I Belong.

 I am two presentations away from having earned a Master's degree. 

I walked into the interview day, the day that would determine whether they admitted me to the program, shocked that I had arrived. Not surprised that the GPS had directed me correctly or that the vehicle survived the trip. I felt amazed that I, me, muah had determined to even try to get in. It didn't occur to me that they might actually let me in. 

I walked into the room and immediately felt like a muddy pig at the Queen's garden party. Within the first hour, I realized I felt confident that I didn't belong there, but the door was at the front of the room, and I wasn't willing to walk in front of everyone to leave. 

I decided in that moment to challenge myself to get through the day by focusing on the present. I wouldn't worry about the next moment or next activity. I would focus solely on the moment and activity I was currently in. 

I made it to the end of the day, and a few days later, they informed me that I was accepted into the program. 

Since that time, there have been a million moments where I felt like I didn't belong, waited for the other shoe to drop, or for someone to realize they made a mistake. So far, they haven't. 

The biggest lesson I've learned as a student of Marriage and Family Therapy isn't how to therapize people. It isn't about how the brain works or how to distill that information for clients. It isn't how to sit with grief or process emotions. 

The biggest lesson I've learned is: I belong. 

I don't always feel that or live in that truth, but I recognize it as the truth. 

I belong at the table. Even if nobody looks up when I walk in. Even if nobody invites me to sit next to them or wants to talk to me. I belong at the table. 

I belong when people leave me out. I belong when people who should love me, don't. I belong when people make plans with me, change their minds, and make plans with someone else. I belong when people's eyes glaze over because they don't care about what I'm saying. I belong when I'm alone, and in a room full of people. I belong. I always did. Always will. 

I don't have to earn it or meet a list of requirements. I belong. Even though I'm fat. Even if I'm broke. Even when I disagree. 

I belong, and that's the end of the sentence. 

Passing the Test

 My phone chimed while traffic was at a standstill. 

I glanced at the notification. It was an email with the results of the licensure exam I had taken two weeks earlier. I read the words slowly to make sure I was seeing them correctly and decided I needed to pull over to read the results. 

I exited the freeway and stopped in the parking lot of a Cane's restaurant. I took a deep breath and navigated through the logins and swipes to check my score. 

My breath caught in my throat as I read the words . . . "Congratulations!. . . " I passed. They are going to let me be a therapist. A real one, with an office. 

There have been so many times throughout this journey when I've realized I was holding my breath...waiting for the other shoe to drop, the moment when the people in charge of my program would realize that I'm not smart enough or capable enough to actually do this work. Every step of the journey that I have made it through has felt like a miracle to me. 

The words jumped off the page, and Gratitude enveloped me like a tidal wave. 

As I continued the drive to school, I thought about how all the previous versions of myself would feel about this news. 

I imagined the little girl smiling with delight, but other versions' of me not believing it. 

It feels like I was one of Sid's toys from Toy Story, and God has taken me and has been constantly restoring me to my original value and purpose. 

Abraham is one of my favorite people in the Bible. Actually, what I really love is seeing how God fathers Abraham and takes him from a person who couldn't trust God with simple things to someone who trusts God with everything. The transformation is beautiful, but the beauty is in God's work. 

I connect with that. I feel like that story is my own. My life has been a story of God fathering me, correcting me, loving me, and gently disciplining me. I'm not saying that I am at the level that Abraham reached in his later life...I still have a long way to go. But I'm feeling grateful for the journey, and I pray that I continually submit to God's leadership so that someday it will be my story too. 

Processing Friendship: I Forget to Respond to Texts

To begin reading this series at the beginning, click here.

To read the previous installment in this series, click here. 

 I frequently think about someone, decide to text them to check-in and then realize that they texted me days ago and I never responded. 

I feel terrible. Most of my friends are super gracious about it, but I think the issue I have with texting back probably contributes to my feeling alone. 

I love feeling connected. I love having people to laugh with, have deep conversations with, and support. 

But I have largely learned to live my life alone. I'm used to just being on my own. It's been that way my whole life. I remember my mom telling other people when I was little, how I would just play alone in my room and she hardly even knew I was there. While I was in my room playing alone, I was pretending to have relationships. 

I'm starting to realize that my family - my husband and kids - has largely operated the same way. We keep to ourselves, in the same way I keep to myself. I didn't realize I was creating a caccoon for myself, but I was. I thought that if I could parent in the right way, that I could raise a tribe for myself. I could have the kind of relationships that I crave, with my kids once they were grown.

Somewhere along the way I realized that that mentality was not healthy, and being my kids primary source of relationship was not healthy for them. I realized that I want them to develop other relationships and go out into the world so that when I'm gone, they won't be lonely. 

There is grief in letting go of that dream. For several years, I had focused on that as my only hope for the kind of relationships I crave. 

 I've let go of that dream and I'm left back at square one trying to figure out what is wrong with me and why I can't seem to form the kind of friendships I long for. 

I want the relationships but I don't have the mechanisms within myself to form them. I think it's a combination of different things: 

1. The belief that the only way people will accept me is if I take up as little space in their life as possible. This involves a lot of hiding myself and staying quiet, and telling myself that people don't want to hear from me. 

2. Fear that if I allow myself to be seen, I will be rejected. 

3. The assumption that I am not likeable that isn't cured when people tell me I am. 

 I'm not sure if these beliefs can be permanently changed. I've been trying for a long time. I don't feel like I've made progress. When I make progress, something happens to derail it, and I don't know that I am better off then I was before I made the progress. 

Examining Myself

 There are times of life that lend themselves to assessing where we are, where we've been, where we want to go and how our current routines, mindsets and trajectory support or block our goals.

My birthday is one of those times for me. I turn 44 on January 20. 

Honestly, I don't remember what my goals were when I turned 43. I'm not sure I had any beyond continuing graduate school and surviving (if the Lord was willing). 

I haven't had a lot of goals in a while because I've felt disillusioned and unsure of whether people actually change and grow. 

The last 7 years have been really hard for me, and the last year has been one of the hardest yet. Facing truths I had not previously been able to acknowledge, feeling the weight of my own shortcomings and loneliness all converged to feel like a millstone around my mental neck. 

Toward the end of 2025, I made some decisions for myself that seem to be supporting my mental health. I'm not ready to talk specifics yet (maybe not ever), but I'm feeling hopeful. 

8 years ago, I created this graphic to communicate the mission behind my goals and I think it's still the mission behind all of my goals. 

These are my goals for this year:

1. Graduate with a Master's degree in Marriage and Family Therapy.

2. Pass the test to get my Associate's license.

3. Start my career as a Marriage & Family Therapist.

4. Trust God with my identity and relationships - I will know that I am doing this by being less impacted by whether or not I am included by other people, I will initiate more within relationships, and I will be more consistent in communication. Overall, I will show up authentically in relationships and give without expecting anything in return. 

5. Designate specific spaces where my broom, mop and hairbrush belong. 

6. Take medications consistently. 

7. Be consistent with health goals. 

8. Take a vacation with Michael to celebrate our 25th anniversary. 

9. Consistently use budgeting software.

10. Be more engaged in family life. 

Processing Friendship: Labels & Hiding

To read the previous installment, click here. 

To start from the beginning, click here. 

I was around 9 years old. My mom had a daycare, and asked her ("the swimmer") to come and supervise the daycare for a bit while my mom went to an appointment. 

As my mom left, she arrived but she didn't come into the house. She made her way into our backyard where we had a pool. She got into the pool. 

I was in the house with several babies and a few toddlers. 

I remember watching her get into the pool and being confused. She was supposed to be there to take care of these kids while my mom was gone. Honestly, maybe my mom coaxed her to come by telling her that I would do the work but that, for legal purposes, there had to be an adult present. I don't know what the arrangement was. 

What I know is that 9 year old me felt overwhelmed by the responsibility. At some point a couple of the babies began crying. As I was trying to attend to the babies, the phone rang. The swimmer yelled from the pool for me to answer the phone. I didn't feel capable of answering the phone while caring for the crying babies. 

Eventually the swimmer came into the house and demanded to know why I hadn't answered the phone. I responded curtly. 

I later learned that the swimmer had told others how "snotty" I am. I'm not defending the way I spoke to her, but it's understandable that a nine-year-old trying to hold two crying babies, care for a third baby, and watch several toddlers -- might feel overwhelmed, abandoned and angry while the adult responsible for them takes a swim and yells demands from the pool.

Snotty is a label I've worn. I thought it was mine. It was applied to me frequently. Boys in my vicinity were allowed to bully, abuse and torture me, but if I responded in any way I was labeled as "snotty" or some other name to indicate I was the problem.

Throughout my life I've worn many labels. Some have been true, and some, I have come to understand, were never mine to wear. I wasn't snotty. I wasn't the problem. I was a sweet little girl who felt overwhelmed, abandoned and worthless - and sometimes acted and spoke out of those feelings. 

As I grew, I realized that if things were going to change, I had to change them (because I was the problem, remember?). I did this by quieting myself, by making myself smaller, by conforming myself to who my labelers thought I should be. At first, I thought I was safe out of the sight and hearing of my labelers, but eventually realized that nowhere was safe.  

It was a magnificent disappearing act. I maintained the form on the outside, but all of the beautiful, colorful and spirited parts of me receded into the darkest recesses of my body. What was left was a shell, a form, an ogre whose purpose was to keep me safe, but ultimately held me prisoner.