Love Completely Without Complete Understanding

“We are willing to help, Lord, but what, if anything, is needed? Help,” he said, “is giving part of yourself to somebody who comes to accept it willingly and needs it badly. So it is, that we can seldom help anybody. Either we don’t know what part to give or maybe we don’t like to give any part of ourselves. Then, more often than not, the part that is needed is not wanted. And even more often, we do not have the part that is needed. It is like the auto-supply shop over town where they always, say, ‘Sorry, we are just out of that part.’”

I had a conversation with a friend recently wherein I felt absolutely helpless to help him. He reminded me of Paul Maclean in the story, A River Runs Through It, by Norman Maclean.

In that story, Paul is the younger of two brothers. He is wild and untethered—free as a bird, popular, and a very big fish in a very small pond.

Except… he isn’t wild and free. He is tethered to the depth of his own pain, to his sense of unworthiness and his tendency towards heeding the call of spirits, gambling, and showing the world just how tough he really was. He was feisty and stubborn, to say the least.

Norman is the square older brother who follows the rules. He’s the writer—the one who tells stories on paper, the one who goes away to college, the one who seems… quieter. Not as shiny. More sensible, and therefore more boring.

I have always felt a deep connection to the story. To the lyrical turn of phrase in Maclean’s writing, to the sentiment behind loving family without fully understanding them, to feeling constantly misunderstood and under-estimated.

I watched the movie version of this story today, in hopes of finding a deeper understanding of what my friend is currently going through, or possibly a different way to connect with him that might be more helpful.

Instead, I found myself in a pile of tears as I realized another layer of understanding of my own family, my own sister, and my own appointed role in it all.

It hit me that Wendy was much like Paul. She defied the rules of our parents with a ferocity and unapologetic glee that I rarely see depicted in books or on screen. And I, of course, am like Norman...

In one scene of the movie, Paul, Norman, their mother, and their father (a preacher, played by Tom Skerritt) are sitting around the dinner table. They all turn to Paul and ask him to tell a story. Instantly, my mind flashed back to the tales Wendy used to tell—dramas about her kids, her man, her work. Or maybe something about the fire chief, a fire the community rushed to put out, or maybe another story about another animal that had found her.

I watched through blurry vision from my tears as Paul stammered, searching his memory for a story to tell.

Quietly, Norman says, “I’ve got a story.”

Three pairs of eyes turn to him, and he softly says that he’d been offered a professorship at the University of Chicago. A moment of deep pride shown on his face as for once—Norman took the spotlight in his own family.

The camera pans to Paul (played by Brad Pitt).

The look of pain and unworthiness in his eyes is incongruent with the loving smile that has crept across his face: a genuine mix of disappointment in himself and pride for his brother’s hard work and good fortune.

I know that look.

I know it all too well.

But there is another layer to this story.

Towards the end of the movie, Paul, Norman, and their father go fly fishing. Norman and the preacher sit high on the banks, tired from catching their own trout, as they watch Paul scope out the river and finally spot a fish he wants to try and capture.

They watch in silent awe as Paul artfully sweeps the fishing line out across the water. It lands inches away from the fish, and it latches on—taking Paul for quite the ride down the sharp rocks and rushing waters of the Big Blackfoot River. That fish is so big, so strong, that it’s all Paul can do to simply hold on to the line as he’s whisked downstream.

Eventually, the water calms, and Paul comes up for air. He captures the fish, reels it in, and proudly holds onto it as Norman and their father look on with amazement.

Norman narrates, “At that moment, I knew, surely and clearly, that I was witnessing perfection. My brother stood before us, not on the bank of the Big Blackfoot River, but suspended above the earth, free from all its laws, like a work of art. And I knew just as surely, just as clearly, that life is not a work of art and that the moment could not last.”

Soon after that perfect moment, Paul was killed.

“Do you think I could have helped him?” he asked.
“Do you think I could have helped him?” I answered.
We stood waiting in deference to each other. How can a question be answered that asks a lifetime of questions?

(I have asked myself that question about my sister. I know my dad has, too.)

I was fortunate to witness my sister's perfection.

I saw the way she fell head over heels in love with motherhood. Not with her older children, but in her later years, when she had Kasey. I’d never seen such awe, such patience, and such flowing love in my sister as I did when Kasey came into our lives.

My sister’s perfection was a bright shining beacon in that brief time. She had darkness. She had pain. But Kasey opened her heart in a way she’d never been open before, and when that happened, I knew I was witnessing magic. And that magical love spilled over onto her other children, as she realized, perhaps for the first time, that these beings had shaped her, changed her, and defined her in the best possible ways.

I’ve been missing Wendy a lot lately. I realized earlier this weekend that I can’t quite remember the exact color of her eyes, and what they looked like. I can see them in pictures, of course—but when I close my eyes and picture her face… the details have started to fade.

I miss my family.

And I often feel like I’m supposed to live this huge life to make up for my mom’s and sister’s lives being clipped so short. As if I owe them, or my family, or myself, or some other entity, or all of the above, because I’m still here.

I know that isn’t logical.

But grief never is…

“It is those we live with and love and should know who elude us.”

“…you can love completely without complete understanding.”

A Sip of Freedom

“Dance, when you're broken open. Dance, if you've torn the bandage off. Dance in the middle of the fighting. Dance in your blood. Dance when you're perfectly free.”
― Rumi

Back in January, I went to my favorite yoga class. It was the first time I’d practiced yoga since my mom’s passing on November 29, 2012. The signs of depression were sinking in, and I had all but stopped moving my body—no yoga, no dancing, no exercise.

In that class, I had traumatic flashbacks of seeing my mom’s body in the hospital. And then I kept thinking, over and over again, about how her body could never do the things that mine can do—the things I was attempting right then, during class.

I’m not sure I could ever fully explain what happened in that hour and a half, or why that experience was so deeply traumatizing—but my grief was overwhelming.

From that point forward, the thought of practicing yoga again made me shiver.

I just wasn’t ready.

A month or two ago, my friend Liz Tucker came to town and held a bhavana in motion class at Move Studio.

Yoga was part of the class.

I knew that, and I felt that if I was going to step back on the mat, I wanted to do it in a safe place, with a trusted teacher and friend to help guide me through it.

For about the first 10 minutes that I stood on the mat, I wept. Tears flooded my face and the mat below me.

But I got through it.

But that isn’t what this story is about—I just wanted to give you some context, so you could grasp how much progress I’ve made in the last few months.

I journaled this last night after exercising and practicing yoga:

I’m sitting here on my purple yoga mat, crying. I’m not entirely certain why—except that the other day I realized I needed and wanted some time in pigeon pose, and so, that’s where I finally went.

And then the tears came, as I realized it wasn’t hard like it used to be, it was just a really nice stretch, a lovely pose, one of yielding and release and surrender and femininity.

And then, I lost it—realizing how far I’ve come in three years, since I first attempted yoga—and pigeon pose—

realizing just how much my body has yielded—

to my whims, wants, needs, desires, addictions, sadness, depression, grief—

My body has witnessed it all.

I am thankful…

Deeply thankful for being 38, and I get to choose how the women in y family are remembered. I honor them by dancing because they cannot dance. I honor them by practicing yoga because they cannot—and they never did.

I honor them by living as fully as I can—as exponentially as I can.

“I rise from all my sorrow, I let the sun shine on my face,
All alone in comfort, it’s my solitude I embrace.”
 – from the song ‘Quicksand’ by Natalie Walker/Thievery Corporation

I felt that tonight, as I moved on my makeshift dance floor with a fire and fervor inside of me as I realized—I am one body, dancing for three women who never danced—my grandmother, my mom, and my sister.

I dance the dance they never danced.

I dance my own dance, too.

My dance is the thread that binds together the lifetimes of women in my tribe who are no longer on this earth in physical form.

I practice yoga awkwardly. I am wobbly and odd, but interspersed are moments of purity—

of tranquility—

of grace—

of beauty—

A beauty I cannot express in words, and tonight, it expressed itself in tears during pigeon pose, and I flashed back to my traumatic yoga experience from January, and I honored the depth of grief I felt in those very long moments, realizing I was already (and finally) grieving many lifetimes worth of loss, sorrow, and despair.

And more tears came as I realized the freedom I am beginning to feel—

Freedom from chains that bound me to the past, freedom from the guilt I have always felt under the surface, freedom from a prison I will never adequately describe here.

This life of mine is a gift, and the best—the very best gift I can give to the women of my tribe, including me, including my family—here and gone—is to live it.

Live it fully and out loud…

Live it authentically and imperfectly and messily.

I am here for some unknown number of days. It is a gift I am only just beginning to truly unwrap and discover.

It is a gift I finally feel worthy of receiving.

My mom and my dad and God and the universe and all that is divine within and without—gave me this—

this gift of life.

And it is up to me to truly live it.

Thank you. Thank you for this blessing… thank you for this body, for this moment, for the dance, for the practice.

Thank you for this beautiful moment—where serenity coincides with joy.

And thank you, most of all, for love.

Things Happen in Threes...

I’m sitting here in my apartment, in my favorite big chair, with my feet up. Most of the time, it’s a comfortable position for me. Most of the time, it’s a place I love to sit. I love my fairly small, slightly cluttered home.

But right now? After what’s gone down this week?

I feel sick to my stomach just being here.

On Wednesday morning, my boyfriend David hopped in the shower. Because he recently loss my trust (again), I’d taken to going through his phone from time to time (usually with his knowledge, because I did it right in front of him).

I had noticed that he’d been leaving his phone in the car or completely out of sight an awful lot lately, and I took the opportunity of him getting into the shower to grab the phone and look through it.

I saw two unread text messages from a phone number with no contact name attached.

They were the only two messages in the thread.

I read them and forwarded them to myself.

Yeah, that’s right, I’m going to share them. Because this sort of behavior deserves to be outed, and why not in public? I’m feeling a tad irrational, anyway… and I have nothing to lose, because I’ve done nothing wrong.

“And I love you which is why I want you to be sure of your decision. I don’t want you to have any regrets.
Just know that if you decide to stay with her, it won’t affect your job. I don’t make scenes.”

Yeah.

I didn’t really say anything as I left. I was incensed and I also needed to leave for work. I figured we would have the confrontation when I got home. I didn’t even want to look at him.

So, I left for work.

I sent this text when I got to work:

It must be so hard to live a lie.

I went on, saying I was surprised at his silence, and eventually I got his reply:

“There is nothing to say. I did not want to hurt you and that is what I did! I am the worst kind of person, and I am ashamed of myself. You are my best friend and I did not want to be such a bastard. I am so sorry!”

That’s the last thing he sent me.

When I got home from work Wednesday evening, I walked into the bedroom and immediately noticed that all of his watches and necklaces were gone.

I stopped in my tracks.

I walked to the second bedroom, where his closet is.

Most of his clothes were gone.

I stepped into the bathroom.

Most of his toiletries were gone.

I felt all breath expel from my lungs. My stomach instantly tied itself in knots.

He’s gone.

Just like that.

All the rest of his stuff—furniture, DVDs, TVs, kids’ stuff, and not to mention all the stuff in storage—he just left it.

Deserted.

Just like he deserted me—the best thing that’s ever happened to him (according to him, unless that, too, was a lie).

A flood of emotions made me woozy and I tried to call him.

No answer.

I left a pretty nasty message.

And then I called back… and left another nasty message.

And then, because I figured he would probably never listen to those messages, I texted him basically the same things I said… mostly expletives and confirming that Kevin Wheeler was right when he called him a pretty nasty name (starting with the letter “P”).

The last thing I sent him:

You have until July 31 to contact me, arrange to pick up your things, and remove them. If your belongings are not out of here by the 31st, I will consider them my property since I will be paying rent on them. The locks will be changed first thing tomorrow.

Honestly, just changing the locks helped me feel better.

I didn’t sleep Wednesday night, not more than a couple of hours, anyway.

And of course, the whole relationship has been flashing through my mind. Things he said or did, or didn’t say or didn’t do, that I should have seen as red flags or warnings or something… and I just didn’t.

I am fairly certain I’ll never hear from him again. He is highly averse to confrontation, and I’ll leave it at that, because that’s the nicest thing I could possibly say right now.

So, not only am I left with all this stuff…

I’m left with all the shattered pieces. The pieces of what I thought our relationship was. The lies. The masterful manipulation. The cheating.

And since we started having a rocky time somewhere in the window of mid or late March, I’m suspecting that’s when the affair began.

And if you remember, my sister was killed by a drunk driver on her way home from work on April 29th.

Also remember, my mom passed away on November 29, 2012.

And so, less than three months after my sister’s passing, I have also lost my relationship of nearly two years.

Yes, we lived together since about April 2012.

Yes, we’d planned to get married. We had even picked out rings.

They say that things happen in threes.

And I believe it.

David had been hiding so much and acting so weird lately that I had already found myself questioning the longevity and viability of our relationship. I found myself asking, “Do I really want this?” Uncertainty had already crept in.

So in some ways, it is a relief that it’s over so quickly.

And I know I’ll never get answers, because even if he suddenly overcame his intense aversion to confrontation, it’s not like he would actually tell me the truth, anyway. A liar who is so mired in the manipulation and lies is not going to suddenly tell the truth.

And so, I have to create my own truth from this situation.

And so, here is my truth:

• I gave him so much of myself. I gave him my heart—no holds barred. I loved him big, and this will take some time to work through.
• I believed in him, when no one else did.
• I believe that he has a good, beautiful, and tender heart.
• I believe he is terrified of revealing his true self to anyone, but especially to himself.
• I believe he feels condemned.
• I believe he is a Master Manipulator. But I also believe he is the most masterful at manipulating himself.
• I believe he is in a very destructive, downward shame-spiral, and I hope he allows someone healthy to be there when he hits bottom. (It won’t be me.)
• I taught him what intimacy, trust, love, and vulnerability look like and feel like.
• I taught him how to speak to his kids like they’re real people, not as if they’re still 4 year-olds.
• I showed him what it’s like to have a safe place to fall.
• He was my soft place to fall.
• He was safe. At least until he changed.
• He was always tender and loving, except when he was sarcastic and saccharine.
• Being in his arms was a heaven like nothing else I have experienced.
• I feel so deeply betrayed… sick-to-my-stomach betrayed.
• I have been through too much in the last 8 months. Hell—in the last three years…
• My family loved him. My friends loved him. Even my therapist liked him.
• I believe he may be a compulsive liar. He conned everyone… my family, my friends, and me. He even conned my therapist—and let me tell you, she isn’t happy about that.
• I believe he may have cheated on me more than once. (As if an affair lasting 3-4 months isn’t enough.)
• I believe he may have cheated on every woman he’s ever been with since his first marriage broke apart.
• I believe he has built a life around lying and carefully crafting lies to always leave himself a way out.
• I believe he loves his kids, but he makes stupid choices without thinking about them and how it will impact them and his relationship with them.
• I am angry and hurt at the way this is bound to impact his kids.
• I am fortunate to still be welcomed in their lives.
• I adore them so much.
• I know that I will be all right—better than all right, honestly. I’ll thrive.
• I believe that he left five of the things he left quite deliberately. I believe it was his way of telling me good-bye, his way of saying what he could not otherwise say.
• I believe he loved me with all his heart.
• I believe he still loves me.
• I believe that his most divine purpose in my life was to help me through the initial crisis phase of losing my mom. He was simply amazing to me during that time. Totally, unwaveringly supportive. That was a precious gift to me, a real and divine gift, and I will forever be grateful for that.
• I believe that scared him too much, that intimacy scared him too much, and I believe he could not handle it.
• I believe that after my mom's death, the way I opened up even more really threw him. I think it overwhelmed him, and he didn't know how to handle it.
• I knew he was sabotaging our relationship. I could feel it happening, and I even asked him about it… I just didn’t know the extent.
• I love him and I am deeply in love with him. I am dumbfounded, confused, and shocked. 
• I believe he is a good person. I believe he's actually so much better of a man than what he has ever been able to recognize. He just makes terrible, hurtful choices because he doesn't believe in himself. 
• I will always love him.
• Even though I hurt deeply... I know he is hurting, too. 
• I am worried about him.
• Even with all of this—the good and the bad—I have received so many gifts. I have received messages of support and love… prayers… positive thoughts… all kinds of good.
• I am grateful for the support I’ve received.
• I know I am loved.
• And I love myself.

My therapist called me yesterday. Exasperated, she said:

“Well, I guess when someone tells you over and over again that you’re too good for him… believe him.”

Amen.

(I believe him now.)

I hurt.
Oh, how I hurt.

When you’re with a liar, it’s hard to know how much of the whole relationship is a lie. I could drive myself totally crazy with remembering precious, tender moments, and then wondering whether it was real or just an illusion.

And I probably will do some more of that…

But hopefully not tonight. I am really tired, but I have the urge to move some furniture around, too.

I really, really thought he was the love of my life…

I am utterly heartbroken.

And as I mentioned to someone today—I don’t have a whole lot of hope right now.

But I do have faith.

And, I am loved.

And that will get me through…

And besides—I have some super positive things to concentrate on, like my recent trip to Maine, and a bit of good news that a few of you already know of, and the love I have in my life, and at least I didn't marry a liar, and my cats love me, and I have good taste in music, and my dad reminded me of a family joke in the midst of my emotional despair and it made me laugh.

This life is at least not boring, right?!

Now, excuse me while I go cry in my wine…

A Message From Above

One of the things my mom loved most was her Southern Living cookbooks. Each year, they publish the Annual Recipes volume, and my mom purchased them, year after year, since the inception in 1979.

She of course purchased the 2012 volume, and although we haven’t actually talked about it, I suspect at least one of us in the family will continue this tradition.

Over the years, Mama marked quite a few recipes. Each holiday season, she labored over the menu for weeks—paging through the Southern Living cookbooks, marking recipes, taking notes on a yellow legal pad, and finally emerging with the complete menu. I remember this tradition around Thanksgiving and Christmas time each year, for longer than I’ve been alive.

So, glancing at that full shelf of cookbooks in my parents’ house instantly causes a flashback of memories.

Yet another reason why it’s difficult to go to my parents’ house. She’s everywhere there—from the books to the kitchen, from the bedroom to the very lamps carefully chosen for each room.

In some ways, it feels like forever since she passed away.

Truthfully, it feels like it happened last night.

Nearly four months have passed, now. That seems like a long time, doesn’t it? Maybe.

I’m not sure why, but the last couple of weeks have been the toughest grief weeks I’ve had in months. I’ve felt needy, whiny, desperate, and forlorn. I've felt exhausted and weary, and because of that, I've had very (very) little energy. I’ve cried, I’ve been less than mature, and basically, I’ve pined for my mama.

The sense of loss is somehow deepening as the reality becomes more permanent. The sadness is somehow expanding as I step more into acceptance. And the darkness is somehow darker than I ever imagined it could be.

And yet, I’ve felt her close this week, too. I wasn’t sure why.

I checked the mail yesterday morning. I was running late, and I’d forgotten my glasses. I figured that since I’d forgotten to check the mail the night before, I’d check it on my way back upstairs.

I didn’t expect to receive anything so transformative.

I got a little note from Oxmoor House.

I instantly recognized that publisher—they publish the Southern Living Annual Recipes cookbooks. I stared at the note for a moment, and I got a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach. A lump suddenly sprang into my throat.

I somehow knew that reading the contents of this note would change my day.

I opened the note and slowly read that I would soon be receiving a Southern Living cookbook.

I must have read my mom’s name over and over again. I stared at her name printed on that note for what may have amounted to a full minute—as if staring at her name harder would bring her back.

I threw the note down and said several confused curses under my breath, and I went on my way—my face already hot with tears streaming down.

I cried all the way to my destination, and when I got to the parking lot, I sat there with tears running down my face for a few minutes longer.

I even posted it to Facebook.

I didn’t know what to think, feel, or do. I was so confused that I wanted to call my dad right away—but, I didn’t, because it was only about 8:30 in the morning, and he might not have been up yet.

So I sat in wonder… at how such a thing could happen. How could she know? How did this note land in my mail box at precisely the time I needed it?

She didn’t always understand the way I needed to hear that she loved me, but she expressed it in so many other ways… ways that I didn’t even begin to truly get until after she died.

This is one of those ways—sharing her love of those cookbooks and Southern Living recipes with her daughters.

And the timing really couldn’t have been better, either. I needed a line of connection to her… I needed some sign that she hadn’t completely gone. I needed to know that even though her body is gone from this earth—I still have a Mama.

Message received. Loud and clear.

What’s even more beautiful is that after I posted the message on Facebook yesterday, I could feel my whole being wrapped in love and prayer and peace.

I calmed down. The tears subsided.

I slept hard last night—one of the most restful sleeps I’ve had in a while.

This morning, I woke up with a profound sense of gratefulness… a depth of which I wasn’t aware could exist. I am grateful for this life. For all that I have experienced, for all of those who have thought good things for me, said prayers for me, been there for me… grateful for David, grateful for my family, grateful for everything.

Thank you, Mama.

I love you, too.

On Priorities, Love, & Freedom

“In the event of a loss of cabin pressure, oxygen masks will drop from the overhead. Place a mask on yourself before helping others around you.”

Such a simple, yet profound message.

Why put your mask on first? Everyone knows the answer to this—if you’re passed out from a lack of oxygen, how can you help anyone else?

You can’t.

You become a liability to those around you—relying on someone else to save you because you didn’t care enough about yourself to take care of you.

It’s easy to scoff at anyone unwilling to put on an oxygen mask first. It isn’t seen as selfish; it’s a necessity.

(You know where I’m going with this, right?)

Why do people think it selfish to take care of themselves first… before taking care of others? Why is martyrdom so acceptable and even encouraged? That type of codependence is rampant, and yet—it’s also acceptable, and in many cases there is such a long family history of it that no one is aware of another way of living.

A better way of living.

Thank you, Pathways. Thank you, Brené Brown, for writing The Gifts of Imperfection, for being so amazing and so willing to put yourself out there in the name of shame and vulnerability and wholehearted living. Your words are easy—to read, to understand, to grasp—but the concepts you lay out before the reader are complex, requiring from us a deep commitment to love, to self, to priorities.

I am doing better than I thought with the whole priority thing. I’ve noticed that I’m more relaxed and not nearly so frantic as I used to be when I don’t accomplish x-y-z. it just isn’t as big of a deal to me anymore. It doesn’t matter as much anymore.

Shit will get done whenever it gets done, and not a moment sooner.

And the really important things get done—no matter what it takes. And I find it fascinating that what’s stayed on the surface as I sift through my life and shake the sediment down through the screen and back into the river of life isn’t always what I expected it would be.

Priorities change.

A prime example is making jewelry.

Everyone who knows me knows that I love making jewelry. It’s a passion—or, at least, it used to be. I used jewelry making as an outlet—something tangible I would cling to, to keep me sane when my whole life was crumbling slowly apart, when the glue holding my insides together had turned to rot and the cracks multiplied exponentially on a daily basis.

Jewelry making became the new glue.

But I have a new life now. I don’t need jewelry design as glue anymore. And I find that while I still love making jewelry now and then—and I still love “playing in the beads” (as my ex used to say when I’d spend hours combing through my entire stash, creating ideas and designing new necklaces in my mind)—it is no longer a necessity.

I don’t need it.

These days—I need writing. I still write every day, although I have been neglecting this blog. Our little writing group is small but very strong. We six gather each week, and they take whatever I throw at them and run with it—always going farther than I could ever hope for, always impressing me with their commitment, their openness, and their vulnerability. I am so thankful for our writing group. They inspire me!

(And, yes, we always welcome “newbies”!)

Pathways TAing has once again taken a priority in my life, after almost a full year break. I missed it, but I also needed that time away.

My Monday night group is also a priority, although one I have been somewhat overlooking for the past weeks.

My work is a priority—after going four months without work and then almost like magic—stumbling into a role where I can use my strengths and I work with amazing, dedicated people, and where I can also stretch myself—I can safely say that I’ve never been happier in any career or job or company than I am right here, right now. I am deeply grateful. Words can’t express it, really.

And then, of course, there is David.

I could go on and on about David, and how good he is for me, how good he is to me, and how good of a man he is. I let him go back in January because there was something important missing from our relationship. At that point, he hadn’t really let me in, and after dating for four months, that wedge grew—and I knew that if I continued to stick it out the way things were, I was shortchanging myself—and settling for a relationship that was less than what I deserve.

I let him go. As my friends can attest, it wasn’t easy. In fact, it was incredibly difficult.

I even started going on dates again. I had two dates with two men, but my heart wasn’t in it. That’s not saying anything bad about either of the guys—they’re both actually pretty great. But my heart was decidedly elsewhere.

As hard as it was, I made a point of not connecting with David. My heart was heavy, but I knew that eventually I would be ok.

And then one day, he reached out to me. He wanted to come back into my life.

I was extremely cautious, but I let him come. And he came back in a very big way. He started to let me in, and then at some point it’s like the flood gates opened, and ever since then—it’s been amazing.

I can safely say that I’ve never had the connection, chemistry, and depth of love that David and I have. Every day he amazes me, just by being himself. Every day I marvel at how lucky I am to have him—all of him—in my life.

I’m writing this on the plane to Boston, and even now, I miss him—even now, I smile and honestly have to fight back tears because I am so overcome with love… with our love. I have never felt so honored and cherished as I feel with David.

Every day, I am amazed at how much better our love grows.

The last time I was on a plane was July 2011. I don’t remember appreciating the curve of the Earth back then—probably because I was nervous about the meeting I was prepping for and still very much hurting from the divorce and trying to hide and cover it up with dating. That’s when a couple of pivotal men entered the picture for me (and almost as quickly exited).

As the airplane banked to the left and I gazed out my window on the right side of the plane, I saw the vast horizon, and Earth revealed her gentle curve to me. I felt overcome with love—for this life, for all that I have been given, for the love I am now able to give and receive, for every trial that carves a deeper well of gratitude and growth within me. I am truly amazed at this life and deeply wondering how my life will change again—in 24 hours, 24 days, 24 years—but it’s a child-like wonder, not a longing.

Now, I am absolutely, blissfully free—to live in this moment and feel curiosity and wonderment about my future while giving a nod of honor to my past and to all the lessons that live there.

Loving Me, Even When It's Hard

With every bit of progress comes the slightest ease into comfort. At that moment, I know I'm about to be stretched again...

I felt angry all day yesterday, and it was actually in a writing session with a client late in the afternoon when I realized why I was angry.

I’ve spent all this time trying to figure out how to let love in… what love really means to me… and what I realized is that fear still has a tight hold on me when it comes to love.

And now I understand why…

When I was a little girl, there was a lot of turmoil in my house—some of it caused by my sister and a lot of the behavior she engaged in. My sister, being 8 years older than I am, made a lot of mistakes as a teenager. To compensate for that, I tried to be perfect.

That set a precedent, because then it seemed like my family started to expect me to be perfect.

If I wasn’t perfect, my perception was that I wasn’t loved. But if I did everything just right, if I was perfect—then I would be rewarded with love.

That’s a classic codependent mindset, and I’ve worked hard to shake that. I thought I was doing a pretty good job of it, until it hit me that I still do this to myself.

If I am not perfect, if I do not act perfectly, if I don’t do everything I want to do (and everything I “should” do) perfectly, then I don’t get love. I don’t get to love myself… I don’t honor and nurture myself, I don’t get to have the good that comes from allowing love into my heart.

In other words—I don’t actually know how to love myself when it’s hard, like when I screw up, or when I am not perfect.

How often are you not perfect? All the time? Every day? Every moment?

Yeah.

So it goes deeper than that, even… because when I’m spilled open—like I am right now, tears streaming down my face as I write—I realize that I actually do love myself. In the moments when I am vulnerable, honest, and real, how can I not love myself? I know in those moments that I am beautiful, worthy, and accepted.

It’s only when I’m trying to force my own hand, trying to be perfect, trying to do it my way (in Pathways terms, “running my numbers”), that I realize I withhold love from myself, until I do it perfectly, and if I can’t do it perfectly, then I somehow manage to love myself a little less..

In the past couple of years, I feel that God has been teaching me how to accept love—from others. First, I had to accept His love. Then I had to learn how to accept it from family… and then friends…  from myself… and finally—a romantic partner.

The big missing piece is how to love myself when it’s hard. When whatever I’m doing doesn’t make a damn bit of sense, when I’m not happy with my behavior, or when I’m not doing something I know I should be doing—in other words, when I’m absolutely imperfect. I'm so quick to beat myself up, which of course plummets me further down the hole. 

That is my challenge, and tonight, it’s a big one.

But, as they say… awareness is the first step. And I got a big ol’ dose of awareness today, that’s for sure.

Words I heard about a year ago spring to mind right now:

“God made me. God doesn’t make mistakes. I am perfectly imperfect.”

Yes, indeed…

I want to teach myself how to love me, even when it's hard. I want to notice the progress I've made, how much sooner I become aware, and then, for crying out loud... move forward. 

Life is just too damn short to beat myself up all the time...

"I'll never finish, so why begin?
...I must be crazy to beat me
I'm letting it go"
  - from "Speak" by Gary Go

I don't know what it looks like or feels like to give myself grace. But now, I want to find out.

P.S. I Love You

The first time I watched P.S. I Love You, I cried during the whole movie.

At that time my marriage was on the rocks, and I had never known the kind of love that Gerry and Holly had. I had never known what it felt like to be truly, deeply desired. To know that I was adored, loved, and accepted, just for being myself and no one else—I’d never understood what that felt like, and watching that movie the first time was heartbreaking, because it held up a mirror to my own life, to my own marriage, and I felt a deep, gaping hole in my soul. A hole I had created by giving up pieces of myself, by turning myself into someone I thought my then husband wanted me to be, by trying to live up to some invisible standard, some invisible expectation of perfection: fake it till you make it, to the extreme, as if living a perfect life and upholding an empty image for long enough would finally will that perfection into being, and everything would be ok.

Then my life fell apart… and I fell apart.

A couple of months after my ex-husband moved out of our house, I was walking through a used DVD store. I found myself feeling some—I don’t know—instruction, almost, to purchase P.S. I Love You.

I remembered how that movie made me feel. I walked away from it, but kept circling back. The insistence was relentless. I didn’t understand it, but I picked up the movie, set it on the counter, paid for it, and then it proceeded to sit on my shelf for another month or two before finally, one day, I felt myself tearing off the plastic wrapper and signing up for two hours of crying.

But this time it was different.

This time I understood where the gaping hole was—where it had been. I understood the choices I’d made that had led me to settling, and I recognized my accountability in those decisions and the behavior I exhibited that solidified my bad decisions.

And I knew that I had made the right move, by setting myself free, and by setting my ex free, I was really giving both of us permission to be happy.

I cried for that two hours, yes. But that time, I no longer felt the desperation and hopelessness and regret that I’d felt before.

This time, I felt sadness. I watched that movie at just the right time so that it was yet another step in my grieving process.

I didn’t only feel sadness, though.

I also felt hope.

Hope that I could, one day, have a love that ran as deep as the love between Gerry and Holly. I finally realized that I deserve that kind of love. That I’m worthy of it. And I knew that one day soon, I would be ready for it.

Tonight, I felt a calling to watch P.S. I Love You, yet again.

I had tried journaling, and I touched on what I was feeling in my journal. I tried playing piano, and I touched on what I felt while playing. But I knew I needed a good, hard cry to accept my own feelings, and to embrace them.

I wasn’t sure why that particular movie tugged at me, though… I wasn’t sure, until I started watching it. Most of the movie is overflowing with sadness—sadness from grief and also from the depth of love that Gerry has for Holly… And I wasn’t feeling sad.

Then it hit me… and the feelings overwhelmed me, and I spent the next two hours crying.

My favorite letter in the movie is the last one Gerry sends:

Dear Holly, 

I don't have much time. I don't mean literally, I mean you're out buying ice cream and you'll be home soon. But I have a feeling this is the last letter, because there is only one thing left to tell you. It isn't to go down memory lane or make you buy a lamp, you can take care of yourself without any help from me. It's to tell you how much you move me, how you changed me. You made me a man, by loving me Holly. And for that, I am eternally grateful... literally. 

If you can promise me anything, promise me that whenever you're sad, or unsure, or you lose complete faith, that you'll try to see yourself through my eyes. Thank you for the honor of being my wife. I'm a man with no regrets. How lucky am I. You made my life, Holly. But I'm just one chapter in yours. There'll be more. I promise. So here it comes, the big one. 

Don't be afraid to fall in love again. 

Watch out for that signal, when life as you know it ends. 

P.S. I will always love you 

My life, as I’ve always known it, has ended, and a new life has begun.

I knew it the first time David and I kissed.

But I knew it before that.

I knew it when I saw his smile for the first time. I knew it when we started flirting. I knew it when he asked me out, and when he told me I have an intoxicating smile.

And when he first held me, I thought I had never been held before, by anyone, because it had never felt like it feels with him.

It’s unnerving and overwhelming and most definitely more than I bargained for. But I knew, the minute I laid eyes on David, that he would move me.

So, yes…

I am in love.

It’s so much more than that, though.

I trust him.

And most phenomenally—

I have given him my whole heart.

It feels good, and naked, and scary, but honestly, the fear is so pale at this point, and continuing to shrink every single day.

‎"There are two energies on this planet: fear and love. Fear contracts, love expands. Her Holiness Sai Maa Lakshmi Devi teaches to think of fear and love as two plants—you're always watering one of them with your thoughts. All thoughts fall into one category—fear or love—so which plant are you choosing to water and grow?" - Katharine Sise

I choose love.

Always Go With Your Gut

(...even when it hurts... even when that means you get the answer you don't want to hear...)

Always go with your gut.

I’m sure you’ve heard that saying before… your gut, your intuition, your heart—whatever you call it… it doesn’t steer you wrong.

The key is listening, though.

Sometimes it’s hard to hear, with all the noise in our day to day lives. Sometimes, hearing that little voice seems impossible. And even once you hear it—how easy is it to second-guess? How easy is it to ignore that voice within and try to steer your own path? It’s so easy to tune it out, to try to “do the right thing” – even if the right thing isn’t really what you want… and especially if the “right thing” is never what you would do if you were really following your heart.

Right now, I’m in the middle of a bit of a mess where I’m having a hard time having faith. I have no idea what my next step is, and in this moment, I’m not handling it well. And normally I wait until it’s all sorted out before I type up a blog post. But right now… I’m just in a weird place, and I thought that instead of waiting around until I had all the answers figured out… I would put it out there in the raw for once.

So here I am… raw as ever.

On Tuesday in the Movement Montage class, I had a huge feeling of fear crop up. This is a type of fear I hadn’t experienced since becoming emotionally and physically healthy.

I actually ducked out of class for a few minutes to record what I was feeling in the moment. I transcribed it:

I think it’s natural for us to feel fear.
Fear is something that keeps us safe, something that is always there. It’s one of our built-in mechanisms to help keep us alive.
As someone who has done a lot of work and a lot of growth, and a lot of self-improvement stuff, I’ve done a lot of work to overcome feeling fear.
And, so, when that feeling starts to crop up again, I immediately try to suppress it.
And then, inevitably, I try to figure out… what’s making this so real? What’s making this so big? Why am I feeling this? I try to analyze it and dissect it to death.
Sometimes I just need to let the feelings be there.
I felt afraid earlier.
I feel afraid now.
I don’t want to fall for this guy.
Because a part of me is afraid that I can’t handle it.
And so, when I asked the sassy little girl inside of me what she would do in my position—she just kinda reaches out her hand and touches me and says, “It’s ok to be afraid. Just let it be there. The only way to push through it is to let it be there.”
I can handle it.
I can fall in love, if I let myself.
If it’s going to happen, it’s going to happen no matter what. And if I try to fight it, that’s only going to make it dysfunctional.
And I want to be functional.
So… my challenge to myself is to allow my fear to be there, because I know that that’s what helps keep me safe and ok.
And I know that no matter what, I will be ok.
And I can just let this be.
I can just let it be there.

And now, I am very sad to report, that possibility has been taken off the table. (See the previous entry, where I mentioned being rejected…)

That isn’t the only “mess” in my life right now, of course. But for whatever reason, it’s the thing that makes me incredibly vulnerable and wide open to random people on the internet, when the other “messes” are actually not so close to my heart.

I’m not entirely sure why I’m willing to talk about this stuff here. I think because many of my close friends are going through something similar, with learning how to be functional and healthy and also… in love. Or at the very least—open to the possibility.

I haven’t bounced back yet. I don’t have the perfect words to say. I don’t even have that much perspective yet. My heart is still very much in pain.

I allowed myself to feel more than I have in years, and something that’s incredibly baffling to me is this:

Why is the pain so much more intense than the joy?

I don’t get it.

I really don’t…

I do understand why this man was brought into my life, though, and that has given me some enough perspective that I can at least appear to go on with my normal life.

He came into my life so that I could understand what I want. Not just know it, not just see it… but to actually experience it… to feel it. I think that’s pretty important, because up until this point, I’ve only experienced what I didn’t want.

So, it was just a taste… but it left a lasting impression.

That’s all I’ve got at the moment… but for the moment, it’s carrying me through.

What I am choosing to do from here, though, is to continue to be open. I am continuing to be vulnerable and real, and to show who I really am—in this blog as well as in my everyday life. I will keep listening to my voice within—my heart, my intuition. I will feel my faith again, and I will keep following my gut.

I thought about the alternative. I thought about how much easier it sometimes seems to live life all closed up—and I used to pride myself on being mysterious… and back then, my incongruent actions directly contradicted what my heart really longed for. But I lived in the alternative for so many years that at this point, it doesn’t even feel like a choice that’s on the table, for me to try wearing masks again, or to try being perfect again, or to try fooling everyone around me into thinking I’m a more amazing person than I really am.

The only thing that feels right, authentic, and true, is to continue living just how I am. Vulnerable, open, courageous, brave, and yes—sometimes, even messy.

Logic says that I shouldn't even post this. It's too open, too vulnerable, too... emotional.

I will never again apologize for being emotional. I am emotional.

And, I am also following my gut...

Living in the Now - Letting Go of Worry

I’ve just sat outside sweating over the last hour or so, having amazingly engaging conversation and enjoying the warm breeze that occasionally offered a momentary breath from the incredible intensity of the Texas heat in July.

I’m back inside now.

A sweetness rises from my skin as I breathe in deeply, surveying the intriguing mixture of students, professionals, couples, and regular people making up the population of Starbucks in this moment.

I’m listening to some of my favorite music—Depeche Mode, from the early years (up to Violator, aka the Personal Jesus album), smiling at this music I haven’t listened to consciously in years, remembering when I first fell in love with the Speak & Spell album, on the way to Mendocino, California in a church van, driving up the coastal highway, trying not to get car sick, and just enjoying a moment of my life where I really had nothing to worry about.

Looking around in Starbucks, I wonder what each person is worried about.

“You wear guilt like shackles on your feet,
like a halo in reverse…
I can feel the discomfort in your seat,
and in your head it’s worse.

There’s a pain—a famine in your heart,
an aching to be free.
Can’t you see,
all love’s luxuries are here for you and me?”
– Halo, Depeche Mode

Everyone has worries… burdens… things they feel guilty or shameful about… and I find myself wondering—when do we take on worries? How do we take them on? Is this a habit instilled in us by our parents, by the environment in which we are raised? Is it an inherent part of human character?

One thing’s for sure—once you start worrying, it’s a very easy trend to continue. Except, it doesn’t just continue, does it? One worry builds upon another, until suddenly, we’re worried about every damn thing in the universe—even things we can’t control.

How much energy do you think we waste on worrying?

How much of your life do you waste, worrying?

Why do adults worry so damn much? It’s built into our society, even. If we aren’t worried about something, then somehow, we end up with a guilty conscience. So then, we feel shameful about being guilty of feeling no worry.

So, which is worse—worry or shame?

I’d rather leave off both of those feelings… I think living in the present is the only way to combat these feelings we impose on ourselves—these feelings that are nothing if not incredibly heavy, unhealthy burdens.

Of course, the bigger issue is that we manifest our own lives—the thoughts, learnings, feelings that we have. They all come from within. The relationships we initiate, nurture, and maintain are a direct reflection of who we really are on the inside at the moment.

I really believe that, and I’ve seen it in my own life, over and over—especially in the last year.

The most powerful way I know of to let go of worrying is to live in the moment.

It’s incredibly difficult to do—at least at first… I know I’ve struggled with it over the years. But it’s almost like something finally clicked for me, and now I’m finding it increasingly easier to live in the moment, day to day.

If I concentrate on right now… somehow the future doesn’t seem so overwhelming, frightening, or nebulous.

If I concentrate on right now… I am surrendering (ding!ding!ding!) to the path that I have always been meant to walk. I am becoming more myself in every moment, and becoming the woman I was created to be—except that now, I’m not fighting against it.

Now, I’m learning to just go with it.

And that feels pretty awesome.

If I concentrate on right now… I am helping to create the future that I was going to have in the first place—the only thing that’s changed is my mindset… and isn’t that so much more empowering and wonderful than constantly worrying about the future, or trying to figure it out (aka control it)?

And, like the lyrics from Halo, above, if we are living in love… then guilt and shame fade away. All that replaces it is love… and now.

Nothing is more real than right now. Nothing says love better than living in this moment.

It really is all we have, isn’t it?

A Reason, A Season, A Lifetime

It has been said that people enter your life for a reason, a season, or a lifetime.

Whatever the case, I am learning that it's really all about love.

Right now I’m reading a book called In the Meantime, by Iyanla Vanzant.

In the book, she talks about a woman named Luanne Bellarts, who was born with cerebral palsy. She was a living illustration of love. Over the span of her lifetime, she taught others about the real meaning of love, faith, and trust by writing Bird with a Broken Wing—which is her life story.

She wrote it with her big toe, which was her only working appendage.

What is it about people born with certain “handicaps” seem to have a much firmer grasp on what faith is really about? Why does it work that way?

A Reason

In pondering these questions, my mind immediately flooded back to my time as a teacher for autistic kids. I taught in a special autism school that had build residences in differing neighborhoods near the school, so the kids transitioned from home to school, and back again at the end of the day.

My case student was named Greg.

Greg

I’ve never spoken of him in this blog before, but I still think about Greg and some of the other students often.

Special kids like Greg have a way of seeing right through bullshit.

Below, I’ve included an exerpt of the biography I wrote on a webpage I created for him back in 2000:

Gregory Dean McKinnon – April 30, 1982-July 10, 2000  

Gregory Dean McKinnon was born on April 30, 1982. He grew up in a small town in New Hampshire called Goffstown amongst a large network of family and friends.
 In his 18 short years Greg managed to touch the lives of so many people. Even with complications such as Cerebral Palsy, mental retardation, and behavior problems, Greg faced challenges with his head held high in the air—often we'd forget he even had disabilities because that kid could make you laugh without saying a word.
 Gregory grew up in a warm and incredible family—Mom, Dad, and 3 brothers (Ben, Chris, and Adam). Members of his family touch the lives of everyone they meet with their unconditional love. They have great respect for each other and those around them, and that showed every day in Greg. Greg made you feel special when you walked in the room—he’d glance up, see you, and instantly start laughing. Often he'd get up and walk over to you to get a hug or touch your arm—anything just to say hello.
 Greg was a very social young man.  He loved to stop and chat with friends in the hallway, and he liked making new friends too.  Even though Greg couldn't speak—he could convey so much with his gestures, his smile, and his contagious laugh.
  Greg really knew how to get what he wanted, using humor and persistence!  He was very good at reading people and figuring them out—and subsequently finding just the right persuasive tactics to get what he wanted (in other words... he had us wrapped around his little finger!).
  Everyone who was at all acquainted with Greg consistently noted his contagious laughter, his warm smile, social nature, and big welcoming brown eyes... but especially his laugh and his intrinsic ability to make other people laugh.  He was more talented than any stand-up comedian at drawing genuine laughter out of someone who likely needed a good guffaw.
  Greg passed away on Sunday evening, July 10, 2000, while he was sleeping at his school's sponsored residence on West Hill Road.  His body is gone, and those who knew his challenges walking believe he can now run and jump in the clouds—but I believe he watches over his loved ones and his soul lives within everyone's life he touched (that's a lot of people).  He's got his place among the stars, and I'm sure it's a front row seat, with an endless supply of Auto Hunter magazines, chocolate bars, hot dogs, and soda.
  We miss him.

(As a side note: it does strike me as strange that I would think about Greg, and talk about him in this blog, on the 11th anniversary of his passing.)

I was technically Greg’s teacher, but he was placed in my life for a reason:

He taught me the true meaning of unconditional love.

Teaching severe special needs children is one of the most difficult jobs out there.  If it's in your blood, you just do it and you're happy doing it.  If it's not in your blood—you find out quickly, you burn out, you leave the field.  I realized at one point that severe special needs was not quite the place I needed to be.  But, until I came to terms with that realization and I started to act on it by seeking another line of work—I did the best I could.  And Greg really helped me "keep it real."  His smile, his laugh, his silly and loving nature really helped me.  Every single day.  Even with the challenges that he presented to staff and family, he knew when I needed a good laugh and he could always make me smile.  Greg had so many gifts and he gave so much love.  That is why it was so hard to lose him.

I did everything I could do to hide back in those days. I wore mens clothes that were too big, I didn’t take care of myself, I wasn’t good with eye contact, and I rarely talked about feelings, or anything real or meaningful.

Greg didn’t care. He could see right through me, from the moment we met. And he really could make me feel special. When I walked into a room he was in, he stood up, started laughing and smiling, and inevitably walked over to give me a hug.

There were times when I confided in him, when no one else was around to listen. I told him when I was having a bad day. A lot of the time, if he was in a bad mood, and I told him that I was feeling sad, or having a hard day… he would actually turn his behavior around and do whatever he could to make me laugh.

That kid loved me. Unconditionally. He was a beautiful, pure illustration of unconditional love. He understood what I needed, and he did the best he could do to help me feel better.

By the same token, he taught me something I never expected: tough love.

He was a difficult kid when it came to shaving his face. He had a lot of very thick hair, so he had to be shaved pretty often. And, of course, it was his caseworker’s job.

Greg would do whatever he could to try and manipulate me so that he could get out of shaving. It never worked, of course, because I knew that if I didn’t get it done one day, I would be stuck with the task the very next day.

I had to stand up to him, but in a loving way—not a cruel or mean way. I had never done that before, with anyone… and he taught me how to do it, without either of us realizing what was going on.

I also learned what it means to give unconditional love. Greg could feel when I wasn’t being genuine, or when I was trying to manipulate him, and he never once fell for it.

That kid knew me better than many of the people I had called friends in my past ever had. At the time, he even knew me better than my own family knew me.

I think about Greg anytime I need to remember what unconditional love should feel like.

And then, I look at myself, and ask myself how I can better love myself unconditionally, because as I now know… love begins with me.

A Season

I spent some time with a man recently who I now realize was in my life for a reason, yes—but during this strange season of my life.

The gift he gave me was tenderness.

And I realized that over the years, I have looked everywhere for tenderness, intimacy, and deep connection. (Everywhere but within, of course.)

What I’ve learned is that when I am seeking something from another person, it is something I am really searching for within me.

And that man reminded me of what tenderness felt like, and sometimes, that’s all we need—a reminder.

I was in a funk most of yesterday, and I didn’t understand why until late last night. All it took was a very simple yet profound phrase in an email I got earlier in the evening, about inner light attracting someone on the same frequency, to make me realize that I’ve been seeking nothing from others, but also nothing from myself.

In other words—in some pretty significant ways, I’ve been coasting.

While I haven’t been looking for others to fill me up, or fill my needs—I also haven’t been looking within. I’ve allowed myself to get so caught up in work and meeting new people that I haven’t slowed down long enough to be still and see what’s really there.

In the past, I was afraid of the stillness, because it often meant I sank into depression.

And while I have embraced my fearlessness in almost all realms, I think some of that fear still lingers in the quiet crevices of my mind and heart…

But the interesting thing is that despite the walls I’ve recently hit with meeting new people, I am standing strong with who I am. It’s nothing against me or my self-worth if someone chooses not to hang out with me, and I am choosing, time and time again, to remain open.

A Lifetime

I am here for me

And while there are certain folks who I know are in my heart for a lifetime—a few very close friends, my family, and God—there’s one person I am only just now starting to really count on... She comes through for me, every time, through thick and thin. She’s been here for me time and time again, even when I didn’t think it possible… even when I didn’t think she was looking.

And she’s here for me now. All I have to do is stop shutting her out in my time of need, which is the time she wants to be here for me the most.

Just like God, all I have to do is let her in... let her be here. 

All I have to do is let my light shine, even when I can't define exactly what that means. Maybe even especially when I can't define exactly what that means.

And she is someone I need, and will continue to need, for the rest of my life.

I am thankful to finally be here, present and in the moment… just for me.

Truly, I am learning to lead with love...

And that love begins with me.

A Post About Love

I just finished watching the movie Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants. I’ve watched it more times than I can count. And, yes, it’s essentially a teen movie, but the themes are universal and for someone like me, who didn’t have the blessing of friends from birth, I realized something while I sat there, crying during one of the pivotal moments of the movie.

I am lucky to have friends like that, now.

Lena’s story is compelling to me. This monologue of hers is a favorite:

Lena: [in her letter, after Kostas accuses her of being afraid to love him] He's right, Car. I am afraid. There's a part of me that wants to let him in but then I feel myself put this wall up and I don't understand why. Maybe that's what strikes me most about Kostas: that despite everything he's suffered he can still look at life in the most uncomplicated way. I've never known that kind of faith. It makes me so sad that people like Kostas and Bridget who have lost everything can still be open to love... while I, who have lost nothing, am not. 

It occurred to me that I used to be that way. I used to be so afraid to be open, and to be open to the possibility of love. I used to walk around, a collection a walls, and wonder why no one bothered to try and get to know me. I used to wonder why, when I was really in need, I had no one to call.

Fake Smile Me (as college senior)

I did it to myself.

Realizing that—and how far I’ve come since those days, it’s no mystery as to why I’ve settled for so much in my life, including in the realm of love. I didn’t even know myself well enough to know what I wanted in love—let alone what I could give to someone else, let alone what I was worthy and deserving of having.

I even settled with the way I loved my family. Back in 2002 when I was looking to move in with the man I would end up marrying, my mother had some not-so-nice things to say to me when I announced the move-in. It hit me that she didn’t really know me, at all. She was reacting out of her own uncertainty, frustration, and confusion. She had no idea what I’d been through when I lived in Massachusetts. She had no idea the experiences I had, the life I’d lived, or the ways I had struggled.

She didn’t know, because I didn’t tell her.

I tried to protect my family from needing to worry about me by keeping them in the dark. I tried to hold up that illusion of living a perfect life and handling everything perfectly, because as long as I did that (so I thought), they wouldn’t worry. And a part of me acted that way because I thought it was the only way to really get through life.

 If I could just hang on another day and pretend it was all perfect, then maybe someday it would be. It’s the “fake it till you make it” attitude to the extreme.

My parents are good people. Wonderful people, actually, who have been there for me, even when they were confused and frustrated. And so, of course—no matter how in-the-dark I kept them about the reality of my life… they worried about me anyway.

Keeping them in the dark about who I was didn’t serve anyone, but it especially didn’t serve me.

Last year, when I sat down with my parents to tell them about the divorce, I felt myself utterly falling apart before their eyes. And for the first time… I let it happen. I opened up to them and told them how I really felt, what I was really going through, and what I was really facing. I explained what led up to this point, and how unhappy I had been—for years.

And when my heart opened up… so did theirs.

Through the last year of my life, I have witnessed incredible grace, love, and caring from people I didn’t even know loved me. And part of that is because I surround myself with people who are loving, caring, and full of grace… but I think an even bigger part of that has to do with me and the way I have changed.

The Real Me

I’m more open than I’ve ever been. I’m more willing to admit when I’ve screwed up, and I am quick to ask for feedback, so I can do better next time around. I am willing to let my ugly pieces and shameful parts show, where before, I spent so much energy trying to hide the less-than-perfect parts of me that I was constantly exhausted. Even better, I don’t always view the less-than-perfect parts of me as ugly or even shameful. It’s all just part of who I am. I am no longer selective, because I’ve learned that you can’t be selectively numb. You really can’t filter out the feelings that hurt, because that means you’re also numbing yourself to joy and happiness, too.

And by trying to filter out what I presented to the world, I ended up showing only a faint image of my real self. That’s incredibly difficult to maintain, and a lot of the time, my less mature parts would come out sideways at the most inappropriate moments.

I have witnessed the futility of that first-hand. In trying to filter out the “bad” stuff, I ended up showing the world someone who was not really me at all. And, still, I wondered why so few people knew the real me.

Over the last year, I’ve grown in so many ways that most people in my world have said I am almost a completely different person. In the last year, I have allowed myself to feel whatever feelings I have, even if it was extremely painful. I’ve dropped 75 pounds. I’ve sought feedback and taken it to heart. I’ve grown my village so that I have more people to turn to when I’m in need. I’ve learned how to fulfill my own needs. I’ve learned that if I am vulnerable and I let people in… I am deeply loved. And perhaps most important of all: I love myself.

I am more authentic, real, and just… me… than I’ve ever been.

It feels good. Really good.