Just after the first of the year, a man from my high school class shared this article from Buzzfeed News.  It’s a beast of an article on millennial burnout  (Which is somewhat ironic as millennials are thought to have short attention spans…); but, it gained a bit of traction on the inter-webs through the month of January. 

Like I said, it’s a beast of an article and much of isn’t new news or things you have not heard before if you have ever read anything about generations and Millennials, in particular.  But, still, it made me think.  

First off, it was nice to read an article that didn’t claim all millennials are lazy and entitled for a change. Adam and I have often grappled with this idea. Wondering where it comes from as we both work full time jobs and have had side hustles, grow our own food, volunteer on boards and more for years.

However, I didn’t love the idea of errand paralysis. I too had a moment like the author of, “Really? You can’t make a trip to the post office?”

The idea of paralysis associated with tasks like this seemed extreme to me.  Paralysis conjures up the thought of being scared to do something or just completely unable.  And, with this idea, it makes it seem like millennials are afraid of going to the post office and reverts to the overused idea that we are so in technology and just physically cannot do things that require banal communication.

It’s not fear or inability.  It’s just kind of a pain because there is so much else to do.  

(Full disclosure: As I write this, I have a skirt that I sold on Poshmark three days ago on the front seat of my car that needs to get to the post office…)

Because of this, the idea of the “To Do List of Shame” spoke to me.  After years of not seeing myself in Millennial articles and even getting angry from some the claims, this gave me a “Huh. So that’s what that is called…” moment for something front and center in my life.

The idea of rolling tasks over day after day.  Week after week.  All too real.  

After a little reflection, I recognized that the To Do List of Shame is actually what finally made me call in my notice last fall.  

The travel was hard.  Mom Guilt was running me.  I stopped caring about my body, feeding it big lunches, chocolate and lattes in the name of “self-care.” Fears of stepping into Adam’s busy season with the demands on me only increasing scared me.  All the while, I was actively disengaging and bored by my role.  I also was fighting the desire to follow a call to step out on my own.  So, life wasn’t perfect.  Based on many definitions, I was burnt out.  

But, I stuck around until I received an email with a new task.  A simple task.  We were asked to send in an email every Monday morning recapping our actions for the week prior and then our plan for the next week.  

This isn’t that weird of a task to be asked of by an employer.  And, it’s not that it would really be that hard to complete… But, at the same time, it would be.

I couldn’t imagine, week after week, seeing all the things I didn’t do.  Didn’t complete.  Things that would carry over for weeks.  

I already felt like like I was failing at twelve things at once- in and out of the office- and I would have to remind myself of that every Monday.  As if I didn’t already know.  Not to mention, being a deliverable, my To Do List of Shame would also be judged. What about those things things I managed to accomplish?  Would it ever be enough?

There is a lot of talk of “Being Enough” these days.  Think: “You are enough!” “You are worthy of love!  Of good things!” Blah, blah, blah. 

For me, this isn’t a concern in a God sense or a love sense.  I believe both Adam and my creator feel that I am enough just the way I am.  I have that self awareness and faith.  However, when it’s the conversation of being enough… for me?  That’s another story.  

I grew up an achiever and I am still one.  I am not (too) embarrassed to admit that at the root of my achieving is a bit of striving for approval.  I enjoy receiving praise, particularly praise about my performance.  

But, there is also something internal at play.  I have really high expectations for myself and know I am capable of a lot.  More than the average bear, if I am being totally honest.  I like pushing myself and being challenged… and I really like coming out the other side victorious.

This is beginning to sound like something that flirts with perfectionism.

But, I am not a perfectionist.

I have been well aware of this for years.  This blog, our business, my kitchen floors and my total lack of care in going out without makeup are living proof of this.  

Perfectionism is not the same as achievement.  Perfectionism is not the same as striving for those achievements.  It’s even different that striving for excellence in those achievements.  

But, what perfectionism is, is subjective.  It’s different for everyone and based on their own perceptions of perfect.

Okay.  So, what are my perceptions of me?

My highest achieving, thriving, rockstar self?  Sure, the floors are not great and I haven’t got a clue how to contour but, what about the “me” I am striving to be everyday through my goals and to do’s?  

Perfection is subjective. And while it’s not the world’s “perfect,” it’s… mine.  Gulp.  

I am currently trudging through Bene Brown’s “Dare to Lead” for a book club.  I say trudging, because… While I like Brene.  A lot.  I have for a while.  And, maybe because I am listening to it versus reading. (Sorry bookclub, my secret’s out…) But, dang. It’s a lot of research. 

So, while I am not totally loving every moment, there are plenty of really great points and things to think about. 

One of those nuggets: “Where ever perfectionism is driving us, shame is riding shot gun.”

Mom guilt drove me to a point of, “Well, if I am not with my babies, I better be the best I can be here.”  And, when I am home, I better be the best I can be there.  

The problem with my expectations for “the best I can be?”  They are impossibly high.

Maybe they are so high because my dad had an amazing career. He provided more than our family could have imagined needing and coached us though calling and purpose to set us up for “success.”  Then, this is coupled with the fact that my mom was a remarkable mom.  She was there if you needed her to bring forgotten homework and to volunteer to host the field hockey team for dinner.  She made our home beautiful and prepared great meals every night. 

In my expectations, goals, and “to do’s,” I do both.  I work like my dad and mother like my mother.  

All the while, I am a Millennial, who has been taught to believe that busyness is good and “I am what I achieve and how I achieve it” thanks to an upbringing in the 90’s and early 2000’s that was big on activity and praise.

Last summer, it is very clear to see that I was at burnout’s front door and it was fueled by shame.  I was exhausted and unhappy and always wondering why.  I was not mindful about anything from the food I ate to the tone I set for my day.  I was running, not, like, on a treadmill for exercise; but, instead from one impossibility to another and only to feel like I was failing all the time.  

I was striving for achievement and approval, not just from my bosses, my peers and parents; but, from me.  

And, when you do this, things like cuddling with your toddler watching Cars for the 400th time, making out with your husband, going on a run or even to the post office can seem like a waste of valuable time.

But, then I got that email in September.  

I imagined fitting the task into Sunday nights or Monday mornings in order to deliver it by the deadline each week.  

Sunday nights:  Dinner, bath time, folding laundry, picking up.  

Monday morning: Lots of coffee because Theo didn’t sleep.  Breakfast.  Dressing kids.  Packing backpacks.  Multiple trips to the car.

Breakfast and dinner stuck out.  Food is a tenant in my life and at my core, I want to feed my children out of love and care, not out of desperation and hustle.  As a check on my to do list.  Same goes for Adam too.  Anyone really.  

I want to really cook for them.  I want meals with connection.  I want to sit at the able and talk.  I want to sing along to Taylor Swift at breakfast with my toddler.

This is what I want more than all the high approval or major achievements I can imagine.  And, what I am coming to learn, that approval and achievements are things, and like tangible things, like cars and clothes… there will always be more and, in a way, never enough.  But, this way of living?  This is want I want more.  This is enough.    

And, there is there is no shame in that.

This is hard to see when we are so conditioned to get there and then move on to the next thing.  Ya’ll are looking at about six months of work here.

So, now- in real time- my focus is on healthy striving.

Setting real goals.  Recognizing my parents were two different people… who were far from perfect.  That praise is fleeting.  So are moments.  

So, maybe I need to do the celebrating over the little accomplishments… even it is just getting to the post office.

Photo by Cassie Dunmyer Photography

January ended with a sadness I didn’t see coming.  One of my longest, best friends lost her husband suddenly and two weeks later it’s hard to get back into the groove of work and creating.  I had a calendar for February ready to go and everything I had in mind felt wrong.  It was trite or it lacked the fire I wanted to bring.  It was something I just couldn’t finish… or even start.  

So, instead of writing, I turned to reality TV. 

Here is the thing… When it comes to TV I can tell you nothing about This Is Us and I have never seen an episode of Game of Thrones… But, if you are curious to know what the Housewives are up to- I am your girl.

Teen Mom, reruns of Laguna Beach and The Hills, Kardashians, Dance Moms, Project Runway, American’s Next Top Model, Vanderpump Rules and every city there are Housewives fill our DVR.  

And, listen- I come in fully knowing it’s not going to be Emmy worthy entertainment with whitty banter and artfully produced sets.  (… Although, did you see TomTom on VP Rules?!)

I do appreciate those things… but, after 9:00 PM on a weeknight?  Trashy TV is what my self care sometimes looks like.  

It’s justified, in my mind, because it’s an escape.  I don’t have to think too hard or keep up with a season because the story line is always easy to follow.  I can turn it on and turn it off without too much brain power required… and it won’t give me nightmares or make me cry.  All good things for the Feeler that I am.

This week, for whatever reason… maybe because of the all platitudes running though my mind (“Life is short!”) or even being a Feeler, more heightened by the current events, I started to ask questions of my- should be- escape.  

When it all boils down, all these shows are are just people- women in particular- yelling at each other.  

Tearing down businesses, husbands or husbands businesses.  Judging parenting, outfits, homes and glasses of wine consumed.  Back stabbing and gossiping.  Teaming up to exclude someone, fighting the formation of a new friendship in the name of protecting someone and leaving people out.

For the record, this wasn’t a big “a-ha!” moment.  I knew these things existed in reality TV years ago.  It’s been an underlying current in all the media I have consumed since I was a girl.  (Hello?  Mean Girls came out when I was 16.)  

But, it was the intentionally being mean for the sake of hurting someone else that really got me this week.

Through the behind the back claims that “her husband is leaving for a 22 year old” to the threats about custody to purposefully uninviting someone to an event, it always hit a nerve.  Show after show, if someone wanted to go for the jugular, just attack their character, gossip about their personal life or make the other person feel ostracized.  Or, when all else fails, make something up just to see if it stirs the pot.

Why do we do this?

I know why.  I get it.  I have been there.  I have been uninvited, mocked, and attacked with words to the point of believing they were true.  But, likewise, I know I have made someone else feel poorly, alone or less than over the years be it intentionally or not.  In this, I couldn’t help but look back on times I have been mean… on purpose.

Fortunately it wasn’t often; but, I am no saint.  I was a girl who was trying to fit in middle school and a cocky 19 year old.  Still to this day, I am judge-y and I know it.  I also know I can come off as preachy. (See Also: I am preachy)  I don’t love these things about myself and I am working on it.  

Motherhood has helped.  

(Oh, while we are here, let’s have a moment for that sweet girl and all the claims she made prior to 2016.  Bless. Her. Precious-little-bitty-baby. Heart.)  

But, every time I am mean- even at my most ego driven and/or, then, vanilla vodka induced mean girl- I instantly felt yucky about it.  From elementary school to 31, the feeling of being the victim or the perpetrator of cruelty, for me, wasn’t too different.

Sure, when dishing it out, there was sometimes a temporary high.  Maybe it’s my hereditary Catholic Guilt at play- or the fact that I am kind of a weenie, but being mean always left me a little nauseous.  Fearful of retaliation.  Of being exposed.

So, why?  Why do we do this?  Why, as women, do we prey on other women?  Is it just thriving on the thrill of drama?  Is it fear that we might actually have to be honest with our peers (and ourselves), so we would rather send people looking in another direction?

News flash: Life has enough drama.  It’s a constant ride of ups and downs even without us intervening.  

Because of this, we need other people.

More specifically, as a woman, we need other women.  

If you are a seasoned reader, you know I love inclusion.  I love men and I believe that women need great men.  I absolutely love my husband and, to all the great guys that love my friends, thank you. But, in this week’s reflections I reminded of advice my mom gave me at about 13 years old.  

Then, dating was becoming more “real.” (You know… Not just saying you were going out, writing their name in a heart on your hand and never speaking again until you “broke up.”)

Dates were kind of becoming a thing.

So was making out.

Couples were becoming joined at the hip.  

And, my mom said in passing, “Don’t forget.  Girlfriends are as important as boyfriends.”

It is still true at 31.  

(And, I bet if I asked my mom, she would say it is true at her age too.)

Yes. Like the cliche says, “we need lift each other up, not tear each other down.”  But, the reality of that is that some days that may look like just holding each other up.  

Because of this we need to come together. We need to create community where you are not left out.

A safe place where you can come as you are.  Where you are forgiven.  

Where there is power in not pointing fingers, but instead found in being vulnerable about the ugly, scary, real things.  It’s not gossiping this trust away, pretending they are not the same demons we we face every day; but, rather, saying “Hey, guess what? Me too!”  

Look at your friends and maybe welcome a few more in.  Make someone feel invited and seen.  Because more support is better. More laughter is better.  More love is better.

This week is Valentine’s Day.  The poor day gets a lot of flack; but, it’s one of my favorites.  I love the warm pinks and reds in the dreary month and I get a kick out of making it fun for the kids… and I love love.  

Like I said, Romance love is so great.  But, so is friendship love.  

This week, think about this love.  

The girls I am walking through this new reality with are girls that have been by my side for years.  Literally over half my life.  A couple of them were there well over a decade before I am met Adam.  That’s a lot of braces, sleepovers, passed notes, deciphering AIM conversations with crushes, frantic “I think we are breaking up” calls, whispers that we will never live up to our parents expectations, fraternity parties, tears about challenges at work, sadness as “they think my mom is sick- again” was shared over wine, bridesmaid dresses, showers, and advice about newborn sleep.

We were young and- by the grace of God- we rode out the turbulence of adolescence and into adulthood and every year that passed, every milestone, there was a silent agreement to continue to do life together.  

This is the same commitment I made to my husband, but that day was marked by a ceremony, big dress and cake.  The commitment to these friends and many others had less pomp and circumstance, but it doesn’t change the care and love there.  These women are my soul mates too.  

This Valentines Day, tell your friends you love them too.    

If you are not there with friends, it’s okay.  It’s not too late.  Reconnect with someone you hurt- intentionally or not.  Use the holiday to change the narrative if your group has a tendency to go the route of Reality TV.  Tell them your faults and why you want to change.  

A reason?  Life is short.

 

The best way to describe Savannah right now is “destructive.”

For Christmas, she received an adorable kitchen.  I envisioned sweet, independent play as she used her imagination to create recipes that she would ask me to “try.” Instead, she has more fun dumping the (many, many pieces of) food and the utensils all over the floor.

She will go to reach for one book off the shelf and it quickly becomes a disaster as fourteen books come tumbling to the floor. 

She wants so badly to run.  And, she tries.  But, she doesn’t quite have it down. She tends to trip over her feet and collide into things.  She also is her mother’s daughter and is often carrying more than she can handle.  So, on some of these attempts at running, she also has a complete yard sale, scattering the three stuffed animals, a sippy cup, the remote control, my car keys and and a single shoe across the floor.

If Theo is working on a puzzle, coloring, or building something with blocks, his constant refrain is, “Make Savannah go away.”  

We laugh, but also know that his project doesn’t stand a chance with her around.  

It’s likely a little bit of her personality shining through.  

She has been curious, a little feisty and very determined since Day One… and I love this about her.  

But, I also know that it’s just her age.  

Theo did this too.  I would try so hard to get him to play with this cute wooden set of blocks my sister found in New York, but he would just laugh and laugh while smacking the few that I could get stacked up before he would smack them down again.

But, at nearly three years old and as our little, wise man (… something I love about him), he has reached a certain level of maturity where he now wants to build.

We watch him get frustrated and even defeated as Savannah threatens what he is building. Throwing himself on the ground in a tantrum, letting her ravage his project.  

But, more so lately, he boldly and strongly just says, “No!” and stands his ground, protecting his work.  

What are you building that others are trying to knock down?

The new car smell of the New Year is fading and all the “can do” spirit may be harder to find today than it was a few weeks ago.  

Motivation dies.  Life happens.  You may even start to feel pressure to give in from people around you.

Here are just a few of the things I have heard in the last three months:

“Oh, I tried Weight Watchers years ago.  It doesn’t work.  It’s a waste of money.”

“Don’t go on a run. It’s too cold.”

“You are thirty one.  You can’t write a memoir yet.”

“I can’t believe you let Theo watch You Tube/choose to wear his coat/eat an ice cube.”

“You should really lower your prices.  No one is going to buy that.”

And, you guys.  These are things I have been told TO MY FACE.

Here’s what I have come to learn…  Sometimes there isn’t an intent to be mean; but still, you are probably not going to be told these things by some who has done what you are trying to do or built what you are building.  They have not lost the weight.  They have not reached a point where they are debt free.  They are not raising your child.  They have not started or leveled up a business.  

In fact, they may have never even tried.  These criticisms and critiques could be from people who are too scared to try.  They won’t even start because they are afraid it might be hard or because there are things they don’t know.  

You know this feeling, but you overcame it.  You added a block and got past this step.

Or, maybe the people telling you these things tried and then they stopped.  They may feel frustrated or uncomfortable by you continuing to reach because it may make them look bad and they want you to stay on their level instead of adding another block. 

Or, maybe you are making them defeated or even jealous.  They don’t want you to add another block because they will have to see you do what they wish they could have done.

Turns out, adults are not much different than toddlers: It still takes a certain level of maturity to build something.  And, those who just try to knock it down, just don’t have it.

The challenge for us reaching, trying and building is to not give up and let them knock us down or off track.     To not whine about it.  To not beg for help or for them to just leave us alone.  Instead, to have the conviction to say  “No.” To protect our work.  To add a block and then another.  To keep building.  

This is hard.

But, what helps me is remembering that anyone- even bitty babies on the brink of toddlerhood- can break things.  Tear them down.  

But, not everyone can- or will- build something.  You have to grow into that person… and you have.

You have already done the hardest part.  You recognized you had the desire and fought the fear… and you started.  You added a block.

Add another.

Keep building.

 

Tune into today’s podcast for a conversation about some of the other things I have heard in the last month by putting myself in places where the people around me are building too and how to find places like this.

 

I left my previous job the first week of October and as we approached Halloween I was asked, “How have you changed?”

It had been twenty days.

I knew enough about change and habits to know that I needed more time for any change to be lasting. And, to expect to see any transcendental change in that amount of time, perhaps, could happen… But, it wasn’t my reality and to set someone else up with that expectation wouldn’t be fair.

I joked and said that much of those twenty days had been spent catching up on laundry. (Half true.)

But, really, at that point I was still raw and a little exhausted.

After a few laughs, I explained that there were a few things that I was hoping to change and do in the short term. I was trying things and being intentional about those areas.

Nothing too profound. No cataclysmic shift. Part of me felt bad for not having a better answer.

But, now? With just over 100 days at this new pace? I can see it better now.

I can see the change from then to now.  I was doing it then at day twenty, but, then, my head down doing work and making new habits. Making change.

The change? I am alive.

Yes. All summer, I was walking, breathing, talking… by all intents and purposes, alive.

But, not fully alive.

I was run by my to do list and inbox. Run by toddler emotions. Run by “oh shoot it’s dinner time-again- and we have to eat.” Run by exhaustion.  Expectations. What ever was right in front of me was important, but still, many times I wasn’t all there either.  

I let life just happen to me and I would react as it came.

I wanted- and tried- so much to be in control, but it still felt so much was out of control and I was left brittle.  Always gritting my teeth, bracing for impact. 

I make it sound hard.

It was hard.  

Almost broke me kind of hard.

Here is what I know now: By retreating to this scattered, reactionary, vacuous place, I made it hard.

At Christmas, we were talking about time and how it goes fast.  How it is a precious resource.  Maybe even the most precious resource.  We all agreed that we all want more of it in each day.

My dad disagreed, however.  

He shared that it’s not time that is the most precious resource, it’s mindfulness.  

Time is a great equalizer because we all get the same amount.  It’s mindfulness that we want more of.  Mindfulness is the scarcest, most precious resource.

I thought about how I had been feeling clearer, lighter, more awake… more alive since the shift on October 1.  It’s not that life has changed too much.  We still have jobs, the farm, things we are building, toddlers to care for, a home to manage, laundry running and dinner to get on the table every night.  

Life really isn’t any easier… but, in many ways it is.  

And, it’s because I have chosen to wake up and come alive.  I have become mindful.

Instead of working through lunch and finding myself starving at 3:00, in my pantry, eating everything I can get my hands on- fast, I make a lunch and eat it.  Sometimes at my desk, but that’s okay.  And, if I need a snack at 3:00, I reach for something healthier like an apple or even will take the time to measure a serving of nuts instead of impassivly emptying the container.

Instead of feeling pulled in 40 different directions and responding to the needs of multiple projects at one time, I am experimenting with batch work.  And, it’s working.  I even keep my phone in a completely different room when working on a some projects.

Instead of pouring another glass of wine to watch more episodes of Vanderpump Rules, I listen to my tired body and I go to bed.  This helps me be happier when Theo wakes up at the crack of dawn and I even-sometimes- wake up before him and start the day with a candle, coffee, and intentions.

Instead of believing I had no time to work out, I make put it in the day’s top three priorities.  And, I also bring in tools like a Fit Bit so I can stay on track.

Instead letting the wheels fall off and letting a toddler ravage the house, I quickly make up activities when I see that their toys are no longer interesting.  Simple things like balancing ice cubes on a wooden spoon and walking through the kitchen have become a fun game.

Instead of expecting Adam to read my mind, we talk a lot more about wants and needs.  Using technology tools like shared calendars and setting a lunch meeting once a month to discuss the farm has been a great shift. We used to try to talk about goals and plans in the evening, tired from the day and with toddlers in the vicinity.  Now evenings can be spent together as a couple, not as roommates or business partners.

Maybe to you, it doesn’t seem all that riveting.  I mean, I get it, I am probably the last person on the planet to get a FitBit.  And, you maybe knew how to prevent distraction and how to listen to your body.  

I wasn’t that enlightened.

But, now I see the results of my choices.  My choice to be apathetic in setting the tone for my own life was making it too hard to manage.  But, it was my choice to be this way.

Making a choice to be mindful about my wellness, the tone of my household- especially in the traditionally more chaotic moments, and quality of my day… my life?  It has opened my eyes and reminded me that we are in far more control than we think.  

Be mindful of this.

In recent years, I have hopped on the trend of choosing a word, in place of a resolution, for the new year.

There are always goals for the year.  Come on, it’s me.

But, I have liked this idea of having a word to set a tone or theme to the coming year.  It’s a fun exercise to think about what word I would like to use.  A word to think about when I am presented opportunities, challenges or at a crossroads.

What word do I want to help steer my course?  If I could have one thing that year, what would it be in one word?

In my past few years my words have been things like: Growth, Abundant, and 2018’s word… Big.

Seriously.  Big.

As in “Go big!”

And, I did.  I went big in 2018.

In good ways, like getting published in publications I admire and reaching new revenue levels at the farmer’s market.

But, also in ways that were not so good.  Like a huge garden I couldn’t manage.  My waistline.  Cramming so much into my life it became too hard to carry.

To my biggest big moment this fall: Stepping out into the world of 100% self employment.

Because of this recent development, there are-of course- goals on goals for 2019.  So, naturally, I started to think of motivating words that I wanted to consider for the year.

Ideas were things like: Level-up.  Focus.

And, then came the word, “Do.”

I didn’t hate it.  Do is more confident than try.  Do isn’t hesitating.  Do is gutsy.  Do is hard work.  Do get’s it done.

Do is me.

In school, I wasn’t the smartest.  I had to work for every grade.  And, that is still true today.  I am not particularly talented in any one thing.  Nothing comes totally natural to me.

But, what I can do is work.  I can push harder.  Give me a task and I will give it my all.  I will outwork, outlast, out perform.  I will do it.

I am a professional who rolls up her sleeves and gets on the hot line or dish room to get the job done.

My relaxing looks like folding laundry.

I have only once used a sick day… and it was when I had the flu so bad that Adam wouldn’t even come into our bedroom.

Heck… I was in pitocin-induced labor for over two days.  And, wouldn’t get an epidural for over 24 hours.

I have said that if I could be given anything in the world, I would ask for five more hours in the day because there is so much I want to do.  So much I want to achieve and accomplish and experience.

And, because I can’t get there on talent and charm, mind over matter is my mantra.  Sheer grit and resilience are my super powers.  I do, when others wait for better circumstances or until they have thought about all the outcomes.

I told Adam that I was thinking of my word of the year and that “do” was where I was leaning.

He didn’t say anything, instead his face said it all.  He got a dejected look in his eyes that read, “I thought we were getting off this crazy train.”

In that moment, I saw “do” for what it really is.

Do is hustle.  Do is pushing.  Do is more action.  More undertaking.  More.  More.  More.

All the things I have been trying to get away from because, turns out, “do” has gotten me in a lot of trouble.

My “To Do” list has the habit of becoming a “To Do It All” list.

I looked at my goals again.

Big, great goals.  They are all about pushing myself and I am so excited for them.  They will require risk, resilience and bravery, but they are things I am so excited to do. And, not just in the “accomplishment” sense of the word “do;” but, in the work.  I cannot wait to do the work.  I am looking forward to it.

These goals require work that will be challenging, but also work that will be really fun.  That will bring me so much joy every day.

I couldn’t help but think, “Why have I not ever associated “fun” or “joy” with act of working on a goal?”  I have only considered them as emotions to feel when the goal is complete.  But, what about in the act of doing?

To me, goals and New Year’s have always been about the hustle and intensity.  About checking things off that “To Do (It All)” list and moving onto the next task with no smile or celebration until it’s all done.

I thought about the words fun, celebration and joy… and rolled my eyes.

Fun.  It’s a little… juvenile.

And, joy.  Puhlease.  What am I?  A Sunday school teacher?

No.  I am am corporate.  Black coffee.  And, blazers.

“Choose Joy!” I mean… Come on.  How PollyAnna, right?

But, here’s the thing, for me, achievement is not the issue.  I can do that.  Even with my big, bold goals, I know I can.  It’s happened before, and it will again.  And, it will be so great.

So, maybe the goal this year should be for how I want to live rather than what I want to achieve. 

Plus, I know enough to know that there is no happiness found in achieving, no fulfillment in high performance without a little fun and a lot of joy.

So, maybe joy isn’t as cutesy or PollyAnna as I originally thought.

Maybe seeking joy, choosing joy, living with joy- even in challenges- is actually brave.  Gutsy even.  Even more gutsy than doing because you can’t just hide behind motion and the final destination of achievement.

Joy.  It’s a way of living.  A way of being. It’s facing extraordinary moments and ordinary moments and finding the same emotion- Pure Joy.

So, here we go.

2019.  The year of Joy.

For more on The Year of Joy be sure to subscribe to my email list.  (On the right side bar.)  On the 10th of each month, I will be sending out a love letter of where I am finding Joy.  (Know that as a subscriber you will also get a note when ever a new post is published.)

This monthly email may include something as simple as a new Starbucks order that rocked my world or a book I am loving or jeans that make me look like Kendall Jenner.  (… This curvy, 5’4 girl can dream.) It may be a link to a blog post that I found interesting or a recipe that is on repeat at my house.  It could include a kitchen tool that is streamlining dinner time or a little luxury that is making the most mundane day seem a little special.  It may also be something deeper, in line with personal development or business tool, or even something hard we are working on, but in being brave and choosing joy, I will share how we are getting though.  More on all of this on today’s podcast! 

 

Over Thanksgiving,  my mom told me that she liked the relaunch of Bloom and that she shared some of the recent posts with her friends.  But, then she inquired, “What are you trying to do with it?”

I rattled off a few of my goals.

I want to share honest stories so women- mom’s in particular- don’t feel alone and can feel like they can be more honest with each other.

I want to fill the void between Pinterest Mom and Hot Mess Mom; #girlboss Mom and Kid-Obsessed Mom; Fit Moms and mom’s who don’t take the time- any time- for themselves.

I want to make a place for mom’s who try their best everyday.  Whatever that looks like for you is perfect for you and your kids.  Somedays it might look like cover-worthy cupcakes for the Valentine’s party that you have to Instagram because… Hello!  Look at what you made…!  And, other days it looks like your kid sleeping on their bedroom floor because… that is what sleep training looks like sometimes. 

I want to encourage mom’s to ask more questions about themselves and their identity because I, too, have found myself asking, “I love these kids… But, who am I in this mom role?”

My mom thought for a second.  Then she shared that one of her friends mom’s used to call your thirties the “Thirsty Years.”

We got interrupted- likely by one of my children- so she didn’t get to explain to much behind this theory.  But, I understood the “thirsty” analogy right away.

And, then the idea stuck with me.

Particularly because my mom heard this when she was in her thirties- thirty years ago- from a woman who had been in her thirties thirty years prior.  Meaning this “thirsty” feeling isn’t new.  It isn’t because of Pinterest or social media or Chrissy Teigen or Joanna Gaines.

So, after I couldn’t get it off my mind, here’s my take:

The Thirsty Years: A longing for something.  Wanting something, but unable to get it.  Unsure of what it is that you need.  What you want.

Women in their thirties have felt this way for decades.

In the first week of the relaunch, a friend reached out.  She shared that she is sad and overwhelmed in her role as a working mom.  She was brave with me and told me she hasn’t thought about her own desires in a really long time.  She said after listening to the podcasts, she tried to think of a few personal goals and to think about things that really excite her, but she couldn’t.

She knew this was bad and it made her even more sad… but, she can’t imagine having goals, ambitions and passions because she is already stretched too thin as it is.

I felt for her because I know what it’s like to be so tired too.

It’s hard to dream and set goals when ear infections happen and wrestling toddlers into carseats takes as much energy as a HIIT class.

When you are so depleted in every sense- physically, emotionally and mentally- that doing something for you can seem like a chore.

I have been there.  I still find myself there once or twice a week.

It is a struggle to dream when all you can think about is all it would take from you and your family to pursue.

And, then to feel guilt for taking that time when work is what pays you and your kids are so dependent on you for everything.

But, I also can’t help but wonder… what if the interruptions from a sick kid and the get-out-the-door routines are so hard because of this thirst we have?

A thirst for more.  Is this thirst a passion or dream on our head and heart that we are constantly suppressing?

Could our frustration really just be pent up passion?  Could operating with this thirst be what is making us so tired?  So overwhelmed and brittle?

Maybe you don’t follow that passion because you are afraid of all it would take to accomplish.  Maybe you don’t do it because you don’t even know what “it” is.

Here is what I do know about dreams and passions: They are not an all or nothing thing.

Coincidentally and fortunately, I am learning, neither is motherhood.

And, there are places for this self exploration when the kids are right in front of you.

Want to be more creative?  Watercolor alongside your toddler.  Practice calligraphy with Crayola Markers while they color.

Want to get fit?  Do steps ups at the park.  Lunges while doing laundry… really.

Want to write a book?  While nursing, write down your thoughts in notes on your phone or start a mircoblog on Instagram- I know you are already on there.

Want to learn to cook? Code? Sew?  While at the library, pick up books for you too.

One baby step can fit into your life today and make way for something bigger years down the road.

For a little perspective here…  Want to know what my business started as? Trying to grow some tomatoes and lettuce and the desire to taste an actual farm fresh egg… in 2013.(More on this on the podcast featuring this post.)

It doesn’t have to be a business this instant.

And, even if it never becomes a way to make money, I still can’t help but believe that you- and the kids- will be better off.

And, isn’t that the goal?  At least one of them?  To raise kids who are kind to others and also to themselves.

We are raising the next generation, yes.  But still, how we show up, think and believe in ourselves is an important contribution to this.  This identity is transferred to our kids.

Reach for more.  Think better of yourself.  Do things for fun.  For you and only you.  Because kids need to learn do this too.

Not even sure what you want?  Not sure what your passions are?

Think about what you love.

Still too hard?  Think about what you loved as a kid.

And, then take one step.

Take one sip.

Then, take another one.  And, another one.

Quench your thirst.

 

 

There was a period of time where it felt like every weekend was spent at a wedding.  Lots of choosing between chicken or beef.  Dancing to “At Last” and “Party in the USA.”  Open bars and plenty of great cake.

These days, the heels and glittering clutches have been tucked away and traded for Uggs and diaper bags.  And, the only thing I have danced to recently is “The Greatest Showman” in the kitchen during breakfast.

So, after a few years off the wedding circuit, it was kind of a novelty to go to a wedding of one of Adam’s fraternity brothers a couple weeks ago.

Adam was a groomsman and we enlisted the help of his parents to take the kids overnight.  Something we had not done before.

We both were drunk on the prospect of sleeping past 8:00 AM the morning after.

At the ceremony, I sat with the other groomsmen’s wives in the front few pews.  I smiled as I watched Adam, like I had many times before, walk a bridesmaid down the aisle.  He shook the hand of the groom and he stepped aside.

The familiar ritual of the ceremony began.  The same words I had heard so many times at many ceremonies.

To have and to hold…  To Cherish…  A strand of three cords… I nodded along.

At the giving of the rings, the minister asked them to look down at the new bands on their hand.  He told them that every time they look at these rings to be reminded of this day.  To remember the love they had for each other on this beautiful day.

He talked about how as years pass married couples can lose the “spark” and how they need to remember the love they felt today.

I looked at my own left hand and fiddled with the three rings on my finger.  On top is my engagement ring.  Simple and stunning.  Given to me on a Friday night when cooking steaks and drinking red wine at Adam’s home.

Then, the ring Adam gave me the day I became a mom.  More details in this band of both circle and square diamonds.

And, on the bottom, my wedding band.  An infinity band of small square stones framed in white gold.  A mix of soft and strong.

Holding my fingers and running my right thumb over the three of them, I thought about our wedding.

It was a great day.

I remembered  how one of my friends wrote to me after the weekend and told me that she felt my happiness as I walked down the aisle to Adam.  She said it seemed like I was skipping towards him.

Other guests would recall that same moment, but they were not looking at me; instead, they were looking at Adam’s giant smile.  But, of course, I knew about that.  It’s all I could look at too.

I remembered our kiss… bigger than I had wanted for a ceremony.  But, we weren’t thinking clearly when Father Steven finally said we could and we couldn’t help it.

I remembered closing the door to the car that drove us away from the party at the end of the night. After our friends and family had lined the patio of the country club sending us off.  In that car, we looked at each other in disbelief.  “Wow!” was all we both could manage to describe the night and all our feelings.

I looked up at Adam on the alter now.  Handsome, but older.  Baby face gone.  More years in his eyes.

I looked back at the rings and thought of the love I felt for him that day.  It was a sweet love, filling me with butterflies and possibility.  It was a love that was full of the belief in forever.

It was nothing like what I felt now.

Not even close.

Seven and a half years later, we were so far from that love.

I looked at Adam and thought, “And, I don’t want that love back.”

That love was sweet, yes.  But, it wasn’t as sweet as sweetness can be after something bitter.  A moment where we hurt each other.  Maybe not intentionally, but it still hurt just the same.  Only to find each other again and choose love over hurt, anger and keeping score.

That love gave me butterflies when he picked me up for a date night, but not nearly as many butterflies as when our children would excitedly reach for him on the most routine Tuesday after a busy day of work.

That love was full of possibility, but had not spent hours late in the night dreaming together.  Spent saying we would do things that to some may seem impossible and building a business that would be ours.

That love had a belief in forever, but had not yet seen that forever can be ripped away from anyone in the blink of an eye.  This love knows more.  Has seen more.  And, knows every day is a gift.

This love is so different.  It’s less intense in the sense of grand gestures, presents, and spending hours in bed.  It’s less spontaneous and impulsive.

Instead, it’s a conscientious choice everyday.

Instead of jumping into each other’s arms, it’s more hand holding.  It’s softer.

But, still, it’s deeper.  Stronger.  It is so much better than that love on our wedding day.

I finally caught up with Adam at the end of cocktail hour.  The wedding party had been off taking photos, so once they were all announced he headed straight towards me.  He gave me a kiss and told me I looked great.

Still with his arm on my waist, I told him that I thought the idea of looking at your rings and remembering your feelings on your wedding day was bad advice.  I also told him that I didn’t want that love back.

He paused for a second, having to place the thought and really hear it- without focusing on locking his knees.

He kissed me.

“Me either.  Not at all,” he said, with that same giant grin I saw at the end of the aisle seven years ago.

Photo by Hilary Ferguson Photography

When I thought about having a baby, I thought the hardest part would be getting pregnant.  

At the time, I saw too many amazing couples struggling.  I knew that even my own parents had a road to parenthood that was not marked without hardship.  

I prepared my head and heart for it to take a while.  I protected myself and thought of how I would come to terms, as best I could imagine, with a miscarriage.  I had heard the stories about women crying in their bathrooms.  Crying and asking why their bodies were failing them.  Asking why so many people can do this thing, yet they can’t.

Turns out, I would not be one of those women crying in the bathroom.  

I got pregnant both times, quickly.  So quick that both almost felt a little unexpected.  Even a little scary.  And, amazingly, both my babies had strong heartbeats and little prenatal concerns.

I am not a woman who has cried in her bathroom.  

Instead, I am a woman who cried alone in a Starbucks.  

It was the day before Halloween.  The warm October had aggressively turned grey, cold and wet.

Twenty minutes before I had been in my OBGYN’s office for my 41 week check up.  Things looked good with the baby, but- despite the weeks of Braxton Hicks- my body had not made any progress towards labor.  

I was told that yes, things were okay right now; but, they really couldn’t let me go much longer. A day or two, at the most.

It had already been made clear to me that in order to have a VBAC, I would have to go into labor naturally.  There were concerns about augmenting labor with things like pitocin after my emergency c-section only eighteen months earlier.  

The c-section that came after two days of labor augmentations because I was- again- overdue.  

That came after two hours of pushing.  

That came and sent my sent my grey son to the NICU before I got to hold him.

That would send me back to the hospital for another week.  

A week where I was able to room with my days-old son; but, in some cruel joke, was unable to care for him.  Instead, I had to watch Adam do it all through the haze of the cocktail of drugs keeping me from having a seizure.  

When the doctor first shared that I was a good candidate for a VBAC, I was thrilled.  I wanted it.  I wanted it so bad.  

For a year I had battled with what had happened.  Fighting depression and anxiety from it.  Wondering why it all had gone so wrong.  Feeling robbed.  Asking why had my body failed me.  And worse, questioning if I failed it. 

I saw other friends share their new child’s birth on social media.  Babies- still covered in a little vernix- on their chest.  Huge smiles full of euphoria and relief.  

I wanted that photo.  

I visualized it and could see it so clearly.  Me, reaching for my baby as the doctor set her on my chest.  So happy.  Laughing, with tears in my eyes.  “I did it,” I would breathlessly exclaim.  

I found it all so poetic.  After all, my first photo with Theo was from one whole day later.  He was still attached to wires in the NICU and I was beginning to show signs that my body was in distress.  

That photo, that moment, that completely different experience.  That would be my redemption.

I saw husbands sharing their love and pride in their “rockstar” wives.  Adam didn’t get to have that.  Instead, he has the memory of holding our son in the emergency room while texting his mom: “What do I need to prepare myself for?” as he watched my blood pressure reach levels of Hypertensive Crisis.  

I wanted it just as bad for him.  This would be our redemption.

But, instead, in that Starbucks on that grey, cold, windy afternoon, I cried.  

I asked why my body couldn’t do the thing that so many others could.  I asked why was my body failing me… again.  

Longing still for that moment of redemption, I called the office back and asked for 48 more hours.

But, within those 48 hours, that moment never came.  Instead, a little girl with a full head of hair did… by way of a scheduled c-section at hour 48.

And, I supposed that is more than some can say.  Because in that same hour, there was likely a woman crying in her bathroom asking why her body cannot do the things mine can.

In the weeks that would follow, I wouldn’t get sick.   I would be able to care for two babies alongside my husband.  I would smile and feel happiness.  I would remember every moment. 

And, I would be told by someone- who is basically a stranger- that I was robbed again.

They should have induced me and let me have my chance.

Robbed. 

It echoed in my mind.  It was my word.  I had felt it so deeply before.

But, now… Robbed?

I told them that that may be.  

But, maybe not.

Either way, a c-section is how I became a mom.

Redemption.  

It finally came.

Something weird can happen when you find out that your are expecting a baby.

Okay, a lot of weird things happen. Yes.  But, many- not all- newly pregnant mom’s start to have a lot of questions and concerns about what is in make up.  Shampoo.  Deodorant.  Cleaning supplies.  Food.

Fortunately for me, after years of gardening, I already knew our food system was… a little scary.  So, I made changes to the food we purchase and consume well before the little plus sign showed up.  

And, once you dabble into the whole “chemicals in food” thing, you are just a hop, skip and a jump away from “chemicals in cleaning and beauty supplies.” So, I had also been a fan of natural cleaning products for years and went as far as not just finding alternatives, but eliminating, some personal care products.  

I cared about these things not just because of the chemicals, but also for the sustainability factors.  So, as a new mom I did my best to live my values: I bought cloth diapers, I registered for a little steamer to create my own purees, and I even picked out wooden toys.

But, then one day I was video taping Theo giggle.  

He was about 9 months old and so freaking cute with his little laugh.  We were getting ready for the bath and he was in a new outfit.  It was early December and I had just purchased a new winter wardrobe for my growing boy.  I had been in awe (and a little jealous) how I could buy Theo a whole new season’s worth of clothes for $200.

Cute clothes too!

He was in a little hooded sweatshirt and it made me smile so much seeing a little baby in a little hoodie.  How do they make big human things so tiny?

But, in that thought, my eyes glanced at the printed words on the sweatshirt.  My smile turned to a frown.  

It read, “Playground Legend.”

The phrase was- at first- funny because Adam had a joke with his mom about how she “gave birth to a legend.”  But, looking at it again, I couldn’t help but wonder, no longer about how, but who made this sweatshirt?

Freshman year of college, our bookstore came under a little fire from some of the student body.  There were claims that the apparel was made in “sweat shops.”  They were loud for a few weeks and then it fizzled out.  Being from a suburban bubble, I didn’t pay that much attention or get involved.  Or, really know what a sweat shop was.

As I got a little older and my bubble began to burst about the world, I learned that much of our clothes are made in developing countries.  And, because they don’t have regulations set up for child labor restrictions, there may be young children working in these factories that produce clothes.

Much of my twenties, I chose the ignorance is bliss route when it came to this.  Pushing any thought of how my clothes were made out of my mind, I shopped- and shopped hard- without a care.

But, now, looking at my son… I saw someone else’s.

A little boy.  Ten maybe.  Does he even know what a playground is?  Does he know what “play” is?  Is he screen printing these words onto a teeny-tiny sweatshirt?

I felt a pit grow in my stomach.  

The clothes were so cheap and I had tried to sewing before.  Clothes had always been exciting to me and there was a time that I tried to dive into what this passion of mine really looked like… so I tried to learn to sew.  

It was so hard and time consuming.  It required a lot of brain power and focus.  How much money was this young boy really making?

Curious to know if my imagination and Google searches were being extreme, I went to a friend of mine who knows a lot about the scientific realities-good and bad- of things like vaccines and if we can really support to feed the world’s population in thirty years; but, also has a humanitarian heart.

I asked her if it was really that bad.  Are there really kids working?  For basically… nothing?

She said yes, but because of the state of their country’s economics… it just is what it is.  It’s a job and that is how childhood is there.  Without it, their families wouldn’t get out of poverty and, ultimately, their country wouldn’t thrive.

She said it in a breezy fashion.  It just is what it is.  And, I suppose I understood the logic.  There was child labor and awful working conditions in the Industrial Revolution in America.  

But still, her answer didn’t sit well with me.

So, I kept looking into it.

Thanks to a recommendation from a friend who was frequently sharing “ethically made” finds from skirts to shoes, I watched the Netflix documentary, The True Cost.

And, I cried my eyes out.

The documentary is so well done.  I took away two big parts of the story:

1. The environmental impact that fashion has on the planet.  Between waste accumulation and water consumption and contamination, it is the second largest polluter of the world.
2. The April 2013 building collapse in Bangladesh.  This building, by all intents and purposes, was a sweat shop.

 The bubble from my freshman year of college finally burst and I couldn’t look away.  

This building, with poor working conditions and stuffed with too many under paid workers, had a structural failure and floor after floor collapsed.  Over 1100 people died.  Many of them women.  

In the days that would follow the collapse, many were thought to missing as workers searched through the wreckage.  All the while, children stood in the blood soaked street outside what remained of the building hold photos of their mom’s.

In them, I saw Theo.  

Just like I saw them in his sweat shirt.

I would like to say I made a vow then to never have someone else blood on the clothes my family wears.  That we only buy things made in America or with organic fibers.  Or, that I do all this research all the time to find ethically made pieces.

I don’t.  My kids are in Target PJ’s on our Christmas card.

But, I now do do things I never thought I would do.

I shop resale.  A lot.  And, I love it.  Savannah has not had anything “new” outside of a pair of black leggings and those Christmas PJ’s in about a year.

I keep it simple when it comes to our clothes.  Investing in those brands that are practicing humanitarian values and not just purchasing things on a whim. (A constant work in progress… shopaholic habits do die hard.)  

I look to things that can cross genders easily like staples in grey’s or black’s so both kids can wear them.

And, I finally took some lessons and really learned to sew.

As we approach this indulgent season of the year, it is so easy to get carried away.  Cute Christmas graphic tee’s.  Fancy Christmas outfits your kids will wear once.  Trying to find the perfect New Year’s Eve Dress.  Silly socks for stockings.  

But, take a step back and think.  

Think about who made what you are about to purchase.  

Think about where it will go when you are done with it.

If you have trouble visualizing these things, think of a playground with two little boys on it… today and in the future.

About two years ago my great friend, Stephanie, asked for my help.

Eagerly, I asked what was up.

Her request was one I had never received from a friend- or anyone for that matter… she asked me to help design a tattoo for her wrist.

The task was easy enough. She was looking to have one word done in script handwriting.

I asked for the word.

“Gratitude,” she texted.

I practice gratitude almost daily.  It’s a habit for me and I love it.  Knowing about Steph’s life, I had a hunch on why gratitude was so important to her too.

But, without question or thinking too much, I quickly drafted up a handful of options using various styles and pens. We toyed with capital or lower case “G’s.” With loopy letters versus tight script. Within just thirty minutes we had a winner.

Less than two weeks later she was inked.

She excitedly texted me a photo. It looked really great and she loved it.  I was so honored that she had trusted me with something so permanent and personal.

On the phone that night, I told her that I had an idea why she wanted the tattoo; but, asked her to tell me more behind her desire to have the word gratitude tattooed to her.

She shared that the driving force behind the tattoo came a couple Thanksgivings earlier.  Her parents had recently divorced.  It was hard to see their vibrant, Italian family change so dramatically.  In the same season of the divorce, her college roommate and great friend, Katie, had passed away in a tragic boating accident.

Combine those major hardships with every change, challenge and emotion that comes with being in your early twenties, she had every right to be sad. And, she was.

But, on that Thanksgiving morning, as she felt like her home was broken and the day would be shrouded by darkness.  She read a quote that caused her to fight back tears:

“The things you take for granted, someone else is praying for.”

She recognized that yes, somethings were hard.  Really hard.  But, at the same time, so many things were so good.  And, she was going to be okay.

And, she was.  

Steph carries scars from that season, sure.  But, she is happy.  So happy for many things, even that incredible hard time she walked through.

Still, on the phone, I remembered this time in her life that she was referencing.  She was different then.  Normally loud and sarcastic, she was deflated and shut in.  She had every reason to be.

As we spoke more, I recalled a moment with her from that time period so many years ago.  

I had just married and moved in with Adam.  The adjustment to life in the country was… an adjustment.  And, making it that much more hard, the programming for my job had been cut a few months earlier so I spent the summer unemployed.  Many days, I was bored, bitter and frustrated.  

But, it was my twenty fourth birthday and we all gathered at a friends lake house for our annual girls weekend.  

After a boozy day in the sun, many of the girls disappeared to bedrooms to sleep, but four of us stayed up talking.  So not to wake anyone, we poured a bottle of red wine into our solo cups and walked out to the dock in the moonlight. 

It was a beautiful night.  Clear and warm.  The moon danced in the ripples of the water.  Boats quietly creaked as they slowly swayed at their docks.

Three of us sat down on the wooden dock. But Steph, who had been a little nervous about the idea of a boating weekend- just weeks before the one year anniversary of her friends death, looked out at the lake.

“I wonder if it was like this like that night,” she said, still looking out.  “I wonder if it looked like this when she got on that boat.”

We all shifted a bit and looked out to see what Steph saw.  

“I wonder if it felt like this.  If it was nice out.  A beautiful night.  She was with friends and happy.”

I stared at the moon’s white reflection on the black water.

Katie’s death was so shocking to us all.  Though she wasn’t in our sorority, Steph had remained super close to her after living together in the dorms freshman year and we saw her out from time to time.  

I didn’t know her well, but I knew she was a great friend to my friend.   I knew she loved fashion and had the most beautiful red hair.  I knew she had a boyfriend and would find out in the weeks after her death that he had a diamond and had been trying to figure out the best time to ask her to marry him.   I knew she had just started her career as a nurse, which was fitting for her because she loved babies and wanted her own someday.

My eyes wondered from the moon’s reflection on the water to Stephanie’s foot, where Katie’s signature had recently been tattooed.  Always poetic, Steph chose her foot in order to take Katie with her everywhere she went. Everywhere Katie didn’t get to go.

I thought about how I had been living that summer.  Feeling so sorry for myself- jobless in the middle of nowhere.

And, in that moment, it finally clicked…  I was so crazy, lucky.  

I thought about how I get to be married to the love of my life.  Start a home with him.  Maybe even have babies with him.   I get to travel to the lake to visit with my friends.  I get to drink wine with them on a beautiful summer night.  Laugh with them.  Dream with them.   

I get another birthday.

Yes, in that moment, I didn’t have a job and that came with many worries and frustrations.  But, still, I had so much good.  

I had drive.  I had love.  I had support.  I had possibility. I had life.

For that, I was so thankful.

It changed my outlook.  It changed my summer.  And, the two more months that I reminded jobless weren’t as bad.

When things have seemed bad since then, I have always been quick to make a mental list of all that I am thankful for.  

All that I do have.

All that I have for absolutely no good reason.  I didn’t work for them.  I didn’t manifest them.  They are just gifts that I have been given for no reason and they can so easily be taken for granted.

Those gifts- and so much more- are what Katie had ripped away from her at twenty two.

On the phone, I told Steph that because gratitude is now such a part of my normal routine, I had not remembered this night when she first asked me to draft up her new tattoo.  But, that night on the lake, is when my gratitude journey started.  

Thanks to her and a lesson from her great friend, Katie, I am so thankful.