A-D-V-E-N-T-U-R-E: the trek

I took a little circumstantial break from my A-D-V-E-N-T-U-R-E backpacking mini series because, well, kids. I’ve spent the majority of this new year so far on an ADVENTURE all it’s own, caring for my own three plus a couple of bonus boys through the Strong Families program where we volunteer. The days have been incredibly full and the new-to-us minivan hasn’t had a seatbelt to spare. It’s been the best kind of crazy. I will (likely) go back to “only” three kids this week, and with that, I hope to wrap up this series before my trip becomes a distant memory. If you are just joining in, I’ve been chronicling my first ever backpacking experience and you can find my first two posts here and here. 

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D-day had finally arrived. I was abuzz with nerves and plenty of caffeine, a hiker’s must before any adventure, but especially an overnight one I’d decided. I might have to pee a lot now, but my other system would thank me later for the pre-hike cleanout perks of drinking coffee, if you know what I mean. If I was lucky, I could escape the horrific-sounding experience of having to cart any used TP covered in you-know-what back down the mountain with me (please refer to my first post if you are unclear what I am referring to).

As I pulled into my parking space where we were meeting, I decided on a whim to do a crash-course last viewing of the videos our leaders had sent on shelter creation. This felt a bit like overkill, since their mention of the YouTube tutorials seemed like a bonus optional activity, not an essential one. The video demonstrated no less than four different ways to arrange your magic tarp, depending on whether your highest priority was shelter from wind or rain, or whether you wanted one end more open to enjoy a view. I’m more of a hands-on learner and the process seemed far too complicated for my brain to memorize so, like every wise outdoorswoman who has ever gone before me, I closed the window on my phone and decided I would “just wing it when I got there.” Surely the leaders would be setting up our church-provided shelters on site, right? We probably just needed the video knowledge “in case we felt like helping.”

After one final gear check as a team, we were ready to head up to Snoqualmie Pass where we would begin our ascent to Kendall Peak Lakes from a private backyard. The hike itself was slow-going but mostly uneventful. It took us much longer than expected to make the trek up, but we all stuck together and cheered each other on during the segments where chit chat was encouraged. Our guides paused at various points along the hike to point out the curiosities of nature, encouraging us to also spend time in silence, pondering specific questions they posed along the way. 

We were required to leave all watches and technology at the trailhead (the photo above came from a leader's watch and was provided to us AFTER the trip). So, we were at the mercy of our senses and the sun in the sky to determine how long we’d been at our trek. At what I would guess was about 3 hours in, we were only a little over half way. It became apparent to our guides that we needed to abandon our plan to wait until we reached our destination to eat our last meal before we began fasting. We pulled to the side of the path and picnicked on the trailside, filling our bellies with a lovely spread of charcuterie and crackers. Some of us honed in on the cheese, stuffing ourselves with unwholesomely large servings in hopes of keeping us good and stopped up for our night without toilets in the woods. (You’re welcome for that complimentary hiking hack).

For the majority of our climb, we trekked along a wide forest service road. Once we got high enough, we took a sharp left onto a road less traveled. I would venture to say very much less traveled. We pressed suddenly into a thick clump of trees, and I giggled to myself as I plowed through the brush, thwapping my hiking mates behind me with the branches I pushed out of the way and then released. There was really no way to maneuver the situation gracefully. Was this actually a trail? What had I been expecting? Maybe more carved wooden arrow signs that read “Kendall Peak Lakes this way?” Even without clear markings, I felt my sense of adventure sparking as I experienced the excitement of this I-think-we’re-on-the-trail-but-who-can-say-for-sure style of hiking.  

After hopping over some felled trees (surprisingly harder than you’d think when wearing a heavy backpack), and climbing a steep final hill, we reached our destination for the night, the second of the Kendall Peak Lakes. We dropped our packs and followed our fearless leaders as they led us around the area, pointing out good “campsite” options (read: patches of flat-ish, bare-ish ground, approximately the size of a human body). Again, I’m not sure what I was expecting. Perhaps a Ranger doling out papers with our last names and the date range of our planned stay to clip on our shelters? Or maybe wooden posts toting the campsite numbers? A list of campground rules and published quiet hours? But there was none of this. Just a beautiful sparkling lake, and total, unadulterated freedom. Glory!

Most everyone snagged their preferred spot right away. I practiced unnatural-for-me flexibility as I waited to see which patch of ground was still available for me to pitch a tent. Er, I mean tarp. I secretly hoped for a waterfront spot, so I took a little walk along the shoreline with one of the leaders to see if we’d missed any good options. We were about 40 yards from the rest of the group when I spotted a pile of something brown and far too large to have exited out of the backside of a dog. My eyes bulged as I pointed to it, expecting my guide to scream in horror and announce we would consequently need to pack up and relocate to a safer area. Instead, she kicked at the poop with her hiking boot as if it were a rock and then announced matter-of-factly, “It’s old.” 

She said it as if this was some form of great reassurance. I looked at her blankly and then realized I was supposed to be set at ease. “Oh okay,” I say, trying to play along and hoping the cool-as-a-cucumber vibe I was channeling was working. I realized at that moment that I personally don’t really care about the age of bear scat that I encounter in the wilderness. I don’t practice prejudice. YOU GUYS! IT WAS BEAR SCAT! It’s one thing to know there are bears in the forest. It’s another thing to KNOW there are bears in the forest. 

Now, I’ve been watching the History Channel survival show, Alone, ever since I became outdoorsy this past summer. The show chronicles contestants who are dropped off with only 10 items in the rural woods of British Columbia. Their goal is to see how long they can make it in the wilderness living off the land. The individuals encounter many terrifying forms of wildlife; one hundred percent of them come across bears. And before they run into the bear, they first observe the excrement. And people observing poop love making all sorts of comments about temperature, steaminess, moisture level etc. etc. So, as one does after watching a show like this, I have learned to be *slightly* more accommodating of the older, drier bear scats. But I couldn’t say that was the case when I was on my backpacking trip. Who knew I was to become a bear scat connoisseur? I certainly did not. Growth mindset, I tell ya what. 

Anyhow, one of the women in our group had openly expressed her terror surrounding bear encounters prior to the trip, so my leader and I agreed to keep our little scat discovery to ourselves. I managed to act about as casually as if I had just discovered that Santa Claus isn’t actually real as we marched our way back toward the others who had claimed their spots and were beginning to unpack their bags. I pasted a We’re-Fine-Everything’s-Fine smile on my face for approximately 28 seconds before I whispered through my teeth to the friend who had invited me that I’d just found bear poop. We didn’t have any time to discuss matters further because a request was made for a quick shelter-building demonstration with the tarps that had been provided to us.

One of our leaders obliged with a little coaxing (hallelujah!) but something told me a visual demo was not in the plan and that we were intended to figure out how to construct a shelter on our own. Whatever the case, I was grateful for it, and tried to absorb everything she was saying before we dispersed to our individual sites to begin our time of silence and try it for ourselves.

Some members of our group felt most comfortable setting up camp in close proximity to our guides. Others wanted a lakefront view. I was (slightly) more okay with being further away which somehow translated to my snagging the spot that was THE FURTHEST away from the rest of the group. I was either going to be the first one eaten by a bear or the last, depending on which direction he came from. But perk! Since I had no one on one side of my camp, I could easily drop my drawers toward that side when I needed to pee, mooning the empty hillside without a care in the world. There’s always a plus side! 

It probably goes without saying that I didn’t practice shelter building. I didn’t realize that I needed to. I dumped out my fancy tarp and all the silky cords that accompanied it and set to work. Immediately I realized a problem: the spikes on my hiking poles were too large to fit in the grommet holes of my tarp. I had no tent poles, the hiking poles were it. The demonstration I’d just witnessed wasn’t going to work for me. Stubborn to the core and refusing to seek help, I dug in my heels and determined I would figure this out. I dusted off the memory of the YouTube videos I had breezed through in my car before we departed. Little did I realize I should have memorized them step-by-step, that the difference between a wet and a dry sleeping bag in the AM could depend on this moment. 

One video had mentioned something about using a stick to secure the rope in the grommets. If the spike on the pole was incompatible with my tarp, maybe a stick could work? I channeled my engineer father and snapped some thick twigs into workable lengths as I MacGyvered a solution to my misfit poles. If I threaded a loop of my rope through the grommet and then inserted a stick into the loop, it would function as a stopper to keep the rope in place. Then I could loop the rope around my misfit pole a few times and use it to prop up my shelter. As long as I could get enough tension on the ropes pulling in each direction and made no sudden movements, it could work. My next trick was to figure out how to create tension on both sides of my shelter simultaneously so that I could tighten my ropes and secure the shelter. Try as I might, every time I would get one side of my shelter up, the other side would fall as I attempted to stake it in place. It seemed impossible without an extra set of hands. After what felt like the twelfth try, finally, success! Without further adieu, I'd like to introduce you to my pride and joy: my shelter!

For real though, I'm ridiculously proud of this thing. It may not seem like much but I dare you to go out in the woods and built your own shelter and then tell me you don't feel like the most empowered being that has ever walked the forest. It was only after I secured my fortress in place that I realized I’d accidentally built my shelter over a small shrubbery. Oops! I wasn’t about to retry the whole ordeal so I surrendered to sleeping that night alongside my little “indoor” bush (please see the bulging lump on the right). Good thing I'm not a perfectionist! And even better that I’m a plant lady! It’s almost fitting, actually. 

Oh, and guess what I found a mere minutes after pitching my shelter? Yep, you guess it! More bear scat, FIFTEEN FEET from my spot. 

A-D-V-E-N-T-U-R-E: the packing (who knew!?)

 

(This post is the 2nd in a series. If you haven't read the first one, it can be found here).

The morning of our adventure, I was abuzz with nerves and excitement. In the spare moments I had over breakfast, I decided to Google important tidbits like “how to pee outside for women.” Nothing like waiting until the 11th hour to educate oneself on the essentials! Taking care of one's business had always proven rather challenging for me, typically resulting in wet socks and shoes, a less than ideal situation for my overnight adventure. Someone had told me about a technique that involved leaning (or was it sitting?) up against a tree. I was having a hard time visualizing this approach and my last minute search did not result in a whole lot of appropriate videos for viewing. Oh well. Sometimes you just have to live it to learn it I guess! 

Packing for the trip had been a little mini adventure all on its own. The detailed packing list provided to us both whispered my love language and instilled a small amount of confusion and anxiety. I always thought a sleeping bag was just a sleeping bag. I learned that this was not the case when I sent a picture (above) of my sleeping bag to the friend who had invited me on the trip, just to make sure it would “work ok.” She spared me all embarrassment when she responded with a simple “I’ve got one for you” instead of laughing in my face and telling me the truth of the matter which was that mine was 7 times too large and I would look like a fool. How I’ve lived this long is truly a mystery. 

I knew it was important to pack light when backpacking but one of my most pressing questions leading up to the trip was one I'm sure many readers share: Would I be allowed to bring a pillow? The team took my query in kind and suggested that perhaps some of my clothing could double as a pillow? I didn’t bite. You can take away my tent but, as a side sleeper, a pillow is non negotiable. My daughter generously offered to let me take a small one that she had made by hand. (Spoiler alert: it worked perfectly and my neck thanked me).

With my sleeping set up out of the way, I borrowed a backpack from my sister and set to work carefully trying to fill it with all of the recommended clothing items. 

I was instructed to pack things made of materials like “polypropylene, Polartec, Synchilla, Capilene.” Honestly, they lost me at “polypropylene.” These terms sounded more like items to add to my growing allergy list than fabric types with which to clothe my body. I grew dizzy with confusion as I read the tags on my clothing and realized I owned exactly zero articles containing the desired ingredients. It appeared that my 4-H sewing education had left out a couple of important chapters on textiles that would have prepared me for my time in the outdoors. This “cheap trip” was about to become a great deal more expensive if I approached it in traditional “Kelsie style,” which is to follow the packing list exactly and purchase everything on it in the vein of “being prepared.” I knew this idea would be unpopular with both my husband and my wallet, and so I reassured myself that I could make do following the simple summary uttered by our fearless leader: “Avoid packing cotton or denim.” Insert a huge sigh of relief here. My running wardrobe would fit the bill!

I was quick to learn that in backpacking, layers were key. And you didn’t just need one or two of them. What you needed was ALL of them. So I stuffed my pack with a spectrum of polyester and spandex (read: poor woman’s polypropylene) running gear to keep me outfitted for all the weathers ranging from blazing sun to cool mornings in the shade. I almost didn’t pack a puffy coat layer because, after all, it was August! If one was considering putting me in an environment that would call for a winter coat IN THE SUMMER, one would need to think again. I wait a good and long time for the warm months and you wouldn’t find me “wasting” them anywhere that required a layer thicker than a penny. But I threw a coat in when the leaders brought up the point that we would be IN THE MOUNTAINS. Good call. I drew the line at mittens though, which I sneakily left at home because I may look like a rule follower from the outside, but occasionally I know how to live on the edge.

I even splurged on a fancy spray from REI to repel bugs that I spritzed heavily on all of my clothes beforehand. Given my recent development of severe allergies to preservatives that are too long to pronounce, it was perhaps a bit of a gamble to use a new-to-me spray on the fabrics that would be resting against my skin (the body’s largest organ!) But, details! My reactions thusfar had involved my eyes swelling shut, not full anaphylaxis, and who even needs eyesight when they are out in the wild? 

While I was able to scrounge and borrow most everything for the trip, I did make a couple of purchases, which raised by outdoorsy game by a solid 150%. You might be shocked to know that I have never owned hiking boots. Apparently I exude a heavy outdoorsy vibe, because most people are surprised to learn this. I have often been told that I should own hiking boots, but I kind of sing a line of my husband’s tune on this one: Why buy something if what you have already works good enough? My running shoes had successfully carried me on 10 mile hikes. How much did I really need boots? But if ever there was an excuse, it was now. When I went to the used sporting goods store looking for a baseball belt for my son and spotted some gorgeous, barely-used turquoise boots marked down by a couple hundred bucks, it suddenly seemed like a really good idea to own them. And bonus! They were even my size! Well, almost. Technically they were the correct size for one of my feet. My left foot would just have to deal. When one of your feet is significantly bigger than the other (thanks, pregnancy), one can’t be picky.

My boots were nice but probably my proudest backpacking purchase was a set of tiny plastic containers from the dollar store (you're welcome in advance). I don’t know how most people pack their toiletries for the wilderness (do most people pack toiletries?) but I was thrilled by the miniature organization system I came up with for my special nonallergenic sunscreen, deodorant and lotion. Watch out world! The innovation ideas within me abound. 

Now that my toiletries were squared away, there was only one last thing I had to think about: trekking poles. And I only thought about them for a half second. They were under the “optional” section of the packing list, so obviously wouldn't be necessary. I was young! And spry! I couldn’t remember the last time I’d fallen over while out walking. The truth of the matter was that being seen with walking sticks in public felt like the ultimate label of “uncool.” And though I try not to subscribe to the idea of coolness, I'm a recovering homeschooler, and this thread runs deep. So bottomline: I wouldn't be bringing any poles on the trek. I tried to fly under the radar in hopes my secret would go unnoticed, but it was forced out of me at our last meeting, when each participant was asked directly if they had poles. My friend graciously offered to let me borrow one of her sets, and when I learned that even the cool kids on the trip (read: EVERYONE) would be bringing poles, I sheepishly agreed. And it was a really good thing too, as I would soon learn...

A-D-V-E-N-T-U-R-E, the prelude

Adventure was the thing I’d been missing.

I wasn’t aware of the void until I filled it, the relief flooding through me like an itch finally scratched. 

I was kind of tricked into the trip, if I’m honest. A newer friend who I admire immensely sent me a personal text of invitation: “Want to do this with me? No pressure, but I’ve already signed up and I would love it if you were there too.” 

I wouldn’t have even entertained the idea for more than a half of a second, had it not been for her. I’d always been a tiny bit curious about backpacking, but my insecurities, and the fact that I owned zero outdoor gear, kept me from thinking about ever making a trek a reality. 

I don’t have a backpack.

I don’t even own hiking boots.

I have IBS. 

I don’t really do the whole no bathroom thing.

“I have all the gear,” she told me, “and you can share my tent.”

I don’t know what was in my water that day, but after a two second conversation with my husband and $30 later, I was signed up for a 36 hour backpacking trip for moms. I guess it was the hidden away part of me that longs to live a little on the edge, finally surfacing to see the light of day. My sense of adventure was making a comeback, poking its way out of the piles motherhood stacked over it. I wanted to live a little more wild. Provided I could plan for it. A reserved thrill seeker of sorts. 

As a kid, I always loved roller coasters. I went for the drop waterslides, the rides at the fair where they harness you in a contraption and pull you up to the top of a tower only to release you into a free fall until you soar through the air like Superman. I sought out heights and jumped off cliffs into lakes. I went to Brazil twice in high school, staying at a remote and bare-bones summer camp where we encountered a tarantula in our makeshift outdoor shower. At the end of my junior year in college, I traveled alone to Peru to meet a group of perfect strangers from Iowa and spent a month with them studying abroad. I wasn’t one to shy away from the wild. Though I was cautious, the wild lit something in me. 

This backpacking trip was to be led by our pastor’s wife and her daughter. A fun girls weekend of sorts, I thought. I pictured gathering around a campfire, clinking mugs filled with wine that we’d squeezed into our packs, toasting s’mores and giggling late into the night. In reality, the trip was an entirely different adventure, not at all what I expected, and yet there is nothing about it I would change. We met “together” three or four times on Zoom before the weekend of our trek. At each meeting, I learned a new piece of information that might have caused me to not sign up, had I known it from the get-go. Perhaps this was a well thought out strategy? Lock the buyer in before they see the fine print! Or maybe it was just perfectly orchestrated happenstance. Whatever the case, it worked! The first change in my mental plan was learning that there would be no tent-sharing, which had been the initial carrot that enticed me. The purpose of the trip was to spend time in solitude and prayer, and giggling side by side in sleeping bags would (theoretically) get in the way of that. Even though I missed the memo about the solitude when I registered, I’m an introvert always looking for alone time, so this was a fairly easy adjustment.

The new tidbit of information I gleaned from the second meeting was a bit tougher for me to swallow. Not only would we be in solitude, but we would also be fasting. I had fasted from specific food items or food groups for short seasons before, but the only time I had ever completely fasted from food was for a few hours leading up to a blood draw. And these periods of fasting usually took place overnight. I only had to make it until 9 AM when the lab was sent off before I could drink my coffee and have a bite. The fasting on this hike was much more intimidating. We would be allowed to snack on the way up the mountain and we would enjoy a picnic together too. But once we arrived at camp, there would be no more eating. We were warned that any snacks left in our packs would be a magnet for animals, so sneaking anything would not be a viable option (ok fine, I’m a rule-follower and could never cheat like this anyway…) Daydreaming of cheating aside, I was suddenly acutely aware of an unrealized fear of going to bed with an empty stomach. In my life of immense privilege, this was not something I often experienced. And it felt next-level intimidating to go without food on top of a mountain. I tried not to let my superficial fears show as I smiled and pretended on-screen that this new knowledge wasn’t causing me to seriously reconsider whether I wanted to do this anymore.

We were encouraged to practice fasting before the trip, both from screens and electronics, and from food. It became painfully obvious how little I wanted to go without these vices, as evidenced by my minimal willingness to practice any more than I had to. Embarrassingly, I fasted for one headache-filled day before the trip and called it good.

The last (and perhaps greatest though they all seem rather significant) surprise was learning that we would not actually be spending the night enclosed in the illusion of safety also known as a tent. Rather, we would be in an open-air fancy REI tarp shelter THAT WE WOULD HAVE TO BUILD OURSELVES. My mind proved incapable of picturing such a setup so I avoided spending even an ounce of time on the subject, trusting that we would be instructed on how to go about this once we arrived in the wild.  

At our final meeting, when the discussion moved to digging a latrine toilet and having to TAKE HOME any used toilet paper or feminine products in a ziplock bag, I began laughing as a protective mechanism. This girl has been on many-a-hike but apparently she lives under a rock. I had never encountered a situation in my short 38 years where it would be required that I place feces-covered paper products BACK IN A BACKPACK ALONG WITH MY CLOTHES AND MY TOOTHBRUSH. Honestly the thought had plain never occurred to me. The scales were coming off my eyes in a real hurry.

One of my fellow adventurers next brought up the topic of bears and I pinched myself when I realized I was zero percent fazed. I almost welcomed an encounter with a bear or something large and from the feline family over going without food and bagging my waste like a mother in the pediatrician’s office forced to return a poopy diaper to her purse because the sign says it can’t be disposed of there. 

But I digress. ;) All this to say, the mental picture I’d built of this “mom’s weekend away” was shifting rapidly into something else entirely. That said, though I had (a large handful of) fears and reservations, something in me felt drawn toward the ruggedness I was now picturing. I kind of wanted to do something hard and get out of my comfort zone. Check and check! Is that not more or less the bare-bones definition of the word adventure? 

I just Googled it and I’m not far off. Oxford says that to adventure is to “engage in hazardous and exciting activity, especially the exploration of unknown territory.” I love that the word hazardous is in there!

Had the trip been led by anyone else, I might have reconsidered, but I adored the two ladies who were guiding us and trusted that they knew what they were doing and that the experience they facilitated was going to be worth it. 

And it was. 

(To be continued...)

I'm not ready

 

We did it! They are off. My heart is walking outside of my body, taking the form of my three children, off to school again.

I would like to say it gets easier. (But it might not).

I would like to say it’s at least smoother. (But it might not be).

Or perhaps that you can count on them being more independent. (But that might not be factual).

This isn’t sounding encouraging. My heart goes out to you parents, and particularly you mamas, who just did something big. Maybe your launch day isn’t for another week or two, but it’s coming. And I have news for you:

YOU WILL NEVER FEEL READY.

I had that realization this morning, as I walked home from dropping my baby off at his bus stop. I could have done all the preparation in the world (which, by the way, I didn’t) and still I would not feel ready. There is always more. Can I just make peace with this fact?

My firstborn was up this morning before anyone else. She took care of her own breakfast (after I stumbled out of bed to tell her I’d bought a new, unfamiliar brand of milk which she failed to locate in the refrigerator without my guidance). She was showered, already dressed in her volunteer t-shirt and had her lunch made by the time I even poured my coffee. She was the one telling ME what her schedule looked like today, what time she needed to be where. Her first day isn’t technically until tomorrow but she is showing the ropes to a group of 6th graders today, my responsible little leader. I actually watched her stop herself from leaving for school 20 minutes early because she was that ready to go.

She’s ready, but I will never be.

My middle was next in our series of wake ups. We bought her very first alarm clock yesterday (no time like the present!) and the singsong tune it rang out this morning marked it’s maiden voyage. This kid has never been awake before 7 AM, with the exception of the time we were boarding a flight for Disneyland. The learning curve with early mornings is going to be a steep one. But she made it out of bed and was ready with her priorities straight-ish. Her outfit was set out last night and she slept on top of her covers (no bed to make!) She ate a good breakfast and was the one of my trio with the most intricate first day sign. She’s all in when it comes to arts and crafts. We might actually be late to her first day of middle school BUT HER FIRST DAY SIGN IS GONNA BE BEAUTIFUL GOSH DANG IT. 

She’s ready, but I will never be.

My son is the last one up. He was up late last night watching his dad play softball because, priorities. He’s the baby of the family and late summer bedtimes are a hard habit to kick. He wakes on his own and is as cool as a cucumber. He’s not at all nervous because he’s “been going to elementary school for 3 years.” He tells me the summer has gone by too fast and he’s not pleased when I ask him to make a first day sign. He’s even less pleased when I refuse to allow a full 20 minutes for our 10 minute walk to the bus stop. He’d rather play it safe and be early. Always. 

He’s ready, but I will never be.

Sure, I’m ready for a break. But I'm not ready ready. I’m elated for a quiet house that only gets as messy as I make it. But I’m not ready. I still have so many things I wanted to do this summer. I’m not ready. I wish I spent more one-on-one time with each kid. I’m not ready. I still haven’t bought Isla an umbrella. I’m not ready. I wanted to stock the freezer with grab-and-go breakfast options. I’m not ready. I didn’t create a morning routine chart to help with the flow of school mornings. I’m not ready. I haven’t brainstormed new lunch items to stock. I’m not ready. I haven’t mapped out how I’m going to spend my time while the kids are away.

I’m not ready, but the day is here. No amount of preparation and organization would have made me feel fully equipped. Were my kids sporting new clothes from a recent back-to-school shopping spree on their first day of school? They sure weren’t. But were they wearing clothes? Thankfully, yes! And shoes? Yes! (A rare miracle in the Crozier household). Did they change their underwear? If I were a betting woman, I’d guess maybe we were 1 for 3 here. Did I remember to pray for each of them and their days the way I’d wanted to? Nope! Thankfully Jesus is always available and accepting prayers. 

I’m sure you get my point. The pressure we endure to get everything “just so” leaves us forever feeling inadequate. You won’t ever feel ready, physically or emotionally. And therein lies the challenge. Can we make peace with our unreadiness and simply lean in? 

As I think of all you parents sending littles out into the big, wide world today and in the days to come, my hope is that you will know that whatever you manage to bring to the table, whether it's messy and chaotic, or smooth and organized, it is good enough. 💛 (And it's ok if you don't feel ready. No one else does either).

I've been (over)thinking...

 

I made a deal with myself. As I type this very sentence, I’m trying to convince myself I don’t have to keep it. I said I would write something and post it. Not because I have something monumental to say, but rather precisely because I feel I don’t have much to offer. I’ve been existing in this space for half of a year already and it’s becoming a rather convenient excuse to quit pushing myself, waiting for words to strike or content ideas to feel more palatable and comfortable. But those days ain’t coming. So I’m showing up and pushing through. She asked me this morning if something happened. To be honest, I had the very same thought as my feet pounded the pavement on my run, mere hours earlier. I almost wish something happened. That would feel easier. It would be more logical. It would explain in a more universal language why I’m at the place I am. But the reality is, nothing has happened that I can pinpoint that tipped the scale and caused my recent bout of anxiety and depression. I didn’t have a clean and neat answer for my therapist. I’m just anxious. And sad. Let’s edit that. I’m not “just” anxious. Heaven knows anxiety is minimized enough in our culture! I don’t need to shrink it down in significance even further. I am anxious. Take away the “just.” When most people think of anxiety, they picture palms sweating and legs trembling. Mine isn’t like that. I don’t have many of the outward symptoms, which, I might argue, makes it a whole lot worse because no one knows it’s happening. Mine looks more like constant, intrusive, negative thoughts that hound me. I wake up sad and filled with dread. I often begin the day working my way through a mental checklist: Am I okay? Am I in trouble? Who have I upset? Who have I disappointed? Do my kids and family know how much I love them? Have I done anything that I should feel guilty about? And this list is just the tip of the iceberg. Thoughts like these pummel me from the moment I wake up. I rise with an intense feeling of obligation to pay penance to someone. I do not know where this idea stems from, as it goes 100% against my theology. But the thoughts still plague. I try to get up before the rest of my house so I can wrestle the negative thinking into better submission. I read a devotional. I journal prayers. I meditate on promises in Scripture about who I am in Christ. I plead with God to help me know I am free and complete in Him. And the thoughts continue to pummel. It’s exhausting and defeating. It takes so much physical and mental effort to get myself to a semblance of “baseline” where I am able to function and take on the day. My morning exercise gives me a much-needed boost of endorphins that helps soften the blast of the intrusive negative thoughts. I found great encouragement in Brene Brown’s most recent book, “Atlas of the Heart,” where even she, a well-renowned and respected professional, shared that she has to exercise daily to get to a healthier baseline. Maybe I’m not crazy after all? Back to this morning. My therapist asked if something happened. She has watched me fall apart this summer. These struggles are not new. I have wrestled with intrusive thoughts for over 2 decades. But they come in waves and I have bouts where they are less impactful, and bouts like the present when I feel stuck and nonfunctional. Is it overstimulation? Exhaustion? Lack of alone time? Cumulative effects of raising 3 kids and trying to preserve a healthy marriage in a never-ending pandemic? Some past trauma coming to the surface? Maybe someday I will know. But I don’t have a nice, logical way to explain myself to others: “Because of ________, I’m struggling.” My therapist also asked me this morning if it would help to know that others have thoughts like mine, that most moms, for instance, worry about whether their kids know how much they are loved. I wanted to push back, partly to validate for myself the severity of these thought intrusions. At the same time, it was so very helpful to be reminded that I’m not the only one. So here I am, sharing where I am at outloud, in case you too are feeling alone in a mess of thoughts. I don’t have great solutions (yet), but I’m showing up here and (mostly) willing to be vulnerable. It’s always hard for me to write hard stuff without wrapping it up with a nice and pretty bow. But I’m leery about saying something that feels like a “Jesus bandaid.” I have often been handed these harmful words by well-intended, fellow Christians: Just believe more and it will get better. You aren’t trusting enough. Frankly, those sentiments can be added to the intrusive thought pile that only serve to make the problem worse. What I will say is that it is possible to love Jesus, long to live free of anxiety and have more faith AND YET STILL BE ANXIOUS. I may not like it, but this wrestling of mine is keeping me closer to Him and I am committed to keep bringing this burden to the feet of Jesus, praying for a clear way forward. One last thought. If you are reading this and you don’t personally struggle with anxiety or depression, but you love someone who does, here are some helpful words you might consider saying to encourage them: You are doing a good job. I’m thinking of you. I love you and care about you. I am here. You aren’t too much. You aren’t crazy. They don’t need your solutions. They just need your presence, prayers and care in the midst of the mess. XO.

heartbreak to heartburst

Nobody tells you motherhood will break and rebreak your heart, hundreds of times over. That having kids is like having your heart exit your body and walk around outside of you, unprotected and vulnerable to attack. 

Nothing prepares you for the moment when you find out your child is struggling, that her "friends" are ignoring her, telling her that her ideas are stupid, and then stealing the very same idea they declared unworthy and adopting it with pride as their own. Nothing prepares you for the times she won't receive an invitation, where she will have to sit through the excited chatter on Monday morning, classmates reminiscing over the weekend gathering where she was not welcome. 

Nobody tells you to prepare yourself for the art contests they will lose, the teams they will be cut from. How you will sit with them through hard life lessons, all the while telling them that you would have voted for their masterpiece, chosen them for your team. How they will roll their eyes and declare, "You have to say that because you're my Mom."

Nothing breaks your heart like hearing she is wandering the perimeter of the playfield alone at recess. Or him telling you that he doesn't want to go to school because his friends won't play with him. There is nothing like motherhood to make you perpetually question whether you are actually really screwing them up. 

Nobody tells you that motherhood will trigger your every insecurity, that you will be forced to relive your middle school years again, this time through the eyes of your Beloveds. They will worry about how they will find their classes, who they will eat lunch with, whether they can remember their locker combination. Nobody warns you that you will lose just as much sleep over these anxieties as they will.

Nothing prepares you for the fire motherhood will light within you, the fierceness with which you will go to bat on their behalf. Sometimes this will look like emailing the teacher, calling the principal, texting the parent of the child with whom she is having the conflict. Fighting the good fight. Yet most of the time, it seems, it looks like biting the tongue, outfitting oneself in the motherhood armor of quiet presence, sitting and holding vigil while they ride life's waves. Sorting through your own triggers that are poked at right and left as they find their way in the safety net of your loving care.

And then.

Nothing prepares you for the moment someone sees your kid. When a teacher tells you, their mind is incredible. I've never seen a child do a math problem that way, but it works. When someone observes their gifting of leadership gifts and communicates it to you. When you are affirmed that moving him to a new school was absolutely the right choice for him. When a friend texts you to call out their strengths. When they remind you of the creative, kind and amazing humans you are raising. Nothing feels better than the moment they receive an unexpected invitation, how they come alive with excitement and hope. Nothing prepares you for the explosion of pride you feel when they sing the solo, score the goal, speak a word of encouragement to their sister, befriend the child who is in tears and alone.

Motherhood. It takes you from heartbreak to heartburst in three second tops. What a ride!

“Mom, why does my stomach have to stay covered?”

“Mom, why does my stomach have to stay covered?”

I hate the question and I hate the fact that she’s having to ask it. I avoid it, busying myself by reading aloud the rest of the packing list. I don’t have a good answer for her and I’m buying time, hoping one will materialize.

We are sitting on the floor in my daughter’s bedroom, selecting a swimsuit from her drawer for her first ever week away at camp. It’s a small Christian camp, almost cookie cutter in feel to the one I attended as a kid, and I’ve only just realized there is a dress code. Why this comes as a surprise to me, I’m really not sure. I guess I’d hoped we were past this, that somehow all the personal work I’ve been doing surrounding body image and body shame had somehow bled out and infused itself into changing the minds and trends of Christian culture as a whole. Sadly, it’s just not this easy. There is still so much work yet to do. 

My nine-year-old is puzzled by the swimwear rules, and to be honest, I am a bit too. They are by no means new to me. In fact, they are exactly the same as those in existence during my camp and church youth group days as a kid - one piece swimsuits or tankinis where the top meets the bottom. Basically, no bellies, and also no spaghetti strap tank tops. Nothing about these rules are at all foreign, yet they leave me with a giant tangled knot in the pit of my stomach. I feel unsettled and scared, acutely and personally aware of the silent message that is being sent to these young girls in attendance as they abide by the dress code: there is something wrong with your stomach. It needs to remain covered. And your shoulders? I don’t even know where to go with that one. 

Our summer has been full and, though it has been on my list to shop for another swimsuit for each of my girls, between hosting family and being out of town, it just hasn’t happened. A few days earlier, I was running errands with a friend and we made a random stop at Nordstrom Rack. I happen upon a tankini swimsuit in the kids section and I buy it, hoping it will fit my daughter so she can have two options to rotate while at camp, because no one ever likes donning a wet swimsuit. It isn’t until after this spontaneous purchase that I encounter the dress code rules. 

I stare down her drawer, knowing there is a high likelihood none of its contents are  camp-dress-code-compliant options. She has a long torso like I do, and finding one piece swimsuits that don’t result in a permanent wedgie has proven tricky. We’ve resorted to buying mostly tankinis. They are friendlier on the budget since they grow with her and allow us to squeeze at least a couple of summer seasons out of the same swimsuit, the gap between top and bottom increasing slightly with each passing year. Additionally, I find tankinis are just earlier. Anyone who has ever attempted to pull up a wet one piece after using the bathroom can attest that there are few things less enjoyable than the tangle of twisted straps that inevitably results. 

My daughter does have one hand-me-down one piece, and I pull it out of her drawer first. A quick glance reminds me that just last week, I banned her from wearing it because it had grown so stretched out that she was having the opposite of a wedgie problem. The suit was so misshapen from overwear that she was sporting two inches of excess fabric between her legs, blowing in the breeze and offering generous views of her crotch area to onlookers. 

The second swimsuit I come across is a Speedo tankini from last year, navy blue with criss-crossing pink racer back straps that form an “X” over her shoulder blades. It fits her well and covers where it should, but since she’s grown this year, it shows a couple inches of her tummy so I toss it aside. 

I dig around in her drawer, looking for the other suit I know should be in there. It’s a thrifting purchase I made a few months back, when I was trying to be on top of things and avoid this we-need-a-swimsuit-now problem I currently find myself in the middle of. It’s also a tankini, with a black and pink paisley pattern and three layers of soft ruffling down the front. Up until five minutes ago when I printed off the camp-supplied packing list and saw the dress code policy, this was the swimsuit I thought she would take with her to camp. She obviously did too because when I realize it’s nowhere to be found in her dresser, I ask her for its whereabouts, and she pulls it out of her half-packed camp bag. 

“Let’s see how it fits,” I prompt her, and I inwardly wince when she dons it and I spy a small gap between the top and bottom. It still had the tags attached, never worn by the previous owner or by my daughter, who had a tendency to choose one favorite item of attire and wear it to its death (case in point: stretched out one piece with all the excess crotch). 

I still feel ill prepared as to how to explain to her that she won’t be permitted to wear it at camp, so I distract her by pulling out the last option, the new neon pink tankini I grabbed on a whim at The Rack. I urge her to try it on, all the while, doing my best to camouflage the mounting stress I am starting to experience. We don’t have time to shop for another swimsuit. If this one doesn’t meet the dress code criteria, I’m not sure what we were going to do. As she shimmies herself into the suit pieces and flattens them into place, I silently hold my breath, willing top to meet bottom. Hallelujah! It does, but just barely. I exhale with relief and inwardly celebrate the good fit. 

“Perfect!” I say. “That’s the one you should pack for camp.” 

Though I really don’t want to, I will answer her question about why her tummy “can’t” show. I need to, but I’m still wrestling with how I want to say it. What’s particularly bewildering is the fact that the week at camp is for girls-only.

The rest of the weekend passes in a whirlwind. With neon tankini in bag, we depart for camp, which requires a ferry ride across the Puget Sound. At the ferry dock, we meet up with two of my daughter’s friends from school who will be joining her. Each of them have attended before and are eager to fill us in on the details. They tell us what to expect upon our arrival; there will be cabin assignments and a swim test and then an all-camp gathering where they will go over some nuts and bolts for the week ahead. There are a handful of rules to be reviewed, most of them some unique rendition of “have fun,” but I freeze when they bring up the one about the dress code. I ask them to expand and they tell me that swimwear has to pass a specific test. 

“You have to raise your hand high in the air and if your stomach stays covered, your swimsuit is fine. Then you turn around and bend over to make sure your bottom doesn’t show.”

I have to blink hard to keep my eyes from shooting out of their sockets in disbelief. “This can’t be real,” I think to myself. “Isn’t this 2019? Are we really still here? Are these still the hoops we are making our girls jump through? Are these still the kinds of things we are saying? Do we have ANY idea the message we are sending?” 

I swallow my thoughts before I say anything aloud. 

“What happens if your swimsuit doesn’t pass?” I ask, terrified of what they will answer, knowing full well that my daughter’s tummy will bare when she raises her arms.

“Well, then they call your parents and have them drive you a new swimsuit,” she tells me. 

“I see,” I gulp, feeling increasingly queasy with each new tidbit of information.

“Or,” she continued, “they have a box of old clothes there that you can choose from. But they are all pretty ugly.” 

“Got it,” I say, not feeling in the least bit reassured, but trying my best to hide my mounting stress from my daughter, who was listening intently. 

Prior to this moment, the pre-camp mom worries that had been running through my head felt important. They consisted of thoughts like:

Who are the counselors and how old are they? Will they be responsible and trustworthy? What about the lifeguards? Are they well-trained and diligent and will they keep my kid from drowning? What if my daughter gets homesick? How will they handle it? 

Now these worries felt like child’s play. My rising concern was much weightier. Will my daughter be asked to stand before an authority and raise her arm in the air or turn around and bend over as they observe her attire? Will someone say something, anything at all that makes her feel ashamed of her body and her clothing? Will she be made to feel “wrong” or worse, like something is wrong with her, the beautiful, image-of-God creation that she is? Will she feel insecure about her tummy and her bared shoulders, be told that they need to be kept covered? What reason will she be given? Will these confusing messages send her on a trajectory of body-loathing and self-hatred and shame that will affect her ability to see herself as intricately and perfectly designed by God? 

What began as just a small ripple of discomfort was gaining speed and momentum, taking the shape of a tidal wave with each passing second. I was being triggered. Flashbacks of body shame experiences from my own childhood were starting to eat away at me. I was experiencing a deep and intense desire to shield and protect my daughter from all subtle yet potentially crucially damaging messages that I knew conservative Christian culture has historically been so capable of dishing out. As one so traumatically wounded by the words and rules intended for good, I desperately wanted to spare my child from my own painful path.

Back in our separate cars, we drive aboard the ferry and I whisper quietly to my husband in the front seat. “What do we tell her?” I plead through my teeth. “How do we prepare her for what might be said? If they even say one thing that shames her…” I start to threaten.

I didn’t even want to tell our daughter about the dress code. Though she’d raised the question about why her tummy couldn’t show while we were packing, it had been dropped and I’d hoped sending her with a compliant swimsuit would allow me to skirt around the issue without her even knowing it was there. I wanted to plug my ears and bury my head in the sand and hope that if I ignored the whole thing, it would just go away. But if the last decade has taught me one thing, it’s that usually the topics we most desperately want to avoid, the ones we fear because they are awkward or scary or involve conflict, these are the ones we most need to bring out into the light. We need to speak them aloud, address and face them head on. The most important parenting move I could make right now was to talk to her about this hard and uncomfortable and confusing situation. I needed her to hear the words from us, to allow opportunity for us to inject the situation with our beliefs and convictions, to bathe her in the truth we believed her Creator would most want her to know.

“God made you and your body is beautiful and amazing and there is nothing wrong with any part of it. That is the bottom line. Some people have stricter rules about things like clothing. And at this camp, they made some rules about tummies being covered because it’s what they think is best. We disagree - we don’t think there is anything wrong with showing your tummy - but we don’t always agree with what other people think and that’s ok. We wanted you to know about these rules ahead of time so they don’t come as a surprise to you if you hear them being talked about. That’s why we had you pack the swimsuit that you did. Do you have any questions?”

The moment of silence that enveloped the car as she pondered what we said felt like an eternity. 

“That seems kind of weird,” she told us. Then she shrugged, entirely unfazed, and asked if we could restart the audiobook we had been listening to. 

I felt ill at ease the entire week that she was away. The release of control felt debilitating. I spent a lot of time wondering what might be said by camp staff from the front, worrying about whether anyone would comment about her swimsuit that I knew would not meet dress code if she were asked to raise her arms. I hoped I was blowing the situation out of proportion, that perhaps this arm-lifting business was an old protocol, no longer in place, and that all of this would be a nonissue in the end. And mostly it was.

The staff never mentioned the dress code (thankfully). There was no arms-in-the-air swimsuit test to pass (hallelujah). The only cringe-worthy incident occurred when a younger camper yelled out “swimsuit check” when my daughter’s tankini top got pushed up a little and her tummy was bared. Whether the camp had updated its approach this year or had simply done things differently during the week that my daughter was there, it was apparent that at some point in weeks or years prior, campers had been indoctrinated with practices that caused the hairs on my arms to raise.

I don’t know how this story will sit with you; I’ve ridden a huge roller coaster of emotion over the past few weeks. Please hear me when I say my intent in sharing all this is NOT AT ALL to throw this camp under the bus. It was an amazing place, the highlight of our daughter’s summer, and we plan to send her back next year. I do have a number of concerns with their dress code (and the ways I’ve been told secondhand that they have gone about presenting and implementing it), and I will be bringing these to the camp director. However, the primary reason I write all this is out of a sense of obligation.

I am more aware than ever that we need to ask hard questions, to ponder deeply the messages we are sending to our kids when we talk about their dress. While I fully support the idea of having guidelines for the way we cloth ourselves, I think it is important that we examine and reexamine what we hope to accomplish by establishing dress codes. And then we need to take it one step further to assess how our message is being delivered and whether these dress codes are accomplishing their desired purposes. Are they in place to allow kids to enjoy water sports without concern that they will lose their bathing suit bottoms while they are inner tubing? Or are they in place because “that’s what we’ve always done” or because “girls need to cover themselves, so they don't cause boys to stumble”? Are we promoting a healthy view of our bodies with our swimwear rules? Or are we raising up the next generation of modesty police, equipped with a keen judging eye, ready to quietly shame the girls whose bellies are showing, as if donning a one-piece automatically makes one “holier than thou.”

As much as I would have preferred to skip over all the discomfort in the events of the past few weeks, processing and examining all that the camp dress code triggered in me has been healthy. I have had to pinpoint what exactly unsettled me about the dress code. I have been forced to stare down my past and current beliefs on modesty, knowing that I need to answer to my kids and advise them on my values when it comes to the subject of attire. I have found myself for longing to live in the “gray zone” while simultaneously hating the fact that the topic of dress isn’t more black and white. I’ve had to dig deep and ponder all sorts of different scenarios such as whether I am being hypocritical by wanting my daughter to feel confident baring her tummy in a bathing suit while at the same time not loving the fact that the current trend in younger crowds is to show off one’s belly in crop tops. I have wrestled to figure out what guidelines I would like our family to live by and how I will present them to my kids.

It is still a work in progress, but here is the verbiage I have created for our family so far:

We are created by God, the master artist.

Our bodies are amazing.

There is no part, NO PART, of our body to be ashamed of.

Our body in its entirety is GOOD.

When it comes to clothing our bodies, we dress with respect.

We reserve our private parts for private settings.

We consider the situation and dress accordingly (i.e. professional versus casual, what’s most comfortable/practical for the activity at hand).

We are fearfully and wonderfully made.

I don’t claim to have all the answers; I don’t believe any of us ever will. But I can tell you with guaranteed certainty, our kids are listening. They are reading between the lines. They need to hear from us that their bodies are beautiful and amazing, they need not be ashamed. There is subtle messaging saturated in dress codes that tell them to stay covered. Unless you are one of the walking wounded, you won't ever be able to fully comprehend the potential devastation for body shame. 

So, ask the hard questions. Reexamine the rules. Push back and fight to change them if there is need. Have uncomfortable conversations. Wrestle. And in everything we do and say, may we be bathed in the knowledge that our bodies are good, designed by God, and that we are made in His image.

Hamster rescuing was not on my job description

“I NEED LOVE!” I bellowed, from the master bathroom, adjacent to our bed. This is the not-so-subtle, passive-aggressive method I use to gain his attention this morning.

My husband, who had been waking up slowly, scrolling his phone as he lay there cocooned in blankets, drops his device as if it has suddenly caught fire and burned him, and is at my side in a flash.  

I am under slept, feeling sour, and dreading the day in its entirety so I proceed to woefully list off to my husband, all the reasons my life is terrible.

“I’ve been stuck at home for three of the last four days with sick kids. I let them watch 8 full hours of shows yesterday which turned them into little devils. They are fighting constantly (well, except when the tv is on, but even then, they argue over what to watch) and anytime the tv is off, Emma follows me around the house and tells me she’s bored. The house is a wreck. And I don’t feel appreciated for the volunteer position I just finished. I can’t go on a run to burn off some of this angst because I have all these kids and they are like anchors, holding me back. Plus, they are sick so they might make it a whole block before collapsing. Jack only has four more days of preschool left in his life and then summer hits full tilt and alone time with be a scarce commodity. I signed him up for Lunch Bunch these past two days to buy me some extra time to write because I am FREAKING DESPERATE but since the girls were home sick, I just paid extra and wasn’t even alone! And now there is only one more day of Lunch Bunch left, and I think I just might die. The weather has been so crappy and it is making me feel really down and I’m weaning off one of my antidepressants because I think it is giving me night sweats, but, based on the way I’m feeling, I’m not so sure it’s a good idea anymore. And this morning I’m supposed to have a dermatology appointment but now I have to haul the sick kids along with me – minus Isla who I think is well enough to go back to school today but that means I have to leave her home alone which I feel super guilty about because she’s only nine but if I took her to my appointment, it would make her late for school - and I’m super annoyed that just because I don’t have a paid job, all the care and arrangements for the kids falls on me. And speaking of jobs, I think I want one because this full-time-stay-at-home-motherhood gig does not seem to suit me and money is too tight but who will watch the kids if I do work and really I just want to be able to pursue my dreams which unfortunately don’t seem to compensate monetarily. But I feel called to do them and yet I can’t seem to find the time and – oh yeah did I mention that these dreams won’t likely pay so how am I going to buy the help I need in order to pursue them? I feel like I’m in a vicious cycle and I don’t have time to do anything I want to do. I can’t seem to accomplish anything. And ALSO. I vacuumed these bathmats yesterday and look! There are already grassy footprints on them. I give up! WHY DO I EVEN TRY?”

Graham, who had been taking in my every word, looks at me, solemnly. “Wow,” is all he can formulate. “That seems like a lot.”

Ha.

As I type these words now, I’m seated on the cold tile of my kitchen floor with the laptop across my legs. My butt cheeks are 100% asleep and I’m leaning against the hard cabinets at my back. Come to think of it, I could really use a pillow behind me. To my right, the piano bench is toppled on its side, blocking off one side of the island. The overturned coffee table on my left, along with rags stuffed into any gaps, obstructs the exit on the other side of the island. A spoonful of peanut butter and a handful of sunflower seeds sit on a plate next to me along with a screwdriver - the tool, not the drink! But for sure the drink would make this situation 1000% better right now - which I used to remove the kick plate at the base of our dishwasher. This is my very first moment alone in over a week and do you know how I’m spending it? Trying the lure out my middle daughter’s pet hamster who escaped her cage overnight and has set up camp in the bowels beneath our kitchen cabinetry. How is this even my life!?!

Most of the intricacies of my days feel laughable, ridiculous, and I can’t believe this is how I pass my hours, breaking up fights, throwing away pairs of tiny underwear that are too far gone with this last accident to redeem. I really don’t recall hamster rescuing being on my job description. Among the million other oddball roles that seem to make up this thing called “Motherhood.”

“I’m educated!” I preach at myself. “I am capable! I have things to offer!” But if anyone were measuring my visible day-to-day productive output, they might argue differently. I am struggling immensely with a lack of fulfillment in the way I spend my hours right now. I feel like I am in an early mid-life crisis of sorts, trying to find myself, my worth, my value and my purpose. I’ve been trudging through a personally grueling season of being “in between” and it’s growing rather apparent that it doesn’t look very good on me.

I sincerely thought that life would look different for me after I quit my (paid) job. To be frank, and I think I’ve said this before, I didn’t quit to spend more time with the kids (who, despite the tone of this post, I do actually adore!) I was working part-time when I officially bid my job adieu, so I still saw them plenty, and was not feeling a shortage of quality time in their company. The reason I quit that job was because I was unhappy in it and I didn’t want to look back in 10 years and realize I’d wasted away my life, undervalued and feeling invisible, in a position I didn’t love. Instead, I wanted to write. Maybe speak some, about what exactly, I wasn’t entirely sure, but I figured the pieces and opportunities would just fall into my lap. And they sort of did. For a little while.

I’m not sure what I envisioned for my life as a writer. For sure, I figured I would be doing, well, a whole lot more writing. But it hasn’t really panned out that way and I’m wrestling hard with my feelings about it. I read a lot of about writing, how to write, how others have been successful at it, but thus far, these sorts of books have only served to make me feel smaller, less equipped, more inadequate. Anyone who does it will concur - the writing life sucks! Like why would anyone choose to subject themselves to this sort of lifestyle on purpose? Here, just pen down your most personal thoughts and feelings, and then post them on your chest for the world to attack, criticize, and sometimes, on a good day, agree and whisper, “Me too.” Writing isn’t for the faint of heart, and it certainly isn’t for the thin-skinned either.     

All this to say, “quitting my job to write” isn’t looking exactly the way I’d hoped. I’ve been doing a lot more flailing than I have been moving forward favorably. I’m struggling with a general feeling of invisibility as a mom. It seems to be an underlying theme throughout my life, this struggle with feeling invisible and undervalued. Graham noted the irony – I quit one job where I felt invisible and now am doing another where I feel increasingly so. The sum of this equals a lot of disappointment to wade my way through.

I know full well the tremendous value of mothers, of the significance of the work we do. I would be the first to tell any mom struggling similarly that her job is the most important in the world. But it doesn’t change the fact that I still have these emotions, that our culture doesn’t value us well, that I feel unfulfilled, and that I personally have a pile of negative thoughts and unmet expectations to work through. It may also mean that full time stay-at-home motherhood is not the only thing I am called to, even though this fact causes tidal waves of guilt to come over me.

Since I can’t seem to make the writing thing happen with kids underfoot, I’ve started to dapple elsewhere. I feel a very real pressure (from no one other than myself, and in my defense, I do happen to be the one who does the budgeting around here) to find some sort of part-time work to help make ends meet. I don’t know how and even whether this will ever pan out but the idea both excites me (slightly) and grieves me (tremendously). I have realized an undeniable internal desire to be compensated for my work (and is there a more poorly compensated or thankless job than motherhood in our culture?) At the same time, I am already mourning my loss of freedom. How can I reconcile the two? I’m not ready to surrender my hope that I can somehow figure out a way to do life-giving work that also compensates. Does this seem too far-fetched?

My bathroom monologue that engulfed Graham at the beginning of this post illustrates the place I go when I’m not doing enough of the things that give me life. I see everything through a negative lens. On the one hand, I want to take this outburst with an extremely large granule of salt, but on the other, don’t our baseline feelings and frustrations come out most when we no longer possess the energy to filter or sensor them? They pour forth in their rawest form.

I wish I had more answers to accompany the many questions that I’m asking. I recognize that I need to make some changes (and recognizing you have a problem is the first step!) These changes could look like me making peace with and learning to embrace the job I currently find myself in. Or it could look like me making a change and getting a (paid) job once all three kids are in school in the fall (full disclosure: I’m regularly perusing job openings at local plant nurseries). Or, also come fall, it could look like me surrendering the desire to be compensated, no longer allowing the dollar amount I bring in determine my value, and instead pour my heart and soul into this writing thing that I love even if it never amounts to anything or if I don’t have a final product to show for it at the end of the day. It could mean I just do it because it makes me feel alive and healthy and because it is my art form in a world that desperately needs beauty in the midst of brokenness. I kind of hope this last option is the one I land on, but we’ll see.

I share all this today in hopes that it speaks to someone out there somehow, someone who is feeling lonely and unfulfilled, either in a paid job in the workforce, or at home where the compensation comes only in the form of hugs and goodnight kisses. Both are difficult places to be and you aren’t alone. It’s okay to wrestle. And we will get through it, even when it's messy and unglamorous, and we find ourselves using our college-educated brains to rescue pet hamsters. Even then.