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. 

Processing Friendship: Examining My Part

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

I had a boyfriend when I met my husband. My boyfriend was not present when we met, and it didn't occur to me to disclose to this new young man that I had a boyfriend. I wasn't trying to be dishonest, but it didn't naturally come up in conversation and I had no idea that Michael liked me as anything other than a friend. 

Michael discovered that I had a boyfriend when he told his friend (my boyfriend) about meeting me, and my boyfriend made the revelation.

I was shocked every time I found out that a boy liked me, because I tend to assume people don't. To varying levels, I dreaded having to interact with the boys I dated because I was terrified that they were going to discover that I wasn't worth dating. 

It generally does not occur to me that someone would want to talk to me or that my presence or viewpoint might be valuable. I assume that I will be in the way or a nuisance. I see myself as weird. As a preteen and teen, I liked weird things. I was a hipster about 10 years before being one was cool. I liked music that other people my age thought was weird. I enjoyed movies and books that nobody else I knew was watching and reading. I never liked cartoons. 

In the absence of relationships, I attached myself to celebrities/historical figures (Princess Diana, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, Elvis Presley, the Beatles) and music. I didn't have the resources to wear clothes I felt good in. I wore what was available to me, and my clothes were not reflective of current styles. I didn't wear pants so I stuck out at school. All of this labeled me as weird in my own mind. I always felt "other" at home too. Generally speaking, it didn't feel as though anyone had ever really liked me. 

As I realized that the manipulative tactics I had grown up using were not effective, I switched tactics. Eventually, I settled on staying out of people's way. I take up as little space in people's lives as I can. I don't insert myself into other people's lives. I stay in the shadows, hoping to be invited in. I process the non-invitations as rejection.

I don't call people because I assume it would bother them if I did. I don't invite people over, because I assume they would rather not come. I don't start conversations because I assume people would rather be talking to someone else. 

I take up as little mental space as possible, and my body takes up a lot more space than it should. The irony is not lost on me. I believe these two issues are related. 

A few years ago I was diagnosed with ADHD. This revelation was like a light switch being turned on for me. It turns out, a lot of people with ADHD also have something called Rejection Sensitivity Dysphoria (Shout out to my friend Kim for bringing this to my attention.) What this looks like for me is constantly being on the look out for signs that I am being rejected and then responding with intense pain when I find them. 

So cliques at church feel like big, flashing signs that say "stay out, loser!!" Pictures on social media of other people I know hanging out with each other feels like someone saying "we didn't invite you because we hate you!"

Healing my relationship with friendship, and myself, is going to look like being able to take up space in people's lives and in rooms I am in, and telling myself the truth when I believe the lies that my brain is telling me. 

I can't control other people. I can't make them include me or enjoy my company. I am the only person I can control, and truthfully, more than anyone else has excluded me, I think I've excluded myself. 

To be continued . . . 

 

Processing Friendship Part 2

 To read Part 1, click here.

As we moved within California and then to Texas, and I encountered new systems, I had different experiences. At the first place, I found a stockpile of greeting cards in the church building. So I  documented all the church members birthdays and anniversaries, and used the greeting cards to acknowledge them. I loved doing this. It gave me a great sense of purpose. 

When we moved to Texas, it was like moving to an all new world where people suddenly took an interest in me. I seemed to matter for the first time. When we first arrived, members of the congregation asked me questions like, "what are your hobbies?" I had no answer to this question. What I liked to do had never seemed relevant to anyone else, and most of what I enjoyed doing wasn't something I could really do with other people. I lived a mostly solitary, internal life. Existing at this congregation and within that group of people was a breeding ground for my self-esteem.  

I had a friend group for the first time. I was talking on the phone, spending time with people. I was outgoing and extroverted. I felt like my true self. 

In both of these instances, it seems the growth of my self confidence and security was interpreted in a negative light, and I was punished.

My training in systems theory and work with my own therapist has helped me to see that the system in which I existed would not allow for me to change. The thing about systems is that they work to maintain homeostasis. The quiet, solitary, internal, blank slate was the role I played in the system, and it's all that system would allow for. 

I withdrew from my social circle. The focus shifted from friendship and connection, to escaping the system. I did desperate and wrong things to accomplish this, and I lost sight of the purpose of leaving the system. The things I did to escape were counterproductive and harmful. 

I didn't get what I ultimately wanted: the space to be the truest version of myself. What I got was shame, isolation, regret and body weight. 

I've spent a lot of time and energy in healing from all of that, but I still find myself with loneliness, and unsure of how to overcome it. Talking about it is helping. Friends who have experienced similar things are sharing what they've learned, and that solves the issue of protocols to implement, and the connection I have longed for. 

To be continued . . . 

Processing Friendship

Sifting through my soul, trying to make it all make sense. Am I the cause of my loneliness? What is it about me that makes it difficult for me to connect? I have always felt "other". Like I'm on the outside looking in at the connections of others. The first time I remember feeling this, I was approximately 4 years old. 

I struggle with accepting that God loves me and forgives me, and that makes it difficult to believe that other people can and do. I've done a lot of sucky things to get people to like me. I acted in impulsive and hurtful ways that still haunt me. 

Around four I had an experience with overt rejection that I remember vividly. Another little girl and I were playing on the steps of the church. A group of older girls (I'm thinking they were 11 or 12) came along and made it a point to tell me to shut up and be very attentive to my friend. They called me stupid and pushed me away and told me that they couldn't stand me, while embracing the other girl. They were overtly rejecting me, while embracing her.

I can't remember if I did something to trigger this. I don't have a lot of other memories from this age. I don't remember having mean thoughts about people or scheming to do bad things. Most of the things I did were impulsive and I didn't take into consideration how my actions would impact others. I remember dropping a booster seat on another kids head as a joke, and then being mortified that it was a much bigger deal than I anticipated. I also made up lies about other people liking me in order to impress people. 

By 11 or 12 I had caught on that my actions weren't working and I shut completely down. I lost hope. It felt, and sometimes still feels, like a mental straightjacket. 

Recently I've been thinking through relationships over my lifetime. I've realized that even most of the people I might have considered to be my friends before the age of 15 - weren't really my friends. They didn't like me. They were annoyed by the things I did to get people to like to me. Which is understandable. 

Once, one of these "friends" read a letter, that they had received from another of my "friends", aloud to me. The person who had written the letter spent part of it talking negatively about me and how a boy had said that they would never "go out" with someone "like" me. I don't know what "someone like her" meant because I never asked. Even when she was reading it to me, I remember my face getting hot but I didn't even acknowledge what had been said about me. I don't know if the intent of reading the letter to me was to hurt me or to reveal how they all felt about me. I essentially proceeded as though it didn't happen. Looking back, it was obvious that these people were not really my friends. 

Right now I'm processing what this means. Does it mean that I was more flawed than everyone else and my actions made it impossible for me to have real connections? If so, was I born that way? What does that mean?

Was my immature and impulsive behavior what caused people to dislike me? Or did their dislike of me cause the immature and impulsive behavior? 

My instinct is to say that for whatever reason I had a deep, felt sense that I was unlovable, and this led to maladaptive behaviors that were hurtful and unlikeable by others and it all became a cycle that I struggled to exist outside of. Even though I completely stopped (but re-picked back up a few years later) the bad habits I had, I didn't know how to make amends and the relationships never changed. 

When I was 13, my family began considering a cross country move. I remember feeling excited to have a fresh start. Getting outside of the systems in which I had always existed seemed like a positive thing. 

In both of the new environments, I took advantage of the fresh starts and thrived . . . for a while.

To be continued . . . 

To the Little Girl I Used to Be: Scarlett Letters

To the Little Girl I Used to Be:

The words stung. 

Your sweet little girl heart couldn't understand a world where those words could be a lie. 

So you believed them. 

Blame for what happened to you turned to a name you answered to and lived by: Whore

Scarlett letters in the form of fat multiplied, and a prison you lived in. 

But the words were not true. 

It wasn't your fault. 

You didn't ask for it, or allow it to happen.

The shame heaped upon you was a projection of their shame, not yours. 

You can stop preserving those scarlett letters, and let the wounds heal. 

Whore is not a name you need to answer to or live by.

What We Taught Our Kids About Apologizing

We taught them to say, "will you forgive me?". Until we realized that asking to be forgiven creates an environment where the expected answer is 'yes'. If I'm not free to say no, yes means nothing. 

We came to the conclusion that putting pressure on a person we've already hurt was not the right way to apologize. 

I've come to understand that a believable and meaningful apology includes acknowledging the pain I've caused, and making a commitment to working on the issue so that it isn't repeated. Sometimes it is repeated, but I should be learning from each experience and closing the gap and the person I have hurt should be able to tell that.

As we learned to properly make amends ourselves, we taught our children to do the same. Here is what we taught our children about apologies:

We didn’t demand apologies from our children. Our goal was to instill a sense of responsibility, and a conscience about how to properly treat other people. We didn’t want lip service or a coerced apology that they resented giving. We wanted them to recognize that they had done something wrong/hurtful, and feel compelled to make amends for it. So we talked to them about what happened, shared our perspective and then sent them away to think, regulate their emotions and take action when they were ready to do it. They almost always made the apology without being told to do it. 

A true apology embodies responsibility and accountability. 

Responsibility bears the guilt of the actions without excuse and manipulation. It says, “I did this and I shouldn’t have. Instead, I should have done this other thing. My actions hurt you, and I’m sorry.” 

Accountability bears the weight of transparency, making amends and rebuilding trust. It does not require immediate trust. This looks like creating boundaries around the hurtful behavior so that it isn’t repeated, and seeking help to address the thoughts/feelings, etc that lead up to the hurtful behavior. 

The person I have hurt should not bear the responsibility of keeping me accountable. I should be seeking outside accountability as well. 

I should be taking the person I have hurt into consideration and asking what they need in order to begin to rebuild trust. 

Demanding trust before it is earned is manipulation, and giving trust before it is earned is denial. 

Apologies should be followed by changed behavior. Not all behaviors will be changed overnight, some may take time, but there should be evidence that I am working on it through doing the behavior less often, for less time or less intensity. 

A true apology also does not harm the person being apologized to. It isn’t always appropriate to reach out to a person I’ve hurt to apologize. Before I apologize, I should think about whether it is appropriate to do so. Is it appropriate for me to have contact with this person? 

I love the quote by Maya Angelou: do the best you can, until you know better. Then when you know better, do better.” I’ve lived my life this way, and apologies are one thing that reflects this. As I’ve learned better, I’ve done better and taught my children to do the same. There have been many apologies and amends in my parenting journey, and I imagine there will be many more. 

Church Accountability

Contempt dripping from their words permeates my body through my ears and runs down my spine, making it difficult to sit still. The other sheep in The Flock injured and mistreated a sheep. When that sheep lost its ability to travel with the others, fell behind and was eaten by a wolf - those responsible for shepherding the flock led the rest of the sheep in mocking the wounded and left for dead sheep. 

I’m sure that sounds shocking, but it happens within churches sometimes. Members of the church harm another member, but instead of dealing with and disciplining the person who caused the harm, the person who was harmed is told to be quiet and “get over it”. 

Sometimes the person or persons who injure the other member apologize and the injured person is expected to immediately “drop it”. Instead of working with the person who committed the sin, thinking through what caused the behavior and what boundaries need to be put into place so it doesn’t happen again, it is all swept under a rug. When the injured person trips over all the junk under the rug, they are blamed. 

There comes a point when the rug, where it is all swept, is so full of junk that it is no longer viable to walk on. When the injured party decides to leave, the people in the church take no responsibility for the hazard the rug has become. 

People are responsible for their decisions, but when they are abused (sexually, emotionally, spiritually) within churches and people with the power to correct the problem don’t, it may create a situation where the victim has to choose between two true things. The Truth of how and where to worship and the Truth of how christians should treat people. 

If we won’t be introspective and consider our part in things, we are forcing people to make difficult decisions. 

If we won’t be introspective, consider our part in things and make amends, we are placing a stumbling block in the path of others. How can we have contempt for someone who trips over a stumbling block that we placed in their path?

Being “right" doesn't give anyone a pass to act wrongly. There is as much of a right way to treat people as there is a right way to do anything else. 

I wonder how many people who were "right" are going to have to give an account to Jesus for their actions when they were "right"?

What if?

I shared my story with the room, including the hurtful aftermath of words. The people in the room supportively rolled their eyes and lamented how stupid the response was. 

I felt the support. But the conversation routinely went to the careless and "stupid" words that people say in response to other people's pain.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I moved in the periphery, scared to approach. I determined to wait to speak to the man who had lost his wife until I could do it without becoming emotional. 

I wanted to acknowledge his pain and sit with him in it, but I wanted to do it perfectly. 

Time went by, and I finally decided that I needed to go ahead and say something. I was avoiding him at this point. I couldn't speak to him about the weather if I hadn't acknowledged this terrible thing that had happened. 

So I spoke to him. I cried. We sat in silence. 

I don't know how he walked away feeling about the moment. I hope he felt supported, but I'm not sure he did. Maybe he walked away and has used what I said and our interaction as an example of the terrible things people said and did after he lost his wife.  

There are lists all over social media of all the "stupid" and "terrible" things that have been said to people in whatever situation they find themselves in. 

A complaint I often hear from people going through difficult situations is that nobody says anything at all. 

I have to wonder if there is a correlation between these two things. 

If we are judgmental of what people say, what is the likelihood they are going to get over their nerves to actually say something?

What if, in order to receive the support we long for, we have to be willing to see through the imperfect words used to provide it?

What if we assume that when people say things like, "well that's the best cancer to have" they mean "I hate that you're experiencing this but I'm also afraid to discourage you so I'm saying something that I feel is positive so you won't lose hope"?

Or, when they share their own experience, they are just trying to say, "you're not alone". 

Yes, we should all be trying to learn and grow, but we are all imperfect. We get nervous, and say dumb things. 

What if that's okay? What if we assume the best of each other and accept the words as the support they are intended to provide instead of judging the person who says them?

The Weight of Feeling Unloved

They studied women who lost weight and put it back on. 

Turns out, a huge percentage of them started gaining weight around the time a major even or abuse happened. It was their brain and bodies way of protecting them. 

So I asked myself, what was happening around the time I started gaining weight? What is my extra weight protecting me from? 

The answer I came to is this: My weight is protecting me from anyone seeing the real me. The real me is ugly and vile, and being overweight is like a boundary I set for myself to only be "so" comfortable and to never draw attention to myself or take up space. It's like my own punishment to myself where I remind myself that I am worthless and unloved before other people have to remind me and I experience the pain of being unloved.

Being loved for a few minutes isn't worth the experience of losing that love when I screw everything up. 

My body is a physical manifestation of the war between my desperate desire to be known with the utter terror of being seen. 

Sometimes all of this feels like it will never be healed. Will I ever get to the bottom of my self hatred and rejection so that I can move on with my life in peace?

In addition to my weight issue I struggle with Major Depressive Disorder. For the last few years I've struggled to have hope. Lately I've found myself singing these lyrics to myself when I'm struggling to have hope or to be confident that God is listening to my cries, "but I can be sure of this, the Lord will answer when I call to Him". It's not a cure but it renews my mind and refocuses my heart heavenward. 

Contentment and Surrender

For a variety of reasons, I struggle to accept my place in the world sometimes. I struggle to accept the limitations of my gender, financial situation and the family patterns that I was born into. 

The other day I was reading the Psalms and noticed the inscription above the one I was reading said that it was written by the sons of Korah. I know the story of Korah but I went back to Numbers 16 to refresh my memory. 

I was convicted by my lack of contentment as a woman within the body of Christ. Even though I live in a time and place where women have way more freedoms than they've ever had, I am not content with that. I assign motives and feelings to God, and resent the required submission and silence - instead of accepting my spiritual birth order and flourishing in my role. 

When I think of all the people through out history who have had way less freedom within their life circumstances, I wonder how they could have found the courage to be content. 

Our world preaches that we can all change our circumstances if we just work hard enough, but at what cost? Is changing my circumstances really what God wants for me? Is that the good that's He's working in my life?

I don't have all those answers. I'm not saying I should never work hard or change my circumstance. But if I'm too tired to focus on Jesus, maybe the hustling is out of line. If the changed circumstance becomes what I'm focused on instead of Jesus, then maybe it isn't God's plan for me. If the circumstance I am trying to change requires what I know about God to conform to the change, instead of the change conforming to His will . . . then maybe the hustling to change my circumstance is amiss. 

Maybe the problem is not my circumstance. Maybe the problem is how I see my circumstance. Maybe the solution isn't hustle. Maybe the solution is contentment . . . surrender. 

15 Years

 

Fifteen years of doing anything prompts celebration, in my book. Thank you for taking the time to read what I've written. 

Being Brave and Stirring the Pot

 Sometimes I’m not sure whether it was crazy or brave.

Regardless of how many times this girl washed her face and stopped apologizing, exhaustion and cortisol reminded me that no amount of hustle would allow me to maintain two full-time gigs indefinitely. I was working a full-time job to help support my family, fulfilling a labor of love that required full-time energy and still attempting to show up for my family. Something had to give. So, I dreamt big.

I dared to imagine that I could do the full-time, volunteer position and get paid to do it. So I looked for cracks in the infrastructure, designed a position for myself, and asked for a meeting with the three men who could implement my vision.

Armed with a nifty proposal and my resume, I walked into that room, sat in front of these men and released my dream into the wild.

The no that came days later felt like a sucker punch. I had been brave, put in the work and the answer was still no.

What had felt brave only days before, now felt impotent and more along the lines of farfetched and crazy.

As I’ve spent time processing what I did and what happened, I’ve come to realize that even though I didn’t get the answer I wanted, what I did was incredibly brave. And even though my exact, original dream didn’t come true, the real dream did.

I went back to school, and I’m currently working on a Master’s degree that will empower me to do the job I dreamed of and make a living on my own terms, without the need for the approval of three men.

I learned that sometimes the act of bravery can be the end and not just the means to the end. One act of bravery will be the stepping stone for the next.

It wasn’t crazy, it was brave. I am brave. Other peoples inability to dream big with me isn't an indictment of my dream. My dream isn't for them, and that's okay. Their no helped me see that it was time to pick up my dreams and take a hike. My dream was a catalyst and their no stirred the pot. 

Tell me about a time you were brave.

Loneliness is a Choice?

I gaslit myself into believing it was true. 

But I've come to understand that often people who don't experience something, misunderstand it and mislabel it. It's like extroverts pathologizing introvert qualities. Or the people who have a problem with things like "you are enough" and insist on saying "you are not enough" instead. They don't have the same personality traits, and misunderstand the meaning behind the reassurance that I am enough. 

Sometimes, with some people, loneliness might be a choice, but I spent years shaming and berating myself for being lonely in crowded rooms. I denied myself the gift of saying no and completely burned myself out on the off chance that each opportunity presented might be the occasion that God was going to use to break my loneliness. Mentors blamed my loneliness on me and cited times when I said no as the reason for my loneliness. I would leave social events, binge eat and not understand why. 

Burn out lead to deconstruction, and barely surviving it. 

Celebrate Recovery teaches that "loneliness is a choice", but I could never figure out how I was making the choice. I said yes to everything because I thought saying no was making the choice to be lonely, but I was lonely either way. If making a simple choice could cure loneliness, my loneliness would have been cured a long time ago. 

I think Celebrate Recovery is wrong on this point. I don't think that all loneliness is a choice. 

For some people, loneliness is based in attachment issues that they developed long before they were aware it was happening and isn't cured by being around people more often, or having deeper, more transparent conversations. 

For me, it means never trusting that other people will stick around, never believing that people like me or want to be friends with me, and that there is something inherently unlovable about me. It means experiencing the pervasive and real experience that there seems to be something about me that puts other people off. It also means completely missing signs that other people do like me or are seeking a relationship with me. It also means I just don't feel the connection when it's there, when other people feel it. I've traced my earliest feelings of loneliness to when I was 3. 

More than once (it's actually a pretty regular occurrence) I have made a connection with two or more other people, but then the next time I see them they are better friends with each other, have been spending time together without me, or I see pictures of them hanging out together on social media. They aren't being mean, but I am left feeling baffled about how it happened. I usually tell myself that there is just something wrong with me that makes them not connect with me . . . like a noxious odor that warns off predators. 

I told myself that I don't like talking on the phone, but the truth is, I love talking on the phone. I told myself I didn't like it to inoculate myself against the sadness of never doing it, to manage my own expectations and guard myself from disappointment. It's easier to guard myself against possible friendship than to deal with the grief when it doesn't work out or I am left feeling abandoned and alone.

I would love to tell you that I have a cure, but I don't. I'm currently seeking it. I'm reading a book called Changes that Heal by Dr. Henry Cloud and I am waiting to hear back from a therapist that I am hoping can help me with this. 

I've sought counseling for this before but the advice was surface level and didn't really help. This time, I have a good understanding of what I'm dealing with, and I can communicate it well - both of which should help. 

I'm still learning how this has affected my ability to mother my children well. Once again, motherhood inspires me to learn better, so I can do better and help them to do better too. 

Forgiveness, or Denial?

I felt coerced. Unfree to say no. 

When I was asked for forgiveness, there was nothing to say but yes. If yes is the forced response, can it ever really be true? 

When our kids were young we went through a childrearing course a couple of times. One of the things they taught is that when an apology is due, the perpetrator should ask for forgiveness. For a long time, we practiced this as parents and taught our children to ask for forgiveness as well. 

Until we learned that making amends, or apologizing, should be done without expectation from the person I have wronged or hurt. When I thought about the times that I have been asked for forgiveness and realized that I never felt free to ask for time to process or to say no, it became clear to me that requiring the person I have wronged to say they forgive me is inappropriate. And if there is no room for saying no, then the forgiveness is either a lie or coerced . . . both of which render it impotent. 

Forgiveness is a gift. It can't be earned or coerced. Trust is earned. Forgiveness is done independently of the perpetrator. An apology or amends is helpful and right in a lot of circumstances, but forgiveness is not dependent on either one. 

Trust and forgiveness are often mixed up. Trust is earned, forgiveness is a gift. Unearned trust is not forgiveness, it's denial. Equating forgiveness and trust is dangerous, and requiring trust (while calling it forgiveness) without earning it is manipulative and unequivocally disqualifies the demander of being trusted.  

A good apology recognizes what I did, how it affected the other person and what I hope to do differently in the future. This requires premeditation about what I did, why I did it and how I am going to work toward a different action going forward. 

Lies Marriage Books Told me

I have read a lot of 'how to be a good wife' books. They have helped me to varying degrees, but either the content of the books or my perception of them led me down dark paths of despair when I followed the instructions of the book and didn't get the result the author promised. I'm not going to reference any specific books, because I don't want to disparage a book that might be helpful to someone else, with another set of issues and character defects. The thing I wish that I had done differently is talked to a wide variety of older women, particularly ones who had dealt with the same issues themselves. 

Without further adieu, here are three lies I learned from 'how to be a good wife' books:

1. Men are simple. As long as they are fed and have plenty of sex, they are good. Maybe some men are simple, but believing this led to a long journey of me being diligent about fulfilling those two needs and feeling utterly devastated when all of our problems were not solved. Michael is every bit as complex as I am, with needs beyond food and sex. He has a need for conversation, feeling safe in relationships and non sexual physical touch among other things. Men are human beings too, with complex histories, family relationships and thoughts.

2. If I'm not happy in my marriage, it's all my fault. Yes, it's not my husbands responsibility to make me happy, but I wasn't happy in my marriage because there were very real, wrong things in it. When I reached a pit of despair I shared those wrong things with other people and they helped us deal with them. Deciding to be happy in the middle of what was happening in our marriage was like sitting on a dung heap and talking myself into being happy instead of getting off the dung heap. 

3. It's the responsibility of wives to keep their husbands attention and it's the responsibility of other women to not draw it. If you want to know what the Bible says about how men should delight in their wives you'll have to do your own study. I will say this: it doesn't qualify any of it with how the wife looks. Years ago I lost a bunch of weight, at several points other women said things like "I bet your husband is all over you now". I smiled and replied in the affirmative, but this confused me. Our sex life didn't really change. For a while I thought there was something wrong because his desire hadn't increased to any noticeable degree, and these women seemed so sure it had. But apparently I just married a good man. Michael has loved me at all shapes and sizes. Am I advocating for spouses to let themselves go? No. But I am saying there is more to desire and attraction than what media and porn would have us believe. 

Secondly, while I believe it is my responsibility to dress modestly, I believe it is also the responsibility of men to control their own eyes and minds. None of us get to live in a world devoid of temptation. It's each of our responsibility to flee from that temptation. Men can decide where their eyes and minds go. They are human beings who are capable of controlling themselves. Believing that other women bore responsibility in my husbands ability to keep his eyes and mind to himself created an unfair resentment of and competition with other women.

Changing what I believed about all three of these things has freed me up to delight in and have compassion for my husband. It's also given me the freedom to check my own self, deal with my own stuff and for him to do the same. 

Holding Space in Between

Poles of opinion compel us, 

pick a side and choose a team,

it's comfortable in the black and white,

in the mix and camraderie of a crowd. 

Standing our ground in the gray 

as emotions and reactions attempt to entice

us to one pole or the other

and definitive and clear comfort of black and white.

Holding space in the in-between place 

watching as the people standing with us

gradually give in to the pull of polarity

for protection against the stones being hurled

by those in the black and white.  

It takes courage and steadiness to stand in the gray,

to hold our ground in the winds of doctrine,

to remain planted in place as the streams of water erode

the ground around our roots. 

We are rooted, 

we are planted, 

and we are firm,

we are holding space in the between place

because it's the right, but not easy, thing to do.