing every other aspect of this argument.  So I come here.  To sort it out.

Right now my job is to provide brief intervention and therapy for pediatric patients at a doctor's office in town.  It is an affluent neighborhood and a homogenous demographic of children.  I anticipated, naively, I wouldn't have much work to do.  I was used to providing case management and resource services.  I was used to assessing for abuse and neglect.  I was used to a measure of preservation work that comes along with the oppression of poverty.  Even as a trainer for foster parents, I was used to providing alternative methods of discipline and redirection.  Unbeknownst to me, my jobs have prepared me for the truth that hit me square in the face this year.

So this week, on Wednesday night, when people started deciding who to blame for yet another tragedy where seventeen children and teachers were mercilessly slaughtered, I had a whole new perspective.

What I'm hearing mostly, regardless of what side it's on, is that it is a single faceted issue.

A one point problem.

Individuals, especially adults, have zeroed in on one issue worthy of campaigning over and have decided that their hot-button topic will be the answer.

I am solution-focused by nature.  I am wired in a way that allows me to be comfortable with your emotions, usually to let you sit in them, but I don't want to leave you there.  I am working on the practice of attending and mindfulness so that I am more comfortable with the nature of the present.  But I know I will never be the kind of person who graciously recognizes that nothing can change.

 So in an attempt to bring you my unsolicited opinion on this topic, I started listening.

I hear a few different things.

1) Guns don't kill people, people kill people.  You can outlaw guns, but then people will just use bombs, cars, knives.

2) This is not a mental health issue

3) It is a mental health issue

4) Gun laws need to be reformed

5) This is a parenting problem, a generational problem

6) This is not the time to discuss politics / this is not a party problem

7) We took God out of schools and this is the problem

I considered doing a literature review prior to writing this, and maybe I still will.  You deserve real information, reputable information.  In a world full of memes, peer-reviewed, substantial, ethically sound research is where it's at.  We will get there.  I will give you that.  Let's start with 1.

1. "People kill people".  People have killed people since the beginning of time.  We have not always had the access and availability of means for which to kill people.  But people have always been killing people.  People, I agree, will always find a way.  My concern with this approach is that it is dismissive and passive.  Someone dear to me recently helped me identify my hatred for the term "it is what it is".  He guided, patiently, the way only someone who loves you can do.  It really is what it is.  Buddhist principles that I admire so much even say so.  What's happening in the current moment is exactly the only way it can be.  We have to learn to accept this.  But my disdain for the statement comes more for a resentment and frustration for complacent people.  So yes.  People kill people.  I will, for the rest of my life, try to make it harder for people to kill people.

2. "This is not a mental health issue." This is where peer-reviewed research would come in handy.  I have a suspicion, although I've not been able to flesh this out in a respectful place, is that the stigma of mental health issues in America has made us believe that saying something is a related to mental health is an excuse.  It's a particularly sensitive subject for those of us who are passionate about race relations and justice for people of color.  We have created a society where white men who shoot and kill over a dozen people are"mentally ill" and have the opportunity to stand trial, but Black and Brown men and women are executed by police or fearful civilians without having access to their right of judge and jury.  This is not okay.  But I am here to tell you, there is a difference between someone saying "this is not a mental health issue" and "someone is not mentally ill".  I grew up with the instruction that behavior makes sense in context.  We strive to understand someone's experiences, their perspective, their history not in order to excuse them, but to explain.  In this context we strive to do so to find patterns so we can break cycles.  There are millions of people with diagnoses in America and all over the world.  There is no predictive validity to the presence of a mental illness in regard to mass terrorism.  Mental illness is a variation of human suffering, however.  And to deny that someone is suffering because we don't want to elicit compassion for them is not the way to find the solution.

3.   "It is a mental health issue".  I am only hearing this argument come from sides who are also saying #1.  That it is a mental health issue so gun reform can't fix it.  And if you're right, if this is purely an issue of psychopathology, gun reform won't "fix" that.  But you know what would?  Access to mental health care.  Health insurance.  Grants and programs that are designed to integrate mental health care into primary health care and school settings so when children, teenagers, young adults, middle-aged and elderly adults have issues there's an additional net to catch them.  Ironically, these were components of the Affordable Care Act that, of course need improvement and revision, but the current administration is trying to repeal.  If this is a mental health issue, I'm concerned about why an Obama-era legislation was repealed last February regarding mental health screens and background checks for people who were seeking to buy a firearm.  I'd ask, for anyone who chooses this particular platform, to just seek consistency.  Mental illness, as I said before, is overwhelmingly specific to an individual and is a form of suffering but it does not have to be debilitating.  To label anyone with a mental health diagnosis as dangerous or evil would not only be unethical, but false.  This perspective perpetuates stigma and paints a picture of millions of people, using only one face.

4. "Gun law needs to be reformed".  Over the last three or four years, I have worked intimately with close to one hundred individuals with suicidal ideation.  In the scheme of things, this is not a high number.  But the protocol for working with someone who is a threat to themselves or to others, once they are in the care of a professional, is to ensure that they do not have the means to do so.  Are guns locked and kept safe?  Do you have access to copious amounts of medication?  Are the sharp knives put away?  Do you have a support system?  Safety planning is not foolproof and we have learned over the years that creating contracts with patients who want to take their own lives is less than effective.  However.  While contracting is not protocol, safety planning is.  We understand, on an intellectual and systemic level, that people pull triggers on guns.  People will do bad things.  In the same way that we know people will misuse narcotics, so we created legislation that controls these substances and holds doctors and pharmacies accountable.  Do people still misuse substances?  Absolutely.  But we created checks and balances so that fewer might try.  Fewer might have the opportunity.  Gun law reformation is not unlike this.  For those of you concerned about the black market, I am alarmed because this same logic is not being applied to marijuana which is not inherently harmful.  It is not even being applied to opiates, stimulants, or benzos.  Black markets are created by our legislation, and I am not denying their existence.  But how many people with limited means, social skills, access are able to not only discreetly find, but obtain goods through this system.  Cruz, in Parkland, Florida this week, obtained his AR-15 legally.  Because of the way Florida gun law is set up.  These are the kinds of laws we are talking about.  Systemically speaking, the problem is so large, deep, and multi-faceted I am afraid we are freezing in the face of it.  There's too much to do!  The problem is too big!  If we just do one thing, it won't be enough.  Whereas, my mentality as someone so accustomed to micro change and impact, is that some is better than none. When there is a problem this complex, a knot so tangled, progress is slow but it has to be made.  One law at a time.  The mentality of "we cannot fix it all" cannot keep us from fixing what we can.  I urge those of us who are in this camp to continue to lobby for reformation of the law.  But don't stop there.  Being myopic is just not an option here.  Be methodical.  Address the acute problem so we can move on to the chronic ones.

5.  And finally, "it's a parenting issue".

Deep breath.

This is actually what I came here to talk about.

Because you're right.  Really.  You are.

It's not the only issue though.  It is not the stand-alone, single cause of gun violence in America.

If you were to sit down with the parents of children or young adults who committed mass murders, empathetically sit and listen and consider the person in environment, I don't think you'd find much compassion or sympathy for the murderers.  But you might gain some understanding.  Which is not the same thing.

I said it before and I'll say it again. Understanding doesn't mean excusing the behavior.  It creates an uncomfortable cognitive dissonance, which most of us are not willing to grapple with.

I read a facebook status this morning from someone I've known for a couple of decades.  We were raised in the some town, by similar parents with (at the time) similar beliefs.  She attributes this current problem to "this generation".

She described this generation as entitled.  As coddled.  As requiring "safe zones and participation trophies".  She described that they're taught that right and wrong are gray areas and relative.  She described them as believing they are god, rather than serving THE God.

Talk about cognitive dissonance for me.  I tried to wrap my mind around what children she's talking about.  Is there a specific age group this applies to exclusively?  Is there that much of a generational gap that someone in their 30's uses these words to describe a teenager?

This is where you lose me on the "parenting is the problem" agenda.

I have been working with families and their children for only five years.  That is not a long time.  I have only been a parent for that same amount of time.  And in twenty years, maybe I'll come back to my thoughts on this topic and just shake my head at my naivety.

But for the last seven months, I have sat across a table from parents who've been caught by our net at the pediatrician's office.  They sit there with their children who are anxious, depressed, angry, suicidal, and afraid.  They aren't sleeping.  They're panicking.

And in almost every single parent, except the three (out of 70) who I can remember as being healthy, caring parents, I see a mirror image of their child.

I could write for days about this.  About as a neutral party how I can look at a family and see how something occurred.

But in this affluent, homogenous community who doesn't need my case mangement skills, who doesn't need resources, who doesn't need money... they're presenting to me with so much unhappiness and so much discontentment and so much pain.

I don't see entitlement.  But I do see bad parenting.

I do see parents setting an example with their behavior, which maybe they aren't setting with their words.

My point is.  Parenting is absolutely the issue.

My point is also that it is our generation and the ones above us who works for the schools right now.  For the government.  For the FBI who failed to investigate Nikolas Cruz.  It's our generation who's raising the next generation.  And we are the ones telling the victims of this most recent shooting that "They don't know what they're talking about".

We raised them, folks.  We are raising them.

And while you are maybe not raising a psychopath, so you feel comfortable with your performance as a parent... I wonder if you're raising an asshole?

You should have seen my face as I dared to type that.

The likelihood that the way you parent will result in pathological or murderous behavior is pretty low.  Statistically speaking, it would seem insignificant.  It only takes one person to kill hundreds or thousands, which is why we must address this.  But the likelihood that you will raise a selfish, unkind, greedy, self-involved person... those stats are a little higher.  That's the risk I want to talk about.

I don't know too many of the kinds of kids this friend described.  I tend to pull from a different pool than most do, so my guess is if you are a teacher you see more than most.

But my question is, how honestly different are these children than their parents?  How many entitled children have you met who did not have an entitled parent?  How many impatient children have you met without an impatient parent?  How many unkind children have you met without an unkind parent?

We are raising them.

So my question is.  Even though you're probably not raising a psychopath.  Are you raising an asshole?  Are you raising the men and women who will gain power in our society and only care about themselves?  Who won't know how to handle conflict?  Who won't know how to ask for what they need?

Ask yourselves these questions, and ask this of the people who will be honest with you who know your children.

Are you raising a kind person?

Are you raising an involved person?

Are you raising a thoughtful person?

A brave person?

Are you raising a child who feels heard?

Do you know what kind of person you are raising?  Because it takes time and intentionality to find out.

Discipline is an imperative component of parenting.  But as I talk to people in my generation (a millennial), we feel a distinct absence of guidance.  We were told what was wrong, for sure.  Most of us were spanked, most of us were punished, most of us were held accountable for our "bad" behavior.

But we weren't necessarily taught what the alternative to this was.

Bad behavior has consequences.  Don't do the bad thing.

And the buck stopped there.

When was the last time you asked your child his opinion?

When was the last time you took your child to volunteer somewhere?

When was the last time you sincerely asked your teenage child how he was feeling and how you could help?

This is not coddling.

Natural, age-appropriate, and consistent consequences are necessary.  Absolutely necessary.

But that's not all parenting is.

I've seen a few people flesh this comment out, and I'm very proud.

Usually, the statements will end with "and you're not their friend" and this always pierces my heart.  Because I know exactly what you mean.  But what I see, in practice, is that we forget we are raising humans whose friendship we are going to crave and covet if we do it right.  "Not being their friend" is really a statement about not trying to just make our kids happy all the time, which to be honest, I don't want that in a friendship anyway.  But it also doesn't mean you have to be a prison warden, it doesn't mean you can't like your child.

I have been asking people I know, both who are good parents and good clinicians, what the traits are of good parents.

They can't tell me.

I think we just know you when we see you.

But I would encourage you, if this is your platform, to recognize what a longitudinal issue this is.

We were raised a certain way and this is impacting how we are raising our children.

Change happens incrementally.  And it cannot be mandated or regulated.  Which is why this cannot be the only solution to the safety of our children in public places.

And with this culture we've created, we've created so much judgment.  So much superiority and blame-laying and shaming.

It would be beneficial for all of us if we considered the concept that someone is doing the best they can.  And if it bothers us so much that we don't believe this is true, then ask how we can help.

And then go home and sit down to dinner and ask your kid how he's feeling.

Ask how he's feeling and then ask him his opinion on something.  Ask him what ideas he has.

6. and 7. "This is not the time for politics/God belongs back in schools".  I only want to touch on. Because I am not emotionally intelligent to address these issues without being derogatory.

Wednesday was Ash Wednesday.

Most of the pictures from Douglas Highschool, teenagers had ashes on their foreheads.

School is not the place children learn their religion.  School is not the place children learn their morals.

A public school should be neutral territory where people of all walks of life can be free to express their faith and religion in any way as long as it is not harmful emotionally or physically to someone else.

This was depicted beautifully by a pastoral services student in one of my classes.  She is devoutly Christian.  And she gently mentioned in class one day that she has prayer rugs and multiple different religious texts available for her patients because "just because what I believe and what you believe is different doesn't mean I can't minister to you."  Let that sink in.

Ten Commandments from the Christian's Bible do not belong on the walls of schools unless every religion's religious texts are also represented.  Students should be allowed to pray, to organize faith-based functions, but teachers and administrators should not be making these things mandatory.  If you are a coach on a sports team and your students ask to pray, pray.  It just shouldn't be your idea.  And if it is your students' idea and they have classmates who don't want to participate, there's an opportunity to teach about inclusion and acceptance.  This is going to look different all over the country.

But to impose your beliefs about a God not everyone believes in is harmful.

To suggest that the God you believe in allowed this to happen because you took religious rites out of schools makes me terrified of the God you believe in.

That said.

In conclusion.

The root word of politics is "polis" in Greek that means city or also "polities" which means citizen.  The dictionary defines it is "the activities, actions, and policies that are used to gain and hold power in a government or to influence government."

Politics, by definition, is a power struggle.

For those suffering, there are multiple perspectives.

But engaging in political action is the only way anything has ever changed.

Because we have created a culture, which has a government (the political direction and control exercised over the actions of the members of communities, via Merriam Webster dictionary online) we have created an existence or a life that is intertwined with politics.

Every last thing you do in America is related to politics.

If you identify as a non-political person, it means that you either have not educated yourself on how politics affect you, or you are so privileged that politics tend to err in your favor.

In this day and age, "being political" is one of the greatest insults someone may try and hurl at you.

Politicizing emotion or tragedy or using terror as a platform for political change is either viewed as necessary or abhorrent.  There's almost no middle ground.

But right now... there are too many people who are directly in danger or at risk because of a power struggle.

You can choose to remain uninvolved.  All this tells me is that you are either so deep in the throes of oppression that you don't have the energy left and that's why I have my job and use my voice.  Or you are so benefited by the systemic oppression that addressing it threatens you.  This is also why I use my voice.

I will not condemn you for not speaking up.  And I don't assume that if you don't speak up on social media, that you aren't involved elsewhere.  Plenty of people are only politically active on social media and that's not the kind of action we need.  I mean, if you are not speaking up in your families, at your workplace, at the voting booths... I will not condemn you.

I just ask you to use different language.

You are political.  Everything about your identity as an American is politicized.

It's just time to call it what it is.  That it is not your priority.

That political evolution might impact you in a way you deem negative.  So things are fine just the way they are.

We just have to tell the truth about that.


Thursday, February 8, 2018

reese's

August 2016 

I didn't pack enough food to take to work with me the other day.  The morning was hectic and it was more important to get Judah's shoes on than to pack an afternoon snack.

I had just enough time after work to drive straight to the gym for bootcamp.  So I texted a friend who works out with me and asked her if she had any snacks she could bring with her to tide me over.

She showed up at the warehouse that afternoon with two mini Reese cups.

Protein, we joked.  Perfect.

For the last three months, I have been working at a job on which I had piled exceedingly high expectations.  This job was my ticket out.  It was my saving grace.  It was my heroic opportunity to escape the tyranny I was experiencing in Winchester.  It was a chance to send Judah to school.  To do work that mattered.  To be proud of what I did.

I have this really detrimental habit, though, of ignoring important things.  Postponing doctor's appointments, avoiding the online banking app, not looking at the syllabus at the beginning of a semester.  I am not irresponsible, I just do not front-load well.  I cannot handle a barrage of information.  And I didn't budget well this time.  I guessed at some numbers, in my desperation to just "get out" and I reasoned that I would handle it like I've handled everything else so far.  I knew I was supposed to leave Clark.  To me, this seemed the only viable option.

It was a bad choice.

Judah has thrived at school.  Absolutely flourished in a way I could have never anticipated, but at the same time doesn't surprise me at all.  If all continues to go to hell, I will know I made the right decision for this season because my son has been poured into and taught and loved in a way that has truly nurtured his whole being.

But it was a bad choice financially.  It was a bad choice for my heart.

And I'm still processing the deep deep feelings of failure I have for making this decision.

To make ends meet I watched people's houses and dogs over the summer.  I have been cleaning people's houses as well, having to check my pride and do something I never thought I'd have to do.  Clean someone else's toilet.  This has helped curb the edge of the financial disaster that we've been perched on for the last three months.

Today, the severity and the harshness of the situation just settled in my belly.

I've been applying for new jobs, as much as I don't want a short stint of employment on my resume.  I've been looking outside my field of education, trying to find anything that will pay the bills.  Pay all the bills. I started looking for work outside of Lexington.  Branching out, expanding my search, to Louisville and Cincinnati.  Every day I get jobs sent to my email.  And every day I find a job to apply to, and just keep my fingers crossed.

I have been dealing with a certain degree of depression.  Between not being able to provide the way I've wanted to, working on a hospital unit which feels like a dungeon, doing work I am not nearly as passionate about as I dreamed I would be... recovering still from hurt and trauma.

Today I needed help from a manager at work.  He's a tall, friendly man who is always incredibly helpful.  And he showed up in my office today, walking in through the door into the tiny space, and leaned over and dropped two mini Reese cups onto my desk.

And this is what I believe.  In the middle of my worry and in the middle of the difficulty, I felt this was God's way of saying, "this job is not permanent.  This job is not meant to fulfill you.  But it will get you through until the better thing comes.  Until the real meal comes."

This was the greatest encouragement I could have received.

September 2017

It's been a year now.

About two months after Brian laid two Reese cups on my desk, a job opportunity came up for a promotion in my field.  A job as a director at a local nursing facility.

I was interviewed.  And called a few days later and offered the position.

I went into the facility that day to ask for particulars and tie up any loose ends.

This time, on my new boss's desk, was a whole jar full of mini Reese cups.

A whole jar.

I accepted the job.  Feeling like this was a sign.

That this was my green light to move forward with the promotion because I had felt before that God had promised his provision with two little Reese cups.

In November I started the new job and things didn't go quite as I had expected.

I don't even know how to tell part of the story.  I don't know how to explain how hard this was, without telling everything.

I don't know how.

So I won't.

February 2018

Six months after starting a director's job, I turned in a letter.

Thanks for the opportunity, it's time for me to go.

They asked me to stay, to help when I could.

So I started grad school, stepped down from a director's position, and helped out PRN all summer.

They asked me to stay in the fall.  So I stayed.  Helped every spare hour between classes and practicum. 

On Thursday they told me they didn't need me anymore.  I'd helped keep a department afloat, amid all the changes, they were fully staffed now.  The money wasn't there, and Thursday needed to be my last day.

If you can't imagine the disappointment and frustration and fear I felt over the next few days, I won't bother you with describing it.

Tuesday came around and I had gnashed my teeth and crunched the numbers enough and I did the bravest thing I knew to do.  In order to save my self. 

In order to, for once, put myself first. 

To slow the toll that was being taken on my brain and body. 

To finish well. 

I did the hard thing on Tuesday morning.

At the encouragement of my family and colleagues and clinical supervisor -- who encouraged me to me to be kind to myself. 

Tuesday night I came home and found an empty mini, Reese's cup wrapper on my bedside table.