Solstice.

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I wasn’t going to write a Solstice post this year. I posted the poem on Facebook and was going to call it a day. After all, I barely blog anymore (but, oh, I miss writing so so much), and what’s the point in writing the same thing I write every year?

But then amidst trying to do 623876 things and manage 987123 items on 8712 to-do lists, and being so tired and so mentally drained, all I wanted to do was write this post. Tradition, I guess. And that quieted part of me that yells, I need to write again!

So here we are. Solstice again. We made it. Now we move toward the light, and yet, it’s also winter now, which is the darkest times. It’s cold and dark and gray, and every day I am reminded that while I will never move for a whole host of reasons, I am not meant to live here. We are either moving toward the light or away from the light and all I want is a chunk of time IN the light.

Every year, on autopilot, I pull out this poem and read it, and smile to myself. But this year I practically got teary reading it – I READ it in a way I had never read it before. You know how you can KNOW something but sometimes something else tells it in a different way and it resonates in a way it never has before? That’s how it felt today.

My takeaway today was that the goal is not to not be in the darkness. The point is, when there is darkness, really hard and scary darkness, we can turn toward the sky where we know light will be someday. And breathe in deep and be thankful for the the inner strength we muster up to withstand the darkness, each moment, each day. We don’t give ourselves enough credit. I don’t give myself enough credit.

I don’t know, you guys, I can’t explain it well but I needed this more than I can explain. Hope it does something for some of you, also.

Happy, happy Solstice.

Towards the Light (author unknown)

By moonlight,
or starlight,
or in the sun’s bright rays,
I journey,
guiding my way
by keeping to the light
as best I can.
Sometimes all seems dark,
then I remember
how the poppy turns its head,
following the sun’s passage across the sky,
then rests in night’s cool shadows,
bowing in thanks
to whatever power
makes the stalk
stand straight and strong,
drawing deep from its roots
a wine dark love.
In moonlight,
the garden glows,
silvering the poppies.
And even by starlight
you can tell shades of darkness
if you try.
So do not lose heart
when vision dims.
Journey forth
as best you can—
bloom when you are able,
rest when you must,
keep your faith,
keep always
towards the light.

Friendship

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I’ve not been writing. At all. I haven’t been publicly sharing my feelings. In fact, I’ve barely been talking about my feelings (on this matter) to anyone. This is different from the “suffering in silence” I always encourage people to not do. Namely because, I’m not suffering. Nothing is wrong.

I’ve just been thinking. Experiencing. Living. Watching. Figuring out. On my own.

(I also feel the need to say that since I haven’t been writing, I basically forgot how to write, and what follows is un-edited and super rambly. Oops.)

I’ve been thinking a lot about friendship. Since the summer, really. I’ve been thinking about how I’ve always been an introvert but I’ve always had some close friends. A handful of them are the close-forever-since-we-were-kids friends. Many of them came from work. And then this summer when I wasn’t working for nearly the first time in my life, I realized I felt alone. Without the closest friends I was used to spending all day with, day after day all summer, I felt lonely. Some friendships are hard to maintain when they don’t have a common denominator. Or, you maintain them, but from afar and not in the intense, every single day way you’re used to. (As in, you can always reach out to them and get together every so often, but it’s not a person you are able to connect with and see each day.)

I also spent a lot of time thinking about friendships that I was spending way too much time trying to maintain. Relationships where I know the other person loves and cares about me, and would always take a phone call or meet up if I asked, but where they didn’t think about me and wouldn’t think to reach out or check in and make plans, and I was always the one trying trying trying. Do you know what I mean by this? Where there’s no mal-intent, just some sort of imbalance. Where you have someone as #1 in your book, but really, you’re probably #10 in theirs.

I started to have more insight into these lopsided friendships and decided that I have two choices: continue doing what I’m doing and keep it lopsided (read: put in a ton of effort and constantly be disappointed), which isn’t really sustainable, OR re-balance it by resetting my priorities and effort level to match theirs. And that’s very hard, and it was kind of sad, but I’ve realized that it’s not worth my emotional energy trying to maintain it as one thing when it just isn’t that thing.

Which got me thinking about something different, but related, as I think this can sometimes be the cause of lopsided relationships:

I think there are forever friendships and there are situational ones. Sometimes you go through something with someone: a shared personal experience, working together, a 10-week art class, whatever, and it situationally binds you, so you become close and sometimes inseparable and each other’s “person.” But once the situation is over, or has passed, or gotten better, or shifted, sometimes you realize (or it just happens) that fundamentally you aren’t forever friends, or at least not forever #1 level friends, and that’s not a bad thing (even though it can feel like it) – more that you needed/had each other during that time, and once the time is gone, so is the common denominator.

I am moving into a much better place of acceptance and understanding with all of this. I find it fascinating and am enjoying the “aha” moments when I figure out the next step, rather than the confusion and sadness I felt over the summer.

I will say, also – as an introvert, as someone who doesn’t have a huge friend group to start, as someone who works full time and is also a parent full time and a wife full time, as someone who has next to no free time, it’s super super super hard to make any new friendships let alone strengthen the true ones I have. The fact of the matter is that during the year, I move nonstop all day until the second I go to bed. There’s work and bringing work home and packing lunches and doing dishes and cooking dinners and cleaning playing with my daughter and spending time with my husband and attempting to work out and that’s it.

(And those are GREAT things. That’s what I’m coming to realize. I can dislike how crazy busy it is, but love the reasons for it – I don’t love doing chores and making dinners and packing lunches, but I love that I have a family. I don’t love having no free time during the day but I love my job more than anything. You know? I used to feel so guilty for getting annoyed about being busy because I’d think, It was my choice. I can’t complain about something I brought upon myself. Um, of course I can. It’s an and not a but, right? I love my life AND it is sometimes hard. Yes of course a positive attitude helps – and I have improved in that regard, maybe another post for another day, but it doesn’t mean it can’t ever be hard. Anyway. I digress.)

I’d like to make friendship a personal goal. Connections have helped me with life and motherhood and I don’t want them to disappear. I’d like to keep being mindful of relationships that are balanced in time and effort and thought, and strengthen them, and meet new people as it happens, and put in effort to meet new people, rather than close myself off and decide I have no time and it won’t happen. I’d like to peacefully move away from the friendships that naturally faded and were never really right to begin with (and/or just adjust my expectations), rather than clinging to them. And I’d like to keep exploring what it all means.

Does this resonate with you at all? Have you experienced anything like this? Has connection been harder for you since becoming a parent? How do you meet new people? How do you prioritize? Tell me anything and everything.

The next thing to say

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I always write my best pieces in my head while driving in the car, on a walk, or in the shower. Never when I’m sitting in front of the computer. As soon as I open the word document, I freeze. And end up giving up.

But the other night, in the shower, I got that feeling. You know the one, deep in your belly. Not shame, but the opposite – that churning, exciting feeling of, Ohmygod. I need to write that. I need to write that NOW. So I am trying to write it. Even though it won’t be nearly as eloquent as what I wrote in the shower. Whatever. It’s better than nothing.

Two years ago I “outed” myself to my family, my loved ones, and the world, as a survivor of sexual trauma, and never looked back – I cut the cords that held me down, cleared away the spiderwebs, stood tall, and danced into the light, moving on with my life, free from what had held me in chains for years.

For the most part, I have lived the past two years without body memories, without flashbacks, without ruminating, without reliving it all, without obsessively analyzing it all, without self-blame, and without shame. It’s amazing what telling your story can do.

I haven’t felt a need to talk about it much. I don’t at all mind about talking about it. And I do talk about it when it’s helpful to others or when others have questions and want to share their own experiences. But there hasn’t been a time I’ve thought, OH. I need to also write that part.

Until that night in the shower.

For a long time, a very, very, very long time, I kept what happened to me as a kid, secret. Because of the circumstances of it, I didn’t even consider what it really was.

Here’s what I’m trying to say.

We are doing a better of job of moving away from “stranger danger”. We understand now that statistically, it’s actually rarely a stranger. We now don’t just tell our kids, “If someone in a dark ally tries to hurt you, run away.” We tell them, “Family members can’t touch you in ways that make you feel uncomfortable. Neither can coaches. Or priests.” And that is so good. And huge progress. Because now, people don’t always spend years and decades thinking, “Well, I wasn’t held at gunpoint by a stranger – so it couldn’t have been assault.” Huge.

We tell kids and teens about what can happen at a party. I know that it can be a stranger at party. It happened to me that way, four days before I went to college to begin my freshman year.

But I also know what most people don’t.

I know that it can also be a well-known and well-respected pediatrician.

And I know that pediatrician can be a female.

What I know, is that a well-known, well-respected, female pediatrician is going to be implicitly trusted by a family. Because, why wouldn’t she? What I know, especially now, is that it can seem messy with doctors. Because they are in that tiny category of people who CAN touch you in ways that make you feel uncomfortable. So what I know is, it’s easy to explain it away. To think, well, she’s allowed to do that. And also, she’s a woman. And it’s never a woman. So I need to just get over it.” But what I also know, what I really deep down in my soul know now, after years of hard work and putting all the pieces together and unpacking the memories: It can be a female. It can be a pediatrician. And it is actually NOT messy. Because if a pediatrician, if any doctor, does something that is not in line with what is medically necessary at that time, whether they explain it away or not, it is not okay. It is molestation. It is assault. It doesn’t matter that they’re a doctor. That is never an excuse.

And that’s what I was trying to say.

This past spring at work, I heard from a colleague about part of a new initiative to educate our (special education) students beyond “stranger danger”. While she was talking, she said something like, “They need to know: it can be coaches, it can be bosses, it can be doctors.” And my heart skipped a beat. YES! I wanted to scream. It can be doctors! Please, please, please tell them that!!! And please, PLEASE tell them that no matter what the media portrays and no matter what statistics trend towards, it CAN be a female. Please tell them that.

And that’s what needed to be written. Who knows why. It just did.

And that’s all.

I don’t have a clean and tidy ending.

No lesson, no wisdom, no ramblings.

Maybe I lost my touch for writing.

Or maybe real writing isn’t always tied up nice and neat with a bow. Maybe sometimes you just write the most important things and that’s enough.

One.

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Dear Maya,

One year old. How is this possible? One year ago, after nearly 4 days in labor, 2 days in the hospital, and about 16 hours so entrenched in pain and exhaustion that I didn’t speak or open my eyes, I heard “4:07! 4:07!” I came to, realizing they were shouting the time. Because you were here. When they finally brought you over to me, I was so nervous. But I held you, and kissed you, weeping, terrified and madly in love.

We took time to get in a groove. Feeding was rough, sleeping was rough, it took me nearly a month to fully recover physically, and just as long emotionally. But once we clicked, oh, did we click. We are attached at the hip, you and me, and I couldn’t be happier.

I wanted so bad to be a mom, to have a baby. But never in my wildest dreams did I ever think I would get a baby like you. You surpass everything I could’ve hoped for.

You’re hilarious. You crack yourself up and you crack me up. You know when you’re being funny. You growl and click your tongue and make silly noises. You devour your food, or you very deliberately toss it over the edge of your highchair when you’re not in the mood. You are walking all around, and while exploring you always toddle back for a hug. You self-entertain but you love coming over to give me a toy or have me join in. You love books. You love being outside. You wave hello to the tree in the parking lot where we park at school. You love day care. You love your family. You exclaim with delight when you see the cats. You say “all done” and clap.

I could go on and on.

I can’t believe it’s been a year. I worry I haven’t been present enough, cherished each moment enough but deep down I know I have. I just want infinite time with you.

Here’s what I know: if it continues on the same trajectory, our time together is just going to get better and better.

I am the luckiest. I don’t know why the universe decided I would get to be so lucky, but I am thankful every moment of every day.

You are my very best accomplishment, the best gift I have ever received.

I love you with all my heart.

Happy Birthday, sweet girl.

Love,
Mama

Solstice.

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I tried to write a new post. I really did. But I have nothing to say about Solstice that I don’t say every other year. (Previous years are here, here, here, and here.)

Last year’s post said:

Turns out that despite how much I love writing a new solstice post each year, my thoughts don’t change much.

Last year, I wrote:

The Winter Solstice is here.

Oh, how I love this day.

Today, after six long months of turning towards the darkness, we began to turn towards the light.

We gain a minute of light each day – and in a time where life can feel very dark, each minute makes a difference.

The earth begins to propel us towards the light, just as the waves in the ocean propel you to shore. We now ride the wave of the earth, as it cradles us and gently moves us towards hope, and energy, and life.

All of those are still truths I hold firmly in my heart.

And now, there are sunflowers too, in my head and on the wallpaper of my phone, reminding me that even before solstice, even before the world pushes us toward the light, we can move ourselves. We can stretch and grow so that even in our darkest moments we are always, always, always reaching for the sun and any light we can find.

This year, my beautiful baby has been my light. When darkness has surrounded me, in any manner, her smile, her laugh, her pure essence and existence has been all I needed. She isn’t bothered by the darkness. She just lives each moment in the here and now. If we are outside, she’s happy, but when it’s dark at 4pm, it doesn’t faze her in the slightest. It doesn’t stop her from playing with her toys, eating her solid food, giving me hugs, or trying to crawl and stand up. It’s funny – motherhood has simultaneously made me a crazier/busier, AND a more mindful person. We could all learn a lot from a 7-month-old.

Happy Solstice.

Towards the Light (author unknown)

By moonlight,
or starlight,
or in the sun’s bright rays,
I journey,
guiding my way
by keeping to the light
as best I can.
Sometimes all seems dark,
then I remember
how the poppy turns its head,
following the sun’s passage across the sky,
then rests in night’s cool shadows,
bowing in thanks
to whatever power
makes the stalk
stand straight and strong,
drawing deep from its roots
a wine dark love.
In moonlight,
the garden glows,
silvering the poppies.
And even by starlight
you can tell shades of darkness
if you try.
So do not lose heart
when vision dims.
Journey forth
as best you can—
bloom when you are able,
rest when you must,
keep your faith,
keep always
towards the light.

Sensitivity

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I cried on my drive home today. 

I knew it was going to happen. 

I picked up the baby from my parents’  house because they have her on Thursdays and I couldn’t believe another Thursday has come and gone, wasn’t I just there yesterday, and my beautiful baby girl will be 5 months old tomorrow and it seems like  just yesterday that I was newly pregnant, and I love each moment with her but am I enjoying it enough? And time is flying and that is so scary and I try to live in the moment but it’s so hard and how long will I have with my loved ones and what if something happens to them, I will not survive it, what ritual or compulsion can I do to protect them, there isn’t any, I know this, and how do I just freeze everything so I don’t have to worry, and am I a good enough mother and wife and daughter and sister and friend and are my coworkers sick of me and is my boss mad at me, and my heart hurts for the world and for everyone else hurting and lately I’ve been feeling it all (again), feeling everyone’s feelings and feeling consumed by what doesn’t even belong to me and every sight has a feeling and every smell has a memory and there was a dead squirrel on the road and that did me in, and I am happy and sad and overwhelmed and stressed and tired and there isn’t room for all of those in my body and it feels like a million pounds weighing on me, and this is me and this is what happens from time to time but it’s a lot and I couldn’t reign it in. 

So I cried. 

This is part of why I used to not eat, or do other not great things around food. Because everything is scary and hard and I’m the epitome of a hypersensitive person and when all of those feelings and worries and questions became too much and the world was too big I could make it smaller by making it about food and calories and my weight. I could have that to focus on instead of gun violence and cancer and dead squirrels and anxiety and worry thoughts about my loved ones. Food and weight I could solve. Food and weight I could manage. The rest? Not so much. 

I remember how, as a young child, I had all of these same worries and fears and moments but I didn’t know what it was. I just knew I felt scared and overwhelmed and heavy and I didn’t know it was because I was so sensitive. I just thought something was really wrong with me. 

Nothing was wrong with me, though. I just didn’t know it. Glennon reminds us, right – “you are not a mess. You’re a feeling person in a messy world”. 

Right. 

But feelings hurt and worries are scary and everything IS hard when you’re wired this way. 

So sometimes you just have to cry, release the pressure valve, wipe your face, take a breath, and wait for the shift. 

Real talk.

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Some people thrive on being nonstop at work. That’s how I am. Sure, I like having enough time to get things done, and no, I don’t like the feeling of stress – but I do, and always have, love the feeling of a ton going on, moving nonstop, being constantly challenged and stimulated. Extroverts gain energy in social situations; it’s helpful and necessary for them. I’m no extrovert, but that’s what it’s like for me at work. I thrive off of more more more. It’s like a high, quite honestly.

So the beginning of the year, in the field of education, has always been perfect for someone like me.

Until I had a baby.

Turns out, when you have a 3-month-old and the chaos of the year is beginning, you can’t give 10000%  to work. You can’t stay up late scheduling. You can’t have hour-long phone calls with colleagues trying to problem-solve things each day. You can’t answer every email immediately. You can’t stay at work until 6pm if you need to and you can’t get to work at 6am to get everything done.

Instead, you run around like crazy – crazier than ever – all day long. You desperately try to fit everything in, both job responsibilities and mommy ones. You expend every single possible ounce of energy, answering multiple emails while listening to voicemails and planning for sessions and answering colleague questions. You leave work so depleted you could collapse on the ground, because you are so exhausted, and the amount of energy output has already far surpassed what you started with.

And for a split second you think, Thank heavens the day is over; I am going to pass out on the couch. But then you remember that instead of napping, or running errands, or cooking, or cleaning, or doing more work at home, you need to be 10000% on, because now it’s time to be a mom. You panic a little, because you’re so drained you can’t see straight, and how are you supposed to stay awake until she goes to bed at 8:00, let alone be a good mother in the meantime?

You halfheartedly play and bounce and sing and soothe while trying to do dishes and pack lunches for tomorrow and put away laundry and wash her pooped-all-over clothes. You feel guilty that the kitties are meowing for attention and you literally do not have time or energy to pet them. You question if you’re being a good-enough mother, paying enough attention, giving enough love. You remember you have to eat dinner so you have a bowl of cereal. You try to answer work emails and texts from colleagues. Your husband finally comes home and all you want to do is spend time with him, but now it’s 8pm and she needs to nurse and go to bed, and by the time she’s done you contemplate not even brushing your teeth and instead just passing out. And she wakes up three times in the middle of the night because she’s the best baby ever but not the best sleeper, and then it’s 5am and time to do it all over again.

And nothing feels complete, even when you check it off your to-do list, because for every question you answer there are more and every problem solved there are more and every session planned for there are more.

So you text a friend who is like you in every way possible and you say, “I’m drowning. Tell me it gets easier.”

She says it does. You bitterly smile, and then your eyes well up, because you know she must be right but you just can’t see it.

Blind faith leap of faith drop the rope trust hope breathe.

—

And it did get better. It’s still hard. It’s hard every single day. Some days I call my mom and panic, “I’m so tired I can’t see straight – how am I supposed to get through the day?” But routines have begun to emerge, and every so often she sleeps better. And most days I enjoy half-caf coffee, and I shower at night instead of in the morning, and the little things help. And my husband is so supportive and my family is so supportive and some people Get It and those are the ones I lean on. And some days I am not fully planned for sessions but I’m a skilled SLP and fully capable of putting a great session together last minute. And that’s okay. And I’ve learned to be even more efficient in the tiny little bit of free time I get throughout the day and somehow, I get done what needs to get done. And I catch up to my life on the weekends and I learn to be okay with the laundry not getting put away until then or the dishwasher not getting emptied until then. And each day I somehow find more energy just when I thought I had none left. Somehow I do become a superwoman and do it all. And my baby is a healthy, and happy, and thriving 4-month-old and really that’s all that matters.

So, real talk:

It’s hard, it’s so hard, and I think I wish I had known how hard it would be. But it gets better.