she writes on sundays

  • Lux Aeterna: Camp 2k24

    To my beautiful, probably still heat exhausted Royal Family,

    Somewhere between sitting on the floor of Redwood singing Lux Aeterna at 1am, leading another round of “Miss Meg says” and crying from laughter in the dark with Susan, Tyler, Priscilla, Vanessa and Beth I realized that there was no way I could have actually been prepared for camp this year.

    And I think that’s why the only thing I could hear from God the weeks prior to camp was “just show up”.

    All we could do was show up because I know for me, for a lot of us, we had so many things we had to choose to leave at the door. We had to choose to toss some things down the mountain and disconnect because that was the only way we would be able to move forward.

    We had to choose to believe God was already there; ahead of us, behind us and walking in the midst of us.

    I was a little overwhelmed leading communion on Monday night. I felt the weight of whatever was to come. As we waited to see the campers that might not make it, as we tried to get as prepared as we could.

    And again I heard “just show up”.

    We showed up in chapel and in the hot sun. We showed up at the pool and we ate so the kids would eat even though it was too hot to eat.

    The deans and staff counselors and directors showed up with the amount of steps they took running along side kids. They showed up for the counselors by making sure they were finding ways to meet their own needs. (I think my annual Susan makes me cry by asking me how I was occurred on Friday).

    You all showed up for me by doing one more round of miss meg says and encouraging your kids to listen. You also all showed up for me by not seeing a single bible in lost and found.

    I think this week was a reminder that while we all have things and trials and stressors and ways we feel less than- we will all show up for the kids.

    I say it every year: I feel as if, during the week of camp, I’m operating out of exactly who I’m meant to be. It’s a weird thing to explain, it’s just something I feel. I know that no matter how much energy I do or don’t think have- that at the end of the night (or in most cases- the start of the next day) when my head would hit the pillow I knew that I had given all the things in my hands and no matter how it felt when I woke up- my hands when be full again. Even if they were just full from the cold Celsius Jen handed me before 7am.

    There was one moment at camp that I felt a breakdown coming so I found Susan and Tyler at a table during the birthday dinner and told them I needed to check out for a moment. Before I even stepped away from the table I had two or three boys want to tell me a bible verse; so I stopped and did that and then made my way to lay down and cry and fend off what felt like a panic attack before going to chapel.

    That night was the LIT hayride and even though I’d spent most of chapel breathing through tears I got on the hayride with the boys and got to see my favorite thing that camp brings: kids being kids.

    I got to see kids be kids because we adults decided to show up.

    There’s a lot of reasons I push myself for a week at camp, a lot of reasons I show up with all that I am and all that I have.

    This year there were 90ish kids and 100 adults that were the reasons.

    I know that there is more for me to sit with about this week of camp. I know that God shifted a thing inside of me that I didn’t realize needed shifting.

    So, on Tuesday, I’m going to find clean clothes in my house in the morning and probably go sit somewhere and write and rest and find some of my friends to hug. And I’m going to sit and ask God what He put into my hands this week. I’m going to take sometime to write some words to the humans who showed up with me this week.

    But, right now, on the plane from one home in Irvine to another home in Washington I just have to say that I’m so grateful for another week serving His kids with you all.
    I’m grateful for a week of moments that matter.
    I’m grateful for karaoke golf cart rides and Pixar shorts and sarcastic nine year olds and side hugs from little boys who tell me I’m the nicest person they’ve ever met (sorry Lenore).
    I’m grateful for the same little boys and their choice vocabulary and the way they helped me up the hill so I wouldn’t fall.
    I’m grateful for the ability to see little girls be little girls and play in makeup and dress up. And also feel strong using a hammer and building projects.
    I’m grateful for all the laughter and how the girls in upstairs redwood were very particular about the temperature of their showers.

    And I’m so grateful that as He always does- that God met us there.

    With all the love in the world and a promise to show up with all that I have,
    Miss Meg

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  • You’re not too

    I can’t make sense of my life right now and the only thing I can do to make sense of it is sit in front of of a blank screen and try desperately to untangle the mess of words in my brain.

    I’ve inevitably gone back into a bit of an avoidance state. I know it. I’m always absolutely sure of my ability to just put my head down and try to not think of the things I don’t want to deal with.

    Normally instead of putting all these brutally honest words on a page what I would do instead is simply try to empower myself out of the things I heard.

    I try to man up.

    But, there is this really creepy children’s movie from the late 80s that keeps coming to my brain. It’s called “Little Nemo: adventures in slumberland”. It’s one of those films most people have forgotten about or chosen to ignore. But there’s a feeling that I remember from the movie, when Nemo is falling off the bed. It’s a clear feeling I still feel when I even just think about the movie. It’s a feeling of unstoppable dread.

    The feeling that feels like nothing will ever be the same again once you slip off the edge.

    A feeling you can’t turn back from.

    And in a way, that’s how I felt lately. If I choose to put out what I feel and how I’m back in this land of the other shoe dropping.

    This is the part I don’t like. Having to admit the things I’m choosing to run from, or the conversations I’m avoiding for fear of once again being the one that breaks down.

    And so now, I sit here, wondering if I’m going to talk about a phrase that was said to me constantly by a lot of people growing up.

    It’s something I’ve touched on here and there but I’ve never come right out and addressed.

    I’ve been told; since I was a very tiny human and into adulthood that I am too sensitive, that my feelings were too big, that I overreact. That it’s “not a big deal”.

    I could write a list with memories and moments and words absolutely branded on my brain.

    And I’ve spent a majority of my adult life teetering on the edge of being too much.

    I’ve absolutely outlined a narrative that people will leave if I’m not strong enough. That the next time I break down will be the last time the people around me can stand.

    Even facing the words on the screen- I know it’s ridiculous.

    Something I know that I know is that the dark and ugly things of the world- whatever sentiments you describe as evil- that that thing has been trying to rob me of that thing I was told was too much my whole life.

    I’m really damn good at teaching tiny humans. It’s something I won’t back down from. There are a lot of things that I feel deem myself a good teacher for but, I believe the thing that sets a part as a teacher is I don’t see a tiny human weakness or behavior as such- I see how it is a strength. How it can be used and how we just need to change the perspective.

    I’m trying to change my perspective on my emotions. I’m trying to find ways to remember that people aren’t going to run and when they have; they aren’t my people.

    I’ve tried really hard since I’ve started writing and sharing it to not let the fear of being too much overcome me.

    While, some moments are moments of protecting myself and who I am, others are solely the fear of the mess I feel inside or in my room will suddenly be too much.

    But, I’ve spent a lot of years teaching tiny humans about emotions and that their emotions are valid.

    And today, sitting on this crowded sunny patio, I wanted to stare at little Meghan and remind her: she’s not too sensitive.

    That her sensitivity and the voice she’s too afraid to use are powerful.

    And that tonight, she should sleep.

    With love,

    Meg

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  • Just show up

    It’s almost my most favorite week of the year: Royal family kids camp.

    So, of course there are about at least five new stressors that popped upon the last week. There is a hundred things I need to do in the next 12 days before I fly on a plane to California.

    There’s curriculum to keep editing, lines to memorize, supplies to have sent to Irvine, packing list to make, super soakers to find. All the things.

    And then there is me: not feeling holy enough.

    I know that sounds like a weird sentence, but it’s absolutely the only word that comes to my brain.

    At camp I get to one of my favorite things and that is simply this: remind kids again and again and again that they are loved. I teach bible stories and pass out prizes for memorizing bible verses.

    But really what I’m doing is just reminding them each and every moment that they were born to be loved.

    That there are people that love them and will show up for them, that pray for them and constantly think of them.

    The weeks leading up to camp the last few years have been hard. I’ve lived life emotionally drained and have been trudging up hills and through muck. So, I find myself getting to the weeks before camp and staring at Bible curriculum and verses and thinking I am not at all in the heart space to the one up at front.

    Camp is a tiring week. It’s sun-up to sun-down, walking up and down hills, engaging with kids and adults, getting in the pool, making crafts, trying my best to avoid woodworking but always seeing a kid who needs help and doing it anyway.

    It’s a week where I feel like I’m utilizing all that I am and all I have to give and leaving up on the mountain.

    But, in the midst of all of my doubts and all the ways I just feel incapable and stressed and everything in between I’m just hearing these simple words:

    Just show up.

    My word for the year is again. It’s not just a word but a fill in the blank that has found a way to maneuver into most aspects of my life.

    So amended: just show up again.

    Showing up to camp is a lot. It’s carrying the year prior on your back, it’s the ways you’ve changed and grown and been stretched. It’s carrying the things you’ve lost along the way and hoping you have enough to keep picking things up.

    We all come to camp with different stories, just like the kids we spend the week. We come with different reasons why, with different pains, different things we bring to the table.

    And we can prepare, we can make lists, we can do everything we can.

    But, at the end of the day all we are asked to do is simple just show up again.

    Show up for the kids.

    Show up for each other.

    Show up for ourselves.

    That’s what I’m going to work on remember over the next 12 days amidst all the things. I just need to get on a plane and show up.

    To my Royal Family, I can’t wait to see you so soon and hug you all.

    I cannot wait til we can show up together again.

    With love,

    Meg

    If you’d like to help us show up for the kids, you can head to our donate link to help send a kid to camp!

    https://www.forthechildrensantaana.org/donate

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  • An anchor change

    I have a few defining moments in my relationship with God that I seem to circle back to as an anchor for a season, or an emotion or a theme that seems to continually wind its way around me. And the one that’s come back into my life in recent months that I finally feel out of to talk about is simply the constant image of the nightlight in my life.

    I went through the probably the absolute darkest time of my life in 2008-2009. I was on meds, both of my parents had health issues, I had just gotten out of a classroom environment that was not good for me and I was feeling so much more than I was capable of dealing with.

    I was thankfully in therapy and trying to do as much as I could.

    But, the darkness and the things around me felt like too much.

    It was a Sunday morning. It’s one of the images that stay in my brain despite my desire to not remember it so clearly. I was looking at myself in my bathroom mirror and I stared hard at myself and just thought the words “maybe it would just be better if I wasn’t here anymore”.

    And then I closed my eyes.

    When I closed my eyes I saw myself standing in an incredibly dark room and in the corner of the room I saw it. It was a dim, dim nightlight. It was down at the corner of the wall, where the light socket was. One of those rectangular ones that you get at the dollar store with a yellow light and a flimsy cover.

    I will never forget that picture in my brain and how for all of my life since then when I’ve found myself in places of darkness I’ve come back to it. I’ve come back to the reminder that the darkness could not completely snuff out the light.

    To be completely and utterly honest in ways I don’t love to be; I needed this image a few months ago. I was trudging. And one night I was in the shower and I sat down and I sobbed and sobbed and let the water engulf me and had the thought crossed my mind about just staying in the water. (Don’t worry mom, I’m ok).

    And I sat in my shower sobbing I saw that light again and I got up and I shook it off and I kept (pardon my French) fucking going.

    Because, at the end of the day, that’s what I was going to do. I was going to get up no matter what and keep going.

    That brings me to today.

    I didn’t go to church yesterday because cramps and no sleep but, I listened to church at work this morning to help get me out of a Monday mood.

    When we got to the activation at the end, the thing I heard God say while I scooped pasta was “you’re still light”.

    In all honesty, I just thought of that nightlight picture and really just believed his light was still there. That the darkness couldn’t drown it out.

    That MY darkness couldn’t drown it out.

    I knew though, that there was something there, something I needed to untangle.

    Something that needed to become undone.

    I didn’t realize that the thing the needed to be undone was a narrative I’ve kept close for 15 years.

    The narrative being that the nightlight was just God.

    The thing that was stronger than the darkness around it. The thing that has still been lit in the rooms that feel devoid of light wasn’t just God.

    It was me.

    Because no matter how dark my world has felt, no matter how much I wanted to just stop moving;

    I’m still light.

    Last year when I went through my identity work with my pastor and my people and kind of met myself where I didn’t know I needed too, the picture I saw was one of a home with a candle in the window.

    A small, soft light that was always on, welcoming those that need it in.

    No matter what I’ve believed about myself the light will always shine through.

    That feels more important than I even know how to articulate.

    I’ve always been afraid of the things that feel dark in my life. That the darkness is something that can engulf me, that it can dampen the light that I believed was outside of me- not a light that I brought myself. That the darkness was me.

    We all bring something to the table. We all have something inside of us that the humans around us need.

    And I hope that for all my days the light I am shines on what you bring.

    And that I never forget that my ability to keep the darkness at bay.

    A narrative in my life changed today over wontons and bubbly and people watching.

    Here’s a reminder that no matter how long you’ve held onto something you always have the ability to realize that it’s not what you think it is.

    With love,

    Meg

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  • A note about 39

    I deleted about 300 words that I wrote yesterday because I knew in my knower that I wasn’t actually typing what was true.

    Well, it was true but it wasn’t it. It wasn’t the thing that I needed to be saying for myself at the beginning of this new year.

    I didn’t need to start with all the ways in which I’ve always felt less than.

    I didn’t need to start “used to be”.

    Years ago a mentor was asking me questions about journaling and I stated that I don’t journal when I don’t want to face the thing that I already know.

    I absolutely know what’s at the end of this; but I absolutely don’t want to see it in writing.

    I’ve always been…scratch that.

    I’m currently working on letting go of the constant fear that I’m too much.

    And it’s really hard.

    I’ve spent a very long time checking over my shoulder, backspacing over words, regretting input I’ve given, questioning my abilities and wondering if I’m allowed space in the places I inhabit.

    Now, there’s a lot of reasons and a lot of situations and a lot of times where those things have been proved correct in my head.

    But, (it should be noted how long I’m waiting to type the next words) today, at one of my favorite little bars, I’m choosing to say that those narratives and those people and those situations no longer have the ability to take my voice, my abilities or inhabit the spaces I should be in.

    And if you ever want to know those things, or people or stories, I can share, but it won’t be from anything but a place of storytelling not situations that hold me back.

    Because I’m not going to tiptoe around the things that make me who I am, that I’m good at.

    I think it’s time I don’t shrink back anymore.

    It’s time to unravel and undo the things that have caused me to keep a distance.

    Today, I decide, to no longer be hesitant in being the first person to believe in myself.

    I wonder what that will change?

    With love,

    Meg

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  • 38: year of…

    I’ve never been anxious to write about a year before but there is something that is just below the surface right now that I can’t really put my finger on.

    38 has been wild.

    38 started out pretty hard. I cried myself to sleep on my birthday and spent the weekend after my birthday feeling really alone, emotionally hungover and feeling a little bit more without than I knew/know how to describe.

    I set into my summer with intentions to set some boundaries, to rest and to do things that felt like me.

    And then my best friend and I ended up on a Tito’s party bus.

    It was one of those nights that deservedly could have ended up like the movie the Hangover. We got on a party bus, not knowing where it was going, where we might end up or who any of the people were

    Thankfully (obviously) we’re both still alive and have an epic story that we don’t know if we can top (or should top).

    And that (this is maybe a little dramatic) was my last nights of being 38 that felt normal.

    That Sunday I woke up with a half paralyzed face and it then spurred 4 weeks of two ER visits, having such intense vertigo I couldn’t move my head or walk to my bathroom without puking, I couldn’t leave my room or walk down my stairs or eat anything.

    I physically haven’t felt normal since. Though it’s gotten immensely better I can’t smile without my left eye crinkling, my ear is still a bit ringy, I’m consistently 5% off balance, eating is hard, I spill on myself constantly and I can’t whistle.

    And blanketed in all of this, is grief. And doing all of it without my mom even on the other side of the phone.

    Those are all the things I’m holding in one hand.

    In the other hand is the fact that I just came to a realization that I think I’ve never felt more like a badass in my life.

    Since August 20th I auditioned for and was in a musical again, I was in charge of a crew of munchkins backstage, I for the most part never stopped doing announcements at church even though I kind of hated talking I front of people, I spoke at church on Christmas Eve, I stage managed and called a show for three weekends. I still sang karaoke and still was in pictures even thought I don’t like looking at myself.

    I did my absolute best to continue to show up for myself even though it’s been really, really hard to look at myself in the mirror.

    I’m not saying I did it all or I didn’t have a lot of nights of crying in the dark of my room. I’m not saying that I didn’t want to give up and stop showing up multiple times.

    And I’m not saying there weren’t stretches of time where I didn’t show up with my whole self.

    I’m very quick to diminish a hard thing I’ve done or am doing because so many people do harder things everyday.

    People walk around with life threatening illnesses and autoimmune diseases and so many things in between and I just have a face that won’t work and eyes that water constantly and a body that won’t stay steady.

    But, I have to come to the realization and the reminder that in my year of 38 I showed up in ways I didn’t want too.

    I spent a lot of my life not wanting to talk because my voice sounded funny. I spent a lot of my life hiding because I was overweight and was made fun of.

    I spent a lot of it thinking I was a burden and trying to just disappear.

    But, even in spite of all the history my brain tells me and of my desire to not look in a mirror, I knew in 38 I was going to show up in spite of.

    I was going to speak because I had things to say.

    I was going to be in a musical because we all deserved that redemption.

    I was going to encourage kiddos and teens in a musical because they needed adults in their corner.

    And I was going to show up because, in spite of what I may believe, things are better when I show up.

    Whenever I sit down to write these little letters to a past year of life I never actually know what will happen. I don’t know what words will come out.

    But, I guess for today; the words that came out are simply this.

    Dear 38,

    I’m glad I didn’t let you show me up.

    Thanks for reminding me I’m a badass.

    With love,

    Meg

    PS.

    Let’s just stay calm this week k? (Unless it’s like really, really good)

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  • 38: year of…

    I’ve never been anxious to write about a year before but there is something that is just below the surface right now that I can’t really put my finger on.

    38 has been wild.

    38 started out pretty hard. I cried myself to sleep on my birthday and spent the weekend after my birthday feeling really alone, emotionally hungover and feeling a little bit more without than I knew/know how to describe.

    I set into my summer with intentions to set some boundaries, to rest and to do things that felt like me.

    And then my best friend and I ended up on a Tito’s party bus.

    It was one of those nights that deservedly could have ended up like the movie the Hangover. We got on a party bus, not knowing where it was going, where we might end up or who any of the people were

    Thankfully (obviously) we’re both still alive and have an epic story that we don’t know if we can top (or should top).

    And that (this is maybe a little dramatic) was my last nights of being 38 that felt normal.

    That Sunday I woke up with a half paralyzed face and it then spurred 4 weeks of two ER visits, having such intense vertigo I couldn’t move my head or walk to my bathroom without puking, I couldn’t leave my room or walk down my stairs or eat anything.

    I physically haven’t felt normal since. Though it’s gotten immensely better I can’t smile without my left eye crinkling, my ear is still a bit ringy, I’m consistently 5% off balance, eating is hard, I spill on myself constantly and I can’t whistle.

    And blanketed in all of this, is grief. And doing all of it without my mom even on the other side of the phone.

    Those are all the things I’m holding in one hand.

    In the other hand is the fact that I just came to a realization that I think I’ve never felt more like a badass in my life.

    Since August 20th I auditioned for and was in a musical again, I was in charge of a crew of munchkins backstage, I for the most part never stopped doing announcements at church even though I kind of hated talking in front of people, I spoke at church on Christmas Eve, I stage managed and called a show for three weekends. I still sang karaoke and still was in pictures even thought I don’t like looking at myself.

    I did my absolute best to continue to show up for myself even though it’s been really, really hard to look at myself in the mirror.

    I’m not saying I did it all or I didn’t have a lot of nights of crying in the dark of my room. I’m not saying that I didn’t want to give up and stop showing up multiple times.

    And I’m not saying there weren’t stretches of time where I didn’t show up with my whole self.

    I’m very quick to diminish a hard thing I’ve done or am doing because so many people do harder things everyday.

    People walk around with life threatening illnesses and autoimmune diseases and so many things in between and I just have a face that won’t work and eyes that water constantly and a body that won’t stay steady.

    But, I have to come to the realization and the reminder that in my year of 38 I showed up in ways I didn’t want too.

    I spent a lot of my life not wanting to talk because my voice sounded funny. I spent a lot of my life hiding because I was overweight and was made fun of.

    I spent a lot of it thinking I was a burden and trying to just disappear.

    But, even in spite of all the history my brain tells me and of my desire to not look in a mirror, I knew in 38 I was going to show up in spite of.

    I was going to speak because I had things to say.

    I was going to be in a musical because we all deserved that redemption.

    I was going to encourage kiddos and teens in a musical because they needed adults in their corner.

    And I was going to do it because, in spite of what I may believe, things, places, situations are better when I show up.

    Whenever I sit down to write these little letters to a past year of life I never actually know what will happen. I don’t know what words will come out.

    But, I guess for today; the words that came out are simply this.

    Dear 38,

    I’m glad I didn’t let you show me up.

    Thanks for reminding me I’m a badass.

    With love,

    Meg

    PS.

    Let’s just stay calm this week k? (Unless it’s like really, really good)

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  • reconstructing faith

    I’ve ebbed and flowed in my faith so much in the last 10-11 years. After the World Race my life was in a tailspin. I didn’t know what way was up and I wasn’t sure what the point of the previous year of my life had been.

    I had been sold this notion that following the “calling of God” was going to bring me to an answer, to a level of contentment in the midst. That it would bring me to wholeness.

    All it brought me was sadness, confusion and one of the deeper lonely times I had ever encountered. I felt so, so lost and it was incredibly hard to explain that to people who assumed I had just had the best year of my life. Which the year had been beautiful and amazing- but there was also a lot of hard things.

    I went to Spain and picked up some pieces, I found some footing I had lost and then I moved to Bellingham. It was in the beginning of my time in Bellingham that I wrote a piece for a website and realized that all of the things I had caused me to want to wash my hands of all the things that were faith had nothing to actually do with God.

    They had to do with the way people manipulated words and phrases and ideology, they had to do with religion and law and everything in between.

    Today I came to the realization that somewhere along the way my deconstruction turned to reconstruction.

    I’ve worked really hard in this process of letting go of the things I don’t need, of taking the things apart to see how the work or how they started in my life in regards to faith, and of not throwing everything away because the water it lived in got murky.

    It felt really important to me to not throw it all out.

    I couldn’t throw it all out.

    There are a few moments in my life that I can only affix to God. And in all honesty it’s those moments that anchor me and caused me to deconstruct this house I built over the span of 20+ years down to only its foundation- because the foundation made sense.

    But now, it’s time to put some things back together.

    And I know it doesn’t look like that on the outside. I never truly stopped going to church, but I’ve taken breaks and had seasons and spans where I don’t feel connected. It probably looks as if I never did any construction- because my deconstructing doesn’t look like someone else’s.

    But part of my deconstructing was choosing to believe that this foundation I stood on was still stable enough to rebuild. And choosing to believe that those moments affixed to God would still be there even if I decided to never set foot in a church again.

    And it was actively understanding that the shame I felt when it all fell apart wasn’t from God. It wasn’t some enemy or a spirit or anything intangible.

    It was the people who decided what church and men and women in the church should look like.

    It was the house they built that made you feel crazy- with doors that led to nowhere even though they told you the door led somewhere.

    It’s the institution that told me I was never enough, never whole enough or holy enough or did enough.

    I still have a very hard time going back into spaces that are like all of the spaces that told me those things. I have a hard time coming to grasp with words that have been used so wrong I forgot how to read them how they should be read.

    What I’ve realized though is the spaces that need my voice and viewpoint the most are most likely the spaces where I know the language needs to change.

    The places where I inwardly gag are the places that I need to help make good and real again.

    All I want for anyone who interacts with me, is to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt that they are loved. That what they have other people need.

    And if all those people never set foot in a church; who cares.

    If they know someone loves them, and that some believes beyond a shadow of a doubt that someone believes that they have things to give the world- that’s what matters to me.

    If all I am is a picture that not all people go to church are judgmental and uncaring- that’s what matters to me.

    That’s why I’m choosing to rebuild again.

    It’s not to save anyone, it’s not to evangelize, it’s not shame anyone for not doing it.

    It’s just to rebuild myself and my faith with the things I want to keep. It’s changing the narrative and the words and the tone.

    It’s being a home for others when they need it.

    A safe space.

    And it’s recreating the things that brought me to the deconstruction and it’s making them be safe again as well.

    So, I’ll just be here, still really hating women’s ministries, all religious language and anything that feels even an ounce like shame.

    I’m rebuilding again.

    With love,

    Meg

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  • the edge of the deck

    Today in church while I stood in our cafe’ during worship a very poignant story from teaching one year olds popped into my head.

    I had a new family in the one year old room and the dad was there chatting with me outside about his daughter when she rolled backwards and was going to plop off the deck we had for riding bikes. I caught her with my foot so she didn’t fall back. It wasn’t a far fall- just a few inches but I wanted the dad to know that I saw her, I would care for her and help her not get hurt.

    He shrugged his shoulders and said that it was ok. She was allowed to take some risk and see what happened.

    I took that conversation and that thought and kept moving forward with it.

    There is something about a child, specifically a tiny child, to be able to take safe risks. To see what happens when they do something like trying to climb on a couch, or up a slide. Or what happens when their trike pops down the four inches from the deck.

    Making space for safe risks for kids is a big part of early childhood education.

    Because on the flipside; how often do we say, “That’s not safe” or “that’s too high” or “you’re going to fall”.

    Instead of letting them figure out themselves (obviously with you standing beside them).

    I sometimes think with kids we tend to lean to yelling across a room or a playground to not do something instead of getting closer to help monitor the trying. That’s why one of my favorite things in my preschool classroom was cooking and baking and chopping. I was nearby monitoring the try. Monitoring the safe risk.

    Now, I’m not saying leave your four year old in a kitchen with knives or an a balcony with no fence.

    I’m saying give them space to take risks so that risk aren’t scary. So, that their first thought as an adult isn’t “This isn’t safe”. Unless, of course it’s actually not safe.

    I believe a part of our “that’s not safe” or “that’s too much” or “that’s too scary” is because we were never given opportunities to do things that weren’t safe or that were deemed scary. We were protected from those things and so now we have an inability to distinguish the levels.

    Because sometimes, we need to jump.

    Sometimes, we need to take a risk.

    Sometimes, just because something is scary doesn’t mean it isn’t good.

    Yes, the impact might hurt, but you’ll never know unless you go for it.

    When I decided about 12 years ago now to go on the world race I remembered having heard for quite awhile the simple phrase; you have to jump to be caught.

    I was scared. I was going to move from all the things that I knew and had and had built to go travel around the world and then who knows what. And even though it was scary and it was taking a risk- I still knew it was right.

    There are a few moments in life that I can think of that I made decisions to do something scary; to take a risk and to jump.

    Now, I’m not saying this time is like those times. I’m not moving or leaving the country or anything like that.

    I think the risk right now, for me, is I’m supposed to be louder.

    I’m supposed to speak about, write about and be a placeholder for a few things that don’t normally have a placeholder for them.

    I feel as if there are things I’m supposed to delve into that feel a bit like my toddler who I kept from falling off of the four inch deck. Yah, she might have fallen off her trike on the plop down.

    But she also might have felt like a toddler badass doing so.

    I might say something, or write about it, or speak out the things that are scaring me or causing me to back away from the edge.

    And I might fall or get bruised or get hurt.

    OR

    I might feel empowered and strong.

    I’ve spent a lot of my life taking risks that seem really big to other people. I’ve moved states, traveled the world, I’ve spoken in front of crowds, I write and give out a lot of who I am so that other’s feel less alone.

    But to me, to be known, to be seen is the most terrifying thing to me.

    That’s the jump. That’s the edge of the deck.

    I’ve been in a season of avoiding. Avoiding words from other people because all I feel like is I’m going to be told what I’m doing wrong or that it’s not enough.

    I’ve been avoiding my own 20%.

    So, here I am, at the edge of the deck.

    With love,

    Meg

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  • It’s just a season

    I know I’ve been needing to write words on this even though I absolutely do not want too.

    It’s a topic I try to avoid and try not to mention. It’s one I’m not super comfortable bringing up in a broader space because people have opinions and sometime helpful mostly not helpful stories and then they have prayers and Bible verses and things that I honestly just don’t need from those whom I didn’t ask.

    But here it is; bottom line: I’m having a really hard time being single lately.

    The disclaimers are already filling my head and the things I don’t need from people and the things I have done or to be completely frank don’t want to do.

    I am absolutely fine 85% of the time. I’m pretty good on my own. I like space. I like being able to make decisions on my own.

    And I would need a bigger bed if I’m expected to share.

    But, the last month or so, I’ve felt the feelings of loneliness. I’ve felt like an island, felt like a person who is just outside of everything.

    I don’t feel like a third wheel but I do feel like I’m just extra. I’m superfluous.

    I’m the odd number.

    And I’ve felt very evident feelings of wishing I had a person to come home too.

    I’m pretty good at figuring things out on my own. I ask for help when I need it. I’m grateful for the people in my life who have never ever caused me to feel like I’m extra.

    But, there are very evident seasons in life where the feelings hit harder and I’m in one of them right now. I’m in a place where the hours seem emptier and I don’t want to cook dinner for myself and I don’t want to make hard decisions by myself and I wish I had a guy I could look across the room at at a party and we both know it’s time to go.

    Now, as I stated in the beginning: I don’t like to write about this. When a woman writes or talks about being single it can feel like she’s asking for pity or woe is me or whatever.

    That’s absolutely not what I’m doing.

    I’m finally pausing to write these words on a Monday because I can list people in my brain who probably have felt the same way but never feel allowed to say it.

    I’m writing it because the bigger we let feelings get the more likely they will become the whole feeling and not just part of it.

    I’m writing it because I know that I’m not incomplete just because I have seasons where being single sucks.

    It’s just that: a season where it sucks and is harder than the last.

    So, if you are here with me, I get it. I know we’re going to put on our big girl panties and we’re gonna do the damn thing regardless but we’re allowed to put a pin in the places that hurt.

    If you’re sitting in a season where it really, really sucks to be single know you aren’t alone and it’s just that: a season.

    With all the love,

    Meg

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