Tag: space

To the RFK 2023 family

July 2nd, 2023

To my wacky, shenanigan-filled, wonderful Royal Family,

I’ve started this letter a couple times in the last 24 hours. My brain is still full of emotions, exhaustion and now that we’re back down the mountain all the real life stress has flooded back in and it feels like I’m incapable of articulating what camp was.

While I was sitting in church today I reread the letter I wrote from last year- about how it felt as if we were walking among ruins. Personally and corporately. We hadn’t been to Pinecrest in two years and to be completely honest looking back, last year feels a bit like a fever dream.

We are definitely still rebuilding on the ruins this year- we’ve slowly seen what needs to be kept and restored and what maybe needs to get tossed and started anew with.

Telling Bible stories this year felt like I was always one moment away from losing the kids-whether or not that was true- and I was clinging on to the hope that whatever I was saying would get through to the kids.

This year felt like whatever hope I’d been clinging onto for the time leading to camp, finally got released from my clinched fist to maybe, just maybe, be helpful to someone around me.

There was so much laughter this year up that mountain, a lot of homesickness from the kids, a lot of late night conversations, a blender and a toaster oven, a lot of baggage we all brought up that we wished we didn’t have too, there was a lot of holes we didn’t see last year that maybe became slightly more gaping this year (my royal family note is much longer than it was before of things I need to do next year) and there was a lot of freely giving out of love and hope that I don’t know if we all had enough for ourselves.

Before I came to camp, spiritually, I felt like I needed to fit into a dress two sizes smaller and only had ten days to do it.

But God.

He reminded me he was already there- that he would go before us, that he would cover us- no matter our levels of exhaustion or emptiness.

That he would do it for the kids.

And He did, through us, in spite of.

I had this image earlier of everyone at camp wandering around with a clenched fist. And whatever we were holding was not able to be contained in our palms- but we were so afraid that if we let it go, we would have nothing left.

Each of us had a moment where we let what was in our fist go.

It might have been hope or strength, it could have been love or patience or peace.

Whatever it was- at some point- we let it go to give it the kids.

But, I do keep coming back to hope.

So, right now, in this moment, I’m asking to God to fill us each up in supernatural, beautiful ways with hope over the next year.

And not just hope for others- not just hope to give away, but hope for our daily lives, for ourselves.

So much hope that we no longer have clenched fist.

Hope that we have the ability to keep rebuilding on the ruins.

Hope in the process of whatever restoration needs to happen in our lives.

And hope that we can use, beyond a shadow of a doubt, to keep moving forward.

I’m proud of us as I am every year.

I’m proud of how we show up, how we push through, how we eat iceberg lettuce at lunch and dinner.

I’m proud of how we leave things behind and how we pick up things on behalf of the kids around us.

I’m proud of how we do things out of our comfort zone for the kids.

And this year, I’m proud of how we give what we held in our clinched fist.

With so much love in my heart for all you beautiful people and this needed reminder; “Everything you’ve lost; Love’s returning”,

Miss Meg
1,100 words on 38

June 4th, 2023

I’m sitting here in a place I’m physically in almost every day of the week.

And I’m sitting here wondering where I’m going to go next.

I feel as if this year I’ve truly had a year of shedding things, people, scenarios.

I have much less space for the things and people and moments that I don’t walk away from feeling more like myself.

There is a fine line between the needing to do something and having to do it. A fine line between doing a hard thing because it’s good for you, doing a hard thing because it’s needed and doing a hard thing because you’re being unnecessarily self-sacrificial.

I think I’ve done a handful of things this year because I needed to prove to myself that I wasn’t struggling. I needed to prove that the grief and the sadness and the things that felt INCREDIBLY defining weren’t actually who I was.

I needed to prove to myself that I was going to be ok.

This year was a struggle of a grief that has undeniably wound into all facets of my life and my actions but having to choose and remember that I am not it.

When you have a grief that is life shattering it’s hard to mend the breakage without the grief being a part of the glue

It just is.

I’d like to note here that as honest as I am- there are still things that I set aside for just a few. A few things i just deleted. And I wrote some things that I realized aren’t for all.

That’s a piece of myself I’m keeping.

This past year going into next is continuously realizing what places in my house are for others and which aren’t.

The really tricky part about being a home for others is that at the end of the day- you still have to sleep in that home.

So, because it’s who I am and I’ve already referenced vampires to someone once today-all I can think of right now is some of the mythology of The Vampire Diaries Universe. When a vampire came up to a home, they had to be invited in. Getting invited into a house is so simple a lot of us don’t realize that we do it all the time. (Now, don’t worry- I’m not about to get all 90s youth group on you about like “leaving doors open for the devil to get in”- IYKYK).

Like, in TVD before a person knows about vampire it’s so easy for them to just give a haphazard “come inside”. Then BOOM you’re stuck with that vampire having access to your house until the deed physically changes.

Once characters in the show knew this little piece of information they became highly aware of who they were letting inside.

But luckily for us, we aren’t dealing with vampires.

We are though (I am though) dealing with things that don’t stir up life inside of me.

Things, people, situations that just don’t, at the end of the day, add to who I am as a human and I’m going to boot them out of my house to the best of my ability.

Because in the year of 38 I’m choosing to lean into the things that add to me as a human.

That’s not just running through wildflowers or sitting on my hands.

Because, hard things add to who I am as a human.

Choosing to go out after 9pm on a Thursday to sing karaoke at a bar with my best friend Tori and her husband Shawn adds to who I am as a human.

Accepting grief adds to who I am as a human.

Woods coffee runs with Joanna adds to who I am as a human.

Camp adds to who I am as a human.

Being the back up back up at church adds to who I am as a human.

The audacity adds to who I am as a human.

Being a person who knows how to show up adds to who I am as a human.

Helping theater kids become theater adults adds to who I am as a human.

Identifying as someone who works at a church after never wanting to again, adds to who I am as a human.

Seeing my close friends succeed and cheering them on adds to who I am as a human.

Being with the inhabitants of a little blue house in Irvine adds to me as a human.

McDonald’s sprite and those I share it with adds to me as a human.

Using the massive amounts of child development knowledge adds to who I am as a human.

Things that add to my close circle as humans; add to me as a human.

Laughing over 25 cent mimosas adds to who I am as a human.

And I should repeat even though it scares me: hard things add to who I am as a human.

I have to say that list got progressively longer and that added to me as a human.

Because, making space to write on a Sunday at a bar adds to I am as a human.

And it stirs hope I so desperately need.

I think, that there is always a little bit of trepidation with hope.

The desire for hope brings the realization that there could be the lack of hope.

And in the process of writing all of these I realize that as terrifying as it is to say (especially in the weeks prior to camp): I am stronger then the realization that there could be a lack of hope.

I’ve proved it by just showing up.

So.

Here’s to a year of choosing the things that add to myself and add to the people who add to me.

Here’s to a year of choosing hope to the best of my ability without trepidation.

Here’s to a year of karaoke and ax throwing.

A year of quarter mimosas.

A year of being the back up back up and the church intern.

A year of figuring out how to move forward.

A year of supporting the humans around me in their dreams.

Here’s to a year of realizing that the glue is dry, it cannot move and it does not define me.

It pushed me on, became a part of my story but it’s not all that I am.

Here’s to a year of choosing the people, places and things that add to myself and the ones that I add to.

Here’s to, honestly, 38 being the year of Meg.

Because the year of Meg isn’t selfish.

It’s finding ways that I can add to myself and in turn add to the people around me.

However that looks.

With so much love,

Meg
Stop dragging giants

February 19th, 2023

I had a really rough week.

It seemed as if all of these different past moments of my life were trying to rush up at me and give me a jump scare. There was a day when I thought I was going to have a panic attack. Had I not known the clues my body has for one I probably would have. There was another day I burst into tears because I couldn’t articulate the things that were actually bothering me.

And Friday I’m just pretty positive all of those things just physically weighed me down and I spent all of the day in pain.

In all honesty I’m not super surprised. I’ve been systematically shedding heaviness from my soul and spirit and being these days and I can feel every moment when something tries to cling back on. Be it a word, or an old pattern or an insecurity. It’s like someone comes into my house and hangs up a picture of a clown and then I have to take it off the wall each time because I don’t want it on the wall because clowns are the worst.

Today, while I was sitting in church, during worship, I kept seeing this image of someone climbing out of a mudslide. Their body was caked in mud. Inches and inches thick. They started their journey to the next town and as they walked the sun beat down and crusted the layers. And even though they didn’t want to keep walking with all that weight they didn’t know how else they could prove that they had lived through a mudslide.

Isn’t that a little crazy? To keep walking with layers of harden mud to prove that you had survived?

Isn’t the walking proof you survived?

It got me thinking about how frequently we carry our old burdens and trials and struggles just to prove we defeated them.

How it can be scary to let them go because who are we if we can’t prove it.

And of course, I thought about David. When he knocked down Goliath with his stones.

Clearly for the rest of his life he hauled Goliath around to prove the point. He had a team of people who moved a dead giant to prove that he had knocked him down.

No, no he didn’t.

David walked in the proof that he had knocked Goliath down.

We don’t have to carry the dead giant around to prove we conquered it.

We are the proof.

I don’t have to carry the dead giant around to prove I conquered it.

I am the proof.

I’m not saying not to mark the moment.

There is power in marking a moment.

When people walk on trails and they choose a new direction- they mark it. That way if somehow they get lost they can go back to that moment and move from there again.

When we go through a moment in life that is life changing in someway and we’re able to move from it- we need to mark it. We need to remember what we’ve come from and where we’ve been.

We don’t need to carry the thing for the proof that we did it.

We’re the proof that we’ve moved through the thing.

I’ve worked really hard in my life to stand strong. To defeat giants and to walk in strength.

I’ve tried to meet moments for what they are. To not negate things I’m incapable of controlling and to listen to what my body is telling me.

But, I’ve definitely dragged some dead giants along with me.

And that ends today.

I don’t what you’re dragging along, if your jacket that’s easily removable is covered in mud, if people keep trying to decorate your house or if you’re in the middle of something.

I want to tell all of us from here on out to mark moments, stack stones, make directional arrows.

I’m not naïve to think I’m never going to meet another giant or mudslide.

But I do know I’m going to do my damndest to take off the muddy coat and leave the giant where they dropped.

We don’t need to drag giants anymore.

We’re the proof.

With love,

Meg
Today was a good day.

January 29th, 2023

I had a beautiful day today, got to hang out with favorite people, hug the necks of those I don’t see a lot. It was just good.

So, I decided I wanted to sit and write.

I was trying to grasp at something to say-somewhere to go.

I had an experience this past week, something good and soul filling that I’m still digesting for myself and for the first time in more years than I think or I can comprehend-I feel just simply like myself.

Nothing dark or heavy or weight bearing is surrounding me.

I feel like I’m allowed to believe that hope is tangible.

It’s no longer “I believe something good can happen, but…”

I feel like there’s a part of myself that was always so ready for the other shoe to drop, that was just in wait for the next thing that was lined up to build my resilience, that that part inside me has realized it can actually just rest.

That I can lay my defenses down.

Back when I lived in Orange County and was actively in therapy, at the end of that preschool year, my director gave us all a verse. The verse she gave me was from Nehemiah 4 wherein the builders were building but also held a hammer in their hand. A couple weeks later after upping my meds and having a really hard time with suicidal thoughts, my therapist made a comment.

“You know it’s just reminds me of the builders in Nehemiah. You’re going. You’re moving forward. But you have a sword too.”

Since then I’ve kept in that manner. I’ve held a sword while I’ve kept moving forward.

But, I don’t need that sword anymore.

I’ve read a lot of books and read so many stories of warriors and soldiers who were always battle ready, who never shook the cloud of war and fight from them.

Who always had a sword under their pillow.

And I’ve learned in the last 12+ years of my life that it’s really damn hard to sleep with a sword under your pillow.

And, I’m done with that.

It’s gone.

I don’t need it under my pillow because at the end of the day- I have what I need without it.

And to me; that’s hope.

I don’t know what’s under your pillow. I don’t what my train of thought led you too.

I just know that I made the decision to find a way back home to myself this year and that my home doesn’t have swords under the pillows.

That’s it.

That’s all for now.

With absolutely love and hope,

Meg
Clean out the corners

January 11th, 2023

In September of 2021 I started a new job and about 3 weeks into I finally felt capable of attacking something that I had put off far too long: my closet.

So I pulled everything out and just had it on the floor as I began to go through it and see what I was and wasn’t wearing anymore.

Then, a trip that was supposed to be going to hang out with my Orange County family turned out to be one that flipped my whole world around when my mom passed away.

I came back for a few days before going to spend a week with my dad- took one look at the clothes and shoved them back into my closet.

And it’s been like that ever since.

2022 was inevitably just surviving.

And I still feel weak for saying that but that’s what it was.

My closet bursting at the seams has been this symbol of everything I didn’t think I was capable of handling.

But this year I’m coming back home to myself.

Which means doing things that feel really hard and overwhelming.

So, last night I decided to start the work of cleaning out the corners of my room.

I shoved my bed as far as I could into the middle of the room and began a trash bag of things I didn’t need anymore.

I created space.

Then tonight after a long day I unboxed some things I’ve gotten for the kitchen and then got to work on moving all the furniture in my room and vacuuming and taking a lot of deep breathes.

It all feels like a long time coming.

My friend Michele has been someone who I’ve talk to a lot about not feeling shame for being incapable of doing something. She’s been a cheerleader when I’ve been able to do something that feels bigger than me.

Today she said that this year feels like we’re getting out from underneath all the shit that’s been squishing us. And we know we aren’t going to get squished again because we’re strong and we’ve practiced and now we can thrive.

I got emotional as I cleared out my corners.

As I vacuumed and threw out things and contemplated what I needed and didn’t need.

I’ve realized how heavy I’ve felt and been and how my room has been a picture of what was going on in my brain.

And how I’ve felt like- in a way- that I deserved the things because I didn’t know how to feel better and because I thought I just should.

Grief is lonely.

And my room was ultimately a picture of that.

But, now, I’m cleaning out the corners. I’m not done yet and I get a new mattress on Saturday and I’m going to be able to sleep again and enjoy my space and keep moving forward in whatever this is.

I don’t know what you might be holding right now or what your room or your brain looks like but this is my encouragement to you to mentally, spiritually, physically and tangibly clean out your corners.

You deserve it for you.

With love,

Meg
Gargoyles changed my perspective

December 11th, 2022

I honestly just want to go to sleep.

I’m tired, I had drinks with a friend and some fries, I have a full week ahead- but this morning I had a thought about story. And I feel like I need to flesh it out a bit, so here I am, in my comfy with a Yule log playing on the tv, my Christmas lights on and we’re gonna talk about it.

I just finished a book in a supernatural series I’m reading and with each book I’m shocked to see that this author has more story to tell and more places to go and more character development.

I’m a sucker for a supernatural story. I think it’s the BA in English in me that loves stories that aren’t cut and dry where I have to search out the themes and character archetypes and strings that weave through a story. I love the moment where I realize that something I read ten pages ago was actually the foreshadowing I thought it was.

And I love when an author uses all of those elements; archetypes, themes, context clues and story crafting to take a hard left when you think they were going to go right.

[For example: Gargoyles. (The girls that get it; get it)]

When they craft a story that feels like it always was only to open the world in the story to things you never thought possible.

And as you read on you realize it all makes sense. All the things that have lead to that moment make sense. You just couldn’t read it in the way the author meant because to you that’s what they had always done.

I’m really bad at believing that life is just going to be the same again.

That the situation is the same, the scenarios are the same, the feelings are the same.

That nothing lifted to make the story different.

But today, sitting in church during worship I got a fierce reminder that if the story was the same I’d just be rereading a chapter.

And I’m not.

Going into a new year can feel like a lot of things. And no, the world doesn’t change when the clock strikes midnight. But it becomes fresh.

You can create hope and life and walk into something choosing to believe that the story is going to turn left rather than right.

You can believe you aren’t rereading-it’s a new chapter.

(Like maybe there might suddenly be gargoyles).

I can admit freely that especially in the last year of my life I’ve lived in fear of the other shoe dropping. That I’m gonna get on a plane and the world will crash down again, that a phone call will crumble me.

I’ve treated each season like I was rereading a chapter rather than writing a new story.

I haven’t stepped out of the box enough to see that the themes and context clues and foreshadowing mean something wholly different than before.

And that is honestly terrifying to admit.

There are a few weeks left of 2022. I know there isn’t a magic spell, or some potion or anything that will change it all.

But, I do know that I have to stop living as if I’m rereading a chapter.

And honestly I don’t know what that means.

But, I do know that this isn’t just a me thing.

You also aren’t rereading a chapter.

You don’t have to live in the monotony of what always was.

And you, human reading this, have so much to contribute to the narrative.

So, with that, I’m going to shower.

With absolute 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
A letter to 36

May 30th, 2022

Dear 36,

I don’t really know what to say to you.

As I look back through memories and pictures and words I’ve already written I’m trying to find kind things to say that aren’t seen through a filter of just trying to see the good in a situation.

About 7 weeks after I turned 36 I got to hug my mom for what I knew in my bones would be the last time.

Soon after that I made a decision out of necessity for my incredibly burned out self that I needed to quit the job I’d been at for a little over 6 years.

About 5 weeks after I started that new job; my mom died.

Now, I can say something about you 36; you set me up to make some choices before I needed to make them.

You pushed me to make some hard decisions I didn’t want to make.

You allowed me to make space before I knew I needed it.

In my letter to 35 I wrote these words

“thirty-five feels like the end of the chapter that leads into an entirely different part of the story”.

And 36 has indeed been an entirely different part of the story.

But to me 36 feels like one of those montages of a movie where life is just happening and you aren’t quite sure what to do.

And then then main character opens the door and gets blinded by the sun and the fact that it’s spring again after what felt like too long of a winter.

36 has felt like winter.

I don’t know if I can say I’m grateful for it.

I’m grateful for the people in my life who have showed up for me in the most beautiful, kind and loving ways and to those humans there is no way I’ll ever be able to repay you for the love and support you’ve given me.

I’m grateful for the bright spurts of joy; like trips with friends, performing on the Lincoln stage for the first time, family shot Friday and the hilariously wonderful humans I work with.

But I can very easily say that I’m ready for a new year of life.

I’m ready for winter to be over.

I’m ready to open the door and be blinded a little bit by the sunshine.

I’m ready for you 37.

Please, be kind.

With love,

Meg
Nice is different than good

May 15th, 2022

I’ve realized that lately I’ve gotten really bothered when people give a situation more credit than it is meant to have.

I’m a words person (obviously) and I believe in the power of assigning meaning to something that doesn’t merit that meaning.

Like chaos. I used to have an assistant in my classroom years ago who would say every moment of every day was chaotic. I finally stopped them and reminded them they needed to change their meaning of chaos or a simple transition gone slightly awry was going to wreck them.

I also realize I have a high capacity for stress (which I understand is not always a beneficial thing) but it’s also helped me realize that frustrating does not equal hard or rough.

I think in the last few years I’ve worked at trying to describe things in such a way that I can understand them.

Giving a blanket statement to something and assigning it a word that has no descriptors isn’t helpful.

(As an example one of my PET PEEVES in working with children is the use of the word “nice”. It means nothing to a a child. Telling a three year old to “be nice” tells them nothing what you want their actions to do.)

When I started pondering these words this morning I had a Sondheim lyric in my head “Nice is different than good”.

A frustrating situation is different than a hard situation.

A stress-filled situation is different than a stressful situation.

Choosing to start to understand what in the situation is actually hindering us instead of just giving a blanket statement and walking away.

It’s work that feels hard.

(And work that feels hard is different than work that feels bad).

I’ve come to a realization that will not be brand new information to anyone that knows me well: but I’ve allowed my capacities for stress and hard work and chaos get so big they very rarely phase me.

And when they do it’s probably already too late.

So, right now, I’m trying to pull my bubble back.

I’m trying to redefine what all those words look like and I’m trying to reframe how I see them for myself.

It’s lot of work and it will involve boundary setting and it will be hard and also good.

(See what I did there?)

So if you needed a reminder that you are allowed to change sometime at almost 37 that you’ve operated in most of your life you are absolutely 100% allowed too.

Deep breathes to your toes 💛

With love,

Meg
I don’t actually know how I feel about this

March 20th, 2022

I’ve been battling with technology for about 40 minutes. I’m currently in possession of two computers-one won’t work and the other I can’t find the charger too and then my ipad was refusing to open a new document and I just kind of wanted to give up and go about my day, with some banana bread making, Guinness float drinking and watching “A discovery of witches” season 3.

But then my Microsoft word opened and I realized I probably actually needed to talk about the thing that I’ve been dancing around talking about for a few weeks.

Hope.

I’ve mentioned it here and there. Alluded to it in instagram posts and tried to come to terms with the fact that hope wasn’t going to bite me in the ass.

This morning I wrote the following words while at church and they hit me a bit and came with the footnotes that I needed to chose to have hope in myself again and hope in life.

Hope in its noun definition is “a feeling of expectation and desire for a certain thing to happen”.

What if hope has been so hard because without realizing it we’ve been so far on the other side of hope that we’ve been hoping for the bad things to happen?

What if we’re so focused on the fact and the truth of life that bad things will happen that we don’t free up any space in our brain for the fact and truth of life that good and beautiful things will happen.

Now, please don’t read that as we are somehow a part of the awful things in our life happening. (Well, we are sometimes but that’s a different story). What I’m trying to say is what if we’re putting our hope in the fact that bad things will happen so might as well not hope for the good and because of that we’re choosing to place our hope in the bad.

I always joke that my brain is so full of children’s worship music and choral music from my whole life that I frequently have a “no room in the inn” sign up.

I think we do that with experiences that prove to us we shouldn’t hope that the good and the beautiful will come.

I started my new job on September 7^th last year and 4 weeks later I was starting to feel alive again.

4 weeks and one day later my mom told me she was sick. And five weeks and 3 days after September 7th she was gone.

I had started to feel hope again. Started to feel like I was able to breath. Started to feel like I could focus on things that brought me back to myself.

And then it all came crumbling down.

But, I think that that was a turning point for me.

I could have truly chosen to believe and file that away as another time where hope failed me. Where the good was coming and the. The other shoe dropped and knocked me unconscious.

Where hope looked me in the eye and said “pass”.

I think I’m in a frame of life where I’m desperately trying to change the way I see things about hope. I’m trying to be an active participant in what is looks like to hope for movement and good and things being built and an active participant in showing people that the only person who is fit to walk out their story is themselves. And whatever cards they’ve been handed they can pull something from them if they’re just willing to try to live a life wherein hope is for them too.

I don’t what your level of choosing to be hopeful these days. For me, some days it’s just choosing to hope I won’t wake up at 345 and will be able to go into the day rested.

And I know that the world doesn’t feel hopeful right now. I know that the concept of being hopeful for yourself feels trite and small.

And I know some days it’s a no bones day and hope is not only impossible but unhelpful.

And I know what it’s like to feel like hope hasn’t been in play for awhile.

I just want you to know that I’m here trying to figure it out today.

And if you need to borrow some hope from me; I will willingly share it.

With love,

Meg