Seeing Clearly

Yesterday, I had a laser procedure on my retina. Turns out, I have a slight retinal detachment caused by the shedding of the jelly-like vitreous humour (the stuff that causes those floaters in our eyes) which created a small tear in my retina. For quite some time now, my floaters have been partying behind my eyes like college students on a Friday night. At this very moment, as I stare at my white computer screen, a mixture of black bugs and spider webs are gyrating across my line of vision. I’m told my brain will stop seeing them eventually, but I’m not convinced. Good thing I don’t have an insect phobia.

It’s happening. I’m aging exponentially faster every year. I recently renewed my expired passport, and comparing my photo from ten years ago to my recent one, I was shocked to discover I look like a completely different person. My drooping lids are almost covering my eyes, and my face looks like it’s sagging.. At least ten times a day, I walk into a room and forget why I went in there. If I don’t add an event to the calendar in my phone, it immediately evaporates from my consciousness.

When my youngest was born, I was forty-two, and I remember calculating that I’d be sixty when she finished high school. Back then, it all seemed so far off in the distance, yet I blinked for a second and now I’m about watch my little girl graduate and head off into adulthood.

Please make it stop—I’m not ready!

Many of my close friends have lost their parents recently. My own mother, while still relatively healthy, is approaching eighty-seven and starting to really slow down. She recently purchased a “state of the art” walker which she likes to joke “does not come with the motivation to walk!” We talk openly about her eventual death, and she has begun making lists to ease the process for all of us when it does happen. It’s difficult to fathom our lives without her, but there’s absolutely nothing we can do to stop it from happening.

I’m losing steam as well. Household projects get put on the back burner because I just don’t have the energy I used to. Lately, all I want to do is dig in the garden, read, and occasionally, work on my second novel, although my computer also doesn’t come with a “motivation to write.”

I’m really trying to focus more on the present moment, which by god, is a task in itself. Why is it so damn hard for so many of us to enjoy the now when it’s right there in front of our faces every second of every day?

Perhaps giving ourselves more grace is the answer. I’m just too old to have to prove myself worthy all the time. I don’t have to fold laundry to justify watching Netflix. If I want to cook a meal for my family, I can let them do the dishes. Hanging out with the neighbors on the front lawn is more important than cleaning the bathroom. Watching a corny movie with my husband is much more satisfying than organizing a closet.

As my vision begins to clear, and I will try with all my might not to blink too often. Focusing on the wonder of life, I know that the seemingly insignificant things will indeed appear to be gilded.

The hell with the dancing bugs–I’m putting on my rose-colored glasses.

 

A gallery of some of the good things in my life:

A local lake is full again after the winter rains.

My youngest daughter, Isa, posing for prom pictures with her boyfriend, Ethan.

My oldest, Nora playing with our neighbor, Maisie.

The most delightfully scented rose–Mr. Lincoln.

My garden.

Scroll if You Want To

 

I freely admit that I’m addicted to TikTok. I guess it’s better than abusing drugs or alcohol, although if I indulge in too much scrolling before bed, I find it has an adverse effect on my sleep cycle. Like any user, I feel the need to be secretive about my habit, mostly because my husband gets annoyed that I don’t give him my full attention if I scroll in his presence. He just doesn’t get that like most women, I’m a seasoned multi-tasker.

As I head into my twilight years, TikTok has become my guilty pleasure. My attention span has narrowed, so a quick (or not so quick) scroll through the app somehow gives my brain the shot of dopamine it craves. If you need to kill 5-10 minutes, it’s the perfect distraction. But be careful—you can easily fall down that rabbit hole, and before you know it, an hour or three has passed.

If you’re unfamiliar with how the app works, it’s basically a bunch of quick videos that an algorithm decides you’d be interested in watching. In my feed, I get a lot of adorable animal videos, baby videos, and oddly enough, police body cam videos and car accident videos (weird, right?)

Recently, there’s been a popular filter that has touched on the emotions of women from my generation. While the melancholy song, “The Freshmen” by the Verve Pipe plays in the background, the filter morphs your face into its much younger version. Immediately erased are your wrinkles, blemishes and bags, and you’re staring at your sixteen year-old face in real time. It’s creepy and heartbreaking at the same time.

It’s creepy, because while it looks like me, it’s not really me. It’s heartbreaking because I can still see that sweet and innocent version of myself so clearly. I want to reach out and hold her tightly—tell her how beautiful she is on the outside, but more importantly, how beautiful she is on the inside. I want her to know that I wish I could’ve loved her and appreciated her all those years ago.

the TikTok teenage filter version of myself.

 

Women of my generation were taught that were not worthy. While we may have had more opportunities given to us than previous generations, we were still brainwashed to think that our dreams were not as important as fulfilling the needs of others. We were body-shamed, immersed in diet culture, and told that our worth depended on our physical beauty. We were not taught how to love ourselves as we were. We were told so many lies.

Almost fifty years later, I’m only now realizing how truly amazing that young girl was. How under all that insecurity, fear, and self-loathing, there was an intelligent, creative, and beautiful soul waiting to find her way out. Back then, she had no idea of the difficulties she would face in her life, or how those experiences would shape her into the woman she is today.

That real teenage version who had no idea how amazing she was.

It took her a long time, but she’s here now, and finally able to acknowledge that her creativity has no bounds. She does what she wants—she writes, she reads, she plays the piano, she gardens—she loves deeply.

Without shame.

And that girl deserves to scroll if she wants to.

 

No Rush

I’m not writing lately. Well, I’m writing right now, but it’s not the kind where you shut yourself up in a room and write for so long that your shoulders hurt. I used to do that. Before the pandemic hit, I did it so much that I actually finished a novel. It’s been almost three years since my pub date (that’s legit industry lingo in case you’re interested) before everything stopped in its tracks before it got started.

Mind you, I’m not complaining here. My little book has actually done pretty well for a first time author, and is still selling consistently. I’m merely trying to explain how the pandemic and it’s after affects have kept me in a sort of limbo where I can’t seem to move on. I’m still so distracted that I longer have the focus and determination I once had. Where I used to be able to set goals, my brain now meanders around with no organization or end game in sight.

I have oodles of ideas swimming around in my head for a new novel, as well as several developing characters who speak to me often. I try my damnedest to ignore them, but they poke me in the ribs as I play that final Words with Friends game before I fall off to sleep. They’re there in the morning as I groggily drink my coffee, urging me to head upstairs to my computer and write something about them.

“Tell our story!” they scream.

I try to appease them. “Just give me one sec—I swear I’ll write something. I’m going to have another cup of coffee and then I promise—I’ll write about you. But first I need to check my phone.”

A three-mile walk, a trip to the grocery store, lunch with a friend, followed by five hours of teaching piano lessons, and the day has eroded like the southern California coastline.

Not a single word written.

Intellectually, I know that all writers go through dry spells—most are honest about this common dilemma and are able to offer themselves some grace. Unfortunately, I carry a familial genetic marker that makes me repeat to myself the ridiculous lie that I’m a worthless loser. I feel such pressure to prove that I can write another book—that I’m not a one-trick pony.

For once I’m pleased that I have age on my side, and the wisdom to know that I can and will get through this slump. And lucky for me, those friends in my head who want to come to life will not leave me alone until I give them their rightful spot on the page.

Anne Morrow Lindbergh said it well:

“In general, I feel, or I have come to feel, that the richest writing comes not from the people who dedicate themselves to writing alone. I know this is contradicted again and again but I continue to feel it. They don’t, of course, write as much, or as fast, but I think it is riper and more satisfying when it does come. One of the difficulties of writing or doing any kind of creative work in America seems to me to be that we put such stress on production and material results. We put a time pressure and a mass pressure on creative work which are meaningless and infantile in that field.”

Breathe, Jess. There’s no damn rush.

VOTE

Artwork by Cecily Mireles

I woke up this morning feeling more anxious than usual. I couldn’t figure out what I was so worried about until I remembered that tomorrow is Election Day.

I’m terrified for our country right now.

The other day, I had a physical for the first time in about ten years. I know, I know—how dumb is that? Especially because I have insurance and access to exceptional healthcare in my community. I rarely get sick, so I sort of developed an “out of sight, out of mind” philosophy. But now that I’m sixty and fully entrenched in middle age, I decided it’s high time for me to be proactive about my health.

Well, guess what? It turns out I have a bit of high blood pressure. I’ve never had a problem with this before, so I feel confident blaming it on the level of stress that I’ve been carrying around over the past several years. And it’s not just from the pandemic. I believe it all began with the 2016 election.

It’s been very difficult for me to reconcile that people I’ve known and loved for years have promoted a political agenda that is so vastly different from mine. The fact that they support policies that want to take rights away from the people I love is so out of my realm of understanding. It hits close to home, as I’m married to an immigrant man of color; we have relatives and friends who are undocumented—and I have daughters who identify as LGBTQ.

What if my seventeen year-old suddenly found herself pregnant? How could I possibly support legislation that would take away her right for a safe abortion? What about women whose pregnancy is no longer viable, or if a young woman becomes pregnant through incest or rape? I personally know women who were able to obtain their own abortions back in the day, yet now, years later, they support an agenda that wants to take this right away from other women! How unfair and hypocritical is that?

My head was so deeply buried in the sand that when Obama was elected, I actually had hope for all of us. How wrong I was to think that a country founded on slavery and colonialism could possible change with the election of a black man.

It was easier when I didn’t know what folks’ politics were. Before Trump was elected, I didn’t really care about others’ party affiliations. I went on about my merry way, oblivious to the fact that people close to me could actually support a man who is a toxic narcissist, con man and conspiracy theorist, not to mention a big fat liar. But somehow they did, and we’ve all been paying for it since.

But now, I must take responsibility that I was part of the problem. I can no longer wear my rose-colored glasses and think that all is fine and dandy. I must acknowledge that my privilege prevented me from truly understanding how dysfunctional we are as a society.

In the days to come we will find out in which direction we’re headed. I implore you to show up and vote for your rights.

Seriously, people—our democracy depends upon it.

VOTE.

If Only

I hate that I always take on the emotional struggles of others. I can’t help it—there’s this insane need inside me to chase away the burdens of those whom I love. If only (fill in the blank) or (fill in another blank) then all would be right in the universe, and then I could take a deep breath and finally relax. You’d think at sixty, I might have figured out that this is NEVER going to happen.

We are taught to believe that in order to have a fulfilled life, we must be content at all times. Like most people, I’ve been striving for happiness since I was a young girl, creating so many “if only” scenarios in my mind that I learned to ignore the little miracles that take place in front of me on a daily basis. How can I possibly look out the window to notice the changing leaves of the Liquid Ambar trees when I’m worried that my children are unfulfilled in their careers? How can I feel comfortable in my home when all I notice is that the walls need painting, or that the termites are silently eating away the insides of my house? How can I sit and drink that second cup of coffee when I should be out taking a five-mile walk? What if my daughter doesn’t get into the college of her dreams? How can I prevent her from feeling hurt and disappointed should that comes to pass?

I remember thinking years ago that “if only” I published a novel, all would be right in my world.  I would finally feel accomplished, and experience that sense of worthiness I’ve been longing for my entire life. Yeah, right.  Sure, I wrote a book, and sure, there were some really wonderful moments, but eventually my life went back to the way it was before. Now I find myself again at square one, worrying how I’m going to find the motivation to work on that second book.

Ugh. Carrying all this angst is overwhelming. And yet, how effortlessly I throw it over my shoulders every morning. How easily I tighten the straps as the day progresses. For years, I’ve shouted to the heavens and beyond that we cannot control everything that happens to us—that we just don’t have that kind of power. That it’s not about the end result—but it’s about the process? Intellectually, I understand all of this. Yet my heart will not listen.

One moment, one hour, one day at a time.

One word, one sentence, one chapter at a time.

Process equals joy.

Say it with me.

No More Explanations

I want to live in a world where I don’t have to explain all the time.

My oldest daughter recently became engaged to the love of her life. We spent a magical weekend up at Bass Lake, where both families gathered to watch the romantic lakeside proposal. When I relay the story to people who don’t know our family well, they ask,

“How did he propose?”

He didn’t. She did. Then I have to explain that my daughter did the proposing, and it was her girlfriend to whom she popped the question. Yes, I explain—my daughter is gay.

There’s usually a quick look of confusion, then recovery. “Oh, how wonderful!” they exclaim, “You must be very happy!”

Of course I’m happy—I’m ecstatic!

I’m elated that my daughter was finally able to show who she was after hiding for most of her life. That she found a partner who is funny, kind, and most importantly, has a wicked sense of humor that fits right into our family. I’m over the moon that my daughter’s fiancée loves and appreciates her in the manner she deserves. I’m thrilled that we live in a community where, for the most part, people accept and support that two women can fall in love and get married.

Nora and Candice after the big moment!

Yes, we’ve come a long way, but there’s so much further to go.

A few years ago, my third daughter, who is a transgender woman, moved to the Bay Area because she didn’t feel completely comfortable living in our community. While we’re more open-minded in general than other parts of the country, acceptance toward transgender folk is not where it should be. She now lives in Oakland, where no one cares which bathroom you use, what you look like under your clothes, or whom you choose to love.

Cece in her glorious rainbow color!

For the most part, it’s my generation and older that always seems to need an explanation. Why does it matter that people have preferred pronouns? Why is it so difficult to honor what people want to be called? My kids don’t care about sexuality or gender; they use “they/them” with ease. Their decision to like (or not like) someone is solely based on who that person is—not how they dress or whom they choose to love.

We need to take a lesson from them.

I’ll start with myself. I’ll let go of feeling obligated to explain everything to others. If you get it, fine. If you don’t, that’s your issue.

It’s so simple, it doesn’t need an explanation. Let people be who they are.

Love is love is love.

That pretty much covers it.

Relishing the Happiness

These days, it’s not easy to allow ourselves to feel happy. Often, I don’t even recognize when I feel content—I’m so used to feeling incredulity, rage, and fear (usually in that order.) When I do notice that I’m feeling good, my mind immediately tries to shut it down—after all, who am I to feel okay when our democracy is in peril, injustice is rampant, and so many are suffering?

Maybe you can relate to how I find myself in a quandary because I’ve been feeling unusually good lately. Born with a melancholic soul, my mood tends to gravitate toward the bluer hues in life, and I’m very comfortable with the weight of sadness that has perched upon my shoulders for as long as I can remember. Maybe my recent happiness can be attributed to the three miles of walking I’ve been doing each day, or that my garden is in the height of its colorful blooms, or that the weather on the central California coast has been glorious. Now contrast that with all terrible (and I mean terrible) shit that has been hitting the collective fan lately, and you can see why I would be feeling so guilty for feeling happy.

Case in point: in the midst all the traumatic events transpiring in our country, something really wonderful occurred for me personally: I finally had my book signing for my novel, Lost in Oaxaca at Chaucer’s, our local Indy bookstore in Santa Barbara. Now, I ask you, “Who in the world has a book signing a full two years after their book comes out?”  That would be me.

As far as I’m concerned, this event was one of the highlights of my life. It really helped to have a supportive bookstore who worked to keep my book alive during a two-year pandemic. It also helped that the person in charge of events (the wonderful Michael Takeuchi) really loved Lost in Oaxaca, and led the event conversation with engaging and interesting questions. Most importantly though, having a crowd of friends and family who came to show their love and support meant the world to me.

And today I’m happy to report that a brand new book has hit the shelves: Art in the Time of Unbearable Crisis—“a sometimes comforting, sometimes devastating, but universally relatable collection of prose, poetry, and art about living through difficult times like these.” My essay, “The Artistry Within Us” is included. All proceeds from the sale of this book will be donated to the non-profit World Central Kitchen.

I hope that you will consider purchasing this lovely book featuring inspiring essays, poetry and artwork—all by women, and that it will move you and help you to cope during these trying times of strife and suffering. Please consider ordering it from Chaucer’s—let’s support our wonderful local gem of a bookstore!

As I lay Lost in Oaxaca to rest and move on to a new project, I’m thankful that my little book has done quite well for a first-time novelist. I’m going to make a conscious effort to allow myself to relish the happiness I feel for my success.

And I can’t thank you all enough for your support over the years—for reading and commenting on my blog, for purchasing my novel for yourself and your friends—and mostly, for putting up with my constant promotion.

As my very generous gift to you, I promise to stay quiet for a while.

In case you weren’t able to come and want to watch!

Meant to Be

Around this time fifteen years ago, my world came crashing down. You may already know my story— god knows I’ve talked and written about it extensively over the years: Mom of three almost grown kids finds herself unexpectedly pregnant at forty-two and gives birth to a fourth daughter, who at the age of two is diagnosed with leukemia. Almost three years of chemotherapy later, that daughter is considered cured, and life goes back to what it was before.

Except that it doesn’t.

I think about the woman I was before my daughter’s cancer diagnosis—unfulfilled, stressed, and oh, so judgmental. In my quest to be the perfect mom with perfect children, I was critical of everything and everyone around me. I wallowed in my unhappiness, preventing myself from experiencing the beauty and joy that was offered with each day. It took my baby girl almost dying to snap me out of it.

I want to go back in time and have a conservation with that young mom. I want her to know that despite the trauma she faced as the daughter of an alcoholic father, it was never her fault. I want to wrap my arms around her and tell her how incredible she is—that she is beautiful, smart and talented, and that her creativity has no bounds. That there’s nothing she can’t accomplish if she just believes in herself. I want to tell her to let go of the fear.

On June 7^th, a book will come out entitled, Art in the Time of Unbearable Crisis. It is a compilation of essays, poetry and artwork exclusively by women. My essay, The Artistry Within Us will be featured. Here is the description of the book:

Art keeps good alive in the worst of times. In the face of ugliness, pain, and death, it’s art that has the power to open us all to a healing imagining of new possibility; it’s art that whispers to the collective that even in the ashes of loss, life always grows again. That’s why right now, in this tumultuous time of war and pandemic, we need poets more than we need politicians.

In response to the multitude of global crises we’re currently experiencing, Editor Stefanie Raffelock put out a much-needed call to her writing community for art to uplift and inform the world, and the authors of She Writes Press answered. Art in the Time of Unbearable Crisis—a sometimes comforting, sometimes devastating, but universally relatable collection of prose, poetry, and art about living through difficult times like these—is the result. Addressing topics including grief and loss, COVID-19 and war in Ukraine, the gravity of need and being needed, the broad range of human response to crisis in all its forms, and more, these pieces explore how we can find beauty, hope, and deeper interpretation of world events through art—even when the world seems like it’s been turned inside out and upside-down. 

Any and all royalties from Art in the Time of Unbearable Crisis will be donated to World Central Kitchen.

 

https://www.amazon.com/s?k=art+in+the+time+of+unbearable+crisis&crid=2Q1HW86SGH58U&sprefix=art+in+the+time%2Caps%2C218&ref=nb_sb_ss_retrain-deeppltr_1_15

Fifteen years ago, I never thought I’d fulfill my dream of becoming a writer, let alone publish a novel. And while I wouldn’t wish my daughter’s cancer experience one anyone—ever, it truly was the catalyst for changing me into the person I was meant to be. For this I am beyond grateful.

My youngest is seventeen now. She is everything I should’ve been at her age: proactive, poised, and confident. Fearlessly, she dives into the depths of each day, never considering how deep the water might be. She knows how to stay afloat.

And even though I spent most of my life dog-paddling in the shallow end, I was able to rise above my self-imposed limitations, and teach my daughter to swim.

Not Over Yet

About a month ago, I ran into a young woman who had attended Kindergarten through high school with my oldest daughter. I hadn’t seen her in years, and we chatted about how our families have been coping during the pandemic. I told her that I had published a novel that had come out right after the lockdown, and she said she’d pick up a copy at our local bookstore. I smiled and thanked her, figuring there was maybe a fifty-fifty chance she’d actually buy it.

Last night I attended a lecture at our local university (Father Gregory Boyle discussing Home Boy Industries—incredibly inspiring, by the way (https://homeboyindustries.org/) where this same young woman rushed up to me, her eyes shining with excitement above her mask.

“I was hoping I’d see you here!” she exclaimed. “I wanted you to know that the very next day after you told me about Lost in Oaxaca, I went down to Chaucer’s Bookstore and bought two copies of your book—one for me and one for my sister! I loved it so much!  I actually read it in like 24 hours, and now I really want to go to Oaxaca!”

She has no idea how much this meant to me. To be honest, I’ve been feeling a little lost myself lately. Tomorrow is the second anniversary of the launch of my Lost in Oaxaca, and I’ve been asking myself when I should stop talking about a book that’s almost two years old. Like a bride whose wedding got canceled with no hope of ever rescheduling it, I feel like the pandemic robbed me of my big celebration. I do realize it’s time to move on and dive into the next project, but this has been difficult because I’m currently suffering from pandemic distraction syndrome (I made that up, but you get it.)

I’m told that the average book has a lifespan of three years, so I guess I have approval to prattle on about Lost in Oaxaca for at least one more year. Like a proud new mother, I just can’t stop talking about my literary baby. I give you my full blessing to roll your eyes and shrug with disgust as long as you leave me a review on Amazon or Goodreads.

And if it’s not too presumptuous of me—maybe consider purchasing a copy for a friend?

Happy Anniversary, little book!

https://www.chaucersbooks.com/

Lost in Oaxaca: A Novel https://www.amazon.com/dp/1631528807/ref=cm_sw_r_em_api_i_E8XXZ79PMRATTEM09XH8

Passing it On

My daughter, Leah recently took it upon herself to organize the family archives (archives, you say? Oh, yes—we have archives!) After sorting through dozens of boxes of old photos and letters, some that are over 100 years old, I came across an old photo of my grandmother, Martha (my mother’s mother) with her mother, Leila, (my great-grandmother) and her grandmother Mrs. H.D. Weed, (my great-great grandmother.) The photo was probably taken in the early 1900’s in Jamestown, Ohio. Tucked inside the photo was a tiny letter, written by my grandmother to her uncle Harry when she was around ten years old.

Dear Harry,                                        Jamestown, Ohio, Jan. 1, 1913

I am writing you to tell you how much I liked your present. I think that this letter will get to you, before Hellen will get home. I got four books, three boxes of kf, a sewing box; and lots and lots of things too. This is New Years day, I will have to close.

Yours Sincerely,

Martha Smith

P.S. Aunty Kate was here today with Uncle Ed and Bernerd. Thank you              for your present.

Give Hellen my love. M.S.

 

Kisses xxxxxxxxxxxxxx                             Hugs oooooooooooooo

M.S.

 

 

On the back of the envelope, her mother, Leila writes: I don’t know what is in this as she did this all herself. We are having winter for sure her this morning. Leila

Martha Smith Green. My grandmother. Reading her tiny letter in her delicate cursive lettering, I realize that she was once a precious little girl who was deeply loved by her family. I only knew her as a frail old woman in a mink coat, doused in Chanel No. 5, wearing too much red lipstick, her stooped body draped in colorful silk scarves and gaudy jewelry. She always had a cigarette in one perfectly manicured hand and a glass of whiskey in the other. She lavished me with presents from her world travels, while completely ignoring my two brothers. At the time, I thought she just didn’t like boys. Only later in life did I discover why she didn’t interact with my brothers. I also learned that she carried so much pain and trauma in her heart, that for decades, she needed to self-medicate with alcohol. She died of cirrhosis of the liver when I was ten years old.

Over the years, my mother and I have had many conversations about my grandmother, Martha. That she had a brother who died in childhood. How she had a career as a concert pianist, but gave it up when she married. How three of her babies died (two late term miscarriages and one full term birth) before my mother was born. That she and my grandfather refused to do anything to prepare for my mother’s birth—no crib, no diapers or layette—because they believed that my mother was most likely going to die, as well.

Five years after my mother’s birth, Martha had another child—a boy—named Johnnie. He was the light of her life. When he was five, he ran out into the street between two parked cars, and was hit by a speeding car. He died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. My mother, who had just argued with Johnnie and told him to drop dead saw it happen. In her ten-year-old mind, it was her fault.

Neighbors removed Johnnie’s clothes and toys from the house the very next day and my grandparents kept my mother home from the funeral. One day he was there, the next, he was erased. No one talked about Johnnie’s death. One afternoon, my mother walked into her parents’ bedroom and witnessed her dad methodically banging his head against the wall—over and over and over. When my mother was a senior in college, her dad died of a heart attack. She thinks it took him ten years to die of his broken heart. My grandmother took longer, but still died at a very young sixty seven.

Generational trauma. The sadness, the loss, and the secrets become part of who we are. For years, I never knew my mother even had a brother. I always thought she was an only child. Throughout my own childhood, my brothers and I were never allowed to speak negatively about anything. Everything had to be wonderful all the time, even when my dad’s own childhood trauma (he died before I ever had the understanding or maturity to ask him about it) turned him into an alcoholic and wreaked havoc in our own lives. My parents couldn’t handle any kind of conflict, grief or sadness, so they wouldn’t allow us to, either. We had to pretend everything was okay—when it wasn’t.

My own childhood trauma manifested in anxiety and depression that I’ve fought for years to overcome. But what I’m now learning in therapy is that my anxiety may have actually been a good thing—it prevented me from turning to alcohol and drugs to dull my pain. Because my anxiety is based on a fear of losing control, I never liked how alcohol made me feel, so I avoided it. My husband and I made the mutual decision not to drink, so our children never had to deal with any family alcoholism.

Of course, we gave our children trauma—all parents do in some form or another. But I at least broke one cycle that won’t haunt them for the rest of their lives. And I’ve broken the cycle of keeping secrets, as well. I’m an open book (sometimes without a filter) and will freely admit to my foibles, vulnerabilities and shame. I will talk until you tell me to shut up.

I’m also realizing that life is not meant to be happy every single minute of every single day. Society has fed us this big lie that we MUST be content all the time or we’ve failed. It’s just not true. If anything has taught us that life is not always easy, it’s these past few years. And it looks like it’s not getting any better real soon. Yes, there will always be great pain in life; but there can also be great joy. Often, it’s somewhere in the middle.

And good or bad, this too, shall pass.