Tag: identity

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
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
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
A note about 39

June 4th, 2024

I deleted about 300 words that I wrote yesterday because I knew in my knower that I wasn’t actually typing what was true.

Well, it was true but it wasn’t it. It wasn’t the thing that I needed to be saying for myself at the beginning of this new year.

I didn’t need to start with all the ways in which I’ve always felt less than.

I didn’t need to start “used to be”.

Years ago a mentor was asking me questions about journaling and I stated that I don’t journal when I don’t want to face the thing that I already know.

I absolutely know what’s at the end of this; but I absolutely don’t want to see it in writing.

I’ve always been…scratch that.

I’m currently working on letting go of the constant fear that I’m too much.

And it’s really hard.

I’ve spent a very long time checking over my shoulder, backspacing over words, regretting input I’ve given, questioning my abilities and wondering if I’m allowed space in the places I inhabit.

Now, there’s a lot of reasons and a lot of situations and a lot of times where those things have been proved correct in my head.

But, (it should be noted how long I’m waiting to type the next words) today, at one of my favorite little bars, I’m choosing to say that those narratives and those people and those situations no longer have the ability to take my voice, my abilities or inhabit the spaces I should be in.

And if you ever want to know those things, or people or stories, I can share, but it won’t be from anything but a place of storytelling not situations that hold me back.

Because I’m not going to tiptoe around the things that make me who I am, that I’m good at.

I think it’s time I don’t shrink back anymore.

It’s time to unravel and undo the things that have caused me to keep a distance.

Today, I decide, to no longer be hesitant in being the first person to believe in myself.

I wonder what that will change?

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)
It’s just a season

April 8th, 2024

I know I’ve been needing to write words on this even though I absolutely do not want too.

It’s a topic I try to avoid and try not to mention. It’s one I’m not super comfortable bringing up in a broader space because people have opinions and sometime helpful mostly not helpful stories and then they have prayers and Bible verses and things that I honestly just don’t need from those whom I didn’t ask.

But here it is; bottom line: I’m having a really hard time being single lately.

The disclaimers are already filling my head and the things I don’t need from people and the things I have done or to be completely frank don’t want to do.

I am absolutely fine 85% of the time. I’m pretty good on my own. I like space. I like being able to make decisions on my own.

And I would need a bigger bed if I’m expected to share.

But, the last month or so, I’ve felt the feelings of loneliness. I’ve felt like an island, felt like a person who is just outside of everything.

I don’t feel like a third wheel but I do feel like I’m just extra. I’m superfluous.

I’m the odd number.

And I’ve felt very evident feelings of wishing I had a person to come home too.

I’m pretty good at figuring things out on my own. I ask for help when I need it. I’m grateful for the people in my life who have never ever caused me to feel like I’m extra.

But, there are very evident seasons in life where the feelings hit harder and I’m in one of them right now. I’m in a place where the hours seem emptier and I don’t want to cook dinner for myself and I don’t want to make hard decisions by myself and I wish I had a guy I could look across the room at at a party and we both know it’s time to go.

Now, as I stated in the beginning: I don’t like to write about this. When a woman writes or talks about being single it can feel like she’s asking for pity or woe is me or whatever.

That’s absolutely not what I’m doing.

I’m finally pausing to write these words on a Monday because I can list people in my brain who probably have felt the same way but never feel allowed to say it.

I’m writing it because the bigger we let feelings get the more likely they will become the whole feeling and not just part of it.

I’m writing it because I know that I’m not incomplete just because I have seasons where being single sucks.

It’s just that: a season where it sucks and is harder than the last.

So, if you are here with me, I get it. I know we’re going to put on our big girl panties and we’re gonna do the damn thing regardless but we’re allowed to put a pin in the places that hurt.

If you’re sitting in a season where it really, really sucks to be single know you aren’t alone and it’s just that: a season.

With all the love,

Meg
again & again

January 21st, 2024

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

And then I quickly said “well, no”.

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

So, I’ve just been waiting.

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

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

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

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

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

I was stuck on the phrase. Again and Again.

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

Tiny humans use again for hope and joy and laughter.

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

“Again!”

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

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

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

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

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

Home; again.

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

Maybe it’s just _________ again.

Blank again.

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

But instead of suits and numbers they hold words.

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

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

And its time to pick them up again.

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

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

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

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

Again and again.

With love,

Meg
So what if…

January 15th, 2024

But what if I just started writing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am Meghan Marie Reeve.

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

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

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

And I’ve kept moving forward.

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

Because it is.

With love,

Meg
Start writing…

December 10th, 2023

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

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

But damn, I have survived.

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

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

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

I cried myself to sleep most nights.

I missed my mom more than I could even articulate.

It was a lot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m still in survival mode sometimes.

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

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

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

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

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

To see how you’re stronger.

To see where the joy lies.

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

With love,

Meg