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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!

When I was little, my legs were short. We spent many of our weekends camping as a family, and one of our favorite ways to pass the time was to go for hikes. Inevitably, as the youngest, smallest member of our tribe, I would be the first to slow down and ask if we could go back to the travel trailer. You know, where the fruit roll-ups and cheez balls were. But my mom, always the cheerleader and optimist, wouldn’t let me go out like that. “You know what you need?” she would coax. And then in a lower tone, as if sharing a secret so tender and special only the ears of true believers could hear it, “A magic walking stick.”

We would scour the woods’ floor for the perfect fallen branch. It had to meet our specifications – not too tall, not too wide and smooth to the touch. “We’ll know when we see it,” she’d say. And we always did. And somehow, once I had that magic walking stick, my little legs, going one tiny step at a time, carried me that extra mile.

Of course now, as a mother who herself has whispered in the ears of her chicks about the mystical power of fallen branches, I understand that it was the woman walking next to me as much as it was anything else. Her belief in me. Her willingness to hang back as if our walk could go on forever if it had to, as long as we were together. Her voice. Her words. Her presence.

This past week, some chronic health issues my mom has been battling came to a head, and we found ourselves in a hospital room, just the two of us. She has persistent pain in her lower back and her right leg, with some weakness, which makes walking and standing uncomfortable, challenging and, quite frankly, dangerous. As we moved her from bed to walker, bed to bed, bed to wheelchair, I felt the weight of her burden pressing against me. I nestled my hand under her arm and coaxed, “It’s OK, Mom. We’ve got you. Nice and slow,” and I heard her voice in my own.

Sitting in a predictable, uncomfortable, mass-produced chair an arm’s length from her, disturbing daytime television in the background, I scrolled through my Instagram feed. Facebook was telling the world it was National Daughter’s Day. How appropriate. I am, in so many ways, my mother’s daughter. I have her hands, her humor and her desire to help others. Her stubbornness and grace (which is really a lack thereof) are stitched across my patchwork. I see pieces of her that became slivers of me that are now beautiful fragments of my daughters.

She kept telling me to go home, but I wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else. Time could go as slow as it needed to. We were taking tiny, tiny steps toward the answers. Toward getting home.

As it happens in hospitals, hours turned into the necessary tests and the results turned into recommendations and eventually discharge. Mom was home in just over 24 hours and we all got together for our traditional every-other weekend brunch, known to us as Big Breakfast. The grandkids showered her in hugs, my sister and I brought the tough questions about care and short-term plans. When I left, I ached for the days of sticky fruit roll-ups wrapped around pointer fingers and whispers in the woods.

The rest of our Sunday was intentionally slow. I think Hank could sense my need for play rather than purpose. We didn’t clean the house, like we normally do. We putzed around a nearby nature preserve and called in dinner. Before bed, after months of prodding, Sloppy Joan finally agreed to try riding her bike without training wheels. We all stood at the top of the driveway and watched as a new confidence took over our littlest bird. Her posture was different. She commanded the two wheels and, though a little shaky, flew up and down the pavement and around the tree in the center of our cul-de-sac. Fearless. Elated.

“Slow down, honey,” Hank said, a hesitant smile crossing his face. “The best riders are the ones who have control over the bike. You don’t need to go so fast.” She nodded, not really committing to the instruction, and descended the driveway once more, involuntary expressions of joy popping out of her mouth like firecrackers.

The pace of life, the rate at which everything changes, is such a thief of serenity. I can see myself in that rusty autumn landscape like it was yesterday, leaning against my mom on one side and a tree’s enchanted limb on the other. I can smell the distant campfires, hear the dried foliage and feel the sun soaking into the fabric of my sweatshirt. It’s so close to me, and also a story I recall with the nostalgia that can only come after many years and many seasons have passed. Now, as a witness to the toll time and tension takes on a body, a body that has worked tirelessly to serve and celebrate others, it’s hard to deny just how much can transpire between walks in the woods.    

People always talk about the phases of life. How your parents care for you, support you as you care for your own children, and eventually, become the ones in need of care themselves. But as much as you try to prepare yourself for that transition from one phase to the next, you eventually realize it’s a fool’s errand. The reality doesn’t come in the subtle decline or quiet adjustments. The understanding and, ultimately acceptance, comes abruptly in a hospital room, in the nuances of a heartbreaking conversation about independence or a look in her eyes that says, I’m scared.

Before anyone asks, as many of you know my mom, she is doing fine. There’s no need to worry or send texts with question marks and exclamation points comingling. We’re figuring things out and finding a new path out of the woods. She is still one of the biggest badasses I know. Life is just changing. We find ourselves in one of those blurry clouds between how things were and how they’ll be. It’s not the first time and certainly won’t be the last, but this one has me reflecting so deeply on the times I’ve leaned on her – so many times – and also the pride she has about needing to lean on us now. It’s an interesting dance, where the partners are the same but the one who usually leads is forced to follow. At least for a little while.

Life is moving so quickly. The shape of our family is shifting. My children are growing so fast. Sometimes I feel like time is flying down the driveway and the brakes don’t work. The limbs just budding when I was a girl are my daughters’ magic walking sticks, and I’m quietly trying to find the calm hiding in the mad dash and frenzy of it all. Perhaps the only opportunity for pacification rests in the pace. One step at a time, little hiker. Just one step at a time.   

A few weeks back, at a friend’s recommendation, I started watching The World’s Toughest Race on Amazon Prime. (If you read no further, you still got something out of this post, I promise. Do yourself a favor; grab an armful of snacks and plow through it.) Riding that reality show wrap-up high, I started entertaining the notion, going so far as talking to a few people, about what it would really take to enter an eco challenge or extreme adventure race.

Really my friend Kim, who lives on the other side of the country, started it by sending a barrage of texts in all caps, exclamation points and emojis. Let’s find a race! Let’s form a team! Let’s identify our strengths in athleticism and navigation! I was right there with her, I’m not going to lie. In my mind I was casting my line for sponsors and talking myself off the ledge all women stand at when they wear spandex above the knees.

I brought it up to my husband in a casual way, sure to downplay how truly interested I was, like any smitten stalker. “I mean, it would be really expensive,” I said. “Right,” he agreed. “We’d need good bikes and gear and travel,” I went on. “Right,” he agreed. “And not to mention the training! I mean, when would I do the training?” “Uh huh,” he agreed.

He then, in his typical Hank way, found an article with the world’s top adventure races, many of which fell a realistic arm’s reach out from my most recent athletic endeavors. He was, as he does, ushering me back to safety. Being careful not to clip my wings, but gently placing light weights in the soles of my shoes to bring me back down to earth. This is where you really want to go. These are the things that won’t kill you and leave your three children motherless and in need of intensive therapy.

And I realized I was cloaked in a cape I’d worn many times before. Historically, I’d thought of it as imposter syndrome – pretending to be or envisioning myself as someone I’m really, truly not. But, my Google research tells me this, much like my illusions of being capable of participating in a 10-day race across Fiji, is not quite accurate.

Turns out, the ingredients of true imposter syndrome include heavy feelings of self-doubt and, to put it in my own terms, the paranoia that you’re being a poser. I don’t really have a lot of that going on upstairs. My disease is an innocent one. What I’m really dealing with here is more of what social psychologists call “illusory superiority.” I tend to overestimate my abilities or qualifications. Not in a braggy way necessarily, but more of a starry-eyed, floating on a cloud made out of unicorn farts kind of way. I put a little too much weight in the where-there’s-a-will-there’s-a-way bucket.

Let me give you another example. One that might be a bit more relatable for you. In my mind, I am eternally 26 years old. I know what things are cool and I’m generally in touch with the trends. But this is also, sadly, illusory superiority, a fact that becomes abundantly clear whenever I’m around, well, 26 year olds. In reality, I get pissed off when I miss CBS Sunday Morning, I’m a solid 6 o’clock dinner eater and my lower stomach area looks like an elephant’s face, the leftovers from incubating three healthy-sized chicks.

Now, let me be very clear here. This is not me doubting myself or my body. In an ulterior reality, one in which I don’t have a full time job, a house full of dependents and a running pace that sloths snicker at, could I complete a 10-day multi-discipline race? I mean, absolutely most likely. Could I do it even with all of those things? Let’s say sure. But the truth is, there are so many steps between where I’ve been and a feat that requires an energy drink sponsorship, that the sandbox is plenty big to play in without catapulting myself onto the side of a cascading waterfall in a country that I can’t even pinpoint in relation to my own. (Geography has always been a struggle.)

Similarly, I don’t mind being 37. It’s great! Let’s hear it for all my thirty-something sisters out there! I’m finding my stride [sometimes] as a mom and I give far less Fs about what others think about my decisions. I’m comfortable in my skin and my skills and my marriage. It’s cool to wrap up in that midlife duvet comforter and just chill for a while. I mean, I don’t want to be bored, by any means, or phone it in, but there’s something sweet about this chapter. Being settled and satisfied to the point where you can dabble at the weekend warrior stuff. But love it as I may, I still can’t seem to wrap my mind around the fact that I’ve had so many birthdays! I mean I watched all of the Friends characters turn 30 on the show and they seemed older then than I feel now. Right? And then add nearly a decade on top of that. There’s just no way I’m really that old. You guys, I take a fiber supplement.

Really, the rub of it all is reconciling your illusory superior (imaginary teen Olympic athlete) self with your 37-year-old, realistically aspirational, sloth-running self. I think you have to become friends with the pieces of your soul that see the stars and extend your fingertips to snatch them up, because in the end, those fantastical, far-fetched endeavors often lead to a scaled-down destination that is within your grasp. One that still pushes your limits and waters the wanderlust and appetite for an adventure, but fits within the parameters of what’s possible for you.

I’m a sucker for a story about a real life person who just gives it all up, sells their possessions (because it’s really just stuff anyway) and walks across the country so they can finally hear the sweet whispers inside their soul. We all are, aren’t we? It’s romantic and rebellious and so against the beliefs we’re all spoon-fed as we graduate from one stage of life to the next. And when I close those books, I always have a moment where I’m pricing out my JCrew Factory slack collection on Facebook Marketplace. But my kids can’t walk that far without wanting to stop and have, like, three snacks. And I have some stuff that I really like. And, if I’m being honest, whenever I’m walking alone I just hear lyrics from Frozen or Hamilton over and over and over again. I guess my inner whisper is really just the voices of my daughters.

But I’ll never stop loving those stories. And maybe one day I’ll live out a narrative that resembles one I’ve lost myself in somewhere before. I’ll take a bigger risk than I normally would. I’ll discover things about myself in an unexpected corner of the world. My illusory superiority self is always open to what may come, and my 37-year-old (or whatever age I am at that time) self can bend the edges to fit it into the circle of things that matter to me most.

I love that there’s still a fire goddess in me who believes I can do insanely hard things. I’m not letting her go anywhere. But even more than that, I love that I have supportive people in my corner so that I can do moderately hard things – typically close to home and usually just enough to bend but not break my aging body, which is oddly thrilling to me. It’s not a compromise unless you give up the dream completely.

Whatever your aspirations are, I hope that you can find a way to fit them in. I hope you get a little stardust on your fingertips and some great stories to tell. The important thing is to keep reaching. Keep dreaming. Keep seeking out the joy. (All things, admittedly, I didn’t quite grasp at 26.)

Hello, friends. I wanted to check in and see how you’re feeling these days.

Earlier this week, Glennon Doyle posted this on her social media channels:

Hello. Just Wondering if Anyone else feels like they have lost the point.

I no longer know “how i am.” I do not know what to do what to say who to call what to eat how to plan how I feel. I don’t know if I’m doing enough too much not enough. I forgot how to parent, how to friend how to lead how to achieve or serve or rest or heal or work hard play hard yadda yadda.

I am kind of Mean, suddenly. The meanness that comes from numbness.

I have forgotten the structure, the way of things. I want Something To Change. The closest feeling I have Access to is: claustrophobia?

I do love you. I know that much.

G

The candid remarks resonated with me, as much as all of her brilliant writing does, but a few of the lines in particular scared up some sentiments (and admittedly some fear) that have been stirring in my own tired mind. “I am kind of Mean, suddenly. The meanness that comes from numbness. I want Something To Change.”

To talk about change, we first have to address the status of things, which can be … uncomfortable. There’s a simultaneous spread of both divisiveness and apathy in our world right now – two dangerous states of being swelling side-by-side and poisoning the population. It’s an emotional pandemic, perhaps fueled by the virus, but rooted in pain and positions that were sprouting long before anyone heard the term “COVID.” Every conversation I have these days is really just a trail of breadcrumbs leading to some tender, emotional bruise. People are frustrated, angry, skeptical, wary, stir crazy, distressed. They are exhausted; succumb to the antagonistic environment infiltrating our spirit from all directions.

I’m heartsick over the animosity in our country, in our neighborhoods, in our families and friendship circles. My soul doesn’t feel safe anywhere. So many people are screaming at the same time, that no one’s really being heard. The truth – whatever that means anymore – is muffled by a rising roar of hatred. Somewhere along the line, there was this unanimous adoption of the belief that people are either right or wrong, good or bad, based on how their opinions align or misalign with our own. Platforms and social gatherings once used to connect and celebrate our shared human experiences are now battlegrounds for hurling inaccurate headlines and dangerous assumptions. We are fractured into millions of sharp, perilous pieces – quick to cut, without remorse or responsibility. We’re broken. Without a doubt.

So many, like Glennon, want something – anything – to change just so that we can sip from that sweet cup of “normalcy” again. But that desire feels hopeless. The world feels wild and explosive.

My kids are on a real Hamilton kick right now. It’s all they want to listen to, all hours of the day, every car ride, garage concerts, the whole deal. The other night we got to talking about our favorite songs from the musical. I’m partial to “Wait for it,” mostly because of the line, “I am the one thing in life I can control.” It’s something I’ve said to the chicks over and over, time and time again. People will be mean. People will do things that are unkind or unjust. You can only control your own actions and responses in the face of others’ ugliness. Lately, the line has been resonating with me in new ways. It’s become somewhat of a personal mantra.

I can’t change the global state of things. Even the thought of trying to have an impact on that scale right now is aspirational, sure, but enough to swallow anyone whole. But I can put a finger under my chin and tilt my own head toward the sun and the stars.

Every morning when I wake up, every time I pick up my phone, with every breath, in every second of my day, I have two hands on the steering wheel and a foot to hit the gas or the brake. I don’t have to watch the news, which often, I don’t. When I feel a conversation taking a turn, I can use my words to ask questions and seek to understand, or I can walk away if that’s what feels like the best path to self-preservation, which often, it does. It’s not about “being a snowflake” or avoiding confrontation or any of the other aggressive labels people believe we need to apply to foreheads these days. Boundaries are a beautiful thing.

There are so many strong wills and cemented opinions out there right now. The resolve is both a source of angst and admiration for me. These immovable demarcations make it difficult to reach a common ground, and, being wired the way I am, often feel more personal than political, but there is always a choice. So often, we subject ourselves to the same painful exchanges, over and over again, until the wounds are so deep there isn’t a salve strong enough to heal them. These days, I find myself weighing the risk of an incurable outcome in all of my conversations and endeavors, with the reminder that “no” is always an option. I have been blessed with two feet on which I can always choose to walk away.

If you want to know how I am right now, the truth is I am fighting like hell. Every day I am raging against the numbness. I am clinging to the variables I can control. I relate to the words Glennon wrote because these days that resignation is always just one insult, one newsfeed story, one broken relationship away. I am operating out of a dire wish to maintain some shred of optimism, self-respect and a heart full of love for the lives around me. I don’t want to “lose the point,” because then what? What do we have left? A pandemic is hard. Social unrest is hard. Polarizing political views are hard. But I don’t have to let these tensions break me, as much as I might bend. I can stand for something without contributing to the poisonous public commentary that, let’s face it, isn’t helping anyone.

What felt like a side-stitching sprint, is now unarguably a marathon, with no end in sight. Amongst the chatter, I hear shaky statements like, “Once the election is over …” or “As soon as they approve a vaccine …” as if the ache is coming from just one tender tooth.

I am trying to be really honest with myself about what I want to hold onto and who I want to be on the other side of this dark time. I’ve seen relationships dissolve over tense dinner conversations and inner lights dim over long stints at home without visitors. Things are so different. So many people are in pain. I am the one thing in life I can control.

So, what am I’m holding onto? There are many things, and I certainly believe that one person’s lifeline is another person’s luxury, and that’s OK. For me, first and foremost, there are a handful of relationships that I will do almost anything to preserve. While my beliefs align with the majority of the loved ones in this group, it’s not true with all. It’s important to me to try to understand, rather than discard and disown. It’s not easy, but some people are worth fighting for. We all experience life differently, and those experiences shape our perspectives. We can’t assume everyone thinks like us, or that they’re “wrong” or “bad” for seeing through a different lens. We don’t know what we don’t know. Ask questions. Have a discussion. And if it starts to tear at the fabric of your friendship, you can always change the subject. Some folks just wait too darn long to call it for the sake of salvaging the mutual respect every relationship requires.

I’m also letting my heart marinate in the beautiful, effortless connections I have, like a marshmallow in hot cocoa, soaking in that sweetness and appreciating the simplicity. In a time when so many don’t have anyone, I’m exceptionally grateful for the nearness of my tribe.

Prioritizing my mental and physical health has been a roller coaster during these past several months, but I know with great certainty that when I’m challenging my body, carving out time for trail runs with some special women in my life (church, as we call it) and getting enough good sleep, I am more of who I want to be. My mind is clearer. My patience is longer. And my optimism muscle is stronger.

Finally, and I know this one sounds a little judgmental, but I’m constantly taking stock of who I don’t want to be. If the past few months have given me anything, it’s a thousand tiny snapshots of just how ugly humans can be. Dirty glances. Flippant, blanket statements about segments of people. Poking and pot stirring. Firing for effect. Disregard for lives lost. Personal preference trumping the greater good. Over and over and over again I’ve seen displays of gross, gut-turning behavior and commentary. So often, I think we see the disturbing tendencies of others, roll our eyes and move on, without holding that mirror up to ourselves and asking if we’re guilty of similar crimes. In my moments of self-reflection, when I wrestle with who I want to be, sometimes I find clarity in the less desirable attributes I’ve seen in others.

I hope, sweet friends, that you are well. My wish for you is that you’re riding these waves, following the sun and finding your way through. But if you aren’t, I think that’s OK, too. If you’re “losing the point,” you aren’t the only one. Hold onto the things that matter to you and check in with your heart often. I truly believe that we’re all going to meet up on the other side, stronger, more empathetic and grounded in gratitude.