It’s Day 15 in this dark place. I wonder when I’ll see the end? Sometimes I think my punishment will never end.
I feel pretty accomplished, surviving in this strange place, with a huge credit to my husband on the outside who has courageously smuggled in compliant dinners.
My captors allowed me to eat out a few times and but forced me to make substitutions and special requests. I longed to cry out for help to the waitress, but I was threatened with punishment upon our return. At one point I was brought to a bowling alley that sold fried foods as another twisted means of torture and I ended up begging to be put out of my misery, to no avail. I was present at a gathering where I was offered pizza. and. cake. but I knew of the unsaid consequences if I were to succumb to temptation in a moment of weakness. Only strength will get me through. And hope. One day at a time.
My time here has reminded me of being pregnant, oddly. My sense of smell has become superhuman. Halfway down the dungeon stairs I breathed in, and with my exhale I moaned, “THOSE MARSHMALLOWS HAD BETTER BE GONE BY THE TIME I GET DOWN.” Sometimes, the captive start to sound like the captors.
I’m still craving the sweet flavors of home, mainly in the dark of night. Some days are better than others, but I find being given permission to eat something -anything compliant- does the trick to distract my body from its woes and the craving passes.
I should be drinking more water. I’m being given my ration, but I long for something different.
My biggest concern for the second half of my sentence is the shackles of food boredom. I’m trying to keep my spirits up by finding ways to make my meager breakfast more interesting. Even the slightest new taste can do the trick; I plan to beg for fruits I don’t often have. With luck I’ll be shown some mercy.
Sometimes I sense that my time here is melting away my humanity. Have you seen that movie, Lord of the Rings? Do you remember when Bilbo saw the ring again after he hadn’t seen it, or held it, caressed it, in a long time? The greedy monster inside him contorted on his face for just a fraction of a second. That’s how I feel when I see my captors eating ice cream right in front of me. The preciousss.
Another day, gone.
If you should find this, please leave a message of hope in its place.
I’ve taken my extra time away from babies and I’ve surprisingly spent a good chunk of it exercising and shit. I know, I’ve surprised even myself. This morning, I was running around the house in my sports bra, getting the kids ready for school, and my husband first asked this weird half-naked lady with purple hair if she’d seen his wife, and then, upon remembering how hot I am, asked me if I knew where the gun show was. (spoiler alert, I do.)
That’s right. We know how to keep that spark alive.
Ever since my daughter was done breastfeeding and my body became my very own again, I’ve been working to really, truly take care of myself. I’ve had mental health stuff come up. I’ve had a bunch of seemingly random health stuff come up, too. Skin issues, GI issues, chronic acid reflux issues, my ongoing headaches and migraines. I’ve had a few tests done for the GI stuff and the short version is that they can’t find anything physically wrong with me. That leaves me with…my diet. The food-like things I put into my body.
About a year ago I cut out some dairy, but not all. I feel like that has helped some. Not all. I’ve also cut out or reduced a few things that trigger my reflux. So that helps. But not all the way.
Sooooooooo, my dear psychos, I’m taking the plunge. Starting tomorrow, I’m doing Whole 30. Wholey crap. For those of you unfamiliar, Whole 30 is an elimination diet to see how certain food groups affect your body – you eat whole foods for 30 days and then slowly add stuff back in to see what happens. It’s a good way to see if you have any allergies or aversions and junk. Basically, I can have meat, fish, eggs, fruits, veggies, nuts. Nothing else. No added sugar, no soy, no dairy, no legumes, no grains, no alcohol.
This is a big deal for me. I’ve always eaten everything. I don’t have any obvious allergies and I’m generally not a picky eater. I’ve also never been on a special diet before, ever. Unless you count my surgery prep and the stuff I couldn’t eat during pregnancies, I’ve never really restricted myself. And guys, my parents are from the midwest. Dairy is, like, THE most important food group. It’s like how Bubba is with shrimp: there are so many ways you can have cheese. There’s sliced cheese, grated cheese, powdered cheese, melted cheese, blocks of cheese, wheels of cheese. There’s cheese curds and cheesecake. Don’t forget cheesewhiz. I grew up having cows milk with breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Ice cream almost every night. Dear lord, my body is a temple and it’s never not been worshipped with dairy.
This is going to be interesting, y’all.
Luckily, I have a friend, whom I’ll call M, and she’s done this before and she offered to do it with me now and to be my emotional support animal. Honestly, I don’t think she’s aware of what she signed up for, because when I get hangry, all bets are off. I’ll be texting her in the middle of the night needing a peptalk so I don’t inhale my kids’ Valentines candy in my walk-in closet.
It goes without saying that I plan to blog about this experience as much as I need to and probably more than you all would like. Food is such an emotional thing. We have living, breathing relationships with it because it’s rooted in culture and family and it’s woven into every. single. social. gathering.
I’m treating this like one big experiment, and it’s my goal to remain determined and curious. Although I’m a rule follower to the core, M (dude, when I call you M, it reminds me of that kickass lady from the Bond movies played by Dame Judy Dench. You’re welcome.) kinda gave me permission to bend some small rules so I don’t go absolutely crazy. Like, I may still cook with real butter (I’m just kidding! I don’t cook, my husband does. A word on that later). And I’ll probably have some store-bought mayo (another midwestern food group – you can’t make a salad without it!), but I’m very interested to see how I feel without all that sugar and dairy and grain in my system. I’m looking forward to the poops! Oh, the BMs! I’ve heard the legends and I want to know what secrets lie within…and without.
Advanced thanks to M and to my husband, who has been amazingly supportive so far. He does all the cooking in the house, and he’s been planning meals for me and I know he’s gonna be there to cheer me on this whole way, even when I’ll be tackling him to the ground trying to eat the pasta hanging out of his mouth.
It all starts tomorrow, folks. What’s hilarious is that my mom friends are going out after we walk/jog/run tomorrow morning for coffee and donuts. FUCKING DONUTS ALREADY?!
At our wedding 6 and a half years ago, we had a cute little candy table set up.
Most of the candy was put in these mason jars I painstakingly decorated with lace, burlap, and ribbon. We had, among other things: mints, taffy, and jelly belly beans.
A lot of the candy was left over after the wedding, and I wanted to keep a few of the jars I had made, so we consolidated the candy in the jars I wanted to keep. Fast forward to when we moved to Oregon, and the jars now live on the windowsill in our kitchen.
We don’t eat candy very often. Well, let me be clear – we eat the good stuff quickly, and the rest just kinda…sits there. Plus, the wedding candy kinda became more decoration than treat.
Fast forward again to when we had kids, and to when my youngest kid decided that she’d rather start pooping in her pants than in the potty (the latter she had been doing for weeks already). Kids are wondrous, folks. Simply amazing little creatures.
Mama had had enough and, after much screaming and sanitizing and laundry, we decided to try rewards as a last resort. My first thought was that we’d have to go out and buy some M&Ms.
We had three cute little jars full of (old) candy that wasn’t being eaten, right in front of me as I did the dishes at the end of every exhausting day! I promptly offered my daughter a jelly bean the next time she went poop on the potty, and pointed to the jar that was backlit by the spring sunlight coming in through the window, illuminating the sugary beans like they were sent straight from heaven.
It worked like a charm!
Now, because we were giving my youngest a magic poop bean every time she delivered the goods, my oldest saw an opportunity.
Hey, he said. (he didn’t really say that) I want one, too. (that he did say)
And so, for the past, I don’t know, 6 months or so (maybe 9? my brain is mush), we’ve been giving each kid a bean, when we’ve been home, for a deed that normally should be going on unrewarded.
After a short while, it was clear that my genius had paid off, and that my daughter’s skill mastery of potty training was here to stay. But, another problem was looming.
How do we stop the rewards?!
Surely, I’d created two monsters. Obviously, they’d go off to college thinking they deserved a godforsaken jelly belly after every empty colon produced. Clearly, I had failed as a parent. I had gone in without an exit strategy! Rookie mistake! Sorry, future roommates and partners.
We had a finite number of jelly beans! Of course! Again, the answer had been staring me in the face as I stood at the sink, doing endless freaking dishes day in and day out. The jelly beans would, one day, just run out. There would be no more.
The Last Jelly Bean
This problem solved itself, ladies and gentlemen. I made the announcement, and they accepted the news in stride. The countdown to the End of the Jelly Beans became somewhat of a thing, from then on. It was to be an exciting milestone for all involved.
So. I’m sure you know what recently happened. My baby girl produced so much poop so many times and ate her way through that jar. She no longer needs the jar. She no longer asks for the beans. The circle of life was complete in that the beans became the poop for which the reward was the beans. I propose that the chicken-or-the-egg phrase be officially replaced.
So thank you, Jelly Bean Jar. You served your purpose not only in looking cute at my wedding, and on my window sill, but you also saved me having to do a whole lot of laundry.
Now, let’s raise a glass to the Jelly Bean Jar. Here’s to stale candy doing what I could not- getting a stubborn little girl to do something that shouldn’t require rewarding in the first place.
I have been doing yoga for a long time now, and I’ve figured out the hard way that if I don’t do yoga frequently, it makes me feel something something.
Recently, I’ve been signing up to do yoga through our local parks and rec. It’s cheap, it’s local, and there isn’t another way to do yoga in this town unless you’re selling your soul to the gym gods. That means joining a gym. I tried to make a joke but I’m tired.
Apparently, signing up for an exercise class via P&R if you’re under 40 means that you’re the youngest lass in the class…by like 15 years, at least.
Do you know what this means?
Unfortunately, it means that the class is pretty too very much easy for me. But at least yoga is an individual sport where I can just do an extra twist or add a limb in there and make it a little more of a workout.
On the upside, this means that I look like a friggin ROCKSTAR! The instructor takes all this time explaining the pose and how to use all these props to keep your shoulders in their sockets and I’ve already got both my legs behind my head.
Seriously, though, there are several poses that I can do that the instructor can’t, which means several times she’s been describing the pose while I’m already doing said pose, and I’m spacing-out-while-trying-to-concentrate-and-not-fall-on-my-ass, and she points to me and says, “Just do what Melissa’s doing.” And then I snorted. I was flattered and surprised; it was a flatprised snort.
On another random note: This instructor’s look and voice quality reminds me strongly of Dr. Christine Blasey Ford, and you guys, I cannot express how calm and safe that makes me feel. She’s middle-aged, female, blonde, and her voice is calm, steady, earnest, and full of wisdom.
Before discovering this class, I remember saying that I really wanted to be able to do yoga to the commanding female voice-energy of Cate Blanchett playing Galadriel in Lord of the Rings.
Frooodooo…..now dooo down-ward facing doooog. AT ONCE!
But Dr. Ford is a close second. Or maybe not even second, just…different. Her energy is exactly what I need right now. What a lot of us need, I think. It’s protective. It’s quietly empowering. Right now, for me, it’s pretty transformative.
Another random thought: Just last night my yoga-teacher-Dr.-Ford-doppelganger said….aahhh crap and I forgot the exact wording, but it was something like:
The way you practice having balance is by losing it.
And maybe it was my headspace at the time, or the way she said it, or both, but it was one of those quotes that just hit me, you know? Probably because it works on both literal and figurative levels.
So, I’m not sure what my point is except that I enjoy yoga and it makes me feel great.
I remember when federal holidays were super fun. Do you remember, dear Psychos?
I would get off of school or work and get to sleep in, and oh the bank is closed, so I can’t do that errand, might as well stay home in my pjs and drink tequila milkshakes. And then maybe, if I feel like putting on pants later, I’ll go out for a late lunchy dinner. Linner, if you will.
Remember that?! I don’t, mainly because of those damn milkshakes, but you get the idea.
Before the invasion of my sweet, beautiful children, holidays were fun. Relaxing. Looked forward to. But not anymore.
Now, it’s kinda the complete opposite. Now that I’ve gotten used to having my 5 year old in school 5 days a week, and my 2 year old in school 2 days a week (Ha! I didn’t notice how the numbers matched up like that until now. I think that means that because I’m 36, I should get that many paid vacation days per quarter.), having them both home on the same day is kinda painful. The cherry on top is that my go-to backup place to bring my kids in this small-town-with-nothing-to-do is the library, and on days like today, that’s also closed. It’s the proverbial final nail in the proverbial coffin of my proverbial sanity.
Sensing that the storm was coming, I called in reinforcements (aka MOMS Club) and set up an outdoor playdate for the kids. I’m suuuuper thankful that the weather more than cooperated (it was sunny and downright warm for this time of year!) and also suuuper thankful that moms and kids showed up, not only to entertain my kids, but also to say words to my face and allow me to say words back. A conversation! How delightful.
Now we’re well into the afternoon, and there’s been a minimal amount of yelling on my end. We might just get through the day without any major incidents, folks.
Now if only the small child would just stop kicking and fussing around in her crib and freaking nap already…
Seasonal Depression, or Seasonal Affective Disorder (appropriately SAD) is a real thing. Oregon is cold, it’s dark, and it’s freakin gray. It’s hard to get out of bed some mornings, and I often can’t get warm, even in my own house. It’s no mistake that Jo Rowling (we’re on a first name basis, people) gave the dementors, a metaphor for depression, the power to create an icy chill in their midst while sucking the soul out of their victims. When I’m cold, like that chilled-to-the-bone feeling, I’m irritable. Moody. Unable to feel contentment. I feel like crawling back into bed.
I have several tricks up my sleeve to try and keep the soul-sucking dementors at bay. I wish I had a magic wand, but I guess my Hogwarts letter got lost in the post.
Until that ruddy post owl is found, here are the things I try:
Note: This post is not a replacement for real, amazing therapy. These are simply things that work for me personally. Psychology Today is a great place to start looking for a therapist if you’re in the market, as it were.
My light therapy lamp
Last year, I finally went out and got myself a happy lamp! Getting up in the morning is hard for me, especially in the winter time when it’s pitch black outside. Somehow, that just seems wrong for a person to have to function in those conditions. I just got my lamp back out for the season, and I put it on my bathroom counter and flick it on as soon as I get out of bed. It’s on and shining into my eyes for about 10-15 minutes as I get ready in front of the mirror. It helps to perk me up in the mornings and makes me feel less dead inside. I wish I could get the effects for longer, but I have active kids who need to be places and I no longer sit in one place for very long. At this point I’ll take whatever I can get.
My slippers and hats and sweatshirts and blankets. And sometimes my cat.
Did I mention that I get cold in the winter? I’m actually always cold, but in the winter I’m knocking-on-death’s-door cold. I still can’t believe that I survived living in Boston for two years. I attempt to stay warm by wearing fuzzy slippers. I have ones with down feathers in them. And memory foam. I also have those buttery-soft slipper-socks. When I’m feeling saucy, I’ll wear slipper-socks and slippers at the same time. It’s also not unheard of for me to wear a jacket indoors, or one of my many knit hats. The couch is covered with blankets. And when I don’t hate my cat (and when she doesn’t hate me), I will allow her to sit on my lap to keep my nether regions from frosting over. When animals aren’t total assholes, they can be kind of comforting.
Those microwavable ricey/beany heat pad thingies
They are warm when I am not. The end.
Hot drinks, sometimes with sugar and caffeine
In the winter, I’ll often make hot decaf tea in the afternoons and evenings (in addition to my normal caffeinated morning beverage) to take the chill off, but also because they provide this psychological cozy boost. I enjoy feeling the warm, solid mug between my palms and breathing in the sweet, warm vapors. The Dutch call this feeling gezellig, which roughly translates to “cozy,” and I find myself often chasing it.
FIRE. (Candles and the fireplace)
First off, let me just say that Oregonians have a weird obsession with scented things and lighting shit on fire. Haven’t any of you heard of a spare the air day?! Having said that, I do enjoy the occasional scented candle or switching on our gas fireplace because Oregon creeps up on you after a while. It’s the warmth, but it’s also the psychological boost from the bright, flickering lights and the yummy, spicy, earthy, comforting scents that can fill up the house and my soul.
Music is the perfect drug; there is a piece of music to induce any mood you’re after, with little to no side effects. Spooky Halloween music, cozy Christmas music, after dinner dance party music (pants optional). Music shoos them dementors straight back to Azkaban. Also, if you don’t get these Harry Potter references, consider yourself on notice.
I tend to isolate when I’m anxious and depressed, so I schedule events on my calendar to get me out of the house and interacting with humans over the age of 5, even if it’s cold and rainy and gross and disgusting outside. We might get wet or cold or muddy or all three, but at least we have a fun time hanging out with others, and then we’ll get warm and gezellig once we’re back home again.
HUMOR!!!!!! DEAR GOD, THE HUMOR!
Humor is my EXPECTO PATRONUM!!!!!! Laughter boosts the mood and the immune system. It brings people together, and holy crap it makes me feel less alone. The best cross-section of humor and mental health I can think of can be found at The Bloggess. Jenny suffers from anxiety and depression, but she doesn’t let that get in the way of being fucking hilarious. She’s the reason I started blogging, and I love her and I met her once and she signed my DSM because that’s how deep her commitment to hilarity runs. She normalizes and humanizes mental illness, makes me feel less alone, and makes me laugh – which makes me feel better. Boom. If you’re at all interested, read her blog, check out her books – geez, I wonder if she’ll pay me for this? Shout out, Jen! Call me.
As an example to show how much Jenny Lawson just gets me, here are her calendar pages for October and November:
Ok, I’ll stop here. I hope this is helpful for some people. TELL ME – What do you do to combat the cold, dark, gray, damp winter months of torture?!
Brian and I were having a conversation, as longtime partners sometimes do. He had just explained something brilliant about which I had previously been ignorant.
Brian: …well now you know.
Me: (without missing a beat) And knowing is half the battle! (Arm pump!)
Brian: (laughs heartily)
Me: That’s like an automatic response for me. I didn’t even have to think about it! You know, those 30 second segments at the end of G.I. Joe were my favorite part of the whole show!
Brian: (incredulous): What? Really?!
Me: Dude, you’re talking to someone who grew up to become a therapist! I lived for those segments! I was just hanging on through all the violence and sexism to see what patriotic American moral we’d be taught at the conclusion.
Brian: I bet Saturday morning cartoons shaped our whole generation, just 30 seconds of propaganda at a time.
Me: (clapping) Yes! I was like, Ooh! What cartoon wisdom will they teach us today?!
Brian: What was even better was when they dubbed over them with hilarity years later. **pause** Porkchop sandwiches!
But I just joined a gym for the first time in my life. I was offered a free year pass by a friend, and I figured I’d check it out.
See, I have this thing where I don’t like exercise. Especially exercising in front of other people. Basically, if I’m not doing yoga then I’m one clumsy lady, aaaaaand I’d rather not have an audience if I’m going to fall off the treadmill or drop a weight on my big toe.
I’m also cheap, and I don’t feel like I should have to pay to exercise. Hello, come on in to my bodily torture chamber and pay this cover charge so you can publicly injure yourself and then either shower in a foreign stall with wonky water pressure, or walk out all sweaty and gross and hurting. Bring your friends!
To make matters funny, this particular gym has a Cross Fit focus, and so it seems to be extra Gym-y. Like, the young ripped bros at the front desk are way too enthusiastic and speak like John Paul Jones from the Bachelor franchise, brah. One of them in particular seems to enjoy getting a rise out of me, and so the most recent time I was there, he felt the need to come up to me while I was on the elliptical to give me a high-five. My eye-roll was so exaggerated that my Apple watch also counted it as part of my workout.
**Ping!* It looks like you’re doing an eye-roll workout. Let’s close those rings!
The gym is a foreign environment with an entirely new language and I’m just a fish out of water. Observe the day I came in for my complementary session with a trainer:
Bro: Hey! So, uh, what’re your fitness goals?
Me: Ummm…I’d just like to feel human again.
Broseph: Alright, alright, alright! Sounds tubular! What’s your current fitness regimen like right now?
Me: Well, I do yoga once a week and I attempt to run from zombies. But running is a loose term.
Brodan: Zombies, ha! Right on, right on. So you dig the cardio, yeah? You ever tried weights?
Me: Not unless you count my kids. And dig is a strong term.
Broweena: Hahaaha, that’s hella lit, or whatever the kids are saying these days. Let’s get some goals down and we’ll get started! Exclamation point!
At some point he noticed my Shamrock Run shirt from last year.
Brodude: Whoa, you did The Sham?!
Me: (I look down at my front). Uh…yeah. Just the 5k.
Bronathan: It’s not just the 5k! That’s a real accomplishment! Right on!
Me: Thanks. I mean, we stopped for beer and donuts in the middle…
Brotina, not hearing me: Is there any way you’d want to form a team with us? We’re always looking for cool stuff for motivation!
Me: Well, I actually sign up with my MOMS Club…
Brodrew: Whoa, right on! You should bring your mom friends here!
At this point it’s the end of the session and I’m ready to leave. I mean, I was ready to leave a long time ago, but now it’s the end of the session.
Me: Yeah, no, thanks. Look, I’ve gotta go. Thank you…
Broana: Right, right, no prob. Hey, look, you’re doing awesome! Have an awesome day!
This post may not be funny to any of you, and I suppose I’ll have to take that chance. It was pretty funny in the moment, though. Oh man. You had to be there. But that would have been weird, because this took place in my bathroom at, like, 11pm last night. I’m so glad you weren’t there.
Also, MAJOR SPOILERS for the movie A Quiet Place, and possibly the sequel, because I’m just that good.
Now onto the post.
Me, to Brian: So I saw a headline for the sequel to that one movie, A Quiet Place.
Brian: Ah, yes. A Quiet Place 2: Even Quieter.
Me: That very one! I was just scrolling quickly past and the headline was paired with a still pic of that one hot guy.
Brian: John Krasinski, the guy who’s married to that one hot lady.
Me: Yes! Right again. So I didn’t think anything of it at the time. But one night as I was lying in bed trying to go to sleep, it hit me. The picture with that movie doesn’t make sense because he totally died in the first film being all loud and shit.
Brian: Maybe it’s his twin.
Me: Ooh, A Quiet Place 2: Double the Loud Hotness. No, wait. Not double, cuz the first one is dead. Hotness Again? Loud Hotness? Return of the Loud Hotness!! Only hopefully this twin is much, much quieter and hotter than the first one.
Brian: Or maybe it’s a prequel.
Me: Oh yeah! Because they had to survive for several/I-forget-how-many-months before the first movie begins. Perhaps this prequel could show the hot husband and wife having a thoughtful conversation about wanting to have hot, quiet sex but maybe not wanting to get pregnant because babies are effing loud. She’ll say, do you think we should go in search of birth control first? Then he’ll say, naw, it’s ok, babe, we’ll just roll the dice and put the oops baby in an airtight, padded box if we have to. What could go wrong?! Except that is everything the experts tell you not to do with the sleeping space for babies. No padded bumpers, they say. No blankets or stuffed toys, they say. Give them air to breathe, they say. That poor baby would immediately die of SIDS.
Brian: No, I think that baby would die as soon as the hot mom goes into labor or gives birth, because that’s loud in my experience. It’d die of Sudden Alien Death Syndrome. SADS, for short.
I can confirm that Brian’s experience of seeing babies be born was quite loud because I am excellent at expressing my needs. Also, we are in no way making light of the awful, real condition that is SIDS.
Hey, John – give us a call. We’ll totally help you write this new movie. As you can see, we have many realistic ideas. As payment I’d only require a whiff of your heavenly man scent.
One of my good friends sent me this card a while ago. It was shortly after my second kid was born and I had posted something about how hard the adjustment was. The card was unexpected, and I remember sitting in my car after opening the envelope and having a little cathartic cry.
As you can see, the card lives right behind my bathroom sink. I’ve been staring at it at least twice a day for about a year and a half. It’s probably pretty gross by now, with toothpaste and makeup and germs.
The quote on the card says, “I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning how to sail my ship.” I didn’t believe it for a very long time. I couldn’t say it in the first person, where “I” was in my voice. There are some days when I don’t feel the fear, when I feel rested and calm and confident. But heck, there are plllllenty of days when the fear is there and I’m worried that I won’t ever be able to shake it.
Tangent: I took this picture last July, when I was experiencing a great break from anxiety. And that’s what it was, looking back – a break – and not some triumphant ending to a horrible story. I keep expecting to reach some kind of finish line with this junk. I really want future me to pop in and let me know just how long this phase of semi-anxiety-ridden life is going to last…or will it never leave?! The not knowing sucks, and I’m still trying to make peace with that and take things day by day. Ugh.
Back to the card. I never had any issue identifying with the second part. Absolutely, I am learning. I’m always learning. I like learning. Yup. But that first part…somehow I felt like my goal should be about abolishing my fear, getting rid of my anxiety, and so every time it’s come back over the last year and a half, I’ve felt…disappointed, sad, scared, and full of shame.
I am reminded about a conversation I had with a friend about that one TV show Running Wild with Bear Grylls. She commented about how scared one of the female guests had been on the show, with the implication that her fear was something undesirable or weak. My response to her was that yeah, she had been scared out of her mind, but she still did it, and she was badass. And that’s the definition of courage, anyway right? It’s not about the absence of fear, it’s about feeling fear and doing it anyway. Honestly, a large portion of my life has been that way.
And so. I feel like I need to change the card a little bit. Maybe something like, “I am afraid of storms sometimes [or most of the time. lots. like, maybe almost all the time], but I’m learning how to sail my ship…right through them.”
PS – I’ve used the terms fear and anxiety interchangeably in the post because of the wording of the card, but in my reality they mean very different things.
PPS – Please excuse the product placement. Or maybe don’t. Perhaps Aveeno would be willing to sponsor this post. Call me! Pay for my anxiety meds!