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on why hope is hard

It's one of those days. The ones where all feels ick. My husband snuggles me on the couch and looks into my eyes with his blue ones, searching and kind, and I'm overwhelmingly grateful and completely numb, both at once.

These days seem to come out of nowhere ... and yet part of me feels like they're the price I pay for having hope. Like the universe is shaking it's head and muttering a "foolish girl."

Because, I felt pretty great last week. It felt really nice. I had a meeting on Wednesday that gave me energy and encouragement and a bit of hope I hadn't felt in a LONG time.

Thursday was good.

Friday was another meeting that at least felt like something progressive and hopeful.

And the weekend was fun — from puppy shopping to waverunner riding with friends, it was a steady stream of happy that worked to keep hope alive.

But then Monday. And the ick factor. 

I catch myself in automatic negative and self-deprecating thoughts. The old feelings of inadequacy and insecurity return. The sense of financial and professional stuckness and a related despondency set in deep. Opportunities feel like burdens and yet, when I refuse to shoulder those "burdens", a weight of shame descends.

Changing your inner narrative is hard. It's a battle. It's taking every thought captive and holding it up to the Truth and deciding to believe differently about myself and life and God. It's a little bit exhausting, this inner work, but it's my work today ... and every day ... because Hope is worth the struggle.

I think. I hope?!

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on the day i got a makeover

I'd mentioned to the Mr. a couple months back that I really wanted to figure out how to do better makeup for my aging face. He mentioned back that there's a team of makeup artists that regularly work on one of the shows he freelances for and that he'd talk to them about maybe hooking us up. I forgot about it.

He remembered. Seriously, the Mr. is AMAZING like that.

So, come Valentine's Day morning, I get flowers and a gift certificate for a two-hour makeup lesson with About Face Design Team in Winter Park, Florida. Their team of hairstylists and makeup artists have an impressive portfolio and great reviews. From bridal to live television, they're kind of all over it ... and I was thrilled to have the opportunity to work with them.

My makeup artist was Vanessa. She was beautiful and she was awesome. Connie, marketing and scheduling currently at the front desk, was an absolute dear. Everyone was encouraging and sweet and very complimentary. I felt great coming (without makeup on) and going (completely made-up) ... and, to top it off, I feel pretty confident in recreating the "naturally sexy" look I was taught!

on scrambling

My state-required bi-weekly supervision sessions are costly, but they're worth it. Especially last week's hour.

A little backstory: Eight months into my new career and building my own business, I've been fighting a feeling of failure. I've been fretting over my lack of client hours (seriously, why did I choose a career in which it is my job to make my job obsolete?!) and the fact that a lack of client hours results in a lack of experiential learning opportunities. A lack of learning makes me feel largely inadequate. So, I been frettin'.

Frankly, I've moved beyond fretting to full-on desperation. So, with a lack of clients to talk about in last week's supervisory session, the conversation turned toward me and my fight against feeling like a failure. The conversation didn't start out that way. It started with me talking about all the things I was DOING to fix my perceived "problem."

Him: "So, you're scrambling." 

Me: "Yea, I'm scrambling. [thinking] I don't want to be bad at this counseling thing. I can't afford for this not to work."

Him: "Why do you scramble?" 

Me: "I don't want to talk about this."

Why didn't I want to talk about it? Because I can't handle this feeling of failing. I don't enjoy feeling like I'm not in control. I don't like being needy and vulnerable and uncomfortable. What does it say about me if I can't get this done right and well and NOW?

My supervisor, himself a great counselor, knew my answer. He didn't expect me to answer. He knows I know. Then he told me the story again of the research done on what sets the most successful entrepreneurs apart from the scrambling masses ...

Turns out successful people never think of themselves as failures. Things they do may fail (i.e. that failed), but they, themselves, are never failures (i.e. I failed).

So, as of right now, I have this knowledge that I'm not a failure ... but making it heart knowledge is where I'm a little bit stuck. If I don't rock this ... and the money and the acknowledgement doesn't flow ... somehow I have to figure out how to believe that it's okay and that it's not a reflection on who I am.

And there I go ... a scramblin' again .... :) It's quite the ineffective, but instinctual little pattern of doing life I've got going on, ain't it?

Chances are, how you're doing life isn't quite working for you anymore either. How aware are you of your unhelpful habits of doing, thinking, being?

Welcome to the reality of (and the best proof of the need for) counseling:

"I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do. And if I do what I do not want to do, I agree that the law is good. As it is, it is no longer I myself who do it, but it is sin living in me. For I know that good itself does not dwell in me, that is, in my sinful nature. For I have the desire to do what is good, but I cannot carry it out. For I do not do the good I want to do, but the evil I do not want to do—this I keep on doing. Now if I do what I do not want to do, it is no longer I who do it, but it is sin living in me that does it." — Romans 7:15-20

on dirty dancing

   source: IMDB

   source: IMDB

I sensed it was a rite of passage.

Like my special viewing of The Breakfast Club before it and getting to stay up for It's a Wonderful Life on the Christmas Eve of my fifth grade year (the year I knew for sure that Santa wasn't real), my introduction to Dirty Dancing was one of those moments when I knew my parents were ready to let me grow up.

I remember my mom asking if I wanted to watch it. I remember feeling special. I remember the couch we sat on. I remember where the TV set was. I remember feeling uncomfortable watching a sex scene (albeit, a very TAME one by today's standards) with my mom in the room. I remember loving the movie ... and that I'd been given the opportunity to watch it.

Mind you, I came from a household in which The Fresh Prince of Bel-air was off-limits for being too risqué. I had to sneak my soap opera watching. The most exposure to sensuality I'd experienced prior to watching Dirty Dancing was a sixth grade read (and re-read) of Judy Blume's Forever. Even with Dirty Dancing under my belt (pun!), I was still legitimately shocked during my senior year of high school when half my friends revealed they'd slept with their boyfriends on Valentine's Day ...

Still, it's a sexy movie isn't it? Despite being a story of a somewhat illegal love affair (Johnny's got to be 20-something, right?!), it's mesmerizing. Timeless. Why? Because it's the archetypal story of a girl awakened to more. It's the story of a guy enchanted and confused and made sensitive and strong as a result. It's a story about courage and change.

Jennifer Grey's smile makes you believe in the delight Baby's experiencing.

Plus, Patrick Swayze. I mean, COME ON.

And that soundtrack? #knowthewordsbyheart

Then there's Detective Lenny Briscoe ... #justsayin

And lastly ... CHOREOGRAPHED DANCE! That junk is my kryptonite.

The point: Ladies, Dirty Dancing is on Netflix. Grab a glass of wine and get on that.

on images and idols

This was first published on my old blog back in 2011:

 "All who worship images are put to shame, those who boast in idols — worship him, all you gods!"

Sometimes our house feels like an empty, dark shell on Sunday mornings. The husband's been at work since before the butt crack of dawn and the blinds are closed and there's a still chill in the air from the night's air conditioning …. so, waking alone and cold and to scare the spook away, I break the film with His Word — reading aloud — before shuffling through the house to let the light in and pour the coffee.

This morning, I flipped my bible open to Psalm 95 … read through Psalm 97 … and found my eyes returning to the verse I quoted above. Images. The physical form of an idol. The noun. How does the physical representation of a misplaced trust, hope and love translate to today?

I don't know. But I found myself thinking about how my faith has morphed from legalism to love over the years and then how sometimes my delight in how God is in all things beautiful and true leaves me enchanted with that beauty and that truth … but, ironically, distracted from He who embodies it … enables it … creates it … has intent for it (far beyond any scope or hope I could imagine).

The point: Sometimes I make idols of His blessings. I hold my hand out, watch the glitter fall into it, take a picture, write about it … and forget to look up and behold what I can't.

Just thinking. Love.

on knowing yourself

“A proper understanding of the soul also holds the promise of revitalizing Christian spirituality. Another consequence of the acceptance of the artifical distinction between the psychological and spiritual aspects of persons has been a practice of Christian spirituality that emphasized knowing God but failed to emphasize knowing self. Tragically, this has often lead to a spirituality that is neither grounded nor vitally integrated within the fabric of total personhood. Not only does such a spirituality fail to transform us in the depths of our being, it also leads to all the dangers associated with a lack of integrity. A spirituality that fails to involve the totality of our being is inevitably a spirituality that furthers our fragmentation.”
— from Care of Souls by David Benner

on catching up: copy, clients and colorado

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I know, it's been awhile! Miss me?

Anyway, aside from prepping for (and going on) my FIRST EVER ski vacation (we'll get to that in a second), I've been writing less because I've actually been writing more. I'm freelance copywriting a lot these days to bridge the financial gap left by last year's career switch. I'm writing marketing and technical copy for everything under the sun — from a party hat company to a small business IT solutions provider ... with a little HVAC repair, medical equipment supplier and roofing contractor thrown in! (Need a copywriter? Get in touch.)

So, my downtime has ceased to exist ... and, while I'm occasionally annoyed by that, I'm grateful for the opportunity to make money at something that utilizes one of my giftings and seems to flow pretty effortlessly.

Now, sitting with clients in therapy? Yea, that's still not so effortless. I'd say the days of sheer terror and intense feelings of inadequacy are fewer, but this new career (and the by-product business venture) continues to poke all my buttons. Seven and a half months in, I'm not where I want to be (hours and client load-wise) and that's disappointing. However, I've done some stuff I couldn't have imagined doing 7.5 months ago (like writing curriculum for and leading a 7-week class for 70 women) and that's encouraging. I am growing into the empathetic, helping professional I'm designed to be and that's kind of cool ... (Know someone looking for a counselor? Send them my way.)

Beyond that (Beware! GUSH ALERT!) ... I'm falling more in love with the Mr. every day. In this man is such a wonderful pairing of youth and maturity. Innocence and wisdom. Humor and sensitivity. Whether he's wakeboarding in a wetsuit in February, taking a GoPro for a sled ride, posting worship highlights, burning wood palettes, buying me flowers, researching stock options, cuddling on the couch to watch "the shows", scratching Moose or making faces at the nephews, he's 100% committed and delightful. For getting to know him best and getting to be with him the most ... I am the luckiest.

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KEYSTONE, COLORADO (1/28-2/2)

Finally, the ski vacation. It was fantastic! I love me some Colorado — at least in the winter, in the midst of crazy snow storms ... and as a vacationer. I'm a #FloridaGirl, so this was my first time experiencing single digit temperature lows and FALLING SNOW and 36" of fluffy powder on the ground. It was crazy ... and beautiful ... and I can't wait to go again!

Here's a quick glimpse (and related linkage) of the trip:

Skiing in Keystone, Colorado

I love me some Colorado — at least in the winter, in the midst of crazy snow storms ... and as a vacationer. I'm a #FloridaGirl, so this was my first time experiencing single digit temperature lows and FALLING SNOW and 36" of fluffy powder on the ground. It was crazy ... and beautiful ... and I can't wait to go again!

on living in the dark

Despite my low dose anti-depressant, despite the celebration of Christ's birth, despite the arrival of a new year, and despite the great many good things/people/places I'm grateful for daily ... I am depressed.

I don't want to do anything. At least nothing hard. Or uncomfortable. I feel guilty about that. And the guilt, the proof of failure, of melancholy, exhausts. And it cycles. 'Round, 'round it goes.

I sleep in late. Watch crap on television for hours. I go days without wearing makeup or doing my hair.

I think about the importance of community, think about texting a friend, and then I play another round of Ruzzle instead. Except family, I haven't seen a close friend in weeks.

I'll have a day where I'm not hungry and all food sounds unappealing, so I skip meals. A few days later, I could eat the house and I do - oranges, pistacios, lara bars, old chocolate, pickles, stale pirate's booty - whatever I can find.

I think about praying. I try. The farthest I get is "Help?!"

I hate the idea of work. Of making a commitment. Of having to try, again, over and over. Having to be somewhere, at some time, for some reason. I start to begrudge my chosen career, sensing that the work is ultimately futile. And the idea of having to pick clothing to wear? Of showing up and being seen and judged? It angers, annoys, exhausts.

I know I need to network, read, write. I have a list of things that need doing. But it all seems so ridiculous. Such a crock. False. A lie. Me? Help anyone, when I'm this confused and unsure and broken myself? I'm a fraud. They'll know it. They probably already do. And, with that, the fear of not measuring up kicks in. My mind races, plotting ... planning the next striving. Ever awake on a pillow, anxiety-ridden until the Lorazapam kicks in and I force myself to count sheep, each bouncing to the rhythm of the Mr.'s snores.

And the people that stick with me in the dark? My parents. My husband. I'm bat-shit scared of losing them. I'm rendered immobile and unmotivated when he leaves for work. Sad when my parents go to visit the grandkids. But I can't even cry. I numb out. I sit in the dark — literal and metaphorical. Asleep. Afraid to feel.

I just wish the pressure would go away. That the "have to's" didn't exist. Or, rather, that maybe I enjoyed the journey more. Or that I was just better at it. Or it felt easy for a time. And if it did, that I wasn't so busy bracing for the hard part.

I'm exhausted and I haven't done anything. Tomorrow, my vacation ends, and I hate it. The idea of being presentable ... capable ... happy, or even just "okay"? Ugh.

---

I've struggled with depression for a long time. It always shows up around the holidays. Sometimes it's situationally triggered by new fears and unanticipated expectations and personal uncertainty. This January is a perfect storm of those triggers for me. That said, this moment of depression is a 6 on a scale of 1 to 10 - so, it's mild. I'm fine. No freaking out, okay? K.

on delusional daydreaming

The Mr. and I talking yesterday about a house for sale on one of the lakes we wouldn't mind living on for life:

me: "We should buy it."

him: "Yea, we should. I mean, we can't afford the down payment. Or the monthly mortgage payment. But that's it."

me: "We should do it anyway. We could make it work."

him: "Yea. And it'd be awesome."

me: "Yea doggy! Can we get a puppy first? Ooo, or a truck? We'd need the truck to get our boat into the lake ..."

----

We've been daydreaming lately in our good moments.

But, we've been angry and crying in our bad ones. Avoidant and numbed in our worst.

We've never felt this trapped before. This helpless. This hopeless.

The "next best thing" seems really, really far away ... and maybe not even ours for the making or the taking.

We're exhausted. Mad at ourselves for the lives we've made. We love each other. We love God. But, damn, the rest is pissing us off. Disappointing us. Confusing the heaven out of us.

Part of us knows this is a season — one of growing and stretching and transformation and acceptance — but the other part of us is threatened by the headaches and tears in our eyes and dark clouds surrounding.

But, it is what it is. All we have is now. Today, in all it's crap and occasional care, is pregnant with the promises and power of tomorrow.

Maybe we're just having a crappy first trimester?*

One can hope. Maybe. At least in our good moments ...

LOVE.

----

*I am NOT pregnant. It's a metaphor people.

on quitting the comfort zone

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I have NEVER wanted to do public speaking.

Actually, that's not true, I HAVE wanted to it. I've wanted talking to a group to come easily and naturally, fluid even. To exude confidence in self and topic? I have wished for it. Like most introverts, I've had my moments of wishing I were an extrovert, jealous of those who can command an audience, certain that life would be easier if I, too, could always know the exact thing to say in the best way at the perfect time. Oh, to not be too terribly introspective and awkward .... 

But, alas, my lot in life is that of an introvert and my greatest fear (after spiders) remains putting myself out there and doing any and all versions of public speaking. I don't want to do it. I don't dream of succeeding at it. I've accepted my limitations. And I don't want to do it. Ever.

I want to do other things. Travel. Write. Concept. Play. Earn. Love.

I'm just not sure I get to do any of the other stuff if I don't grow some balls and step out of my box and quit the comfort zone. I have to kick the downsides of my introversion to the curb. I have to stop my clamoring for low-profile. I have to quit being timid in my uncertainty. I can't continue or succeed with a sense of low self-worth and diminished self-confidence.

“Life begins at the end of your comfort zone.”
— Neale Donald Walsh

So, Monday evening, I'm going to go speak to a group. I'm going to speak about myself and my profession and my thoughts on being about the business of change. And I don't want to do it. I've been a basketcase in prep for the past several days. I'm terrified. The shame tape is playing, repeating just how certain I am that what I have to offer isn't good enough, clear enough, etc. That terrifies me. But, I'm going to do it. Succeed or fail, I'm going to do it ...

Because I want to do other things.

Wish me luck? :)

LOVE.

on the wrong side of the bed

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I woke up on the wrong side of the bed.

Maybe it was a result of my sleeping thoughts. I mean, I know I dreamt about getting pregnant despite the impossibility of it happening. I dreamt about having to end the pregnancy. I felt awful about all of it in the dream. Maybe I've brought forward into my waking life the emotional wreckage of my unconscious mind.

Maybe.

Regardless, it's one of those mornings where I just despise myself. I feel a failure and disdain for the "have tos" and the "maybe laters" of life. I don't want to do freelance. I don't want to exit my comfort zone to put myself out there for the slim possiblity of getting a client referral. I don't want to exercise and eat right. I DON'T WANT TO. Life, would you just leave me the f- alone? Can it feel easy again, just once? Life texts back with a resounding "NO!" and it stings. So, this morning, I've been short and disrespectful with my husband. I'm irrationally annoyed by everything going on around me. I'm mean. I'm sabatoging another's joy. And I don't know how to stop doing it. So, I'm shaming myself for being this darker version of myself.

----

But, my dearest love, in my idiocy I am still wise to your beauty. The giddiness you unashamedly express at new discovery and talent ... I envy it. It puts in sharp contrast my timidity and fear. I love how you speak your thoughts out loud as you click around on the web. You haven't yet let my darkness overwhelm your heart. God, may it never. You hum. It's unrestrained. Regular. Baffling to the parts of me that are hard. I certainly do not deserve you and the ways you forgive me over and over and over again. Thank you for playing "MmmBop" like it wasn't random and for not pushing "stop" just because I rolled my eyes. You are the best thing. God, help me to care better for the glory you've given.

---

Love.

on southpaws and therapy

Sometimes it feels like my "job" is to point out the obvious.

For a few seconds at the beginning of my counseling career, I felt like a shyster — taking money for noting out loud what seemed blatantly obvious. But when, with client after client, what I saw as "obvious" was declared a "lightbulb moment" for them, I began to not only value the service I offered, but to wonder at the phenomenon itself.

What I've come to realize is that we humans have an amazing capacity for NOT putting two and two together. It doesn't matter who you are — genius, successful, experienced, educated or not — you miss something. Lots of somethings. It's like we walk around with blinders on.

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I'm no exception. Case and point:

I've always known I was a "southpaw." But, until last Friday, I thought eating and writing were the only things I did with my left hand. Turns out I brush my teeth left-handed, too. It took me more than 30 years to note something I've been doing for more than 30 years. Crazy, right? The discovery came out of a casual discussion with my in-laws about my left-handedness. Someone probed me about my habits and, forced to think about it, I was astonished by what I discovered.

Lest you think these moments of epiphany must be few and far between, I shall astonish you with another story of astonishment from this past week:

Last Sunday, I was cruising the Costco aisles with my parents (yup, #merica) when some dried mango caught my eye. I think I hugged a bag to my chest and regaled my father with a story of culinary courtship. My dad grabbed the bag from me, slid his eyes over the label and muttered, "Huh, sulfur dioxide. Bet it makes you fart." I laughed. We put it in the cart. I've been munching on it all week. And ... wait for it ... yup, I've been visiting the bathroom a little more than usual all week.

So, turns out dad was right. Sulfur dioxide should not be consumed by humans. Today, thinking back on his utterance in the aisle, I realize that my beloved dried mango messes with my stomach. There's a correlation. And thinking back on the past couple of months since I first discovered said mango, the mango has ALWAYS messed with my stomach. There's ALWAYS been a correlation. I just don't know that I would have seen it had my dad not mentioned sulfur dioxide.

Needless to say, I tossed out the rest of the mango today.

Anyway, the point? I think we all do a lot of things out of habit. Whether it's muscle memory or instinct or learned behavior, we do a lot without thinking about it. We don't always connect the dots. That's not inherently a bad thing ... at all ... but it can be. That's where I think therapy can be helpful — in the cluing us in and clarifying of things.

No, you certainly don't need to know that you brush your teeth with your left hand or that mango makes you fart. However, it may help you to know

... that you're attracted to chaotic relationships because that's what you grew up navigating.

... that being uncomfortable is comforting to you and that that's why you sabotage anything good in your life.

... that you eat excessively (or starve) because food is the one thing in life you've ever felt you had any power/control over.

... that you drink alcohol to avoid being socially awkward because being socially awkward makes you feel what you've always felt and believed about yourself — that you're alone and unworthy of love and attention.

... that [insert your story here] ...

All of it, any of it, might help you to know that change is possible.

I think therapy is a lot about that stuff — the exploration of what we do and why we do it and why it matters. More importantly, therapy is about the hope generated by the exploration — a brand new opportunity to respond accordingly, to begin again ... to be transformed.

Awareness is a requisite first step toward change. So, here's to taking the blinders off?

Love.