Tag: depression

the ugliness of healing

March 15th, 2026

I can’t confirm or deny that for longer than I’d like to admit that I’ve absolutely been giving God the cold shoulder.

I am sitting here, listening to a favorite album of mine, drinking my favorite beer and staring at a blank page so I took a deep breath and just asked “ok God where should I go?”

And from another table, in the same room, he looked at me like “where should you go? Why would you go? I’m right here”. Then, a flash of images flew across my brain like a montage in a show that was speed running time. It was snapshots through the past few months showing me every moment where God was in the room with me, while I sat silently, more hurt and angry than I really wanted to admit.

Because I’ve been trying really hard not to just be pissed off.

I’ve been trying really hard to not admit this is the loneliest I’ve ever felt in my life.

I’ve been trying really hard not to stack the things I’ve deemed offenses to my person.

I’ve been trying really hard to force the light, when I think I’ve needed to acknowledge the darkness.

I’ve been trying really hard because if I don’t what will I be left with?

So, right now, in this brewery, I think it’s time to be a little more brave than I want to be.

Because I don’t and haven’t felt like enough for any part of my life for a very long time.

And I think somewhere along the way I’ve stopped being able to try.

I lost a lot of last year to a body not bodying and I have a feeling I’m still trying to climb out of the hole that I found myself in because of that.

I’ve been feeling a step behind, just outside of the circle and just truthfully; bone crushingly alone.

I’ve forced myself to look at everything logically, tried to fit things into boxes so I feel less like an island, so I feel less vulnerable.

I think I haven’t wanted to acknowledge God in the room because I don’t want the reminder of the proof that I’ve crawled out of this place before and I can do it again.

Because even if I’ve had a village giving me supplies for a ladder at the end of the day, I have to climb the rungs.

I’ve been beating myself up writing all these words, a voice in my head telling me I’m not grateful, that I have no right to be angry.

That how dare I, other people have had it worse.

My emotions do not negate my gratitude for the people who have help build my ladder.

Feeling alone and sad and angry about the sequences of events that happened in my life does not take away for the overwhelming love I’ve felt from the humans around me.

And that’s a really hard thing for me to grasp- the holding of such aggressively juxtaposed feelings in my hands.

And I think that’s the bottom line of giving God the cold shoulder.

When I admit all the things that feel dark and twisty and hopeless, when I speak those into the room they are there.

But so is the hope, and the love and the gratitude.

I’m allowed to have both.

I’ve said this before, in betwixt words that feel more heavy than I like, that I don’t like writing words without a conclusion.

Like, I’m still feeling all of it. If not more so right now because I’m choosing to let myself.

I honestly don’t know if I’m going to stop giving God the cold shoulder.

I don’t have any answers.

But, I do have my hands full with all the ugliness of healing.

If you’ve made it through these storm clouds of words, I hope you note them, hold them, bookmark them for a moment you might need to hold your hands full of emotions that don’t match.

I hope you remember that healing can be ugly.

And I truly hope you know, even amidst things I’ve written that don’t feel as so, that you can keep fucking going.

That’s all.

With love,

Meg

PS. Mom, I’m ok.
Again and again part 2

November 18th, 2024

I’m really done with my word of the year.

Usually that isn’t the case. I might not like the word, but I see the good things that come from it and I can understand.

Not this year.

On Sunday, I was sitting in church and I was like “ok god, let’s be done. Let’s wrap this one up like a bow.”

And he said “nah, I’m good.”

Because, again, I have to keep going.

And no matter what that’s going to be the case. I’m always going to keep meeting places I’ve been before.

Again and again.

I thought this year would have more answers than it has. I thought maybe it would hold something.

And really, it has held a lot.

It’s still held more than I can even comprehend I know.

Usually, at this point in the year I feel like we’re starting to coast to the finish line.

Like I have a grasp and I start to understand what the baton in the relay race is going to look like.

But, right now, I can’t even see the baton. I don’t know what it looks like, I don’t know if I’m even still moving towards the finish line.

It kind of feels like I’m playing Mario kart with the Steiners and I’m just choosing to go off course because it’s easier.

This year has honestly made me feel like I don’t know who I am at all.

And has made me feel like I know exactly who I am at the same time.

Because I knew this year, each thing I met, I had met before. I knew that each moment where I felt like I was walking through fire, I had walked through it before.

I had done it before so I can do it again.

And because of all of that; I stopped seeing that as a threat.

When I think about the labyrinth and how Sarah, the main character, is utilizing the book she has that is the story of the labyrinth to get through she must feel as if she’s been there before. She knew the book so well that it must have felt a bit like she had been there before.

And there were places in the maze she went to again and again.

She was caught in the place of either moving forward and or allowing herself to “rest” in a place that at one point in the journey been safe.

But the journey moved her forward.

The journey has kept moving me forward.

The things I’ve had to unearth even in just the last stretch of time that have been a reminder to me that my worth is not based on what I do.

That I’m not the glue, even when it feels like if I allow myself to let go control it will all crumble.

It causes me to sit on a street corner in Brasov, Romania across from Betsy Garmon as she leans in to tell me, remind me, implore me that I don’t have to be the glue.

It’s almost as if, I’m still making my way toward the Goblin King.

I haven’t had the chance to tell him he has no power over me.

I haven’t saved the baby.

I just dreamed I did.

So here I am, again.

Stronger.

More capable.

But still moving the fuck forward.

We have less than 6 weeks left.

I think I’m ready for this maze to be over.

Let’s save the baby.

With love,

Meg
For f*ck’s sake; let’s try hope. Again.

November 10th, 2024

I am not ready for whatever comes at the end of these words.

As I’ve said; again and again, I write to untangle.

I start at the beginning with words, or a phrase or a reference to the labyrinth or something Hannah Brencher wrote or something my pastor said in church (or honestly just during the work week) that pissed me off because I had to agree with it with gritted teeth.

And then I write.

Currently I feel that if I begin to untangle I might lose it all.

I feel, as if I am hanging onto my sanity with an absolute death grip.

That means, for today, it’s Hannah Brencher.

She does a series of notes for every month and there is always one or two that I latch onto.

For lovely words and truth; @ Hannah Brencher

I know that I know that I know I’m supposed to be letting go.

I can physically feel how tightly wound I am, how I’m still terrified at giving hope a chance.

Because if I can’t control it; who will.

(I know I’m freaking digging a deep hole with these words for my week but here we are).

Truthfully, I haven’t been eating really. I haven’t been sleeping.

I’ve been in survival mode for longer than I care to admit.

The bags under my eyes have their own bags and no amount of concealer can help.

(I also know none of this will be surprising to my best friend).

October was rough with ghosts and dates and memories of what once was. Then during nap time at work the day before Halloween, a text that friend had suddenly passed surprised and shocked me, shook me up.

Solidifying to me that nothing good ever happens in octobers.

I realized this morning standing in the cafe at my church that I am legitimately still terrified to hope that good things will happen.

(To me.)

And that controlling the hurt I encounter will make it hurt less.

I haven’t been feeling very brave lately. Or strong.

Or capable.

These words aren’t meant to strike pity or empathy.

They are literally just truth for me to begin to untangle whatever all this is from my clenched fists.

I think (I know) I’ve fallen back onto a pattern in which doing will get me out of being.

When I had to get taken care for a month last year, it was damn hard for me. Even amidst all that I was going through, I was still writing the menus for work, typing out notes for each and every day I was gone even though it physically made me ill to look at my phone.

When it feels like I’ve come so far from this place of doing as a personality trait I’ve realized it’s deeper and deeper.

That month of dizziness and being unable to move was the hardest month I’ve maybe ever had because if I can’t do then what am I.

So, today, I stare at my clenched fist.

I don’t know what to do about it.

I don’t know what I need to un-grip from.

I just know it’s there.

All the things amidst the grief, the pain, the things that don’t feel like hope but actually are.

And I know; none of this feels good.

The words would make my mom call me. Would cause people to feel like I’m worse off than I am.

But you know what; I’m still here.

And I’m choosing these words because right now in this world, this place we need to know that there are other people moving forward with us in the midst.

I never want to be a person who brings others into her distress, grief or pain.

I want you to know that amidst all of that you can live, you can have laughter and joy.

You can support people and make ordering McDonald’s on DoorDash something you do for the plot.

You can still have joy.

Amidst all this I may not have hope but you damn well better believe I have joy.

We have less than 60 days left in this year.

My word for the year was _______ again.

There are so many things I’ve had to do this year; again and again.

And damn it, I think I’m supposed to learn through these last two months of this year to hope again.

To believe that beautiful, bold, unattainably feeling things can happen for me.

Love, grace, bright spots of color.

I don’t know what else I need to un-grip from, but I do know that I’m supposed to un-grip my aggressive hold on hope and let it do its magic.

Hope, in the dictionary, is also a verb.

It’s an action.

So let’s go.

Let’s fucking hope.

For the rest of 2024.

And maybe onward.

With love,

Meghan

(Because why the heck not)
Smothered Flames

September 15th, 2024

I have no words.

It’s been a really hard place for me to be in. A place where I feel incapable of communicating or saying what I mean, or feel. I’m a writer who has spent most of her life using words that come out of my brain as a place to land. I’ve discovered more than I can even explain via my own writing. I’ve untangled, I’ve stared at words on the screen that I had no clue where they came from but just knew that they were true and real.

I’ve found the end of the rope through my words on more occasions than I can even count.

I’ve found hope in between the lines of my own writing because at the end of the day, when I write it, I know that it’s there. When I write something I know that there is something more in me, something I can grab on too.

Something that is more real than the things that feel dark.

But right now, there is none of that.

It feels like I’m standing in a hole and I have all the pieces to something that will help me out of the hole, but it’s a piece of Ikea furniture and I have no instruction and I don’t have that damn little tool to help me build it.

The only way out of the hole is to build it.

But, instead of building it, I’ve just sat there, not trying because right now it’s easier to stay in the hole than get hurt by the fall again.

Three years ago today I wrote that I was starting to not be afraid of the other shoe dropping.

And then a month later my mom died.

Now, I’m sitting here in this bar, writing these words feeling like I’m just throwing a pity party.

Because I know I’m strong enough to get out of the damn hole.

I’ve been thinking a lot about how my high school youth pastor used to talk about how it was better to be a Christian whose fire was completely out than a lukewarm Christian. I remember, like most things from high school youth group, feeling so incredibly ashamed of that. I remember thinking that I just had to stay “on fire”. I had to do all the things I needed to do. I had to show up, be everything. I needed to sing on the worship team, and go to every bible study.

I couldn’t let the fire die because than I would be less than.

But here I am over 20 years outside of high school youth group and I would like to call bullshit on my youth pastor.

I would much rather have some dying embers of faith than feel as if a wet towel had smothered all the flames.

At the beginning of this I said that I haven’t been able to write; that isn’t completely true. I have been writing.

The words have just all felt completely and utterly devoid of hope.

Which, I know isn’t true.

Because choosing to write is choosing to believe in the hope that there is something at the end of the words.

Choosing to write is choosing to believe I might be able to be a little stronger than I was before I started writing.

Choosing to write is choosing to believe even though I feel incapable of it; I’m still someone who has the ability to stir hope and light.

So, that’s it. That’s me right now.

I guess, that at the end of it all, I’m here with my hands open, being a little more honest than I want.

I feel absolutely unsettled by all of these words and normally that unsettledness would push me to not post them, to shut my computer, maybe to even delete them, but instead I’m choosing for a moment to lean in to the things that don’t feel settled in hopes that the action might help them settle.

Let’s do our best to lean in.

With love,

Meg
I probably shouldn’t write this.

August 12th, 2024

I probably shouldn’t be doing this.

I probably should save all these words for myself, but something inside me says even though they are bitter, ugly truths, sometimes we need those.

I probably shouldn’t have sat on my couch reading in the silence while the room around me turned dark.

I probably shouldn’t have made the decision to sit on my kitchen floor and stare at my laptop as if it’s holding a piece of me like a scratcher ticket with a truth about myself I’m not capable of bringing to the surface.

I probably shouldn’t have tears in my eyes from not having said anything.

Lately I feel like all the ghosts of my life are hanging around. All the words people have said to me, the actions that showed I was insignificant.

All the times I wasn’t chosen.

They’ve all been here.

And the only thing I’ve been able to do is shut them out. Plug my ears and run.

I found things and ways to shake them off, to numb whatever they are.

Almost a year ago I got diagnosed with Bell’s Palsy. My face stopped working, my body stopped working, and I was so undeniably lost.

The only thing that kept me moving were the people who were in my corner. The only thing that truly kept me going forward was their belief and love for me.

Since August 20^th I’ve been dealing with this thing, this inability to feel normal that has drug up all the ghosts that live in my past.

When I was really young I wrote a card to my Grandma Reeve, my Kansas Grandma. The one I never really saw. I remember in the card telling her that I wasn’t normal. I never felt normal as a kid. I was a loner, I was overweight, wore glasses and had a funny sounding voice that people couldn’t understand and made fun of.

She proceeding to write me back saying she didn’t want a normal grandchild and that she loved me how I was.

But, each time I got made fun of, each time someone responded to me trying to talk with a “wawawawa” like they couldn’t understand me. I would fade away again.

It was easier for me to be silent.

When I was in second grade I will never forget my teacher telling my mom that they needed to figure out my voice. That I would never get anywhere with it.

It was easier for me to be silent.

That’s been a voice that’s come back in full force this year.

It’s easier for me to be silent.

Now, don’t get me wrong: I’m stubborn and I’ve not been silent. I’ve yelled back in the face of the thing that tells me I should be silent and for the most part, to the best of my ability shown up.

But, tonight sitting on this kitchen floor, I’m realizing how much those ghosts have reappeared in more ways than I can even compute.

And for every time I’ve shown up, there is another where I’ve stepped away with the feeling that it’s easier for me to be silent.

When my world spun last year for 3 weeks I didn’t know if I’d ever find balance again, in all honesty, I don’t know if I have.

I don’t want to write these next words because I know they aren’t true. I do know that- but I think I need to face them on a screen: I don’t know if it isn’t easier if I’m silent.

I don’t know if I’m strong enough anymore to be stubborn enough to push the lies down.

This past year has been harder than I have even had the words to communicate. And even with all reassurance that people don’t notice what my face is doing: I do. I feel at a loss, off balance and unable to be who I am in ways I know how.

I spent the last 10 years building a confidence in myself that I hadn’t ever had before.

I started to know who I was, what I was about and I liked myself for it.

But then it was like the world played a uno reverse on me and suddenly I was going backwards.

And all I see are the ghosts of the things that used to haunt me.

So, tonight sitting on my kitchen floor I’m going to tell those ghosts that I see them.

They won’t have space to follow me anymore.

And even though I don’t fully believe those words: I have to say them anyway.

This is usually where I’d tag a note, something to say hey we’re here. We’re together.

But I think sometimes, we have to get rid of the ghosties by ourselves.

And that’s ok.

With love,

Meg
Finish the sentence

July 23rd, 2024

I have without a doubt been silencing myself.

In the last couple months I’ve started more blogs and more pieces of words than I care to admit.

I’ve absolutely written the things that I deem safe sans one collection of words back in June.

Ever since those words I’ve been afraid that anything I write about the dark things I feel would negate the words I wrote then, the things I know to be true. The light I know I am.

That me speaking of the things that have been hard would negate the things I know to be true.

I have had a lot of beautiful, sparkly moments this summer. Moments with friends where I belly laugh and sitting in the sun and enjoying every moment.

But, then there have been more moments than I can count that feel like depths I haven’t been to in awhile.

And that is really damn scary to say.

I’ve written in spaces that say I’ve moved past them but in reality the mornings I’ve been awake til 2 or 3 am and the days at work I’ve survived on 3-4 hours of sleep are more then I would care to admit.

When I was at camp and had spent an evening on the absolute verge of a panic attack and I admitted to it Susan one of our directors-she asked if I had a mantra, something to say that grounded me in the moments where I felt like I could keep my breath or my head out of the darkness.

I didn’t. But I came up with one.

I am here.

It’s a play off of the words of Hannah Brencher “be where your feet are”

My feet are here.

I am here.

Then there is this:

My word of the year this year is again.

And I’ve had to work really damn hard to not tack the word on the sentence: it’s 2009, again.

Because that’s honestly all that’s been in my brain. The recesses of my brain that hold dates and memories and pain just keep telling me that I must not be strong enough since I’m here, again.

I want you to know human being reading this that I know, in my absolute knower, that it’s not true.

I know I’m stronger, bolder, and so many things in between.

I know.

But, good god, I never want anyone to feel less than if they feel as if they’ve met the pages they’ve been in the book before.

Something a Nigerian med student told me in a small village on the border of Russia in Ukraine (it’s just a fun sentence I had to say) was that he was never going back to Nigeria. He wasn’t the same so he couldn’t go back, he was going forward to Nigeria.

I’ve been silencing myself because it feels like I’m going back.

I’ve been silencing myself because I’m so afraid that the strength I have will be diminished if I admit I’ve met some mountains that have to be climbed that just so happen to look foothills I’ve climbed before.

I’ve been silencing myself because I’m so afraid that people will think I’m a fraud that can’t just get over it.

I’ve been silencing myself because it feels like 2009 and I don’t want to live through that again.

But, when I silence myself I can’t get to the end of the sentence.

When I silence myself, you don’t have the space to get to the end of the sentence in your book,

The end of the sentence is this: it feels like 2009 again, but it’s not.

And if we don’t get to the “but” we can’t negate everything that came before it.

It feels like 2009 again, but I’m stronger.

It feels like 2009 again, but I’ve rebuilt and I will again.

It feels like 2009 again, but I am Meg in 2024.

I don’t know how you are silencing yourself.

I don’t know if you won’t let yourself get to the “but” that negates the thing that scares you that comes before it.

To get to the overcoming we have to get to the “but” in the sentence.

We have to change our language and our outlook.

I don’t know if you feel up for sharing the end of your sentence and if you do please drop it in the comments or shoot me a message.

Here’s mine (sorry for the language):

It feels like 2009 again but, for fucks sake I’m still here.

With love,

Meg
You’re not too

June 24th, 2024

I can’t make sense of my life right now and the only thing I can do to make sense of it is sit in front of of a blank screen and try desperately to untangle the mess of words in my brain.

I’ve inevitably gone back into a bit of an avoidance state. I know it. I’m always absolutely sure of my ability to just put my head down and try to not think of the things I don’t want to deal with.

Normally instead of putting all these brutally honest words on a page what I would do instead is simply try to empower myself out of the things I heard.

I try to man up.

But, there is this really creepy children’s movie from the late 80s that keeps coming to my brain. It’s called “Little Nemo: adventures in slumberland”. It’s one of those films most people have forgotten about or chosen to ignore. But there’s a feeling that I remember from the movie, when Nemo is falling off the bed. It’s a clear feeling I still feel when I even just think about the movie. It’s a feeling of unstoppable dread.

The feeling that feels like nothing will ever be the same again once you slip off the edge.

A feeling you can’t turn back from.

And in a way, that’s how I felt lately. If I choose to put out what I feel and how I’m back in this land of the other shoe dropping.

This is the part I don’t like. Having to admit the things I’m choosing to run from, or the conversations I’m avoiding for fear of once again being the one that breaks down.

And so now, I sit here, wondering if I’m going to talk about a phrase that was said to me constantly by a lot of people growing up.

It’s something I’ve touched on here and there but I’ve never come right out and addressed.

I’ve been told; since I was a very tiny human and into adulthood that I am too sensitive, that my feelings were too big, that I overreact. That it’s “not a big deal”.

I could write a list with memories and moments and words absolutely branded on my brain.

And I’ve spent a majority of my adult life teetering on the edge of being too much.

I’ve absolutely outlined a narrative that people will leave if I’m not strong enough. That the next time I break down will be the last time the people around me can stand.

Even facing the words on the screen- I know it’s ridiculous.

Something I know that I know is that the dark and ugly things of the world- whatever sentiments you describe as evil- that that thing has been trying to rob me of that thing I was told was too much my whole life.

I’m really damn good at teaching tiny humans. It’s something I won’t back down from. There are a lot of things that I feel deem myself a good teacher for but, I believe the thing that sets a part as a teacher is I don’t see a tiny human weakness or behavior as such- I see how it is a strength. How it can be used and how we just need to change the perspective.

I’m trying to change my perspective on my emotions. I’m trying to find ways to remember that people aren’t going to run and when they have; they aren’t my people.

I’ve tried really hard since I’ve started writing and sharing it to not let the fear of being too much overcome me.

While, some moments are moments of protecting myself and who I am, others are solely the fear of the mess I feel inside or in my room will suddenly be too much.

But, I’ve spent a lot of years teaching tiny humans about emotions and that their emotions are valid.

And today, sitting on this crowded sunny patio, I wanted to stare at little Meghan and remind her: she’s not too sensitive.

That her sensitivity and the voice she’s too afraid to use are powerful.

And that tonight, she should sleep.

With love,

Meg
An anchor change

June 10th, 2024

I have a few defining moments in my relationship with God that I seem to circle back to as an anchor for a season, or an emotion or a theme that seems to continually wind its way around me. And the one that’s come back into my life in recent months that I finally feel out of to talk about is simply the constant image of the nightlight in my life.

I went through the probably the absolute darkest time of my life in 2008-2009. I was on meds, both of my parents had health issues, I had just gotten out of a classroom environment that was not good for me and I was feeling so much more than I was capable of dealing with.

I was thankfully in therapy and trying to do as much as I could.

But, the darkness and the things around me felt like too much.

It was a Sunday morning. It’s one of the images that stay in my brain despite my desire to not remember it so clearly. I was looking at myself in my bathroom mirror and I stared hard at myself and just thought the words “maybe it would just be better if I wasn’t here anymore”.

And then I closed my eyes.

When I closed my eyes I saw myself standing in an incredibly dark room and in the corner of the room I saw it. It was a dim, dim nightlight. It was down at the corner of the wall, where the light socket was. One of those rectangular ones that you get at the dollar store with a yellow light and a flimsy cover.

I will never forget that picture in my brain and how for all of my life since then when I’ve found myself in places of darkness I’ve come back to it. I’ve come back to the reminder that the darkness could not completely snuff out the light.

To be completely and utterly honest in ways I don’t love to be; I needed this image a few months ago. I was trudging. And one night I was in the shower and I sat down and I sobbed and sobbed and let the water engulf me and had the thought crossed my mind about just staying in the water. (Don’t worry mom, I’m ok).

And I sat in my shower sobbing I saw that light again and I got up and I shook it off and I kept (pardon my French) fucking going.

Because, at the end of the day, that’s what I was going to do. I was going to get up no matter what and keep going.

That brings me to today.

I didn’t go to church yesterday because cramps and no sleep but, I listened to church at work this morning to help get me out of a Monday mood.

When we got to the activation at the end, the thing I heard God say while I scooped pasta was “you’re still light”.

In all honesty, I just thought of that nightlight picture and really just believed his light was still there. That the darkness couldn’t drown it out.

That MY darkness couldn’t drown it out.

I knew though, that there was something there, something I needed to untangle.

Something that needed to become undone.

I didn’t realize that the thing the needed to be undone was a narrative I’ve kept close for 15 years.

The narrative being that the nightlight was just God.

The thing that was stronger than the darkness around it. The thing that has still been lit in the rooms that feel devoid of light wasn’t just God.

It was me.

Because no matter how dark my world has felt, no matter how much I wanted to just stop moving;

I’m still light.

Last year when I went through my identity work with my pastor and my people and kind of met myself where I didn’t know I needed too, the picture I saw was one of a home with a candle in the window.

A small, soft light that was always on, welcoming those that need it in.

No matter what I’ve believed about myself the light will always shine through.

That feels more important than I even know how to articulate.

I’ve always been afraid of the things that feel dark in my life. That the darkness is something that can engulf me, that it can dampen the light that I believed was outside of me- not a light that I brought myself. That the darkness was me.

We all bring something to the table. We all have something inside of us that the humans around us need.

And I hope that for all my days the light I am shines on what you bring.

And that I never forget that my ability to keep the darkness at bay.

A narrative in my life changed today over wontons and bubbly and people watching.

Here’s a reminder that no matter how long you’ve held onto something you always have the ability to realize that it’s not what you think it is.

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)