When the Bones are Good

“When the bones are good, the rest don't matter

Yeah, the paint could peel, the glass could shatter

Let it rain 'cause you and I remain the same

When there ain't a crack in the foundation

Baby, I know any storm we're facing

Will blow right over while we stay put

The house don't fall when the bones are good.” - Bones by Maren Morris

I’ve started turning every love song into a song to myself. Mostly, it makes me tear up a little bit. But this song? Whew, it broke the floodgates. 

My house growing up was not a good house. There was mold and sometimes mushrooms growing in the corners and definitely a questionable cellar. There were rodents; I joked that I had a pet chipmunk because they lived in the walls. There was water damage, ceilings fell from it. There was depression and cancer. There was faith, both toxic and good. There was love, both conditional and unconditional. 

It was what I knew. And when it was taken from me, home became a word that I didn’t know how to assign meaning to anymore. Where was I from? Where was home? The house I grew up in? Dallas, Pennsylvania? My adopted family? My brother’s place? College? Was is a place or a person or an idea? WHAT WAS IT?

I worked that out. It took seven years, but I worked it out. My home was in my chest. 

But what happens when you are not a good home? 

My mind is not often a safe place to land. It is angry and criticizing. 

My foundation has shifted and crumbled and cracked. 

My body is running on low battery. 

My heart is, well, often broken and on my sleeve. 

2019 has been an extremely rough year. If I’m honest, it’s been more difficult than the year that contained both of my parents dying. 

I started doing healing practices in 2016 and the more I dig, the more I need to heal and the more I add to the healing practices. 

At the end of 2018, I was excited for what was coming. I felt like I was in a good space, that the trajectory of 2019 was going to follow suit. It didn’t. This year has put everything that I’ve learned to the test. It’s like I’m in a boss level of a video game that I just can’t get past. (I’ve been playing a lot of Spyro with my nephew, gimme a break on the metaphor here). 

I felt like I was starting over again, and not the good kind that feels challenging and invigorating. The kind where you’re defeated and singed from the flames. 

So, I signed up for therapy back in May. And every week I show up on that couch to clean up the aftermath. 

I showed up with a list the first day, a list of all the shit, both past and present. 

I started talking, and in typical Marilyn fashion, the tears just started flowing.

I finished and my therapist just said “That’s a lot. I’m sorry” 

And also in typical Marilyn fashion, I replied with “it’s ok”. 

MARILYN, NO IT’S NOT. 

I was ready to work on boundaries and trauma recovery and anxiety. 

She told me we were going to work on self-worth. 

Um, excuse me, WHAT?

I’m a fantastic student, so obviously, I dug right in and started doing all the assignments she told me to do… and extra ones too (except therapy doesn’t give extra credit, AND THAT’S NOT COOL). 

Over the past several months, I’ve done a lot of work:

• Wrote a giant list of things that I enjoy (122 things and counting)
• Wrote about things I’m de-weeding from my life (things we’re throwing out that other people have ascribed to me)
• Ranked how satisfied I was in different sections of my life
• Created a body check in list
• Created boundary game-plans
• Took selfies of me doing things that I enjoy
• Did career assessments
• Listed out why I am lovable
• Stopped the record when negative thoughts are on repeat
• Stopped apologizing 
• Stopped saying “it’s ok” to apologies
• Started saying “NO” as a full sentence

Taking love songs as letters to myself has become one of the simple extra tasks that makes me feel good. It started from listening to the Sleeping at Last podcast about his song “Two”.  He wrote it as a letter from the Enneagram two to other people, and because they struggle with taking care of themselves, also as a letter to themselves. OH, OK. 

When the chorus of “Bones” started, I realized that had been the important healing work that I had been doing: making the structure of my life secure. 

Doing this work has been less about creating something new but unearthing the structure of who I have always been.

The only unchanging factor in my life is that it is MY life. 

This is my home. 

So, we have looked at the foundation. We found the cracks, where it was falsely leaning on something else. Like my parents. And then my faith. What happens when external sources die? What happens when faith shifts? What happens, if in the future, another external source leaves or I decide to walk away from faith all together? 

I’m still standing, still left with myself. 

And as I clean up shattered glass and peeled paint and demolished walls and rotting floorboards… I discover that who I am, the bones of this home, is GOOD. 

These bones are mine. These bones are still good.

I often think that if I didn’t go through trauma and if I wasn’t sick, I wouldn’t be who I am. 

But then my therapist takes me back to a time before trauma, before I knew I was sick, and shows me the same person that I am now. Someone geared towards justice, good things, celebration, joy, vulnerability, love and all the other things I hold at my core. 

My traumatized mind, my chronically ill body, and my tender heart. They are also good.

But they are not my structure. Who I am is not dependent on my trauma or my resilience. Who I am is not dependent on my sickness or my health. Who I am is not dependent on how well I can give or receive. 

I am my own. My bones are good. 

Paint has peeled. Paint will peel again. (Or maybe I’ll just redecorate)

Glass has shattered. Glass will shatter again. 

Storms have come. Storms will come again.

I will not fall. I remain the same. I will stay put. 

I will not fall when my bones are good. 

Other good songs that have been in the healing playlist: 

• Kai’s Song by Overcoats
• Wanted by OneRepublic
• Losing Me by Gabrielle Apin 
• Kintsugi by Gabrielle Apin
• Light On by Maggie Rogers

On Walls and Fences

I've been in the mood to write, or podcast (itching to start something new- per usual), or draw or basically just create something without knowing what I should create or how or what I actually needed to process through the act of creating, just that I needed to do it.

If you haven't be following along, or it's just been so long since you've heard from me here, these posts aren't supposed to get to any particular destination. They are to just document the journey from dead to alive, to hopefully show growth and candor and vulnerability.

In an effort to pinpoint how I needed to process, I went back and read some old posts. Those posts, some of my books, Pinterest posts that made my jaw drop, some recent events, the Enneagram, and some very needed truthful conversations with my friends brought me to a conclusion that I didn't even realize was in the realm of possibilities.

I don't have boundaries.

I would like to think that I appropriately respect other people's boundaries but also push them when need be.... but then again I may discover that I don't do that either.

In order for me to tell this story in a way that makes sense to me, I have to go all the way back and I have to give a lot more than you may want to know about me. I'm a pretty open book about a lot of things, and you'll see why.

I'm the youngest of three kids, with over a decade gap between my siblings and I. My dad traveled for work for most of my life that I can remember. And for just as long, my mother was sick. I use "sick" because that's the way we spoke about it, in vague terms and hushed tones. I don't remember most of my childhood. I have some key events that are burned in my memory but most of my mental pictures are fuzzy and out of focus and blurs of color.

But I have recently remembered feelings from most of my childhood and teenage days. I was responsible for the survival and upkeep of my home. Maybe I actually wasn't but I sure felt like it. Sister and brother were either at college or living their post-graduate lives, that they rightfully deserved to live. My dad was traveling for work, we had to have money somehow. And then there was me and my mom. In good times she was active and alive. She ran errands and cooked and walked on the dead end street and listened to electronica music. On bad days she stayed in bed for days in the same clothes. She wouldn't eat and would bite her nails and had a devastating fear of driving. I did my best to coax her into the good days, or even just the ok days where she got showered and then sat in the living room with a diet coke and the tv on. I hid her pills in my room and made sure she took them when she was taking them. They were behind my door on top of my saxophone. It was the first place I ran to on the day she died and I couldn't find her, to make sure she didn't take them. I gave phone call updates when my dad was out of town and was part of family meetings when we wanted to get mom better.

I was a kid. And I took on responsibilities that adults shouldn't even have to take on.

I was a student, active in church, trying to learn the world and trying to hold things together that were not mine to hold together.

Holding a world together was my normal. Making my needs small because we had bigger issues at home was my normal.

I was the kid that got as close to As as I possibly could because I liked it but also not to cause issues.  The worst thing I did was not clean my room. I didn't share my internal world for fear of burdening an already heavy load onto someone else, and it was my normal.

And more heaviness would come in my young life- my grandmother died, my mother had a seizure, mother went to the hospital, parents struggled with finances and each other, mother died and then father died.

So I built a wall, and then another, until I created an internal world to shut me in. No windows, small, but enough to breathe. Nothing could get in and nothing could get out either.

My internal world was safe, my external world was filled of helping others. I threw myself into school work, more hobbies, more service activities. I ignored the girl stuck behind the walls.

The girl behind the walls was fine for a while. Until the air became toxic and the darkness made her panic and the walls felt like they were collapsing in on top of her.

So, in college I began the very dangerous demolition of knocking down the walls that I had built. I went to trauma counseling. I reluctantly opened up to people about struggles. I fought negative feelings that lied about who I was and what I meant to this world. I trusted people, even if they ended up leaving me or betraying that trust. It was a lot of work. And not only did I destroy the walls but I began to plant seeds and tend a garden around me.

I thought I was free.

I didn't realize that there was something to go in place of the walls. I no longer held toxic shame in my lungs, or fear in my gut, or guilt on my hands. I sat among my seedlings and thought I was ok.

But I wasn't.

All the years of holding onto things that were not mine took tolls.

Physically, I discovered that I was a mess. I used to measure how well I was doing each day by how little my hands shook. Every day I woke up and felt like I was hit by a bus. My eyes were exhausted and almost looked swollen shut on a regular basis. I was never rested. Ibuprofen was my best friend. I couldn't string words into sentences and I couldn't breathe well. And so much shame was held in my thighs and my stomach and my upper arms, visible for the world to see in a number that wouldn't  budge no matter what I did. And it was all my normal.

But emotionally?

I was worse. I thought I was doing good. I couldn't save my mother. But there were very real people around me struggling with similar struggles to my mother and to the girl I trapped inside my walls. I could help them. I could be there for them. I could listen. I could affirm them. I could take them to doctors offices and emergency rooms. I could give them advice. I could tell them truth instead of the lies that feed on the darkness. I could walk with them as they tried to make changes. I could, I could, I could. Because if I didn't, who else would?

But, what I didn't realize is that in a effort to save people around me I was inherently destroying myself and the garden I so desperately wanted to grow.

I didn't understand. I didn't understand why my seedlings were wilting and looked trampled on. This is what I'm supposed to do for people. I'm supposed to show up for them. I'm supposed to help carry their burdens. I'm supposed to put others first at any cost, right? Right?

I didn't realize that doing those things could ever be a bad thing, until I realized I was no longer a person that could care for themselves well. I carried all too much because I thought that's what I was supposed to do, that was what was best and loving and helpful for the people I loved. I didn't count the cost that it would take on my soul and body. I didn't count that my body would throw hormones and chemical levels out of whack and therefore you would develop chronic illness. I didn't count the cost that it would steal my peace because people are people and even if you're right, they may not listen because they have to figure things out on their own. I didn't count the cost of the weight that would break my back as I added it to weight I was already carrying from my own soul.

I got really good at letting the bad stuff out after I demolished the walls. I cry when I need to cry and don't see it as weakness. I write to process and let the world see. I call people and verbally process when I need to. I'm not afraid of counseling or facing the past that will be brought up sitting on that couch in front of a stranger. I'm not afraid of facing myself and the holes and the bruises that I have collected along the way.

But I didn't account for bad things that I was keeping out with my walls, just the things that needed to be let out of my soul. Everyone can see the news, the world is hurting. And my compassion is my greatest strength, but apparently also my greatest weakness, because I don't know when to say "stop". You want the shirt off my back and the last two dollars I have to my name? My pleasure, here you go. You want me to show up again for the same issue we've talked through more than once? Sure, I have a paper deadline to meet but I can stay up late to do it, you're more important. You need me to work 60+ hour weeks to meet these deadlines and to make sure that everything is perfect? Sign me up.

And everything I've been taught, about religion, about being a woman, about being a good friend, about loving others well... I thought it supported this. That the other outweighed the self every. single. time.  I just didn't count the part where I lost the self in the other.

I got to a point where I was drained and angry.

I was tired of showing up for people over and over again and things not changing no matter what method I used, no matter how much I prayed for things to get better.

I was tired of feeling like I gave so much and got little to nothing in return.

I was tired that my outer world was a mess and my inner world was a mess and I couldn't fix it because I was busy with others.

My health was put on a back burner for 2 years from the time I got a diagnosis because I was still in school and holding everything together (read as everything was falling apart). I didn't know what my diagnosis meant because I didn't have time to research it (read as I didn't make time). My normals won. My exhausted, emotionally drained, unhealthy normals won because I didn't know they weren't supposed to be normal.

The more research I did, the more things made sense. And not just research about Hashimoto's, but other things as well.

I discovered that those with autoimmune diseases often have a root cause of emotional trauma because of heightened cortisol levels for extended lengths of time. (Hence struggles with PTSD and fight or flight responses to seemingly small occurrences.) The extended exposure can cause inflammation in the body, and inflammation is the root of all evil. It causes leaky gut and joint pain and chronic fatigue and brain fog and depression and anxiety and every single damn thing that I have ever struggled with in my body. And that overwhelming negative emotions and physical manifestations of symptoms go hand in hand.

I discovered that my outer world and inner world were in chaos and if I wanted to let things go in the inner world, I would need to let go of some things in the outer world. When you lose core people that mean security and home at a young age, you will tend to hold on to anything that reminds you of that feeling that you lost. It's why I still had so many things from my parents that weren't necessarily meaningful anymore. I just assigned them meaning because "they were mom and dad's". I started researching minimalism and the benefits that it can bring to my life. It's allowed me to let go of things that I once held onto for dear life, including ideas and harmful beliefs that were keeping me down. It's allowed me to dump trash and give old things life and make space for less but sometimes better. It's allowed me to unpack my emotional baggage because there's nothing physical to discard anymore. I'm left with myself.

I discovered the Enneagram, a psychological tool used for analysis and growth about motivations that form our behaviors. That I am a type 2, the helper. Through it's lens, I realized that after going through so much, I still have so far to go. That 2s are the people that will answer their phone at 2am to help someone if they need it, they are the ones that are in the service industries and the ones that work for activism, they're the ones that see us and love us in ways we may not have noticed we needed. OH, that's me! That 2s primarily have fears of being abandoned due to childhood traumas with their parental figures. oh. That unhealthy 2s will do what ever is necessary to be seen as needed so they're not left, capable of manipulating if left unchecked. oh. That unhealthy 2s have boundary issues because they think that in order to be loved, they have to do something to be of value. Their value lies in doing rather than existing. So they help, often times unnecessarily or at the expense of themselves. oh. The more I dug, the more I found skeletons and weeds and rocks and deep roots that were taking up space in my soil.

I discovered that a lot of beliefs that I've had my whole life are not very useful. In fact they're harmful, regardless of good intentions or actual healthy roots. Things like purity culture and controlling women's bodies. Or diet culture and the way we view bodies in the church. Or how the church treats the LGBT community. Or that you could only be a Christian one certain way, especially in politics. Or how I benefit from systemic racism by the unequal distribution of power. Just so many things, too many things to go into detail here.

I discovered that my normal of holding onto responsibilities that shouldn't have been mine at a young age became a normal in most of my relationships. I helped, and gave, and manipulated (often unconsciously) into receiving love. I thought I helped out of love, and I still believe that. But my love had strings attached, that hopefully I would get love back. It was obsessive and controlling love and desperate for anything back. Very afraid that if I didn't keep giving, I was going to be left behind. I thought it was helpful and loving to keep giving advice regardless whether or not that's what the other wanted. I thought it was my responsibility to get them to a better place. I thought that I needed to keep people happy in order to be loved. I thought that whatever I needed to do, whether for myself or someone else, I needed to anticipate all the outcomes and the feelings that could be involved. I would lose myself in the feelings and needs of another person. I make my needs small because that was my normal. 

I've just been sitting with all this. Almost like I'm sitting in the middle of this trampled garden, exposed, holding my heart in my hands with a look of shock on my face. Now what?

I've let so many people, so many ideas, trample into a tender space; one that they should never been allowed into in the first place. 

I've done all this work in tearing down walls to become free and all I became was trapped, just in different ways.

How do I fix it? How do I stop it?

I have to say "no".

No, I will no longer pick up responsibilities that are not mine
No, I will not let you exploit my compassion for your gain
No, I will not let you into a part of me if you have not earned it
No, I will not sacrifice who I am and what I value to try to save you
No, I will not let myself get so emotionally entangled in your story that I lose my own
No, I will not let myself be dragged down by carrying the weight for someone else
No, I will not give your needs more attention than my own
No, I will not give you so much power over my feelings
No, I will not burden myself with doing to prove that I am worthy of existing
No, I will not let your poor treatment of me be a reflection of my value
No, I will not be desperate for love that I will manipulate
No, I will not be desperate for meaning that I over extend
No, I will not take a rejection of my help as a rejection of who I am
No, I will not anticipate the outcomes or your feelings
No, I will not censor myself in order to make you happy
No, I will not make myself small in order to fit into the box you want me in
No, I will not let my health take the back burner to your emotional needs
No, I will not let myself get stuck in one place because of someone else
No, I will not give in to irrational fears that are based on lies

Quite simply, no.

Every "no" is the rising of a fence post around my garden. It can have a gate, maybe a cute little decorative metal one, to let people and ideas in, or out if need be. It can be moved and added to in order to expand. It leaves plenty of room to breathe and grow and nothing can collapse. It is bathed in light, there is no darkness of shame left here. There's a chair in the corner that is clearly my reading chair, or just used for admiring the work. There's mountains in the distance for adventure and challenge. There's still some weeding to be done and rocks to unearth, but what fun is a garden if the work is complete? My seedlings are growing. They are safe to grow, they are mine to protect and nurture and love. My fence allows me to say yes to the things that I want and need to say yes to. It allows for the good to come in, just as much as it keeps the bad out.

Healing is good work. Tearing down is sometimes necessary and so is rebuilding. Healing is also long winded work. It's not a sprint. You'll keep discovering new things that need to be healed, and sometimes re-broken. I recently told someone that "healing is a never ending process but one day you'll be healed enough that you're no longer a sick person that's trying to get healthy, you're a healthy person that's just trying to live an optimal life". And I think that's where I'm at. Well, mostly. I still have lots of actual health issues that need to be figured out. But I think my soul is at a place where I'm just trying to live an optimal life, there's no more poison rotting my insides. I know myself. I know where I'm going. I know when walls need to be built or scaled or torn down. I know when fences need to be built or expanded or reinforced.

I hope you have the courage to tear down the walls you hide behind and the self-compassion to build fences. That you take care of your garden as much as your neighbors'. I pray that this life of a lush garden with a sturdy fence is your new normal. That you heal, letting love tear down the walls and build the fences. 

Well, Here We Go... Another Post Election Blog

Obviously, I'm going to write something about this election.

I don't understand a whole lot about politics. I do more so now because of researching during this election and because of the great educator known as Leslie Knope.

But I have spent the last four years learning about culture and people... and the last 20ish years living as a human.

I am saddened that we have reached this point.

Saddened that we nominated these two people to make choices for our nation. Saddened that we have been so divided and hateful towards each other. Saddened that potentially votes were wasted on a dead gorilla, as if this is really a joke.

What I do know, is that people will show you their true colors.

That those who want to change the way life is for the marginalized will do it regardless of the leader of the county.

That those who shout words of hate will do hateful acts regardless of the leader of the county.

There are people who are now afraid to live in this country. Legitimately afraid that their parents will be forced to leave. Afraid to wear a head covering that is part of their religion because of possible backlash.

It may prove in the next four years that they have nothing to fear. But that doesn't matter. It doesn't matter that I am not afraid for my own well being.

I did not vote for Trump. I don't understand how people did. But I am proud of people voting. I am proud that people stood by their convictions and thought that they were voting for what was best for the country, even if I disagree with them.

What matters now is what we do, what I do.

It matters that I work hard at my job and work hard to get another one. It matters that I save and spend responsibly (even though I currently suck at it). It matters that I make smart investments and donations. It matters that I learn and vote and volunteer about local issues. It matters that I still use my voice to stand against things that I don't believe in and let my legislators know. It matters that I show love and compassion to those who are afraid. It matters that my actions and my words speak louder than just my vote. It matters that I believe that those who are marginalized need to have a voice and that it is my responsibility to speak up for them.

Hey Christians, I don't care if you voted for Trump. I don't care if you voted for him because you believe that we needed to get career politicians out of Washington. I don't care if you voted for him because you believe that he will "Make America Great Again". I don't care if you voted for him because you couldn't stand to vote for Hillary Clinton or a third party candidate. I don't care if you voted for him because you believe that he is a great businessman. You know what I do care about?

I care that you see that his approach to sexual assault is wrong. I care that you see that his words have been horrendous. I care that you see he is disrespectful to people in all walks of life. I hope that you see that, act against it, and hold him accountable. His policies and stances are important but so is the way he treats others. Do not make excuses for his behavior.

Hey Donald Trump, Congratulations on winning. While I did not vote for you, I respect that you now hold the title of President of the United States of America. I ask one thing of you, prove us wrong. PROVE US WRONG. Tame your tongue, put policies in place that benefit more than one group of people, treat people with respect, humble yourself. YOU will NOT make America great again. That you cannot do on your own. Listen to the people, this is not about you.

Hey America, we are divided, there is no denying it. People are scared, heartbroken, enraged, happy, indifferent and so many other things. This is our reality, it's our job to live in it well. Don't you dare become stagnant and angry and bitter. If this is not the America you want, then you use your voice and your hands to make it better. This is not about political parties. This is about your neighbors. This is about whether you are going to do what's in their best interest. You need to show up. You need to advocate for others. You need to do so calmly and kindly. You need to be an ear, a helping hand, a voice. Your freedom isn't freedom unless it allows others to be free as well. Use your freedom well.

The next four years are going to be interesting. Be kind to your neighbor. Fight for those that are different than you. I beg of you to learn from these next years. And I beg of you, LOVE. This country is amazing, love it. Love that you get to be free and to exercise your freedom. But most of all, love your neighbor as yourself. Love those that are Muslim. Love those that are LGBTQ+. Love those that are women. Love those that are Mexican. Love those that are disabled. Love those that are seeking refuge. Love America, the melting pot of cultures and people. Love everyone. But especially love those that in recent months have been downtrodden.

America, you are great and you are free. Act like it. Show your true colors, bleed the red, white and blue.

A Cold and Broken Hallelujah

I am white.

I am female.

I am middle class.

I am Christian. 

I am not in law enforcement. 

I am not gay. 

I am not transgender. 

I am not Muslim. 

Most of the things that make up the core of who I am are not things that I will ever be afraid to lose my life because of them. 

I am female. I am Christian. 

But even the fear that I live in because of being those things is minuscule. As a Christian right now in America, I will not die because of that identity. As a female in America right now, I live in more fear because of cases like the Brock Turner rape case. 

But I will never put on a uniform and wonder if this is my last day because someone has decided to enact upon their vendetta. 

But I will never know the painful cycle of trying to get out of my ghetto or project or community so that I have a chance at something above the poverty line. 

But I will never wake up to my reflection in the mirror believing that my life didn't matter to the world because it's too dark for their liking, fearing that someone might do something about it when I walk out the door, especially the ones that are supposed to protect it.

But I will never walk down the street afraid to hold my partners hand because someone may decide that spewing hateful words and flying fists is alright because my partner is the same sex as me. 

But I will never know the identity crisis of those that identify as transgender or misgendered and I will never worry if someone will harm my life because of the gender of the bathroom I walk in. 

But I will never walk through an airport watching parents holding onto their children as their eyes dart around me because they believe I will blow up a plane because of inaccurate views of my religion. 

But, I still know pain. 

I know great pain. In the past and present. I have struggled with death and life and others' pain and the world's pain. 

And recently, it's been a lot to bear. Wondering where God is in all this brokenness. Wondering how I can call God a good good father when all of this is happening to his children. Wondering what way we have sinned in order for this to happen. Wondering how I am supposed to offer hope to people when I don't have any left. Wondering how I am supposed to be joyful when I am angry at God. Wondering how much longer we have to suffer. Wondering how much longer we will argue before acting. Wondering how many deaths it will take before we act. Wondering when we'll stop turning the finger to everyone else. Wondering when enough will be enough. 

I have nothing left to offer. I have been empty so long that I don't know how to tell someone else that love will win. That victory and healing are coming. That despite whatever happens that God is still good. That joy is coming in the morning. I don't know how to offer truth when right now it feels so far from the truth. 

So here is my cold and broken hallelujah. 

Hallelujah, we are not where we were. 

Hallelujah, some of us are marching towards victory. 

Hallelujah, I can still feel pain. 

Hallelujah, I am still alive. 

Hallelujah, I am not in control. 

Hallelujah, I have power to change one life, even if that life is mine. 

Hallelujah, I still have the capacity to love and show compassion. 

Hallelujah, the future doesn't have to look like the present or the past. 

Hallelujah, people are finally shouting that Black Lives Matter.

Hallelujah, officers are still willing to sacrifice their life despite fear and threats and violence. 

Hallelujah, we are ANGRY at injustice. 

Hallelujah, we are fighting for our brothers and sisters despite our differences. 

"Hallelujah, brokenness cannot survive when redemption lives."

"Hallelujah, we are free to struggle."

Hallelujah, "God is still in the business of redemption."

Hallelujah, "God is near to the broken-hearted."

These hallelujahs are quiet. They are said with clenched teeth. They are said with hot tears and questions and anger. They are said with a cold and broken heart.  They are said with a quiet hope.  A quiet hope that one day I can shout. 

HALLELUJAH, WE ARE FREE

HALLELUJAH, WE ARE WHOLE

HALLELUJAH, WE ARE LOVED

HALLELUJAH, REDEMPTION HAS WON

HALLELUJAH, THE STRUGGLE IS OVER

HALLELUJAH, BROKENNESS HAS BEEN DEFEATED. 

But until then I will keep whispering my cold and broken hallelujahs. 

I will keep wondering. 

I will keep praying. 

I will keep crying.

I will keep changing. 

I will keep hoping. 

I will keep whispering my cold and broken hallelujahs. 

Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah. 

Grieving Life

It's been six years since my mother took her life. Her death still saddens me but this year I'm reflecting more about her life. 

Unfortunately, I'm not celebrating it. I'm grieving her life. 

My sister gave me a whole bunch of family photos at my graduation and I was sifting through them the other night. Watching my mother's smile go through a cycle where it would dim and brighten and dim again was something that I wasn't prepared for. 

I saw her weak frame and tired eyes force a smile at an occasion where she should have been filled with joy. I saw her eyes bright as she cuddled one of her grandkids. Over and over again, a cycle of a woman filled with life and emptied.  

To watch this as a child was easy. I was oblivious, except in the worst of times. But the every day struggles? Oblivious. 

To reflect on this as an adult is heartbreaking. Because I question the what ifs. What if I talked to my mother more? What if we made sure she was consistently on medication? What if there wasn't such a stigma against mental illness in my mother's generation? It's sometimes a dangerous place to go, because I can't change anything about my mother's life or prevent her death. 

Depression doesn't just kill you once. It decides that it will take the life out of every day. You isolate yourself from the people you love. Depression kills you with its lies that no one understands and that no one loves you. It sucks the joy from the things that you love. It zaps your energy, making you believe life will always be trudging through sludge to just survive. 

But if you're still here, there is still time and there is still hope. 

Your life does not have to be grieved while your are still living. 

And right now, the struggle may not feel much like living but right now, it's all you have. 

You are not alone. 

You are not a burden. 

You are not worthless. 

You are loved. 

You are brave. 

You are alive. 

You have breath in your lungs and even though the weight in your chest makes it suffocating, you are still breathing. 

You have blood in your veins and even if that blood is trickling over your wrists to feel something, you are still here. 

You have a heart in your chest and even if it feels empty, you are still loved. 

You have a voice and even if it is quiet and it shakes, you can ask for help and demand for a better ending. 

You have a brain and even if its chemistry tricks you into believing lies, you can begin to fill it with truth. 

You have hands and even if they feel too weak, someone can come along and hold them as you walk through this together. 

There can be a lot of reasons as to why my mother isn't here anymore. But there are plenty more reasons why I still am. 

I'm still here because two women decided to say "me too" when I expected judgment. 

I'm still here because a man refused to let me believe that I didn't have value. 

I'm still here because friends refused to let me shut myself off. 

I'm still here because a church decided to love a scared grieving teenager. 

I'm still here because a counselor made me repeat the phrase "you have to feel to heal" until I understood. 

I'm still here because a doctor saw that  my physical health and mental health were connected. 

I'm still here because I refuse for my mother's story to end without hope. 

I'm still here because God is in the business of redemption. 

I'm still here because there is still time to be surprised and to build a better ending.

Life doesn't have to be grieved. Life doesn't have to be getting up every day hoping you get another breath but also wishing you didn't. This life is difficult and a struggle but it's worth waking up for a possibility of a better tomorrow, even if you have wished for a better tomorrow a thousand times. 

If you are struggling, please say something. If you see someone struggling, say something. 

Mental illness begins to lose when we start a conversation. 

Life isn't meant to be grieved, it's meant to be lived. Let's work to live together 

One Last Time

I'm an avid How I Met Your Mother fan. I've seen every episode, cried at so many moments, laughed at others, saved a playlist of songs featured in the show, use some of their "theories" in real life, have arguments about the finale, wrote papers on it for a comm class, have a favorite season, episode, and monologue. I'm overly obsessed with it and as I wrote those things I see that it may be a problem but it's fine, I'm good.

Anyways, I was watching the ninth season and there's this episode where Ted makes a list of things he wants to do one last time before he leaves New York. I started crying because it reminded me so much of what I wanted to do with my last month of college.

• Make sure I go to Big Biscuit one last time
• Hike to Little Falls one last time
• Do an all-nighter for a major Comm paper with friends one last time
• Go to Java Station one last time
• Have a heart to heart on the swing by the falls one last time
• Star gaze at Broken Bridges one last time.  
• Jump in the pond when it's too cold one last time

And there are so many other things that I want to do with this last month, so many things that I need to do. 

But they are things that I don't want to do for the last time. I don't want to say goodbye to these types of moments.

Lily is often the voice of reason for Ted in the show and gives him all these lectures about what he needs to do, including this one:

"You wrote down all these things to say goodbye to. But so many of them are good things. Why not just say goodbye to the bad things? Say goodbye to all the times you felt lost. To all the times that was a no instead of a yes. To all the scrapes and bruises. To all the heartache. Say goodbye to everything you really want to do for the last time. But don't go have one last scotch with Barney... Have the first scotch, toasting Barney's new life. Because that's a good thing, and the good things will always be here waiting for you."

College has been amazing, but there are so many things that couldn't have been further from amazing. The moments where I had to remind myself to breathe to just survive. The moments when I thought I was going to lose my friends. The moments when I was hurt because of  the selfishness of others. The moments when I felt like I wasn't good enough. The moments when I couldn't bring myself to do the quality work I knew I was capable of. The moments when I isolated myself.  The moments when I felt like I failed the ones I love because of my poor decisions. These are the types of things that I want to happen for the last time, even though realistically I know it won't be. 

This next stage of life is something that I should be looking forward to with anticipation, despite how much I hate the idea of uncertainty. This is a time that is also full of hellos. So many things will be changing. But the good things? The friendships with mutual investment?  The growth that came from all the bad moments? The laughs and memories that have happened in Toccoa? These are all good things. This life that I have built is a good life. The people that I have chosen to build this life with are good people. Maybe the types of moments that I will have will change but the things that really matter are the things that will be waiting for me. The people that love me will be with me, even when separated by distance. Growth will always happen, but only if I let it. 

I'm going to have a lot of "one last time" moments over the next month. I look forward to treasuring them for what they are but I look forward to only saying goodbye to the moments that deserve to be had for the last time. I'm excited to say that some things will happen one last time. I'm also excited for the "first times" that are going to be coming. 

One month, make it count. 

I am Not Good Enough

I think I promised myself that I would never write about my insecurities on here.

But I'm starting to believe that it's important to write about everything.

So here it is...

"I am not good enough."

It's that nagging voice in the back of your mind that reminds you of all the things you aren't good at and won't ever be. It's that weight in the pit of your stomach when you feel inadequate. 

And those nagging voices and heavy weights come a lot more often than we would like to admit. So we wallow in them, sometimes with screams and hot tears streaming down our face, sometimes with silence, sometimes with angry criticism of others... But none of it helps our crippling feelings of not being good enough. 

So then we fight back those feelings with words like "I am good enough. I am smart enough. I am pretty enough. I am spiritual enough." And on and on it goes... The never ending battle of us trying to convince ourselves that someone will love us if we are just enough of something or other. If we are just good enough. 

But you know what?

Screw the idea of good enough. 

You know what's good enough?

A  paper that you stayed up all night to finish because it's already late and it barely makes sense but it gets at least a C. 

An assignment you finished last minute but you have only 5 minutes left before class for you to print it and run to class so you can't make it any better. 

An outfit that looks okay but doesn't make you feel like a rockstar.

Eight hours worth of sleep that doesn't quite give you the rest you need. 

A joke you find hilarious but when you tell a friend, they only give a half-hearted laugh.

Accepting 2nd place because you couldn't get yourself to work harder to get 1st. 

That is good enough.

I am not good enough. 

I am good. I strive to be better but I am good. 

Good enough is what you settle for. 

I am not good enough. I am not something that you settle for. I am not just mediocre.

I have symphonies in my lungs.

Novels in my fingertips.

Adventures in my feet.

Encyclopedias in my mind.

I have lived a life that no one else has lived, that no one else can live. 

I am good. I am great.

This idea that we use the very same words to try to encourage ourselves and to accept something that is less than what we find desirable is absurd to me.

Why do we accept good enough as an idea of comfort?

It's not comforting to think that I am of the same caliber as a crappy paper or an ok outfit.

But I guess that's good...because I'm not of the same caliber, not even close.

We have to stop believing that we are just good enough.
We have to stop saying "I'm good enough" as something to comfort ourselves.

Because all at once we are utterly worse than we can ever think we are and greater than we give ourselves credit for. 

We have to stop believing that our attempts at good enough will make us lovable.

Because all at once we are not worthy of an ounce of love but yet have the 

the opportunity to receive the greatest love that anyone could ever know. 

I am not good enough but I'm starting to see that as a good thing.

I am good. I am great. I am more than enough. I am known. I am loved.

At the end of the day, if I am secure in the knowledge that I am loved, then I can be who I am intended to be, it doesn't matter who thinks I am not good enough... even if that person is me.