she writes on sundays

  • But first, celebrate.

    About two months ago I had this outlandish idea. For my birthday, all I wanted to do was construct a big table, cook a bunch of food and combine all of my Bellingham friend groups.
    Combining friend groups is tricky. Mixing and mingling between multiple groups of humans where, for the most part, you’re the only bridge.

    that one time I combined multiple friend groups in the OC before I left the country.

    Here in Bellingham I have those I’ve met at A Life and those I’ve met at the Y.

    They are the both eclectic, diverse and weird groups of humans.

    So, I found tables, asked people to bring chairs and (mostly) sparkly beverages. I bought 25 lbs of chicken. I borrowed crockpots and my neighbor’s kitchen space. My roommate decorated and I scrubbed our back porch with bleach.

    And I cooked and chopped and sliced.

    And then when people started showing up, I put them to work. 

    I wish I had taken a picture, but I will have to settle for a mental image. Friends, from two different parts of my life, shredding chicken, cutting watermelon, mixing coleslaw, hauling chairs, setting up tables, sprinkling confetti. Friends who have spent time in my house separately, grabbing cups out of the cupboard and ice out of the freezer and knowing where the forks live.

    At about 7:35, when all the food was out, when everyone had a beverage and was laughing and talking, I paused.

    See, I was celebrating my birthday. That’s true.

    But really, I was celebrating my people. My community.

    I wanted to build a table, so that my people could bring some chairs to it and we could laugh and talk and eat.

    It wasn’t perfect.

    Everyone I wanted to be there couldn’t.

    But there was no shame.

    Only celebration.

    My table, my heart and my life in that moment, was full.

    The thing that I love about the people in my life, whether here, in Irvine, in Kingsburg, or scattered around the world is that when the time and the space happens where we can sit around a table it’s normally for one specific reason. 

    To celebrate.

    When I finally get to see people in my life that I never see, we don’t tend to jump straight into serious conversation. I spent an entire day sitting in silence with my friend Tiffany even though I hadn’t seen her for well over a year. She didn’t have the time to hang out and talk as she was studying for the GMAT, but I just wanted to be in her space.

    Jess, my best friend of about twenty-eight years, and I, see each other so infrequently, but we always take time to laugh, reminisce and drink Dutch Brothers.

    The crew of humans I will be seeing in about three weeks, I see most of them once a year. And we will spend a lot of our week at a table, eating bad camp food and being tired.

    But we will show up and we will laugh. And celebrate. (And drink A LOT of coffee)

    Community has become such a buzzword lately. It feels as if it’s binding. And serious.

    But, it’s not.

    There is a time and a place and a sacred circle. 

    But we need to make time, more time, to celebrate. The more we choose to celebrate, the more foundation we have to stand on for those more serious hard moments.

    The more we celebrate, the better position we are in to grieve with and console.

    The more we sit and celebrate, the more space we have in someone else’s life.  

    Community, establishing it, living in it, being a part of more then one, is gritty. Sometimes you only come to them once a year, sometimes once a week. Sometimes someone can’t come, but now, you just have an open seat.

    I came to Bellingham to be a part of a church.


    I got so much more.

    I got so many more people then I could have even fathomed. 

    When you make showing up your norm, when you meet people where they are, when you don’t shame the ones who aren’t capable of showing up, you clean out the clutter and you are left with celebration.

    My birthday dinner taught me a lot of things: I am loved, I can cook for thirty people stateside, I am loved, I have hysterical friends, I am known and when you lead with celebration at the table, people will come to it.

    Let’s build our lives on celebration and joy, so that when the dark and the hard and sad comes, we will have a foundation to sit with each other and the space to do so.

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  • My dear 31, you were kind of a bitch.

    The kind of lovely thing about a basically mid year birthday is that you can stop and reflect about what has happened since the calendar year changed as well as what has gone on since your age changed last.
    Seven out of the twelve months of this year were lived in 2016.

    And we all know what kind of year 2016 was.

    I’ve been trying my best to separate 31 from 2016. I’ve been trying to be glass half full, or at least glass refillable.

    But what I’ve realized is that 31 was like an avocado that is starting to go bad. You have to work for the good parts, because man, those parts are ripe and perfect and it’s a crime to throw away edible avocado. So, you slice and spoon out and flick the black bruised parts into the trash.

    And some of them end up in your guacamole, or in your nachos, or spread on your toast (SO WHAT I’M BASIC).

    It might make your mouth a little puckered, but you wouldn’t have even had the chance to have any of it if you’d chosen to chuck the whole thing.

    There have been A LOT of times over 31 that I wanted to chuck the whole thing. I wanted to chuck bellingham, my job, any chance of dreams. I wanted to chuck my voice, my abilities, my hope because I was running into a lot of bruised parts. Some days it felt like too many.

    Some days, I felt like the bruised part in other people’s life.
    I think if I had to take anything away from the last year of my life, it is this: “but I didn’t.”

    But I didn’t run.

    But I didn’t stay silent (most of the time).

    But I didn’t stop making friends.

    But I didn’t stop celebrating.

    But I didn’t stop showing up.

    But I didn’t stop loving.

    But I didn’t stop seeing the best in people.

    But I didn’t let my tears stop falling.

    But I didn’t stop baking.

    And even though this is the hardest one: But I didn’t stop hoping. 

    31 you were beautiful.

    You had a lot of tears, some weddings, sweet baby Peyton, some surprises, a lot more two year olds then I ever imagined I’d ever interact with in my life, you had board games and nights out and nights in. You brought new humans into my life, kept so many old, you had celebration and laughter. You had beer, margaritas and let’s be real: tequila. 

    31, as with every other year in my life, I do appreciate you. I appreciate the fight you’ve given me. I appreciate the tears and the days the tears never came. I appreciate the belly laughter, I appreciate that you were my second year in Bellingham. You were the year I established more and floundered less.

    I appreciate you, but, if you would be so kind:

    Please bring on 32.

    Here’s to 32.

    To more hope.

    To more joy.

    To more life.

    To more beautiful surprises.

    (And to less two year olds- 32 is more of a “three year old” kind of year)

    And here’s to the people of my 31 (obviously not all pictures. I only get nine guys!)


    I freaking love you people.

    I know it’s (almost) my birthday, but it’s you I want to celebrate.

    Thank you for being hope, light, joy, laughter, and (buying me) tequila, to me.

    Thank you all for being my people. Each and everyone of you, close as the next room and far as across an ocean, I love you all.

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  • a letter to those that lack 

    This is written to those occupying the same stage of life I am in, but if you are a human who has ever found themselves identifying what they lack over what they have have, my Sunday morning thoughts might help your brain too.

    Dear single woman,I get you.
    No, really I do.

    See, I’m not writing from the other side of the thing, or writing from a different phase in life. You won’t click on my bio and see I’m now a married woman with two kids and a house in the suburbs or find an Instagram with me sporting a diamond. I’m in what some would call “the waiting” or “the before”

     (I just call it life.)

    I am not going to tell you to “enjoy this time” because you should enjoy everything. I am not going to tell you that you aren’t ready, because you are the only human who knows that.

    I am going to tell you that I know. I know that you have eyes and a heart and a mind. You see, you feel and you think.

    And those don’t always connect. You logically know you are good, solid. You feel about 95% whole. But your eyes always lead you astray. The land on the differences, the missing pieces. Your eyes don’t know how to outline what you have, they only know how to outline what “should” be there.

    I know you have days that are harder then others.

    And those hard days make you feel a lot of things. Filled with shame because you feel like “that girl”, upset at yourself because you don’t want to feel that way, you want to be whole and independent. It might make you feel more determined to be whole and independent.

    I want you to know that I truly believe in the bottom of your knower that you know that you are good. That you aren’t less of a person because you don’t have something you want. 

    I see you.

    I see into your insides. I see that you are reminded of what you lack, you are reminded of the step in life you have yet to take.

    And I’m writing this because I want you to know aren’t alone.

    You are in a world, daily, of people who feel so similar to you.

    That couple you see in the coffee shop every Saturday wants kids.

    The dad who wants to coach the little league team but can’t leave work early.

    That family of five just wants to buy a house in the same neighborhood as their friends.

    And you might of just thought the same thing I did even as I typed those words: “but at least…”

    At least they have each other.

    At least he has the job.

    As least they have the family.

    We live in an “at least” world and sometimes being a single woman feels very bottom of that food chain.

    But, IF we don’t want people to belittle us with “at leasts” we should work on the same.

    If we want to choose to see what people have, we need to decide to do that for ourselves.

    Let’s stop living in lack.

    Let’s stop living in lack WITH the knowledge though, that some days are harder than others.

    I am not great at focusing on what I have. 

    I never thought I struggled with comparison.

    I was wrong.

    So, for me, it’s going to be a mind overhaul. I’m not talking about making lists or writing in a gratitude journal, though if that is how it works best for you, go for it. I’m going to attempt to, whenever I see something I lack in the picture of what someone else has, I am going to remind myself that for everything I see they have, I have something too. I’m going to remind myself that we are different humans, with different journeys and lives.

    I repeat again: I’m going to try.

    And I know that doesn’t and won’t always happen.

    So now, at the precipice of a new week, I raise my can of sparkly wine;

    I raise it to the couple who wants kids,

    To the dad who wants to coach the team,

    To the family who wants the house,

    And to you, my single friend.

    I raise my wine to you all. We forget so often in the midst of comparison and haves and have-nots, in the midst of constantly feeling less than or lacking, that we are all in this together.
    Our commonalities are far greater than the things that separate us.

    Let’s be kind to our minds this week.

    Let’s see what happens.

    Sincerely,

    Meg

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  • I am not a mother

    I have met a lot of moms in my life.

    That’s kind of a side effect of working with tiny humans; you meet their moms.

    I’ve made friends with, been mentored by, looked up to, laughed with, cried to, been cried on, by a large variety of mothers. My friends have become mothers before my own eyes. I’ve met moms in many different countries, across language and cultural barriers.

    I, myself, am not a mother.

    I process a lot in this blog. I process my thoughts through writing. I “think out loud” in order to lay the pieces out. I don’t say things to garner sympathy or attention. I say things to tell it like it is. I say things so, in case you feel the same way, you don’t feel so alone.

    I am not a mother.
    And I don’t know if I need to be one.

    This isn’t saying that I don’t want to be a mother. Or that I don’t have moments of baby fever, because let me tell you my Facebook feed is blowing up with pregnancy announcements. And my most favorite place at the Y is in the baby room snuggling the babies.

    But, I don’t think my world is going to crash down if I don’t get married or if my husband, whoever he may be, and I decide that we don’t want to have kids.

    I also don’t think it will make me less of a woman, or that I would be selling myself short, or the world short if I didn’t “put a piece of myself into it”.

    Women who become moms (through any means) are pretty freakin bad ass. From the women in a village in Africa who have a baby on their back and a basket on their head, to the single thirty something who is a foster mom, to the working moms whose tiny humans I’ve taught and taken care of during the day, to the single moms who do all the things, to the moms who stay at home and take care of their kiddos and support each other. BA every one of them.

    And I know a lot of grown ass women who aren’t mothers who are also BA. Running businesses, managing companies, making a life from being immensely creative. Some of them may want kids and some don’t.

    And that’s ok.

    Sometimes it is hard, especially in a Christian culture, to understand a woman not wanting kids. Or being ok with not having them. Or sympathizing and not being condescending to the one who does and is unable too.

    I have mom role models. I have women I want to be when I “grow up” (as always, Rachel B I’m looking at you). I take parenting nuggets here and there. If I do have kids, I won’t be scared of a singular two year old because for the past year I’ve averaged 12 on the daily. I have a lot of tricks up my sleeve.

    And if I never use them on my own kids that’s ok.

    I guess, what it really comes down to is this: it’s completely 100% ok not to want to have kids. It’s ok to not want to or need to be a mom. It is not ok to shame those who have those opinions or tell them “they just need to find the right guy” (and yes that has been said to me).

    It comes down to being who you are.

    And this is who I am.

    So, to all of you mothers on Mother’s Day and let’s face it, every day.

    You guys are amazing.

    While, yes, I do take care of tiny humans, change diapers and put to sleep (think: MMA cage fighting a crocodile), I feed and teach and snuggle and love; I sleep in a bed that doesn’t get disturbed by the tiptoe of tiny feet. I don’t get yelled at that the toast is cut wrong WHILE also trying to get ready for work. (I still get yelled at for the toast). I don’t get awakened by screams, or have to watch shots at the doctor.

    You do that.

    So, if I don’t ever become a mom; if I spend the rest of my life, in some capacity, taking care of tiny humans, or caring for my friend’s tiny humans, I want you, sweet mom friend of mine, to know this simple four word sentence from me to you:

    I got your back.

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  • but I’ve always been fat.

    Before you start reading this I need you to know three things:

    I’m a reasonably happy with myself human being; I know who I am, what I’m made of and what I’m about.

    I know HOW to lose weight, I’ve done it before.

    I know my beauty.

    I don’t know at what point in my life I started gaining weight. I remember being overweight in elementary school. I remember it being hard to run at softball practice. I remember shopping in the women’s section and not being able to order from all those catalogs that all the cool kids ordered from. I remember being different.

    A lot of things worked against me most of my life (or so it felt). I tried multiple time to lose weight. I had gym memberships in high school and tae-bo VHS’s and I ordered diet pills online and hid them.

    My second semester of my junior year of college and through the summer before my senior year I lost 60 pounds. I ate very little and exercised a lot. And then music camp before my senior year I was incredibly overwhelmed. I was in the limelight already as a president of one of the music ensembles. And then I felt like all of these people who had known me for four years were finally able to see me.

    Holy hell that was too much. 

    No one tells you how scary it is to lose weight.

    No one tells you that losing weight doesn’t make you happy.

    ESPECIALLY when you realize you don’t actually know who you are.

    “Thinner” days in my senior year of college.

    Since college I’ve gained back and lost again and gained back and lost 50-70 pounds.

    I’ve been told so many different things. I’ve been fat shamed and body shamed. I’ve been shamed for losing weight and shamed for gaining it back. The amount of times and the amount of people who have uttered the words “well let’s not gain it back this time” to me is more then I would like to admit. 

    I want you to know that being fat and losing weight isn’t about the physical aspect of it for me. It’s about the mental game.

    When you lose weight people notice. They point it out.

    You can’t hide.

    I’ve learned over the last four years or so that I’m not meant to hide, I’m meant to be known and seen and lead and use my voice.

    But, I’ve always been fat.

    There might be people who are capable of losing weight and keeping it off after realizing they hate their body. There might be people who find themselves through the process.

    But me? I’ve always been fat. I’ve hid behind it, used it as a shield, fended off relationships with it, treated it as part of my identity. It’s not that anyone has outright called me the fat friend, but I’ve stepped into that role, never shopping in the same section as my friends, calling things beautiful that I couldn’t fit over one leg, going shopping by myself at the mall in the stores I can fit in. 

    But, I’ve always been fat. And I’ve always learned to love myself. I’ve developed a personal style. I’ve felt beautiful. I know who I am.

    Here’s the thing: I know how to treat my body. But, for so long I’ve used this vessel that my identity is in as a wall. It’s easy to get out of things in life, it’s “easier”to be who you are when part of you is hiding.

    I don’t know what I am actually going to feel when I lose weight. I don’t know what knowing who I am, and what I am about is going to change. I don’t know what having a firm foundation is going to do.

    But, I am going to try.

    I’m not going to document anything or post pictures of food. For me it’s not a battle of healthy choices and working out. 

    It’s a battle to believe it’s actually not an always in my life.

    And it’s not an always in your life either.

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  • Just fix your leggings

    I was putting on my leggings this morning and I thought of my tiny humans. Every weekday at about 11AM you can normally find me helping two year olds go potty and put on pull-ups and put their pants back on.

    And let me tell you, hell hath no fury like a tiny human whose pants are too tight, bunched or stuck on their foot.

    I rarely can fix the problem before the whines and squeaks begin.

    My tiny humans quickly tell me when they aren’t happy, uncomfortable or any form of not feeling perfectly at peace in their own skin. Their blankets aren’t right, they have the wrong cup, their food is touching. They let me know when they are hungry or tired.

    They refuse to live like that. Ever.

    Not having it.

    At some point, obviously, that changes.

    At some point we begin to just be ok with things that cause us discomfort, or pain, or take our peace of mind away. At some point we are entrenched in the knowledge that “life isn’t fair” and “you just have to live with it”.

    At some point we just live with things being off or bunched or too tight.

    Why?

    Why do we, as human beings, decide that we aren’t worth living our life to the fullest, we decide we aren’t worth rest, or lovely things.

    We decide that someone else’s happiness is more important then ours.

    Now, I am not saying that we have to be happy all the time, or comfortable, or that we have to satisfy every need and desire we have right at the exact moment. 

    I am saying, is that living at a two for the sake of living at a two is dumb.

    I’ve been pondering this idea lately. The idea that we as humans choose to suffer for the sake of suffering.

    I feel like christians have cornered this market. Suffering for the sake of suffering. I have done it, I have been in a place of not accepting something, or not choosing something because I thought I wasn’t supposed too.

    But, what I have learn in my life thus far, is that are already times when life will feel crappy, hard and all the things without me choosing it. We don’t need to create more situations like that.

    I learn from my tiny humans a lot. And today, when putting on my leggings, I was reminded that I don’t need to choose to be uncomfortable, I don’t need to live in my unhappiness.

    I don’t need to make life hard for the sake of it being hard.

    Now, I don’t need to throw a tantrum when my leggings catch on my foot, or when I feel lonely, or if something doesn’t go my way.

    But, if I have the ability to fix it- why shouldn’t I?

    There are a lot of big world things we are unable to fix. There are a lot of circumstances that we aren’t meant to change . We can’t always leave the job, or move out of the city, or magically be in a relationship.

    But, we can fix our leggings or go on a run, we can hang out with friends or we can light a candle and take a deep breath.

    We can find the things we need to find balance and joy and peace.

    We are allowed to choose goodness.

    We don’t need to scream about it like my tiny humans but we can take deep breath and figure it out.

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  • wear the damn tiara

    I was thinking a lot while I was in church today about why I go to church.
    I’m not from a regular church attending type of family. We were able to make our own choices and decisions, we were about to choose our path.

    I’m grateful for that.

    I’m grateful that I know, from the very depths of my being that ,at some point in my life, I decided of my own accord, to choose Christ.
    I technically became a Christian the summer of 2000 (youth conference in Indiana). I’ve done a lot of Christian things in my life. I’ve been on mission trips and outings as close as my backyard and as far away China (and everywhere in between). I’ve taught Sunday school, I’ve led worship, I’ve ran VBS, I’ve been on the payroll of 3 different churches at one time, I’ve been on the writing team where I written recaps of sermons for the church website. I went to a Christian university, was the president of a choir there. I began a probably never going to be completed Masters in Leadership in spirituality. I went to a Christian leadership academy in the south of Spain.

    What I am trying to say is I have an extensive resume of Christianity over the last almost 17 years of my life or as my friend Krys put it once, I’m a serious Christian-I’ve held babies in Africa.

    But like, really, why?

    After I went on the World Race and during my time in Spain, I went through a crisis of faith. What it came down to was this: I had always been a good person. I had always been kind, service oriented, people loving.

    After I came to choose Christ and do all of these Christian things, my life felt as if it fell apart. And through all of the things I had to come to terms with the fact that all the good things from before, all the loveliness in my life that I deemed Meghan were actually indeed one and the same with the loveliness that was Christ in my life. It wasn’t just Christ. It wasn’t just Meg.

    It was both/and.

    Then I moved to Bellingham.

    And there is an incredibly long, winding story as to the how and the why which I’m sure I’ve written about at some point.

    But, the short of it is: I came to Bellingham for a church, for a community.

    I think I might have come to bring something even though I don’t quite know what that is still.

    So, this morning, I was in that very church, the one that I have been to most every Sunday since I moved to Bellingham, wondering why. 

    Quick side note before we move on: I love my church.

    But, when I was thinking about why church this morning it wasn’t necessarily why MY church. And I keep trying to type as if my fingers will just perpetuate the correct answer to my question. I think that, in all honesty, I don’t know why. 

    Part of it (as I just messaged to my magical unicorn Betsy) is that I’m struggling with being in a box these days. So questions of things that pertain to my identity are hitting me hard. Whenever I feel firm and rooted and knowledgeable of who I am, I feel a lot of pressure. 

    In all honesty, it feels like in books about normal girls becoming princesses and all they want to do is push against it, all they want to do is not be that thing. Even though they know it is part of who they are. That all the things are in them for a reason.

    I don’t want to wear a tiara.

    But it has my name on it.

    (I need everyone to know that writing the above five sentences physically made me gag).

    Holy rabbit trail Batman.

    This is 700 words that I wrote off a singular question in my brain (that I didn’t even answer) about why I go to church.

    But, what I did, is continued the questions I ask of myself.

    Even when it feels slightly painful, or uncomfortable, or when I don’t want to know the answer, I never want to stop asking myself questions.

    As much as I would love to have it all figured it out, I’m glad I don’t. 

    And I guess, that IS part of the reason I go to church, whatever that may look like. 

    Moral of the story: don’t stop asking questions of yourself, don’t stop seeking wisdom, and don’t stop being who you are–even when it doesn’t feel as if it fits.

    It does.

    Wear the damn tiara.

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  • Human, raised by humans.

    I feel like I am going to fail people on a pretty regular basis.

    I’ve been twiddling my thumbs here for about an hour. I’ve started at least three different blogs and none of them settled until I wrote that sentence. I’ve been sitting here, drinking coffee, texting and judging coffee orders from men (yes, that’s a thing) and essentially trying to put words to the feelings I was feeling.

    I’m not afraid to fail a task or not be able to do something the first time. I’m ok with asking clarifying questions.

    But, I am so, so afraid that at some point people are going to see through whatever mask I feel like I am wearing and rip it off for everyone to see.

    Somewhere in my life, I got it into my head that my authentic self, in all its glory was too much. Failure and fake go hand and hand to me.

    If I don’t do all the things I can, if I don’t put everything I can into my life, there is a good chance I will fail someone. And there are a lot of people counting on me.

    But, if I do juggle all the things and be all the things that I know I can be, what will people think? Will they think I’m too much? Will they think I am not being myself? 

    I feel like a conundrum to myself a lot. I am the first person to tell you to jump, to do the damn thing, to be the thing. I can probably tell you exactly who I am (well, who I am in this season). I am confident in my knowledge of who God is to me, and I can tell you more about child development than I ever thought I could.

    I guess, the thing is this:

    I’m only human guys.

    I’m not perfect, I’m not always nice, I don’t always like people, I don’t always make the right choice.

    I’m scared of failing the tiny humans I care for each day. 

    I’m terrified of not being good enough.

    I choose my words more carefully then you will ever know.

    My insecurity runs rampant more than I care to admit.
    And I say this, all of this, to first and foremost remind you, the person currently reading these words, that YOU are human. 

    You are allowed to be afraid.

    To fail. To jump.

    To make a bad call.

    To walk fully in who you are.

    You are allowed to choose.

    I think that are times where we need, desperately, to give ourselves grace. To remember that we are not super heros. We are just humans. Which is lovely. We are JUST humans gifted with hearts and hands and brains and creative uses of all those things to use everyday.

    And sometimes we WILL fail. And sometimes people won’t believe us. 

    And that’s ok too.

    I feel like it’s been awhile since brutal honesty has splashed out on my page. The inner workings of my mind on a daily basis. The insecurity I feel. How often I want to run myself. How I wore out the backspace key on my laptop.

    But, my feet are firmly planted. Amidst all the things, I choose to show up. Amidst all of my fears, I haven’t quit my job. And amidst my insecurity I still write words.

    So secondly, I write these words, to remind you, the human reading this, to not let any of those fears stop you. And if they are stopping you- please, please tell someone.

    You don’t need to lay them out on a page like I just did. You don’t need to declare it from the rooftops. Just clear the clutter in your brain, tell it to a close friend, put it on a page, go to therapy, do something, anything.

    You are not your fears, your failure, your insecurity.

    I am not my fears, my failures, my insecurities.

    I am a human, raised by humans, surrounded by humans, attempting to do my best to be who I am where my feet are.

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  • the moment I realized I wasn’t normal 


    I don’t really know at what point in my life I realized there was a difference between being normal and being not normal. There was a moment though, I think maybe, in the season of my life that I was made fun of for my voice and I realized people were mean, that I distinctly got the impression that something about me didn’t fit-I wasn’t normal. I wasn’t going to be the one picked or chosen or wanted.

    A memory came to me tonight, very strongly, so I called my mom to ask her about it. I was young, maybe 8 or 9, and I had written my Grandma Reeve, who lived in Kansas, a card about not being normal. I remember the feeling I had when I had the epiphany, but I can’t place the why. Then, in return, my grandma had written back that she was my “not-normal” grandma.

    I haven’t thought about that moment in years. But tonight my (exhausted) train of thought led me to that memory. And the moment in what I feel like every person life when they stumble upon the “us vs. them” and that begins to shape how they view themselves. 

    It took me a long time to move away from the normal vs. not normal. A lot of heartache in my life and loneliness came from this place of feeling as if I don’t fit, feeling like I am not worth it. Like I don’t deserve it, whatever it may be.

    I can be a pretty insecure human. I mostly have long stretches of wholeness with a smattering of rain clouds in them. I’m more secure than I was 10 years ago and I’m sure I will be more secure in 10 more. But, when it hits it hits.

    And I think I wanted to write this in a place when it wasn’t hitting that hard.

    I’m a firm believer that if you want to rock an outfit and you feel comfortable in it then go head and rock the damn outfit. If you have the confidence and belief in yourself to do something then do it. 

    80% of the time I actually don’t care what people think. And that is a far cry from the teenager and twenty something who tiptoed around with the firm belief that she was too much and that people would run. 

    It’s a far cry from the tiny human who didn’t believe she would ever fit in the box that is normal. 

    This collection of words isn’t to define normal, because that’s way to cliche for me.

    It’s a reminder that even in being who we are the little things can still sneak up and bite us. It’s a reminder that at some point in your life you reached a fork in the road that was us vs them and it shaped some part of you whether you know it or not.

    My fork was normal vs. not normal. Those were my boxes for so long. So, when I have insecurity, when I feel not enough or more often feel too much, when I don’t feel wanted or needed, when my response is to run, I need to remember that little girl who didn’t feel normal. I need to remember what I’ve come from, what I’ve done and who is around me.  

    So, as I start a new week, as I attempt to the best of my ability to show up for my life each day, I want to continue obliterating that thought process in my life. I want to remember that little girl who didn’t think she was normal. I want to hug her and tell her she was exactly the tiny human she needed to be. I want to tell her that it won’t get better, but it will get more whole. 

    And I want to remind her to be kind to herself.

    This week I need to go back to remembering that very thing.

    Be kind this week, first to yourself and then onward.

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  • how darkness brought me light

    I know this seems silly.It seems silly that I am sitting in church thinking about how a show about vampires is over.

    I get it.

    But as I am sitting here in church I am thinking about another church I used to sit in a lot. I sat in it mostly on Sunday nights, sometimes the mornings, for about five years. And there was a time in that period of about 2-3 years that I cried every single time.

    I wouldn’t really break down during the week. I wouldn’t get emotional during therapy. I sometimes cried myself to sleep. Or on my walks to and from work.

    But without fail, every Sunday I would kneel at the cross in the back left corner of the sanctuary to take communion and I would sob. I would cry and I would leave all the tears and all the anguish at the foot of the cross.

    Hope for me was something for others. It was something that was tangible to a whole hell of a lot of people. It was something I felt capable of giving but not receiving.

    So on Sundays I cried.

    Let me delve a little before fall of 2009:

    In June of 2009 I wanted to kill myself.

    I wanted to be done. It all hurt too much. It didn’t make sense. I couldn’t see how I could go on.

    I saw a flickering light in the midst of a dark room. I knew it was God. I knew it was hope.

    But after that I was numb.

    I couldn’t always find the words to say to people. I powered through a summer of day camp. I went to therapy once a week. I tried to wear a smile.

    And come the fall, with the school year beginning again and so many other things that felt big and heavy I decided to start watching a new show that was so debuting on the CW.

    So on Fridays after work, I watched the Vampire Diaries.

    As I wrote in a letter to the creators, this show gave me light in the darkness. 

    It brought me back to myself when it felt like all the things around me that were supposed to be helping weren’t working. (They were by the way, I just couldn’t see it).

    The show brought me back to story.

    And that is beautiful.

    It gave me a voice in the midst of a depression that wanted to and sometimes succeeded at silencing me.

    It made me laugh.

    And mostly, most importantly, it reminded me I wasn’t alone.

    It gave me that hope I so desperately wanted to have.

    And I found this community of people who didn’t know me or my problems or my depression. They didn’t know I was a kid person or a “failing” Christian.
    They just knew I had zippy comebacks. That I was Team Elijah. 

    And slowly, slowly, they started to put me back together when I didn’t think anything was working. 

    It gave me place to laugh and to cry. Real emotions when none of mine felt real anymore.

    So I know it seems silly that I was so emotionally invested in a show about vampires. That I broke down into tears when it finally settled in me that it was over.

    But, in the darkest parts of my life, the healing of someone else’s dark parts, in the form of a story about vampire brothers in love with a girl, allowed me to look away from my tragedy and find emotion again without even realizing it.

    It helped me feel again.

    So, one day, when I have a teenager who is going through teen angst and probably thinks I’m not cool, or when she’s in college and homesick and heartsick, we will make some cookies and throw on our sweats and I’ll click play…
    “For over a century I have lived in secret,

    Hiding in the shadows, alone in the world.

    Until now.

    I am a vampire,

    And this my story”
    Thank you TVD for all the things.

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