she writes on sundays

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
37: a year of sand trudging

May 29th, 2023

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
My week of yes

May 23rd, 2023

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
You have to read to the end

April 24th, 2023

I have been dreading actually sitting down with myself and trying to put words onto a page.

I don’t think I’ve had any real revelation or moments that I want to untangle. I don’t think I have anything of worth to say. I don’t have anything good for myself to share.

I have no insight.

So, I’ve been trying to think of what I need to do. Currently sitting here, staring at the drink I just ordered and wondering if I have anything worthwhile to say.

I had a lot of hope there for awhile.

Hope that things were changing. Hope that I would be able to hold on.

Hope that something was around the corner.

But, just like the crash after a performance or a vacation or an event that you’ve been waiting for; there is a crash after a burst of hope.

I think I hoped that actually believing in the hope would change something.

But now, as I look down, my hands are empty and I have to find a way to cultivate the thing that I want.

It’s scary to write these words. It’s scary to put them in a place where people can read them.

It’s scary because I feel like I’m failing at being who I’m supposed to be.

And they feeling inevitably makes me want to run.

I’ve felt it for a few weeks.

That desire to hide. To not truly put words on a page.

To hype myself up instead of admitting that I felt defeat.

It’s been almost a year and 8 months since I left my preschool teaching job.

It’s been just over a year and a half since my mom died.

And lately I’ve been having to push down the narrative that I haven’t done enough.

That I should have achieved more.

That I should be stronger.

That, once again, I’m actually failing at life.

I want to say a lot of things right now.

I want to hype myself out of this hole.

I want to tell you I know what tangible thing is next.

I can’t.

I can tell you though this simple thing:

I still haven’t run.

I’m still to the best of my ability showing up for the ones who have shown up for me.

I’m choosing the things and people that give me life and hope and joy and declining the things and people that feel like an obligation.

At the end of the day, I get to choose who I let into my home.

And whether I’m good at it or not- continuing to choose grace over myself.

None of it is simple.

But it is worth it.

I don’t know what else to say. I do know that none of these hard things are easy.

Choosing what’s good for myself and my soul over what other people think is good for myself and my soul.

I started a journey about two years ago of creating strong boundaries.

Creating those boundaries changed the narrative of who I was to people.

But you can’t let people decide who you are based on what they need to get from you.

And I must repeat: only you can decide who gets to come in your home.

And there it is: some hope I’ve cultivated.

It’s in my hands. (And so is the tequila based martini).

This is why we need to do as the magical creative human in my life Betsy Garmon says “we must practice our practice”.

We have to sit with the things that help us stir up life.

We have to do the things that bring us back to ourselves.

For me; it’s sitting at a bar and writing.

That’s how I get to the point.

That’s how I talk to God.

That’s I create hope.

So thank you.

Thank you for helping me find my point.

Thank you for reading to the end.

And thank you, from the bottom of my heart, to those (whom they absolutely know who they are) who have created hope for themselves that I’ve been able to take part of.

To whom it may concern,

Here’s some hope.

With love,

Meg