IT'S SO EASY

I'm especially hyper-focused on word choices lately.

I have learned a lot about what I need to heal
by listening to the words that are most closely at hand.

These little gems that my subconscious mind grabs quickly

often give me the best insights into what is driving me.

Here's a little nugget for consideration:

She makes it look easy.

As I watch an Olympian earn a gold medal-

her jubilation and joy on hand for everyone to witness.

A person who has spent countless hours

focused on this dream.

A person who has bled and cried and sacrificed with a singular focus,

ignoring other life choices in favor of this one goal.

A warrior who has battled with elite athletes

to achieve the highest possible accolade in the world.

She makes it look easy.

As I read a memoir written by someone who suffered unspeakable trauma.

A beloved child who made it out of pain and then 

found the courage to walk through it again.

A magician with the wisdom to string phrases together that will

describe her experience exactly.

Who will connect through the page with an audience 

that did not realize (or want to know) that such things

 were possible in the world.

She makes it look easy.

As I sit in a park watching a young woman with 5 kids in tow.

One set of twins that can barely toddle,

two stair step girls and a big brother.

The kids are doing exactly what kids do-

picking up sticks, running in circles, trying to emulate the big kids.

The act of counting the kids and calculating the number

 of years she's been without sleep

makes my stomach ache with desperation.

But this precious caretaker has goldfish and juice and a smile...

and clean hair and matching clothes.

She makes it look easy.

Months ago, as I sit in the hospital with my dad, watching 

him express frustration about

the IV needle in his arm that is burning.

His nurse gently shifts the IV, then decides it needs to be re-done.

This is the fourth time in two days the IV has needed to be reset.

Her patient's eyes well up-from frustration and fear.

She puts her hand on his shoulder, looks in his eyes and says

'We're going to get this fixed.  I promise.'

Thirty minutes later, the patient is re-settled and relieved.

She makes it look easy.

None of these people are doing work that is easy.

They are persistent, resilient, and dedicated.

That's what it takes to perform as if hard work is effortless.

So why is the ease on display what receives the accolades?

Why don't we say 'Your hard work is showing' or 

'Your dedication is really impressive'?

I guess we do say that sometimes.

Still..this phrase sticks around.

listening to whispers on NCSU campus

Someone recently said this phrase to me.

The external performance I'd put on in relation 

to an ongoing struggle has apparently been Oscar-worthy.

I made it look easy.

When it felt like dragging myself over salt flats

after running naked through razor blades.

The challenge with feeling all the feelings

is that when a friend tries to give you a compliment

that is back-handed....you actually realize it in the moment.

I felt slapped.

I felt diminished.

I felt invisible.

Like all the work I'd been doing for months and years

was not important or valuable.

That the value is in making it seem as though it is effortless.

After a little introspection, I have some realizations.

I didn't want to be praised for making it look easy.

I wanted to be comforted for the pain or 

acknowledged for being brave enough to try.
That's why it felt back-handed.
I want people close to me to realize how hard this struggle is.

Nothing about this struggle has been easy.

Still is not easy.

On most days, it feels IMPOSSIBLE.

And yet. 

It's what I am choosing to do.

In spite of lots of other choices that would be easier.

Why didn't my friend know my heart?

Why did my friend think the best thing to do would be to reward my stoicism?

Most likely, it's because of my own actions.

We teach people how to treat us.
I made it look easy.

I don't show the hard part of this experience to most of the world

because it is private, intimate and complicated.

Also...it has been MY work.

Not work that I could share or explain.

At least, this has been the story I've been holding to for so long.
Even my friend, who knew some of the struggle
was in the dark about the depth.

So many of us have learned to mask the struggle 

and to put on a performance.

I've most likely been giving off the subliminal message

that the best thing you can say to me is that I make it look easy.

I'm discussing the topic-but only when I have somewhat mastered a lesson, 

I'm teaching the people around me that I don't want to talk about the effort.
That the work is in the resolution-not in the striving.

I'm implying that it was easy and not highlighting 

the number of teachers who coach me,  

or the number of times where I'm sure that I will never be able to master it.

Good food for thought (for me).

I am making a new effort to show those close to me exactly 

how hard some of these struggles are-

so that they will have a clearer, more realistic version of who I am.

I'm also going to work on a better way to acknowledge someone else's success.

Nothing is actually easy-

basic life is very very hard for all of us.

What if we start saying things like:

Wow-that has sucked for a long time hasn't it?

You've managed to find beauty in the pain.

You've worked on that so hard-I'm so glad to see you reaching the goal.

It cannot have been easy to do that so well.
That is not easy.

ALTAR OF SHAME - Extended Version

Christmas 1975? A real joy on that little face.

Warning....this post is very sensitive material and may be triggering to survivors of abuse.  It's ok if you can't go here.  Please do what is best for you.  

Below is some content that I originally wrote as part 
of the Altars of Shame post.  
I took it out because that post was getting too long and 
because I didn't want to distract from the core idea that
SHAME CAN BECOME PRECIOUS.
We don't mean to make it so...we think that we are annihilating it
by ostracizing it, excommunicating it, refusing to see it,
that it will somehow disappear.  
Instead, it thrives in the shadows and bends our lives so it can remain.

I benefit from others' shared experience and story 
in a way that theoretical or purely fictional stories can't replace.
That is part of the power of #metoo right?  
When I can see my own experience in someone else's story
I find insights and comfort in the community.
After some reflection and prayer,
I've decided that it's important for me to share a 
little more on shame altars as relates to my own story.
Maybe it will help bring clarity or empower someone else.

I was abused as a child by my primary care provider 

and assorted people she allowed into my life.

For years, I could only talk about the mental and physical abuse.
The atmosphere of my home was thick with constant implied threat. 
The mental abuse was extensive and pervasive-
I was essentially manipulated, controlled, gas-lighted and denied
as a method for my abuser to feel powerful.
The physical abuse was sporadic and sharply violent-
always administered by someone besides my primary abuser
but with her the consent or direction.

When I left that house at 18, 
I had no trouble bringing that abuse into the light of day.
I was certain (even as a child) that those experiences
had nothing to do with my worthiness.
I knew it was wrong, related to my abuser's impairment and
 that I didn't need to be ashamed of it.

It was discussed, railed against, refuted and rehashed...
by myself, with a community and with my extended family.
It mostly settled into the backstory of my life.
There are scars and sadness but no altars were made.
Nothing precious there.

Homecoming 1992?  Beautiful pretending....

In spite of my approach to the mental and physical abuse,

I could not admit or discuss the sexual abuse that occurred. 

I denied it-even to myself.

I remember one of my aunts asking me in a vague way

if anything 'LIKE THAT' had happened to me

during those dark years where I was cut off from the extended family.
We were working on my bridal bouquet flowers.
I was 22, desperately chasing approval and acceptance,
newly reacquainted with my extended family
and pretending to be someone brave.
Sheer force of will had carried me through high school, 
college and into the work force.
I was planning a wedding and writing my own happily ever after.
Sheer force of will was going to carry me through here too.
Beautiful, worthy girls were not damaged in the way I had been.
I was certain of it.

So I flat out lied.

ABSOLUTELY NOT. 

That worthless, abandoned shell of a girl was 
not getting brought into my adult life.

I was not going to have anyone looking at me as damaged goods
 when I walked down that aisle.

I protected my shame.

I made it precious.

Why did I lie?
Why didn't I talk about it?
It was too.....overwhelming? Uncontrollable? Irrelevant?

I preferred to ignore it.

I refused to label it or sit with it.
If I did try to call it out or remember it, 

my brain skittered over it
like spiders in a breeze.

Occasionally I would hear other stories of sexual abuse survivors.
 I always compared my story to theirs

and decided that my story needed a different label.
If my abuse didn't follow the script of someone else,
then it didn't count as sexual abuse-right?
Good.  I definitely didn't want that label-
I'll keep looking until I find one I like better.
Only there wasn't another label that fit.

Beauty pageant....1990? More cover-up please...

I refused to acknowledge this aspect of my history
and so I remained in some ways chained to this shame.
The whispers of my subconscious always had a reason

 that it didn't need to be out in the open.

I was a mother-my children didn't need to know this.

I was a professional-what would my colleagues think?

My dad would be devastated-I needed to protect him from that knowledge.

My extended family would blame themselves.

My husband who thought I was so brave and free and clean
would be awkward at best, disgusted at worst.
Why does it even matter?
You're fine!  It's all over!
It's in the past, he'll never do that to you again.
You are free.  Finally free.

I was determined that this experience would not control my life.
So I locked it away in a precious, 

holy space that no one but me was allowed to enter.
It became my altar.

I was 38 before I could admit the abuse I experienced 
also included sexual abuse.
More than twenty four years of protecting this information.
It burst like a damn one night and would not be denied.
I'm not sure why I could see it suddenly and accept it.
Maybe I was tired of hiding from myself and pretending
 to be these screwed up versions of a half-person.
Maybe it had become too exhausting to keep throwing the distractions 
required to stay safe behind that altar.
Maybe I was angry at my abusers' continued influence 
over my life in spite of no contact for years.
Maybe I was just tired enough or mellow enough 
that the lines blurred for just a second 
and let me see behind the facade to the precious altar.
I don't know...it wasn't a conscious choice.
It was just suddenly there and obvious and irrefutable.

Once I saw it, accepted it...it poured out of me like rain.
It wasn't precious anymore.
I shared it.
First with my husband.
Then with core friends.
I will remember my dad's expression forever.
Tragic and compassionate-but no disgust or horror.
Just love.

Getting acquainted and re-aligned with this part of my story took years.
And therapy.
And writing and life adjustments and self-care and....
it is still unfolding-in ways that I am not wholly aware.
So far, no one has died or disowned me.
Breaking down my own shame altars-
hasn't caused anyone else to fly off the handle 
or build their own shame altar.
No one wanted me to keep this vigil to begin with-
that was my choice layered in survival mentality 
and coached by shame.

It doesn't matter who knows or doesn't know 
or what the label is.
It doesn't matter if it's actually on the front porch
or in the closet still...what matters is whether it's 
allowed in all the places-not just the special private ones.
It's no longer precious or needs to be protected.
I've also realized that I am the one who made it precious.
I didn't cause the injury-but I wouldn't let it heal.
The sacred, holy space that I made for shame around this abuse
persisted because I allowed it to persist,
because I didn't have the words or the bravery
and because I was surviving...even though I wasn't thriving.
I had urgency around hiding it, not urgency around healing it.
If there is an altar...a place that no one (maybe even you) 
can enter and be real with...maybe it's time to open a window
and blow out the incense.

Laura McKowen and Holly Whitaker...two amazing warriors against shame.

RUNNING AND MOTHERING - gratitude mantras

I used to have this idea that I was supposed to be a runner,

that running was the penultimate of physical fitness

and was somehow necessary to live a healthy life.

That if I could easily run three miles, 

then there would be a reward of some sort-

an invitation to secrets of the universe or

 the ability to eat unlimited quantities of pie.

That other things in my life would fall into place.

That I would morph my physical being into something else,

become ropy and lean with boy hips.

This is irrational and ridiculous-

I'm not quite sure where the programming originated

but it definitely was on repeat in my subconscious.

I should mention...I hated every second of running.

I used to have a standard mantra about running.

Brace yourself...it's profound.

Pretty enlightened and uplifting right?

This wasn't something I said OUT LOUD

but instead was a slow, steady undercurrent 

present during all running related experiences.

From the stretching as I warmed up, 

to the anxiety approaching the preset start time,

through the pounding of my feet as I huffed along

my scheduled, mapped out route.

Running sucks.

When I went to buy shoes, 

pulled on workout gear, 

or looked at fitness apps.

Running sucks.

I could not get into a breathing rhythm, 

I never experienced a runner's high and

I could be easily distracted (while running)

about my stats (or lack of them).

Whether I could run 1 mile or 5 miles easily...

my message to myself was..
running sucks.

It's funny how we can distract ourselves with shorthand

from what we really mean.

That mantra contained a slew of subconscious beliefs.

I was saying RUNNING SUCKS as short hand for:

I'm too slow, 

too fat, 

too sweaty, 

too breathy, 

too old.

Uncoordinated.

Awkward.

Graceless.

Not enough.

Don't belong.

None of these things are factual or grounded in truth.

They all speak to some fear that lurks in the shadows;

to shame around my body and my worth.

They are bullshit and harmful and exhausting

little bits of poison that need healing.

Let me offset my attitude towards running with my attitude 

towards something much less available:

Childbirth.

Childbirth is not for the faint of heart.

I've delivered two children and endured approx. 30 hours of labor

all while weighing significantly more than my usual weight

and unable to touch my toes.

I am pretty damn good at breathing into pain.

Clearing the deck and busyness of my mind

pulling in energy

releasing what has to go.

In and out

for hours.

It does not suck.

The pain and the discomfort are inconsequential.

I can rattle off the number of hours I was in labor,

the crazy things that my body did

and the times where the pain was intense.

My body was tired, hypertensive, and incredibly uncomfortable

and yet....it suited up for battle with more clarity than I ever had 

getting ready for a run.

I didn't think

I'm too old, too fat, too slow, too breathy.

Not once.

What I remember is the incredible joy

and fascination at the experience.

I remember my heart expanding exponentially

in new ways each time.

I remember loving their father in new dimensions

for having witnessed and participated in the grueling battle.

I remember feeling strong and focused and aware

that this was the work I was put here to do.

In and out.

You can do this.

Oh right, yes I can.

I didn't have children to get thin

or to fit into a set of jeans

or to look cool

(which is good because it did the opposite of all things).

I didn't have children to fit in

or become part of a club.

I became a mother for me.

For my growth, for my fullness, for my JOY.

In some ways, it was a very selfish choice-

in other ways, it wasn't a choice at all, it was something 

that was inevitable and necessary and essential to my soul.

From the age of three, I remember the calm 

certitude that I was going to be a mom.

(women, we are terrifying from an early age-never doubt it).

The means was not important (adoption, natural, IVF, etc),

my marital status was not important,

my economic circumstances were not important.

I was going to make it happen, 

it was a foregone conclusion, it was a part of me.

I knew it would work out

in whatever manner it was supposed to work out.

Parenthood is much longer than 3 miles. 

This is a marathon job-not a sprint.

My goal is to remain in relationship with each of my children 

for the rest of my life so our journeys together

will continue to unfold.

I've barely just begun so I can't say I know all the twists.

What I can say is that I've never thought THIS SUCKS.

Not when someone threw up on me or handed me a booger,

not when I have been sleep deprived for a year

not when we've just had a terrible tantrum (mine or theirs)

or when struggling with homework or school politics.

Being a mom is awesome, grueling, debilitating, 

and the best gift I've ever received.

My subconscious mantra around motherhood is 

THANK YOU.

So let's revisit running for a minute.

I have a whole new relationship with running 

since I've become aware of that old mantra.

Turns out, running is something that I can do

and I actually enjoy.  

When I remember that the way to get through 

hard things is to breathe into them.

When I focus on something other than 

the pain or expectations.

When I run for JOY instead of a reason to belong.

I let go of my list of reasons and prescription for running.

I just run when I feel like running.

I go as fast as I feel like

and I stop when I feel like stopping.

I do it for me and the whole time I say THANK YOU.

NEGATIVE FEEDBACK LOOPS-A RECIPE

On the mat...Stretch into the new year...

Negative feedback sounds like:

I needed you and you weren't there.

You are not kind or smart or your best self right now.

You are ignoring a truth in favor of a comforting lie.

You are failing to empathize or see the bigger picture.

You could have said that differently.

You had a choice-and you chose poorly.

You don't belong there.

I don't like you.

You suck.

You hurt me.

You left me.

It's inevitable that I hear things about myself that I don't want to hear.

And in spite of all the positions I will put myself into

in order to avoid negative feedback-

there is no realistic way to avoid it forever.

So I'm touching on a strategy to make feedback 

as normal and healthy as I understand it can be.

Target just gets me.

Recipe for Negative Feedback

I. Filter 

Not everyone gets a say in how I move through this life.

That is the beauty of boundaries.

It is inevitable that I will not make everyone happy.

I am not pizza.

I only take feedback from the people who've earned the right to give it.

I cannot worry about the faceless THEY.

Read Brene's work about the critic in the arena

 if you need to understand this better

but I'm only interested in the voice of those in the arena.

Haters gonna hate...they can keep hating.

People who are not a part of my life

or who haven't shown up

don't get to provide feedback.

II.  Suspend Action

Every time I've regretted something, 

it's because I didn't pause first.

My emotions can lead me by the nose into 

something less kind or less whole.

For just a little bit, I put the feelings on a shelf.  

It's important to note that this is temporary.

A few minutes or an hour.

This is a means to an end-

not a final resting place.

III.  Clarify

During that little bit of time where action is officially suspended, 

I make sure I understand the feedback.  

I try to be curious and ask clarifying questions.

Try to sense if I'm jumping to conclusions, 

getting triggered by past trauma,

or erroneously filling in blanks that weren't actually said.

Clarity is surprisingly hard to get but invaluable.

I take the time to make sure I have it right.

IV. Feel All the Feelings

Now is the time to let it out.

Sit with the feedback.  

Get alone and get centered.

The negative feelings but also the positive ones.

Process through the feedback.

I always assume there is truth in what the other person said

(which is the value in only taking feedback from people that matter)

I try to see it.

It often hurts

or introduces me to a less

flattering reflection of myself.

V.Act

I AM THE THINGS I DO 

(no matter my intentions, feelings, damage, childhood trauma, etc).

If I smack back, can't hold onto my own emotions, or trade in spite

then I am an abuser at worst or a weakling at best.

I am just passing on the pain so someone else can deal with it.

It is very important to the person that I am

that my actions reflect my intention.

I have options when I allow the process to happen.

I may change my behavior.

I may apologize.

I may decide to try and enter into a more protracted dialogue.

The point is...I am choosing to act.

Not reacting in the moment.

One of my many attempts to reclaim Christmas

Here's a real life example with some backstory:

Every year my extended family does a gift exchange.

During our Thanksgiving get together, 

the adults scribble their names onto little slips of paper 

along with 3 possible gift ideas.

We put them into a basket and then draw one-by-one.

Full disclosure:

There are lots of social norms that I find confusing or that just don't make sense to me.  

I  spent a lot of years not having a voice or a say in what happened to me.  

Years being unsure of where I belonged and experiencing trauma 

that most of my extended family either doesn't talk about or doesn't know about.  

I try my best to be kind and my intention is to be compassionate-

but I can be inadvertently, unintentionally, selfish or self-centered

-particularly when I'm in a situation that has caused me pain in the past.  

Christmas is one of these situations. 

In addition, I am a challenging gift receiver.

I tend to long for seemingly simple items that are unique and special-

and then struggle to communicate what I mean.  

If I say I want socks, what I really mean is I want a specific pair of socks

 I saw while on vacation at that adorable little shop that 

does not have an online presence.  

I understand that this is my problem...I've been working on it. 

In general, the things that I want around me are things that remind me 

of people or experiences-touchstones.  

I don't tend to want things that you can buy in stores 

(and I'm lucky enough to be able to buy them for myself if I do).

My favorite presents are mixed CD's, 

homemade items, time with someone, a shared meal.

The things that keep me up at night are the 

people who have nothing (and need it but don't have anyone to ask).

How much I have and how many have not.

For a few years, I muddled through trying to think of something 

that was useful, beautiful, easy to find and easy to write down 

in 20 minutes while trying to wrangle my kids into eating a 

meal that consisted of more than 6 kinds of pie.

About three years ago, I settled on what I thought was the perfect wish list.

I asked for a donation to a charity of the giver's choice 

and that they would just tell me about what they decided to do.

Perfect.

They get to help someone who needs it 

and I get to hear about something that jazzes them up.

The first year was a success...

my dad drew my name and created the most adorable handout

telling me what he did to help someone else.  

It was really awesome and is something I will cherish forever.

I thought I had cracked the code-

this is how I could reclaim some Christmas spirit!

So the next year I did the same thing.

And the next (and my husband started doing it too).

Until this year....when the family member who drew my name BRAVELY 

reached out to me to say that there might be something I needed to hear.

She did her best to speak in love and to speak directly to me.

She let me know that my request could imply that my family 

wasn't open-hearted or charitable on their own.

That by asking for a donation instead of a gift, 

I was robbing my family of the opportunity to give me 

something that was personally special.

Basically, that I missing some of the point.

At least from her perspective.

Semi-ironic pep talk visual from my table runner

This was not particularly easy for me to receive.

Again...I am a bad gift receiver.

As I sat and stared at the screen..... 

my first reaction was indignation, hurt and anger.

All the shame emotions washed over me.

It always sucks to be misunderstood-

or to at least think that you're misunderstood.

I had a nice cry and sat with all my emotions.

It cleared the air enough for me to respond.

We had a good discussion and came to more of an understanding.

There was some truth in there that I appreciated hearing.

She's not all the way right

but she wasn't all the way wrong either.

Ultimately, she decided to give me

a lovely homemade afghan for Christmas

and to tell the family about her work with rescuing dogs in 2017.

I cherish the blanket and can really feel the love 

when it is wrapped around me on cold nights.

Her feedback allowed me to uncover some areas in my heart.

I have taken her thoughts into consideration 

but I haven't decided what I'll do next year.

I may still may continue to ask for a donation.

Having her feedback may change my word choice or I may give more options.

I may change to something new altogether.

I may ask for a lunch date with my family member-

time together that is NOT around a holiday that has too much baggage.

I will not be asking for a hard good or something easily bought in a store.

My point is..I am better for the feedback 

and it's a gift I'm glad I was able to receive.

These are so cute..and so gross to eat.