The last few months I’ve been on a self-discovery kick. Also known as, my mental health took a nosedive and I’ve been seeking some sort of balance ever since. I still suck at meditating, but I am trying to be more mindful and purposefully set aside time to learn and just be with myself which is what led me to an episode of Glennon Doyle’s podcast, “We Can Do Hard Things” about enneagrams with Suzanne Stabile and it has entirely altered the way I talk to and think about myself.
If we’re lucky, we all have at least one teacher that makes a lasting positive impact. A teacher that we don’t just connect with but that sees us for who we are, accepts us and encourages us. For me, that educator was Mr. Terry Peterson. He was our high school speech and drama coach (forensics anyone?) and he also directed the musical. He listened to and was privy to our teen drama but never intervened. He coached and supported us, cheered us on and offered life advice - but only when it was requested. And this week he is sharing some of that insight and advice with all of you.
I don’t know how many times people have reminded me of this over the last few years. Both in relation to Jackson having a sick and dying sister and as it pertains to Strawbaby and her tumultuous first few years of life. Until recently, I just sort of accepted this statement as fact. On the surface it appears to be true – but lately, that statement hasn’t sat as well with me and this past weekend I finally figured out why.
With just a little more than four months until Normal Broken hits book shelves and mailboxes, marketing, aka the hustle, is revving up and my self-doubt and anxiety are tagging along for the ride. Self-promotion is sooo awkward, but why? Why does it feel so weird to tell people that I wrote a book, that I hope they buy it and to please tell others about it. My emotional over-analyzation has broken it down to two main factors:
It is officially summer which means little league summer travel season is in full swing. Not to be confused with spring rec ball or fall ball – summer baseball is a special kind of all consuming.
Baseball has been a common denominator throughout my life. Which is an interesting thing for someone who has never been described as athletic to say. But it’s true! And I’m forever grateful to my dad for kickstarting this love of baseball which I appreciate now more than ever.
“How to be a better support for the growth of those around me has long been the special object of my consideration, and yet, I am hesitant to offer anything more than observations from my own meandering experiences.” While reticent to offer advice, Bud Hager has taught me more than most - and by utilizing some of the most beautiful prose you have read in ages! Please enjoy this new piece from Bud.
It is a wild experience to watch your child grow older. To see them become more independent, which is the goal, of course, but still we grasp at the moments they still need us (or want us). To help with this transition, I got myself a permanent reminder of the little boy who swore he loved me more.
Strawbaby had a dance recital this week. Cue the sparkly costumes, dear in headlights expressions while watching their instructor for the next move, and parents with phones out like Swifties at a TayTay concert. This wasn’t Strawbaby’s first recital, she had one in December, but I wasn’t ready to talk about it at the time. I was too confused.
With Memorial Day approaching, this felt like the perfect time to share a post written for Inchstones by Paulette Bilby, a hospice chaplain. During the two months that hospice workers were in our home I learned the beauty of their work, helping our family prepare for a life without a physical Adelaide all while keeping her as comfortable as possible and explaining to us what was happening, what to expect and what Adelaide needed now. End of life is difficult, scary and emotional in all the ways you are well aware of, but we don’t have to do it alone.
I have long struggled with feelings of guilt. Give me a scenario, interaction or circumstance and I can usually find something that I said or did to feel bad about. I even feel guilt for feeling guilty. How effed up is that? It’s like a crazy guilt loop that I can’t escape. While the sources of my guilt spirals are immeasurable I have recently isolated one that I hope to use as an exit ramp… and ideally in time to teach these lessons to my emotional mini-me.
We’ve all heard the phrase “it takes a village to raise a child”. Well, it took becoming a mother before I realized just how true that statement is. Whether it’s carpooling to school events, lifting each other up with funny meme’s, or stepping in as the reliever when you witness your friend on their last nerve with their melting down toddler – it sooo takes a village. What I’m understanding now is how grieving a child takes a village as well.
Last week’s post got me thinking about exposing death to children and how those experiences mold them as they grow. Perhaps this was a bit more front of mind because Hayden’s House, the retreat home I attended several years ago that, “provides a safe, tranquil space for bereaved mothers, fathers, couples, children and families to heal and connect together through a variety of methods…” was forced to put their retreat home on the market by their HOA.
