GOALS the size of DREAMS

This morning I realized how uncool I have become and how I'm generally okay with it. It was nearing noon and I had been firmly planted in the left corner of my couch for hours tap-dancing in and out of my daunting search for a Ph. D. mentor. This means I was reading a lot of faculty bios and corresponding research articles. Upon my realization of my uncoolness, I poked fun at myself with a facebook post about these Saturday plans. When you are a sassy, introverted 20-something who really loves school, there's no shame, but instead, a glimmer of hopeful pride in such a status update. 

After some minimal yet appropriate amount of time, my father commented asking "about that doctorate work...are you moving forward?" Well, the answer to that question is complicated...and so the following descriptive email was sent:

I'm sure we will talk about this plenty by the time I jet home for Christmas however, you inquired via facebook about the progression of this doctorate work goal of mine so I'll do some sharing...

First of all, I'm conflicted in a vacillation between feeling thrilled and disillusioned (which presents like incapability) because my goals look a lot like what others call dreams. I don't just want to conduct research, yet I also cannot justdo clinical work. 

As I've reflected on my academic and personal experience over the last decade, this makes sense: I loved the way my nose would wrinkle as I pushed my brain to integrate the information I learned in my high school bio and physics classes and I loved the way the creativity of theology and english made my eyes sparkle.

There's no 25-item career test that takes these things into consideration and sputs out the directions to build a career that combines three disciplines in search of causation, effect, and intervention for a pervasive problem. Had there been such a questionnaire, I don't think it would've made much difference...it may have just allowed me to know where I was headed this whole time. 

As it turns out, I'm not content being an agent of social change with flamethrowers of compassion (aka a therapist). I'm also not content showing up to a lab every day and churning out deficit-based research. As of right now, it seems I need social work to guide my biopsychosocial strengths-based approach (specifically with intervention), developmental psychology to explain behavioral components of brain functioning, and neuroscience to provide information about that which is unseen. 

I'm still in the infancy of both articulating my questions and researching who can help build my knowledge base as I seek answers. So, no, I don't know where I want to do my Ph.D. or in what yet but I know there are some good looking programs out there and that the way a timely intersection of graduation-1st job-joining in research-liscensure-Ph.D is stressing me out a bit.

Happy saturday.

When I was telling someone about this earlier in the week, she laughed and said "well, you're not going to change the world..." 

What does she know?! Does her crystal ball actually tell her legitimate truths about the future? I doubt it.

If you have goals the size of dreams, don't apologize, don't believe they're born of fiction. Be passionate in your fierce pursuit and don't take no for an answer (from anyone, including yourself), because no is not right. 

Know Thyself

I'm still working on changing the world. Today, however, I'm taking a moment to check-in with myself rather than the world at large...or perhaps it's more honest to say I did a face-plant in a pile of 'woah, baby, what's going on? why is that so important?' just a few hours ago.

It's a good face plant, don't worry. Like shoving your face in cake on your second birthday and tasting the sweetness and fluffy wonder that you hadn't been able to take in a year ago because you were way too overstimulated.

So, a few hours ago, I'm standing in line at Dunkin to get pumped full of gasoline for humans doing what 21st century twenty-something city-dwellers do--pretend to be busy checking something on the smartphone that seems almost as comfortable on your palm as skin. Go ahead, judge me...but I know you do it too, especially if you live in New England where people are generally floating through life with a too-cool-for school attitude mixed in their coffee and dancing out of their earbuds.

An email pops up!
Great! Now, I'm not really pretending...even though we all know it is advisable to do real email correspondence on the computer.
Double great! It's a notification that a professor has graded and commented on a homework assignment. I really like comments. So naturally, I'm engrossed in this now.
I read the comments. I bubble with sparkles glazing my joyous smile. I have to share this.
And so the text is sent: "My writing is rocking Jessica's (the professor) socks. She just used the words beautiful and brilliant in the same descriptive sentence. Major win!"

And then some of the sparkle diffuses to wonder, amazement, and near self-deprication with the thought "what about that assignment was so beautiful and brilliant? why is Jessica drawn to my writing?" But I catch myself. I stop myself thank goodness! My brain has been known to snowball quickly--especially with these sorts of critical musings. And I recognize how fully affirmed I am feeling.

An incredibly well-spoken, well-read, well-educated neuroscience professor has just complemented me in a huge way.

HOLY DANG.

And then I think deeper again (see, you don't want to be me, it can be exhausting)..."why is this so big for me? what about this is important to me?" Yes, I took narrative therapy this summer, can you tell?! 

A trip around the block searching for a spot to park allowed me the time to answer...I already knew it was important that people like my writing. I figured that out sophomore year of college when I encountered the first professor who did not particularly care for my style--the comments on my papers were always style-related--and I noticed I was offended. I know I am a good writer, but I'm not comfortable describing myself with any stronger adjectives. The questioning, learning, self-conscious creator inside me needs affirmation. I don't want to just be a good writer. I'm not okay with just being good. Somewhere along the purple cobblestone road of my life, I decided that's not good enough for someone whose career desires have, for years, included writing a book (at least one) and earning a Ph.D. People who are just good writers might write a book but not get published or if they know the right people they get published but no one buys their book. 

To be affirmed in my writing style is to be told that my dreams are reachable, that I'm not a crazy person who wants fresh pumpkin pie in April (oops, that's already happened). 

This afternoon, I met a part of myself that needs to be pushed to excel while its efforts are being both rewarded and affirmed. Now that I know I need feedback that does this, I'm gonna go seek it out. Next time Jessica calls something brilliant, I'll sit down with her and hash it out some more. If she's as intelligent and wonderful as her reputation says, I'm in good hands for the next 12 weeks. 

Cinnamon Chex, Rainbow Sherbet, and Pocahontas

This week has not been a winner in the life of Emily Clark. One to remember, definitely, but probably on my top 10 list of weeks I don't wish to ever repeat.

About an hour or so ago, my friend Theresa called to check-in on sickly me. Be proud of me, when she asked "how are you feeling?" I responded saying, "actually kind of awful" though I know the socially appropriate response is "oh, I'm doing alright" even if I feel like a slightly warmer version of death. Conversation ensued about the reasons for this awful feeling and took a slight left turn to emotions then a down escalator to problems and fears followed by a ferry ride through the sea of possibilities, specifically on the course of here-and-now acceptance strategies. Theresa is my "let's brainstorm a plan and use it to fix this" gal.

"Sit on your couch and watch your sick movie," she says. "But I don't know what my sick movie is...I know what yours is..." I respond almost thinking I could use her sick movie as my own then realizing that's exactly what I need to not do--to look away from what I need and what will make this easier for me and instead, forces on someone else in a way that I know I can fix...because, after all, it's much more fulfilling and far less vulnerable to fix another person's problems than to sit in the swampland of your own. And then it came to me: Pocahontas! She's not my favorite, not even close, but that's not the point. She's got a simple story with laughs and tears and songs and colors. I can watch it with my eyes transfixed or with them gently fluttering closed and it is exactly perfect.

Yesterday was my first day of class and I left school after 1 1/2 (of 3) classes--this is very unlike me, I don't leave unless I have to leave. People know this about me. My graduate program is not tiny but it's not ginormous--about 120--and I'm are studying clinical mental health social work (aka therapy) which means all my teachers are current or former therapists and by mid-semester a lot of our personal junk has been neatly layered on the desks of our classroom. This ain't law school people. This is just to say that a friend called me after I told her I had left early and decided I was struggling. True, but I wasn't going to say it. She showed up later with some of my favorite foods (i.e Cinnamon Chex and Rainbow Sherbet) and ready to have a conversation not about how I was feeling.

I have many talents. Declaring my needs is not one of them. I know this. For years, I've sort of hoped people will just know what I need and be able to provide those things to me. Then I realized that I'm not the only one who can't read minds, it's part of the human condition. Dang. But I spent so long not articulating these things that to do so now feels at best, foreign, at worst, unreachable. Luckily, I have found a happy medium, I have found people who have instincts and who know me well. I have learned to stomach the feeling associated with saying "something's not quite right right now and I want you to know" and I'm still working on changing the second clause to "and I need some help," but there are folks in my life who interchange those words for me and then they poke me and poke me until I let them help.

Sometimes it's a push to do what you need rather than settle for what works for someone else. Sometimes it's a hug. Sometime's its knocking you down just to remind you how strong your legs really are. Sometimes it's saying 'I care about you and I'm here for you' by doing something I can't.  And, hey, sometimes it's colluding together to avoid the problem.

Cheers to being better together...to feeling better together!

Supply list for 18th grade: Scissors, Duct Tape, and a Nalgene Waterbottle

Tomorrow I meet my advisees at orientation.
Thursday I begin class.
Next Monday I begin my internship at Boston Medical Center.

Abundant with gratitude, I breathe calmly because my final year of graduate school gets rolling with a gradual start. I can only imagine the number of four letter words and emotionally charged texts I'd be giving out if it all happened on one day!

In honor of the first week of school, it seems fitting to tell you about the items required for a successful encounter with the 18th grade--or so I think, perhaps there will be a sequel to this post after graduation next May.

Scissors:
When I lived with my best friend during our senior year at SLU, we got to know each other's quirks in a whole new way. She realized I have my own style of watching television--it involves turning on the device then turning my back and cooking dinner or opening my compute to catch up on emails. I learned that she has tons of nifty tricks to help one live frugally. When it got to the point that a squeeze provided no progress, Annie would use scissors to cut open her toothpaste tube or face wash or lotion container--she knew there was more inside to be used.

My school scissors are for opening myself up so I can dig deeper and find the good stuff still inside me. This is going to be a tough year--physically, emotionally, and mentally. I'm in a 4-day a week internship as well as a full load of classes. This internship gives me the opportunity to do therapy with my first clients...but I have to be ready to see my first client at 8am, which means I have to leave the house around 6:50 to get not he subway, which means I have to wake up at 5 to run. I'm out of practice with the early-wake up call because I've been injured since December. And after I leave the clinic, I head straight to swim practice where I get to coach 13&unders for 2-3 hours, ending just in time for me to get home to go to bed. I'm going to need every last ounce of will power, desire, confidence, compassion, and dedication I can squeeze out...and then some.

Duct tape:
In middle school I learned of the reinforcing power of duct tape. You can get the sparkly or neon kind and make borders on your notebooks and folders from the dollar store when they begin to get tattered and torn--usually by Thursday of the first week. Even if you get the more expensive laminated notebooks, they're still going to fall apart, it's just a matter of time.

If you're just hearing about fun duct tape now, go get some here!

Things fall apart. That's just how life it. It's messy and mostly unpredictable. When this year whips me around too fast or tries to squeeze me into a space where I don't really fit, I'll bounce back, of course, but I'm also going to need some duct tape to hold the pieces of me together. There's no shame in needing some help to keep it together.

Nalgene Waterbottle:
The nalgene water bottle came on the market when I was in middle school or that's when it became popular. I'm not going to look it up. These honkers were big and colorful and virtually indestructible. For a swimmer who has her water bottle kicked around the pool deck and thrown a bit too hard to her in the pool where it smashes on the gutter, these babies were magic! Enough water to last through practice and the ride home AND we didn't have to worry about them cracking or leaking. GODBLESSAMERICA.

Nalgene's made me feel prepared and safe. I need one this year to hold my confidence and compassion. It's gotta be a nalgene because it's gotta be refillable while also being unbreakable. Last year, as an intern with the Dept of Children and Families, the softness of my skin became a concern rather for the first time. I took things home with me and thought about them often. Though I wasn't traumatized by what I heard and saw, it affected me deeply. And that's okay. I'm supposed to feel, but feel with an tough skin and a fluid center. Every time I sit down with a client, I will be pouring myself into our conversation. I need to keep my lid off when I leave so I can remember to be refilled. It's that self-care stuff my professors tell us about at least once each class period.

There are still lots of Labor Day sales going on--go buy your stuff! Happy learning!

Christmas in August

"Em, I still don't have a Christmas list from you," my grandma would nudge as we chatted int he kitchen working on Thanksgiving dinner. "Oh, yeah, okay..." I respond though truly wishing we didn't have to go through this ritual again. I did't want to compile a list of what I want, that felt vulnerable and greedy. Sure, there were lots of things I wanted but it's as if somewhere deep inside me, I knew it didn't matter. I don't know why I wrote that in past tense, it still happens. 

So, Em, what do you want?
The question arises year after year and I've become quite gifted at slighting my discomfort by dropping emails of things on my "wish list" to my parents and grandparents throughout the year. The email I sent my mom last week doesn't feel so awful to say... "hey, I think this Lilly Pulitzer dress is whispering to me. It's saying it would like to make an appearance at my graduation in May...oh, and it's on super sale right now, I'd wear a size 6. Love, Emily" This just means 1. I can't give into instant gratification for everything and 2. I've gotta remember to send those succulent emails through the interwebbs so I'm not pinned down by a late-November request for a list and 3. Learning to dispel concerns about making note of Christmas-related items in August ranks on my lengthy list of "reasons I have a therapist."

You can probably guess by now that I'm not here to cry my woes about the materialism of Christmas in my family...though I totally could. It's that question: what do you want? --replied to with that answer: Sweet Jesus, I DON'T KNOW!!!!!!!!!!!

Welcome to my favorite sitting place with a recently found unfavorite stinking question. It's a freaking dandelion of a question, popping up exactly when and where you'd expect it to but you never have a solution, or not yet. The hilarious part about this is that I'm the one who lovvveeeesssss blowing the fluffy dead dandelions. (fun fact: I didn't realize these were dead dandelions until about two years ago when my dad pointed it out. I feel my IQ dropping rapidly) When I blow the dead ones, I'm letting the mutant dandelion seeds fly into the world to create further cesspools of dandelions. My father has yet to truly convince me that dandelions aren't flowers. They are my favorite color and, as a child, I would pick them in bunches from a hill down my street and decorate my bicycle spokes and my hair and still have enough to squeeze against the white (until yellowed by dandelion juices) handlebars of my super cool pink sparkly bike as I paraded through the neighborhood. Gosh, I love metaphor. 

I love and find purpose for dandelions even though my parents pulled me away saying "they're just weeds" as they gunned down the blooms with weed killer. I also love questions that I can't answer in 1.3 seconds, questions that melt in my mouth and get my to tip my head back with closed eyes. More often than not, I'm the one who picks these dandelion questions from the field of wildflowers.

What do you want...from this conversation...from this therapy session...from this internship...from this relationship...this blog? I still get the queazy, guilty, selfish feeling with these questions. There's something inside me saying "you should be happy with whatever you get"yet there's a conflicting yet comforting voice saying "you deserve to be fulfilled and people deserve to know how they can help." And that's where I get stuck. I have an idea of what I want but the words just don't come out. I'm afraid I want too much or not enough or that the person/situation won't be able to give it to me. I keep it simple saying "I'd like a box of crayons and a coloring book this year" instead of telling my grandma that I've been dreaming of learning to paint and would really love to take a painting class with my dad.

I don't have a take-away for you today--unless you are cool with taking "Emily lives not he struggle bus too" as today's dirty, honest truth. Super honestly: when I started blogging again last month, two friends asked me how I felt about it and I said I was struggling because I didn't feel like I had a purpose for it, there was no cohesive fiber (besides myself) tying it together and I didn't know what I wanted that fiber to be...still don't...

The Only 3 Things I'd Say Under Oath

I've written before about how you can find me on the floor in my living room, hands above my head admitting "I don't know anything!" Apparently, this feeling of uncertainty, incompetence, non-mastery is one of the blossoms of my introvertedness. Whowoulddathunk?! According to a book I read the first 50ish pages of three weeks ago (the pick up/put down method to my reading madness is a topic for another post), it is so boringly common for introverts to feel as though they know nothing until they have three Ph.D.'s in the subject area--perhaps that's a bit of an exaggeration from what the author actually said, but you get the gist, right?

Well, there's a lot I don't know, that's for sure; volumes of knowledge I have yet to learn and even more that I will never learn. In these 23 short years of mine, I have learned some things, here's a list of 3 things I swear to be true and important:

1. The shortest distance between two points is a straight line. I learned this as a theorem in geometry class as a sophomore in high school--it's likely the only thing I remember word-for-word from that class. My classmates say the teacher was talking about figures and numerical distance, but that's not what I heard. I heard her whispering truths about life, about pain, about friendship, about the going to the doctor. She said, the most efficient way to go is through rather than up and around and back three steps in order to cross the bridge which will take you to an elevator to take you back down to where you want to be. Efficient, not easy. If you get caught kissing your best friend's boyfriend, you can avoid him and her and lose them both, or you can go through the embarrassment and guilt and apologize and try to save at least one of the relationships. If you were hoping to get into that one program, and then you don't, you can go on being "fine" and just putter around because there's no joy left to be found or you can cry about it, remember what about it brought you joy, and find plan B. You can get your flu-shot at CVS and your birth control at planned parenthood and a cast for your broken wrist at the ER and just assume 'if it ain't broke, don't fix it' works for healthcare, or you can deal with the obnoxious questions about your sex life during your yearly physical and know you've got somewhere to go if you need more than a physical.

2. A well stocked supply of chocolate, a pair of rain boots, and a best friend will get you through the hard stuff. Someone once told me, "there's no heartbreak that chocolate can't fix." Well, there are some heartbreaks that chocolate can't fix, but that's what the rain boots are for. When the rain comes down, it clears the streams and streets and washes away everything, if you let it. Put your rain boots on so you don't wash away, then let everything else go. And if you've got someone to hold your hand or sit on you or just be with you, you'll be able to remember there is a reason to keep going.

3. If you can dream it, you can do it. I once got into a heated argument with a professor about this statement because, at the time, my mind was bound by self-depreciation. This truth does not promise you dreams don't require you to work your patootie off and get disappointed and betrayed along your way to your first 12940724 failed attempts. It says your dreams are possible, they can become real. Dreams are not just sparkly wishes floating in and out of the puffy white clouds...some are, I suppose, if you just close your eyes and imagine and call it quits. When I said I wanted a pony for my birthday when I was little (I was joking, but if I was serious), it totally could've happened. I would have needed to have a legit chat with my parents and figure out how we could, together, make this dream of mine real. Dreams seem lofty for a reason--to get you to reach and become. A life of static existence is boring. Dream...and do.

The Heart-Wrenching Headache of the Day, yes, of the day

Four years ago, four summers ago actually, I nearly killed myself at a Christian summer camp. During orientation we were told of a magnificent acronym to shout at a staff member who looked like they were losing steam or passion or focus: FTK, for the kids. Everything we were to do that summer was 'for the kids.' If we took a nap during our break, the shut-eye was so we could feel refreshed and more capable of spreading joy for the kids. If we took a kid aside to reprimand [compassionately], the point was not an ego boost but rather to create a more positive experience for the kids. I came really close to killing myself for the kids. There is such a thing as loving too much, I learned.

11 asthma attacks, 7 that ended up with ambulance rides to the hospital. Apparently, I'm allergic to smoke and everything green and my asthma roars with exercise and allergies--so dancing around a campfire three times a week wasn't exactly what the doctor had in mind as life-sustaining-activity. Oops.

Despite my health issues, camp kept letting me come back because I was good at my job. In fact, I was pretty darn great...and each time I needed coaching to not cry while being wheeled into the ambulance, it was because I would be missing time with my kids. I kept coming back for the kids, that's what I thought. There's the heart-wrenching stuff.

Who are you? And why are you here?
And there's the headache.

That's how we began the first night's campfire each week. For my middle schoolers, the answers were typically: I'm (insert name here) and I'm at camp because I like (insert favorite activity here). For the counselors, however, answers were dug from a deeper place of intention. Perhaps something like : I'm  confused but overjoyed and I'm here to share both struggles with you and let you share your struggles with me this week so we can grow with one another. The answer was always another way of saying FTK.

Looking back now, I was being asked the ultimate questions each week. Yes, it was a getting to know you exercise but it also served as a moment of reflection that we never really took.

Who are you? And why are you here? What is your purpose? What is your goal? What drives you? What defines you? The questions swim around in my head most days. I ask myself these questions when I'm making decisions and when I'm not feeling confident and hope some clarity drops on me. There are some things I do that need definite answers to these questions and if my answers don't line up, I need to check-in with what I'm seeing in this world, in myself big time.

I'm starting a new school year soon, and with that, a new internship and a new swim season...each requires me to answer these questions daily and get some perspective. To do things to the best of my ability, I need to clean off my perspectacles and focus.

How a Mosquito Made Me Skip My GRE

What do a little black dress, my first GRE test date, a 10 hour silent ride in an F-250, and mosquitos have in common?

Two years ago this week, my grandma suddenly passed away. I had made a weekend home-visit during the last weekend of July where she came over for dinner and listened to stories of my trip to Disneyworld with Annie. Everything was fine. Everything was normal...or so it seemed (my mom has speculated grandma was experiencing some symptoms but not saying anything about it--she had always been a tough cookie). 10 days later, she showed up to the hairstylist disheveled, late, and with a hefty dent in her back bumper. 10 days later she began hospice care and 4 days later she passed away. Holy dang.

At first they thought she had a stroke...she had had one about a decade ago, so it was possible. But she got worse not better. She was poked and prodded and would lose consciousness and come back and would forget who my mom and aunt were and then remember a few hours later...it wasn't good..and they didn't know what was wrong or what to do. When she began her decline, my mom told us all not to worry, people often get worse before they get better. But then she wasn't getting better because they still didn't know what was causing the problems but the words "west nile virus" were being whispered. Still, my dad told me to stay in St. Louis because I was scheduled to take the GRE in less than a week. [Insert gigantic amounts of inner turmoil and the rawness of knowing this was the wrong thing to do.] The next day mom decided they'd be discontinuing medical intervention and signing grandma into hospice care. Everything was happening freaky fast. I was feeling awful for not being there, even though I knew there was nothing I could do if I were there. That morning, I texted my dad and asked when Andrew, my older brother was coming home--he had no GRE to worry about but was also preparing for his second year of law school--dad said he was already home. Immediately struck with a tsunami of guilt and pain, while trying to keep myself pulled together, I called my dad and wondered aloud if he and my mom even wanted me to come home because it didn't feel that way. After a few minutes of clarifying conversation (they had written down the incorrect date for my test, thinking it was monday that week rather than thursday) we planned that I would tuck-n-roll into my uncle's truck the next morning as he and his wife drove to Michigan from Dallas.

We met my mom at grandma's house and immediately went to the hospital. My brother and sister hadn't been allowed to come to the hospital and my mom advised me that "grandma didn't look like grandma, she looked like an old lady...and she's got bad hair" but my heart wanted to say goodbye. I stood in the hall as my uncle went in. Whatever it is that comprises my core of emotion and connection dropped inside me like a brick. Mom came out and stood with me...and I cried. I said goodbye from there, I wanted to remember my grandma with clean, poofy, well colored hair, and fresh red lipstick--I figured she'd want me to remember her that way too.

She passed away 36 hours later surrounded by all three of her children. Upon her death, the CDC could do the necessary tests and determined she had, indeed, been struck down by the West Nile Virus. My mom thinks it ironic that such a tough woman was brought to her grave by a mosquito.

I wasn't even close to the woman. This wasn't the grandma who spoiled you with candies and gave you three hugs before she left every time she came over. I was only 8 when my grandpa died and 11 when my grandma had her first health scare, other than than our first dog needing to be put down when I was 13 and out second dog being continuously ill, I didn't know the face, the smell, the feeling of death or illness. I was 21 years old, 5 days from beginning my senior year of college, and unsure if I would be able to handle the deaths of my other set of grandparents...the kind who spoil you with your favorite foods and drive two hours to take you out to lunch even on your half-day break from working at summer camp and give you three hugs when they arrive and when they leave. I think about it all the time, but no amount of preparation is going to make those days any less surprising and excruciating. I feel deeply, I always have. It's because I love deeply too.

Week 4ever: Oh, the Places My Gaze Will Go

My reasoning for not writing a reflection at the conclusion of my #monthwithoutmirrors last week is twofold: 1. the week was busier than I have been used to in awhile. therefore, I enjoyed sitting on my couch not doing anything or talking to anyone a bit much when I returned home each night. 2. I wanted to wait awhile to compare my return to mirror-less existence to this past month as well as life before.

Sweet, holy mother of pearl! 

The mirror is annoying.

It's not completely unnecessary but almost. Sort of like salad dressing. We think it's a wonderful thing to have and that in the name of all things good and holy we can't live without it...until we end up at work with no dressing and al our work buddies brought not-salads and OH NO! Oh, yes. You'll be just fine. In fact, you'll be able to taste your salad not just your salad dressing. Fancy that. 

By no means am I advocating for us all to frolic into the streets, mirrors in hand and smash away our reflections. No, no, no. Please use the mirror to help you pluck your eyebrows and put on eyeliner and check for panty lines. These things are a decent part of feminine existence. And guys, please watch yourself while shaving and make sure your crack stays in your pants and before you leave the house, please! please! please! check that you're not wearing stripes and plaid together. These things are also a decent part of feminine existence. Yeah. 

Please someone, explain to me why on god's green earth I find it necessary to check myself in the mirror when I'm about to head out running. Why?! If I pick clothes out of my closet, why do I stand in front of the mirror as if to ask "is this acceptable' or 'does this look okay'? I'm a pretty competent human being. I think I can put clothes on my body in an acceptable manner...but perhaps not. Something deep in my psyche seems to disagree.  

In the past week, I think I've realized I'm looking in the mirror hoping for reassurance that I appear the way I want...determined by what the world has told me I should want. It's completely arbitrary and yet controlling. Remember my rant about the 000 clothing size at J. Crew? Same concept here combined with the concept I chatted about week 2 regarding my inner chatter, my inner appearance being unchanged. If I appear confident, perhaps I will become confident. 

If I appear competent, perhaps I will become competent. If I appear fulfilled, perhaps I will become fulfilled. If I appear ______, perhaps I will become _______. Let's remember what I learned at my very first collegiate swim camp: the body achieves what the mind believes. Though I believe there's truth in that regarding athletic performance and even a tad relating to life-performance, I strongly dislike the 'fake it till you make it' mentality and I realized this appear-->become crap is exactly that. HOLY DANG! I'm doing exactly the thing I despise. Grrrrrrrrrrr. #thanksnothanks My issue with 'fake it till you make it' is that it tells you that you're not enough as you are and that someday, after a lot of hard work, you will be enough. False. No. Wrong. Lies. Deception. My tent has its stakes hammered down in the land of 'relax. you have enough. you do enough. you are enough.' 

Legit posted in my journal, next to my mirror, and on my door.

It seems I'm needing to live a mirror-lite existence. The full-length mirror in my room is going to live under a shroud for awhile to help me figure out this intentionality...a little barrier between my mirror-happy psyche and reality. I vote that what I bring to the world is already in me, I just have to find it and share it. Cool bros. 

The Love Struggle: Engaged or Disengaged?

Not the engagement marked with a sparkly ring that leads to white dresses and well-tailored suits and cake tasting and place settings and hundreds of phone calls.

The engagement of paying attention, of making eye contact, of listening and actually hearing...opposed to the disengagement of feeling bothered, cut off, disinterested, and apathetic. This has been the topic of my week...or maybe better said as my choice of the week.

I've been babysitting two boys (ages 10 and 7) which really means I've been conducting 8 hours of play-therapy for a significantly reduced rate. I have no significant memories of babysitters that were harmful to my sense of self or esteem. However, no memories of the contrasting effort exist either. This gives me pause...childhood is short and the time in which the child is highly impressionable and malleable is even shorter, yet those who interact with children often lose this knowledge before saying 'hello.' From my experience as a small human as well as my later experiences as a coach, babysitter, and social worker, I've born witness to child/adult interactions mostly disengaged. I'm not pointing fingers. I'm not saying anyone is a bad parent or babysitter or nanny or coach or teacher or whathaveyou. I'm saying that we just aren't paying as much attention as we should.

When tiny humans come into the world, their gaze is met with a smile or at least two eyes of the makers of that tihuman and/or people around them. From the day of conception, the attachment process begins. It can be built or it can be destroyed. Though it is not a linear process, we certainly hope there is more building occurring than destruction.When tiny humans come into the world, their gaze is met with a smile or at least two eyes of the makers of that tiny human and/or people around them. When tiny humans cry, they are held and attempts are made to comfort. And pretty much whenever the tiny human does anything, the tiny human makers get genuinely excited.

And then the attention and excitement wane to occasional annoyance and a struggle for control. There's a lot of hearing larger humans tell the smaller humans what to do, where to go, how to act, etc. While this is certainly necessary to some point, there's a line that many people straddle between guiding and ordering, myself included.

On Monday, I decided my ten 8-hour days would be profitable for these boys. To have fun is a no-brainer, but "Emily camp"as they are calling it, has a richer goal: to infuse each activity with meaning and to intentionally create hundreds of teachable moments and opportunities for growth.

How?

• I'm asking open ended questions and listening carefully so I can mention parts of their answer in later conversation (it really helps that I'm an auditory learner). 
• The boys are given choices galore and when they say "I don't care," we develop a pro/con list quickly in our heads to initiate choosing and problem solving. 
• The games we play have a connection to gross motor development, memory, or creativity. 
• The praise "good job" has been exiled from my lexicon for the time being. Rather, I articulate praise, recognition, and accomplishment in tricky ways that let the boys know I actually saw and was paying attention to what they were saying/doing.
• We've had a conversation about what is included in a full apology and that sometimes it's better to say "I'm not ready to apologize yet" instead of saying it without meaning it.
• We have activities about feelings and how to respond to them effectively. 

There's probably more but that's the gist of it. I could let them play video games and watch tv all morning while I read then eat lunch while standing or walking around to turn on music or play with the dog then go to the basketball court and let them play while I sit on the opposite side of the hoop and swipe through facebook or pinterest on my phone. I'll admit that I've done that before and sure, I get paid the same amount as I do as when I'm truly engaged, but the boys connection to me is so much stronger because I pay attention to them and am teaching them things and building up their specific strengths and I've already noticed a bit of a change in behavior. 

Now, here's my struggle: I can do this for 8 hours a day then go home to my apartment where I don't have to give anyone direction or pay keen attention or remain entirely positive and at an even keel, but I'm not about to sign up for the 24-hour shift. So, how are parents supposed to do it? I don't know.  They get to go to their jobs all day and do whatever they do and then after hours at work, I'm asking them to come home and be fully attuned to their small humans...that's a china plate resting on a goose's head. I don't have an answer. Perhaps, that's why I'm staying on birth control until I figure it out.

Week 3: know thyself

Yes, week 3 ended last Tuesday while I was enraptured by the marvels of Michigan and simply computer-less. My apologies, again. Instead of getting pissy about how clearly tardy this reflection comes, you could, perhaps, find some space for gratitude that my thoughts have had a few extra days to simmer richness into their meaning...perhaps.

Ladies, what's the single most challenging article of clothing to shop for? ...and they all responded: JEANS!

It was "cold" and I needed to wear pants that were not running leggings or yoga pants because eI was going out to lunch with my grandparents. And, in my brilliance, the only pair of jeans I had brought home was well-worn, slightly-baggy, and slightly torn--not lunch with the grandparents appropriate. So off to the store I scooted. And was soon as I walked in, I realized I was embarking in a feel-only based investment--I was going shopping without the ability to deem my appearance satisfactory based on the image in the mirror. Brilliant, just brilliant. 

Clothes shopping is not on the list of top 100 things I enjoy. I love clothes but hate the shopping part, the trying-on part, the staring at oneself in the mirror part. Shopping while banned from mirror gazing requires a different skill set involving a lot of trust. 

Trust the sales people: "You can always ask what we think," she said, and smiled. "It's what we're here for."

But ultimately trust yourself: Doing lunges in the fitting room helps discern mobility, but how can I know how my boot looks or if the pockets cut too low? Trust what feels right. Luckily, I'm not actually that picky about jeans. Still, I felt a wave of panic strike me as I handed over my credit card. 

Without the opportunity to use the mirror as my truth-teller, I've begun listening to my body and my heart. If my clothes feel good, I feel good, and when I feel good, I look good because I sparkle as I smile. When I show up at a formal awards dinner without looking at myself once in the mirror, I have to believe that even if my makeup isn't perfect, it's good enough. My makeup skills aren't what got me there anyway. 

In general however, I haven't been wearing makeup--freedom--not that I wear much regularly anyway. When you really don't know what you look like other than what your facebook profile picture shows, you've got no barometer with which to understand how people look at and treat you. Is there a big pimple on my chin? Do I have jelly smeared on my cheek? How unruly are my eyebrows? It's not that I no longer care, I most certainly do. Rather, I have crawled into a space of patience and peace with myself. Good enough really exists. 

What lies within me sparkles and creates and discovers and questions and loves and heals.

Considering that, why would I choose to give attention to the doubting, criticizing, perfection-seeking outside world of mine?

Smitten with the Mitten

Dear beautiful, creative, courageous readership,

May I offer you my most sincere apologies for essentially disappearing for the 10 days without a word. I took an impromptu trip to Michigan (aka my parents' house) led by a craving for two flavors of ice cream native to the Great Lakes state: superman and Traverse City Cherry.

Before booking my flight, I had spent about 5 hours scouring the internet in hopes of encountering a company that could send these delicacies to my in Boston, but, alas, I found no such option. It turned out to be pretty good timing--my parents didn't have anything planned and I had some time off work and school--cha-ching! So I booked a flight. And I didn't bring my computer.

Visiting my parents/hometown/high school friends carries with it lukewarm nostalgia and the awkward anxiety you might feel watching a red, white, and blue lights flashing in your rearview mirror. I moved out when I was barely 18 and though I visit twice a year [Christmas and sometime in the summer] so to keep up on my 6-month dental visits I've realized it's been really difficult for my parents to keep up with how I'm changing and growing up." Thankfully, I'm a different person than I was when I left as well as halfway through college and even last summer, and it's challenging for my parents to assimilate that into their understanding of me as their daughter. That makes relationship hard for us both. We speak a different language. We want different things out of life. It's better now than it has really ever been but I doubt we will ever be any more than superficially close.

All the relationships are tough...yet I'm figuring out how to make them work. It's been 5 years since I moved out and, in that time, the longest time I've back was the 2 1/2weeks last August prior to the Boston move. This means I don't have many opportunities to see my Michigander friends and because I've always been one to choose quality over quantity ("quality time" is my #1 love language), lengthy one-on-one outings sprinkle my visits home instead of parties and bars and 'going to the game.' Some call it introversion. I call it intentionality.

So, I saw Jackie and Angela and my grandparents and Toni (and met her boyfriend, Lou). I cuddled with my parents' puppies, Rugby and Lance. I finally got to go up north and see the log cabin my uncle purchased in February. I saw my brother post-bar exam and he gave me a tour of his new digs in downtown Detroit. And, of course, I ate ice cream at least once a day.

And in return for me gracing the state with my presence, Michigan unleashed the mosquitos specifically craving my blood. Worth it.

Friends, that is the reason behind my absence from the interwebs. Next time, I promise that I will tell you in advance. 

Double-take Reality Check

I've changed. I'm not at all the person I was two years ago. 

I say it all the time but don't often taken the time to recognize the profundity of change that has occurred. Maybe it's because I'm in it, not watching it. 

When I reevaluated my desire to blog and dusted off my keyboard, a few of the folks in my graduate program were beaming with excitement to stalk the blog history and read form the beginning. Oh, just watch this wave of thought and emotion--first, I was excited: readers! I write with the intent of people reading, so that's great. Then, nervousness took the driver's seat: The questions began. Do I write well enough? What if they don't like what I have to say? What if people think this is dumb? How will I know if I'm good enough? How do I become better? This led to self-consciousness: I read a few of the early posts and realized that I'm truly not that person anymore...how do I explain that? What if people like the old me better? What if they chastise the old me? What if they see the change as instability or inauthenticity? 

Oh, goshhhhhhhhhhhhh...

I don't have answers to all those burning questions, except that no one has said anything negative and people are still reading both current posts and old ones. In all honesty, I am trying not to think about it, to let people think what they will and to let myself write what I will. This way I calmly sit with my hands wide open to the world.

And at the same time, I've become mesmerized by the enormity of change that has a occurred in the past 2-3 years. Wow. I keep it no secret that this change happened in a street-fight sort of brawl during many many many therapy sessions and life. Shitty life circumstances would punch me in the gut while I swung back as my therapist screamed from the sidelines about the things I was doing to sabotage my game. I ignored her. I yelled back at her. I told her she was wrong. I ignored her some more. And then I began to listen. 

Anyway, my current therapist wants to know some of the background story of my life surrounding an event that occurred 3 1/2 years ago. I have a lot of memories but it's difficult for me to remember from the center of Self I was in 2011. In a lot of ways, it feels like third person. This week, I've charged myself with reading the blog posts and my journal from that time to better understand who 2011 Emily was, what she wanted, how she walked through the world. Is it weird that I don't know? Does change keep happening like this throughout adulthood? 

I wonder what I've missed as I've been so busy in the present and future that I've forgotten to honor my past. We hear all the time about how meaningful it is to live in the moment and live for today, and I wholeheartedly appreciate that. To do one thing mindfully takes practice and patience. I don't think this practice, however, asks us to forget our stories and just live in the now. My story has brought me to my now. 

Week 2: The First Law of Motion

Two weeks without checking myself out in the mirror and, guess what, I'm not going crazy, not at all. It was tough for the first week when I wanted to put on eyeliner and check to make sure my unlatching clothes weren't too out of control. And then my racing heart calmed as I realized nothing bad had happened in the past week because I hadn't meticulously put on my eyeliner and mascara or spent 20 minutes changing into different workout tanks and shorts because the first outfit "didn't fall quite right today." Nothing bad had happened. No one had treated me any differently....

No one treated me any differently. That includes me. I didn't treat myself any differently. Even though I wasn't spending the time looking in the mirror, I was still experiencing the self-criticism I do regularly. Just instead of statements, the criticism took the form of questions, questions that I couldn't answer without looking in the mirror--do these shorts make my legs look fat? how sunburnt is my nose? is my sunglasses tan still obvious? is my hair cooperating today?--there's only so much your sense of touch can alert you about. The rest...its up to the gods (for the rest of the month, at least). 

Well, that's dumb. 

The whole point of this exercise is to change the way I treat myself! So, what am I doing wrong??!

Newton's first law of motion states the following:
an object in a form of uniform motion will stay in motion unless acted on by an external force.

Ah, ha! The "object" whose motion I'm aiming to alter is not vanity in the form of self-absorbed mirror staring, it's the self-criticism, the need to constantly check and recheck that I appear the right way whatever the heck that is. In fact, the mirror has less to do with making this change than I had originally thought. It starts from within. I must summon the courage and compassion to be completely as I am--no excuses, no apologies, no wishing it were different. It's not going to just happen. I have to do something, to make a choice, to try something different.  Sure, not looking in a mirror for a month is trying something different, but not if the work stops there. Growing and using courage and compassion isn't a mathematical formula or a law of physics, it's heart work.

Newton's third law of motion states the following:

for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. 

Beautiful. Possible. The trick is to figure out how to set this "equal and opposite reaction" in motion. 

If self-criticism exists intensely, self-compassion and self-acceptance also exist profoundly. Therefore work here requires me to uncover the compassion and acceptance that already exist, not go hunting for it in foreign territories. 

As always, easier said than done. 

As always, its a practice. 

I breathe out criticism.

I breathe in compassion.

I breathe out criticism.

I breathe in acceptance.
And my heart is full.

Be the STRONGEST You You Can Be

A few weeks ago, my best friend sent me an article about J.Crew adding the '000' size to their inventory, and asked for my thoughts. I didn't know what to say...however, now I have some thoughts...

___________________________

Initially, my reaction spun with horror and outrage. Then, I read the article in which J. Crew reps were quoted saying the sizing was aimed at meeting the needs of smaller framed women in the Asian countries and, for a moment, I bought into this justification. Honestly, though it's an entire truckload of horse poop. It's not that simple, it's never that simple. 

In a world riddled by female body-hatred (yes, men suffer too, I know, but that's not on my mind at the moment), the last thing we need is for skinny to get even skinnier. The average height and weight of women varies around the world, but in the United States in 2010 the average adult female has a height of 63.8 inches--approximately 5'4"--waist size of 32 and weighed 166.2 pounds, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. This average woman would be considered overweight by the ever-so-popular BMI calculator which I scorn. This is the average woman--meaning there are many heavier, taller, bigger as well as lighter, shorter, and smaller. Also be aware that average does not equate with ideal or healthy.

However, the triple-zero fits a woman with a 23-inch waist. For adult women, however, “it is incredibly rare to have that waist size naturally,” said Jackie Grandy, outreach and education coordinator from the Toronto-based National Eating Disorder Information Centre. Think about this: a little girls' size 8 fits a 23-inch waist. The girl who wears a size 8 is typically less than 75 pounds. Do you still want to try to tell me an adult woman can be healthy at that size? Sure, you can say that a woman who is considerably shorter than average could be healthy at this size--but if they were short enough for that to be the case, J. Crew's clothing would still not fit since it is cut only for the average sized (or Tall) woman. So, there.

Even more concerning than the glaring lack of logic behind J. Crew’s recent decision is the message shouted into the ears of every woman. When companies begin making sizes smaller, some women understand this to say they must become smaller, that the ideal size, the "beautiful" size is smaller. Ladies, we are shrinking! Zero is not a size. If you’ve ever taken a math class, you know that zero equals nothing. For women vulnerable to preoccupation with weight loss and body size, zero is absence…a way of disappearing. Women have fought for the more than 100 years to be seen and heard. How is it that now, as we are now beginning to find a seat at the table, we simultaneously seek to shrink, to disappear? I could write a book on the phenomenon here. 

For some time now, I’ve wondered what it would be like if numerical sizes were replaced with words like “classy,” or maybe “creative,” or even “strong.”

I can’t stand by and let more and more generations become riddled by the body-image catastrophe infused in current culture. J. Crew birthed a solid third of my wardrobe but that store will never swipe my credit card again.

Friends, both men and ladies alike, let's be strong, courageously independent, fiercely compassionate, and confident. Never sell yourself short. Never let a clothing store or a celebrity or an advertisement or even your friend tell you your hips are too wide or your butt is too big or your boobs are too small or that you weigh too much. Be the strongest you that you can be. 

Month without Mirrors: WEEK 1

This world. This dang world.

I vow myself into a month of mirror-less living and am immediately confronted with all sorts of emotions and temptations and crazy. These things can make a good day feel bad. And then I remember that there is no way to lose, no way to fail and so I buck up and walk forward.

Do you have any idea how difficult it is to navigate the gym without looking in the mirror? Mirrors in the locker room and the weight room and the cardio room...they're everywhere. Why are there mirrors all over the gym? In the weight room, sure, I can get that--you need to watch your form. But why in the cardio room? And why is the locker room lined with mirrors? Why?????? Here's my hypothesis: a large percentage of those who frequent the gym, do so for vanity reasons. They are concerned about what they look like (especially in comparison to others) and therefore, the mirrors are meeting that need. No judgement, just a hypothesis.

The Practice of Practice

I've written before about how I'm spectacularly aware that what I do actually know seems unsubstantial in the vast face of the knowledge, existence. If you're still reading after I've told you that I don't know anything, one of three things may be true--

1. You and I are in the same boat: You don't know anything either and feel linked with my soul. Therefore, you keep coming back for more simply because we have a connection unbound by words.

2. You think there's something groovy about my boat: You believe, in at least some minuscule way, that there is merit in acknowledging our weaknesses. And, perhaps, some of this merit is built on the idea that admitting weakness somehow speaks truth.

3. You're thinking of trading in your scooter for a boat: You're not quite sure why I say I don't know anything yet keep coming back to the keyboard day-after-day to write. You just don't get me but you want to, you're intrigued.

Solid.
I really like metaphor.

I've been thinking about this all day and still don't quite have the right combination of words to clearly and eloquently express my musing. There's no reason it couldn't wait for another time when I might be able to paint a more perfect picture. Before sitting down tonight, I realized something. If I was to wait, I would be lying on my back watching the clouds pass and feeling frustrated that I wanted one to look like a lobster and none of them did. I really like metaphor. I'm saying that I'd be waiting for what I deem as perfection to come into my sight and feeling frustrated when that moment never comes.

I'm the first to add impatience to my list of flaws. It comes a few words before perfectionism (because, naturally, the list would be alphabetized). When thrown into the blender that is my personality, these two qualities express themselves as anxiety, big, prickly, cardiovascularly-out-of-shape, anxiety. Nearly every moment of every day, I have to make choices that starve the anxiety. I have to practice stillness and cardiovascular normalcy (aka breathing) and all sorts of other things to distract myself or improve the moment (hey, hey DBT fans :D). Some times I'm a pro and others it's like I'm a newborn who can't even hold her own head up. Anyway, I practice.

The anxiety is what got me worrying back in March about how on earth I was going to be able to do therapy in the fall. Despite my experience as the client, I don't know a whole lot about being the therapist. Sure, we've taken classes but I've never actually had to do it. It's like an adult learning to swim--she might read all about the physics of floating and proper stroke technique, yet when she gets to the pool, she's afraid to come out of the locker room because this is different, it's real. I was reminded today that these things take practice. No one is great right away.

And, I was reminded that practice takes practice. You have to practice giving yourself a second chance. You have to choose to show up even after you've made a mistake. You have to practice compassion with yourself as you practice. Replace all the 'you' with 'I' and this shall be my mantra from here on out.

This life is a practice. I wake up each day and try again. Practice, practice, practice.

Can you hear me whisper?

For weeks, I've woken up irritated, frustrated...almost angry. Believe me, it's awful and only kind of irrational. I open my eyes and already know what's going to happen when I take out my earplugs. 

NOISE!

I know, I live in the city and cities make noise. It's just part of the gig. Well, I hate it. I love living in the city, I love everything the city has to offer, but WHY DID I GET AN APARTMENT ON A MAIN ROAD?! And please tell me WHY DID I GET AN APARTMENT ON A MAIN ROAD THAT RUNS THE T (the Boston subway)? Sweet God, what was I thinking?!! 

It's not like I've spent my last 22 years in a cornfield where all you found hear was the buzzing of the bees and your own breath. I lives in St. Louis--directly adjacent to a main highway (as in, you could toss a beer can from my apartment window onto a car--no, this never happened) and a mile from one trauma hospital and two miles from another. I've lived in the middle of noise before, but there was always some calm...and I never had to live with my windows open (because I don't have AC). 

So, it's loud. And I've been complaining--only to those closest to me who won't pass harsh judgement about my cynicism and pessimism. Clearly, that filtering just ended.

This past week, I've been dog(Riley)/house sitting for a family in Needham, Mass. Needham is about 9 miles from my apartment but it seems like a different world. There are driveways and small yards and a distinct difference between the areas where people live and where they do everything else (eat, work, shop, play). 

I lived at this family's house for my first week and a half in Boston last August so this isn't a foreign place to me. Still, it was a bit different this time. Or maybe I was different.

After my first night, despite the fact that I was waking up at 4:45am to get to a swim meet, I was not cranky...it was quiet. I heard the bed creak and Riley's paws on the hardwood floor. I didn't hear cars zooming or the T screeching. I certainly didn't hear people talking loudly. 

For a moment, peace.

I continued having these moments throughout the week. Every time I went outside when Riley had to pee, I just stood there, in silence. This morning, I sat on the front porch to drink my coffee and call my best friend. perfection. 

For the first time in a long time, I could hear myself think. 

This week, I am grateful for silence. I am grateful for the peace brought by the sound of raindrops crashing to the ground and bunnies hopping through the back yard and for sleeping with the windows open without needing earplugs.

What are you grateful for this week?

Choose Only Those Who Deserve

Nearly weekly from February 22, 2011 until August 5, 2013, I had the pleasure of getting my butt kicked by a brilliant and creative woman named Lauren. There were arguments and agreements, both avoiding and making eye contact, hours of silence and lots of talking. She was that person three yards past you who tells you to take a deep breath and try again each time you slip while climbing your mountain. She was that person who tells you when you've got spinach stuck in your teeth. She was that person who starts to dance whenever she sees you truly smile. She was exactly the therapist I needed. 

Sometimes she would talk and I would listen. One time, it was about buckets. BUCKETS.

We all have a bunch of buckets that we need filled. Sometimes we can fill our buckets, but more often, we let people into our lives to help fill our buckets. 

We need to be listened to.

We need to feel useful.

We need to be deeply, passionately cared about.

We need to feel special, important.

We need advice.

We need to be distracted.

We need to be sassed around.

We need to be reminded what we care about.

We need to be pushed.

We need compassion.

We need each other.

Butttttt, here's the kicker...two kickers really. (1) One person, no matter how special, cannot fill all out buckets. That's just how life is. We are complicated, complex beings with many complicated, complex needs. That means we need intimacy with more than one person. Your parent's might have advised you against putting all your eggs in one basket...this is the same thing. Don't expect each person you love to fill all your buckets. They can't. (2) Not every person we encounter gets a try at filling our buckets. And not every person we love gets a try at filling each bucket. This doesn't need to be trail and error. That just plain hurts. To put your needs, your heart on the line with every person and hope they don't let you down. You get to choose who deserves to try. You get to choose who deserves to come in contact with each piece of your heart. There are some people you love dearly who will never get to know the deepest hurts of your heart. Not because they aren't wonderful people but because however you need them to respond, they can't. And that's perfectly okay. Just promise me you won't go through your life spilling your heart out or hoping one person to meet all your needs, no matter how perfect they seem. It just won't work. It's not cynical. It's sane and it's fair.

Love yourself fairly.

Love each other fairly.

Now You See Me...Now You Don't

When I brush my teeth before bed tonight, 

I will be looking in the mirror for the last time for a month. 

I'm beginning a month without mirrors.

completely

It's not because I'm so vain that I need to take a break from loving myself. It's not that I'm so full of self-hate that I need space from my ugliness. Some of both, sure, but it's way bigger than that. 

People fast from food and technology and bad habits and all sorts of things as a way to cleanse themselves physically and spiritually. This month without mirrors (I'm hoping) will serve the same sort of purpose. When I look in the mirror, yes, I see myself. More often than not, however, that image staring back at me seems distant, imperfect, and wrong because I'm busy comparing what I see to what I think I "should" see...who I "should" be. And I'm sick of it. 

Brene Brown says, "COMPARISON is the THIEF OF JOY."

I don't know what it's going to be like. I don't know what to expect--other than that it will be challenging. I don't know how it will affect me. I don't know if I'm ready to do this. The way to figure it all out, though, is to try. 

Ready? Go!

I'll keep you updated each week!

Create a Life Worth Living

This summer, I took two classes: Narrative Therapy and Dialectical Behavioral Therapy (DBT). It started off great. The summer semester is just classes, no internship--so I was able to focus on academic learning the way I love to. Not only did I read everything assigned on the syllabus, I took notes and really dove into the material. It was AAMAZINGGG!

Around week 6, I realized I wasn't especially gifted in the Narrative perspective. After about 7 minutes of being crushed, I stabilized...and gave up. I pretty much stopped reading and participating in class--both painfully obvious to everyone.

However, around week 6, I fell in love with DBT. Around week 6, I felt incredible rapture as I read and understood and accepted and became whatever you become when you marry DBT. For those of you outside the therapy world, DBT is an intense, skill-based treatment for clients with the most risky and challenging behaviors--suicidality, self-mutilation, eating disorders, addictions, impulsivity--usually a combination of many of these behaviors. DBT therapists teach skills to these clients in order to help them create a life worth living.

I love it.
It makes sense.
I'm good at it!

In a world where I often feel like I'm not good at anything, DBT fills those spaces of inadequacy. I didn't know it was going to be that big. Before the class began, I knew some about DBT skills but didn't know the theory behind it all. I didn't know the reasons behind the procedures.

We plan our lives. We think we know what things are the big things, what days are the important days--or supposed to be that way. That's what we think. That's how we move through the world; how we have to move through the world. We have to think we know what is big and important or else it's all uncertain and scary. But that's really how it is. It's the normal days that often become important days...because we aren't expecting anything from the normal days.

So what's that mean?

It means that every day is an important day, that we have to wake up every day ready to create a life worth living. It also means that the creativity behind "a life worth living" may not be as overwhelming as it would be if we only did this on the important days. Not fireworks and birthday cakes and the 7 wonders of the world. Rather, Vitamin B12 and dew on the grass and turning water into ice and clean laundry. It means making good choices, even when they are the hard choices.

Ready? Go!