March 2021

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.