Bloom.

It took a while, but when I finally knew I needed to leave my job for the sake of my family and my health, I was so afraid.

Sure there was the whole consistent paycheck thing, but I was most afraid of what would happen when people- my peers, my clients, the competition- knew I left.

What would they think? What would they say?

“She couldn’t handle it.”

“What happened…?”

“She doesn’t believe in it anymore.”

“She is trying to make that silly little farm work…”

“She *thinks* she can be a writer.”

“She wants to spend more time with her family.  She just isn’t a true ‘professional.'”

I didn’t want to let them down, have them make assumptions, or make them upset. Try as I did to avoid it and be as professional as possible, it felt like every relationship I made was personal.

This was a blessing and a curse.  It led to being well liked and respected, but also taken advantage of.  

People knew I cared and would get things done.  It was awesome to have their belief in me, but also lead to weekend phone calls.  Calls when many people knew it wasn’t my job to “fix it,” but they felt by getting me involved  it would get done “faster.”  Sometimes these calls were not even problems yet, but there was a worry that it “could be.”  It lead to stress and even personal attacks on things that were not in my hands and untrue.  It was hard on my head and my heart.

Because of my fear and the reality I had created, even in my resignation I wasn’t clear on a end date saying we could talk about it. I put out the idea of a potential contract role through the end of the year.  I didn’t want to rock the boat.  I wanted it to be easy on everyone.  I was so afraid of what people would say.

But, our president gave me a gift.

He likely didn’t realize it and I know I didn’t at the time, but six weeks later I can see it was a gift. He said no. He said he appreciated me and the offer, but no. “You are done” he told me.

I wanted to scramble and say “No! No!  You don’t get it.  My heart is still in it. I want to help.  I can make this easier on everyone.” 

“Done” seemed so definitive and it was scary.  So finished.  So done.

But, it was what I needed.

I needed to get off the train that I was on that was barreling into a life that I did not want.  A life where I cared more about my clients and what people in the work place thought of me than my own family. More than my relationships.  More than my dreams.  More than myself.  

The first week off that train?  Not going to lie… the first week was weird.  I felt like I was constantly forgetting something, but by Thursday- four days “done-” I started to feel a new focus and was making a plan to hit the ground running in my new routine.  I was excited and began to see that being done was a very good thing.  

And, then a phone call came in.

It was an old client who had a concern that something “may” go wrong.  A usual call I would get that would derail my day… in hindsight, over nothing.  Nothing has happened, but maybe/they thought/have a feeling it might.  And, even if that thing were to happen… I still wasn’t the person who was in place to take care of it.  

Yet, I would still get the phone call.

It became clear that this client was under the impression that I was still employed.  She had not received notice because, as just a sales rep, I had not been her contact for some time… but, per usual, -driving home that fear I felt- I got this phone call.

I thanked her for the call, told her I would get in touch with her team to make sure they heard the concern and then shared that I had left the company.

She was flabbergasted.  Upset to the point of anger.

Then, the words that can stab a good sale person right in the heart: “This is a bait and switch.”

Ugh.  Please, oh please. No. Don’t do that. Not to my little people pleasing heart. 

All my fears right there.  Fear of letting people down.  Fear of them assuming the worst… about me and my old employer. 

I thought for a moment and then decided to tell her the truth.  

She has grown children, I thought.  And, she is a working woman.  She will get it.  

I shared being on the road was hard.  My family was suffering because of it.  Which was hard on me.  In turn, taking it’s toll on my physical and emotional health.  We have a side business that I want to focus on and balancing everything was a lot.  

Nothing happened.  

Nothing has changed.  

I just needed to step back and recalibrate a few areas on my life.

Crickets.

And, then she told me she had to make another phone call and hung up.

For a while, I thought she didn’t get it.  I thought I should text her or follow up with an email.  I thought about it for a whole day.  It ate at me.  

But, then, it clicked.  It’s not that she didn’t get it… She didn’t hear me.  She wasn’t even listening.

What will they think?  What will they say? 

Nothing.  

Everyone is too worried about themselves. 

And, that okay!  Because now, I am too.

My sorority, like many others, did lots of prep for recruitment- or Rush, as it was once called.  Looking back, many of these trainings were incredibly useful for life beyond those long, hot days in late August full of cheers and matching outfits.  They were trainings on things like body language, telling engaging stories, making a guest comfortable in your home and conversation starters.  

We were also taught the four things not to talk about.  “The Four B’s” as we called them.

Boys.

Booze.

Bucks.

And, Bush.

Don’t talk about a woman’s relationship status or the fraternity we are buds with.  And, on that vein, don’t talk about parties or ask if they prefer beer or liquor.   Don’t ask about their parent’s job.  And, don’t ask who they are voting for or their thoughts on political issues.

The purpose was that these kinds of conversations could make a potential new member feel uncomfortable.  We could also judge them on this, when we should have been measuring them on their leadership abilities, desire for personal development, evidence of responsibility, and character.  

And, perhaps because these four things didn’t matter when finding a new sister.

No matter their relationship status, we could still be sisters.

No matter if they liked to party or preferred hot tea and good book, we could still be sisters.

No matter if there was a trust fund or a bunch of student loans, we could still be sisters.

And, no matter their political affiliation, we could still be sisters.

Ten years later, I can’t help but wonder if they still have the Four B’s.  I wonder if it’s now Three. 

Because since I left college, the landscape of politics in everyday conversation has changed so much.  People talk about it so much more.  People lead with it.  And, I think this really has a lot to do with social media.

I remember being shocked how bad it was in 2012.  I had never seen anything like it on Facebook.  It was mean.  It was ugly.  And, confusing.  It was like everyone felt like every comments section was a play ground for hate.  

2016… obviously only got worse.  People made rash decisions.  Assumptions and name calling ran wild.

Here’s the thing: I get that the purpose of an election is to bring on debates.  

But, about issues, solutions and ideas; not on someone’s character and intelligence.  Opinions and beliefs have become cruel, personal attacks.  I even got a political text (so obnoxious, on so many levels) telling me to “stand with XXX candidate” driving home more of the “it’s us against them” mentality.  

So, yes.  Just like everyone on social media is encouraging, go vote.  

But, try to remember: Boys, booze, bucks and Bush.

No matter how we vote, we can still be sisters. (And, brothers too!)

An audio version of this blog post is available on iTunes and Google Play from Bloom Podcast.  It also includes why Claire doesn’t love talking about politics, but no matter if you keep politics close to your chest or all over your social media, check out a few political podcast recommendations from Claire’s friend Sara at Sara by the Season.

During my weekly doctor appointment in the final weeks of pregnancy with Savannah, each doctor would measure my belly with a tape measure (Because this is women’s medicine in 2017…) and frown a little.

They would then ask unassuming questions like, “Was your son small?”

Not really. He was pretty normal. Seven pounds.

“Hmm,” they would say. “This baby seems small. Nothing concerning. But, we will keep an eye on it.”

Each week it was the same conversation, but it never seemed to be a concern, so I just got a few more Newborn sized sleepers and didn’t worry about it.

Even on the operating table, the residents who observed my c-section commented on how “cute and tiny” my belly was. Which was only a consolation as I was my back, naked in a bright, cold room full of people.

A few moments later, Savannah was pulled from my belly. She was angry- so angry- that she had been removed from the warm, dark place that she had called home for almost 42 weeks.

Red all over and screaming, she was placed on the scale on my left. I turned my neck to see her and watch for her official weigh in. The scale blinked a few times and then her weight appeared.

8 pounds, 6 ounces.

I lifted my head a bit and my jaw dropped. I expected that number… backwards.

The room erupted. No one could believe that was how big she was.

My amazing doctor, who had wiped tears from my cheeks while I curled over her getting the spinal tap just a few minutes earlier, leaned over the curtain and asked, “So, how do you feel about the VBAC not working out now?” with a wink.

Savannah thrived from the start maintaining her weight through the hospital stay and, like many babies do, she grew rapidly. Within a few weeks newborn clothes were packed away. She grew rolls and cheeks and was so adorably squishy.

Strangers at would ask how old she is and say, “She is big for X months.”

I would get inquiries on her clothing size and hear, “She is that big already?”

“She is a big girl.”

Listen, I get it. This is likely my own issue with the word “big.” We want babies to grow and grow well. We play games with babies asking them to tell us “How Big is Baby!?” “SOOOO Big!”

But, I can’t help but have a hard time hearing this.

She does not need adults talking about her size, especially as she gets older. Unless it is in the pediatrician’s office, she does not need there to be any conversation about how big she is.

Because she will already know.

She will know she is big.

It will not matter if she is lanky or athletic. Petite or right on the recommended percentile, she will feel like she is too big.

At seven, (SEV-EN…!) I knew. I knew my thighs were bigger than the other girls in ballet class. I could see it in the mirrors every Saturday morning and I hated it. I would wonder why mine touched and the other girl’s didn’t. I would press them back in the comfort of my own room willing them to be smaller by the next class. One day, I wore shorts over my leotard in hopes of concealing them. The teacher told me I would have to take them off or leave the room.

I sat on the curb and waited for my parents and I never went back. I was done with ballet.

In the years that would follow, I would do whatever I could to make my thighs look smaller. Make my waist look smaller. Make even my feet seem smaller.

But, I didn’t stop there.

I loved dolls and Barbies. Playing pretend and watching Full House. But, at ten, they were not cool anymore. Eye shadow, MTV and Leonard DiCaprio were. So, I made the things I loved smaller.

After sharing a story on our 8th grade class trip to DC about one my dad’s first jobs at the Washington Monument, I was mocked in front of a bus full of my peers. So, I made my voice smaller.

I wanted to be a architect because I loved homes, but was told, “Oh, Claire. That is a lot of math.”  So, I made my abilities smaller.

I idolized Katie Couric and wanted to be just like her when I grew up. I looked up that to get a career in broadcast journalism I should major in communications, so I thought that would be the right path only to hear, “Communications is full of a million Katie Couric wannabe’s. You have to be really smart and vibrant.” So, I made my goals smaller.

Not too long ago, I shared that I have dreams to publish a book and heard, “Ugh. Everybody wants to publish a book.” So, I stopped writing and made my dreams smaller.

But, the dream kept showing up and bringing along more dreams. They got louder and I couldn’t help but listen.

Today, if you saw my dreams, you might say they are too big. But, after a 30 years, I will not make them smaller.

One of those dreams is to make sure that this little girl never feels this way. That she never feels like she has to make anything about herself smaller.

So, stay big, babe. SOOO big.

Happy Birthday.

Audio version available at iTunes and Google Play.  It also includes a short conversation about kids and body image.  Feel free to join the conversation.  I would love your thoughts.

I loved playing with dolls as a young girl.  I was the oldest.  I babysat.  I taught swim lessons.  I saw all the older girls from my sorority doing it.

So, before children, when I thought about motherhood?  I felt pretty confident.  

I was excited.  I remember thinking, “It’s going to be great.  For the first time in my life, I am going to be taking on a role that I was designed for.”

After a lifetime of always having to work so hard, trying to fit into roles that were not part of my natural DNA, this would finally be the thing that would come easy.

Even birth would be a breeze.  My body was designed for it.  Heck, I had been blessed with birthing hips by 4th grade.  After years of putting my body in situations it was never designed for, like hip hop dance classes and crossfit, birth would be the first time that my body would do exactly what nature intended it to do.  

But, even with the confidence and excitement, I wasn’t naive.  I knew there would be diapers and late night feedings.  So, being the eager first time parent I was, I read the books and we took the classes.  

We were ready.

Ready for a beautiful, drug free birth.  Ready for a baby that would sleep train with ease.  A baby that would fit right into our life and come along for the ride.  Travel would be a cinch.  As would preparing all organic purees from food I grew.  I would work out everyday pushing the jogger stroller in the best mom-chic athlesuire.  My cute baby would sit quietly at lunch dates and independently play as I prepared dinner each night.  Nothing but the joy in our hearts would change.

I had this in the bag. It would be easy.

… Oh, you sweet, sweet girl.  You didn’t have a clue.

And, it started at birth.  There I was with my birth plan, ready for the experience Adam and I had created in our last lamaze class, only to learn after fifty hours of labor, nothing about motherhood- even the first few minutes- is easy.

Blindsided by every situation in the blur that was maternity leave, I returned to work and was asked how things were going only to respond, “It is the hardest thing I have ever done.”

Work, which I once thought was a challenge, became a place that I felt relief.  After a morning of the physical demands of getting two squirmy toddlers fed, dressed and off to school, combined with the mental stress of a two year olds emotions and wondering if the baby’s runny nose is something to worry about, work became a place I could hide.  A place where I didn’t question my strategies and positive results and feedback showed up quickly.

After hours, it sometimes would feel like the clock was going backwards.  

“I just have to make it to bedtime,” I would think pouring a glass of wine.

I recently heard another mom to a few toddlers say, “I am so excited.  It’s just going to keep getting easier from here.”

I understood her thought process.  I too have daydreamed about life getting on “auto-pilot” for a bit.  For things to become physically easier.  Knowing that we all will be getting a full nights sleep on a constant basis will make things easier.  Everyone walking and able to use the restroom on their own will be easier.  Kids after their own privacy so I can have mine too will be easier…

… but, also hard.

What are they doing?

Who are their friends?

Are they sitting by the troublemaker in class and getting bullied?  Or worse… Becoming a troublemaker too? 

Why is math so hard for them?  Do they need additional help from a tutor?

We have one hour with the tutor on Monday.  Tuesday we have to work on 4-H projects.  Wednesday is soccer.  Thursday is the class party- we signed up to bring cups and Ritz crackers.  And, I gotta remember Friday is PJ day.

… Makes deciphering boogers seem simple.

This isn’t going to be getting any easier.

It will be the hardest thing I have ever done.

But, I am not going to miss it for work or a glass of wine.

The other week, I caught up quickly with friend.  She is by no means one of my best friends and much of our friendship has been situational.  But, none the less, I enjoy her and catching up.  We got to talking about a mutual friend who we all would love to see happy in a relationship because we know that that is what he would want too.  But, for whatever reason, it never seems to work out.

“I don’t know.  It just seems like he is getting pickier and pickier,” she lamented, quickly adding, “Don’t get me wrong!  Being picky is good.  But, it’s about the littlest things.  It’s like he is looking for this ‘ideal’ and that is not love.”

I nodded, knowing exactly what she was saying.

There was a night in 2009 when Adam and I were just dating.  Said the “I love you’s” recently and made it official.  I was so happy.

Then, one night before a party, Adam was running behind from a meeting for the university’s biggest spring event where he served as president of the board. Even though he had a busy evening, he invited me and my friends over for some pre-party drinks with his roommates.  He ran off to take a shower and get ready, emerging from his closet in a striped shirt and madras shorts.

“Oh my gosh! Claire- you CAN’T go out with him in that!” one of my friends snickered.

“Claire.  You have to do something.  You have to fix that,” another friend pressed.

In their defense.  The outfit was… a little loud.

But, he looked so happy to be ready to have a fun night during a time when he was busy with the upcoming event.  I was too.  And, I really do think he felt and thought he looked good.  I was not about to shame him for this by saying I wouldn’t go out with him because of his clothes.

Their concerns got more vocal and he overheard.  It hurt me to see him embarrassed.  He went and changed in to a white shirt and rejoined us.  I apologized for my friends, told him he looked great and he loved me through it.

It’s light; but, it’s in something like that in the early days that either of us could have written each other off.

Adam could have said, “Screw her and her catty friends.”

I could have thought, “Oh my gosh.  He hasn’t got a clue how to dress himself.”

But, we didn’t because we knew that the kind of relationship we wanted would have to allow for imperfection because we are two oh-so imperfect people.

Adam is trustworthy.  A hard worker.  Kind.  Loyal.  Smart.  An amazing friend.  But, he also can get a little moody and stubborn. (And, as previously illustrated, tends to not be the best for fashion advice.)

For all the characteristics that I love about Adam, I have to love the not-so favorable ones too because they are ALL the characteristics that make up the man I love.

We have different views and disagreements on everything from talking about politics to what time Theo should go to bed.  But, it doesn’t change our love for each other or make our relationship any less special.

In fact, it perhaps makes it that much more special.

Really loving someone requires compromise, conversation and allowing for imperfection.

In a real relationship you will get frustrated, life will get hard, you will say things you don’t mean that hurt each other, you will even sometimes see the worst in each other.  But, you have to and will love each other through that.

Like Adam, I am so limited.

Which is I am so glad Adam is made the way he is.  All of him.

A few years ago, after a little wine and a great meal at my dining room table, a good friend asked the group, “What do you love?”

We all went around and shared what first came to mind.  Adam share that he loved growing food for other people.  I actually wrote about it here.

I was the last to go and my answer was easy:

Love.

I love love.

I love romantic love.  Friendship love.  Family love.  I love the love in my life.  I love to spread love.  I love to see love in other people.  I am okay with saying, I even love self love.

That 2014 me would have never imagined that just eighteen months later, the thing I loved the most would absolutely terrify me.

Theo was just days old and I was back in the hospital working through some major complications from childbirth.  Getting him into the world wasn’t even remotely beautiful and the first few days were incredibly hard.  Everything, from my health concerns to this little baby boy, was new and scary.

My health improved and we were released a few days later.  It was a relief after a week and a half at the hospital.  But, it was short lived.  At home, discovering our new normal opened a new reality:  I love this baby… fiercely. But, this love is scary.

All of the sudden the stakes are so much higher with love. The joy and the responsibility of raising a child coupled with the fact that they can so easily be hurt is almost too much.  This love is risky.  And, it petrifies me.

The week before Senior Prom we had an assembly- like many schools do- about drinking and driving.  Our young principal, with a shake in his voice, shared the love of a parent is different than any other love.  Different than boyfriend girlfriend love.  Different than sibling love.  Different than husband wife love.  The love a parent has for their child is different- stronger- than all of those.

I tried to imagine loving something more than my parents.  My sister.  My brother.  My friends.  My boyfriend.  I couldn’t.  I couldn’t for eleven years.

Eleven years later to perhaps even the day… I learned he was right.  And, that shake in his normally powerful voice, was his heart… and fear.

I have thought about Adam dying a handful of times.  It would be awful.  Terrible.  I get tears in my eyes just thinking about what I might say about him in a post on social media or what his funeral would look like.

(I nervously confessed these thoughts to him recently, afraid he would think I was completely strange.  He said, “Don’t worry.  I think about you dying all the time.”  So, I think these thoughts may actually be semi-normal.)

Then, I look past the funeral.

Sure, I would be forever changed because of it.  And, definitely broken for a long time.  But, I think I could be happy again.  I think about how I may even marry again.

But, if something happened to one these babies? I would have to be medicated.  For a very. Long. Time.

This love is so different than the loves I thought I knew.  No one prepared me for this.

This love is sharper and so is the world.  I do my best to soften the edges and round the corners, but sending them out into it is an internal battle every day and I think it is one of the few things that won’t get any easier with time.

So, this love that fills me up to the point of ache is a love that I am learning to live with.  I have to.  All parents do.  And, that is what gives me hope.  Knowing that there are other parents facing the same demons every day gives me comfort. Because it means their children are loved intensely.

And, that is what this sharp world needs: Kids loved enough to go out into it with more love.

This love that scares me?  I am trying my best to make friends with it.  Because this great love has opened my heart to a love I didn’t even knew exist.

I am so thankful for this love.

The stakes are higher; but, so is the reward.

Me.

Hi.  I am the elephant.

This summer, I felt all of my “healths” out of wack.

I was working too much and trying to juggle it all, hurting the health of my relationships, my home and especially myself.

Yes, there was definitely a bit of mental health that was thrown off, but my physical health? Let’s just say… I knew it wasn’t great.

I wasn’t even a year postpartum so, I compensated with things like, “During this phase of life, working out just isn’t going to happen.” “I can’t do it all and this is one thing I just wont do.”  “I am breast feeding and wrangling toddlers… I deserve this Starbucks/cookie(s)/wine.”

But then, all I wanted to wear for work was a dress because “pants just weren’t as comfortable.” Then, I found myself only buying “large” sized clothing- something I previously reserved for sweaters that I wanted to be oversized for style reasons. I told myself I was still a medium, but like in those sweaters, I would be more “comfortable” this way.  (Fun fact: I was no longer a medium.)

Then, in late September when getting ready for an event, I cried.

I was prepared with a few options from my closet— all black, knowing that was safe and they would be good for me and my “not great” body.

Not one of the outfits worked. Nothing fit. I looked like a giant in dolls clothing.

My weight has been a constant thought since as long as I can remember. I have written about it. I have quit things I loved because of it. I have listened to my mothers concerns about it. But, never once can I remember crying about it.

But, there I was. Crying.

Crushed by the perveribale weight of it all. A smart, capable career woman with an amazing husband and two sweet children. A caretaker and a creative. A woman with the confidence to speak in front of crowds and ask for quarter million dollar business. A woman with goals for more.  She was crying in a once loose, drop waist dress from Black House White Market… that was looking more like a cheerleaders uniform with four other rejects lay at her feet.

Without options and already running late, I made due… but, not without the help of a sweet friend and her collection of pashminas.  (Again, selecting black.)  I did my best to put on a happy face, but there were a few more tears that night. I had great friends tell me I was beautiful. Something that was so kind, but kind of made me even more upset.

These tears were not about vanity.

Okay. Okay. Yes. Maybe a few of them were. Because… it really sucks not to like how you look.

But, more came from a place of “How did it get this far? How did I lose control of this? When I clung so tightly to everything.  Trying my hardest to take care of everything.  I didn’t take care of myself.”

One friend saw my sadness and knew me well enough to know this wasn’t just about looking good.  “We are going for a walk” she demanded.

Outside the ballroom, she let me cry.  She let me be a little vain.  She let me voice my now growing fears about my health and major disappointment in myself.

I bit my upper lip, fighting more tears.  “This isn’t who I want to be,” I said shaking my head.

“This isn’t you,” she confirmed.

She knew it wasn’t about fitting into clothes or numbers on a scale.  It’s not even about loving myself at any size.

It was about not having the ability to walk into a celebration with a big smile on my face.  With confidence in the way I carry myself.  Caring for the vessel that carries my soul, my heart, and my dreams.   That is person that I am.  The person that I am to her and that she knows me to be to others.

She continued, “But, you have the awareness.  You have recognized it.  You know what you have to do.  Go do it.”

So, maybe the next time you see me or see a photo from this season, you will wonder.  It may even be a topic of conversation behind my back.  That’s okay.  In front of me you may dance around “the elephant in the room” telling me I “look great!” in hopes of trying to make me feel better or to be polite… or to avoid it all together.

Don’t.  We can talk about it.  In fact, let’s.

I have recognized it.

I know what I have to do.

And, I am doing it.

I will not go back to being the girl in tears.  I am not that girl.

Cassie Dunmyer Photography

What happened in getting that email with the new task and that new reporting tool was clarity.  

I looked up and realized that all the feelings from the summer- the boredom, the feeling of things being undone, the need for more- was because the work I was doing was ultimately not mine.  

I was working on someone else’s dream, when I was being called to step into a new space to take mine even further. 

In that image of who I could have been in five years.  The fat and frazzled one?  That would be bad; but, the thought of being unfulfilled was worse.  

The thought of ignoring this call- a call that has been there since 2013, but only gotten louder in the last six months- for another five years was too much to bear.  

To look up at 35 and wish I had listened?  To wish I had at least tried?  I could imagine no greater regret.

So, that is what I am doing:

1. Definitely taking better care of myself.  Physical health is priority numero uno. This one piece speaks to so many other goals of mine.  None of which include running marathons or a number on a scale; but, rather, the ability to feel confident and to have energy.  There is so much I want to do and if I am constantly insecure or tired, I will never be able to give my big goals a chance.  
2. Focusing more on my family and not just in “not working” time.  I am building a career where these two parts of my life can be intertwined.  Through the farm, Bloom and even my part time job that I took on this summer, I can see this being a possibility.  For the first time in a while, I have a female boss about seven years ahead of me in the working mom game.  She gets it and it’s such a relief.  Not to mention, I don’t travel anymore.  <Insert “Praise Hands” emoji here>
3. I am building MY businesses.  I have so many goals for the farm and I now have the time to focus on them.  Likewise, with time dedicated to Bloom, my hope is to share stories of growth in this season.

What will that look like?  Not like gardening and recipes like there has been here in the past.

But, rather, stories about friendships and marriage.  Goals and motivation.  Motherhood and finding identity in this role and others.  Entrepreneurship and getting my footing after so long in the corporate grind.  

My goal with these stories is inspire you and challenge you.  But, to be as honest as possible as well.

One of the strangest places for me in the last year or so has been blogs and Instagram.  There you can find tons of #millennialmoms… but, none of them looked like me or the great moms I know in real life.  They have perfectly blown out hair and slim bodies despite their six smiling, stylish, always well behaved children.  They have date nights and dreamy farmhouse sinks. $100 swaddle blankets and the ability to shop at Anthropologie everyday without any indication they had a job. 

Here, you won’t find lists of items that need to be on a registry or advice for getting your baby to sleep through the night. (PS- if you have that advice for a toddler, feel free to shoot me a DM.)  You won’t see a preview of the Nordstrom Anniversary sale or Pinterest Perfect Birthday parties.  

Instead, you will find heart, truth, and laughter.  A place where it’s okay to not have all the answers; but, try your best anyways.  And a community where you can say, “You too?  I thought I was the only one.”

Welcome, friend.  I am so glad you are here.

Oh my gosh.  This feels so good.  I am back!

Over the summer, one of my best friends asked if I missed blogging.  I hesitated with the answer.  I missed the writing.  But, wanted to say “no” because I couldn’t imagine blogging in my life as it was.

Everything was on my To Do list.

Care for the Babies.  Two of them.  Two and under.

Sleep.  Non existent.

Working out.  Didn’t happen.

Care for the home where your laundry machine is running seven days a week.

Cook dinner.  First for your babies.  Then, enjoy your appetizer of their uneaten chicken nuggets and cook for you and your husband.

Oh, that husband.  Can’t forget about him… right?  Maybe we will get a date… next month.

Friends.  Start a new habit with them… canceling.

Garden.  Pull weeds.

Farm.  Keep up with the amazing increased demand. Get that social strategy tight.  Immerse yourself into the world of digital marketing and feel like you have to do all the things!

Work…  This is where it gets fun.

Being a working mom was never what I imagined.  But, then motherhood came and I thought I would at least give it a try.  Turns out, I enjoyed it.  I have always loved work, so this shouldn’t have been so surprising.  But, what was surprising was how great “school” was and has been for our kids.  

So, my thought became, “Okay.  Working mom.  We are doing this thing!”

And, I did it.

I gave it all of my Ennegram 7 enthusiasm.

More projects.  More proposals.  More travel.  More responsibility.  But, still… I felt a little bored.

I expressed this in a review in early summer and hindsight now tells me that I didn’t explain this very well… because all it lead to was more.  More reporting.  More calls.  More work.

I didn’t know what it was yet.  But, at the time it felt like boredom.  What I should have said was “I have this pull to do something else.  I don’t think this is right for me anymore.”

So, even with more on my workload, I was still, what I thought was, “bored.” So, I took a new part time job.  Because that seemed like a good idea.  New challenges?  In a new space?  The opportunity for more money?  All good, right?

Oh, and can’t forget the last thing on my to do list:  Me.  But, I never got to this one anyways so what’s the point of putting it on the list.

Around July 4th, we were all at the lake with Adam’s extended family enjoying lunch.  I was sharing a few things we had going on in the next week and my sister in law looked at me and asked, “Why are you working so hard?”

I didn’t have an answer.

I was working hard and felt like I needed to work harder.  It felt like the things I wanted to be accomplishing weren’t getting done.  But, why?

I sat down to write some goals after that day at the lake.  Trying to find a purpose to all this.  I wrote goals for all of the different components of my life, but really I should have just written one goal that day:

DO EVERYTHING BETTER

So, I tried.

It was early July and I floored it.

But, every day that “bored” feeling would come back and coupled with my sister in law’s “Why?,” I started to see cracks in my “normal.”

I knew what I was doing wasn’t sustainable.

I needed to spend more time with my family.  The texts from Adam asking, “When will you be home?” during the work day in Chicago or on a campus wrecked me.  I knew I was stressing everyone out.

And, even on home office days it was tough.  I couldn’t parent or be a wife after giving everyone else everything I had all day.

I was drinking a lot of wine at night to shut my brain off, wanting to just be okay with the work I had done that day… but, always felt called to do more.

I put on weight, justifying big lunches and lattes with my per-diem.

But, I still couldn’t let go.

Until I knew I had to.

I knew I had to quit my job.  My job where I had been for five years.  My job that I loved.  My job that I believed in.  My job that afforded me a lot of flexility and creativity.

It was no longer serving me and, likewise, I was doing it a disservice too.

I wrestled with how irresponsible it felt to quit a good job.  With the exception of a few nights in college, I had been responsible all my life.  And, now, with more responsibility than ever before, I wanted to be reckless.

But, I wondered: Would it be irresponsible to stay?  I had given it five years.  What if I gave it five more?  Who would I be?

Then, one Monday morning I saw her.  She was frazzled.  Unfulfilled.  And, a little fat.

Knocking me from my thoughts, an email came though with another reporting tool for another task and I called in my notice.