she writes on sundays

wear the damn tiara

April 2nd, 2017

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.
Human, raised by humans.

March 26th, 2017

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.
the moment I realized I wasn’t normal

March 18th, 2017

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.
how darkness brought me light

March 12th, 2017

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.
Just throw the rock.

March 5th, 2017

I’ve been thinking a lot about choices lately. How people make them, how I make them, why I make them. I’ve been creating charts in my brain of how one choice led to another and to another. How something I decided to do 8-9 years ago led me to today. How making one jump off of a cliff led to another and another until you were at the bottom of a chasm and wondered for a second how you got there, then took off in exploration.
I cut my hair today. Got about 4 inches or so cut off. Why? I felt like a change, I felt like I needed a breath of fresh air and the easiest way to do that is to cut my hair. The first time I ever did a drastic cut to my hair was in the beginning of 2008. My friend Jordan had cut my hair a few times and one Sunday afternoon I requested her to just chop it. Take 6-7 inches off. I had never had my hair that short. I had thought because of my size that long hair was the only way I could go. But I decided screw it, I can do what I want- and also I trusted her.
So I went for it.

So now, every once in awhile I just decided to cut it all, because I made that choice one ago that I will do things that make me happy, and have a fresh short hair do is one of those things. But I do wonder, had I not had a friend who I trusted with my hair would I have made that choice and then kept making it?

It seems so silly, thinking of that choice and how that small thing impacts so many other moments.

I am not saying every choice we makes has a ripple effect. Because not every choice makes a big splash. Whether or not I buy a coffee in the morning doesn’t make a big ripple (unless of course my future husband was buying a coffee at the same time and he was supposed to accidentally spill coffee on me and that’s where our love story begins). I digress. But the big things the choices and decisions that make big splashes matter.

I don’t think we should be afraid of the big splash choices. I don’t think we should be afraid to jump. I think we should lean into the jump if the opportunity arises.

Five years ago I jumped. I had been working at my preschool for five years. And from the prior October on I had a nudging that I was supposed to quit. Move on. Jump.
To what? To where?
I had no clue.

But, five years ago today, I told my preschool director that it would be my last year. That I truly felt God telling me to jump. That I felt like something big was out there for me.

And the ripple effects of that choice led me to Bellingham.

Bellingham was another choice. It was another rock in the water and I am not sure where these ripples will take me.

Making big splashes isn’t easy. It isn’t without loss or heartbreak. But making those choices is making a choice to grow, to change and to walk into something new.

It’s not about making big choices with abandon and no thought. It’s about choosing to know yourself. It’s about choosing to follow what’s inside you and finding your peace even when it’s scary. It’s not always easy, but it’s not always hard either. For me, five years ago I made a choice to find who I was free from preconceived ideas and job titles. And that has led me to choice upon choice that sometimes look crazy, but in reality are the best I could have made.

And as a sidenote: if you need someone to tell you to jump. If you need encouragement to make a leap, to take a trip, to quit a job, to follow a dream-come find me. I’m here for you.

What ripples do you want to cause in yourself?

Let’s throw the rock in and see.
On Sundays, I write.

February 26th, 2017

My couch is currently covered in clean laundry. My bedroom floor could use a vacuuming and there are a few dishes in the sink. I’m going to a party in an hour- I should be straightening my hair or doing my makeup.But, instead, I’m sitting here with a cup of coffee and my fingers to a keyboard.

Because, on Sundays, I write. I write whether I feel like or not, whether I have hours and hours or just a few minutes in between activities. I write in preparation of a week to come or maybe just still in a cleansing of the week that came before.

I write because it is in my writing that I find breakthrough inside myself.

This morning at church we actively stepped into breakthrough. We chose to believe it was there for us. We chose to believe it already has come.

I struggled with that a little.

As my boss Jamie and multiple other people in my life has said to me: I am too hard myself.

But isn’t everyone?

I lack grace for myself and I hold myself to a higher standard- a higher level.

I have chosen to treat others how I want to be treated, regardless of whether or not I am treated back the same.

So, when it comes to breakthrough, I assume it’s for someone else. Not to belittle myself, or to be falsely humble, but because I want it to be for someone else. I want someone else to grab the thing that I have previously grabbed.

When breakthrough comes to me I meet it gingerly at the door. I am unsure of it. I am wary of it. Not because I don’t want it, but because it seems foreign.

I know I have had breakthrough in my life. It is so evident. I can see it across the walls and interwoven into the story of my life.

I am realizing that I have been taught, whether through life examples or the people around me that breakthrough must be painful.

I probably had so many small breakthroughs in my four years of therapy, I probably overcame more on the world race or in Spain then I can comprehend, but it’s the nitty gritty moments that have defined breakthrough for me. It’s the ones that came with pain and heartache and tears. It’s the storms that ended with a rainbow.

But sometimes there are rainbows and good things without storms. Breakthrough doesn’t have to come through massive construction of the heart.

Breakthrough can be a peaceful wind.

I think I forgot that more often then not. I think I end up waiting on the edge of my seat for something to come, when all it takes, for me, is writing a few words to realize that it did indeed happen.

So now, I’ve come full circle to say that this is why I write.

I write to pull he thoughts out of my head onto paper. I write to hopefully, start a conversation. I write to encourage you, to let you know that you aren’t alone.

Because you aren’t.

Whether you realize it or not. Something in you is doing the damn thing.

You are it.

So be it.
Why: not for now, but later.

February 20th, 2017

A while back I wrote a blog “to the tiny human makers” it was a spin off of a conversation my work wife and I had about how much we really love our kiddos and how much we want the parents to know that.Lately though I’ve been thinking about why I work with kids. And I hate to say it, but it’s not because they are kids.

It’s because they are people, albeit tiny ones.

I have a desire in me to help people. To give them tools, hope, encouragement.

I’ve always been a background person. I want to help the process along. I want to push others forward. I want to help them come into who they are.

I want to give them things right now that they will need for later.

This doesn’t always make what I do easy.

There is limited instant gratification (except potty training-the instant that happens? Hallelujah) but I know that I’m putting something in the kids that I have interacted with that they will, somewhere along the way, just have grafted in themselves.

I’ve been lucky to have moments where I see where a day camper grow into a beautiful adult. I’ve gotten to see one of my RFK grow into a beautiful teen staff. I have gotten to see the personality of my preschoolers evolve over their parents social media.

And that’s wonderful.

But I won’t always know what happens.

A lot of the kids I work with on a daily basis I won’t ever know. I won’t know the kind of teenagers they become, what colleges they choose to go to or what kind of adults they turn out to be.

I can only hope and pray that the bits and pieces of things we have established in them stay in them.

I work with people ,whether of the tiny human variety or not, is because I want to show them who I am so that they are able to be more fully themselves. I want to speak out and use my voice so others find theirs.

I want to give them things I learned in my yesterday, today, for all of their tomorrows.

That’s my hope and desire not only each day with the kiddos but with any human with whom I cross paths.

So, what’s my why after 400 words? What’s my bottom line of why I do what I do?

I do what I do, and I am who I am on a daily basis because I want you to know a little more of who you are than you did yesterday. I want you to realize how wonderful you are. How valued and needed and loved you are.

I want you to know you have something to give from inside of you.

My why is to spur you on to find your own.
what the snow taught me.

February 12th, 2017

The snow was incredibly discombobulating. It was stressful. It was in no way, shape or form an easy low week. It wasn’t restful. It was full of questions and worry.I am trying to figure out how something so peaceful was full of anything but peace.

The snow caused me to feel a little lost.

One of the days that I was walking to and from work I was being very careful not to step where someone else had walked. Walking in fresh powder is one thing. Walking where one or two people have walked is fine too.

But once all the people have trudged down a path and compacted the snow and turned it into an ice rink, the worst life choice you can make is to walk where someone else has walked.

That’s where we fall.

I only fell once last week and it didn’t even have anything to do with the snow (I blame Trevor).

But that fall caused me to walk with even more timidity and care. It caused me to be cautious of all of my movements. Even holding my tiny humans seemed like more work than normal.

I learned something in all of my steps through the snow this week.

I needed to trudge my own path.

There were days when I could hop on those only slightly walked on paths, but as the week got further in I had to find the spots where no one had walk. Or the spots where people had given the sidewalk a fresh start and there was no longer ice.

Have you ever reached a fork in the road and had to come to terms with the fact that you didn’t want to choose either path?

It’s funny because I actually don’t know what’s down either road–I just know I don’t want to go down them.

I’m heading just off the path.

But currently my feet are pretty much cemented to the ground.

And I have no clue what to do.

I was, I think I still am, incredibly hopeful for this year. I think that I am going to make some big, life changing decisions this year. I feel the change in my bones. I feel as if I am about to trod my own path.

And that slightly scares me.

I remember a very real conversation I had with myself back in college. It was in the year after Joe died and I was very much still mad at God. I was lost. But I decided I wasn’t going to wait for someone else to be who I was anymore. I had met this human who made me laugh and feel cherished and loved. And I hadn’t gotten him for long enough to see what could have been.

I knew in that moment I had to walk my own path.

I feel that lost feeling again.

Like I am living the life I am supposed to be, not the life I could be.

This isn’t bad people. It’s ok. It’s this edge my seat antsy-ness that will propel me into new.

I just don’t know what it is.

Have you been there? At that place where you know in your knower that change is on the horizon. And you are waiting for it with bated breath.

I’m right there too. Walking towards the horizon to see if it will get closer.

Because we can’t really pause waiting for change.

I would love too. I’d love to take a week and sit at a cabin and stare at water. I’d love to go to a foreign country for a month. I would love to stop showing up.

But I hate to tell you this, the change won’t come if you stop moving.

That’s what I’ve come to realize. It’s like in a video game-you physically can’t get to the end of a level if you stop. Eventually the monster or the villain will walk up to you and eat you. But, if you move forward, you can collect things that help you finish the level and vanquish the monster.

So, I am going to keep moving. I am going to collect tokens along the way. I’m going to be hopeful. I am going to put myself forward in each day.

I’m just a little lost.

And that’s ok.
Bookmark the positive

February 2nd, 2017

I can tell you the month and the year (if not the date) of every tragic, hard thing that has happened in my life. I can tell you where I was, what I was doing. I can tell you the emotion I felt prior to the other shoe dropping.
I think that’s sad.
It is also slightly the world we live in.

Even in my job. I rarely hear amazing things before 8 in the morning. It’s mainly a run down of bad things, a run down of things that might make the day harder, a run down of things I did wrong yesterday, a rundown of who won’t be there.

We don’t stop for the positive.

Sure, we celebrate anniversaries and birthdays. We honor achievement. We lift up notable advancements.

But, what would happen if, as often as we said “that was a long week” or “today, was such a Thursday” if we also said, “Today was kick ass!”

If you haven’t noticed, for me, 2017 is about adding positive words in the atmosphere.

Because I sucked at it last year.

Now, I am not saying this is a rose-colored glasses situation. Because there will be hard days and long weeks and tragic moments and unspeakable things occurring in our world. I am not even saying to “find the positive”, even though that’s great.

I’m deciding, that when it’s a good day, I am going to say just that.

So….

Today was a great day.

The sun was shining, the kids were in great moods. We went on a long walk and made people smile. I didn’t get slapped. The kids slept for a long time. We took silly pictures while we made no bake cookies. I went and said hi to the smiley babies. I had a beautiful conversation with some grandparents who thanked me for taking care of their grand baby. I laughed in the office and was productive when I needed to be.

And then my work wife got off early and we got to hang out. And not just an out of exhaustion need someone to lean on but a happy, lighthearted afternoon.

Today was a great day.

And maybe, a year or two from now, I will see this post on my time hop and I will remember the feeling before the great day started. Maybe February 2nd will be this day I remember from now on.

Or maybe it won’t be.

And I know, that I will probably still bookmark the tragic. It will just happen. Because most tragic is also a remembrance of what was and what is about to be.

But, I do know, that I am going to make room for good days. I am going to make room in my life and in my vocabulary.

Let’s choose to bookmark the positive. To dogear that page so we can remember the feeling and the actual-not-from-exhaustion but joyful laughter.

Today was a good day.

I didn’t even have to use my AK.
PS and as a favor can we all please agree to let frozen go away and please play this song on repeat.
You can call me Meghan if you want.

January 22nd, 2017

I go by Meg for the most part these days. Anyone that has met me in the last three years knows me as Meg, so for the most part I get called Meg (or teacher meeegggggg).
Today, I was in the grocery store and I heard “Hey Meghan!” and I quickly looked up. It was weird the knee jerk reaction that I don’t always have. I’m around other Meghan’s so I usually don’t respond. The person who said hi was thankfully someone I knew–a friend from high school who also randomly lives up here. I said hi and smiled and continued on.

Tonight, after taking all afternoon to clean and rearrange my room for something fresh, I sat here typing and deleting and typing more and deleting more.

Nothing fit, nothing flowed.

Because I get frustrated with rehashing old wounds, old dilemmas, old thoughts.

Because we are 3 weeks out of 2016 and I am working so hard to be hopeful and find truth for myself.

I am desperately desiring there to be no spillover.

I was called Meghan for the first 27 years of my life. I was rarely called anything different (except Moses but that’s another story). I still am called Meghan by anyone who knew me before 2013.

I started being called Meg solely because it was what my name on Facebook was when I went on the world race. And it just kind of stuck. It’s followed me ever since. And I like it. It marks multiple things. People who still call me Meghan are those who have been with me. Those who have stuck by me and I them. People who call me Meg either walked with me through the transformation or are currently still growing with me.

It’s a beautiful bookmark.

But today?

Hearing Meghan caused me to feel a lot of things.

I felt ugly.

I felt spillover.

I felt silenced by anxiety that probably wasn’t even mine.

I don’t like to deal with things I’ve already dealt with.

I’m currently in a battle with still typing versus deleted the 350 words currently on the page.

But I’m not.

Why?

Because there are a lot of things and feelings and issues all around us that are causing a lot of stuff in the atmosphere. It’s stuffing the air with fear and anxiety and that’s not what I want my air filled with.

Part of being kind to myself this year is to attempt rid myself of things bottled up inside. Be it to friends, or to some blank pages or even to this blog.

I have hidden anxieties and parts of my story still drenched in shame that I want to lay to rest this year. I truly believe they are covering beautiful parts of myself I don’t even realize exist.

I think part of being kind to ourselves is coming to terms with, coming to grips with, and coming face to face with things we still deem ugly.

None of those ugly things are your identity. Yes, they might have strengthened part of who you are but they aren’t you. We are not what we lack. We are the lovely parts. We are the strengths which are beautified by what we deem as weakness.

I’m going to attempt to detoxify myself of things I deem ugly, in an attempt to realize how much more beautiful they have made me.

Bottom line: Let’s be kind to our stories my friends.