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The rebuild
I’ve been listening to a lot of Taylor Swift lately.
It’s the house I’m living in and I’m ok with that.
But, today, while doing dishes I heard the line; “time won’t fly, it’s like I’m paralyzed by it, I’d like to be my old self again but I’m still trying to find it.”
I was feeling off today, a little grumpy, a little sad and I wasn’t quite sure why. Then that lyric played and I realized it really hit me hard.
I thought, honestly, it was just the griefs. The wandering feelings that like to pop up like little flowers- trying to remind you of the things that made you sad, of the people you’ve lost who are still wrapped around your roots. And to a point it probably was.
But the thought that brought tears to my eyes as I washed dishes was that today starts the long weekend where two years ago I saw my mom alive for the last time.
It was the last time I hugged my mom, the last time I rolled my eyes at her (in person- I still do it to this day).
I knew when I left my parents house that weekend that it would be the last time I would hug her, the last time I would untangle her oxygen from somewhere or grab her some ice.
I’m trying to be old self again but I’m still trying to find it.
I was a shell of a person then. Covid and work burnout and a few other things, I went into my long trip between visiting my parents and attending a friend’s wedding in Hawaii just completely on empty.
For the most part my griefs, the things that sprout up here and there I can meet and sit with and move on. But, sometimes, today, the emotional realization that the person I was in the moments before I got on a plane to come say bye to my mom and the person who got on the plane three days later are two completely different humans.
And right now I don’t really know what to do with that.
Those that know me, know that I am person who feels deeply. I feel what’s happening in the room, I feel the emotions of those around me, I feel a lot of damn things.
The narrative in my head that has tried to win the past few months or so is that I don’t need to feel grief anymore.
That I should be stronger.
That I should move on.
That I should get over it.
That my grief is a burden and I should just keep it in.
That I should just be my old self again.
That I should just be the person before instead of the girl who’s mom died.
Which, I know, is absolutely stupid. And impossible.
When a disaster strikes and you have to rebuild, most likely, you won’t rebuild in the same way. You’ll find a new countertop you like, or some different crown molding.
You’ll also find ways to batten down the hatches for another impending disaster.
Because once you live through it you have the knowledge that it could happen again.
And that’s a heavy thing to live with.
I know, sitting here today, that I can’t be my old self again. I know that my mom dying was my disaster and I had to rebuild.
I know in my depths.
But today, with the realization that I haven’t hugged my mom in two years, I sit wishing desperately to be my old self again.
I sit feeling a heaviness in my soul and heart. I sit with prickling tears in my eyes.
I sit.
I don’t write these words for pity or sympathy, I don’t write them out of any desire but to remind myself, to remind you that grief is not linear.
I write them to gather what I’ve learned and what I’ve felt and what I’m picking up as field notes to even remind one person that they aren’t alone. That I might not know your situation but I’m living in the same book.
There is a point in time where we all have to keep moving after a disaster. We usually have to move back in to the disheveled house before every room is ready, we have to cook in air fryers and wash dishes in the bathtub.
There’s a point where you have to keep living.
And every once and awhile get reminded of the disaster.
We just have to take those moments as they come.
I don’t know what part of the process you’re in, I don’t know if you’re washing dishes in a bath tub or if you’ve even gone back to the house yet.
I don’t know if you need a push or if you need to slowdown the rebuild.
I just know that it’s ok to realize you also need to grieve the person that was lost in the losing.
The person that was lost in the disaster.
You.
With love,
Meg.
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To the RFK 2023 family
To my wacky, shenanigan-filled, wonderful Royal Family,
I’ve started this letter a couple times in the last 24 hours. My brain is still full of emotions, exhaustion and now that we’re back down the mountain all the real life stress has flooded back in and it feels like I’m incapable of articulating what camp was.
While I was sitting in church today I reread the letter I wrote from last year- about how it felt as if we were walking among ruins. Personally and corporately. We hadn’t been to Pinecrest in two years and to be completely honest looking back, last year feels a bit like a fever dream.
We are definitely still rebuilding on the ruins this year- we’ve slowly seen what needs to be kept and restored and what maybe needs to get tossed and started anew with.
Telling Bible stories this year felt like I was always one moment away from losing the kids-whether or not that was true- and I was clinging on to the hope that whatever I was saying would get through to the kids.
This year felt like whatever hope I’d been clinging onto for the time leading to camp, finally got released from my clinched fist to maybe, just maybe, be helpful to someone around me.
There was so much laughter this year up that mountain, a lot of homesickness from the kids, a lot of late night conversations, a blender and a toaster oven, a lot of baggage we all brought up that we wished we didn’t have too, there was a lot of holes we didn’t see last year that maybe became slightly more gaping this year (my royal family note is much longer than it was before of things I need to do next year) and there was a lot of freely giving out of love and hope that I don’t know if we all had enough for ourselves.
Before I came to camp, spiritually, I felt like I needed to fit into a dress two sizes smaller and only had ten days to do it.
But God.
He reminded me he was already there- that he would go before us, that he would cover us- no matter our levels of exhaustion or emptiness.
That he would do it for the kids.
And He did, through us, in spite of.
I had this image earlier of everyone at camp wandering around with a clenched fist. And whatever we were holding was not able to be contained in our palms- but we were so afraid that if we let it go, we would have nothing left.
Each of us had a moment where we let what was in our fist go.
It might have been hope or strength, it could have been love or patience or peace.
Whatever it was- at some point- we let it go to give it the kids.
But, I do keep coming back to hope.
So, right now, in this moment, I’m asking to God to fill us each up in supernatural, beautiful ways with hope over the next year.
And not just hope for others- not just hope to give away, but hope for our daily lives, for ourselves.
So much hope that we no longer have clenched fist.
Hope that we have the ability to keep rebuilding on the ruins.
Hope in the process of whatever restoration needs to happen in our lives.
And hope that we can use, beyond a shadow of a doubt, to keep moving forward.
I’m proud of us as I am every year.
I’m proud of how we show up, how we push through, how we eat iceberg lettuce at lunch and dinner.
I’m proud of how we leave things behind and how we pick up things on behalf of the kids around us.
I’m proud of how we do things out of our comfort zone for the kids.
And this year, I’m proud of how we give what we held in our clinched fist.
With so much love in my heart for all you beautiful people and this needed reminder; “Everything you’ve lost; Love’s returning”,
Miss Meg
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1,100 words on 38
I’m sitting here in a place I’m physically in almost every day of the week.
And I’m sitting here wondering where I’m going to go next.
I feel as if this year I’ve truly had a year of shedding things, people, scenarios.
I have much less space for the things and people and moments that I don’t walk away from feeling more like myself.
There is a fine line between the needing to do something and having to do it. A fine line between doing a hard thing because it’s good for you, doing a hard thing because it’s needed and doing a hard thing because you’re being unnecessarily self-sacrificial.
I think I’ve done a handful of things this year because I needed to prove to myself that I wasn’t struggling. I needed to prove that the grief and the sadness and the things that felt INCREDIBLY defining weren’t actually who I was.
I needed to prove to myself that I was going to be ok.
This year was a struggle of a grief that has undeniably wound into all facets of my life and my actions but having to choose and remember that I am not it.
When you have a grief that is life shattering it’s hard to mend the breakage without the grief being a part of the glue
It just is.
I’d like to note here that as honest as I am- there are still things that I set aside for just a few. A few things i just deleted. And I wrote some things that I realized aren’t for all.
That’s a piece of myself I’m keeping.
This past year going into next is continuously realizing what places in my house are for others and which aren’t.
The really tricky part about being a home for others is that at the end of the day- you still have to sleep in that home.
So, because it’s who I am and I’ve already referenced vampires to someone once today-all I can think of right now is some of the mythology of The Vampire Diaries Universe. When a vampire came up to a home, they had to be invited in. Getting invited into a house is so simple a lot of us don’t realize that we do it all the time. (Now, don’t worry- I’m not about to get all 90s youth group on you about like “leaving doors open for the devil to get in”- IYKYK).
Like, in TVD before a person knows about vampire it’s so easy for them to just give a haphazard “come inside”. Then BOOM you’re stuck with that vampire having access to your house until the deed physically changes.
Once characters in the show knew this little piece of information they became highly aware of who they were letting inside.
But luckily for us, we aren’t dealing with vampires.
We are though (I am though) dealing with things that don’t stir up life inside of me.
Things, people, situations that just don’t, at the end of the day, add to who I am as a human and I’m going to boot them out of my house to the best of my ability.
Because in the year of 38 I’m choosing to lean into the things that add to me as a human.
That’s not just running through wildflowers or sitting on my hands.
Because, hard things add to who I am as a human.
Choosing to go out after 9pm on a Thursday to sing karaoke at a bar with my best friend Tori and her husband Shawn adds to who I am as a human.
Accepting grief adds to who I am as a human.
Woods coffee runs with Joanna adds to who I am as a human.
Camp adds to who I am as a human.
Being the back up back up at church adds to who I am as a human.
The audacity adds to who I am as a human.
Being a person who knows how to show up adds to who I am as a human.
Helping theater kids become theater adults adds to who I am as a human.
Identifying as someone who works at a church after never wanting to again, adds to who I am as a human.
Seeing my close friends succeed and cheering them on adds to who I am as a human.
Being with the inhabitants of a little blue house in Irvine adds to me as a human.
McDonald’s sprite and those I share it with adds to me as a human.
Using the massive amounts of child development knowledge adds to who I am as a human.
Things that add to my close circle as humans; add to me as a human.
Laughing over 25 cent mimosas adds to who I am as a human.
And I should repeat even though it scares me: hard things add to who I am as a human.
I have to say that list got progressively longer and that added to me as a human.
Because, making space to write on a Sunday at a bar adds to I am as a human.
And it stirs hope I so desperately need.
I think, that there is always a little bit of trepidation with hope.
The desire for hope brings the realization that there could be the lack of hope.
And in the process of writing all of these I realize that as terrifying as it is to say (especially in the weeks prior to camp): I am stronger then the realization that there could be a lack of hope.
I’ve proved it by just showing up.
So.
Here’s to a year of choosing the things that add to myself and add to the people who add to me.
Here’s to a year of choosing hope to the best of my ability without trepidation.
Here’s to a year of karaoke and ax throwing.
A year of quarter mimosas.
A year of being the back up back up and the church intern.
A year of figuring out how to move forward.
A year of supporting the humans around me in their dreams.
Here’s to a year of realizing that the glue is dry, it cannot move and it does not define me.
It pushed me on, became a part of my story but it’s not all that I am.
Here’s to a year of choosing the people, places and things that add to myself and the ones that I add to.
Here’s to, honestly, 38 being the year of Meg.
Because the year of Meg isn’t selfish.
It’s finding ways that I can add to myself and in turn add to the people around me.
However that looks.
With so much love,
Meg
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37: a year of sand trudging
Dear 37,
I realized today I needed to sit and think about you for a second.
There are two things I do before I turn another year older; I scroll the photos since my last birthday and I read the letter I wrote last year.
It’s a fun way to remember all I’ve done, all the shenanigans that my friends and I got into, the trips we’ve taken, all the cheers we’ve done and everything in between.
In my letter to myself I wrote at the end that it felt like 36 had been living in winter; that I was ready to come out in the sun.
That was a little hard to read.
I know that this last year was full of hilarity and joy, full of theater and karaoke and helping with events at church and learning more and more about myself and who I am.
But, 37 has inevitably felt as if I’m trudging through the sand trying to get to the water again.
I’ll never forget this one off day on the world race in 2013. We were in Mozambique and our contacts wanted to take us to an island but what ended up happening was us trudging forever through sand and then we ended up a row boat that came with water buckets to bail the water out and took us to not the island we were meant to go to so we turned around in the rain and had to trudge back through the sand and the rising water line to go back to our van and go moments down the road to the correct place.
But, honestly on the walk back through the sand I just wanted to go back to the village, get in my tent and watch a movie.
This year felt as if I just wanted to go back and stop having to trudge the sand just to get to the next thing.
Though, just like that really random day in Mozambique- for the most part this year, I kept going.
I think it’s always the goal to get to the end of year and feel like you did something beautiful.
And as I started writing this I honestly felt discouraged.
I felt always a step behind. And that I was falling behind all these humans in my life that were experiencing good and beautiful things.
But, I’ve realized as cheesy as it sounds, my ability to keep going has been a good and beautiful thing.
I have found new parts of who I am, I’ve stood my ground, I stepped out of my comfort zone, I met some beautiful new humans, I got to go back to camp, I didn’t die on the sketchy stairs or fall through the trap door while doing a doing a kick line in a corset during Rocky, I developed a cat allergy and so many things in between.
I’ve just kept going.
And like that time in Mozambique keeping going led to some stories that I will remember for the rest of my life, I think 37 will too.
So with so much more that could be said:
Dear 37,
Thank you.
For the tears, the laughter, the corsets and the times I ended up just sitting on the floor.
Thank you for the humans who have consistently pushed me along and to the ones who caused me to push myself.
Thank you for the sand.
With love,
Meg
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My week of yes
I’m pretty positive I’ve written about the reasons I go to camp at least ten times.
We’ve reached the point of the year where every day on lunch I’m writing lists, going over bible curriculum, ordering things on Amazon and scouring my notes app and text messages to figure out things that we said last year we needed for this year.
I get on a plane in 30 days.
I’m giddy.
First off, I haven’t seen any of these humans in a year. It’s just how my year ended up- I haven’t been able to go to California and I’m probably going to cry when I land at John Wayne airport. Necks to hug and babies to meet and meals to eat around the Choi’s table.
Second, I just love camp.
And third, I can’t wait to wait to eat camp food (two truths and lie).
Today, I was sitting after finishing one of the parts of my job (cooking for the tiny humans) to do another part of my job, when I told Joanna that I just feel heavy. And I need to do something that brings me joy.
So, I decided to come to one of my favorite bars and sit and write and stir up the things inside of me that need a little wake up.
And talk about camp.
Last year was my tenth year going to camp since the first time I went in 2010. I started as a counselor and now I’ve popped between different staff positions with my title last year being “breakfast club coordinator”. I’m usually on the drama team, I teach Bible, I help with the 11 year olds, I was the asst. coach for a few years, and I now anywhere I go around camp I’m met with “Miss. Meg can I tell you a bible verse?”.
I guess, I should circle back a moment: if you have never read or seen anything about me talking about to camp- every year I spend a week “up the mountain” with some of the best humans I know hanging out with foster kids in one of the 250 chapters of the non-profit, “For the Children” (or as most of us call it: Royal family kids camp). Camps pop all over the country (and parts of the world) to spend a week loving and having fun and spending time with foster kids. At camp the ratios are essential 2 adults to 4 kids with many other staff adults at various activities and roaming.
There is a lot of fun, busyness, laughter and joy.
We have a birthday party and a variety show, there’s a woodworking area, a dress up corner, an awesome activity section with so many fun arts and crafts and projects. There are therapy dogs and pool time everyday. There are special activities with our camp grandmas and grandpas and aunts and uncles. Each kid leaves with a scrapbook of their adventures, a duffel of projects and birthday gifts and lanyards and I think a little more love than they had before.
All of us adults and teen staff are volunteers. All of us take a week away from work, some from their kids and family. At my specific camp a lot of us have moved out of state but fly back to go to our camp.
It’s a tiring, over 22,000 steps a day, iceberg lettuce eating, emotional week.
And for me, it’s the week, that no matter how tired I am, no matter how hard it is, no matter how few showers I get, no matter if Tyler makes me go on the zip line or even if it’s the week that I was known as the “mean counselor meg”; camp is the week that I feel as if I am operating 100% out of exactly who I am meant to be.
There is a slogan ,if you will, with FTC camps and it’s this: Make Moments Matter.
Because at camp, all we have are moments.
Thankfully, now, there is mentoring program and ways that we are more continually able to have relationship with these kids.
But, it is still those moments at camp that matter.
And for me, part of my why at camp, is about saying yes, for the kids, for a week.
A lot of these kids don’t get a lot of yes. They don’t get a lot of adults who are saying yes on their behalf.
So even if it’s just for a week- I will do my damndest to do be the adult that says yes.
(Even though sometimes it’s ‘hold that thought’ and I have to write a name down so I circle back to the yes).
Sometimes the yes is really simple; like getting in the pool or sitting at dinner.
Sometimes the yes almost gives me a heart attack; like doing the zip line (that being said- at volunteers this year?)
But always, ALWAYS, the yes creates a moment.
Always the yes allows me a time to stop for the one.
Always the yes lets a kid know that THEY matter.
And always my yes, hopefully lets a kid have an opportunity to be something they always should be able to be:
A kid.
My goal at camp, with every child I interact with, is to let them know that they are loved, they matter and they can do great things.
Do I care if a bible verse is verbatim?
Absolutely not.
Do I care if I play Haman and the kids boo me?
Absolutely not.
Am I good at all the arts and crafts at activity center?
Absolutely not.
But, did I sit last year for 45 minutes helping a girl do a beaded animal because she needed help?
Absolutely.
Camp is my favorite week of the year and I can’t wait to lug my two bags full of a super soaker and water shoes and stickers and props and so many other things to spend a week with a group of the best people in the world and a 80+ kids who are need of some adults who have the ability to say yes.
If you’ve made it this far there’s a few things you can do:
*You can follow my specific camp on Facebook or Instagram for updates before and during camp.
*You can check out our Amazon wishlist of things we are looking for to continue making a beautiful, fun week at camp for our kids
And last but certainly not least, you can partner with us to help send some kids to camp! Camp costs add up and we need all the help we can! Donate here💜
Thanks for getting to the end of this, thanks for your support and love and be on the lookout for more things about camp as we get closer.
With so much love,
Meg
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Stop dragging giants
I had a really rough week.
It seemed as if all of these different past moments of my life were trying to rush up at me and give me a jump scare. There was a day when I thought I was going to have a panic attack. Had I not known the clues my body has for one I probably would have. There was another day I burst into tears because I couldn’t articulate the things that were actually bothering me.
And Friday I’m just pretty positive all of those things just physically weighed me down and I spent all of the day in pain.
In all honesty I’m not super surprised. I’ve been systematically shedding heaviness from my soul and spirit and being these days and I can feel every moment when something tries to cling back on. Be it a word, or an old pattern or an insecurity. It’s like someone comes into my house and hangs up a picture of a clown and then I have to take it off the wall each time because I don’t want it on the wall because clowns are the worst.
Today, while I was sitting in church, during worship, I kept seeing this image of someone climbing out of a mudslide. Their body was caked in mud. Inches and inches thick. They started their journey to the next town and as they walked the sun beat down and crusted the layers. And even though they didn’t want to keep walking with all that weight they didn’t know how else they could prove that they had lived through a mudslide.
Isn’t that a little crazy? To keep walking with layers of harden mud to prove that you had survived?
Isn’t the walking proof you survived?
It got me thinking about how frequently we carry our old burdens and trials and struggles just to prove we defeated them.
How it can be scary to let them go because who are we if we can’t prove it.
And of course, I thought about David. When he knocked down Goliath with his stones.
Clearly for the rest of his life he hauled Goliath around to prove the point. He had a team of people who moved a dead giant to prove that he had knocked him down.
No, no he didn’t.
David walked in the proof that he had knocked Goliath down.
We don’t have to carry the dead giant around to prove we conquered it.
We are the proof.
I don’t have to carry the dead giant around to prove I conquered it.
I am the proof.
I’m not saying not to mark the moment.
There is power in marking a moment.
When people walk on trails and they choose a new direction- they mark it. That way if somehow they get lost they can go back to that moment and move from there again.
When we go through a moment in life that is life changing in someway and we’re able to move from it- we need to mark it. We need to remember what we’ve come from and where we’ve been.
We don’t need to carry the thing for the proof that we did it.
We’re the proof that we’ve moved through the thing.
I’ve worked really hard in my life to stand strong. To defeat giants and to walk in strength.
I’ve tried to meet moments for what they are. To not negate things I’m incapable of controlling and to listen to what my body is telling me.
But, I’ve definitely dragged some dead giants along with me.
And that ends today.
I don’t what you’re dragging along, if your jacket that’s easily removable is covered in mud, if people keep trying to decorate your house or if you’re in the middle of something.
I want to tell all of us from here on out to mark moments, stack stones, make directional arrows.
I’m not naïve to think I’m never going to meet another giant or mudslide.
But I do know I’m going to do my damndest to take off the muddy coat and leave the giant where they dropped.
We don’t need to drag giants anymore.
We’re the proof.
With love,
Meg
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Today was a good day.
I had a beautiful day today, got to hang out with favorite people, hug the necks of those I don’t see a lot. It was just good.
So, I decided I wanted to sit and write.
I was trying to grasp at something to say-somewhere to go.
I had an experience this past week, something good and soul filling that I’m still digesting for myself and for the first time in more years than I think or I can comprehend-I feel just simply like myself.
Nothing dark or heavy or weight bearing is surrounding me.
I feel like I’m allowed to believe that hope is tangible.
It’s no longer “I believe something good can happen, but…”
I feel like there’s a part of myself that was always so ready for the other shoe to drop, that was just in wait for the next thing that was lined up to build my resilience, that that part inside me has realized it can actually just rest.
That I can lay my defenses down.
Back when I lived in Orange County and was actively in therapy, at the end of that preschool year, my director gave us all a verse. The verse she gave me was from Nehemiah 4 wherein the builders were building but also held a hammer in their hand. A couple weeks later after upping my meds and having a really hard time with suicidal thoughts, my therapist made a comment.
“You know it’s just reminds me of the builders in Nehemiah. You’re going. You’re moving forward. But you have a sword too.”
Since then I’ve kept in that manner. I’ve held a sword while I’ve kept moving forward.
But, I don’t need that sword anymore.
I’ve read a lot of books and read so many stories of warriors and soldiers who were always battle ready, who never shook the cloud of war and fight from them.
Who always had a sword under their pillow.
And I’ve learned in the last 12+ years of my life that it’s really damn hard to sleep with a sword under your pillow.
And, I’m done with that.
It’s gone.
I don’t need it under my pillow because at the end of the day- I have what I need without it.
And to me; that’s hope.
I don’t know what’s under your pillow. I don’t what my train of thought led you too.
I just know that I made the decision to find a way back home to myself this year and that my home doesn’t have swords under the pillows.
That’s it.
That’s all for now.
With absolutely love and hope,
Meg
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Clean out the corners
In September of 2021 I started a new job and about 3 weeks into I finally felt capable of attacking something that I had put off far too long: my closet.
So I pulled everything out and just had it on the floor as I began to go through it and see what I was and wasn’t wearing anymore.
Then, a trip that was supposed to be going to hang out with my Orange County family turned out to be one that flipped my whole world around when my mom passed away.
I came back for a few days before going to spend a week with my dad- took one look at the clothes and shoved them back into my closet.
And it’s been like that ever since.
2022 was inevitably just surviving.
And I still feel weak for saying that but that’s what it was.
My closet bursting at the seams has been this symbol of everything I didn’t think I was capable of handling.
But this year I’m coming back home to myself.
Which means doing things that feel really hard and overwhelming.
So, last night I decided to start the work of cleaning out the corners of my room.
I shoved my bed as far as I could into the middle of the room and began a trash bag of things I didn’t need anymore.
I created space.
Then tonight after a long day I unboxed some things I’ve gotten for the kitchen and then got to work on moving all the furniture in my room and vacuuming and taking a lot of deep breathes.
It all feels like a long time coming.
My friend Michele has been someone who I’ve talk to a lot about not feeling shame for being incapable of doing something. She’s been a cheerleader when I’ve been able to do something that feels bigger than me.
Today she said that this year feels like we’re getting out from underneath all the shit that’s been squishing us. And we know we aren’t going to get squished again because we’re strong and we’ve practiced and now we can thrive.
I got emotional as I cleared out my corners.
As I vacuumed and threw out things and contemplated what I needed and didn’t need.
I’ve realized how heavy I’ve felt and been and how my room has been a picture of what was going on in my brain.
And how I’ve felt like- in a way- that I deserved the things because I didn’t know how to feel better and because I thought I just should.
Grief is lonely.
And my room was ultimately a picture of that.
But, now, I’m cleaning out the corners. I’m not done yet and I get a new mattress on Saturday and I’m going to be able to sleep again and enjoy my space and keep moving forward in whatever this is.
I don’t know what you might be holding right now or what your room or your brain looks like but this is my encouragement to you to mentally, spiritually, physically and tangibly clean out your corners.
You deserve it for you.
With love,
Meg
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Coming back home
I was going to go sit and write somewhere, but nowhere was sitting with me and it’s cold out and I have things I should do instead. But, I decided to make a snack and grab a sprite and sit on the floor with music in my ears and try to do something I don’t do a lot: write at home.
I don’t know if I currently have the capacity to write about what I’m feeling heading into this year but I’m hearing some things loud and clear so I thought I’d write even a muddled mess of a first try.
Last year my word was “create” and as I pondered through that and what I thought I did or didn’t do; I realize I did create-it just didn’t feel like how I thought it might.
The thing I keep hearing for this year, loud and clear, is just a simple phrase “come back home to myself”.
I know that feels like it should be easy right?
Absolutely not.
I’ve been surviving the last year of my life. I’ve been doing what feels like the bare minimum to keep my head above the water line. Emotionally, physically, spiritually. I’ve been doing exactly what I need to do and I’ve been pushing through.
I think I’ll be honest that at the end of it all, I just truly want to come back home to myself this year.
And I’m not 100% sure what that all entails.
I just know that I need to find those parts of me that I’ve lost along the way.
That I need to not be scared of it.
That I find hope again.
And I know this all sounds dismal- it’s not.
The reason I want to come home to myself is because I have people and spaces and times and abilities that show me who I am.
I know those things.
But, it’s time I start remembering that I have to walk in the door to come home.
Finding ways to care for myself that aren’t always easy and that take some vulnerability and courage. Finding more ways to be exactly who I am.
Finding ways to come back home to myself.
It’s truly an up in the clouds type of word for the year but I’m sure I’ll keep delving and keep figuring out what it means each day.
Happy new year my friends.
With love,
Meg
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she writes on sundays 