Category: Anxiety and self-discovery

Musings about overcoming and appreciating anxiety and learning to love myself.

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Go in Peace

I’m sitting in my living room, watching the remnants of a tropical storm pass by my picture window.  The rain and the wind are both violent and cathartic.  There’s something beautiful that happens when the weather matches your mood. 

The wind calms.  The rain keeps coming.  My neighbor is standing on his porch, holding his baby girl.  I am intrigued.  At first I worry.  Is something wrong? After a moment, I realize that they are dancing in the rain.  Did I ever do that with my children?  No.  Why didn’t I ever dance in the rain with my babies? 

My babies aren’t babies anymore and there’s a pandemic that’s shifting everything I thought I knew. I’m simultaneously learning all there is to know about myself and understanding less and less about the world around me.  

Is this just midlife? 

Is it midlife during a pandemic? 

The rain gusts.  The wind shakes the house.  And then… nothing.  The sun is shining again.  All is calm.  What is happening?  Why can’t we have just one thing at a time? 

Huh.  I guess the weather matches my mood more than I realized. 

***********

At some point, I’ll gather my thoughts coherently enough to write a post about returning to teaching during a pandemic.  As those decisions swirl in my brain and around my community, I’m trying to put them aside to focus on a few things that I can actually control.  

Well, really just one thing.  Because there is only one thing I can ever control.  

Me.  

That’s it.  The rest is just illusion and nonsense.  

I can control my thoughts, my behaviors, my actions, my habits, my reactions. 

Nothing more.  

**********

Since March, I’ve taken the time to focus on developing better habits.  I’m sleeping more.  I’m writing more.  I’m eating better and moving more.  I’m being deliberate about friendships and connections.  I’m trying to be more intentional and attentive with my kids.  I’m reducing stress and focusing on joy and doing a whole bunch of really cool stuff.  I’m setting better boundaries.  My yesses are more enthusiastic and my nos are firmer.  I’m trying new things.  I’m stretching myself in ways that I can control.  Life is stretching me in ways that I cannot.  

I don’t think it’s just me.  Didn’t everyone start this whole quarantine thing baking bread and planting seeds and slowing down a little?  Didn’t we all get rocked by a newfound awareness of injustice?  Didn’t we all have to find some meaning in it?  Aren’t we all trying to be better people?  

**********

I read a book recently that was written by an Anglican priest.  Having grown up in the Episcopal Church, I was pulled into nostalgia by her references to traditions and prayers from my youth. 

At the end of Sunday worship, the final line was always, “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.” I hear those words and my heart settles.  But the author pointed out our tendency to think of our love and service in terms of big ideas and lofty ideals.  As a child, I know I did.  I thought that meant to volunteer and feed the hungry and build homes for the homeless. 

Now in adulthood, the writer reminded me, that love and service winds up looking a lot like the mundane bits of time that compose a life.  Does that make it any less valuable?  Can I love and serve the Lord by washing dishes?  Can I love and serve the Lord when I’m checking my email or driving to the doctor or pulling my kids off screens yet again?  Of course I can.  

And I’ve begun to use this as a mantra.  Go in peace.  Breathe.  You are loved.  You are not alone.  Peace be with you.  Go in peace to love.  Love your kids.  Love everyone’s kids. Love your neighbors.  Love protesters.  Love police.  Love sinners and saints and love people you don’t understand.  Go in peace to love and serve.  Serve your friends and your family.  Your elders.  Those in need.  Those who don’t seem to be in need.  The lonely.  The marginalized.  The weary.  The joyful.  Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.  

**********

All of these lessons are crashing in on me.  Does it even matter if I’m becoming better as the world around me is falling apart? 

The rain comes down in sheets again.  The wind whips through the trees.  It’s terrifying and exhilarating.   

**********

It’s such a cliché.  Dancing in the rain, I mean.  But as a metaphor, it works… obviously.  That’s how we get clichés, after all. 

We don’t have the power to control the storm.  But peace doesn’t come from control.  Control is a tempting illusion.  Real peace comes from faith.  Faith in whatever form speaks to you.  Faith in yourself.  In your relationships.  In your community.  Faith in God or the Holy Spirit or Mother Nature or whatever you believe in.  So believe in something.  Inhale grace. Go in peace.  And if you still can, dance in the rain with your babies.  You won’t regret it. 

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I’m bored

I’m bored.  

When I used to say that as a kid, I was told to find something to do. And I did.  I could always bury myself in a book or find a friend to talk to or cook something or play music or go for a walk…. 

I’m bored.  

When my kids say it, I find myself getting irritated.  All these toys?  This pool you’ve got?  These books and pets and this great neighborhood next to the stream and the woods?  Stop complaining.  Go find something to do.  

I’m bored.  

My students say it when they’re tired of being in school; when they don’t want to do their work or when they’ve got a case of spring fever and are itching to be outside.  I try to engage them and encourage them in spite of it.  

**********

My whole life, I’ve been taught to view boredom as a weakness; a negative, lazy state of being, associated with a lack of creativity and motivation.  Only boring people get bored.  Right?

I’m trying to spend more time getting in touch with my own emotions.  More and more often, I have this nagging unrest.  Unease.  Some of it is the regular repetitiveness of a summer spent not working.  Much of it is COVID related.  And when I really sit with the feeling and try to give it a name, I keep coming back to… boredom. 

And I rail against it. 

I’ve painted and redecorated.  Cleaned.  Sorted.  We’ve done fire pits and puzzles.  Swimming and reading.  Writing.   Cooking.  Hiking.  Socially distanced visits.  Takeout.  Zoom cooking class.  Spa day.  Gardening.  Repeat.  

This particular kind of boredom isn’t a lack of something to do.  I have plenty to DO.  The cooking and cleaning are endless.  We’re blessed to have space and a fire pit and a pool and a few close friends to gather with.  There are always more books and new recipes and stories to tell.  

This particular brand of boredom results from a lack of novelty.  I know myself well enough to understand that I need new ideas, new experiences, and thoughtful conversations in order to feel like I’m learning and growing.  And I always want to feel like I’m learning and growing.  

Through this pandemic, I’ve been trying.  I’ve learned to use my old sewing machine, and I’m getting better at mask-making.  I’m reading a bunch of anti-racism books and exposing myself to new ideas.  I’m listening to podcasts and watching documentaries… 

But all of it feels a bit weak without robust conversation and connection and experiences to look forward to.  

I miss my friends. 

I miss my book club. 

I miss church.

I miss concerts.  

I miss conversations that flow naturally, unimpeded by the limitations of Zoom. 

I miss camping.  

Restaurants. 

Carnivals.

Festivals.  

Movie theaters. 

Arcades. 

Museums. 

And so I order new books from the library and complete endless puzzles and go for long walks.  I sign up for online classes.  I take the kids on outdoor excursions.  I set up zoom happy hours with friends and family. 

I write.  And as I write this, something is dawning on me.  Perhaps it isn’t boredom I’m feeling.  Maybe it’s something else entirely.  Maybe it’s grief.  

Not the soul-wrenching kind.  Not the life-shattering kind.  Simply a vague sense of loss.  Unmet expectations.  Disappointment.  

I look at that list and I understand that my disappointment is of the middle-class, entitled variety.  I know we’ve got it good.  So I douse that feeling in gratitude and sprinkle it with a flurry of activity.  I ignore it and push it aside until it finds another way to bubble up.  

I’m bored.  

I say ‘bored’ because it’s fixable.  Boredom can be cured with activity and movement and thought.  

But the disappointment?  That’s a feeling I’m going to have to learn to live with. 

I’ve recently learned that feelings are for feeling.  All of them, not just the pleasant ones.  Thanks to Glennon Doyle for that nugget.  I’ve also learned from Marc Brackett that identifying and labeling a feeling is the first step toward emotional health. 

So I’m going to feel the disappointment.  I’m going to stop calling it boredom.  

I’m going to double down on the gratitude thing, but not as a disguise for my grief; as a solution, instead.  

I’m going to pay my bills and clean my dresser and paint my daughter’s nails.  I’m going to throw some burgers on the grill and splash my son in the pool and build a fire and roast another freaking marshmallow.  Because the busy-ness will start again.  When it does, I’ll look back on these lazy summer days and wish for this blessed kind of boredom.  

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Handling It

When I was in middle school, I was obsessed with Billy Joel and determined to learn all the words to We Didn’t Start the Fire. I sat down on my bedroom floor with the CD insert in my hand.  I’d read a line over and over again.  Close my eyes.  Repeat it.  Sing it with the CD.  Repeat ad infinitum.  I managed it.  I learned all the words.  But it was like learning a foreign language.  I didn’t know these names.  I didn’t understand these references.  As a pre-teen, I didn’t realize how much meaning I was missing. I just liked the way the words felt rolling off my tongue. 

Now I’m in my 40s, observing world events and personal tragedies that press into my chest and leave me searching for, well… something.  Answers? Peace? Breath?  My friends and I sometimes ask each other, Has it always been this awful?  Were we just unaware in our youth? Maybe this is just middle age.  Maybe the torch is finally being passed and we weren’t anticipating the weight of it.  

I remember being excited to drive.  To vote.  To teach.  To worship.  To become a parent.  Now each of these privileges has become a responsibility with substantial heft and urgency.  I feel burdened in a way that is new to me.  I am heavy with the weight of adulthood.  

We’re all still steeped in this pandemic.  We’re trying to find some joy and normalcy and negotiate new rules and norms and expectations.  If that were all of it, it would be stressful.  But lately, it seems like there’s so much more.  

There are personal tragedies.  Too many of them … and they just keep coming.   A friend was in crisis recently.  I called her mother.  Even though I knew it was unreasonable, I wanted this mom to give me the answers. I wanted to be a child again, leaning on an adult who would just tell me what to do.  

But that’s a silly dream. Because nobody really knows how to do any of it.   

I don’t know how to comfort a friend who has lost a child.  

I don’t know how to counsel a friend through her mania. 

I don’t know how to parent during a pandemic. 

I don’t know how to teach remotely.  

I don’t know how to fight systemic racism. 

I don’t know how to protect LGBTQ kids. 

I don’t know how to fix the foster care system.  

Or the government. 

Or the church.

Or the schools.  

I don’t know.  

I don’t know.  

I. 

Don’t. 

Know.  

I don’t know how to do any of this.

I’m looking around for the adults.  There is only my reflection.  There is no one to tell me the answers.  There is no one to carry this burden for me.  

********

I wrote all of that yesterday.  Shortly thereafter, my foster daughter told me that she’s moving out when she turns 18 next week. There’s so much trauma there.  A lot of mistrust.  Some ‘shopping’ for the perfect family that doesn’t exist. I asked her some pointed questions about her plans.  Where would she live?  How would she pay her bills?  How would she handle all of that change during her Senior year? When she first told me, it felt like one more thing I didn’t know how to handle.  But I didn’t overreact.  I didn’t panic.  We talked.  For hours.  And ultimately, she decided to stay.  I handled it.

This morning, as I walked the dog, I noticed she was stopping a lot.  I took a closer look and realized that she wasn’t peeing.  She was bleeding.  Not a little blood in her urine.  Like, pure blood.  I called the vet.  We’re heading there today.  I don’t know what will happen.  She could need antibiotics or she could need chemo.  It will be expensive.  It might be scary.  It might be sad.  But I know I will handle it. 

And then I think about my friend who lost her child.  I mailed a card.  I prayed.  I sent money.  And I will be there for her as she slowly climbs up out of this hellish grief.  She will handle it, too.  She will get through, moment by moment.  She will love her daughter and cry for her loss and she will handle it.  

And maybe being an adult isn’t about knowing the solutions.  Maybe it’s not about fixing everything.  Maybe it’s about understanding that we can’t fix it all. 

But we can handle it.  We can handle our shit.  One challenge at a time. One child.  One lesson.  One moment.  One tragedy.  One reform.  One foot in front of the other.  Together.  Holding each other through the celebrations and the grief. 

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Bad Days

It’s been three days like this.  That’s unusual for me.  Of course I have bad days, like everyone does.  But not usually three in a row.  And not when it’s sunny out.  That’s when I can typically rally.  

Signs that I’m not okay:

– I can’t find my motivation.  I don’t want to tackle a project or play a family game or cook a fancy meal.  

–  I tell myself to stop the mindless scrolling.  And before I know it, I’m looking at the same memes again. 

–  Netflix asks if I’m still watching.  

–  I’m eating another meal… and I’m not sure which one it is. 

–  The zoom happy hours and family board games and good books… they can’t touch this.  They don’t help. 

– Tears.  Happy tears.  Sad tears.  Tired tears.  Overwhelmed tears.  

The first day, I sat with it.  It was Friday.  I still did my work and I sat outside a little and I went for a walk.  But I was sad.  And I let myself feel it. I ordered pizza for dinner instead of cooking.  I read my book and watched TV and I didn’t force any family fun.  I met with my friends on zoom, and I even rallied for a little bit. 

But on the next day, when I woke up in a foul mood again, I decided to fight it.  Another sad day felt self-indulgent.  And unhealthy.  Plus, the sun was shining and there were jobs to be done.  I rallied the family.  We filled an entire dumpster with crap from the garage and the shed.  There was an impromptu water fight with the hose.  But once we were all sweaty and tired, I let our little group disband without a fight.  They went back to their rooms for some peace and screen time.  I set up for an online cooking class with some friends.  My brother in law taught us to make soufflé, and it was a really good time.  I drank wine and cooked and then called each of my friends to de-brief and drink more wine.  It was actually quite lovely. 

So why was I still sad the next morning?  I cried through virtual church.  I had a couple of online meetings and then I forced myself to go to buy dog food.  And that was all I could do.  I watched some inspiring videos and cried.  I watched some bad TV and cried.  I read a little bit and cried.  I found out some sad news and cried some more.  Bea got me to rally.  She started making a full-on meal and needed my help.  We made spring rolls and fried wontons and wonton soup and rice and sautéed broccoli for dinner.  She pulled me out of my funk for a little while, and I’m grateful for that. 

But today had a similar, melancholy feel.  I had work to do, so I did it.  But I was lethargic about the whole thing.  I saw my colleagues online at a staff meeting, and it just made me sad.  I dropped the recycling off and I picked up a prescription.   The things that have brought a sense of normalcy didn’t help. They just made me sadder. 

I’m sitting at my desk, noticing the buds and the flowers that have begun to appear on the tree outside my window.  I have two thoughts.  “How beautiful.”  And “I don’t want this to be my Spring.”  

I’m not sure how to spend this evening.  I could melt into this lethargy.  I could have the kids make their own sandwiches for dinner and binge the rest of Schitt’s Creek and maybe read a little.  

I could rise to the occasion and help Bea with her history homework and actually check Cal’s reading log and look over Lee’s Social Studies project.  I could vacuum (again) and finally clean the bathroom and cook a real dinner.  

But maybe I’ll opt for something in-between.  Maybe I’ll call my mom back and toss a salad and grill some paninis.  Maybe I’ll settle into a Scrabble game with my husband and have one of the kids run the vacuum.  

I’ve lost my balance.  I had it for a little while.  I was juggling work and homeschooling and long walks.  I was painting and cleaning and cooking and reading.  I was resting by the fire pit and laughing on zoom with my family and friends.  

Now that I wrote that, it doesn’t look like balance.  It looks like perpetual motion.  Maybe that’s what feels good to me when I’m overwhelmed.  It feels good to be DOING.  That’s my default.  Maybe I have to get better at SITTING.  And FEELING. 

That’s why I write.  It slows me down.  It helps me notice.  It helps me to process and reflect.  So tonight, I’m going to slow it down a notch without slamming the brakes.  I’m going to try to sit and feel and notice a little more.  I’m going to try to breathe and pray.  

I’m going to play some Scrabble and ignore the dirty bathroom.  Wish me luck.  

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Lessons Learned

Lessons I’ve learned during quarantine:

1.  I don’t hate walking.  I hate walking unruly dogs.  These are two entirely different endeavors.  Walking alone, listening to a podcast or chatting with a friend, is entirely enjoyable.  Walking with my husband or my son is equally pleasant.  Walking with my entire family or any combination of dogs is distinctly unenjoyable.  Having learned this lesson, I now look forward to frequent, low-intensity exercise. 

2.  Trying on clothes is highly overrated.  Browsing Amazon and trusting the reviews of hundreds of other people who are approximately my size yields tremendous results.  Also, returns are not as difficult as I always told myself. Having learned this lesson, I now own three of the exact same pair of flattering yoga pants and four comfy, cute tunic tops that also cover my butt.  Win-Win.  

3.  Birds are significantly more interesting than I originally thought.

4.  I have underestimated my ability to grow things.  In the past, I always thought I had a black thumb.  In actuality, I just had a high failure to attempt ratio.  Having increased the sheer number of attempts, I have thus increased my confidence.  This has led to recently planted herbs and tomatoes.  I will be sure to report the results.  

5. Zoom is an app that exists.  It is both a lifesaver and a burden.

6. Two glasses of wine is exactly the right number. Unless the circumstances call for five.  It’s entirely your call.  

7.  Crocs are underrated.  For my whole life, I have resided distinctly in the “You-will-never-see-me-with-those-ugly-things-on-my-feet” camp.  Plantar fasciitis, flimsy slippers, and rare chances to leave the house combined with my daughter’s commitment to this ugly footwear spurred me to give them a shot.  I will never wear slippers again. I haven’t converted so much that plan to leave the house in them, though. 

8.  Too much work makes everyone miserable.  

9.  Too much forced fun makes everyone miserable. 

10.  Each member of my family has a natural rhythm.  I am slowly learning to trust their rhythms and listen to my own.  For sure, we sometimes spend too much time watching Netflix or playing video games.  But each and every one of us tires of inactivity.  This threshold is different for every one of us.  But even left to their own devices, each child will emerge from his or her bedroom, seeking connection, or nature, or activity in their own way.  My daughter bakes and calls friends and washes her car.  My eldest son draws and plays with his pets and curls up next to me for a late night movie marathon.  The youngest builds and destroys and pulls out the board games.  Perhaps this has been the hardest lesson of all.  I don’t need to exert control nearly as much as I thought.  I don’t need to manufacture family fun or constantly cajole in order for my family to make healthy choices.  The relief in this realization is palpable.  

That’s the short list, for now.  What lessons have you learned (or re-learned) during this quarantine? I’d love to hear from you!  

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Settling

I’m sitting in my office, watching the sunrise at a desk that looks out over a wooded area in the backyard.  The leaves haven’t yet appeared; spring is just beginning to show herself in the tiny buds on the branches.  But the birds are active.  I don’t know birds, really.  I can identify a Robin and a Bluebird, and maybe a Chickadee.  But I find myself drawn to the peacefulness of watching the birds flit about on a spring morning.  I never would have taken the time to notice before. 

**********

We have settled in to a strange new normal.  It mostly looks like this: 

6-8 am, wake up, go for a walk, shower, coffee, news

8-9 am breakfast, check schedules, wake kids

9-12 pm – work and school, on separate devices in separate rooms

12-1 pm – lunch & connect

1-3 pm – do something.  Go outside, bake, build legos, play games, clean. 

3-5 pm- check school work, email, prepare lessons

5-7 pm- prepare and eat dinner

7-9 pm- watch tv, read, write

9-10 pm- say goodnights

10 pm – sleep

Some days are better than others.  Some days, we feel more connected.  Some days, we’re in our own little worlds.  Some days are filled with too much screen time, and some days we stay outside all day.  Some days feel manageable.  Some days are full of tears.  

Today, I went to the grocery store.  I’ve done this a few times since we began our isolation, but this time was different.  This time, this strange, dystopian reality took my breath away.  I had heard that they were limiting the number of people in the stores.  I had heard that we were advised to wear masks and gloves.  I knew about the plexiglass barriers and the tape on the floor.  I knew about it…. But I hadn’t FELT it yet.  

People waited outside the store, 15 feet apart, waiting to be admitted.  Everyone wore masks.  Nearly everyone wore gloves, too.  It was eerily silent.  

More so than all of these visible differences, the intangibles weighed on me.  Our faces covered, we could no longer offer a reassuring smile to a stranger.  Our gloves and our masks only amplified the palpable fear in the air.  People waited awkwardly for others to pass, allowing the maximum radius of personal space.  People flinched as workers passed by with their carts to restock; perhaps they were too close?  

I usually enjoy my grocery shopping.  Today I couldn’t wait to get out of there.  The tightness in my chest didn’t go away until I was safely back in my car.  And logically, I know that even that is unreasonable.  I had already exposed myself.  I had already exposed others to me.  If damage had been done, none of us would know it for weeks.  

This whole experience is such a strange roller-coaster.  On Tuesday, I spoke with my therapist on the phone.  I sat in my car (the only place I could get a little privacy) and I sipped my coffee and I told her about how GREAT things have been.  The kids have been creative.  I’ve been working on my personal goals.  I’m re-evaluating what is most important and prioritizing and creating and all kinds of cool things.  I explained that there’s something empowering about deciding what I WANT to do, instead of checking off the list of things I am SUPPOSED to do.  On Tuesday, I was feeling good.  

And there are a lot of days when I actually feel pretty good.  I’m noticing some positive changes within my family.  Our time together is less forced.  There’s more room to explore our interests.  I enjoy that the days have a sort of natural rhythm, unencumbered by arbitrary times on the clock.  With so many fewer priorities, I don’t feel as guilty when I take time to do things just for me.  

Of course, there are things that are hard.  Online teaching and learning are super stressful.  I cried twice last week about work.  I want to do a good job and connect with my students, but sometimes the obstacles seem insurmountable. I want to help my own kids and keep them on track, but sometimes the days don’t feel long enough or the battle doesn’t seem worth it.  I worry about my family and friends who are struggling.  Sometimes the thought of another load of laundry is enough to put me over the edge.  Sometimes the filth in the bathroom prompts a banshee scream that frightens my family. 

**********

I’m sitting in my office, looking out into the dreary, gray, dimness of a rainy afternoon.  But the branch just outside my window is gathering tiny droplets of rain.  They pool in the valleys of the tiny branches, glittering a little, despite the dreary weather.  I sit and watch a particular droplet.  I watch it slowly grow as the moisture accumulates.  I stay focused on the droplet until it swells just enough to let go and fall into the yard below.  I never would have taken the time to notice before.  

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Back to Work

I went back to work today.  Correction: Today I went back to the building I USED to work in, before we embarked on this crazy ‘teaching from home’ experiment. 

When we first found out about the closure, many of us struggled to answer the question, “How will we move our classrooms online?”  Inevitably, the answer was, “We’re not sure… but we’ll make it work.”  

Teachers began to gather resources and collaborate virtually and create shared documents for ideas.  We were slightly comforted by the direction that we weren’t required to present new material; only review to keep kids connected and engaged.  

When our district made the choice to move from optional, flexible online review to something more permanent and structured, the panic set in a little. How would we manage teaching with our own small kids at home?  What would the schedule look like?  What about kids without access?  Struggling learners?  We had so many questions, and not enough answers.  Once again, most conversations ended with some version of, “We’re going to have to make it work.” 

 Administration offered us the chance to come in and gather our materials.  Teachers signed up for time slots.  No more than ten of us could be in the building at once, and we had 15 minutes to gather what we needed and head back home.  We were asked to respect social distancing and not to gather and chat.  

I joked with some friends that this time would feel like the game show, “Supermarket Sweep.”  I expected it to feel a little frantic and silly. 

It did not.  

I had prepared myself with a list of materials to gather.  I had brought along milk crates and bags to load up.  I reminded myself to grab my hand sanitizer (purchased with my own money, for those who are concerned).  I thought I was ready for the task. 

But what I had not prepared for was the wall of emotion that hit me when I walked into my classroom.  The date and a graphic organizer were still written on the board.  Completed work sat in the bins to be corrected.  My planbook was on my desk, filled with notes and ‘to-do’ lists that were no longer relevant.  This space got frozen in such an optimistic time.  We had all expected to come back the next day and continue learning and working in this little community we had built.  

As I gathered materials, I came across lessons and projects that are a part of our classroom traditions.  The popsicle sticks to build a Trojan Horse- a project the kids look forward to each year that won’t happen for this particular class.  The poetry library that I won’t be able to share with them.  The Holocaust Unit that is too intense and emotional to teach virtually.  

I hadn’t fully considered these losses until that moment, and the ache moved from my heart to my throat.  I cried.  

The empty hallways and empty classrooms were further reminders of what we’ve lost.  A few teachers exchanged awkward greetings in the halls, staying a full 15 feet apart and pretending that everything is okay.  

As much as virtual teaching and learning is a struggle, thinking about what we’ve lost is even harder.  Today, I’m going to let myself mourn a little.  And tomorrow, I’ll unpack all those materials and do my best to figure out how to do amazing things with my students in a totally different format.  Because that’s what we do.  

We’re teachers.  We make it work.  

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Day… Nine?

These days are roller coasters.  Everything makes me cry lately.  My emotions are simmering just barely below the surface, and even a little jostle will put me over the edge.  A photo of an Italian hospital.  Tears.  A text from a friend.  Tears.  A fun family meetup online?  Also tears.  I’ve seen such beautiful things and such ugly things from my couch this week… I’m not really sure what to do with it all except show up in all the ways that I can and keep loving my people.  

Truth be told, I’m not really sure if it’s day nine.  I do know that it’s Sunday.  I know this because I got to go to church this morning.  I mean, not face-to-face, shake-people’s-hands church.  Virtual church.  Which actually brought me to tears.  I set up my computer in the living room.  I figured out how to mirror the screen to my TV.  I picked up the dirty laundry and threw it just beyond the frame of the camera.  I rallied my family.  Three of us were dressed; two were still in pajamas.  Two of us had coffee, one drank tea.  One sketched through the sermon.  Another listened while he worked on a puzzle.  I looked at my family, safe and warm and fed and healthy.  I looked to the TV to see a whole community of MY people, mostly healthy, safe, and praying together.  I didn’t realize how much I needed that until it happened.  More tears.  Tears of happiness and relief and worry all at once.  What’s to come?  None of us knows.  But at least we can be assured that we will be loved through it. 

After church, we loaded the kids in the car for a little excursion. I have teens and a preteen who typically like to groan and grumble at all my corny ideas.  Family game night?  Do we haaaave to? A hike in the woods?  I don’t waaant to!  Help me make brownies?  How about I just help EAT the brownies?  But something weird is happening to my children.  Today, they just said, “Okay” and got in the car.  

Something similar happened last night when I ‘made’ everyone play Pictionary.  We finished the game, and at the moment when one kid would normally say, “Can we be DONE now?” there was still a little bit of banter happening. I tested the waters with, “How about just one more?”  I expected groaning.  I expected eye rolling.  But what I got was enthusiasm.  They wanted to keep playing.  I didn’t understand what was happening, but I didn’t want to jinx it, either.  We played four more rounds.  It was beautiful.  

But anyway, I digress.  Jack and I knew the mission this afternoon.  We had discussed it at length.  Knowing that I’ll be home for the next few weeks, I plan to work on a decorating project.  There will be spackling and painting and rearranging… and as part of the plan we found a great piece of used furniture on Craigslist.  We had arranged to go pick it up.  But we’ve been really strict with our kids about social distancing and hand-washing and not spending time with people who aren’t family.  The kids haven’t liked these rules.  As a matter of fact, yesterday, I had to tell my 17 year old that she couldn’t go to her best friend’s house to provide comfort following the recent death of her grandmother.  I tried to be compassionate but clear.  It was still really hard.  I don’t think our teenagers really grasp what is happening out there in the world.  To be fair, I’m not sure I comprehend it.  But these kids need our help to make good choices in a time when very little feels safe.    

And as part of that lesson, Jack and I wanted them to come with us on this little trip.  We all loaded into the truck.  There was good-natured argument in the back, of the ‘STOP-TOUCHING-ME’ variety. That happened right before Bea rested her head on Lee’s shoulder, so I didn’t take it too seriously.  They joked and teased each other and argued about the radio. It all just felt, well, normal.

Until… we went to the ATM, where they watched my husband snap on latex work gloves to operate the machine and handle the cash.  We went to the drive- through, where they saw the workers sanitizing their cash register and countertops.  We drove past the mall and the arcade and a dozen restaurants and salons with empty parking lots.  When we finally got to our destination, they watched THAT guy snap on latex gloves to take our money.  They saw the adults have a brief conversation; us in the driveway and the sellers 20 feet away on their porch.  They heard the conversation, so they knew that the furniture had been disinfected just before we picked it up.  On the way home, we talked about a few things we needed from the grocery store.  We explained that we wouldn’t all go in; it wasn’t necessary and it wasn’t worth the risk.  My 17 year old asked to come.  My husband’s instinct was to say no, but I wanted her to.  I think it was powerful for her to see the empty shelves and the newly erected plexi-glass screens installed to protect the cashiers.  She watched a handful of stunned-looking people picking up bread and fruit and milk.  She observed that nobody was going near anyone else.  I think she was a little ‘shook,’ as the kids would say.  

I don’t necessarily want her to be scared.  I just want her to be safe.  Right now, all of our kids need different things.  Some kids need reassurance and someone to keep them safe and protect them from unnecessary fear.  Some kids need solid information and comfort.  But some of our kids, especially our teens, might need to be a little ‘shook.’  Because at that age, they are fearless.  They’re supposed to be.  That’s how God made them.  So in times like these, they need us to help them to step out of their self-centered sense of immortality and into the real world.  They need a healthy dose of fear to keep them grounded and safe and considerate.  

Today, I think my kids got a beautiful balance.  They participated in a worship service that assured them that they are loved and supported and part of something bigger.  They got a little family fun and a little holy spirit and also a little reality check.  They saw adults who modeled what it looks like to take care of your people in such a strange time.  

Today, they were a little shook, and I like to think they’re better for it.  

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Something to Give

The house smells like pizza.  My favorite insulated tumbler is full of sweet tea (I haven’t added the vodka just yet), and I’ve read half a novel today.  I woke up early, showered, made a trip to the dump and then took Lee on a Target run.  We laughed our way through the aisles and then returned home with all the fixings for a bake-a-thon.  I’ve talked to my mom, my dad, and my mother-in-law today, and I’ve spent the morning exchanging texts with my sisters and many of my close friends.  

I’m sitting in front of my computer, focusing on taking deep breaths. I’m prayerful and grateful.  

And I am also just a few breaths away from a panic attack.  

When I was a kid, I felt the panic coming on and then I panicked more.  I would spiral so badly that I couldn’t breathe.  I couldn’t move.  I couldn’t speak.  The tears rolled down my face and I felt certain that I was dying.  

This continued into my twenties and thirties, but as I got older, I learned to recognize the signs before they became paralyzing.  I know that the pain behind my rib cage on my left side is my ‘notice,’ if you would.  It tells me I need to pause and breathe.  I need to listen to my body and stretch and pray and summon a mental list of my blessings.  My body tells me what’s about to happen, and I’ve learned strategies for preventing it.  

But what nobody has ever been able to explain is what causes it.   The doctors called it ‘free-floating’ anxiety when I was a kid.  Which always seemed like a ridiculously cute name for something so terribly crippling.  And if it was so freely able to float, why wouldn’t it just freaking FLOAT AWAY?

I could never point to a cause.  I was never able to identify a particular stressor.  My anxiety would appear at the most unexpected times.  It was never when I was in the middle of a crisis.  It didn’t show up for breakups or finals or first dates.  It reared its ugly head in the middle of a lunch date with a friend, or just before band practice, or in a hotel spa.  I didn’t believe the anxiety diagnosis for a long time, because … well, I just didn’t FEEL anxious.  

I’ve been in and out of therapy since I was a kid.  I recently started seeing someone new.  She’s great.  She’s thoughtful and funny and makes connections that I can’t see until she points them out.  And she’s started to point out all the ways that I twist myself in order to feel liked, or wanted, or needed, or respected.  

She has helped me to see that I don’t let myself feel my own feelings, because I’m too busy anticipating the responses or needs of others.  

And I’m starting to notice it in a million little ways.  I haven’t made my own favorite meal in years, because nobody else really likes it.  I let my husband interrupt me, even though it drives me nuts.  I spend so much time worrying about what my readers might want to read that I stop writing altogether. 

All of this is so deeply ingrained that I don’t even know I’m doing it.  I suppress my desires so intuitively that I don’t even realize what’s happening.  That is, of course, until I explode. Sometimes it looks like tears in the shower. Sometimes it looks like a panic attack in the grocery store.  Sometimes it looks like angry screaming at my kids.  

On Monday morning, as I was getting ready to leave for work, Lee called for me.  “Mom…. I’m so sorry.”  Not a good sign. 

Instead of cleaning his room the day before, what he had actually done was shove everything under his bed… including a gallon container of Elmer’s glue.  The container, poorly closed and lying on its side, had deposited a three-foot wide puddle of glue under his bed.  Resting in the glue puddle was an assortment of art supplies, empty cups, dirty clothes, and random trash.  

To say I lost my temper would be a gross understatement.  There was screaming and swearing and crying.  I could feel my pulse in my temple, and I think I pulled a muscle in my neck.  I lost my mind.  

And it wasn’t until my therapy session, two days later, that I was able to tease out what had happened.  She pushed me to look closer.  How much of that explosion was actually because of the glue?  What else had been going on?  What had I done to take care of myself that week? What was I really feeling? 

In hindsight, it was a straw-that-broke-the-camel’s-back kind of a moment.  I had been just barely maintaining the status quo.  I was treading water, trying to be a good mom and a good teacher and a good wife and a good friend, and none of it was clicking the way I wanted it to.  I was a shaken bottle of emotion, and the inevitable explosion took the form of rage.

 I lost it because I had nothing left to give.

********

Over the past week, I’ve been trying to ‘be fine.’ I laugh about the empty toilet paper shelves and wonder if people realize that humans lived for thousands of years without paper specifically designed for butt-wiping.  And then I walk a few feet away and buy cough medicine I don’t currently need.  

I tell my students and my kids to ‘just wash your hands’ while I make lists of ingredients for two weeks of dinners, ‘just in case.’  

I floss my teeth and photocopy vocabulary words like it’s a normal day, and then I spend my lunch period Googling various combinations of “Italy” and “COVID-19” and “CDC” and “pandemic.”  

Yesterday, I left work, picked up Lee from his afterschool club, and went to the store… not because I actually thought I needed something, but because I wanted to look around and make sure there wasn’t something I had forgotten.  

Please don’t take the time to write and tell me how crazy that was. My logical brain KNOWS that.  

But I’ve been so worried about LOOKING crazy, that I’ve been ignoring these feelings.  This anxiety is so repressed that it is beginning to seep out of me in ways that don’t make sense.  And maybe that’s exactly what a panic attack is.  It is the spillage that results from way too much trying to be fine. 

I got the call yesterday afternoon that school would be cancelled today in the district where I work.  Within minutes, I had made the decision to keep my own kids home, even though their schools aren’t closing until Monday.  And in that moment, I breathed a sigh of relief that helped me to see that I had been holding my breath for days.  

Today, as the world grinds to a halt in the face of a pandemic, I’m trying to let myself feel my feelings.  It’s okay to be scared.  It’s okay to feel sad.  It’s okay to be happy for the chance to binge Queer Eye and bake brownies with my kids.  All of it can be there at the same time.  The gratitude and the strength can co-exist with the fear and the worry.  

I’m trying to listen to my body and focus on my feelings and get curious about my emotional state. I’m opening my heart so I can be filled with something bigger than all of this.  And when I can embrace all of those emotions and inhale the grace that has been extended to me, I’ll be able to find my center. That’s where I’ll find my gifts and remember that, with God’s help, I will always have something to give.

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2020

In recent years, the “Self-Help” section of bookstores and libraries has changed to “Self-Improvement.”  I know this because it’s one of my favorite sections to browse.  I’m a lover of books in all forms, but I especially love ones that weave together psychology and science and personal stories, exploring the myriad ways that humans have endeavored to become better humans.  I love learning about how our brains and our environments work together to motivate our actions; I’m fascinated by all of the ways that we can change our own habits and personalities; I’m amazed by all of the factors that work together in our conscious and our unconscious to make us who we are.  

And I like the name change.  Self-help implies brokenness, and I don’t believe I am broken.  I do, however, believe that all things can be improved.  Myself included. 

In fact, I believe that it is our obligation, while we’re here on Earth, to become the best possible versions of ourselves.  I believe we owe it to the world and to our creator and to our families and friends and neighbors and to OURSELVES to keep learning and growing and improving.  

So, I find myself here, in the New Year, thinking about resolutions, which have become little more than the butt of a joke.  On January 3rd, people ask, “Have you broken your resolution yet?”  Most of us will violate these promises to ourselves in the first few weeks of the year.  Resolutions work for some people as a form of self-improvement.  But a resolution is so rigid.  It’s a vow.  And it’s usually a vow to make some sort of large change which we have previously been unable to sustain, despite multiple attempts.  

Does the date make a resolution somehow more attainable?  Perhaps there’s something about starting on the first of a new year that appeals to our sense of order, but my most sustainable changes have started on, oh, say…. a random Wednesday in October. 

And, really, about 90% of my resolutions have been some form of ‘lose weight’ over the years.  

I’m hesitant to write about this, for fear of messing it up.  You see, I have been learning a lot about health and body positivity and self-acceptance, and much of that is fundamentally at odds with my inner desire to be thinner.  

And my inner desire to be thinner is fundamentally at odds with all I believe about human variation and the inherent value of people and our shallow cultural assessment of beauty. 

I’m not going to write about those things, because lots of educated, intelligent people have written about those things.  If you’re interested, you can read personal stories and scientific research and cautionary tales.  

If you’re fascinated by the brain, you should read, “Thinking, Fast and Slow” by Daniel Kahneman.  If you’re into self-improvement, you should read “Atomic Habits” by James Clear.  If you want to learn more about being healthy and fat, you should read about ‘Health at Every Size.’ 

And what I’m going to write about is how I’ve taken all of those things and squished them together into a vague plan of how to be a better human in 2020.  

I’m trying to find a better balance.  I’m building habits that make me feel better about myself, instead of playing into all the ways that the world wants me to think that I’m not good enough.  Does that even make sense?  

Because, the truth is, I do think it’s possible to believe that you are ENOUGH, and still know that you can be better.  But the only way to do it is to find YOUR version of better.  What will make you a better YOU?  

A better ME would write more.  Writing makes me feel more myself.  I know I’m doing something I’m meant to do when I write. 

A better ME would spend more time in nature.  Being outdoors brings me peace. 

A better ME would spend more time enjoying my children. My kids remind me what joy looks like, if I only take the time to see it.  

The list goes on and on.  It’s too much to tackle all at once.  But I’ve learned a little about habits and since October, I’ve started “habit stacking.”  What this means is… I take a habit I want to develop and I attach it or ‘stack’ it on top of a habit I already have. 

For example; I’m terrible at flossing.  I hate it and avoid it and then feel like a petulant child at my dental check ups when they tell me that I need to floss more.  But I do brush my teeth every day.  So I stacked flossing on top of that.  Every time I brushed my teeth, I was reminded of my commitment to floss.  It was yucky and irritating at first.  But that was months ago.  Now it’s just part of my routine.  And once I added the flossing, I stacked ‘take a multivitamin’ on top of that.  So with very little effort, I managed to add two small habits that, cumulatively, will likely have a positive impact on my health.  

I did the same to make a shift in my breakfast routine.  A few months ago, I generally ate nothing or some sort of egg sandwich; neither option was healthy.  But I ALWAYS had coffee.  So I stacked ‘eat fruit’ on top of the coffee.  Every morning with my java, I also had an apple or a banana or a handful of raspberries.  On weekend mornings, I might still have a bigger breakfast with my family, but fruit first gets me off to a better start.  

I don’t like myself when I’m dieting.  I become compulsive and obsessive.  I have an all-or-nothing attitude and I become self-deprecating and cranky.  The numbers on the scale dictate my mood and I ride a roller coaster of self-congratulating and self-loathing that totally sucks.  Newer evolutions of weight-loss programs are beginning to acknowledge this unhealthy cycle through things like “non-scale victories” and ‘small changes.’  But those programs still make their money by making us feel like we’re somehow broken and in need of fixing.  

I’m not buying into it anymore.  I’m not broken.  In fact, I’m pretty amazing in a lot of ways.  And the ways that I can improve aren’t about the way I LOOK at all.  Here are my goals for 2020:

– Walk the dogs more.  Get outside.

– Do more yoga. 

– Spend 1:1 time with at least one kid every week.

– Find and cook new, delicious recipes.  

– Be more present. 

– Write.  Write a lot.  

I’m not going to do this all at once.  I’m going to stack my habits and make small changes and enjoy feeling like I’m becoming the best possible version of myself.  

Whether you made a resolution or not; whether you’ve stuck to it or given up or changed it, know that you are enough, right now, in this moment.  Make sure anything you vow to change takes you on the road toward being MORE you.  

And the rest of us will be abundantly blessed just to know you.