Archives

I’m a Taurus. – JoJo
I’m a Scorpio – Me
I’m a buffalo! – Sloppy Joan
What?! – JoJo
I mean a Hufflepuff – Sloppy Joan

My favorite is Joe Biden. Well … Biden or God, because he made us. And cars. – Sloppy Joan

I love Mrs. Abbs. And when she was little, her name was Julie. – Sloppy Joan

Stop! You’re hurting my penis! – Sloppy Joan

Can you look at my pooples? – Spike
Um … – Me
Is it pupils? Why are you looking at me like that? – Spike

How am I supposed to ride in this? There are like 50mph gushes! – JoJo

Your poop smells like chips and dip. – Sloppy Joan

Are you speaking whale? – Me to Sloppy Joan
No, silly. I only know fish. – Sloppy Joan

We’re a knockoff version of apes. – JoJo

If you had mastitis in 2020 it would be called maskitis. – Spike

Have you ever thought about how your upper body is always just along for the ride? – Spike

When were you diagnosed with pregnancy? – JoJo

Dad, just vote for the sweatiest team. You know they’re going to win. – Sloppy Joan

Give me that construction site paper. – Sloppy Joan

It’s what’s on the inside that counts.– Me
Like the bones and squishy stuff? – Sloppy Joan

I just wait till everyone’s asleep and then I take a piece of mama’s water cup. – Sloppy Joan

I kissed him five times. But the one at school was an accident. – Sloppy Joan
Really, because it kind of sounds like you’re lying. – Hank
I know. – Sloppy Joan

Let’s stop talking about how I pooped in the water. It’s stressing me out. – Sloppy Joan

In heaven I bet they don’t have vegetables, just candy. And when you fart I bet you can see it. – Sloppy Joan

Listen with your ear balls! – Spike

I scraped it, and it stinged like the h word. I can’t even like … It stinged like the h word. That’s the only way I can say it, mom. – Sloppy Joan

I just thought you kissed and passed the pregnancy germs to each other. – Spike

His parents look like the type who like to really party at the fall festival. – Sloppy Joan

I would go to the highest scrape tower … I mean cape scraper. And hide. – Sloppy Joan
Skyscraper, babe. – Me
That’s where you’re going? – Sloppy Joan

I’m an octopus and these are my testicles. – Sloppy Joan

You know what I really like? I like that this conversation is all about me. – Sloppy Joan

I think this is illegal. – Sloppy Joan, removing her shirt for an ultrasound.

They’re going to let you do a makeup class since you were sick. – Me
Do I get to pick the colors? – Sloppy Joan
What colors? – Me
Of the makeup. – Sloppy Joan

I couldn’t help it! Those farts were ready to be born! – Spike

What’s the windshield going to be at 11, mom? They only let us go out for recess if the windshield is like 10 below or something. – Sloppy Joan

Just after Hank and I got married, we did what a lot of newlyweds do. We flirted with parenthood by adding a fur baby to our lives. Hank picked her out from a shelter in the small country town where he worked at the time. They were calling her Aerial, but we decided to go with Mya, after Riviera Mya, where we’d taken our honeymoon.

I remember him walking in with this little tan puppy. She had a dark face, but was mostly ears. She was a mutt, through and through. Some boxer, German shepherd, maybe some lab. Who the hell knows? She wasn’t what I’d expected and everything I’d dreamed of. I adored her instantly.

The thing about dogs before you have children is that your capacity to care for them seems so vast. In those early days, just the three of us, she took up so much space and energy. We bought her Christmas gifts and took her everywhere. I put her in a sweater and boots in the winter to protect her paws.

She introduced us to the shame and embarrassment that comes with unpredictable little ones. We’d scurry about picking up her rogue poo, explaining it away, “She’s been so good lately. I don’t know why she shit on your new carpet.”

One time, when Hank and I had just moved back from Indianapolis and were living with my parents while we looked for our own place, Mya ate an entire brisket off the counter on New Year’s day. Out of fear my father would kill her, my mom told him she’d made up a bunch of sandwiches for Hank to take hunting. My dad shrugged, left the room and Mya was spared from his meat-motivated wrath. We didn’t tell him the truth until years later.

But while she was no canine saint, Mya did the job that all fur babies do. She taught us that we could keep another being alive. We could parent. We could love beyond the inconveniences. The messes. So, we welcomed a daughter. And then another daughter. And another. Each time, Mya put her nose to the car seat and inspected the pink skin of another human in her home. Always gentle, always curious.

Eventually, Mya became a brown blur in the background of our photos. An unbiased witness to our lives.

To me and Hank, she was now another set of tasks. During the phase of life when the pages of your planner are crammed with orthodontist appointments and well child exams and parent-teacher conferences, Mya had become, to us, something else to manage. Had she been let out? Fed? Given her meds? Check. Check. Check. Moving on to the next thing on the list.

But to our girls, particularly Spike, she was a constant companion. She was as patient and safe as any parent could ever wish for their family pet to be.

One night the girls decided to have a fashion show. They made custom clothes out of tissue paper and posed on the fireplace. Mya got a cape and matching hat. Some time later in the evening, we let her out to go potty, and the gate must have been open because Hank came home to our old mutt strutting down the sidewalk in nothing but a cape.

After leisurely weekend breakfasts, I always toss out any extra pancakes for the birds. Mya would cry at the door as soon as she saw them flying through the sky. We’d let her out and she’d immediately collect the carb rounds and bury them in the flower bed. We’d all forget and then days later I’d look out of the kitchen window and see her digging one up to eat it. She’d look up at me, dirt on her nose, and I’d laugh.

Too early for it to be fair, Mya’s hips started going.

“It’s time to start thinking about …” Hank would say. “Not yet,” I’d dismiss him. A few months would pass and she’d have an accident in the house. “Courtney …” he’d urge. “Not yet,” I’d say, pushing him off.

My admiration for our fur baby had been rekindled since I started working from home. She was always at my feet. Behind my desk chair. On the basement floor while I worked out. To be honest, it felt like taking in a confused elderly woman. I’d apologize for her snoring and loud farts on Zoom calls. She’d go into a room, seem to forget what she was after, and come back to me. We started finding little piddles here and there.

Then, a few weeks ago, she started having accidents in the house. Horrible accidents. She seemed weak and started falling down the stairs. I could hear my mom’s voice in my head: “She’ll let you know when it’s her time.”

I knew she was telling me it was OK to let her go. I sat down on the cold tile floor with her and cradled her grayed face in my hands. The chicks were at the table eating lunch. “Guys,” I choked out. “I think we need to talk about our girl.”

The thing about dogs is, they tell you a lot about people. In Mya’s case, my people. In our pet’s final days, my three girls were so incredibly strong.

We made the decision to set Mya free from her body together, as a family. On our last day with her in our home, JoJo made her a pancake and smeared it with peanut butter. For lunch, she made tacos so Sloppy Joan could drop cheese on the floor for her to lick up one last time. The girls and I took her for a walk around the back path with no leash. She was galloping, until her body caught up with her and she limped to the doorstep. Then we just sat and loved on her for two full hours, a tornado of love and her shedding hair and tears.

Hank came home around 3:30 to take her. Spike and JoJo decided to go with him. Sloppy Joan and I met them at my parent’s farm, where the girls had picked a perfect spot for our fur baby to rest by the pond. We stood over the loose dirt, a stone to forever mark our dog’s final resting place. We all cried and thanked her, the dry grass and bugs unwanted guests tickling our feet.

No one wanted to go home. That made it real. She wouldn’t be there, waiting for us.

“I can’t believe we really did that to her,” JoJo cried.

“She’s been here for my whole life,” Spike sobbed. “She was my favorite dog and I loved her so much. I just can’t process that she won’t be there.”

All Mya ever wanted was our love. If we were happy, she was happy. If we gave her attention, she was over the moon. She asked for so little and gave so much. We couldn’t have asked for a better dog for our family.

The moment you decide to let someone into your heart, you take a ticket for pain. You know full well that the day will come when a power much greater than yourself comes by to punch that ticket and break your heart open into a thousand pieces. But that doesn’t stop us from loving. From taking tickets.

The thing about dogs is, they come with tickets, too.

The thing about dogs is, you know when you get one that they are only yours for a short time. That they can’t be yours forever.

Mya took up space – sometimes a lot and sometimes a little – in our home for 14 years. I still look out the kitchen window to see if she’s digging up pancakes. Sometimes I think I hear her nails on the wood floor when I’m upstairs. I’ll feel like I’m forgetting something, and then realize it’s the old rituals I had in place to care for her.

I miss her.

I tell the girls that our hearts will heal, and the day will come when we can welcome another dog into our home. And I know that’s true. We’ll take another ticket. We’ll love an animal again the way we loved our Mya. The thing about dogs is, there’s always one in need of a family.

Rest easy, sweet Mya Moo.

When I was in elementary school, I had two best friends. When things were good, it was a harmonious triangle filled with laughter and pegged jeans and singing our little hearts out to New Kids on the Block. And it was perfect, because I loved Joey, my other friend was obsessed with Jordan, and the other was feelin’ the bad boy streak in Donnie. It couldn’t have been better. Except for the times when three became a crowd, which it inevitably always did. Then it turned into having one girl over and leaving the other out, a BFF necklace with only two pieces, etc. so on, you get the drift.

At that age, sleepovers were always like running the gauntlet. At one particularly challenging slumber party, a group of us decided to put a friend’s hand in warm water after she fell asleep first. Classic shenanigans. But when she woke up, sopping wet and completely pissed off, every finger in the room pointed right at the “90210” across my flat chest. They threw me under the bus, and there is no bus heavier than one carrying a gaggle of young girls on a mission to cast someone out. I sobbed to my friend’s mom and begged her to call my parents to come get me, which she did not. Instead, she let me sit in her study with her while she watched Cheers and eventually sent me back out to my sleeping bag and the wolves surrounding it.

This was just one of a thousand examples, blurred by years of growing and giving less and less of a shit about old wounds. It becomes harder to recall the specifics of passed notes, intentional skipped invitations, rumors, sticks, stones, all the typical weapons in the adolescent female arsenal, after you’ve healed and found suitable adult humans to spend your time with.

Until it comes back around.

These days, the shots aren’t being fired at me. They’re being fired at my girls. My daughters. And the burn is so much worse when I see it hit their skin.

I talk to my friends and their daughters are having similar struggles. “She’s just going through a tough time right now,” they say. “You know how girls can be,” they say. And I agree, because I do. We all do.

Decades have come and gone since the last time I cried over a strategic assault against me. An intentional gesture aimed at dimming my light or alienating me from a larger group. But the tactics, the bullets being fired, are frighteningly similar. The goal remains to make the target feel embarrassed, alone, stupid, different, disposable.

My question is this … Who is training the troops?

Where is the next generation getting the playbook for girl-on-girl abuse? Certainly children pick up on patterns and that perpetuates behaviors. When I do “x” I get this type of attention. When I do “y” I feel good/bad. When I do “z” the consequence is … Are we simply not evolving past the instant gratification of lighting others on fire so that we can feel warmer? Is the shine of compassion not as bright and enticing?

On every playground and in every hallway of every school, guaranteed, there are groups of girls assuming roles as old as time:

• Tina is unapologetic and confident. She is the ring leader. When Tina says someone is out, they are out, and you better fall in line. Never question Tina’s actions (or her parents’).

• Sara is obsessed with Tina. Sara rarely experiences turbulence in the group.

• Tammy has a good heart and often questions the things Tina tells her to do, but ultimately does them anyway. This puts Tammy on the bubble when it comes time for Tina to pick a target. Tina’s parents are concerned.

• Sandy has a strong moral compass and often feels conflicted about being included while also being kind to others. Sandy tends to be silly and loud and is a bit of a free spirit. This makes Sandy the most popular target.

Does any of this sound familiar? Personally, I will admit to being a Tina, a Sara, a Tammy and a Sandy at different times in my life, but mostly, as a young girl, a Sandy. My saving grace was my humor, which often helped me diffuse impending attacks, and my mother, who coached me across the battlefield and served as my personal Clara Barton. She would tend to the mental health wounds, gaping and uncontrollably bleeding from a malicious accusation or horrific handwritten note, anonymously slipped into my book bag between classes.   

And now my own daughters are dancing about these disappointing roles and I’m the one with the bandages. And, I have to tell you, it is so frustrating. I am so tired, for them.

The deliverables are different, sure. Now we have online meetups and text messages to sling arrows, but the objectives are largely identical. When girls feel insecure or threatened or uncertain or, I don’t know, bored, they seek out the weakest link or the most vulnerable soul, and they dig in. Different is bad. Individuality is bad. Another’s success is bad.

As a mother, while I make no claims of being perfect, my messages are simple and, hopefully, very clear:

We NEVER make someone else feel bad because we’re feeling bad.

We NEVER make someone else feel bad because they are different.

We NEVER respond to hate with more hate.

We NEVER put our hands on someone out of anger.

We NEVER assume we know what’s going on with someone at home.

We NEVER do something mean just because others are doing it.

We ALWAYS come from a place of kindness and seek to understand.

I wish for my kids to be successful in their lives. I wish for them to find their soul mates and have babies and settle into all the joy. But the absolute most important thing to me and their father is that our girls are good people. The people who stand up and change the narrative. The girls who will become women who turn around, extend a hand and pull the next woman up. While I think academics and athletics and all of the achievements we push our children toward are tremendous, I think we have to coach and celebrate their character above all else.

Are my girls perfect? Nooooooo! [She says laughing hysterically.] They are insensitive and judgmental and petty and manipulative. And those all came up before 8 a.m. today. They always complain about what I make for dinner, so clearly they are ungrateful and have zero taste. But we are having tough conversations and trying to break some cycles. What will come of it? The verdict’s still out. But it’s the hill I’m willing to die on.

I can tell within 30 seconds of my chicks walking through the door what kind of day they had. That rehashing and unpacking that happens in those minutes that follow them getting off the bus are critical. I never assume that their version is the absolute truth, but I try to give them the benefit of the doubt that it is, in fact their true perception. I ask questions to help them see all of the other perspectives at play. To see where they could have done things differently. To explore other ways to handle conflict.

Imagine if we all invested just a little bit of time every day to help foster new definitions of the roles our young girls should assume; the peacemaker, the adventurer, the inventor, the connector, the investigator. It’s so much better than just the bully and the bullied. It’s not that our daughters will never or should never disagree. It’s how they handle themselves when someone sees things a different way, or acts a different way, or looks different or sounds different. The first instinct shouldn’t be to attack or alienate. We have to give our girls different tools, instead of weapons. We have to start modeling grace.

I’m sure every woman has a scar from a time when they were young – or maybe even an adult – when a fellow girl hurt her, in that way that only girls know how to hurt other girls. Engaging in that psychological, social, emotional warfare that men and boys will never quite master. Let those scars be a reminder and a motivating factor in your approach with your girls, so that they might have fewer marks to show their children.

When someone sends an arrow flying toward one of my daughters, I no longer offer them advice for how to retaliate or respond. I simply share with them that I, too, have been there. I tell them how it made me feel and ask them how they feel. I try to sit in their pain with them, rather than dismiss or fix it. I ask them to remember how much it stings when someone treats them that way. I set the expectation that the malicious behavior stops there so that no one else has to feel the way that I felt when I was a little girl, or they feel now as little girls.  

Let’s create new roles.

Let’s arm the troops with compassion, rather than cattiness.

Let’s raise kind girls.

At any given moment, in any given household, somewhere near the intersection of sheer audacity and complete ignorance, a tiny human is tucking something sticky into a small space where it will take months to find. 

The clutter and crud of having children doesn’t infiltrate all at once. It trickles in, one Lego and one mysterious stain at a time. Toddlers kindly usher you into the utter environmental chaos that is parenting by gifting you with globs of mashed food paste and snot smears. Eventually, they venture over to the Tupperware drawer and at some point, after the 50,000^th time you restack the containers, you realize (and reluctantly accept) that your home is never going to be the same. At least for the next 18 years, give or take.

Our chicks have an innate ability to destroy a small space with very minimal effort. On a typical school day, they walk through the door at 2:40 p.m. Without fail, by 2:45 I am trudging through a trash heap of book bags, folders, socks, shoes, snack wrappers, water bottles, masks and coats, stepping into some tall combat boots and assuming my role as Sergeant O’ Slop. 

“Whose papers are these?”

“Why is your chromebook in the bathroom?”

“Did somebody step in something?”

“Pick up that underwear, please.”

“Why are your socks wet?”

“How was I supposed to know it needed signed?”

“I don’t care if the dog wants to eat it.”

A few years back – and a good nine years into our life in the landfill – Hank coined a term for this blatant behavior. He calls it “F yo house!”

Since it’s generally frowned upon to completely lose your ever-lovin’ mind over every single mess your precious children leave in their wake, looking at your spouse and being able to sigh and pseudo-swear is a great way to let some pressure out of the cooker. Because let’s be honest, there are times when, in the face of a cushion fort left up five requests to remove too long, or a countertop smeared in Nutella artwork, or a shower curtain left outside the tub yet again, the mind boggles as to how three little humans could be so gosh dang dirty. So deliberate in their disorder. With absolutely zero regard for the tidal wave of bewilderment and turmoil it triggers in the caretakers with whom they coexist and rely on for food and shelter.

You have to find ways to laugh or you’ll cry. Or scream. Or get in your car and drive to the nearest ice cream shop and lose your mind over three scoops of Mint Chocolate Chip. Not that I’ve ever made any concrete plans.

True story, I try to give the girls responsibility and instill a decent work ethic. I put their clean laundry on their beds and tell them to put away everything they can reach and I’ll do the rest. (It’s tough for Sloppy Joan to hit the higher rack in her closet.) I had mentioned to Hank how impressed I was with our littlest chick’s willingness to abide by this simple request, when her sisters often resisted.

One day, while in her room, I saw a sleeve sticking out from under her new big girl bed. I got down on my hands and knees and pulled. And then pulled another sleeve. Then a leg. Then a jacket. I pulled and I pulled and I pulled. This kid had stashed probably three months’ worth of clean clothes under her bed. All the while basking in my praise for a job well done. F yo house!

Karma is real and it has a fantastic sense of humor. I can remember my mom stacking our miscellaneous mess on the steps when I was a little. Surely we couldn’t walk by these items without carrying them up to our rooms. But we did. We skipped a step and went on our merry ways, like the wicked turds we were. Time and time again. Now I’m the one strategically positioning purses and chapter books and pillows shaped like various pets on my stairs. And I’m the one flabbergasted at their determination to dodge the inventory. F yo house!

I don’t think my kids are bad kids. I don’t think I was a bad kid. I think that all children live in a fairy land in which a magical vacuum comes on at night and sucks up all of the toys and trash and discarded clothing, revealing a clean slate in the morning light. But then you grow up and have kids of your own and realize that we are the vacuums. We are the trash collectors, scum scrubbers and shoe finders. And it’s a really crappy part of the job.

When my brother was in elementary school, my mom got so fed up with his messy room, she opened a window, gathered up everything from his floor and threw it out onto the front lawn. For years when they would recount the story, I couldn’t understand how she thought that was a good idea. I mean, it didn’t even really bother him. But now I can totally see it. Raptured by F-yo-house rage, the poor woman was possessed by a power much greater than her patience. She cannot be held accountable for the acts she carried out amid the blinding fury of a mother saddled with her offspring’s indefensible debris. I see you now. And I stand with you.

It’s a burn we all feel every time we uncover a new act of bold, unthinkable negligence.

Every time you move a couch and find a treasure chest of moldy snacks and the match to the sock you just gave up on and threw away last weekend. F yo house!

Every empty applesauce pouch under the coffee table. F yo house!

Every streak of crusty, dried toothpaste that’s been squeezed and spat along the rim and counter of the bathroom sink. F yo house!

Every abandoned scooter, box of chalk, bubble blower, bucket and helmet in the front yard. F yo house!

The discovery of a Gatorade bottle stuck in the backseat cup holder from last summer’s soccer practice. F yo house!

The wet towels on the floor.

The crushed goldfish, every freaking where.

The tissues that miss the trash.

The unraveled toilet paper.

The smears, smudges and full-on handprints on the walls.

The cups with one swig left.

The broken crayons and dried out markers.

Stickers on car windows.

Unfolded blankets.

Opened nail polish.

Hidden remotes.

The lights, oh the lights, always left on when they leave for school.

F. YO. HOUSE.

Hey, that’s just kids, right? If they came out perfect, there’d be nothing left for us to do. God makes ‘em cute so we don’t get rid of them. I’ll miss this someday. All the things. I know, I know.

But so help me, it feels good to commiserate every once in a while. As Hank likes to say, we just aren’t in the stage of life when we can “have nice things.” And certainly the day will come when we have nice things and would trade them for just one more year with our little chicks. It’s probably best to just admire how green the grass is in my own yard for now. Even with all the toys and shit in it.

At my first writing job out of college, I was gifted the opportunity to work under an extraordinarily talented and motivational editor. She was a tremendous teacher, but it was her weekend warrior lifestyle that cast a deep spell on me. She was a marathoner, ultra-marathoner and all around badass lady. I was in my early 20s, she was in her early 30s, and I was entranced by her athleticism and breezy, carpe diem demeanor.

At the time, I was a young professional still teetering on the brink of campus life and struggling to abandon bad habits, but I desperately wanted to be a runner. My editor would sit in her office and talk to me for 30 minutes about the best shorts to get, what to look for in footgear and breathing techniques. I would get so enthralled with my sensationalized, hypothetical running self after those talks, I would almost go for an actual run when I got home.

Eventually, I took the plunge. Kind of. I signed up for the Indy half marathon. Per my typical MO, I talked my roommate into signing up as well. If my memory serves – and forgive me, it’s been more than a decade – I believe we did a handful of training run/walks along the canal downtown leading up to the event. But the sobering truth was that my editor couldn’t run the race for me. And, as luck would have it, one of my best friends ended up holding her bachelorette party that day and, as a member of the bridal party, I just couldn’t miss the festivities. I never ran the Indy mini. I’m happy to report that my roommate did, though. I’m still so proud of that cookie … who turned out to be so, so tough.

A few years later, I signed up for another half marathon, but just a few weeks into the training, I found out I was pregnant with my first little chick and dropped down to the 4-mile route. But I have no regrets. I ended up walking with my parents when Mom was in the midst of her cancer treatments. She wore a tank top that said, “Fuck cancer” and everyone cheered as we passed. That was the walk I was meant to take that day.

And yet, it haunted me. Two attempts. Two zeroes on the scoreboard.

Then I went on a real hot streak. The following year, I committed to walking a local half marathon. I recruited my sister-in-law and when the big day rolled around, we covered the ground and crossed the finish line. I did the same thing the next year with a friend from college. The year after that, I decided I really wanted to run it. Britni, a friend and former coworker, was also in the market for a little challenge. We trained together and knocked it out. Then the following two, I ran the half with Jackie, a friend I’ve had since I was 15. Then we decided to change up the terrain and did a 20-mile trail race together.

The truth is, anyone can finish a race. I know it sounds like crap, but truly, if you want to walk, jog, run or crawl a certain number of miles, you’ll figure it out. It might not be fast or pretty – neither of which are adjectives I’d use to describe any of my races – but you’ll get where you’re going eventually. And really, after first place, all the medals are the same.

I never lost a ton of weight training for races. I didn’t get enviable toned arms or carved calves. But I did gain something so much greater.

Whether I was putting in miles with Britni or Jackie or my sister-in-law or my college friend or my husband, the best part was always the conversation and connection. There’s something sacred about the breathless exchanges that transpire on the trails.

The ritual became cemented in my life a few years ago, when Jackie and I decided to meet as often as we could, whether we were training for a race or not, at a local state park. I think these early runs were among some of my favorites. Jackie is one of my oldest friends, with a soul so sweet and pure you can’t help but cherish her heart and relish her advice. Sometimes we ran 10 miles and sometimes we ran 4. We talked about the trees and our marriages. Our kids and our jobs. Our friendships and plant-based eating. Most weekends we found ourselves at the crossroads of purging and peace. It was better than therapy.

“Want to go to church on Sunday?” she’d text. And I always knew exactly what she meant.

We were worshiping in a sanctuary of trees and on ridges overlooking shimmering lakes. Our prayers were carried from our crowded minds by gentle breezes in the silent moments and our candid words floated from our mouths only to get soaked up by the sun’s forgiving rays. It was a safe space. Sacred.

And then it grew.  

In the last year or so, friends of mine (including Britni) and friends of Jackie’s have found their way into our runs, either by invitation or inquiry. One person showed up one week, and someone different the next. For the most part, everyone who came once, came back again. And now we have this lovely circle of women, all connected through spokes shooting off of two high school friends.

We call ourselves the Gnarly Nubs, because on the trails, just like in life, things pop up and try to take you down. (It’s official now, because we have embroidered headbands.) Our group text thread is a mix of coordinating schedules, injury updates and celebrating small victories. The vocabulary is unique and specialized.

But, you might be saying, I hate running. I have absolutely zero desire to run. Why should I give two flips about your running group? The point is, whether it’s historical fiction novels, knitting, Majong, dissecting the royals (#ImWithMeghan) or bird watching, it’s important to find peers who cheer you on and want to have a shared experience. You need friends, for more reasons than there are words that can be put down and assembled on this page. But more than just that, you need friends who encourage you to keep moving forward.

Sometimes I think people put off joining clubs or groups or gatherings out of a preconceived fear that they won’t measure up. They won’t be accepted. They count themselves out before dealing themselves in. I can tell you that none of us are setting any speed records on those trails. Some weekends, we do more walking and talking than we do jogging. Other days, someone has a great run and finishes 20 minutes ahead. We respect what each gal has in her tank on any given day. But good or bad performance, I don’t think any of us really care about the outcome. We care about the time in the woods, and we always walk out lighter than we went in. it’s not always about being the best, but it’s always about feeling better.

We belong to a sorority of women in a similar stage of life. When we come together, we can talk about our kids, but we see each other as more than just moms. We can talk about our relationships, but we know we’re more than just someone’s wife. We can discuss work without limiting the definition of who we are to just our careers. We can be all of the facets of ourselves without squeezing into stereotypes. We see each other. We hear each other. And we respect each other. I believe that’s a universal need for all women. Not just the ones who like to run on trails.  

When I think back on those conversations in my editor’s office, I can see now that I really enjoyed being in her company and soaking in her energy more than anything else. I loved connecting with her about something other than writing, because I thought she was a cool person. In today’s world of 280-character correspondence and emoji messages so many of us are missing the opportunities to really connect.

I will never be a fast runner, or a thoroughbred as I like to call them. My destiny is to be a trusty quarter horse, slow and steady. Some of my most treasured runs have been at a snail’s pace, where the trail seems to stretch out forever and the conversation is deep and soul-altering. I never mind bringing up the back of the pack because that’s where perseverance likes to play. I’m a better person because of the encouragement I’ve given and received in the final miles, the most painful steps and on the hardest days. And all of that translates, no matter what hobby or pastime you choose as your centerpiece.

My hope is that you find your people. That they bubble up to the surface through an introduction or a rekindled relationship or a random run in. Be on the lookout for the ones who really see you; the ones who align with your vision for your greatest self. And then get them on your schedule on a regular basis. Make them part of your routine, just as you would any other appointment.

Life can be chaotic and heart-breaking. It can leave you threadbare. It’s good to know that at the conclusion of even the toughest weeks, I can take my ass to church and it’ll all be alright. I pray that you, too, find your congregation.   

Last night I had a dream that I was getting liposuction, through the tops of my thighs. Initially, it seemed like I was donating the lard to my sister for some heroic cause. My parents were there and Hank said, “I guess it’s OK, if you’re doing it for the right reasons.” But then I had all of these happy thoughts about my new body. I remember telling myself – in my dream, remember – that I would have to work really hard to keep the fat off. I was awake for the surgery, which took place in the basement of a convention center, but they gave me some sort of twilight drug so I was drooling down my face and smiling like a moron. The surgeon looked like my high school English teacher. Then it got super weird. He stuck the giant sucker straw up my leg but then got distracted by a group of hooligans standing at a closed down concessions stand and they started fighting. He called for help and Hank, the security guard from The Office, showed up and then I don’t remember anything else.

Diet culture is so pervasive, so unrelenting that it’s literally haunting me in my dreams.

I can’t think of a week and, to be honest likely a day, that’s passed by without me having some sort of exchange with someone about a diet plan or their weight or my weight. Paleo and Whole30 and bloating and intermittent fasting and collagen and carbs and ketones and macros and micros and gluten and gloten. OK, the last one’s made up. And I’m not saying I’m an innocent bystander. No victims here. I’m 100% an active participant in these chats, often initiating the conversation. Because I, like so many of you, am just sweatin’ my ass off on the road to perfection that, turns out, is actually a treadmill. It’s not a true destination. That’s how they getcha.

The “ideal body” for women has been etched out and shoved down our throats by the figures we see on television, in magazines, on Instagram or YouTube. Everywhere you look there’s some chick with a killer body and a strong brand. It’s no wonder that’s the north star we’re all stacking up ladders to catch in our nets. Why wouldn’t we want a sliver of that unattainable pie?

I love admiring a woman’s physique, arms in particular, and then trying to crack the code on how she achieved her enviable shape. “You have yoga arms. You do yoga, don’t you?” I’ll accuse, I mean ask. Or, “You have to be a runner with those legs.” It’s a question deluding a compliment masking an inquiry feeding jealousy watering insecurity. Without taking into account any other factors of consequence, like say … genetics, I assume that if they run, and I run, I might have those legs, too. Which is, let’s be honest, asinine.

But this post isn’t another post about striving to achieve the ideal body and the changes I’m willing to make to get there, or me lamenting over another failed attempt to be better. It’s not about elimination diets. It’s not even about goals, which I admittedly adore. It’s about calling out how exhausting it all is. Guys, mama’s tired.

I am 1 trillion percent in support of living a healthy life. We all want to take as many trips around the sun as we can, right? But, when it comes to our obsession with going down a size or hitting a number we haven’t seen since before having children, myself being one of the biggest offenders, it’s just starting to feel a little irrelevant and sad. Particularly given the events of the past year. We give so much of our precious, beautiful energy to the pursuit of this illusion of perfection. This manufactured prototype of an ideal that most of us will never achieve because let’s face it, we weren’t put together that way. And we like ice cream and wine.  

Is our weight really the most interesting thing about any of us? Do people treat us differently if we’re up a few pounds, or 15? No. At least not the good people. I am friends with ladies who teach, serve, create, heal, persevere, inspire and entertain. Not once have I ever pulled out a score card and graded these incredible humans on their appearance or, specifically three insignificant numbers on a scale. Their worth is a million tiny little attributes I adore. They stay up with a sick kid all night and go into work the next day. They carve out time for themselves to train for marathons and redefine women’s “roles” and piss all over boundaries. They make me laugh. They make me want to be better. And it has nothing to do with the size of their boss lady pants.

So why do I think people care so much about my weight, if I care nothing of theirs?  

Over the summer, I listened to a podcast with Rob Lowe. He mentioned that he does a 24-hour fast every-other day. I was about halfway into completing the COVID 15 and mildly depressed, and I thought, why not? How hard can it be? So, for just under two months, I alternated regular meals and just one meal, every other day. On the days I restricted, I had incredible headaches and thought of nothing other than what I was going to eat, when I could eat. I had to explain to the girls why I wasn’t eating anything at dinner. Then about five weeks in, I started to notice pain along my side and in my lower back. When it persisted, I finally decided that Rob’s approach was not the best fit for me. In total, I’d lost five pounds.

Then, around the holidays, I packed on my usual “jolly dozen.” Sugar is my mistress and I really let myself love on her between Thanksgiving and New Year’s day. So, here I am, still about 10 pounds up from where I was heading into Turkey Day.

And the funny thing is, whether I’m soft or a little less so, I’m realizing that I am consistently the same person. My thoughts are the same. My heart is the same. When I’m up 15, I love my husband and kids. Same as I do when I’m down five. Regardless of what the scale says, I am a writer, a daughter, a sister, a mother, a wife, a friend, a nature lover, a sugar seeker, an anxiety-ridden nightmare, an optimist, a worrier. The inner workings of my spirit don’t get rewired based on what I’m bringing on the outside.

Let’s say hypothetically, I was able to stick to the 24-hour fasting and I’d hit the weight I was the day I married by best friend. Would that suddenly be the most interesting thing about me? Would I get promoted, praised, a few things taken off my plate? Or would I just be a hungrier, grumpier, smaller version of the exact same human, albeit a little less enjoyable to be around in pants without elastic around the waist. Is that worth it? Worth starving myself?

“No one is coming to save you. This life is 100% your responsibility.”

I don’t like carrying extra weight. No one does. I’m not saying let’s all let ourselves go and start toasting the good life with 2 liters of Mountain Dew. But let’s not make ourselves so uncomfortable and miserable that we aren’t enjoying the ride. In the past, I’ve let something as capricious as my BMI completely consume me. It’s important, sure, but it isn’t everything. It’s one thing. These days I’m focused on just making the best choice in each scenario. Moving. Getting those good plants in the pot. Forgiving myself. Having the birthday cake.

But also, I want to talk about other things. A lot of us are trying to slay the same dragon, so it’s going to come up and that’s cool. I just want to hear about your wins, too. First and foremost, I want to celebrate rather than criticize. It starts with the woman in the mirror, too, believe me.

There’s a happy medium somewhere between having ice cream cake for breakfast and getting the fat sucked out of your legs by a disengaged high school English teacher, and that’s where I’m heading. It’s my Demi Lovato moment. Get into it.  

“It’s gotta be COVID.”

“I don’t know.”

“I just don’t understand why …”

“I know, I don’t know.”

On the first Monday of the New Year – the day revered by resolution setters everywhere as the marker for the ultimate fresh start – Hank and I spooned in the aggressive light of my Versa watch face. I put my arm down and the room transformed back into a bear cave. My lungs awkwardly fought to sync our mismatched breaths for a minute. His slow. Mine hurried. This was supposed to be calming, comforting. I flipped my wrist and, at his urging, offered an update. “Now it’s 55 … 68 … 99 … 110 …”

My heart rate, sporadic and screaming, had jolted me awake at 4 a.m. I’d tried all my usual tricks to get back to sleep. I’d counted my inhales, breath holds and exhales. I’d done a head-to-toe body scan and release. Something wasn’t right. I grabbed my watch off the nightstand. After 30 minutes of anxiously seeing the numbers climb, then subside then jump again, I jostled Hank so he could join my panic. (I find breakdowns are always best experienced as a couple, don’t you?)

Prior to this predawn perplexity, I had not been feeling great. Some extended family members had come down with COVID just after Christmas, and we were wrapping up a 10-day quarantine out of caution and consideration for others. For about three days Hank and I had both been feeling pretty blah. As a bonus to the blah, I was also experiencing headaches, fire-hot heartburn, shortness of breath and chest pain. Relentless chest pain. On Saturday, convinced I had the wretched rona, I went for a drive-thru test.

But here, in the technology glow cast by a woman frantically searching for data to pair with her frenzied pulse, alas the news came through via text that it was not, in fact, the virus. Hank couldn’t believe it.

“I think it’s a good idea for you to go in, right at 8 when the walk-in clinic opens,” he said, and I agreed.

I climbed out of his arms, out of our bed and closed the door to our bathroom. I wanted him to fall back asleep. I filled the tub with the hottest water the tank would entertain. I climbed in and stared at the tile on the wall. Cracks. Chips. Imperfections. When I couldn’t take the sweat on my face any longer, I ran my hot palms down my cheeks and climbed out.

The clinic was far less of a zoo than I’d anticipated. I was called back within minutes and found myself in a familiar seat, rattling off a list of symptoms that felt disjointed and unlikely for a woman my age, yet there I was.

“I don’t know how to explain it … like pain but also pressure … fairly constant, yeah … fatigue, like I can’t get off the couch … some back pain, not terrible … can’t get a good breath … headaches pretty often … sometimes exercise helps … yes, I have battled anxiety before … yes, my father. He had two heart attacks in his 30s …”

Sometimes, when I’m in a doctor’s office, I imagine what’s really going through the provider’s mind. I believe they’re annoyed that I’m taking up time better spent suturing a wound or extracting a worrisome growth and zipping it off to pathology. Today could be the day they save a life. But instead, they’re stuck listening to another 30-something working mother with an exhaustive list of nondescript complaints. Of course, they never say anything to confirm my suspicions. They’re always kind, attentive, frantically typing and nodding in tandem.

This particular nurse practitioner was very thorough and extremely warm. When I showed her the data in my phone from the morning, she felt that, given my family’s health history, it was best that I go to the ER for an EKG and chest X-ray. “It very well could be anxiety,” she offered, “but I’d feel better if we had some additional tests. You absolutely did the right thing coming in.”

I thanked her, like an adult. I walked out of the building, like an adult. I climbed into my car, called Hank and sobbed like a six-year-old waiting for a flu shot.

I cried because I didn’t want to go to the hospital alone. I didn’t want an IV in my arm, or to change into a gown (what underwear did I even have on?) or to watch terrible daytime television when there was so much else to be done. I didn’t want to be that girl who drained valuable resources in the midst of a pandemic, in the trenches where true tragedy is taking more lives than any of us can stomach. I didn’t want to hear them tell me it was just anxiety. Again.

But I went to the hospital alone. I changed into the gown and they put the IV in my arm. The room was filled with caregivers, hooking up the EKG, lingering in the doorway, all waiting to see if they needed to call in the cardiology team. As soon as the numbers populated on the screen, the room cleared to two, my nurse (a kind man about my age) and the NP, who assured me it did not appear I would be dying today.

I waited while the saline ran through me. While the results of my bloodwork and chest X-ray all came back and slowly confirmed what I knew deep down from that first familiar ache I’d felt six hours before. There was nothing medically wrong with me. I just wanted to get out of there.

I sat in my car in the parking lot and ugly cried from embarrassment and wasted money and resources. I couldn’t believe I was here again. I thought I understood the cues. The signals. I had an understanding with my mind and my responses. But this one really fooled me. Again.

When I got home, even Hank was baffled. He’d witnessed my body’s very physical retaliation to something. To some masked threat that we were both sure, this time, would be revealed as something more than stress surfacing as severe discomfort. This is the part that’s so hard to explain to anyone who hasn’t experienced it. Anxiety feels like drowning. It feels like a heart attack. It feels like a medical crisis. The pain is so, so real. And so scary.

A friend of mine who also experiences anxiety said, “You know, we’re both intelligent, level-headed women, and yet …” And yet. It’s so true. You feel crazy for feeling so threatened in your own body only to discover you were safe the entire time. Everything you’ve been taught, everything in your mind urges you to seek help. But in the end, no one can really help you. It just has to pass. Like a violent, ship-tossing storm.

The other common misconception is that anxiety is a smoke signal. But I assure you I’m not on fire. My marriage is great. My kids drive me crazy the average, acceptable amount. I have tremendous friends and family all around me. My anxiety is not always a manifestation of unresolved issues, particularly when it comes to relationships.

I’m not sharing this for pity or sympathy. I’m sharing it because every time I talk about one of these unfortunate events, I meet someone else who has it, and hasn’t talked about it, either because they feel ashamed they can’t fix it, or ashamed of how they manage it, whether that be medication or meditation. The stigma is just as bad as the condition itself.  

I’ve had people tell me I just need to stop worrying. Workout. Quit eating crap. Journal. Meditate. Stop dwelling on the bad and focus on the good. The world is great if you let it be. As if the issue is that I forgot to slide on my rose-colored glasses that morning. It’s as simple as reframing or refocusing. It’s fixable, if I just try hard enough.

But those who have walked into the cement wall that is an anxiety or panic disorder know that it’s completely out of your control. No one opts in to feeling like they’re coming out of their skin. It’s not voluntary and it’s not simple. Just when I think I’ve figured out how to minimize it, the monster grows a new head and I feel like I’m starting completely over.

And I will start over. Remember, my 2021 word is “ownership.” This is me. This is who I am. Cracks. Chips. Imperfections.

I got up this morning and worked out and put a little less creamer in my coffee. It’s a new day and my chest feels a little lighter. But if you woke up and found it hard to breathe, or to smile, I want you to know that you aren’t alone, and that if you have to take a pill or a walk or a day off from life, that’s OK. If you want to watch the entire first and only season of Bridgerton, I think every woman with a pulse supports that, sister. And if you want to cry about it, that’s cool, too. Being brave isn’t synonymous with being stoic. It’s showing your broken pieces, your willingness to pick them all up off the floor and put the damn puzzle together the best you can, even though you know that shit’s just going to break apart and you’ll have to do it all over again.

I let myself feel embarrassed yesterday. But not today.

There were lots of tears yesterday. Not one today. (Yet.)

We have to stop letting other people tell us how to process or feel or accept. The data can be deceiving. Good intentions can hurt. Anxiety can feel like a prison, but as I meet more and more of the other inmates, I realize the trick is to come out of my cell so the sentence isn’t quite so bad. Quite so lonely.

I see more hot baths, sleepy time teas and slow jogs in the woods in my immediate future. Those are some of the things that sometimes help me. If there are things that help you, I’d love to hear them. Or just to hear from you at all. Slide your cell door open and come by for a visit, any time.

I hope those who celebrate had a restful, enjoyable Christmas. Ours was, dare I say it, absolutely lovely. We managed to turn up a fair serving of merriment, and I’m pretty darn grateful, considering the circumstances I know many were dealt this season.

Now that the wrapping is done and all of our new treasures are finding their places, we’re closing in on the new year. Personally, I love turning the page and starting a fresh calendar, perhaps this year more than any before.

When I think about 2020, I just want to take a nap. I mean, sure we had a global pandemic, brutally divisive election and social unrest, but it was also the longest string of disappointments I’ve ever experienced. There was nothing to look forward to! Races, vacations and gatherings all canceled. One after another. I stopped letting myself get excited and instead just leaned into my 265-day leggings-clad hamster wheel existence. It was the fastest, suckiest year I can ever recall, and while I don’t know that the first quarter of 2021 is going to be much different, I need to be different.

Every year, regardless of global circumstances, I take it upon myself to slide into a sugar-induced coma from Thanksgiving day through January 2. I can’t help it. I am who I am. Any other time of the year I can track calories and eat oatmeal like a mature adult, but once I get a little tryptophan in my system and people start trotting out pies and painted plates piled high with confections, I tap out temporary. I know that it’s horrible for my insides. I know it’s going to be a solid 10-pound swing. But all the same, every year for about a month I have sugar cookies for breakfast and don’t measure the creamer in my coffee and it’s glorious. I’d tell you I won’t do it next year, but I don’t want to lie to you.

The ghosts of goals past

Also very consistent for me, about this time each year, with all that fructose sliding through my veins, I start obsessing about my goals for the year ahead. Two years ago, I started distancing myself from super specific resolutions and, at the urging of a friend of mind, decided to focus on one word. For 2019 I chose “alive.” I wanted to be more present and live in the moment and take more chances that reminded me of the gift this life really is.

I think my word for 2020 was “strength,” but to be honest, aside from a few tough workouts scattered throughout, it really transitioned into “survive” somewhere around mid-April. I put a lot of things on the shelf and just focused on getting through the days, the weeks, the year with my sanity and some shreds of physical and emotional well-being on the other side. I had to stop obsessing about the fact that I wasn’t taking the opportunity to remodel my kitchen or workout twice a day like others were posting. But I was breathing and everyone was fed. I’m going to file 2020 under “complete” and prepare to move the F on. Won’t you join me?

Picking a new word

I’ve thought a lot about what I want my word to be for 2021. I tend to gravitate toward fitness goals. I always want to get stronger, faster, more agile. But rarely do I focus on the mindset it takes to get there. I regretfully put all my eggs in the planning basket. I tell myself that if I can create a schedule, I’ll do it. But you still have to have the grit it takes to stick to the schedule.

Then, a few months back, I came across this quote on Instagram:

“No one is coming to save you. This life is 100% your responsibility.”

It was like 8,000 alarms went off inside of me. It might seem harsh, but it’s also so liberating. For me, it’s really easy to find someone or something to blame. But the truth is that I am the architect, the commissioner, the conductor of my life. If something isn’t changing or it isn’t happening, that is totally on me. If I want something badly enough, I can find a way. And if I don’t, I won’t. But either way, I need to own that.

No one is coming to fix the things that are broken or wobbly. And they shouldn’t. If my body doesn’t look the way I want it to, no one is going to come and get me out of bed at 5 a.m. or force me to fit it in instead of watching Gilmore Girls for the 500^th time. If I haven’t written as much as I’d like to, run as far as I’d aspired to, menu planned and prepped, gone on a great adventure, I am the one to blame. No one else. Nothing else. Circumstances are what you’re dealt, but you choose how to play the hand.

So, with all that being said, my word for 2021 is “ownership.” It’s not a sexy word. It might seem vague even. But it’s all about stepping up and taking responsibility rather than curling up on the couch with excuses about how we’re all set up to fail, while Netflix asks me if I’m still watching.

If I choose to eat a basket of fries and pint of oat ice cream in one sitting, that’s cool. But when it shows up on the scale, I can’t be mad about it. I have to own it. No one is coming to save me from the ice cream. And, let’s be honest, I don’t always want them to. Sometimes, I want the damn ice cream! The same can be said for the nap, the cocktail, the neglected dusting. But 2021 is about being deliberate and in control and realizing that it’s all a choice.

No one is coming to save me from hitting snooze, participating in negative chatter, stewing, sitting, yelling, excessive snacking, complaining, stalling, settling, phoning it in, mindless scrolling or wasting precious moments and opportunities. No one is coming. I have to pick up the compass and rescue myself.

And if I step out of my comfort zone and accomplish some badass things, I’m going to own that stuff, too. I’m not going to shrug it off, or assume it’s a fluke. I can succeed. I can take risks. I can be consistent. I’m capable. It’s just a thousand tiny choices that your make that add up. And I’m going to own each and every one in 2021.

If I sit down to write to you this time next year and absolutely nothing has happened or changed or progressed in any direction, I will have to own that. My hands are firmly on the steering wheel, foot hovering over the accelerator. It’s time to go.  

What’s your word?

I’d love to hear your goals or word for the next year if it helps you or feels good to share. Accountability is always beneficial for me, but I know that’s not true for everyone.

If you’re struggling to narrow your list or hone in on a word, revisit some of the books, lyrics or quotes that spoke to you this past year. Why did it resonate? Like I said, when I came across the words, “No one is coming to save you,” it rattled me and shook some fruit from the tree. I knew I hadn’t been driving the bus for some time.

Whatever you plan to work on or not work on in 2021, I hope that it is a beautiful time in your life. After watching the despair so many have experienced through physical, financial and emotional loss, I can only pray that we find a way to start picking up the pieces and reclaim the practices and people who bring us joy.

Wishing you all the best in the new year!