Tag: inspiration

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This not so random day in October

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Her wrinkled hands hold back the curtains and she stands and stares as the colored leaves once again begin to fall…and she remembers his face, on this not so random day in October.

She takes her morning walk, like she does every morning. But today, in the crisp air, her gaze is distracted and her pace is a little slower. She still stops for coffee at Betty Lou’s, but today, she’s a little quieter. “You look tired, my dear,” her friend takes note. A nod and a small, forced smile is her only reply. She finishes her walk home and notices the middle-aged man helping his elderly parent out of the car. The old mother once again feels that dull ache, on this chilly, not so random day in October.

Clearing out her office, before the winter weather begins again, before she’s too old to enjoy living, before time robs her of what is left, she begins to fill her empty box. The pictures and the diplomas that once hung on busy walls, leave lonely nails in their place. In her perfectly manicured hands, she holds the frame of a photo that makes her pause. It wasn’t the employee of the year award or the doctorate degree, but a single photo with a silent sign that only she could see. She strokes her silver hair and is lost in thought as she stops to reflect. 30 years at the same office, and no one ever noticed that she always requested vacation, every year, on this not so random day in October.

What a beautiful wedding! Bright orange and yellow mums and sweet little acorns on the tables, the sign of new beginnings. The band plays and the people dance and young love fills the air. And as happy as she is for the perfect match…when the beaming groom takes his mother’s hand….the music seems to quiet and the twinkling lights stop. In her world, time stands still and a small tear sneaks past the tiny wrinkles around her eye. With a smile on her face, her heart still longs for him, on this festive, not so random day in October.

Raking the leaves, it’s best to keep busy.  There’s too much to do, to sit and wait. But her mind is full and she wonders when this day will stop being hard. A butterfly lands on the bush beside her, a rare sight this time of year. The orange and black wings beat ever so slowly and her efforts to be productive are paused. “You’d be a senior this year…” she says… and she stops to imagine how his dark hair would’ve come in. I wonder if he had my brown eyes or his Dad’s blues…Would he be a football star? Or a science geek? Homecoming, Prom and Graduation are daunting days ahead that she dreads. And once again, she feels robbed, on this chilly, not so random day in October.

Readying the decorations, she plops two new mums on the front porch and dusts off the old wreath. This is never her favorite time of year, but deception is easier than explaining. Despite her pain, she tries to make the house look welcoming. Halloween will be coming and the kids will be in costume. She wonders what he would’ve wanted to be… A super hero perhaps, or maybe a fire fighter? She can’t decide if the trick or treaters and the bowl of candy she reluctantly empties into their pillow cases is soothing reassurance or a stabbing betrayal. She turns off the phone and sits alone, hot cider in hand, wondering if it will ever get easier… this painful, not so random day in October.

Today she wants to be alone. The little energy she has, she reserves for self care and reflection-there is none left for small talk or busy work. The house is too quiet, so she goes to the trees to be one with her thoughts. Somewhere along the paved path, the painstaking sound of pittering feet come running towards her. Two little red shoes chase a round blue ball and she wants so badly to look and smile; but the reality of her loss averts her eyes. Quickly she runs to the car and back to the house. She buries her head in her pillow and then reaches for his box. Tonight, she’ll lay with his blanket and her heart’s exhaustion will lull her to sleep, on this sorrowful, not so random day in October.

The empty crib was the worst…or was it the look on the doctor’s face when she did the ultrasound? No…no those weren’t the worst…It was the quiet of the room. Yes! That awful, awful quiet when he was born, that, was the worst…the deafening silence when all of her hopes and dreams came crashing into a lifeless little lump wrapped in a blue blanket…and her wails filled the space that his cries should have. Breathing is hard right now. Living is hard right now. Mothering is hard right now. As night falls, her exhausted body collapses into a restless slumber and she is sure that she will never, ever recover, from this horrible, nightmare of a day in October.

It’s the lifetime achievements, the milestones and the memories that she’ll never get. It’s the love that she gave, the laughter that she missed and the heartache that is never ending. It’s the name that no one will say for fear of upsetting her and the name that she whispers every night in her dreams. It’s the face only she stroked and the feet only she kissed. The tears that she cries alone and the story that she hates that she knows.

And it’s the lessons that she’s learned and the hands that she’s held…the tears that she has wiped and the ways that she has understood…it’s the tiny gowns that she has sewn and the meals that she has made…it’s the presence that she is and the changes she has made, for every parent who shares her pain…All done in her son’s name.

Opening the box once more, her wrinkled hands carry the tattered blue blanket back to her chair. And she rubs the soft threads between her smooth finger tips as she nods off into a peaceful slumber. And another leaf falls.

“Momma,” she hears…

Dark brown hair and his father’s crystal blue eyes meet hers…and right away, she knows. She whispers his name and he smiles a smile that she has waited a lifetime to see. “I have so much to tell you….,” he says. And tears of joy stream down her face. Hand in hand they walk into the light, mother and son, together again, on this beautiful, not at all random, day in October.

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Another Lesson in Adaptability

Those who know me and/or follow this blog closely know that my family and I are avid road-trippers. Wanna know more about road tripping…check out this post!https://lifelibertyandlibations.com/2017/09/07/looking-for-adventure-10-reasons-to-take-a-road-trip/

Some years ago, my husband and I established the goal of taking our children to all 50 US states. With only about 6 years of working towards this goal and over half of the states checked-off, we are well on our way to reaching our goal before our oldest refuses to travel with us anymore. This year was a bucket list destination of Niagara Falls combined with 7 new states in the upper-Midwest. Taking on the open road and traveling to new places is always full of lessons and new experiences and every trip changes us in some way.

This year’s trip, which covered the US and Canadian regions around Niagara, and our new states- MI (both peninsulas), WI, MN, IA, IL, IN, and OH before returning home, was wonderful and full of great adventure and amazing sights! I wouldn’t take any part of it back. The areas surrounding the Great Lakes were breathtaking and the National Parks there (Pictured Rocks, Sleeping Bear Dunes and Apostle Islands) are true spectacles of mother nature’s power and beauty. That being said, temps were unseasonably cold for much of the area we covered, we tent-camped half of it and the mere feat of covering a total of 9 states in 15 days was exhausting.

I should note that my husband and I both come from coastal areas (different countries, different oceans … but coastal nonetheless). So for us, no summer is complete without a suntan and some quality, lazy beach time. While we loved our adventure in the cooler, northern regions, we missed the warm, sandy beaches that we associate with “our summer”. (Sorry Michigan, that icy water, whilst gorgeous, just didn’t quite quench our thirst for the “beach”).

So, when our timeshare company informed us of a “bonus week” that was close to expiring AND there was availability in our favorite Florida gulf coast town … it seemed serendipitously perfect! Despite the fact that it was an 18 hr drive from home and we only had 5 of the 7 days available, we knew we needed it! We have been working so hard and knew that this would be the perfect summer wrap-up.

And then the news came of the Red Tide, an absolutely tragic (and apparently recurrent) ecological disaster, that left our favorite beaches littered with dead marine life and toxic fumes in the air. We were so bummed! We had worn ourselves out with work (and adventures) and were so looking forward to just parking ourselves on the beach and doing nothing but swimming, sleeping and some lazy fishing. The daily reports of beaches that reeked of rotting fish, waters that caused skin irritations, air that led to respiratory irritations and increased hospitalizations, not to mention marine life that was not only unsafe to eat, but devastatingly being wiped-out by a human-induced algal bloom, hurt our hearts. We weren’t even sure we’d be able to step out of our beach-side resort without getting sick.

We stalked every website and laboratory report for two weeks. What my husband and I have dubbed our “most favorite place”, looked apocalyptic along its shores! The normally lively beaches were devoid of humans, except those who were part of the clean-up effort. And with so many cancelled reservations, local businesses were struggling to stay afloat.

But our last-minute reservation was un-exchangeable and non-refundable. Cancelling the trip meant taking a loss. And staying home, meant I’d just be working again. My soul needed a break … and I knew my family did too.

Watching the daily reports, conditions seemed to be mildly improving. So, we went-a decision that we made just the day before we left. And when people asked me “Why?” Why we were still driving 18 hours for a beach that we might not be able to sit on and a resort we might have to turn around and walk away from? … My response was: ” I have to try.” I knew our souls needed the break … so I had to try.

And when we arrived, it wasn’t the same beach we had come to love over the last 8 years. The pelicans weren’t diving. The conchs weren’t crawling. There were no dolphin fins dipping in the distance or manatees in the low grassy waters. There was enough dead fish on the beach that the flies were having a feast and a short stroll was about all that was enjoyable. And when the wind picked up in the right direction, you could smell the decay. No beach chairs this time. We didn’t bother bringing our fishing gear either-it didn’t seem fair to assault the marine population any further. We knew better than to get into the water too. Not to mention, the last hurricane had changed the landscape and the powdery white sand was full of shells that the storm had turned up.

But the air quality had improved and we could still enjoy the pool without any smell or effects. Despite the absence of ocean water, a bathing suit was still my uniform that week. The egrets still fished in the near-by lagoon. Sandals worked just fine to protect our feet when we took our morning beach walks.  And locals had built a shell-shrine of sorts where our favorite driftwood “Christmas tree” was reduced to a small stick in the sand. So instead of keeping our shells this year, we used our treasures to add to the shrine. The weather was still wonderfully warm and the humidity soothed our joints. The room, whilst modest, had an amazing view of the gulf with a big screened porch and it was a lovely escape from home. And the sunsets were the best on the planet, as always. And even though I traded my ocean-side beach chair for a pool-side lounge chair, there was still a cold drink in my hand and the absence of hard work or complicated thoughts.

I was glad we went.

We met new friends too; locals, who played games with us under the shelter of the bar when the afternoon storms rolled by and who will be a great asset when my husband and I start looking for retirement real-estate. And we decided to break up the drive home, by leaving the beach a day earlier and adding a stop to see my out-of-state sister. Kissing the faces of my nieces is therapy in and of itself. Oh, and the bald eagle that my husband was hell-bent on seeing in the Midwest, but disappointingly never spotted … soared, low and slow in the afternoons overhead, while we sat poolside.

I am a planner. Every day I have a check list. Every road trip has a daily typed itinerary and every restaurant and attraction has been researched and scoured for reviews. And I swear by my system because it never leaves us wondering what to do. We never leave an area disappointed that we missed-out and we rarely experience a bad eat. I love active and adventurous vacations. Until I need a break anyway. Until my body and my mind get so tired that it spills into my soul. And my family feels it too. Then, it’s time to go sit by the beach.

This time, with no itinerary and reviews, in the form of headline news, that I didn’t ask to read, the reports were horrible. But like I said in the beginning, every trip teaches a lesson and changes us in some way. This trip was a lesson in adaptability. As a mother and a nurse, I know how to adapt. But this was vacation … and a favorite spot to boot! In my mind’s eye, I had already written how it was going to be-and deviating from that plan was hard. It was kind of like going to your favorite restaurant and finding out they’re sold out of your favorite dish. Only this was a 5 day experience and a 36 hour round trip.

Nonetheless, I learned … again … that life is never stagnant. It requires that we always be willing to adapt, lest we miss-out for fear of change. And disappointment, whilst inevitable to some degree, is largely controlled by our own mindset and expectations. We can lessen our disappointments by searching for the goodness in something. I also learned to listen to my soul and to always, always try. A lack of trying due to fear of failure or disappointment becomes the death of the soul. Once again, I learned, once again, I was changed.

It was a surprise bonus week and a historically terrible algal bloom that wrote the lesson this time…wonder what life has waiting for me tomorrow.

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Guest blog: “I may be Asian, but I’m not your Christmas Chinaware” By Abbie Pfau

It is with great honor that I post my first guest blog. The writer is both talented and intelligent, witty and kind. She is gorgeous and current and she just so happens to be my little cousin. I give you Abbie Pfau:

My mom always said that when I was a girl, my joy was infectious, but as a woman my wit has become deadly. Through 9 surgeries, a month of paralysis, and 23 years as an adopted, differently-abled individual, I’ve learned that I don’t have to be so dichotomous. Instead, I’ve set out to try and use both the wit and the joy to share a point-of-view as someone who’s just trying to make it through every open door in life, without having to press the “handicap accessible” button. After all, who has the patience for that?

I never do.

Always be graceful, but don’t be afraid to be reckless…

Abbie

Photo credits: http://images.huffingtonpost.com/2015-09-23-1443029669-9258368-Dollarphotoclub_75515307.jpg

I May be Asian, but I’m Not Your Christmas Chinaware

            “Abbie Pfau, get over here right now and give me a hug. You’re not actually crippled.” The moment those words left my friend’s mouth and traveled across the high school piazza, a couple hundred confused faces turned to stare in horror. I picked up my crutches and traversed through a sea of people, hopping over bodies and laughing with her as we enjoyed the uproar she had just caused. All of those poor bystanders had thought they had just witnessed the biggest display of rudeness against a disabled woman, but what they don’t know is that it was actually a great compliment. On the contrary, it was their horrified faces that conveyed the unintentional insult. They all actually thought I was crippled.

I have crutches, so I must be broken. I am broken, so I must need help with everything.

It’s a very common misconception, so please, don’t feel bad if you’ve made this mistake. I understand the logic; everyone’s trying to make life easier, and truthfully, my condition does make certain things like carrying heavy objects and bending over to pick my clothes off the floor a bit of a struggle. If I’m being honest, I’m in some degree of pain every day, even when I go to sleep. But nothing hurts more than people’s (un)conscious discrimination against my ability. Most of the time, able-bodied people don’t realize they do it, because to them it feels like they’re being considerate and inclusive. However, there’s nothing that feels more exclusive than when someone tells my boyfriend he shouldn’t make me go on a hike with him. There’s nothing kind or helpful about scowling at my family for expecting me to wash my own dishes. Someone isn’t doing me any favors or any justice by sneering at my friends for laughing with me after I’ve gloriously “McFallen” in a McDonalds. There is this overpowering belief that my family, friends, and significant-other should never “make me” work. They should never “make me” get up to let the dog in. They should never “make me” go out and have adventures that would require any physical activity…because it might hurt. My fragile self might break, just like Humpty Dumpty.

There’s an important lesson to be learned from Humpty Dumpty though. He spent most of his story just sitting on a wall…and he still broke. I spent a month of my life paralyzed from the waist down, unable to do anything for myself. I couldn’t get up to go to the restroom by myself. I couldn’t take a shower by myself. I couldn’t even roll over in bed while I slept without someone’s help. Nevertheless, with determination and resilience, I worked through the pain and regained my physical independence. That would have been nearly impossible without the help of people I love; they always pushed me to work harder, to be better, and to live life fully – and living fully doesn’t mean needing someone to do everything for me.

After my back surgery and paralysis, I wasn’t allowed to bend my spine, which created a great deal of difficulty in my daily life. My parents have a very deep top-loading washer; nevertheless, they still expected me to do my own laundry, so I figured it out. My loved ones are all very active; they love to be adventurous and go hiking, skiing, boating, swimming, traveling, biking, etc. Never intending to watch them from the sidelines, I’ve learned to adapt. Sure, it might take me longer to bike the trails or climb the hills, but it certainly won’t stop me. My bones might ache when I stand up to answer the door or bring in the groceries, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be expected to do it. My body might be in pain, but that doesn’t mean my life has to suffer. I may be disabled, but that doesn’t mean I’m dead. I’ve been given a life to experience, live, and love. I refuse to spend my days sitting on a wall waiting to break and expecting all of the King’s men to put me back together again.

I know I look like an innocent, dainty piece of china that you have to protect and lock away in your cabinet. However, the truth is, I – and the multitude of other differently-abled individuals around the world – am stronger than you know. Our fragile, eggshell bodies have held the weight of an adversity that most cannot fathom, but they never break under the weight. So please, don’t be afraid for us. Don’t make excuses for us. Don’t expect less from us. Don’t lock us away and do everything for us. Help us be the best we can by pushing us to be more than we seem, because the only disability in life is being enabled to the point of not experiencing all it has to offer – even, and perhaps most importantly, the challenges it holds. If we didn’t want the challenge, we would’ve let you know.

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Finding fulfillment in the life you’ve been given, not the life you dreamed of…

I always thought I’d be a mother….

I figured I’d be married by now….

I thought he was the man of my dreams….

I never thought I’d end up a single parent….

I wish I had gone to medical school….

I should have followed my dreams, not the money….

My relationship with my parent(s) is toxic….

I’m the only one left in my family….

I’ve never owned my own home….

It was the house of our dreams, and then we lost it….

The diagnosis changed everything….

I don’t like my kid….

When I held my little baby, I never thought she would end up like this….

The stories of regret and broken hearts and a life that is very much not what you dreamed it would be, are as rampant as the perfectly projected ones that wallpaper social media. Scrolling down the endless pages of people’s lifetime posts, we allow ourselves to believe that everyone else’s life is just how they dreamed it would be. Chubby happy faces, world travels, solid marriages, beautiful homes, work and life accomplishments abound…and while we stand there and hold our bag of regrets and disappointments, we fool ourselves into thinking that everyone else has gotten everything that they ever dreamed of. And no matter how many gratitude lists we make, when someone else is living a reality that we wish we had, we carry some level of grief or jealousy or longing.

I know, because I carry quite a heavy bag myself.

I wrote a post two nurses’ weeks ago called the Blessing of Nursing:

The Blessing of Nursing

And in that post, I talked about taking the opportunity to hear people’s stories. I’ve made a habit of this. And I’ve also tried to develop a relationship of trust amongst other humans and to allow myself to be a safe place for people to come to, without fear of judgment or betrayal. Through them, I’ve heard even more stories. And what I have learned in all of these stories, is that despite what we all seem to believe, hardly anyone is living the life they dreamed of and no one is immune to struggle. There is always some sort of caveat, something that didn’t go the way they planned; and no matter how grateful you are for what you have, those losses are still a thorn in our side. And when we see them in others, we are reminded of what we don’t have.

You’re 40 and still single. You thought for sure you’d be married by now. And you don’t know where you went wrong or why you haven’t found your mate. She has a husband she adores and just the cutest kids. It’s the life you always dreamed of. But behind closed doors, finances are so tight, their debt is only rising. Your apartment if perfectly adorned with treasures you’ve collected from around the globe and she wishes she could just take a summer vacation. She’s never even been outside the country and the stress of their finances is a constant strain on their marriage. While she wouldn’t trade her family for the world, the pictures of everyone else’s travels make her itch for adventure and  wonder what would have happened if she had waited a little bit to settle down.

Your grays are coming in heavy and you’re not even sure you own a single piece of clothing that doesn’t have a stain or a hole. Sometimes taking a shower and getting dressed is your greatest accomplishment. Sticky hand prints and spilled drinks surround you and its a daily prayer for just 5 minutes of quiet from the chaos that constantly surrounds you. Being a Mom is sooo much harder than you thought it would be! Her hair is always perfectly colored and her nails are always done. Her house is always clean and the décor is impeccable. And when people ask her if she’s going to have kids, she gives a smile that fools them all into thinking that she’s perfectly content in her quiet and organized life. But silently, she’s been living a 5 year nightmare with infertility. And she’d give it all away … the highlights, the manicures and the cookie-cutter cottage just to hold a child of her own.

Your marriage is constant work and whether its because your husband is tired or works a lot or simply isn’t interested in taking walks, you see the movie-star couple who always do everything together and you wish that just one afternoon, he’d get off the couch or come home early and sit on the porch or take a stroll with you. But that confident and forever hand-holding couple have a secret. Despite her rockstar figure, she struggles with a poor self-image and he’s already strayed from the marriage. Their apparent closeness is really insecurity, fear and an attempt to control, all put under a public guise for perfection.

You’re 35 and wonder if you and your Mom will ever be close. Whether it was because of addiction, abuse, her controlling and difficult personality, or your own feeling that you could never measure up, when you hear other women say, “I don’t know what I’d do without my Mom”, you can’t relate. “There’s nothing like Momma’s cooking!” has never applied to your life and you have always had to hire a babysitter. But other women have come into your life to at least give you some motherly advice and support. And maybe, your girlfriend’s mother who is so wonderfully supportive and takes the kids and cooks, does so because her son or daughter-in-law is unreliable. And her apparent doting is compensation for fear of neglect of her grandchildren.

You were the basketball star growing up and the day your son/daughter was born, you dreamed of teaching him to shoot hoops. And then he stopped meeting his milestones and a lifelong disability presented itself that would inhibit him from ever walking much less running the court. And when your friend comes bitching about running the kids around to practice 3 days a week, your heart aches for the opportunity. But their kid has a paralyzing mental illness that they hide from the world because it doesn’t look good when a jockey has a therapist. And 20 years from now, when all of that comes crashing to an end, you’re wheelchair bound rockstar is gonna be changing the world with his inspirational speeches or formulas for NASA.

Maybe their perfect house, isn’t a happy home….

Maybe one’s world travels are a distraction from the pain….

Maybe that new car was bought with a loved one’s life insurance…

Maybe her perfect kid is fighting a battle even you’d run away from….

Maybe their money came with a price you’re not willing to pay….

Maybe she smiles so that she doesn’t cry.

Sitting on the beds of drug addicts and prisoners has allowed me a gained perspective and empathy and an ability to shed the judgment that I once carried. But learning the struggles of the everyday people I know, who seem to have the most perfectly put-together lives has allowed me to realize that I’m not the only one living with disappointment. And oftentimes, those who have what I am mourning the most, are themselves, lacking the thing I hold dearest. And watching the ebbs and flows of other people’s lives has reminded me that like the tides of the ocean, nothing is promised for forever, and I must hold tight to the things I cherish and be willing to let go of the dreams that were never mine to hold.

I’m sure you’ve all seen the inspirational quote: “Be kind, everyone is fighting a battle you know nothing about.” But what if we took that a step further and in addition to being kind to others, we develop an introspective view and be kind to ourselves.

We all make choices. And with every choice, there are consequences. But sometimes in life, things happen that are completely out of our control. And when those things rip our dreams out of our arms, after we grieve their loss, we must pick our heads back up and regain control of our life, however that life is going to be. A life that is void of the things we once dreamed of, can still be fulfilling. But we must find a way to make it so. If we never take our blinders off, we’ll never see all the other paths around us and the wonders that they can lead us to. If we never let go of the loss, we can never learn to love again. And if we never accept alterations in our plans, we will never relish the new opportunities of our current life.

So the next time you get frustrated that things haven’t quite worked out of the way you would’ve liked, wipe your tears and tell yourself that there is a wonderful life ahead of you, full of surprises and hope and laughter. And after you’ve stroked your grief for a bit, take it out back, put it in the ground and plant it. Let it grow into what it will. And then lift your head and look out to what lies ahead and accept that while this may not exactly be the life you wrote, you were never the author to start out with. Turn the page, there’s another adventure waiting for you. And it will be wonderful, I’m sure of it!

If you like this you might also like:

Giving a voice to disappointment … “Would you do it again?”

The Warrior

“I didn’t want it to be me.”

Cold Soup

Remembering Tiny Feet

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The Captain and the Navigator

the-helm-1490583-640x480

I make it a habit to take as many adventures as I can. My family’s current goal is to visit all 50 states. In order to make this happen before my children leave the house and without breaking the bank, much of this goal is accomplished by road-tripping. We are currently finishing up our latest journey that will check state #30 off the list. See my article on why I think road-tripping is the way to go: https://lifelibertyandlibations.com/2017/09/07/looking-for-adventure-10-reasons-to-take-a-road-trip/

We have road-tripping down to a science. We pack the car the night before and leave the house on our first day at 3 am to beat the traffic. The kids have a loaded cooler between their seats, their own “carry-on” bag filled with activities and a new movie to watch. My husband drives and I navigate. We have a complete itinerary with all the destination addresses, confirmation numbers and times ready to go. Aside from the occasional back-seat squabble, we work like a well-oiled machine.

And my time on the road has me reflecting on our system and on life.

Life is a journey.

On every great journey, there is a Captain and at his right hand, is his Navigator.

The Captain, the driver, stands at the helm. He holds the wheel, accepting the weight of his cargo as his responsibility, owning the turns of the wheel that he makes, controlling, directing the vessel safely to its destination. And upon arriving at his destination, the credit of the embarkment sits on his crown. For he is the Captain.

The Captain is strong. He is resilient and responsible and quick both in his wit and his reflexes. He guides his vessel tirelessly and doesn’t truly rest unless his vessel is at rest.

The Navigator holds the map. He reads and interprets the signs. He doesn’t instruct, he guides. Looking ahead for impending hazards, he is the Captain’s eyes and ears. The Navigator is patient. The Navigator is astute. He holds a watchful eye, warns and informs the Captain and reads his coordinates with careful diligence. Not a side-kick or arm candy but a necessary counselor who carries the blueprints.

But ultimately at the end of the journey, everyone will ask, “Where’s the Captain?” “Who drove on this great journey ?”

And the Navigator will quietly step aside.

Like the old-fashioned mother who washes and cooks while the father earns a living, like the team who carries the prized medalist across the finish line, the Navigator receives his glory in the shadows of the Captain.

A Captain without his Navigator, is like an explorer without his compass – a dizzy fool, often making wrong turns, stopping frequently to reorient himself. A wanderer with little direction.

And a Navigator without his Captain is ready intelligence that is standing on the dock, bottled potential stuck holding his map, an eager adventurer with no vessel to carry him.

Often in life, we try to be both the Captain and the Navigator. In our hurried lives, we try to both hold the map and navigate the vessel on our own. And we fumble and stop and make countless wrong turns. But if we are careful, we realize the times we accomplish our greatest feats, are the times we are either the Captain OR the Navigator. But never both. Either we take the reins with a great advisor and guide directing us. Or we provide wisdom and support while the strength of another makes the hard calls and carries us through. The Captain will never succeed if he does not heed to his Navigator. And a Navigator who tries to take the wheel will merely sabotage the journey.

Rather than to harbor jealousy, the Navigator must learn humility.

And instead of becoming pompous, the Captain himself, should carry humble gratitude for the navigational guidance he was given.

Ask my children “Who’s the Captain?” of our ship and they’ll say, “Mom, but Dad drives.” The truth is, we take turns. Knowing our strengths and weaknesses, in any given journey, we decide who is best to take the wheel and who does best with the map.

We are a team.

Sometimes we are called to drive, to control, to carry the weight. In the end, we earn the medal. And other times, we are called to navigate, to carefully guide and quietly mentor, to step aside and allow the captain to gain the glory.

But the fruit of the journey belongs to us both. That’s winning at life. For without the other, we are lost.

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When the little things become the big things and the big things become the little things…

chalk board pic for blog

When I was 5, it was learning a new letter, skinned knees, and rain storms that were “big deals”. When I was 10, it was breast buds, a new school binder and a trip to the beach. At 15, it was my own phone line, name-brand jeans and a boyfriend. At 20, it was a new car, a new apartment, a new job. At 25, it was a baby, a new house and a wedding. At 30, it was an ADD diagnosis, a family trip across the country and finally getting date nights again. At 35, it was starting a blog, expanding my career, learning how to raise a teenager and finally feeling really good at the things I did well and completely humbled by my challenges.

Life is forever a journey.

In addition to writing, my followers know, I am also a veteran OB nurse as well as a clinical nursing instructor, perinatal bereavement coordinator, a mother, and a wife. (I know… I know… lots of hats). While I love bedside nursing, am driven to help bereaved families and find writing therapeutic, it’s teaching and raising kids that keeps me mindful of life’s stages and the way those stages formulate our priorities. Through my interactions with my students and in watching my children grow, in all their selfish glory, it is clear that what is meaningful/overwhelming/significant (whether good or bad) to a 10-year-old is very different from that of a 20-year-old is very different from that of a 40-year-old… from that of a 60-year-old.

I was recently talking to someone 10+ years my minor who was horrified that someone mistook her father for her husband. I had to giggle as my own father has aged well and my husband is 18 years my senior. And I told her of the same mistake being made for myself… as well as my husband being mistook for my father. “Doesn’t that upset you?!” she asked. And I had to laugh. You can’t marry someone 18 years older than you and get upset when someone thinks he’s your Dad. He could be! And if my own father’s genetics serve and allow him to appear much younger than he is… Hallelujah! Perhaps something in my genetic make-up might just benefit me.

My flippancy in this moment wasn’t born overnight. It was born from the last 10 years of challenges and experiences which have formed my hierarchy of importance. This conversation is just one of many that reminded me of life stages and priorities and it had me reflecting on my youth.

I remember when I was around 18, I paid almost $200 for a pair of shoes. They were completely impractical, but they were cool. They had these huge wooden platforms that were carved into these psychedelic swirls in the middle. You could literally stick your hand through the swirl in the base of the shoe. The shoe-salesman convinced me that the edgy accessory matched my edgy personality. And I was convinced that I needed to have them. They were so high that walking in them was like walking in stilts – time-consuming and painful. I think I wore them to the club once and spent most of the night sitting down.

I remember when making a statement with apparel was more important than making a statement with words or life choices.

I remember when my money was my own and I had no one to spend it on but myself. I was raised to buy many of my own things from a young age. And in that, I was a step ahead of many. But still, my phone bill, clothes and toiletries, were such little things. But they consumed me. My parents talking about “bills” sounded like background noise. They were always talking about money. But electricity and insurance wasn’t “my problem.”

I remember when I cared what some random girl thought about me; like her nameless opinion held any weight or at all defined my character. Those stupid words could make or break my day back then.

I remember when the highlight of my year was an all-day music festival and I camped-out all night to get tickets. That festival consumed me. I missed some really good acts because I was too drunk or too tired to make my way to that stage. But my friends and rebellion was more important than artistic experience.

I remember my older colleagues talking about the fiber content in food and jokingly asking “At what age will I start to check the fiber content in food?”

I remember listening to parents talk about their children with concern and being so flippant in my response, “Don’t worry about it.” “They’ll figure it out.” “They’ll survive.” I remember seeing mothers cry over their children getting into the same nonsense I was getting into and thinking, “What’s the big deal?”

I remember thinking drugs were cool and psychiatry was amusing.

I remember being hardened and unfettered by virtually everything.

I remember disrespecting the people I love the most and catering to simple fools.

I remember when I trusted that things would “just work out” and when they didn’t, I convinced myself that it wasn’t “important anyway.”

I remember when everything little thing… was a big thing- my clothes, my car, a cute guy, gossip…

And every big thing, seemed so little… like raising kids, medical problems, marriage and finances.

It seemed at times, that adults just over-dramatized things.

And now…

Raising children is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Medical problems literally end lives. Marriage is immensely complicated and yet more rewarding than I ever imagined. And finances? Shit! I wish I could afford those platforms again, but I need a new roof!

The people I once aspired to be, haven’t gone anywhere in life and the old folks who were “outdated,” are my closest confidants.

And I wonder, when that will change again.

Because you see, the last new shoes I bought were for work. I got tennis shoes (I can’t remember how long I went without wearing tennis shoes) because, “fuck what’s ‘cute'”, they help my chronic back pain. And I scoured Amazon to get them for $89. The kids meanwhile have outgrown 3 pairs of shoes that cost just as much.

Bills are the phantoms that haunt my dreams and rob the world of all things “fun”. And I find myself saying all the same things my parents said to us about “Turning off the lights” and “making do” and explaining the cost of all the things children take for granted… and I cringe at myself. Finances are a monthly juggling act and sometimes I wonder how my parents didn’t swallow a bullet when the electricity got turned off, again. I have an education and job security. My parents had odd jobs and 4 kids. My life is full with 2.

I couldn’t care less what people say about me unless I have genuinely hurt their feelings or it taints my professional reputation. Then, I’ll hear them out and prepare my apology or my rebuttal. Thank god my skills and reputation usually speak for themselves.

I can’t remember the last concert I attended, or even the last new movie for that matter. The highlight of my year is usually our family vacation or even just a really good day when everyone is happy and unconsumed by life’s challenges.

Fiber?! Ha, along with the sugar content and protein, salt for my hypertensive husband, artificial dyes for my ADD kids… no wonder grocery shopping takes so long! The nutrients my family consumes is a direct link to their health and longevity. And it all falls on my shoulders. And still, some days I only have energy for Chik-fil-A.

Worries for my children keep me awake every night. It’s not an 18 year commitment, it’s a lifetime commitment. And the love I have for them, no one could have ever described. The fairytale life you envisioned for them isn’t reality. They make their own choices and sometimes those choices are painful. They all come with their own issues and there’s no handbook.

That simple little ADD diagnosis that I once blew off with “Pfff … everybody has that!” has me sitting with my children sometimes 4 hours at a time and e-mailing teachers daily. They cry and I cry when I go to bed. Even with that and a new school and a 504 plan (I’d never even heard of a 504 plan before I had kids!) B’s are a struggle. Why does it seem like everyone’s kids get honor roll every fucking report card!? Keeping up with the Jones’s?! Pfff, most days I’m just in survival mode.

And still ADD is far from the worst diagnosis you could get.

Drugs are a death sentence. I see the casualties at work and in the neighborhood. Those once “cool” kids, no longer have their teeth and they leave their children parentless. And I know them. Please god, don’t let my kids think they are “cool”.

And psych?! Fucking terrifying. I mean the way the mind works is in fact fascinating but with my genetic history, I’m afraid, afraid for my children and what their future might hold. Knowledge might be power but that power can be unbearably heavy at times. Psych is fascinating until it affects the people you love the most. And then it’s heartbreaking.

I used to be so hard. And I’m still pretty damn tough… but 15 years ago, I allowed someone to love me. And in allowing that, I had to take down walls. Those walls are what made me hard. Now I am vulnerable and weak, sensitive and easily hurt, but only by those I hold close. And that isn’t a bad thing. Euphoria does not exist behind steel walls, it is grown when the walls come down.

My profession has taught me to speak to everyone with respect and to find respect for every walk of life. But I don’t cater to anyone. Nor do I have time for petty gossip.

So many things that were once so big feel so small now and the big things in my life now, feel overwhelmingly oppressive… and I wonder when that will change.

I find myself talking to the people who have survived, the “wise owls” and the veteran parents. The people who have maintained a happy 40 year marriage and successfully raised children to become contributing members of society, are the people I look up to now. I’ve learned that “out-dated” often refers to “adaptability” over decades and “class” has little to do with money.

And perhaps, some day, that will all change again.

Sometimes the things that my kids lose their shit over seems so small. Whether it’s a video game or a mean girl at school, I want to tell them, “Honey, this ain’t nothin!” But in order to honor and respect them where they are at right now, I have to remind myself that it’s big to them. 10 years from now, they probably won’t remember who hurt their feelings or how hard their math homework was … but if I support them and respect them instead of dismiss them, they’ll remember that their Mom was always on their team and made them feel important.

And for me, I need to remember that what feels oppressively huge to me right now, might only be a bump in the road when I’m 60. Challenges when they’re new always seem harder. With hard work, we usually survive. And building memories is more important than meeting deadlines.

If life’s patterns serve, my priorities will one day shift and the house repairs, job juggling and my children’s struggles will no longer consume me. Maybe my life expectancy will change my view on long-term planning and finances. And “comfort” will become even more relative. Maybe one day, the projected prognosis of the people I am responsible for raising, will no longer feel so overwhelming; and the little things like matching socks will one day matter again. I believe that what is “little” or “big” is all relative to your life stage.

For now, I’ll try not to roll my eyes at tween drama, I’ll still giggle at the college kids, sympathize with other middle-aged parents, look to the 60 year olds for their wisdom and pray that I die after the kids are grown but before I lose my mind 🙂

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The Warrior

He never wanted to be a soldier.

He didn’t ask to be called.

He wasn’t trying to save anybody today. That was the martyr’s job.

He didn’t sign up for this shit show.

He just wanted to go to work, stop for lunch, kiss his wife, have a normal day.

What he didn’t know was,  the grass he was walking on was a battlefield.

He didn’t want to fight.

But when the news came reeling, like a studded bat along his right side. Smacking him in his flank, crushing his ribs on contact …. he had two choices –

To lay down and die, or get up and fight.

For the ones he loves, for the sake of continuance, for humanity … he knew no goodness could come from allowing his will to be shattered or his life to be taken.

He choose to fight.

So he clambered to his feet and took a swing.

A pathetic attempt at first, but with each one, and each one after, he gained more power and more precision.

With every painful blow, knocking the wind out of his breath, he fought harder to breathe.

With every slicing cut, he lost more of the vital liquid that sustained his body, his mind and his heart.

With every loss, he created another scar, another endless ache, another painful memory.

And when the blows stopped coming and he collapsed on the ground in respite, getting back up seemed an even harder feat than withstanding the assault. And he hoped that somewhere there was a hand that would reach down to help him off the field.

With tougher skin than he once had, dirt on his face, scars on his heart and the experience of a battle survived but not won, he picked up his weapon. And moved to a safer place.

And the bystander who saw the fight that he fought, calls him a “Warrior” now – a worthy and respectable title.

But a title that he never wanted. From an attack he would’ve done anything to stop. In a fight, he couldn’t run from, though he tried.

Those in the trenches and on the battlefield know, that the resiliency and might that is seen by day is equally shared by wailing at night. And underneath that harden outer shell is a tender organ that still aches when the warrior goes back to that place.

While the world will see his strength; the darkness, knows his weakness.

Warriors don’t just wear camo, they wear heels and skirts, sweatpants and tennis shoes, ties and jackets, skinny jeans and flats, studs and leather.

Heartache and misfortune know no age, race or locale.

Dirt is oftentimes invisible. Pain is misconstrued. And our skin is just a very thin barrier to the life we try to protect underneath.

Everyone, at one point or another will find themselves on a battlefield. For some it is rare and brief and they come away with a few scratches. And others, just can’t seem to escape that scene and their many battle wounds tell the story of a life that has been unfair.

Though the battlefields of life are often hard to see at first glance, if we are astute, if we can look outside of the bubble of self-consumption, we might just see a comrade with pain in his eyes, who is working harder to succeed, to survive, than we are.

If you can’t join him in his fight, at least be the hand he sees when the battle is over.

If your own leg is bleeding, give him your shoulder to lean on.

Cuz one day, it’ll be you … looking through the smoke, asking for a break, hoping for a friend.

Life is one hell of a battle and the amount of times we will find ourselves out in the field, under the barrage of ammunition, isn’t known to us now. But if we are to survive, we must always be prepared to get back up and take another swing, another try. For when we lay down, we die.

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Strawberry Wine

“I was caught somewhere between a woman and a child   

When one restless summer, we found love growing wild   

On the banks of the river on a well beaten path  

It’s funny how those memories they last 

Like strawberry wine and seventeen …

I still remember when thirty was old … “

Deana Carter’s “Strawberry Wine,” was a country favorite of mine when I was a teenager. Back then, it was the love story attached to it that I enjoyed. I remember belting out the lyrics in my room, in my mother’s home. I remember wondering if Boone’s Farm counted as strawberry wine. And I remember thinking “Well, thirty IS old.”

And then I got caught up in college. My musical tastes changed a bit. I no longer lived with my mother. And my free time for singing in my room, was taken up with four jobs and 18 credits/semester and boyfriends who distracted me. Love was less of ‘a fantasy’ and more ‘real life’ than it had ever been before. And strawberry wine wasn’t even a thought. Beer pong, shots and rum and coke were the tastes of my college days.

But before I could graduate, before I could even make-up my mind about life and love, I found myself, quite surprisingly, a “Momma” at twenty-one. Love was complicated and so was life. Walking the stage with a one-year-old, working nights, I was too exhausted to drink or sing or even think about how old I was or what music I liked, or what anything I liked. I liked sleep-something I never got enough of.

By my mid-twenties, life and love were starting to make a little more sense and we added number two to the brood. Within two months of becoming a family of four, we bought a house and got married. And then we got a puppy. I was chasing two tots now, plus a pup and still working nights. I was painting the new house and signing up for preschool. The only music that played back then was nursery rhymes and Nickelodeon tunes and the screams of my two small children. Every night I flopped into bed, again exhausted. And wine and age still didn’t matter.

At twenty nine, I started to find myself again. My husband and I had our first getaway, eight years after becoming parents, to Chile, to meet his family. Everyone told me how “young” I was, surprised I guess, at how settled I was for my age. And in the country where wine is cheaper than water, I fell in love with the fermented fruit beverage. We even found a winery in our home state that made wonderfully sweet fruit wine. Our favorite, was of course, Strawberry.

And now, in the later half of my thirties, somewhere amongst the busyness of career and family building, I passed that mile marker that I so often sang about. I passed thirty. And I know I’m not old. Yet, somehow I’m the mother of a high-schooler and a middle-schooler. And gray hair is beginning to replace my mousey brown. I’m back to four jobs again; but this time, each one addresses a talent or identifies a component of myself, instead of just serving monetary means-though that certainly matters as well! My body is slightly less tired than when my children were tots but my mind is overwhelmingly so. I like many genres of music. I have a few close friends. My family means the world to me. I don’t have time for bull shit and I don’t apologize for who I am. Fighting for the greater good is always important to me. And my vacations are just as fulfilling as my careers.

Love and life, I’ve learned is never mastered, ’cause it changes as we age; but I’m thankful that I have both lived and loved well.

I love wine, but I’m more of a Cabernet girl now-dark and bold and just dry enough to make you smack your mouth without tasting oaky. But sometimes my husband sweetens it up by adding diced strawberries and a sprinkle of sugar and turning it into Chilean Borgoñia (recipe post below).

A lot has changed in the last 20+ years, since I first sang those words. Life, love and motherhood have taken many twists and turns. Most of which, I could have never predicted. No longer a child in my mother’s home, but a mother myself in a home that is my own, with a husband that sustains me, the meaning of the words hold a different weight now. And the love story is less significant than the theme of loss and remembrance.

My husband will hear the tune come on and say “Go ahead babe, take it away….” He’ll turn up the volume and the kids will roll their eyes. And I will once again belt out the lyrics of “Strawberry Wine.” For those few minutes, I’ll remember what it was like when I was seventeen, “caught between a woman and a child.” I’ll remember those “restless summers” and the ‘bittersweet taste’ of life and love and the ‘loss of innocence’. And I can never decide if I feel closer to seventeen or thirty or eighty.

Whatever your stage of life, love, or motherhood, I hope you find yourself on your journey. I hope you take time to belt out lyrics. And I hope, just once, you taste the sweetness of Strawberry Wine.

Happy Mother’s Day!

Strawberry Wine Fizz

  • 2 cups strawberries
  • 2 cups lemonade
  • 1 TBS sugar
  • white wine, chilled
  • sprite, seltzer or tonic water for fizz

Blend strawberries, lemonade and sugar in a blender and pour the mixture into ice-cube trays. Freeze. Once frozen add a few ice cubes to a glass, top with wine and a splash of your choice of sprite/seltzer/tonic for fizz. Drink as is, or blend. I used tonic and I blended it.

This is light and easy for anyone to drink. What’s even better, is that ice cubes are non-alcoholic, so kids and non-drinkers can easily make the virgin version by simply leaving out the wine.

And as referenced above, a Chilean version of borgoñia using fresh strawberries and wine:

It’s Strawberry Season! Let’s drink!

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Grief

crying angel

Grief is feeling as though you’ve lost your soul; but knowing that without a soul, you wouldn’t hurt this bad.

 

It is a pain that can’t be numbed by any pill, bottle or syringe.

It is a monster that can’t be out-run or out-smarted. And there is no place to hide.

It is wishing that you could die, but knowing that your death would only cause more grief.

It is being lost in a maze of shadows and not knowing where the fuck to turn.

It is being so consumed by darkness that when a sliver of light sneaks in, it hurts your eyes and burns your skin.

It is begging for a way out and being answered with unbearable silence.

It is the weight of a thousand bricks on your chest, making it hard to breathe.

It is the angst of being buried alive. And just talking, you feel as though you are choking on dirt.

It is lead on your feet, making it hard to get out of bed. Every step is painful, every step is work.

And lead on your heart, cold and stiff, making it hard to feel again.

It is panic and feeling your pulse race … and then devastation … feeling so empty that you’re sure your ventricles no longer contract.

It is a flood of feelings and thoughts so overwhelming that you can’t begin to hear all the voices screaming at you … and in the next minute it is an absence of thought and a miserable feeling of being alone.

It is worry and nagging uncertainty for the future and everything you know.

And it is sorrow and an unbearable longing for the past.

It is anger and impossible frustration for a change that will never happen.

It is pain that has no cure and a journey that seems endless.

And

It is evidence that you loved and lived.

It is a sign of your dedication and humanity.

It is the first step in healing … A long and painful process that leaves scars.

Like waking up out of surgery with no anesthesia on board. Or waking up out of a nightmare, still screaming, before you realize it was a dream. But this isn’t a dream.

It’s the hardest and longest journey, but an inevitable one.

It is the opportunity to sit with your pain and commune with your demons. To make peace with your weakness and to allow your eyes to adjust to the darkness.

It is finding solace in your sorrow. And then,

It is finding the courage to start to crawl. It is finding the strength to break the lead away from your feet … and your heart. And to feel the aching relief as you stand and take your first step. It is breaking down the walls and breaking out of the maze of misery. It is allowing light to pierce your eyes and seeing the world from a different view.

In time, your heart will regain a normal rhythm. Your lungs will learn to breathe again. And the light will one day, no longer hurt your eyes or burn your skin. Your steps will lighten and your stride will hasten.

Your memories will remain of a life you once knew, a life that was simpler and brighter and more comfortable. And those memories will both soothe and ache.

And the impression from the lead on your feet and your heart, the taste of dirt in your mouth, the scars from a loss you will never forget, will always be there.

But they will fade with time.

And as they fade, you will realize the strength and the wisdom that you gained, from surviving your greatest loss.

 

Grief is wishing that you never had a soul … but knowing that without a soul, you never would’ve loved. And sometimes, you just don’t know which is worse.

 

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Kindness

holding hands pic

I don’t know if it was the last week, or the year, or the last 36 years … but I found myself, after recently being the subject of a lot of anger and verbal abuse … self reflecting. And in my reflection, I contemplated this last week, this last year, the last 36 years. And what I discovered was that amongst all the things I disdain, a lack perspective, a lack of empathy, a lack of effort, self-entitlement, self-absorption, complacency, selfishness … the thing that I dislike the most, is a lack of kindness. And if I could pick just one thing that I desire the most from humanity, Kindness would be it.

Nurses often times find themselves as subjects of unkindness. Our patients are ill. They are in pain. They have lost independence, control and the life they once knew. Their families too, have lost these things. Sometimes we have to stand alongside their doctor while they are given a devastating diagnosis, or told “I’m sorry, we did everything we could.” And sometimes we stand alone when we clean their wounds or bathe their dead loved one. My worst days at work, are the ones that despite my best efforts, to love, to heal, to minister, to analyze and to advocate, end in ridicule, accusations, and insults. They are the days that I have given of myself until I have nothing else left to give … and what I gave, still wasn’t enough.

Mothers often times find themselves the subjects of unkindness. Our children are learning. They are growing. They are seeking independence and experience and wisdom. Sometimes my advise and restrictions, my love and my best efforts are met with push-back, lack of appreciation, criticism, and disrespect. And when our children don’t perform at their best, the world too, loves to blame mothers. They love to give unsolicited advise and suggest inadequacy. They look past the individualism of the offspring and place all responsibility on their mother-as if the mother is the child themselves. If only we had been home more -or- worked harder, made stricter rules -or- hadn’t been so strict, loved them more -or- hadn’t coddled them so much. I always feel the worst for the mothers of children who hurt other people, like school shooters; because not only has that mother lost her child in a most horrific event, there is a whole army of people hating her and judging her because of her child’s very poor choice/illness. The guilt and the ostracization must be unbearable.

People in any role, find themselves the subjects of unkindness. Our beliefs, lifestyles, appearances and our mere existence, open us up for judgement, opinions, prejudices and contempt. Sometimes it is an intentional attack and other times we are merely the victim of an unwarranted unleashing because we were the one standing there when someone had a bad day, got bad news, objectified us as their momentary punching bag. Regardless of the who, what, where and why, it is enough to ruin our day, our week …

A careless act of cruelty is for some, enough to ruin a life.

And yet, a simple act of kindness, can be enough to save one.

What I realized in my self-reflection was that it’s not the hard tasks, it’s not being pushed to my physical limit, it’s not managing one’s anxieties or handling one’s fears. It’s not giving the bad news or wiping the tears, establishing restrictions or confronting death. It’s not moving past the judgement you want to make and choosing love instead – Those things are not what I find to be the hardest. I don’t seek the easiest patient, the easiest kid or the easiest life, but what I do seek, is for kindness to be met with kindness. And when it isn’t, it hurts.

Maybe I am more vulnerable than I once was. Maybe, living my life in a safe place with a family and a husband that love me, has made me weak. Maybe the hardships of my past have weathered me. Or maybe I’m finally past them and I’ve become accustomed to my security. Maybe I’ve reached exhaustion and I just don’t have the energy to fight anymore. I want to use to my energy to help instead. Truly, life is still hard but the army of people that I have built, help to carry me. In order to build that army, I had to open myself up to people and soften my edges. And the angst I now carry, seems to sit under a thinner skin than I once wore.

I try to remember that others just aren’t there yet. That others are still very angry and lack the support that I now have. Whether its politics, or waiting in line, a diagnosis or a lack of therapy, some people use other people to release their frustrations and to gain power. And the easiest way to process pain, is to blame and hurt others, so as not to allow the pain to penetrate one’s own heart.

Regardless of their reason or their story, it fucking hurts.

It hurts when people aren’t kind.

When I was a kid and other kids teased me because I was skinny or because I didn’t have the same name-brands they did, it hurt.

When I was a teenager and I didn’t have a car, or the same cute styles or perfect teeth and I didn’t live in the same affluent neighborhoods as the other kids, and that made me “not popular” … When people knew me as the “girl whose brother died” instead of as “Amanda”, it hurt.

When I was 21 and a new mother and people no longer wanted to hang out with me because my “baggage” no longer allowed me to go to the club, it hurt.

When someone makes negative assumptions based on my religious views, political persuasion, or my physical appearance … when they insult my children, talk about others in a derogatory fashion, mistreat the less fortunate, or tell insulting jokes, it still hurts.

And after 13 years of nursing, 14 years of motherhood and 36 years of living a life that has had more tragedy than I often care to divulge, I just don’t want anymore hurt.

The truth is, life works better when we are kind. People are more apt to meet our requests, to cooperate with one another and to consider another perspective. Kindness yields a cohesion that conflict and aggression simply cannot.

Some of the people who I love the most, have religious and political views that differ greatly from mine. I am a strong personality and a self-proclaimed free-thinker. You won’t find me bending to anyone’s will if it doesn’t sit well with me and I am no “ass-kisser”. I am known to say what I mean and mean what I say. And I am oftentimes abrupt in my delivery. But I hope my ways are never misconstrued as unkind. If we can be kind and respectful, we can express our views and explain our perspective without insults or scoffing. If we’re lucky, it’ll lead to compromise and if we’re less lucky, it might still yield a gained perspective by both parties. Kindness never leads to broken hearts, a loss of a relationship or hurt feelings. Kindness never destroys.

We are all on our own journeys. We all face challenges and adversaries, bad days and bad luck. We have all said things that we wish we hadn’t and we’ve all made choices that we wish we could undo. Each of us carry a cross – perhaps of different weights and of different woods, but it is heavy nonetheless and burdensome. And we just never know what someone else is carrying. Sometimes, those who appear the strongest, carry the heaviest crosses. And sometimes the weak, are weak from a long journey.

It might be harder some days, but it doesn’t use any more energy to be kind than it does to be angry. And it doesn’t have to be attained with some Noble Peace Prize sized effort.

It’s a smile. It’s a “thank you”. It’s an “I understand.” It’s not accepting an undo defeat or stooping to lower standards but respectfully pointing out that, “I appreciate your efforts, but this will have to change.” It’s not weakness, but strength. It’s maturity. It’s wishing someone well, whether you like them or not. It’s making eye contact and giving them just a minute of your attention instead of ignoring them. It’s stepping away for a moment so that you can gather yourself instead exploding insults all over everyone. It’s self-expressing that you yourself are frustrated, afraid, anxious, or overwhelmed and that your angst has nothing to do with the person you are interacting with. It’s saying, “I’m sorry.”

People need to hear that. People need to see that.

“There is no need for temples, no need for complicated philosophies. My brain and my hearts are my temples; my philosophy is kindness.” – Dalai Lama

In a world where you can be anything, Be Kind.