Tag Archive for: self compassion

Redefining what it means to be Badass.

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I wonder if you’ve ever watched an event, a TV show, or a person when something about a particular feat that resonates within you. Somewhere deep inside you find yourself thinking, “that is simply, __________.”

You can fill in your own blank. I realize that for some, the word badass may not be the first word to come to mind. For me, 1) I live with teens, so the “normal” around here could be different than yours and 2) sometimes, there is a bit of streak inside me that loves to find the perfect word, the one that fits as an exclamation point, shout of joy or pain or just to emphasize a point that is a bit edgier; never names of God, just to clarify. Those hurt, a lot. But the ones to get my point across with a bit more hutzpah? Yes, sometimes I really like those.

Badass has become one of my very favorite descriptions because it fits so many situations. I’m not sure when I adopted it…it has come to bring a sparkle to my eye, a bit bigger smile, an earnest desire to share how I see a person or situation – with strength and fortitude that moves me.

One of my earliest memories was about 16 years ago…a dear friend’s daughter told me when she was 14 or 15 that she wanted to be a policewoman. My friend was cutting my hair as her daughter came in to say hi and told me her future plans. I motioned her to come closer to me and stated, “That is so badass.” Her eyes lit up and it fit her, that statement. For the next few years and probably still now, when I see this beautiful, spirited woman who DID INDEED become a policewoman and so much more, we smile and both recall the “badass” day fondly.

My nieces, who’ve both moved, braved hard things, have found their own identities, created adventures and show me a level of badassery from far away. They both continue to branch out with both their career, geographical pursuits, hobbies and beliefs while also advocating for mental health – INCREDIBLY badass.

Clients who show me hourly how they choose to brave by showing up, engage in care and compassion for self while processing past events, pain and the desire to change sometimes against insurmountable odds, are badass. The one this week, disclosing a long history of eating challenges, self-harm and difficult relationship dynamics, still pushing toward healthier? BADASS.

My husband and son, rebuilding a 1998 Jeep Wrangler, together learning endless new skills AND bonding for a lifetime? Badass.

My daughters, badass in many ways, but currently resonating with the new Barbie movie, pushing boundaries for girls and woman, self – love and empowerment, most definitely. Also, dads who show up, put egos aside, communicate and empower? This is an entirely different kind of badass!

Moms, in the postpartum fog of childbirth, then learning the intense pace of having a child in the NICU while healing? Badass.

Single parents, teen parents, all parents. ALL kids, especially those who hold on to self-worth when the odds are stacked against you. Grandparents who love unconditionally, chose to evolve and continue praying, always.

Those with chronic, life altering disease, cancer and so much more – the nuances are so layered and so are the levels of badassery…

Those choosing life, family and themselves day by day over the battles of addiction and their loved ones who choose, walk and forgive right beside them…do you see how many people and situations in which “badass” could just be the most encompassing description for the most resilient among us?

I could give you so many more examples that come to mind. For me this, is yet another truth, when I really sit back and ponder Jesus’s life, ministry and relentless perseverance of intimate relationship with each and every person. I certainly do not mean any offense, but when I think of Jesus, teaching, being, loving and pushing every single boundary, even death? Even more than Badass. SO MUCH MORE.

I know I could filter, use different language and “clean this up,” but that defeats the goal of being authentic for me. Badass is truly one of those perfect words for me, at least right now. It has taken me a long time to get here for myself. A lot of reframing, redefining, wrestling and finally acknowledging the badass parts inside myself. Maybe you will relate, cringe or see your own inner badass as well.

I began seeing Dr. Hotchkiss in 3rd grade to address some of my particular musculoskeletal nuances of cerebral palsy. I did not know the half. But I was the kid undergoing the appointments, bearing his watchful eyes as I walked, the distant, cold demeanor he had and the pain involved with surgery after surgery. I wasn’t SUPPOSED to understand it all, but certainly DID IT ALL – healing, wheelchairs, re-learning how to walk multiple times, even into adulthood.

My parents would not ever have called me “badass,” because that is just not who they are or the time I grew up in. Support, yes! Love, undoubtedly! But seeing that endurance as badass then? I don’t think the world knew that word as we know it now. I think (and maybe they will say I am wrong,) that life really was more about “doing” and getting through, rather than dwelling on or labeling. At least then. I think that has been part of the American way for a very long time. I’m not sure when it began to change, but I am certain that many kids (and adults) with CP who share their struggles and many victories on social media can surely called badass in so many ways. Though I grew up in an age where we didn’t know or use the word, doesn’t mean people were not badass. Quite the contrary….what joy it is to share my journey here, even the hard parts.

During the pandemic, my mom was sorting and gave me an huge plastic bin of old photos. I love photos and began to look through them with care, a slow pace that the pandemic taught me well. I didn’t have many photos of my youth around the times of those surgeries, instead, vivid memories that I could tell in great detail. When I came across a few pictures of me in the hospital, post-surgery or my early teen years recovering in a wheelchair, I did not know how to feel. Again, meaning no offense to my dear parents, we “got through” a lot of that, have some sweet and funny memories along with the pain, but they were not ever people who would dwell on the most difficult. My mom is so skilled with pivoting into happy when people are struggling, especially grandkids! My dad is not someone to dwell on emotions either. But as I looked at those few faded photos, I felt something new…I couldn’t even name it, YET.

My mom, with such good intent, wanted to get rid of those pictures, probably so difficult as a parent to see, let alone remember. But I couldn’t let her throw them out. I held them, looked, put them away, looked again and then could not look away.

I have no problem telling you that I, as a therapist, see a therapist. I believe every person walking this earth COULD benefit from a therapist. When you’re a therapist, in my opinion, it is imperative to do your own work. It was to her that I brought one of those pictures. I couldn’t put it away, but my heart was still raw by looking at it, for there were parts of me that were transported back to that wheelchair. A both/and that said, “talk with your trusted person about this one, something is stirring.”

She looked at the picture I handed her, after my conflicted feelings tumbled out of my mouth and maybe my eyes in the form of a few tears.

“What do you see?” She asked as a good therapist is known to do… (I answer questions with questions ALL the time too.) I described the pain I had been in, some of the trauma, then waited for her thoughts.

She smiled the gentle smile I’d become accustomed to and asked, “yes, those are about you in this picture, but what do you see?” She asked so gently. I simultaneously was frustrated and wanted to hug her for the care she exuded. (See the new T-shirts in the both/ and T-shirt store regarding the both/and we may feel with our therapists.) I know this on both sides, as a client AND a client therapist.

“I don’t know….” I stammered, hemming and hawing. I did not have the ability yet to be with that seventh-grade girl. I just know I couldn’t stop looking at her in those pictures.

“I see strength and courage,” she said softly; “how she persevered…” instantly, the tears filled my eyes and I could feel a cry rolling up from the depths of my body. Never had I EVER considered that those days were anything more than awful, terrifying and that I had not been brave enough….

Here in this sacred room where I had shared some of my deepest fears, shame, changes and hope, things were changing in this instant, as they had a many times before during my hour with my therapist. With the soft, caring tone she intentionally used and that achingly poignant question, she altered the view I had of that photo (in reality, that time in my life) and began to help me permanently change it.

I have become so proud of her.

A few weeks later, I sent her an email, telling her how badass that little girl was and “I just never knew it.” She applauded this perspective, agreed with me and asked me to think about other times “I was a badass.” Some big seeds, planted and watered.

I have played with the word, smiled about it, shamed myself for “being arrogant,” adamantly disagreed in my own mind and then tried to be kinder to myself. It took a lot of time, emotional tug-of-war and intentional self-compassion to begin caring about myself, seeing my own resiliency. But it wasn’t until I began riding a new recumbent around that same time, that I began to embrace and LOVE the idea of being a badass. Another perspective shift, this time from my husband and kids.

When I got my new bike, I was and felt much slower than my much younger kids. Still, the freedom and movement were new and beautiful gifts. I felt a bit sassy on that bike and battled through my negative self-talk to give permission for joy.

My husband began riding with me and as I gained strength, he started upgrading my bike. He turned my 7-speed cruising recumbent into a 21 speed as I got stronger. He surprised me that summer with a hidden, beautiful moniker. “Badass.” With every ride, his belief was right in front of me, on repeat. I smiled, grit my teeth, cried some days, but I could not NOT see his reminder to me. Every ride. Every single rotation of my left, then right leg. And with every ride, the reminder began to wash away any other belief I had about myself. I finally owned, “I AM BADASS.” My kids felt a little rebellious, excited and nervous, when we told them it was ok to say, (at least in this context, not at school!)

My husband is ridiculously smart, talented and knew this reminder was important.

I’ve been building that belief since. Some days, it is easier than others to hold on to that semi-new belief, while also believing the fire (and honestly the FUN) of those words. I LOVE, love, love the idea of being so able and strong, resilient and capable, not fragile. The truth of 2 COR 12:9 that says, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” It is a complex thing, to find your worth…

To believe in yourself, means overcoming the multitude of reasons we range from self-loathing to mean (rarely kind in our own minds, remember that 80% kinder to others than we are to ourselves statistic?). It requires a level of badassery all of its’ own. But the journey to both healthy self-esteem and the knowledge that we aren’t worthy and NEED Jesus Christ is a beautiful one. I believe with my whole self that we are worthy of both, freedom from the bondage of low self-esteem AND the delight of feeling badass.

My former pastor often shared this quote: “The gospel is this: We are more sinful and flawed in ourselves than we ever dared believe, yet at the very same time we are more loved and accepted in Jesus Christ than we ever dared hope.” –  Rev. Tim Keller from The Meaning of Marriage: Facing the Complexities of Commitment with the Wisdom of God

 Every day, I get to watch the transformation from shame, low self-esteem and self-loathing to redemption, belief, self-compassion and “loving yourself just like you love others.” (a paraphrase of Mark 12:31). I began to process that verse quite a while ago as I saw a trend of “putting others first ALWAYS (the emphasis from MANY clients over the span of this career.) My hope is that the perspective of this verse including caring for ourselves AS WELL, allows us to love and care about each other and ourselves in the best manner.  Most of the time it is hard for any of us to argue when we flip it, but all too often, I think we focus on others and let the as yourselves slip by the way side.

In my minds eye, I imagine The Father, Son and Holy Spirit each and all, enjoying how we are created, loving our dependence on God and the fulfillment that knows WITHOUT GOD, we are lost. Once again, please forgive me if it offends, but the very act of loving and trusting, trying to hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for he who promised is faithful.” (Hebrews 10:23,) is not without some brave hutzpah of its own!

To witness the sheer weight, agony and chains of self-doubt lift, replaced with a spark, a firework and incredible strength of seeing ourselves with even a small bit of how God himself made in us is life-changing and beautiful for me as a therapist, even if someone does not know or ascribe to who God is.

The very small comparison for me personally, is the joy I feel when I watch my kids feeling so strong and ready when they compete in various sports or perform, prepare for a test or follow the call of Jesus. When they flash me a “Mom, I am ready and I am badass,” smile, I know, that no matter any outcome, they are feeling exactly right in how God made them and HE is WITH them.

Badass indeed!

A few weeks ago, two dear friends took me out for dinner. It was pure joy, the laughter, the support and the pizza pinwheels. They shared a smile and as I was trying to figure out why, one handed me a colorful little box. “Just because we love you.” I opened the box and found the perfect gift: A cursive, dainty, badass necklace! It is full of beautiful reminders, to the care of sisters and the grace of God that says, “we see you and will remind you even if you forget.” They are WITH me….

A perfect gift. 💗

So, here’s the question…

Is badass a word that means something to you? If it is that particular word or maybe another, who or what makes you feel strong, capable and ready to take on the world? That is what badass is to me. It is feeling both strong, brave and capable and if you believe in Jesus, holding the truth that you are lost without him.

I believe with all my heart, mind and strength that God is within us, before us and behind, always for us. What amazing reasons to embrace our strength and if it feels right to you, your own inner badass. There is infinite room for growth, humility and pointing back to God and his goodness. Remembering where true strength comes from and holding our own worth and strength, that to me, is absolutely breathtaking.

I am thankful for it all – parents who are badass in their own way, who love and give and care tremendously; medical professionals who are skilled beyond what I can comprehend, possess the badassery of holding change in their very hands; each and every person who inspires me, (far too many to name), the journey and those who walk it with us, everything learned and gained even on the hardest days. Most of all, I am thankful to my Savior who models fearless, unwavering passion and pursuit without EVER giving up on any of us.

Whatever words embody your strength, capability and tenacity, I pray you see and feel his love, always. I pray that you are surrounded by those who make you feel badass and remind you when you can’t see it for yourself.

Both/And

II Cor 12:9

PS: On my ankle is my first tattoo, a small Jesus fish with II Cor 12:9 arched around it. I deliberately placed the reminder of God’s sufficient grace in my weakness about ½ inch away from a surgery scar. I think even before I knew it, I was working out what it means to be badass. It is one of my most beautiful reminders. I hope you look for and find your reminders as well, as often as you can.

Some thoughts on imposters, cheating and battle hymns.

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“Mom, your calves are popping!” My daughter exclaimed last night. I was walking in front of her as we left our dear friend’s house after an evening of feeling more blessed when we left than when we’d arrived. “What does that even mean????” My inner voice whispered. At the same moment, my body startled (involuntarily) as she verbalized something about these, MY legs, now the center of attention. Even after years of processing my own reactions, connections to emotions and everything in between, I found myself reacting just like I typically do to positive comments, especially about my body: with a passive tone of voice, “well, thanks, I am not sure why you are saying that,” or “thanks, but…” Besides the fact that “popping” is a new one to me and I can only assume that is positive, I still, at 50 do not know how to consistently appreciate this body.

As I was stretching and working on these muscles this morning, my mind drifted back to my daughter’s exclamation last night. Like a picture that slowly comes into focus, I realized that as I thought about her positivity about my muscle tone, the feeling I have most, is shame….

I wonder if you relate? In my office, I so often see eyes drop, hear tones of voice become softer, garbled, drift off or even a little disgruntled when the idea of appreciation of self is brought up. I’ve said it in other posts (and probably will again), that our society is 80% kinder to others than ourselves. (Check out the work of Dr. Kristin Neff at The Center for Mindful Self Compassion if you want to read more.) While I experience this number as higher in my work with clients, I too struggle to be equally kind to myself as I am to others. Why is it so hard to just say, “heck yes, my calves are popping?”

I began, with intentional curiosity to think about the shame I felt as my daughter complimented my calves last night. Much like the moment when we realize the correct answer when taking a test, I realized that when she complimented my calves, I felt like a complete imposter.

Cerebral Palsy causes my muscles to misfire, the part of my brain that regulates the “firing” is technically damaged. The vulnerability in me winces writing that and yet, it is the truth. My muscles fire beyond my control all the time, resulting in a lot of tone. The deep down thought for me regarding all my tone is that “it’s not real, athletes work for that and therefore earn the compliment. I don’t.” It is also hard to appreciate tone that can also make moving become much more difficult.

The very next thought was a memory of moving to another city just before high school, meeting new friends (that summer) and having my new friends remark about my “ripped biceps.” My only context for such a phrase was watching weight lifting in the Olympics. I began to wear longer sleeve t-shirts because in my mind, I didn’t want to look like a body builder. I didn’t know it was a compliment, and I felt fake. I hadn’t done any athletic hard work to earn their confusing to me compliments about my body. The fact was, people were complimenting a body that I didn’t like, understand and truly, wanted DESPERATELY to change. There weren’t enough positives for me about this body at that point to counteract my insecurity and imposter syndrome.

I wonder if I am not alone, that imposter syndrome is alive and well inside all of us to one degree or another, this side of heaven. Defined as the condition of feeling anxious and not experiencing success internally, despite being high-performing in external, objective ways, this condition often results in people feeling like “a fraud” or “a phony” and doubting their abilities. It is most often born from insecurity that has taken root and grown a tree of shame inside us. Once that tree is there, it is hard to see around it, becomes a part of every picture we have of ourselves. And for me, it has become siblings with the idea of “cheating.” Please let me explain.

One example…when I upgraded this spring to a recumbent pedal assist bike, I really had to work through the idea of cheating with that extra assistance. The perception with e-bikes, at least how I heard them, was that “people are just joy-riding.” The first time I rode that bike, 30 minutes after we purchased it, a neighbor commented, “that’s such a cool bike,” then looking closer stated, “oh, it’s got a motor, you are cheating!” Shame, imposter and “cheating” hopped on my bike and rode along. I can go faster than my husband on our rides now, but feel like I have to qualify it with, “yea, but only because of the motor.”

How many of us have those same passengers, riding around permanently? You may or may not be shocked to hear how many times I hear about imposter syndrome in the midst of sessions. Mine is occasionally cerebral palsy related, but it is many reasons for many people. It is like an old soundtrack that is ominous, “what if they find out this is the real part of me, not what they might think or believe…”

As I sit quietly, truth descends quickly, much quicker than it did when I was younger. I can kindly let the difficult feelings and memories (even shame) come forth, sit with them and then also engage in the truth. I know that (even when my perceptions and insecurities want to lie and make me believe otherwise) we are NOT imposters. God is the God of truth and gift-giving. He is perfect in his making and perfecting who he is within us. I am so very grateful….

“I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.” “Psalm 139:14

Both/And in being human, right? We KNOW this verse perhaps, but applying and believing it? Much more difficult. One of the ways I help clients is to imagine how we would speak to our dearest friend and try to counteract that loud imposter with the “kindest thing you can say to yourself.” I encourage them to slow down and find a positive truth to counteract the loud lies…one truth at a time.

I pray for overwhelming kindness and compassion for ourselves and others. I pray for appreciation of the bodies God has created and given. And I pray for overwhelming truth and care, this side of heaven.

I was having a conversation with friends yesterday about “what our walkout song might be?” For me, there has been an anthem shared from a dear friend years ago. It embodies hope and crying out in the beautiful and the moments I brought to my knees.

https://youtu.be/BqgW727a-RU

“Hallelujah, hallelujah, every broken heart, be brave. Hallelujah, hallelujah, the Lord will make a way.” A prayer and anthem for us all. It is my deepest, truest prayer.

May we give the lies to Jesus, rest in his love and truth and keep doing all he has called us to. May we always keep trying to be kind, as much to ourselves as we are to everybody else. May we let our own imposter know that they are no longer needed and that our true self is worth trusting. May we learn to accept others appreciation of us with the same love and care it was given.

Both/And

Psalm 139

143

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It was a snowy afternoon, one of those where we as a family had a clear Sunday on the calendar, a truly miraculous thing. Even more shocking to me, as a mom of teens, was the fact that after lunch had been cleaned up, I wandered into the main area of our house and found it empty. This wasn’t new, especially as clean-up began. The family tale has always been that my grandpa’s sister, Aunt Betty, would always “need to go the bathroom” just as clean-up began. In reality, I think we all want to disappear at these points in post-meal chores, but our kids do a fantastic job helping, all over the house. Still, on the this particular day, I had gone to change clothes and found myself in a seemingly empty house.

I wasn’t sad – a fire started in our fireplace, courtesy of my husband who I could hear in the garage, already invested in something of his own. I curled up in our oversized sectional with a cozy blanket, trying to decide what I needed with this unexpected gift of quiet and being alone. I grabbed a journal, which didn’t feel quite right. Not my coloring, or napping. What did I need? 

I suddenly remembered the documentary on Mr. Rogers that had come out a few months prior. Yes! I could feel something align inside myself, but was not sure why…after searching the too many streaming services we pay for, I found “Won’t You Be My Neighbor” and could feel my soul settle just a bit further. With a cup of tea, fire crackling, my favorite fragrant candle giving me sweet memories of summer and my pup snoring on my lap, I hit PLAY on the remote and heard a familiar sound…. a few piano notes, a voice so kind, and THEN…. the familiar, ringing bells of Trolley. I couldn’t help but smile and instantly began to sing along with a seemingly forgotten song…”would you be mine, could you be mine, won’t you be my neighbor…” (are you singing along too, just reading the words? I thought you might be…)

The first few minutes gave glimpses of Mr. Rogers history, beginning with a sepia toned video of a young Fred Rogers, tickling the keys of a baby grand piano, rehearsing how he would describe feelings to a child. Cut to a group of children clamoring for his attention and with laser focus, the gift of his attention and response to one after another. Cut to a description from his producer, describing the many reasons why “Mr. Rogers Neighborhood SHOULD NOT HAVE worked” and then, this: Mr. Rogers, saying earnestly into the camera, “Love is at the root of everything, all learning, all parenting. Love or the lack of it. What we see and hear is part of what we become.”

As strange as it is to say regarding a documentary, I was completely riveted in 4:41 minutes. I could feel a few different things at the exact same time: It felt like a warm sunbeam shining on my face, simply seeing images and hearing Mr. Rogers, Trolley, Daniel and the many other sounds of the neighborhood. I sat there, my adult self invested in the well-done documentary, and the delight of reconnecting with an old friend, the safety and understanding in his words, because these have become such a core beliefs for me as well. Up until those 4 minutes and 41 seconds, I hadn’t known that he was someone with whom I held such similar beliefs. 

A memory emerged, a fuzzy photo in my mind of watching Mr. Rogers Neighborhood when I was very young. I could see myself, legs in a W, munching on cheerios, enthralled with Mr. Rogers and his land of make believe. I recalled his puppets, their personalities, the big red, yellow and green light, his voice, calm, caring and completely free of judgement. 

What t started as a feeling throughout my body that day, became something much more over the next 90 minutes. I wanted to know more and more still about this neighbor who I hadn’t seen in far too long. I found the melodies, stories and words returning from a place stored deep in the recesses of my heart, not even knowing I could still feel and sing every word.

I sat there there, a grown up, both safe in my living room, protected from the frigid Michigan winter, comfortably full from a Sunday meal with family and an acute awareness as I watched Mr. Rogers, heard his voice and character eloquently described, that he was indeed a safe, lovely friend to both myself and countless others. The kid inside me remembered the lilt in his voice, the comfort and calm, even as he talked about extremely hard things. I had not been through a war or natural disaster, traumatic death at a young age or divorce. Yet, the child inside me who had grown up with CP has been grappling with differences that I had no idea how to voice, acknowledge or process.

Bessel Vander Kolk writes in The Body Keeps the Score, “For our physiology to calm down, heal, and grow we need a visceral feeling of safety. No doctor can write a prescription for friendship and love: These are complex and hard-earned capacities. You don’t need a history of trauma to feel self-conscious and even panicked at a party with strangers – but trauma can turn the whole world into a gathering of aliens.

I watched in tears as he normalized issues of both acceptance and pain related to racial atrocity, by inviting Officer Clemmons to cool off his feet in the same pool; as he sang with a young boy, “its you I like,” after sitting with Jeff Erlanger and hearing his story about life in a wheelchair; and as he normalized, simply, “being kind.” He had even left a life-changing impression on a gorilla. Unreal. I was thunderstruck with the ideas that were so important to him, are some of the same beliefs for me that as a therapist (and human) that are imperative in teaching clients about feelings, empathy, self-compassion and healthy coping. 

I began to take notes, noticing the connection and truth I felt internally as Won’t You Be My Neighbor finished.

“If you really want to communicate, the most important thing is to just listen.” – Mr. Rogers

From his character, work ethic, kindness, gentleness and admitted imperfections, I felt an odd camaraderie, almost as if I could understand and value myself better because I was seeing him through the documentary.

He had a tremendous way of just being with people, allowing people to talk and listen well in return. He answered as much of his fan mail as possible, thousands who over the course of time, and for millions, contributed to how they had felt as a kid and still as an adult, even though they only ever met in the neighborhood, ON TV. He showed me and so many others that we were seen. 

He was ahead of his time, tackling issues involving racial inequality, fear, divorce, conflict (even war and assassination) death, inclusivity and healthy coping in eras where most of these might have been avoided. He was also an ordained Presbyterian minister, though he seemed to let his life speak to that so much more than using the words, at least that is how it felt for most in his neighborhood. 

Tom Hanks, who played Mr. Rogers in the 2019 film, “It’s a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood,” said this while promoting the film: “‘There’s an acronym that I’m using now in my own life – W.A.I.T., wait – which stands for “Why am I talking?”‘ Hanks said. ‘You should just sit and start listening to everybody who comes your way and you’ll be amazed at what you learn.” I’ve shared with many clients while also reminding myself. It is just one of many, gems that I hold dear from the life of Mr. Rogers. He emulated my Jesus is so many ways, though I doubt he would’ve seen that about himself. People matter, their thoughts and feelings, needs and struggles. Kindness MATTERS, to others and ourselves. Play, learning and joy, are imperative.

I found myself studying, reading books and videos about his life in the weeks following the snowy Sunday. Everything I read, watched or discovered about Fred Rogers led me back to Jesus, my own calling and gentleness. 

As I have read, watched re-runs, highlighted quotes and wished I could I have tea with Fred, (and honestly, purchased a few more cardigans and even a t-shirt with his image on it) I am left with these truths:

-We are all human so there is no pedestal necessary. Our lives WILL touch others, in either the beautiful or the broken ways. I can only hope and strive for the beautiful and apologize when my broken (or mean or misguided or thoughtlessness) takes over. Mr. Rogers, as well as Jesus, show me the wisdom in being slow to speak, quick to listen and even quicker to offer love. 

“The greatest thing we can do is help somebody know that they’re loved, and capable of loving.” – Mr. Rogers

-All the things MATTER! How crayons are made, how to manage the mad, sad or every other; consistency, presence and play; gorillas, clocks, relationships, honesty, music, humor, reading, artwork, dignity work ethic and I43. (I’ll let you look that one up.) 

“I think Mr. Rogers was one of those people who do their his work seriously and hope that someone would pick up on the seriousness of what they are about.” -Betty Seamans, producer and actress, Mr. Rogers Neighborhood

Don’t we ALL hope that we will be understood, seen for what we are about? I think Mr. Rogers knew it wasn’t just kids that needed to hear how to love and be loved, feel and be strong enough to talk about it. I think he hoped that in teaching kids, it would be easier as adults. The the short version of my favorite quote is ‘whatever is mentionable is manageable.” (I’ll let you look up the long version, it’s also in the beginning of the bothandkeepitreal website.) This is an important belief in my work as a therapist, the seriousness of what I am about. I absolutely BELIEVE in the work of knowing and loving ourselves. My writing has become the joy and purpose in sharing my hope and beliefs. 

What are the important parts of you, the seriousness of what you are about? Don’t be afraid to share it in safe places, it is there you can be seen and cared for, exactly as you are. 

“I like you as you are, exactly and precisely, I think you turned out nicely, and I like you as you are. I children need to hear that, I don’t think anyone can grow unless they are accepted exactly as they are.” Mr. Rogers.

-“His theology (just like Jesus) was love your neighbor as yourself. It was deeply personal and wide open to all,” stated a cast member in the documentary. I think this is why Mr. Rogers still resonates with so many people, 20 years after his death. He was such a human example of the God he loved even if he never said it on the program. This past week, someone noticed the Mr. Rogers sticker on my cup that I always have with me. He commented, “I loved him. There are not people like him anymore.” I stopped myself from fangirling about my friend Fred, but I thought to myself, “I’m really trying to be!”

Still, I know that his unconditional, kind and gentle heart was not and is not the norm. The documentary also explored the nay-sayers and doubters, those who blamed Mr. Rogers for contributing to an entitled generation. Here is the last truth, at least for this post, right from the documentary itself.

“Mr. Rogers was not talking about entitlement. If you don’t believe everyone has inherent value, you might as well go against the fundamental notion of Christianity that you are the beloved son or daughter of God. ” Mr. Rogers explained what you are special means in one of his commencement speeches. “You are special ultimately means that you don’t ever have to do anything sensational for people to love you. You are loved just as you are. You are endowed by your creator with good.” Junlei Li, former co-executive director of the Fred Rogers institute.

“People were intolerant of his tolerance…” Tom Junod

Thank you Jesus and thank you Mr. Rogers for showing us how to live a different way. Thank you for your relentless pursuit of people, love and something so much greater than yourselves. 

May we follow in both Jesus’s and Mr. Rogers example: be tolerant, kind, loving neighbors, to ourselves and each other. May we find Jesus in each other, give grace and mercy extravagantly in many ways and may we love without ceasing….

Both/and

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PS If you are curious about some of the books or resources I’ve found about Mr. Rogers and his impact, please message or comment and I try to share!

Sometimes, it is good to howl….

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(Oh my heart…be brave my soul.)

“I can feel something welling up, deep in the pit of my stomach, a clenching I don’t have a name for. I have spent too many days, NOT caring for myself, AGAIN. Between family needs, schedules and even the joy, I have yet again, put my own needs on the back burner. As the days blur together, I can feel something building up inside me, something between anger, exhaustion and sheer overwhelming emptiness….”

“I don’t know the point in saying, “I am angry. Of course I am angry! It is endless. But it won’t change…I need to just get over it. Except, I can’t stop thinking about it, even when I say to myself, I am over it. I don’t understand it….”

“I will never be able to stop crying if I let myself start, it is too big, too painful. I will never stop. I just need to keep busy, keep going and keep working.”

“It was such a long time ago, it doesn’t matter anymore, right? I thought that if I just ignored the pain of what happened to me, I would forget. But I haven’t, I can’t. still, this many years later, when I close my eyes I can see and feel it all just like it is happening right now. I don’t know what to do anymore…..”

These sentiments are just a tiny glimpse into the daily life of brave clients…if these walls could speak, there is so much more.

Oh my heart….be brave my soul.

In this career I hold dear…(and maybe not just my career, but this very life), God has let me witness both so much tragedy and so much profound beauty. I don’t think I can truly describe it adequately.

Professionally, It came first in the form of children at my first internship when I supervised visitation between kids who had been removed from their parents care for a multitude of reasons. Even when the reasons for removal seemed the most legitimate, the kids AND the parents were doing their brave best in the most heart-wrenching situations.

Sometimes, all we can do is howl….

When I got my first job out of my undergrad, I began working with teens in a grassroots relational ministry. I was young, idealistic and introduced to the joy and heartache of life in ministry, earning the right to be heard while supporting teens and families in about every possible scenario over the course of 7 years. Standing with teens at a visitation of one of their beloved friends as they tearfully asked me, “what does she look like in that casket?” The gleaming dark wood casket was closed and raised up on the the opposite end of the funeral home. The kids moved slowly together, a dazed look, shock and pain raw, unable to wrap their minds around the sudden, tragic loss they were instantly thrust into.

Sometimes, you can’t do anything but howl…

I began my MSW program and came to understand the concept of family systems differently than ever before. I lost a dear friend one week after my program began and over the next year, learned what grief truly was. It was one of the hardest, growth years of my life. The the next year, after a lot of soul searching, prayer and the uncomfortable feeling of the right thing not always being the easiest thing, I began an internship at Hospice. I was changed in every single way, the holiness and tenderness of this calling – from my supervisor who taught me about peace and hope through her life, how to care for clients through her expertise and authenticity and boundaries through her intentional approach to nearly everything.

An unforgettable client taught us all about living while she was dying, gave us unique and needed perspective as we were stunned, huddling around TVs on my first day there, 9/11/2001. She sat on her small deck that morning, overlooking a pond, waiting for the temperature to rise enough to release the butterflies she had watched over from being caterpillars to beautiful, painted ladies. I will never forget her calm demeanor talking about war, global events and life experiences she’d lived through. She was sad, but not stunned as we watched the Twin Towers fall. She described “other, difficult things, saying, this too, shall pass.” Somehow, I believed her, even on this day.

Oh, my heart…be brave my soul.

I began my second internship at a counseling center, learning about resistance, court-mandated clients and how to let clients own their own problems and outcomes. My heart broke, while sitting face to face with a parent whose child had been removed after the child was hospitalized with a broken arm. The parent was “sure I haven’t done anything wrong.” I was distraught, faced with providing positive, unconditional regard and feeling this childs pain. I was also pregnant with my first child.

I sat across from many during those 6 years, learning as much in the pain as I did in the growth and change. I became a clinician, who has still, so much to learn. I learned to trust myself more, that many things will not be fixed or even made better. Sometimes, all I could do was witness a client’s painful truth and the difficulty it requires to exact lasting change. A boy who’d been in countless foster homes had such a difficult time coming, being vulnerable. Week after week, I asked my supervisor “how to help him.” She reminded me that often counseling takes a long time, which could mean years and most likely, I would not be the one to see it. She gave me the analogy of how one therapist might plant seeds, another watering the same seeds and another, seeing a flower bloom. At the time, I really wanted to be that person to reach my client (I wasn’t), but I have held that analogy close for many years.

I vacillated while becoming a mom of 3, between Hospice work and agency counseling. I met a widowed parent raising multiple teens who had “hoped it would all go away after the funeral.” Two years later, it still hadn’t and we needed to go back before going forward. We went through.

Another parent, in a moment, had to navigate shock, selflessness and courage while shifting very quickly into complex, traumatic grief and loss.

Sometimes, all we can do is howl….

In my life, outside of my career, I experience inspiration through everyone I meet…A young boy named Bill whose smile lit up a room; how he bravely fought a brutal, debilitating disease and his family showed me the meaning of grace in their care for him. Em, allowed me into some of her most vulnerable days and thoughts, taught me that CP was NOT all there was to me and the meaning of “rising above.” Les, who has for over 25 years inspired me by being the very definition of tenacity, fearlessness, loyalty and love. She and her spirited friend, Monica taught me sacrifice and the horror of gun violence in front of my eyes – so much worse than it seems in the movies. Mason and his beloved family, lesson after lesson in beauty, sacrifice and the love of Jesus. J and J, P and T who live out the redemption of dreams deferred and God’s sovereignty unfolding. My dear friend Shelly who teaches me more about the sacrifice of motherhood than I can comprehend. This list is not even the beginning…and there are so many, too many to list.

oh my heart…

In all the journeys, the pain, the beautiful and the in-between, I’ve learned this: the only way through, is through.

We used to read Going on a Bear Hunt to our kids, at least 55 times a day when they were little, until all 5 of us had it memorized.

“You can’t go over it…you can’t go under it, you have to go THROUGH it!” We would yell that refrain! It became a metaphor for both hard things in our family and in my clinical work. I even bought a small board book of Helen Oxenbury’s version and set it on the table for clients. It never failed to evoke an moment of understanding or even tears sometimes as the message became real.

Be brave my soul….

Psalm 13 (my very favorite and an amazing biblical both/and) says:

1 How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever?
    How long will you hide your face from me?
2 How long must I wrestle with my thoughts
    and day after day have sorrow in my heart?
    How long will my enemy triumph over me?

3 Look on me and answer, Lord my God.
    Give light to my eyes, or I will sleep in death,
4 and my enemy will say, “I have overcome him,”
    and my foes will rejoice when I fall.

5 But I trust in your unfailing love;
    my heart rejoices in your salvation.
6 I will sing the Lord’s praise,
    for he has been good to me.

Both the heartache and the praise, fear and trust. Yes, Lord God, be in, both, with and for us. Loss and hope, agony and trying to find something akin to joy. This is real and true, the purpose in the calling, at least for me. As I teach it in my work, learn it for myself and pray for the grace and mercy we all need, I also know this: holding the both/and is the truest path to peace I have ever come to. Because I know God understands AND loves me in both.

May we take care of ourselves: take a walk, call mom (or dad,) attend a class and learn new skills. Seek counseling. Breathe deep, smell the flowers, blow out the candles. Pray or meditate. Walk slowly, speak only kind words to ourselves. Lean into our people, the ones who know and love the authentic versions of us. And may we allow ourselves to go through.

“Crying releases stress hormones, swearing increases pain tolerance. Anger motivates us to solve problems. Silence and smiles aren’t the only way to respond to pain. Sometimes its good to howl.” Anonymous

I often close sessions with “be kind to yourself” and full disclosure, how my own therapist closes with me. Sometimes, I add this – howl if you need to, cry, and rest. Most often, those are the very paths that lead to the best parts of healing.

Both/And

Psalm 13


Becoming 50

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Tomorrow is a big birthday.

You know how you hear, “age 50” advice throughout your life? Some is well-meaning and sage, some definitely is NOT. Everything from, “tomorrow, it’s all over, Stacy. Your body starts to break down, you feel 80 from the minute you turn 50,” to “enjoy every moment, it all goes fast.” I think we all have pre-conceived ideas about certain numbers, birthdays and aging…at least that is what I hear in my office and in my relationships.

What I FEEL, strangely, is a bit excited and READY.

I have thought about this birthday for months, waiting for dread and “old” to descend upon me. Sitting here 1 day before the this birthday and all I feel is profoundly grateful. I am ever in wonder about my story, the way and why God chose this path for me: born early, the family I have, the experiences and heartaches. My career, beliefs and interests: the things that make up WHO I am. How God knows my love and I, these beautiful kids we have the privilege of raising, the stories I get to hear, the wonder I am allowed to experience.

It is not lost on me, the lives I interact with, the losses and pain shared with me, that I should not, (WILL not) take a moment for granted. I am humbled by the legacy of faith my parents have shown and that my greatest gift, EVER, is Jesus.

I am excited, standing on the edge of the next 50…how will our love story continue? What will the kids paths look like? How will I see Jesus and stay in wonder of it all? What I am going to do next, professionally and personally?

And yes, my fear of how my body will age with CP is real. But, I refuse to live in that fear. That used to be lens in which I saw most things. It is truly the hardest place to live. But acknowledging it is ok, reminding myself it will be ok, everything will unfold as it should, as a dear friend reminds me often.

My fear for our world and people is real also, as I look to my next 50. All I can do is speak and advocate for truth, kindness, love and hope, knowing that GOD IS SOVEREIGN and so good.

I remember watching Oprah, the day she turned 60, I think. She talked about all the negativity surrounding birthdays and something she said has stuck with me. “Consider birthdays a time to look back on your blessings of the year, celebrate those. Think about the people who’ve impacted you and be grateful for that, instead of the dreaded, I am another year OLDER.” This is most definitely a paraphrase, but the idea of a hopeful remembrance and celebrating who and how we are has stayed with me for sure.

To that end, I am so very thankful for this space, truly a gift to write and hear your feedback. I believe God gives us all stories to tell. How will you tell yours?

I am grateful for clients who bravely share who they are with me, and the ability provide a space that is safe, sacred and hopeful.

I am grateful for health, for continued awareness and light surrounding ALL of our differences in 2023 and pray that it continues, wider, deeper and kinder.

I am in awe of friends and family God has placed on this journey with and for me: a new church and wonder each time we attend, family who loves like no one else, the Word that makes me strive to be closer to The Lord each time I open it. Friends who know me authentically, love me still and are breathing examples of grace.

I am thankful for biking, movement and the daily understanding of how physical and emotional health really do heal and make way for peace and contentment.

For memories, and those who I will hold again in heaven and how they’ve taught me so much. You are loved always. Thanks Gram for all the “house cakes” on my birthday.

My goal is to hold this last 50 tenderly and enter the next 50 bravely; becoming less about me and more like my savior. I want to worry less, care more; Waste less, give and love extravagantly.

I know this sounds like a “Mr. Rogers ideal” and truthfully, it probably is. I know there is also so much pain for many, around birthdays and many other days. Praying love and hope over all. For me, this is the both/and – both my hope and gratitude going forward AND the knowing it is not always that easy.

Here’s to cake, ice cream, those we love, gifts of time, connection, sunshine (and a good bike ride) and always kindness and love for others and ourselves. EVERY day, not just on birthdays.

“Hey John, you need one of those!”

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If you know me or have followed my social media for more than this month, my love and joy in riding my bike is evident. I always relish the freedom my bike gives me, the effort of pushing my overly active muscles and the wonder of feeling my body accomplish this thing I ask it to, just in different ways than someone without CP.

There are (nearly) always comments when I ride, however and it is a complicated thing to grapple with…

My journey with biking has been a long one, one of watching, trying, longing, trying again and finally, arriving…Let me start somewhere near my beginning. I was born with cerebral palsy when my parents and sister lived in New Jersey. By God’s providence, I was born in 1 of the 2 parts of the US that had a neo-natal intensive care unit (NICU) at that time. Had it not been so, I truly believe I would not have survived my early birth, breathing challenges and all the growth that had to occur outside of the womb instead of those 7 more weeks within. I know I keep writing, “that is another story for another post”, but in many ways, this is. In time, I hope to write more of my story. This format feels right to me for snippets, essays and in my mind, a focused reason behind each post. That story? Well, that one could be novel of its’ very own….

Suffice it to say for this moment, that I was extremely blessed to be born where I was in the world, if not when (7 weeks premature). With all the both and in the world, I KNOW God is in it, through it and in him, all the reasons hold together. (And, I can’t wait to curl up in a big cozy chair with the BEST cup of tea and hear the reasons when I get to heaven. I don’t really know if it will matter at that point, but I DO envision his hug to end end all hugs and my big sigh of relief at his telling and understanding of ALL that it has been.) See, that by itself could be a novel!

Even though I know God holds it all together does NOT mean that growing up with CP, making sense and facing my own challenges WITH IT are easy. In fact, CP has been and will continue to be, my greatest teacher of Both/And. It is the greatest “normalizer,” (if that is even a word?) I will ever know, of having so many feelings at the EXACT same time….

You see, I don’t think I knew or felt different than anyone in my youth. I think it just WAS for me. I pranced on my toes for years, because my hamstrings and heel chords were so tight that was all I could do. But very young, my dad worked with me a lot to find my own walk and I think once I did meet those “normal milestones” (a bit later than the average person,) I think I took off. And my particular diagnosis was “moderate.”

I don’t know the day that it changed for me, the reality of different, (and the shame that came with that particular realization), but I can tell you I remember moments and feelings in my body.

We lived out in the country when I was little, on a dirt road, right next door to a pig and blueberry farm. Our ranch home sat back far from the road, up a long driveway and just past the pond my parents had put in. It was “better than a swimming pool,” our place for splashing, catching tadpoles, playing on innertubes and for my brother, catching fish. One day we even looked out the front window and saw one of the massive pigs from next door, relaxing and resting in the shallow water! Her owner had to dangle one of her bleating babies while as he sat, legs swinging from the back of his pickup truck to get her get out of the soothing water and hot sun. Slowly the driver drove while the owner called to the pig, baby crying, until they disappeared in a cloud of dust up the drive to the house next door. It was a sight to behold…

I swam, ran, played in the woods with the neighborhood friends. Still, as I grew, I had difficulty keeping up with my younger brother and his friends playing capture the flag, and envious of my sister and the other neighbor kids who could take off down our winding driveway in the woods on their bikes. I saw speed, freedom and fun as they hopped on effortlessly, yelled to one another and gathered speed. I think my mind compared it to flying!

I begged my dad to teach me. Begged! And bless him. We tried, and tried and tried. I would fall, cry, become afraid and then eventually try again. But I think after awhile, we both knew that this was one of those things impacted by CP that I or he could not will away. I was crushed and I think for the first time in my life, realized I was disabled and had some limitations.

That sting did not disappear. In fact, I think it festered. I had many surgeries, changing my bone structure so that I had the best possible outcome for mobility with my particular range of CP. It is SO different for each one of us, with similarities perhaps, but each case, (1 in 350 people) looks different than another.

I dreamed of MOVING this body – whether is was ice skating on our pond, swimming, running, later roller blading and yes, still biking. I felt both trapped within a body that felt chained and was so hard to explain and I felt “bad for not having CP worse,” as though I should only be thankful that I could walk, talk and function as well as I could, almost like survivor’s guilt only “moderate CP guilt.”

A few days before Christmas, mid-seventh grade, my parents rented one of my favorite movies from Blockbuster (Savanah Smiles.) I loved movies and this particular one was one I had loved going to see with my Gram in the theaters. I disappeared to our basement to watch it and was in my own little heaven. Suddenly, I heard my parents calling me upstairs. I was ornery to tell the truth. I climbed the stairs and then realized they were calling from outside in December. I am certain I became a bit more than ornery, but went anyway. As I opened the front door, I could not believe my eyes. Sitting on our porch was an bright blue, oversized tricycle with a big white basket in the back!

You might be thinking, really, in 7th grade? And I hear you… I don’t think it occurred to me to be embarrassed about a trike. I think the freedom (and flying) was first and foremost in my mind. I will never forget that beautiful thoughtful gift from my mom and dad, or the forethought they had about adaptation. My parents even got permission for me to ride that bike in the school hallways of my Jr. High that winter. Only once was I going so fast that I hit a corner and got my beautiful bike on two wheels and almost tipped. I learned that lesson, quick!

I rode that bike until I began to drive, literally FLYING. When we moved to Holland and our house was a stone’s throw from Lake Michigan, I was there nearly every day in the summer. It was joyous. But as I hit about 11th grade, someone yelled, “why you riding your grandma’s bike?” and it was like hitting a brick wall. Shame and pain took the joy right out of the bike and I retreated. I gave the excuses of driving, but I knew it was the mean comment in the middle of heavy beach traffic.

Years later, in my 20’s, my roommate’s parents came for a visit from across the state. They’d discovered “banana bikes” for rent by the beach. Jo (roommate) and Don(her dad) got talking about my challenges with bike riding, Holland’s beautiful bike paths and “how to get Stacy on a bike!” Don ended up finding one for sale and driving to get it for me. Again, the most meaningful gift! I am forever grateful. It sat low and had 3 wheels (almost resembling a Hot Wheels, remember those?) with a banana yellow mesh seat. I rode it for the next few years until it’s wheels almost fell off.

Then a few years into marriage, my husband and I wandered into a nearby bike store. There, gleaming in the window, was a long Sunseeker recumbent bike, fancy and new. I had never heard of such a thing! We talked for a long time about it and again, the truth? It was WAY out of our price range…and my husband got it for our anniversary anyway. It was a gift of being seen and heard, after hearing my longing about bikes for YEARS. He even outfitted it to pull a Burley when we had our daughter, then our son.

And, if I am honest AGAIN, I became complacent. It was a lot to get the kids tucked in the Burley, wiggle their helmets on, get the bike hooked up and THEN go for a ride… I was a young working mom and it was a lot to get up and go. It is amazing to me as I look back, how the desire for something was so big to me and then, once I had the means to go, it was easy to push it away “til tomorrow, then tomorrow and many after that,” because I was tired or it was too much effort.

Fast forward a few more years. My son began working at a local bike shop, learning from the best how bikes function, what is most helpful for each of us, in a unique situation. We strolled in and found a shorter, zippier recumbent and I was instantly smitten. That bike took us all on a journey of discovery, growth, health and connection in so many ways. I had a goal of riding 365 days the next year – the rides we all took! It was, FREEDOM personified. There is so much more to say, feel free to ask or comment! I love to talk bikes and adaptation…

As great of a start it provided, I quickly craved more power than my zippy blue bike was able to provide.

I’ve now upgraded twice, first to a Fat Tad (a present for my birthday, a shiny red recumbent with fat tires and more attitude!)

This past spring, after some wise conversations about the mechanics of my rides, I upgraded again, to a Fat Tad with pedal assistance. This provides a more consistent pace, the ability to cross streets, ride rough terrain and increase the effectiveness of my workouts. Each upgrade has provided a new truth in my heart: I AM able, capable and AN ATHLETE.

And…I at times have experienced some downright mean or nasty statements while biking.

It is not uncommon on the ride to hear, “Hey, honey, that’s the bike we need to get for your mom!” or “You better get some lights on there if you want to stay alive!” There are other variations of the same theme.

Last week, as I excited Windmill Island, a man was walking in, saw me and yelled a few cars down, ” Hey John, you need one of those!” He had slowed down, staring a bit at both me and my bike.

I slowed, knowing I was now the object of “show and tell.” This happens often and typically, I try SO hard to see these interactions as a chance to educate about CP, how someone could feel in this situation. Truly, I do…and sometimes I am just too tired to educate and listen.

I rolled near John, who walked slowly over to me, as quick as his body would let him and began looking my bike over. I’ve heard it said that for those who use wheelchairs, the chair actually feels like an extension of their personhood and it is very invasive when someone is the bubble of the chair AND the person. I can relate! My bike represents my personhood and freedom.

Person A proceeded to discuss how this would be a perfect bike for John and the assumptions ensued. I need to pause and explain my emotional response…typically, my husband will say, that I become defensive related to people responding with, “that looks like fun,” or the ever-present insinuation that an elderly person would have a much easier time on a recumbent like mine than on a standard two wheel bike. Occasionally, my husband will whisper something irreverent under his breath at the third (or seventeenth) comment, just to shock and humor me.

The truth is, my bike is magic, incredibly life-giving AND is damn hard work. All your momentum must come from your legs and core, without the leverage to stand up on the hills. It is not, a quick and easy ride. It would be very, difficult for anyone to just “hop on and have fun!”

I think my “frustration” in those moments, is that I want to be truthful and advocating and I never l want to assume about anyone’s experience. My experience with my bike has been interesting in terms of commentary and assumption. From, “you look very awkward riding that bike,” to “that looks like so much fun,” to “that is so badass,” to “oh, look at you, laying down on the job!” there are so many reactions. The generous assumption is that most people don’t intend to be insulting – most! Some do… and…the comments can be. I absolutely experience both.

How often do we experience that in other parts of life, that someone comments and our filter responds before our head and heart remind us to “assume the best about people around us?” It is SO hard to do….so hard. One of my favorite anonymous quotes says, “be kind for everyone is fighting some kind of battle.” I pray that today, you encounter kindness from yourself and from others. I pray that we can approach one another with the generous assumption that we are ALL trying our very best. And I pray that you experience freedom, awe and wonder in a way that only can be described as the presence of the Holy Spirt: sailing on a boat, swaying in a hammock hammock, sitting near the water, a hard run, riding horseback or like me, in a way that is different than others, but is your own passion and joy. I will be on my bike, because God is good to me….

The smell of coffee, Gram’s Oil of Olay and Tiffany Rose Gold: oh the memories I have…

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I walked in the door and couldn’t help but inhale deeply. The rich, deep, comforting smell of coffee both assaults and eases into every part of my olfactory system. The funny thing is? I don’t even like DRINKING coffee. But my body, heart and mind are instantly comforted with the smell…

Growing up, the coffee pot was always on at our house. I didn’t even think it then, it just was the smell as you entered our house. Similarly, my dad always had the coffee pot on in his physical therapy office and I remember my mom consistently wrinkling her nose about “how strong you make it!” when we stopped in to visit. I simultaneously connected the smell to home, my dad, hospitality (because somehow, when adults were together, coffee was ALWAYS offered) and also the taste being “too strong.”

In my young adult hood I was privileged to spend a lot of time in the home of my mentor with his family. They had three kids and both Rick and Mariann were instrumental in these hard to understand years in my first job (in ministry), both had counseling backgrounds and were very accepting and authentic; a tremendous comfort to me. And anytime I walked into THEIR house, was the smell of coffee.

It had a slightly different aroma than what I grew up (Perhaps Folgers versus a coffee house blend?) but was still, the smell of coffee. The smell had come to mean safety, care and just being heard. And still, the taste left me wrinkling my nose and sputtering. I am actually a tea kind of girl, but that is for another day, another post for sure.

In those early days of ministry, I spent so many afternoon and sometimes evening hours at a new (at the time, to our corner of Michigan) coffee shop called JP’s. I’m not quite sure how I landed there, to be honest, being that I was NOT a coffee drinker…I think it was effort to be the “cool adult” in youth ministry and JP’s was my inroad to the goal. I spent hours tucked in a booth, munching on bagels, tea (for me) and hearing intense, beautiful unforgettable stories in the lives of so many teens. I went home with the smell of JP’s coffee embedded in my clothes, all the way to my skin, their stories, tears, laughter growth embedded just as deeply in my heart and my prayers. The smell of coffee morphed again to mean ministry, prayer, hope and a sense of awe that I got to be the person to listen to every one of those amazing kids.

Do you have one of those smells? One that brings you back to a time or feeling the second it hits your nostrils? Our olfactory receptors—proteins in the nasal passages that bind to odors and relay a signal to the brain, are a big connection to both the good and the really difficult memories sometimes. For some dealing with trauma, it could be the smell of gasoline that brings back the difficult memories of a car accident or the smell of bleach and sterilizer at the vet’s office that brings back the death of a beloved pet. I have for a long time, helped people process both the good and the hard associated with smell.

My beloved Gram ALWAYS wore Oil of Olay – a blush pink bottle with an abstract logo of a very serene woman, sitting front and center on her bathroom counter. In searching for a description of the scent, the best I read was, “White floral scent with almond, wisteria, cinnamon.

Her house had it’s own distinct smell too (like everyone’s): the smell of baking, sunshine and HER. Somehow, her Oil of Olay was blended in there as well. When she died suddenly when I was 19, within a few days, I panicked about “not smelling her house again.” Even then, the connection to smell was so important to me. My mom gave me a small little bottle of her Oil of Olay and for the longest time, in my missing her, I would open the small worn out bottle whose label had all but worn off and feel her standing right next to me.

I have listened to countless stories of people who are making their way through difficult losses and while in a store, library or some other completely random spot, somehow catch a whiff of “their person.” I think it can be a comfort and a painful thing to be transported this way. And unexpected sometimes, I have normalized it probably 550 times throughout my career…

For me, I love also to attach a scent to good memories, much like my Gram’s lotion.

My daughter has a special affinity for Tiffany jewelry but last year, begged for Tiffany Rose Gold perfume. We wandered through Ulta and I can still see her bouncing with excitement as we waded through the perfume aisles and cloud of competing fragrances. She handed me the tester bottle and as I sprayed it on a small strip of paper, the scent was a little unworldly. The ingredients list is blackcurrant, blue rose and Ambrette seed. I could not tell you what any of those look like or smell like individually, but I can tell you that my daughter and I sniffed that paper all afternoon between giggles and shopping. The aroma became a memory of spending time with her.

I did buy it for her for Christmas, she wears it often and as she recently traveled abroad with school for Spring Break, she quietly left the bottle on my counter to find when we returned from the airport. I wore it nearly everyday while she was gone, a way to hold her close.

Now, before the bottle becomes “ours,” I gave hers back and ordered my own.

You may think, this is silly or even have a hard time understanding such a connection to scents. Maybe that is not how it is for you. But I think if we close our eyes and imagine a smell of comfort, I imagine an image, feeling, place or memory comes to mind….

In 1998 the Parent Trap (re-make) was released. There was a scene where one of the twins, Hallie who “traded places” with her sister, Annie, met her grandpa for the first time. Annie had described him down to the mints he kept in a pocket and the pipe tobacco that clung to his clothes. Hallie buried her face in grandpa’s sweater, hugged him and inhaled deeply.

“What are you doing?” Grandpa asked.

“Making a memory.” Replied Hallie , tears in her eyes.

Of all the ways our bodies hold all the things, trauma, joy, memories, pain and relief, the connection to scents is one of my favorites. From the smell of walking into the Magic Kingdom, to the memories of my babies newborn “smell,” the way roses remind me of our wedding day or my mama’s lemon meringue pie, I am so thankful of the simple ways God allows us to remember…

Both…and

Psalm 13


Anger is easier than vulnerable…

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After a week full and by full, I mean 11 sports events for my two oldest kids, my body is completely spent. My muscles have been tight and reactive, causing my back to tighten up and sending everything else into spasms as well. When I walk, I feel like these legs have become sticks, or steel rods, unbending and taunt. I long to be ” a normal mom,” attending my kids events with ease, simply walking up the bleachers, or across the the green, uneven grass. And, I am trying so hard to be kinder, honor and not be angry with this body. That has been my go to, to simply become furious with my body because of what it could not do.

How silly is that? Or maybe stupid? To blame and shame this body that has worked so hard, that has endured so much. This body that fights and shows up even when it is so hard. THIS body that God says he created, IN HIS IMAGE. I wonder if you do the same? If anger is just EASIER than care, acceptance or dare I say, love. Why is that? Why are we so hard on our very selves at the time when our very selves need even more care and encouragement.

Anger is a million times easier than vulnerable. And most of us are masters at getting our needs met, OR avoiding feeling at all out of fear of feeling too much… I have been asked many, many times both in my life and in my office, “what if I start crying and I can’t stop?” I usually talk about the fear of that and gently remind people that I have never had to sleep in my office because someone couldn’t stop crying. Not even once.

Kinder is letting the tears come; reaching for the person who will listen, even when it’s really vulnerable to do so. Fierce self compassion says, care about yourself the same way you would about your best friend. Show up for you rather than beating yourself up for having feelings at all. As hard as it is to be kinder, its truly much harder to come out from under shame, fear and worthlessness.

Acknowledge the vulnerability, frustration and sadness, or whatever you don’t want to feel while also acknowledging the hope. I was ridiculously blessed this week as I desperately tried to be kinder to my body. My husband was so present and made sure that as my muscles fired “extra,” he was never far away. My kids were kind with hugs, prayers and care. And my youngest heard me talking to my husband about purchasing a new massager but wanting to wait due to some upcoming bills. She didn’t miss a beat. “Mom, take my pet-sitting money!” She quickly retrieved it and brought it to me. I could not believe it, I didn’t see an ounce of selfish in her eyes, I just felt the love of God, profoundly.

On the flip side, a dear friend who normally does not “let people in,” was going through a particularly hard week. I was very honored that she trusted me with her tears, anger and staggering loss. And at the same time, grateful, knowing that she had a bit of relief just “being herself for a few minutes” even though there was no “fixing this.”

Oh so hard…and so good to be loved and supported. I pray that as you go into the week, you can find more kindness for yourself and others, you can feel hope for the week and that even in the struggle, you can trust yourself even a bit.

Both…and

Psalm 13