Category: it takes a village

Reclaim: Let’s talk about it.

December 18th, 2025

I’ve been absolutely avoiding this and these words. But, as the end of the year comes and I’m surrounded by sweet TikTok’s of people shoving flags of their accomplishments into cakes I’ve found the thought of facing these words seems to take all the positivity and ability to roll with the punches I’ve been dealt out of my sails.

I want to say this year got taken away from me, but to say that would be negating all the fun things that did happen, all the memories that were made and all the people who showed up for me. It just so happens that amidst all of that I also had some not so fun things that happened that have completely defined a fourth of my year.

My word of the year is reclaim.

And like all other years, because I never learn, I assumed it meant something different.

Even at the halfway point I wrote that I was reclaiming that big, beautiful things could happen.

(I don’t think anyone realizes how hard it has been to not be cynical.)

So, here’s the thing: when I’m writing and just sort of listening to what words come next, I’ll hear something that will make me stop in my tracks and right now it’s this:

I am the big, beautiful thing that happened this year.

There are so many moments that could have led to things being really wrong this year. I went in an ambulance 3 times. I made 4 trips to the ER. I was admitted to the hospital twice and spent 18 days in total in the hospital. I was diagnosed with two autoimmune diseases, one that frequently paralyzes people for a period of time. I’ve had MRIs and CTs and lumbar punctures, a kidney biopsy, more blood drawn than I can count, blood and iron transfusions. I got fluid taken off my lungs. I essentially had to relearn to use my legs. I now have a walker, a cane and a shower chair. And if I never have blueberry yogurt again it will still be too soon.

But, I’m still here.

When I chose to believe that my 40s could have good things I thought I was reclaiming tangible things. Maybe a part in a musical or a vacation or another whirlwind adventure like the Tito’s party bus.

Maybe a man who owns a castle sweeping me off my feet. (It could happen)

I didn’t know that the scariest moments of my life were actually setting me up to reclaim the fact that I am the good thing.

I have always had a really hard time not feeling like a burden. I have an incredibly hard time asking for help.

Now, I do not have a green thumb. I’ve made the joke before and I’ll make it again that I keep tiny humans alive, I don’t need to keep plants alive. But, I can imagine if you had a plant that you loved so much and it was important to you, you do everything you could do to keep it alive. Because it’s a beautiful thing in your life.

I’m realizing I was the plant that needed to be kept alive. I was the beautiful thing and the humans around me did what they could to keep me alive.

There are a lot of buzzwords I hate in life as a woman who has been going to church as long as I have.

Worthy, enough, resilient.

But, what if this year taught me to reclaim them?

Because, I am the big, beautiful thing that happened this year.

I think it would be easier to not believe any of that. It would be easier to be cynical and angry and honestly, I don’t think people would blame me.

Sometimes, my lack of negative feelings feels wrong. I got into a black hole a few times of people with chronic illness on social media and felt like I’m missing something. Because, yes, it really fucking sucks. Yes, I’m in pain. Yes, people don’t understand.

Yes, sometimes being told to use essential oils to cure my lupus makes me want to scream.

But yes, I can control my reaction.

I’m not saying I will always be positive or there haven’t been days I’ve been in tears over what was and what might not be.

But, I’m choosing to reclaim the narrative that big beautiful things can still happen.

And I’m remembering that if this year taught me anything it’s that I am the big beautiful thing that happened.

I don’t know what my word is for next year. I don’t know what’s going to happen next or what my blood work will say or what is going on inside my body.

I just know I’m still here.

I am the beautiful thing.

With love,

Meg
38: year of…

May 27th, 2024

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

38 has been wild.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear 38,

I’m glad I didn’t let you show me up.

Thanks for reminding me I’m a badass.

With love,

Meg

PS.

Let’s just stay calm this week k? (Unless it’s like really, really good)
38: year of…

May 27th, 2024

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

38 has been wild.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear 38,

I’m glad I didn’t let you show me up.

Thanks for reminding me I’m a badass.

With love,

Meg

PS.

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

September 25th, 2022

I am not enough, I am not capable, I don’t hear from God and my voice isn’t needed.

All the words I’ve had, all the words I’ve deleted, all the words that have percolated in my head over the last hour have all had the same theme.

I am not enough, I am not capable, I don’t hear from God and my voice isn’t needed.

And I know how that sounds, but I’m gonna need you to hold on and keep reading.

Because at the end of the day, until we realize what binds all the awful things together in our brain we will be unable to figure it out.

I emote for the most part a very bad ass bitch attitude. Because honestly, you just have too.

But, when the exhaustion hits and the seasons change and memories come back to haunt us, it comes chugging down the tracks with a force.

And if you’re wondering: that’s where I’m at.

Exhaustion, changing into a season I’m realizing I have more against, and the memories flooding in.

I was having a conversation with someone a few weeks ago about how I’ve gotten better at meeting situations that feel heartbreakingly similar to other seasons in life not with “but I’ve been here before” but instead “I guess I have to go deeper”.

Because at the end of it all these phrases “I’m not enough” and “I am not capable” are not the same that they were.

They can’t be.

Not only am I am different human than when I met them before, not only am I stronger, but also I’ve seen some shit.

When I first wrote this long list of all the ways in which I feel like I fall short (it was pretty damn long), I felt guilty for even thinking them.

Not because they didn’t feel true, but because I had a momentary pause of; I should be stronger than than this.

But that’s not true.

I don’t need to be stronger than all the lies.

I need to be strong enough to recognize them for what they are and keep moving forward.

I’ve referenced this movie before, but I’m thinking of the scene in The Labyrinth where the main character realizes that the Goblin King has no power over her.

And I wonder how frequently she had to repeat that in her mind.

If she saw an owl, or had a moment of anger at her baby brother, or if she wanted to run. I wondered how many situations she met in her life past that where she has to tell that little voice in her head that it had no matter over her.

(It’s now I’m realizing that lies in my head are 100% David Bowie as the goblin king)

Because some days it feels easier to give in to them.

How easy would have been for her to give the baby to the goblin king and live a life free from the thing that made her feel something.

Sometimes, I don’t want to show up for myself.

I want lean in to all the things that cause me to not be who I am and just exist.

But, what kind of life is that?

I don’t really know where I’m going from here.

I have the legal pad of all the ways I currently don’t measure up.

I have the Goblin King trying to hand me a magic crystal to take the baby away.

Here I am though: standing my ground, speaking out that he has no power over me and choosing to keep moving forward and sitting in the muck and grief and places wherein I don’t feel I have the strength.

If you’re still here I want to remind you that you haven’t been here before because you’re in fact a different human than you were.

And the Goblin King has no power over you.

With love,

Meg
We are stronger.

July 12th, 2020

2020 has quickly become the year that I don’t write when I should.

Today, after church, I had pulled our couch covers off of both of our couches because they desperately needed a wash. I was going to wait to vacuum the floor til after I reput the couch covers back on (we have molting couches) but, instead I sang a little ditty.
“Sometimes I clean to hide from my emotions…”
Whoops.

I cleaned, I made lunch, I laid in bed scrolling tiktok. I took a nap. I woke up foggy and cloudy. I ordered dinner and then decided to just sit at my computer and stop running from the words that were attempting to topple out of my brain.

I’ve hinted at this a couple of times in the few blogs I’ve written this year, but I’ve basically been crippled by anxiety on multiple occasions in the past four months.

It’s ebbed and flowed. It’s caused me to stay in bed and hide, or not hang out with the small group of humans that I’ve surrounded myself with.

It’s caused me to cry a lot.

Talking about and posting about anxiety in the way that I want to feels like putting myself out there in a way that feels like people are going to worry- they don’t need too.

I think talking about anxiety and the causes of it and how it feels is so incredibly important.

And it’s so different for everyone.

Just because I go to work every day and function and have a smile on my face doesn’t mean I’m not a high functioning basket case of anxiety. Just because I show up doesn’t mean my skin isn’t crawling or that I physically have to force myself to stay present for the kiddos in my room. It doesn’t mean that I haven’t had to run into my storage closet at work and rip off my mask.

It doesn’t mean I don’t sometimes try not to fall asleep because then I have to wake up again and keep going.

I’m a person who shows up for other people.
But sometimes, I realize that is something I just can’t do.

The past few weeks were exceptional hard. I’ve been overcome with a lot of sadness for my camp kids. I took a few days off because I had to use vacation time and it was really hard and I spent any moment alone in tears.

And in the week leading up to July 4th, I just battled daily voices in my head telling me I was failing or no enough or not worth it and then to add to that I had some really haunting memories crawl out from under the bed.
It just made me so damn tired.

I realized when I woke up on the 4th of July, I didn’t want to go to the small barbeque I was invited too, I didn’t want to people.
My heart hurt.

I think I was tired from the anxiety, I was tired from the sadness.
I was tired of all the memories that come up around the weekend of July 4th.
So I stayed home.
And that was a good choice.

I cried I slept, I watched food network.
I took a lot of deep breathes.

I’ve come a long way in my journey through dealing with and having anxiety.
This journey started about 11 years ago. It involved hitting rock bottom, not knowing what the hell was wrong with me, going into therapy and getting on incredibly strong antidepressants. It involved weeks of not sleeping and literally living in life in fear of being a burden or not doing something correctly.
I literally stopped going to work. I was crippled by darkness and anxiety. The voice inside my head was winning whatever game it was playing.

My journey included grappling with suicidal thoughts and sobbing on the phone to my therapist in a parking lot and terrifying myself in the process.

I came to the understanding that my brain just was a little out of wack and the meds I was on needed time to settle.
The hope in my life wasn’t gone- it was just very dim.

2020 is not 2009.
But 2020 is a game of its own.
I’m stronger now and honestly just more stubborn.
I have facts in my head that I can list through when I’m feeling especially out of wack.
And I live in a lot less shame from on me from those around me that say my anxiety is because I’m doing something wrong or I’m not “close enough to God” (yes, that’s a thing).
I’m less prone to listen to someone who says my anxiety is shameful.

If I’m being honest, in 2020 my anxiety has shown me how damn far I’ve come.
It’s showed me I can keep moving forward.
It’s reminded me that I can listen to my body and know when I need to stop or when stopping would be detrimental.
It’s reminded me that crying is ok.

I want to remind you that just like me, you’ve probably come a lot farther than you think you have.
Just like me, you’ve gotten stronger.
And just like me, it’s ok that your battle isn’t over.

I wanted to sit here and write these words and admit to the sadness and the thoughts the run through my head sometimes because I wanted you to know that you have nothing to be ashamed of when you feel like you aren’t winning the battle with those things.

And honestly, the world is not making it easy for those of us who have feel as if they have no control over the balance in our brain spaces.

You’re doing better than you think you are.

I am doing better than I think I am.

Let’s keep fucking going.
How do you hope?

March 29th, 2020

I’ve been contemplating these words I’m going to write since Friday.
It’s been a hard thought process because I feel like they are uncharacteristic of me, but in the same breath feel very tangible and real to me. And weirdly important.

On Friday (which mind you, I had to scroll through and see if it was indeed Friday, because who knows what day it is), Katie, Victoria and I were texting, as we do, and Victoria said the following phrase which struck something in me.
She said, “because hope feels dangerous”.

And as I’ve been thinking about that phrase and talking it through, I’ve come to truly realize that hope is a word that fits most parts of speech.
In this, the word hope feels like a descriptive word. And the word it’s describing is danger.

Now, don’t stop reading, I know that feels weird. It sounds like I’m fearful and hesitant to expect hope to be good. And in some ways I am. But I am also someone who adamantly believes that peace is not easy and doesn’t necessarily feel “good”. It just is that: peace.

I guess I should explain a little more. Even as I think about typing the words I’m writing I can hear the rebuttal or the explanations of what I am doing to make hope feel this way, but I need you to know that even when hope feels dangerous I am trying my damnest to walk in dangerous hope.

Hope feels dangerous because the other shoe keeps dropping. My floor is littered with them. Now, that sounds defeatest and victim I realize. But, what feels more tangible to me is seeing that something bad won’t maybe happen, it probably will. In my life, in the lives of my friends.

That’s not saying I don’t see the big, beautiful good things in my life, I do. If I didn’t I would absolutely without a doubt in my mind, be laying in my bed in darkness right now, not sitting in a bright room. I wouldn’t have tears rolling down my face thinking about how much my crew has stepped up for each other and watched out for each other.

If I didn’t see the beautiful, good things I wouldn’t be able to function at work right now with the anxiety I feel.

Because I’ve been there before and I know what it’s like to live without hope.

Right now though, I’m not living in bright shiny hope. I’m not living in the hope that the world will be bright and shiny and I’ll get everything I want.

I’m living in a hope that hurts a little. I’m living in a hope that I hold onto with tears running down my face. I walk to work every day, a little tense, but knowing that even without trying I can be hope to some.

I’ve realized over the last two years, hope is not easy.

I didn’t learn about this hope in Sunday school, I didn’t teach it in Sunday school. I didn’t learn about this hope in Bible classes. I wasn’t able to see this hope around the world because I hadn’t lived in this version of it.

Hope to me used to be all or nothing.

Hope was never scary.

But, like my lovely work wife said, hope feels dangerous.

It’s dangerous because choosing to hope, with the knowledge that it probably won’t look like what you thought.

Choosing to hope anyway, is choosing to walk through a season knowing that you won’t come out of it the same.

I know, I know, that’s literally any season ever.

But right now, feels monumental. And it feels more unknown than anything I’ve personally walked through.

Hope feels dangerous because I really don’t know what I’m putting my hope in. And as I typed that the hymn lyric “My hope is built on nothing less than Jesus’ blood and righteousness”.

And once again I KNOW.
HOPE CAN STILL BE HARD.
HOPE CAN STILL FEEL UNKNOWN.

I think right now I am holding on to the dangerous feeling hope for myself and giving the hope that’s light to my tiny humans because in all honesty they need and deserve it.

I am holding on to dangerous hope because I believe it will teach me to be able to hold onto the lighthearted hope again.

I’m holding on to dangerous hope because in all reality out of everything flying around it’s the one I can grab.

I think I wanted to write these words, push back or not because they struck such a chord in me that I knew they were important.

I think I wanted to write these words because I wanted to vocalize that even though hope might feel dangerous and even scary and wrong, it doesn’t make you any less than.

I wanted to write these words even though I’ve literally been crying the entire time writing them because I am not less than or less of myself or less of someone who believes in God.

It does not make me less than.

Whatever you feel, however you are coping, whatever feels like or doesn’t feel like doesn’t make you less than.

But what I want to ask is that you write it down. You need tell someone. You need to speak it out loud.

You name things you don’t need and toss them out.

And however this looks, please for the love of everything, find some way to show up each day. However, that make may look.

Dear world,
My name is Meghan.
I miss my people more than I can even say.
I am more tired working with 6 kids than 15.
I am grieving things that may never happen.
And hope feels dangerous.
But I am going to try to hope anyway.
And keep fucking going.
Sincerely,
Meg
The grey purse is still in reach

December 15th, 2019

Here’s the thing:
I should be writing my Christmas letter right now. I should be writing it and compiling all the addresses I have and preparing to literally ship out the cards the minute they come in the mail.

But, I’m not ready yet.

I feel as if most of my thoughts lately have not been suitable for audiences. As if the thoughts in my head are somewhat inappropriate and also a little mean, mostly to myself.

What I’m trying to say, in the words of my work wife, is that my brain has “no chill”.

My brain doesn’t realize it’s Christmas fully. It doesn’t know that I need to be wrapping up my thoughts on 2019 and attempting to piece together what feels like failure in order to close this chapter.

I normally love the end of the year. I love reminiscing on what happened and where I went and what I accomplished.

I am trying with every damn fiber of my being to not throw everything of this year into a dumpster and light in on fire because I feel like I failed myself.
Because, to be honest, this year brought so many good things, and people and food and trips and self-realization.

But, instead of focusing on those things (which will happen, but first I gotta get through this week) right now, I am focusing on this simple phrase that I wrote last week that has been coursing through my blood for most minutes of the day since.

I’m NOT over yet.

Just because we’re leaping into a new year and decade, just because I can no longer admit I’m in early thirties doesn’t mean I’m done or over or don’t have more beautiful life to live and relationships to have and adventures to go on and more songs to sing.

Folks, we’re not over yet.

I think I spent a lot of this year believing I was. I think I spent a lot of 2019 standing behind those who were winning at life and applauding them and cheering them on and lifting them up and celebrating each and every monumental occasion. I think that caused me to believe I had no more victories until I had certain victories happen.

And it makes me think of my perpetual list of things I want. Back in I think about 2009 or so I desperately wanted a grey purse. But I’m picky and knew that not just any purse was going to cut it. I spent months and months looking for a purse. I had a color of grey in my head and a shape and a type of strap and pockets.

And I had a really hard time buying anything for myself until I found that purse. And then one day, at a Kohl’s in Huntington Beach, I found a Vera Wang grey purse. It was like it had been created for me.

2019 has felt like I’ve been looking for a grey purse again. I have a specific purse in my brain, that’s really abstract to describe and I feel as if I don’t find it before the clock strikes midnight on December 31rst then I will have failed miserably.

But, that’s not how it works.

It’s not over yet.
I still have more stores to go to.
I haven’t failed.
I still have victories and celebration left- they might not look like I want them too- but they are still there.

So, if you’re feeling that right now. If the build-up of everything ended and beginning again is too much for you.
If you feel like you haven’t had a win in a while I just really need you to remember that you aren’t anywhere near over yet.
You aren’t alone.
You aren’t over.
You can still find your perfect grey purse.
2020 is a new decade and year but January 1rst doesn’t make dreams and desires and pain go away.
All we have to do is keep fucking going.
with love,
Meg
I am 34

August 25th, 2019

I am 34 and I want you to know I work hard.

I am 34 and I want you to know that my hard work looks different than yours.
I am 34 and I know I probably COULDN’T do your hard work neither could you set foot in mine.
I want you to know that I am someone who deals with mental health issues and with burnout and I still keep showing up.
I want you to know I am 34 and I don’t expect life to be easy.

In actuality I expect that life isn’t easy and that when something good happens than apparently something bad is around the corner.
I am 34 and I’m cynical.

I am 34 and I have lost people I have loved and have been unsure I could love like that again.

I am 34 and I have held the hands of my parents while they were laying in hospital beds and gotten phone calls half a world away that my mom was really sick.

I am 34 and I spent a week of spring break from teaching changing my mom’s depends.

I want you to know that I’m 34 and I care more deeply for humans than when I was 24.
I want you to know that even though I don’t expect good things I still, as much as I can, expect people to be good.

I am 34 and I don’t expect to get married or have kids. I am 34 and I wish all the goodness for all of my friends.

(I am 34 and I’m a 2 on the enneagram).
I want you to know that I’m 34 and I have trust issues.
I want you to know that I’m 34 and the words “put on your big girl panties” and “fake it til you make it” have lost their meaning.

Because, I am 34 and I don’t think we should have to tell people to show up- I think they just should.

I am 34 and I love avocado toast and cold brew.
I am 34 and if my paycheck doesn’t meet to the other end I eat cereal 4 nights in a row.
I am 34 and if my paycheck doesn’t meet to the other end but I have a friend that needs dinner and safe place, I would share my cereal. I am 34 and even if I didn’t have PTO I would still spend a week volunteering with foster kids.

I am 34 and I was raised in a time that you went to college.
I am 34 and I have a lot of student loans.
I am 34 and I wouldn’t wish away the experience of college.

I am 34 and a preschool teacher and I had to have active shooter training in the event a shooter comes into my classroom with my 15 tiny humans
I am 34 and in the event of an active shooter I will do everything in my power to keep my 15 tiny humans safe (and let’s be completely honest the rest of the tiny humans in the building).
I am 34 and I worry about my nieces and nephews setting foot on their high school and college campuses for the same reason

I am 34 and I am doing my best.

My generation has been taught a lot of things. We’ve been taught to be kind, to strive for our dreams, to care for our fellow man.
We’ve been told over and over that we can have more than the previous generations.
(And that? That is a lot).
We’ve been taught to fight and raise our voices louder and we’ve created platforms to do so.
I don’t know what it’s like to have lived through what the generations prior to me have had to live through. I wouldn’t even be able to fathom.
All I know is what I’ve been given, what I’m dealing with and all I can do is do my best to understand and have compassion and empathy for those with different lives than me.
All I know is that there are people older than me that I can garner knowledge and people older than me that can garner knowledge from me.
All I know it is my job to not only give to those younger than me, but have the ability to listen as well.
I am 34 and I am doing my best.
And tomorrow? Tomorrow, I will probably try harder.
Broccoli IS good: words on identity

July 14th, 2019

The concept of identity is so damn weird.
We spend our childhood, for the most part, doing whatever the heck we want. We make choices and we try activities and we more or less do what feels good, fun or what we are forced to do by the adults around us. Through that we begin to find our likes and dislikes, what makes us happy and what we are good at. We little by little find out who we are.
Then, at some point, people start telling us who we are.
And here’s the kicker: we believe them.

We spent how many years of our childhood never believing our parents when they said broccoli was good (it is) and that we’d have fun at school ( for the most part truth), but the minute someone said “You are not…” or “You are too..” it was automatically engrained into our person.

What was I told that I believed?

I was: too sensitive, not normal, a silly talker, too fat, a nerd, four eyes, not cool, not popular, not talented, not worth it.
The list, in this moment, seems endless.
And yet, I didn’t believe that broccoli was good.

Then as we get older and become a teenager and go into high school the voices get louder and louder.
And all we are told is that “sticks and stones make break your bones but words will never hurt you”
Sorry not sorry that’s BS.

I want you to close your eyes for thirty seconds and I bet you can think of AT LEAST 3 phrases that have hurt you. If you can’t that’s great!
And I get the fact that words shouldn’t have power over us. And you give people permission, etc. etc.

But that’s not my point.

My point is that as a child and a teenager we are told a LOT OF WORDS involving our identity.
And really, shouldn’t we be the only ones who decipher who we are?

It reminds me of that scene in Runaway Bride where the main character is figuring out what type of eggs she likes. She’s only ever like the type of eggs that man she is with likes and she doesn’t know that piece of herself.
She’s probably a woman in her mid to late 20s and she doesn’t know what type of eggs she likes because she’s spent the last few years letting other people tell her what she liked.

So here’s my question: why don’t we teach kids how to find who they are? Why don’t we let them explore and fail and not try broccoli, but instead we tell them they’re too loud or too quiet or too sensitive?

Identity is defined as the of being who or what a person or thing is.

The weird part about identity is we are already thing we are supposed to be, but it’s just been bogged down and covered and marred by phrases and traumas and statements that other people believed were true. Just because something is a lie to me doesn’t mean it’s not truth to another person.

Just because something started as a lie to me doesn’t mean it can’t become a truth I walk in.

That’s not great I realize, but it doesn’t mean it can’t happen or hasn’t happened.

Identity is weird because AS MUCH as we need people to not tell us who we are, and to not define us, we also need other people to tell us who we are.

We need people to remind us of the beautiful undeniably true things.

Take my work wife Victoria.

Pure joy of pre summer 2k18

I met her four years ago and we didn’t really become friends til a few months later, but she is without a doubt one of the kindest, giving humans I’ve ever met.
She gives more grace than she believes she is capable of, she loves harder and more authentically than most humans.
Victoria cares so much.
But I don’t think she’d ever say that about herself. So, I make sure to try to tell her and remind her. I am not perfect at it, but I know she doesn’t always believe those things so I just want her to know that I see her and I see her beauty.
Identity is weird because we do sort of need the world to tell us who we are. We need them to see the beauty we are sometimes incapable of seeing and the nooks and crannies we’ve been told so often aren’t there.

Identity is weird because we need to filter what people tell us and toss out what we don’t need and keep what we do.

Identity is weird because we are already who we are- we just have to figure out who that is.

We have to make the choice to believe broccoli is good and what kind of eggs we do or don’t like (like: scrambled, fried, poached, over easy. don’t like: hard boiled, egg salad). We have to reframe things that have become truths in our life or toss them out all together.

And we have to actively remind people of the good in them, because that stirs up the good in us.

About a year ago or so I was in a place where I kind of, sort of, wanted nothing to do with God. But I had made commitments to show up to different things, so I showed up.
One night I went to a prophetic worship night at my church and I 150% didn’t want to participate.
But, one of my humans ask me to go to a certain station to wherein you wrote words for the person in the picture that was covered up by a sheet. For other people, I realized I had beautiful words.
Then it came time to share- and I wasn’t going to and then another one of my humans asked me to (and I did, because it’s who I am to a fault) and then he asked me to take the sheet off the pictures.
(If looks could kill, he might have been dead)

Under the sheet was a mirror.

But, what I realized was I had stirred something up in myself for someone else, the words were clearly for me. Plain as day ( so I wrote them in “I” form- pictured below).

So, what I want you to do right now is 1 of three things (why not all three?).
1. (The least scary) I want you to write down good, real, true things about yourself.
2. (The next least scary) I want you to text, email, call, carrier pigeon, some words to a human in your life about who they are (look upward at what I said about Victoria- it’s that easy).
3.(The most scary-maybe) Text, email, call, carrior pigeon a friend and ask them if they can tell you three things about who you are as a human. If that feels weird, just say it’s for a job application because they always ask those kind of questions. Or honestly if you are someone that knows me you can 100% text me “Hey Meg, #3 please”

Identity is weird because we get told a whole hell of a lot of things that aren’t true to us but become true.
Identity is weird because we both need and don’t need people to find who we are.
Identity is weird because broccoli is actually good and I’m not too sensitive.