Ashes to Ashes

 A little over 2 months ago my life imploded and crumbled to dust. It was the darkest period of my life, even more dark than periods leading up to my divorce and early post divorce. Anxiety and depression assaulted me daily and I began a course of medications to find some balance. The side-effects of the medications became as much of a problem as the anxiety and depression, and it was one more battle I had to try to find the energy to fight and manage. But this story is not about the medications and effects, this story is about the creation of the ashes of my life.

I had a plan.

I had a plan to move to Bend, Oregon and raise my children in a town that better meets our needs and lifestyle. A town where I feel at home, safe, protected, and at peace. A town that values the outdoors, being active and community and connection. A town that strives to care for its own, and while it is not perfect it is trying, more than I see in so many other communities. I had a job in Bend, I had my non-profit in Bend, my best friend in Bend, and a growing community of friends through my job. I had a plan to move there and continue to grow the non-profit and eventually transition to working that full-time as a paid employee and likely a small job on the side to supplement income as needed. I had a plan to create a lifestyle that supported my physical and mental health in ways that are extremely challenging living in my current community. I had a plan.

Having primary custody of my 4 children does not give me the right to just move them across the country, I had to come to an agreement with their father to move them. In brief he was not agreeable to them moving, thus began a year long legal battle for relocation. On April 20th, the day before my birthday, we all attended court, the children spoke to the judge alone and expressed their opinions which were relayed back to me via my attorney. I found myself in the very real and very painful position of continuing my quest for relocation and likely being denied relocation and primary custody of my children, the only option that was guaranteed was to rescind the relocation request and have the battle for change in custody follow due process through the courts. In 10 minutes I was forced to make a decision: fight for my move and potentially win or potentially lose everything, or give up relocation and keep custody until it could proceed through the court. My heart was breaking, I sat in the courtroom hallway fighting back tears, breathing, shaking, trying to find the decision that met my needs and the needs of my children. This move was for me and for them, and I knew that if we moved it would be incredibly challenging for them, I knew that it would strain our relationship, but I also knew that given time and space to heal and move through it we would do well in the end. Having grown up moving I know the resiliency of children and moving, but also the trauma of it. I sat in the hallway battling in myself, the clock ticking, my heart racing and breaking all at once, torn, watching my world finishing burning into ashes. The last important component of my life fuse lit and burning out. I made the decision to pull my relocation request, I simply couldn't take the risk of not moving and losing primary custody. It would break me further than I was already broken at that point.

Earlier in the month of April I lost my best friend. My best friend of the past 3 years simply decided to stop speaking to me, stop being there for me, stop answering calls, texts, anything. Having been as close as we were and having supported them through so many trials and challenges it was killing me to have lost them, lost their support when I needed it most. I needed that person that simply understood me and grasped that this was more than "just a move." They knew what this meant to me, and understood how deeply important to me it was, and I was abandoned by them without explanation. A fight had been had 2 months previous that had not been resolved, but I had been hoping that we were going to move forward as we had in the past. Every other fight, disagreement, and confrontation we had had over the 3 years we worked through, and we always told each other we worked through it because we cared about each other. I still cared about my best friend and I wanted to work through it, but I also desperately needed that support from them. Support that I had received previously, and I could not, and still cannot understand, why it was withheld. Why, when I needed them the most they abandoned me? Left me, ignored me, triggering so many of my trauma responses I swirled and spiraled more. Court loomed closer, there were challenges with the children and court, my birthday loomed, and the person that I had been closest to for 3 years was missing by their choice. My heart broke, my soul adrift, and I began to crumble, to implode, unable to bear anything more, fire burning throughout.

I struggled to sleep, I struggled to eat. I struggled to get out of bed and get to work at the desk next to my bed. I did it though. I got up slowly, I struggled to focus on my tasks, taking double and triple the time to complete tasks as April wore on with the loss of my best friend and court approaching. With the loss of my best friend also came my resignation from my non-profit. The non-profit that I helped create; the organization that I built from the ground up; from the logo and community and website, that was driven primarily by my effort. It was a passion project, one that I poured my heart and soul into. I was proud of the work I did, it brought me much joy and it was such an honor to be a part of it. Yet the organization was changing and the leadership and I were in conflict and I could no longer stay with an organization that did not value my opinion, my work, my time, and did not appear to believe in open and honest communication anymore. The non-profit was the one thing that I still had hopes of, the one thing that was going to be my light in this time of extreme darkness, and it went away. With the loss of my best friend and my non-profit I crumbled, but had little time to grieve those losses. Medication was not working, therapy was still in place and yet it was still not enough. I was unbearably sad, yet also so numb to everything. My body and mind unable to process anymore hurt. Food was a chore, everything was a challenge, from a simple shower to making dinner. I persevered, the kids were fed, chores completed, and life moved on. I was not ok, yet there was no time, no space to fall apart.

I sat in that courtroom hallway with only a small fuse of life left, having burned away so much with the other losses, and now it burned away my job and my move and my future. Ashes, dust, nothing left, no pieces to make a puzzle. No strength. I am not a phoenix to rise from the ashes. I am a woman, nothing more. One who was incredibly broken, not ok, and yet still asked to carry on, to move forward. To grieve quickly and briefly because it's "only a move" "only a job", yet it was never just those things. It was a lifestyle, a safe place, a peaceful place, and a place that provided comfort in the pine tar and smoke tinged air with the snow capped mountains surrounding the town and the river carrying the heartbeat of the mountains within it. It was gone. My chance removed of my own accord. The sacrifice I made for my children that I did not want to make. I made it because of my deep love of them, but this was one that broke me. In a month I lost my future, my best friend, my safe place, my organization, and so much more. It's challenging to put into words all that was lost. 

I have not grieved it all. It seems impossible at times to grieve it all. Where do you start? How do you portion it out? How do you find the time and space and safety to become vulnerable when you are already dust? How do you share this with the world?

Two months later and I still struggle to find the words, to grieve it. Tears come at times, life is moving forward and there have been some incredible moments over the past 2 weeks and amazing people coming into my life, but I know I have more grieving and healing to do. I do not have a path forward, I do not know where I will be in a few weeks, a few months, much less a few years. It's ok not to have those answers, but there is so much instability that I drift. I am thankful for the people that have become anchors, and the new ones that are supporting me with open hearts and empathy. What a challenging time to come into my life, and yet as has happened before people have arrived in my life at challenging points and made such lasting impacts that I have a small amount of hope blooming again.

There have been more smiles and laugher in my life these past 2 weeks than there have in the past 2 months, for which I am thankful. I see and feel parts of me that seemed to have been lost forever. It is not a return of those parts, but an emergence of new. I do not have a path, I do not have a plan, but I find more moments of strength and courage. In this I can take some comfort, and in knowing that anchors are there for me.

Tomorrow begins the start of the next chapter. Tomorrow their dad begins his battle for joint custody and I have to find the strength, courage, and energy to fight for what I believe is best for my children. What is best for me as well. I am scared, I am terrified, I am exhausted, I am sad. Knowing I have a handful of people supporting me is giving me the strength to proceed and I will. 

As I have said so many times before reach out to your friends, to your family. So much of this story has been withheld, and maybe I will write more on it one-day, but without those people texting me in April, giving me hugs, and calling me I would not be where I am today. Without all of you being there despite me not reaching out or reaching out right before I would have fallen further. My heart has gratitude for all of you for being there, even when I told you I was alone, and you told me I wasn't. Thank you for letting me disagree with you and have the space to move through some of this grief safely. 

Turning 43 in the middle of all of this was not what I wanted, not what I envisioned and again I find myself with trauma on and around my birthday. Six years ago I knew my marriage could not be saved on the weekend of my birthday, a turning point in my life, and here I am with a no plan again coming off of a birthday. I love plans, yet at this point I can do no more than walk through each day, each moment, each breath and let things unfold.

Peace, I pray for peace.

Outside the Circle

The tears threaten to fall, so I blink and smile as I walk to the car, head held high, no one the wiser that there is a part of me breaking. A part of me wondering why, wondering what is wrong, wondering why it's happening again, and wondering if it will ever end. A simple meeting turned into a stark reminder of my place, outside the circle, yet again. 

Seven years ago we moved here, seven years of searching for connection, to build that local community, to build and find that tribe, and here I am, still on a quest. The first few years spent on the cusp of the circle, dancing at the edges, always taking steps to find where a married, working mom of 4 fit into this new community. I was still learning how to be a working mother after a long practice of being a graduate student mother, and the transition was not smooth, yet I was hopeful that in this community I would find my place, my footing. It seemed that I was making a place for this family of mine, and then it changed when my status went from married to single. In a community that is designed for 2 parent households, I found myself thoroughly on the outside. 

Four years ago standing on the outside of the circles I had finally managed to find a small acceptance I found the lines redrawn and the steps to make my way forward towards and into the community in which my children thrived were monumental to me. In a time when I needed my community to support me as I established my role as a single parent I was abandoned by most here. Over these past 4 years I have found my footing and worked diligently to create and live a less life ordinary. The drawback to a non-traditional lifestyle is living life on the outskirts within your own community.

This means driving through your neighborhood and seeing a neighbor having a party and knowing you weren't invited, hoping your children don't notice. But of course they notice, and then they ask: "why weren't we invited, I thought we were friends" and you find yourself saying that you don't know and maybe it's not a neighborhood party and pray to anyone who's listening to support your statement. Then of course your child spots a neighbor walking to the party and your statement is no longer valid. Now your child is wondering aloud at this point why we're never really invited to parties, echoing the inner thoughts in your head. You find a way to console them, remind them of the adventure/activity we are on way to, and pray that it's forgotten in time from their mind, knowing that the moment will be etched within your own. You remind them of all of the parties they have attended and the fun we've created at our own small parties, praying that it's enough. Praying that your children are at least welcome places if your family as a whole is not, all the while building a damn to prevent a flood of tears.

A life less ordinary is not for the faint of heart, especially with children in tow. It's working through each of those situations above, praying that you are making the best decisions for yourself and your children, while honoring the needs of all parties. As a single parent it's questioning every decision more than when you were in a 2 parent household, analyzing each choice and decision. It's finding the consequences of your choices in simple actions such as attending a parent meeting and no one will engage in conversation with you because these critical relationships were developed when your life was upended. On nights such as these when you make solid attempts at engaging in simple conversation with other parents only to be rejected or ignored you begin questioning what is wrong with you, why you are always on the edges, why after 7 years you still are tribeless in a community that thrives on connection. There are moments when it's too much to bear and the tears threaten to pour down because you're tired; you're tired of the inner reminders you tell yourself that you are enough, that you are worth it, and that these other people are missing out. It's wishing for a welcoming face at an event, a person to share the moments with; wishing that for that brief period you are welcome into the circle. It's finding the last of your inner strength and courage to be the parent you want to be and the person you want to be. It would be easier for a short period to don a fake smile, fake attitude and play the games to be accepted into these circles and community. Yet I would not be honoring the person I am continuing to become, so I accept the tears and find a quiet moment to release them, and pray for a tribe for my family.

Are you seen?

Everyone tends to think that the 3 most important, most impactful words are "I love you" and while they are powerful and important I think there are 3 more that are even more critical: "I see you". For there are plenty of moments in your life where you are loved, but not seen, not recognized for who you are. When someone says they see you, it not only means they love you, but they recognize you for who you are. How many times have you been in a relationship of any form where you can feel the care and concern, but still not feel seen? Still be invisible?

When you are seen that other individual confirms your existence as you experience it. There is no questioning, just acceptance. A validation of you in that time and space. They see you, accept you and love you. It's a different experience than I love you. If you have someone in your life that sees you and tells you that they see you, you know that this person cares deeply about you. They understand that desire to be visible, accepted, and loved as you are. Too often I love you comes with the desire to change the person or with blinders. You are loved for an idea of who you are, not who you are at your core, an image. This is not false love, that individual does love you, they just don't necessarily see you. It could be because you don't let them see you, or they are unable to view beyond their own boundaries, regardless of the reason there is a difference in the love and being seen.

I have a small group of people that "see" me. There is no need to explain things, though I often do regardless. They see me, understand my desire to explain myself even when not necessary. They see me through the anxiety, remind me that I am me, not my anxiety. They love me, simply for who I am. They tell me I am seen. I am valuable. I am loved. To me, the distinction is important; I do not desire to be loved on a pedestal, I desire to be loved and accepted for who I am. I desire to be seen, accepted for me. Me, the woman, mother, coordinator, therapist, backpacker/hiker, writer, and coach. But most of all me, the soul in a human body. A survivor and thriver of life's experiences; one who is on a path to create a life less ordinary for herself and her children.

So I ask you, who in your life sees you?

This is 40

In the past few months I have come to acknowledge the power of 40. Forty is not the naive youth of your 20s, nor the growth and experiences of your 30s, but the acceptance of your own being and recognition of your own power. Each decade before brought it's own growth, challenges and joy, and while I expect that the 40s will do the same there is a unique magic to 40. It comes with a dread and becomes an adventure.

At 40, a single, divorced mom of 4, I am more grounded than I was in the previous years. This does not come from age alone, but the internal growth I have undergone. Forty means stepping into my power, acknowledging who I am and accepting who I am. It is seeing me for me, loving her, even the parts I would change, and showing her to the world with the statement "I am me." For at 40 I can see me, the woman with the hips that carried 4 children; legs that have run marathons, chased children and hiked countless miles; a belly marked with stripes from carrying children; and hazel eyes that have seen joy, destruction, beauty, pain, love, and hope.

I have spent much of my life fighting myself, never quite fitting in, using that as my shield and torch. I am setting down those props and embracing my uniqueness with love. I will never be the one who spends weekends with lifelong childhood friends, driving through a neighborhood I have lived all my life. Instead, I am the one who has childhood friends across the states, friends with whom I can stay at a moment's notice, picking up right where we need to, despite a decade apart. Friends in Texas, Michigan, Florida, Massachusetts, Pennsylvania, to name a few. I will always have a unique tribe, and it's something I enjoy, and at 40 am embracing with love. In fighting myself I faced every challenge alone, refusing to allow help. When the world said it was nearly impossible to complete a task, I would tell the world to sit down and watch me. It was set as a gauntlet, a challenge, not from a place of love. And you all did- you watched me fight through earning my PhD with 4 kids and husband; you watched me struggle with a license, housing and finances; you watched me battle the anxiety that was here pre-divorce and in earnest post-divorce. Now, at 40, I see my mistakes, when the task is nearly impossible I can complete it alone, but I can share the burden. I can chose to go forth in love or in fear.

At 40, I chose to go forth in love.

This is 40:

• seeing the woman in the mirror and loving her crinkles at her eyes, the light in her eyes, and all the little imperfections
• understanding that accepting help does not make you weaker, but stronger
• learning that love comes in all forms
• following passion and dreams, not only for yourself, but to model to your children
• finding the rhythms of parenting 4 unique individuals and accepting that you are never going to have all the answers
• accepting the situation at hand and then changing what you can
• taking risks, refusing to let fear and anxiety dictate
• choosing a life less ordinary and crafting it
• finding the courage in large and small situations to express my opinion, needs and desires regardless of the outcome

At 40, I go forth in love.

Dream Chasing

As some of you might be aware Leilah Grace is at it again.

This time she has partnered with Rue McKenrick, an amazing man designing, creating and hiking America's newest long trail, the American Perimeter Trail. As you all know I don't believe that people come into our lives randomly, but that each individual has a purpose. After a few conversations and a phone call I knew within me that I was being called to help this man. He has big dreams and is chasing a seemingly impossible goal, all the while doing it without consistent support. I have been lucky enough in my life to have the support I needed while I was out chasing my big crazy dreams and goals. This opportunity isn't about paying it back, but about doing what is right and supporting someone in their journey.

In the short time of this partnership I find myself glowing, happy and passionate about something; filled with a fire that hasn't been there in a while. I have a sense of belonging, a purpose. This project is forever bouncing around in my head, so much that I carry a notebook for when inspiration strikes. There is no dread, no fear, just excitement at the opportunities and promises it holds. While I help Rue I am finding my own fire and drive to chase my impossible sounding dreams again. Last year I made a connection that reminded me to dream and strive, but 2020 brings a fire and intensity that is unparalleled. 

Off we go into 2020 creating a life less ordinary.

Fears

Let's be real- we ALL have fears about something. Even that super secure person who you know has a fear somewhere, it's part of the human existence. It's what we do about our fears that's important. And me? I have a number of them, but for the most part I've learned how to recognize them and work through them. There has been one that has plagued me though: loneliness.

Even before going through this crazy divorce process I have had issues with being lonely. I know no one likes to be lonely, but I was especially sensitive to it, likely from my anxiety. As I started the separation and divorce process I suddenly found myself with lots of alone time. At that point in my life alone time equated loneliness. I couldn't see how to be alone and content, unless I was engrossed in a book; being alone meant being lonely. Thankfully, with the help of my therapist and the work I put in I learned how to separate the two and learned to be alone and content. There are still moments where I struggle, but the majority of the time I do just fine. Now, there are times I crave the solitude and peace that comes with being alone, that chance to be alone with my thoughts, feelings and just be.

There has continued to be an underlying issue of not wanting to be alone, which I assumed stemmed from the separation/divorce. It wasn't until very recently I uncovered that it's not a fear of being alone or being lonely, but of being forgotten. It's a fear of not being seen, acknowledged, included. I think we all struggle with this on some level, and primary caregivers especially. When you factor in that I'm now a single mom to 4, work a behind the scenes desk job, and was raised with mobile roots there are moments when I feel prone to invisibility. I know now when I feel invisible I am more likely to trigger feelings of loneliness and abandonment.

All of that begs, what am I going to do about it? Well, to be brutally honest I don't know yet. Knowing the root cause helps me logically, but I still have work to do. For now when the feelings hit I remember all the times that someone has remembered me, made me feel special and included me. It's certainly something I'll be addressing in my therapy sessions and working on at home. I will not let this fear rule me or interrupt my life any further. I don't have to be Nelson Mandela, Gabby Douglas, or Rosa Parks to be remembered. I just need to be a genuine me.

"Love belongs with belonging" ~Brené Brown

First off, the title of this post is a direct quote from Brené Brown's book The Gifts of Imperfection. I have started this book at least twice before and never made it past the first chapter or 2. It brought me to tears and made me so raw and uncomfortable that I put it down, vowing I would get back to it. After this summer of growth and a desire to keep growing it has been on my list to start again. A few weeks ago I picked it up and read the first 2 chapters. Did it hurt? Yes. Was I able to process her writing? Yes, which was a first for me.

This morning I picked up the book again and vowed to make it through another chapter. This chapter is about Love and Belonging. I won't delve into it, you need to get the book. But throughout the chapter she stresses that love and belonging belong together, and that belonging is different than fitting in. I had an epiphany, realizing that I have spent a large portion of my adult life working on fitting in, but not belonging. I can "fit" into many situations, I attribute this to the very different life experiences I had growing up. I can chameleon myself into a specific version of me. And truth be told it's uncomfortable at times. Always hiding, changing, evolving into this other version of me. I will never forget in grad school being told by my advisor to tone down my "yankeeness" and rely more on my "Texas roots." In response to that I do believe that I ended up playing up my northernness more because that's who I felt I was at that time. But really? I'm a combination of NorthEast girl with some Texan tendencies.

Luckily, this summer on that fateful first trip to Madison I found me. That raw, real me. The one who can be snarky and sweet, but also fierce and loving. The woman who still mails handwritten letters to friends, delivers homemade applesauce to deserving friends, would drive 2 hours to see you and who loves her kids fiercely with all her heart. I got to be me on that trip and it was freeing. I wasn't a mom, a partner or any other role but me. In fact, my dear friend that I made in Madison pointed out to me as I complained about wearing multiple hats (roles) that they're just hats and I can get rid of them easily and just be me. He was lucky enough to see that raw, vulnerable me in Madison and remind me later of who I am. I'm sure this is a reason that we are still friends despite the distance the short time we spent together. He accepted the raw me and loved me (as a friend) as I was.

So how do I become that raw vulnerable me here in my everyday life? It is something I am going to have to work at. It's so easy to slip into our roles: mom, coach, therapist, analyst, friend, etc. I will have to practice being me; raw, vulnerable me in each of these roles. It will not be easy, and I'd be lying if I said it didn't scare me to let that vulnerability out, but I will not hide. I have hidden so much of myself, especially the last 3 years, that this might be one of the most important undertakings. In recognizing myself and practicing living as me, I know that I will experience that true belonging I have been lacking.