she writes on sundays

land mines

February 18th, 2024

I’ve done about 5 things prior to sitting down and writing something because I don’t want too.

Here’s the thing: if you’re new here, if you’ve stumbled upon these words somehow; something you need to know about it this- I write to untangle.

I write to untangle with the hopes that in my untangling I’ll find a piece of something I didn’t have before. I’ll find something hidden or I’ll let myself take the time to face the thing I haven’t been wanting to face. I share because at some point (at many points) in all of our lives we have to untangle things. We have to figure where we’ve been and where we’re going and what we need to do to get there.

And no matter how many times in our lives we come to that place that feels like a jump it still gets a little scary. It still feels like something trepidatious, because when we choose to move forward, we’re choosing to walk into something we don’t know, we’re choosing to move into something unknown- sometimes leaving something lovely and sometimes leaving something battered and bruised, sometimes somewhere in between.

I had a breakdown on Friday. In the midst of doing lunch dishes everything just sort of weighed down on me and I felt a panic attack coming. I text my friend Amanda who in turn told me to call her, so I went outside and cried on the phone to her. Amid the conversation, a phrase came into my brain, simply this; “I feel like I can’t get my feet on the ground”.

Since that moment on Friday that phrase has been told back to me, once in a picture and then in a dream wherein I was barefoot and upon searching what that meant saw many different variations of feeling like not being able to get feet on the ground.

But today, as I was leaving church and echoes of words my pastors said ricocheting in my brain I thought “I don’t want to move forward because it feels like there are land mines”.

I feel like I’m about to enter a time where I’m doing some things I used to do again. It’s not the same because I’m not the same, but the actions are similar.

It’s terrifying and I absolutely see the land mines.

And I have to wonder-am I strong enough to withstand the blows if I step on one.

The truth that I know, down in my knower, is that I am indeed strong enough to withstand the blows.

I am strong enough to get back up again.

I’m just tired of it.

(it is to be noted that I stopped at this point and scrolled on my phone as to reach the end of this collection of words)

There’s a part of me that I have to acknowledge that I’ve set aside the last couple years. I left a job on the brink of collapse, exhausted, burnt out and without hope. I moved into a safe place wherein I was going to have space to breath and just as I was catching my breath- my mom died.

So now, it’s been almost 2.5 years since I walked away from that part of myself and now something is telling me I might be coming back to that part of who I am.

And as much as I’d like to say that first my feet have to find the ground, if I’ve learned anything, we cant wait for that- we just have to keep moving forward.

Something new is on the horizon- it’s pushing me onward and reminding me that ‘again’ isn’t the same- it’s just that- again.

I’m probably going to step on some land mines on the way, but I have to remember to move forward with my eyes up regardless, I have to remember to lead with hope.

I have to remember the strength I’ve built and the ability I have to keep moving forward.

I’m going to be completely honest: I have no idea what is actually next. I just know it’s time to watch for the light again and see what happens.

If you’ve made it to the end of this, here’s a piece for you:

You are stronger than the things that came before that gave you the strength. You won’t meet them again the same because you aren’t the same.

You got this.

With love,

Meg
again & again

January 21st, 2024

When I first started thinking about my word for 2024, I quickly heard the words “build again”.

And then I quickly said “well, no”.

While part of me said nope because of a deep need to not feel like I was just re-doing 2023, I also said nope because it didn’t settle to my toes. The words didn’t make me go “yep, that’s it”

So, I’ve just been waiting.

Waiting to see if something popped up, or if I had a word highlighted to me.

Thus far, in 2024, I’ve just been trying to take care of me. I’ve eaten dinner every night, done skin care, tried to drink more water. I have just been moving in a forward direction.

I don’t in any way shape or form want to do anything from last year AGAIN.

I’m a human who is very passionate about how we are constantly changing. You can’t really go back to someone you were in the before because of all you’ve become since then. I try to lean strong in to the not having of regrets. I don’t think “everything happens for a reason” but I do believe you can use everything that happens for a reason.

So, today, sitting in church I kept writing the words “again and again” over and over.

I was stuck on the phrase. Again and Again.

I got to thinking about my preschoolers when they would do something that would spark joy or laughter, or when we’d listen to a song or story they love, there would quickly be an “Again!”. I think, looking back to even my one year olds; again is a word that quickly comes after the word ‘more’. Again provides better context for what they want and the repetition that they get when the word is used.

Tiny humans use again for hope and joy and laughter.

Then I thought of training or rehearsing or anything where you need a repetition of movement to get better or stronger.

“Again!”

It’s a command. A word that says so much with only two syllables.

Again circles back into the conversation when you’re going through something. This summer when I was dealing with vertigo and unable to hold anything down I went about 14 hours without throwing up when I moved. But, towards the end of the evening on a Sunday, I got up to go to the bathroom and I threw up- and I remember tears falling down my face and saying the phrase, “not again”.

So, needless to say, ‘again’ circling through my brain has been something I haven’t wanted to look in the face.

The past week we’ve had snow, I’ve been staying home and I’ve been cleaning and organizing and cooking.

And the world around me has, for the first time in a while, started to feel like home.

Home; again.

And I made the realization that maybe, just maybe, my word isn’t build again, or live again, or home again.

Maybe it’s just _________ again.

Blank again.

I feel a bit like I was holding a deck of cards and I dropped them all.

But instead of suits and numbers they hold words.

Write, build, dance, home, sing, rest, laugh, smile.

The cards hold pieces of who I am that I’ve lost along the way the last few years.

And its time to pick them up again.

It doesn’t mean that I’m going back to what I was or repeating what I’ve done.

It’s just time to be Meg again in ways I’ve forgotten, in places I’ve missed, in spaces I need to show up in again.

So this year, again and again, I’ll move. I’ll pick up cards.

I’ll find myself walking forward with who I am and what I’m about.

Again and again.

With love,

Meg
So what if…

January 15th, 2024

But what if I just started writing.

What if I stopped being scared that I had nothing to say, no reasons to write.

What if I stopped being frightened that I was faking it til I make it in regards to the whole prospect of having hope.

What if I took a moment to lay down the things that feel like are covering my face or weighing me down.

What if I admitted I’m terrified of being left in the dust.

What if it feels like all those around me have climbed mountains and crossed oceans while I just sit.

Here on this island, too petrified to make a leap again.

What if I told you that I’m scared I missed something; that I stood my ground in such a way that my stubbornness turned to cement and my legs became stone.

What if I allowed myself to write the words that describe how it feels like grief shifted my foundation

so much that I feel like I’m in a completely different house.

What if I don’t know what to say anymore.

And what if I think that my fires and trials and tears have separated me from all those around.

And what if I told you; I know that the words that come before this are things that aren’t true but seeped in a bit of truth that I hold onto tighter than I should.

What if I physically forced my fingers to not press the backspace because I know the lesson in all of this; I know the beauty in it is that in our stream of consciousness we find the nuggets of strength and the things that desperately need to be pushed into the light.

What if I’ve realized through these almost ten years of putting words onto a paper, in the wind, or on a Sunday, that the only way you can put things into the light is to turn the light on yourself.

Because what if I told you that I miss the person I was before I became the girl who lost her mom.

The girl who didn’t feel like her identity was tied to a grief.

And what if I told you that I’ve been spending my quiet moments trying to figure out how to keep walking in the direction off the island I feel I live on.

But what if I told you I know I’m stronger.

I know I’ve walked through those flames and valleys and the things all around them.

What if I just started writing because I know I’m more than the flames, more than the tears and more than the hurdles in my life that brought me to where I am.

So, what if I started writing about who I am.

I am Meghan Marie Reeve.

I’m a friend, a daughter, a little sister, a writer, a traveler, a teacher, a singer, a caregiver, a home.

I’m a Meredith, a tequila drinker, an adventurer.

I’ve been through waves and storms more times than I can comprehend.

And I’ve kept moving forward.

So, what if I told you; it’s time to build again.

Because it is.

With love,

Meg
Start writing…

December 10th, 2023

There are three weeks left of this year and part of me just wants to hibernate so I can say I survived.

It feels silly to say that because the survival portion of this has really just been the last four months.

But damn, I have survived.

Right now, in my brain, I’m trying to absolutely disclaim away the things I’ve gone through mentally and physically in the last four months, the things I’m honestly still going through and dealing with.

But damn, I survived something and I think I’m starting to come to terms with that.

There were a few terrifying moments in the weeks I was dealing with the vertigo that caused me to not be able to eat or move or be. A few times when going to the bathroom I came moments from passing out only to be saved by the fact my toilet is next to a counter I could lean on. A few times where I came close to choking when small movements would cause me to throw up.

I cried myself to sleep most nights.

I missed my mom more than I could even articulate.

It was a lot.

And I’m slowly starting to realize what I’ve come through and how it has and still is affecting me.

My word (phrase) for the year that I’ve been coming back to is “coming back home to myself”. And I’ve been halted on writing because I didn’t really know how to hold the last four months and those words in the same hand.

And I am still not sure where this is going to go; I’m just going to choose to walk on the path and see what happens.

When I think about coming home to myself, in the beginning of the year, I thought that it would be about finding who I was again. I thought it would be stepping more into the things that brought me home. The brought me joy and that allowed me to lean into things that brought me power of self.

I had a moment, when I was laying in my bed, unable to move, to lift my head, unable to close my eyes, where I had the realization and the thought that I had been stripped of everything that I felt made me, me.

How could I be a home to others if I couldn’t even be home in my own body?

How could I be a home to others and to myself if I couldn’t even walk down my stairs?

I know in my knower that I am still me, Meg, even when I was physically trapped in my bed.

I know that I am still me, even when I felt like a shell of human.

I had to come home to myself with nothing to give to realize that I was still Meg.

I had to come home to who I was when I physically could do nothing to realize that people aren’t around me because of what I can do for them or what I bring to the table.

I had to come home to who I was when I had nothing to give to remind myself I can do hard things.

The last four months have been scary and anxiety producing and have caused me to question more things and interactions than I’d care to admit.

I’m still grappling with my balance and my face and my inabilities daily. I just push through the things that scare me. I’m still grappling with having to decide if this is my new normal.

I’m still in survival mode sometimes.

What writing these words has reminded me, is that l am, like my mom, a tough old broad.

It has reminded me that homes are so many things and they have so many functions.

And sometimes you don’t get to go downstairs for two weeks.

If you’ve made it to the end, thank you.

I hope you’re able to look back on 2023 and see the places you became more yourself, to see the hard things you pushed through.

To see how you’re stronger.

To see where the joy lies.

You did the damn thing, so let’s take these last few weeks and celebrate that.

With love,

Meg
Sometimes the ghosts come back

October 23rd, 2023

I don’t want to admit any of the things that are about to be said in this collection of words.

Because it feels unlike me, it feels like I’m letting a few things that I had mostly put to bed come back. Here we are anyway.

Somewhere along the way in my 30s I’ve grown to enjoy being in pictures and have even felt beautiful and have grown to love my smile.

And somewhere along the way in all of this I’ve started to appreciate and be ok with the sound of my own voice. (I had speech issues as a child and had a hard time being understood to the point where I just wouldn’t talk).

And if I’m being honest the last two months of dealing with Bell’s palsy has brought those two things screaming back to the surface.

I saw friends this weekend I hadn’t seen in a few months and I felt a lot of anxiety and nervousness and felt incredibly self-conscience about my face and my voice and my ability to communicate. I didn’t want to be in pictures facing the camera and I felt so nervous speaking out loud when I was talking to groups of kids or parents at a theater workshop.

I didn’t want to do those things but I did because I won’t be silent and I won’t be ashamed of a thing I’m going through- but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t a battle.

It doesn’t mean the old ghosts of being misunderstood and feeling incredibly not beautiful and worthy don’t come back up.

It doesn’t mean that I don’t just want to hide and be silent.

I’m proud of my ability to speak in public and the confidence I have built in myself. I’m proud of myself for choosing to see my beauty.

But right now, everything in me says to hide.

I really don’t know what the point of all these words are. I don’t have a solution; I don’t know when I’m going to look and feel normal again.

I just know that I have to keep being who I am in spite of what the small voice in my head says.

I’ve had a hell of a two months and it’s still going. (For example tears are currently coming out of one of my eyes).

I know each thing is going to be a little battle, each event where my friends want to take pictures, each time I have to talk in front of people, auditioning for a show, meeting new people.

It’s all hard things that I’m going to have to do. All things that make that small, little voice go; “hey remember when?”.

Here I am though; trying.

I don’t know what hard thing you’re going through, or what thing is bringing back ghosts from the past you thought you defeated, but I want you to know you aren’t alone.

You can do it.

We can do it.

I can do it.

Let’s keep fucking going.

With love,

Meg
Where I’m at.

August 27th, 2023

I wasn’t going to write.

I didn’t want to pin this season however long it may be anywhere.

I don’t want to look in a mirror so I really don’t want to look in the mirror that are whatever words might come out of my mouth.

Truth be told; I’m scared.

When the doctor said the phrase “Bell’s palsy” last week I actually really resisted the urge to google more than the paperwork in front of me.

The thing about googling Bell’s palsy is that people that recover quickly don’t talk about it.

I’ve been out of work all week. I’ve been dizzy and exhausted and I’ve been avoiding talking and FaceTiming and anything that is having to use my voice.

My brain is desperately wanting to check out and not have to think about any of the things.

Because at the end of the day- it’s where I am right now.

I’m trying to remember who I am, what I’m about and what I’m made of.

I’m trying to remember my strength.

So, with all that being said, I’m going to go into this next week and keep moving forward.

I’m going to choose to believe again and again and again that this is a season and from this place I’ll be stronger.

And also for now, I’ll know that I don’t always have to be strong and that if I need to cry I will (even if it’s only with one eye).

I’ll be thankful for the kind words and the care packages and the love and prayers and the humans in my life.

And I’ll do my damndest to speak even though it is really really hard.

That’s it.

That’s some guttural, real, from the pits of where I’m at this Sunday.

That’s all.

With love,

Meg
Into Fall

August 16th, 2023

I’ve been trying to write for a while. Weeks really. I’ve been a little afraid at what might come out if I allow myself to sit in front of a screen and just let words come out.

In all honesty I think I’ve spent the summer drawing lines in the sand that I don’t believe anyone else really knows about.

(I say this though and all I can think of is my best friend reading this on her couch and knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that she’s seen the lines I’ve chosen to draw.)

I’m trying to look at my life differently than I ever have.

I’m trying to see the things, people, and moments that give me life.

I think I’ve been avoiding people the last few weeks. I’ve been cleaning out corners and sitting with my empty house and empty brain and I’ve been sad and not sad and a lot of things in between those.

I’ve spent a lot of years being drained because I thought I was supposed to be.

I’ve spent a lot of years doing things I think I should because other people needed my abilities to step into those places.

I stayed longer than I should have because if not me than who.

I stayed in friendships, I stayed feeling bad because I wasn’t better, I stayed so others weren’t alone even though the places I stayed were taking every ounce of energy I had because I had the ability to keep moving forward.

I stayed because I had strength on the behalf of the people who didn’t have it.

But, when I haven’t been able to write this week, when it’s been a lot and a lot, I chose to lean into something that is constantly a reference point, constantly something I choose to look at when I feel like I can’t untangle what I’m feeling.

Obviously, the movie “The Labyrinth.”

On my rewatch I noticed something.

All the main character had to do was change how she saw things. All she had to do was look at a wall differently and there was a door. All she had to do was look past the cracks in the mirror and remember she was still on a quest.

All she had to do was change the way she saw things.

All she had to do was choose her own way of seeing things.

There was a chunk of my life wherein I chose to make myself smaller so a person who was close to me didn’t feel small.

I chose to stay tucked away so a person in my peripheral didn’t feel left out.

So instead, I left my own self out.

And honestly, I got angry. I got sad. I got lonely.

I got unlike myself.

I felt like I was drawing lines in the sand because the human in my life was unable to step out of theirs.

And that haunted me for a long while.

So, this summer when I felt stepped on and shoved aside and a few other adjectives I won’t share; I decided to draw some lines in the sand.

And it’s been hard.

It’s been lonely.

It’s been giving space to those who didn’t need to draw those lines.

It’s been keeping myself out of places I didn’t have the emotional ability to process.

It’s been truthfully coming to terms with being alone and being someone, who’s mom died.

And those realizations have been earth shattering in ways I’ve kept quieter because I’ve been unable to articulate what those actual mean.

And it’s been a lot of sitting with my own brain and classical music.

Guess what?

That’s ok.

It sounds sad, lonely, and depressing.

But, really, it’s not.

Today I spent an hour with three good friends of mine, and then met my bestie for early dinner and I got the light of things that brought me life.

And that led me to these words.

Words that felt shadowed and heavy and so many other things.

But they weren’t

They were just things I needed to look at again.

I needed to change the way I saw them.

This summer won’t go down as one that brought me goodness and memories.

It will be one where I came home to myself in a quiet way, so that I could let things die, so that I could let pieces I kept go, because they made others more comfortable.

This summer is leading me to fall and while that’s a place I usually don’t want to go- this year; I’m ready to lead myself into fall.
The rebuild

July 19th, 2023

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.
To the RFK 2023 family

July 2nd, 2023

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
1,100 words on 38

June 4th, 2023

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