Purely Pedantic & Arguably Pretentious

Radical Acceptance & Personal Grace

2020-08-22T14:28:00.006-07:00

Hey y'all.

I'm back to check in on you again.

It's been a serious hot minute since I've posted on here, because as I'm sure you are aware, life has been... well, a dumpster fire of molten radioactive manure.

2020 has been an utter train wreck, and I'm not sure when it'll get better. I'm certainly not holding my breath.

There has been so much happening, at a level of jaw-dropping escalation, that I've truly struggled to keep up, let alone make sense of it all.

I have started and stopped, written and re-written this post time and again, yet it never quite hit how I wanted it to. I got too caught up in overthinking what to say or how it will be perceived; will it be clear enough, concise enough, or cover the myriad of topics well enough to satisfy my audience? I overthought it to the point that I couldn't even words anymore, and thus gave up...

Then I decided to take a different approach.

I took the old post, the one I'd been mulling over for countless weeks, and decided to chuck it in the fuck it bucket and start from scratch.

See, everything sucks, the world is awful, the floor is lava, it seems to be Bad News Bears all day every day. That's not anything new. And I honestly don't feel that I have any level of justifiable expertise to try and weigh in on the complex issues we're facing as a state, a nation, and a global community with any reasonable semblance of merit (contrary to the multitude of experts blowing up everyone's social media feeds, amiright?)

So I'm not going to try.

(No, Karen, opinions are not facts...)

Instead, I'm going to talk about me.

...

Okay, that sounds worse than it is... I promise!

I'm talking about coping mechanisms. With everything burning down at such an epic and unprecedented level, and the continued uncertainty of literally all of the things, it's only natural to feel some kinda way about it all. And believe me, y'all, I've been feeling all kinds of ways. And very little of it has been good.

And that honestly has taken its toll.

Worst kept secret: I have anxiety. And not your throwaway comment "ugh I have such bad anxiety" that so many people use these days when they really mean they feel temporarily stressed or concerned about something. I have literal, diagnosed, for realsies anxiety. As in, my fight-or-flight response likes to kick up at random and inopportune times because it cannot decipher between real and perceived threats.

(Thanks lizard brain!)

And my usual, highly successful coping mechanisms are, evidently, not sufficient for a global pandemic, social and political meltdowns, rampant unchecked corruption, daily news horrors, and the fracturing of friends and family over all of the above.

So as much as I love the overwhelming physiological rush of an anxiety attack (I do not), the swirling-thoughts-induced insomnia (not my fave), and the squirrels-at-a-rave good-luck-focusing-on-literally-anything brain activity (nope), it was all getting a little out of hand.

It was time to figure out a new plan of attack on this genetically modified version of Super Anxiety (cape and patent pending). And truth be told, I'm still science-ing it, because it is a lot of trial and error. Here's what has been working for me so far:

Reducing my caffeine intake. Anyone who knows me understands what a monumental undertaking this is, because caffeine is life. But caffeine is also, duh, a stimulant. And what is bad for anxiety? STIMULI!!! Ergo, less caffeine. Le sigh.

Notes. All of the notes. I am literally writing down everything these days: to do lists, shopping lists, reminders, all of it. Partially because anxiety makes your memory utter crap, and without writing everything down and setting reminders in my phone, I would honestly forget all of the things. But more importantly? Writing everything down helps clear out the brain clutter. Rather than having all of the thoughts, tasks, action items, etc floating around in your head, they are put on paper where you can see them in an orderly fashion and your brain can stop trying to grasp them all at once. Also? As you begin scratching out each item on your list, your brain gets a sweet boost of dopamine (it's science, look it up!).

Square breathing. Square breathing is a calming technique wherein you breathe in for 4 seconds, hold it for 4 seconds, exhale for 4 seconds, and hold it for 4 seconds. You repeat this for a couple minutes, or as long as you need to until your heart rate begins to come down and you start feeling calm. It is truly one of the most effective in-the-moment methods for calming the fuck down when an anxiety attack starts rushing in. Even Navy SEALS use it. Pinky swear.

Limiting social media. Yup. Remember how anxiety loves stimuli? Well social media is one big cesspool of stimuli. All of the self-appointed current events and political experts on Facebook screaming their opinions in your face 24/7; all of the negativity and nasty comments and toxicity; all of the shallow, braggy "highlight reel" posts that are often nothing more than fabricated lies; all of the narcissism and sociopathy running rampant; all of these things are affecting our mental and emotional health. If we are not choosy with what media we consume, we can easily be consumed ourselves. I personally have been purging my list of who I follow on social media and what I allow in my feed. You gon' be toxic? You gon' get cut off. My mental and emotional well being is more important.

Self care, sis. Doing my nails. Online shopping (god bless Amazon Prime). Face masks. Glam makeup on an otherwise average Tuesday. Gourmet meals. Snuggles with my hubs. Snuggles with my kitten. Time with friends and family. De-cluttering my kitchen, makeup vanity, closet, etc. (clutter around you legit creates clutter within you). Anything and everything that helps bring me back to center. I will acknowledge, however, that my self care does need a little work. I have been arguably focusing too much on external self care, but neglecting my internal self care, aka my mental and emotional needs. So I have recommitted myself to reading more, writing more (heyo!), listening to the podcasts that always ground me, and engaging in the creative side of my brain which I have been recently neglecting.

Times are tough right now, and no one really knows when things will return to normal, or even what that normal will be. Because of this, it is vital to take care of you and your core needs. Touch base with your inner self and figure out what you need to do to heal your shit. And while you're doing that? Don't forget to cut yourself a little slack. We're all just trying to do the best we can.

So what about you? Do you have anything that helps you get through all the things? Feel free to share in the comments!

Normalcy Lost For The Greater Good

2020-04-04T10:15:00.000-07:00

Hey.

Hey you.

Yeah, you.

You doin' okay, bud?

Because it's okay if you're not.

Things are weird right now. The world is closed. There's a heavy vibe in the air that weighs on you. Life is all out of sorts, and will be for the foreseeable future.

And it's okay to have feelings about that.

It's okay to grieve your sense of normalcy. It's okay to grieve cancelled plans, cancelled trips, the day-to-day life you were freely living before all of this occurred. It's not selfish or silly to be sad, or frustrated, or disappointed, or angry. It's okay to retreat into yourself while you process. It's okay to emotionally eat all of the quarantine snacks. It's okay to feel all of what you're feeling, even if you're not even sure what all you're actually feeling.

We are facing unprecedented times right now. We've never, as a collective global society, experienced something of this magnitude. There's no built-in memory function for "global pandemic". There's no saved setting in our brain that says "Oh yes, this is how to handle this!"

We are all of us winging it to the best of our abilities; some days we are successful, other days we fail miserably. And that's okay.

We will get through this. Life will eventually return to some semblance of normal. That normal may be a little different than what we were all used to, and that's okay. We will adjust and start to move forward, and we will all find our groove again.

Hang in there.

We as a global community are in this together.

To those of you deemed essential enough to still have to go to work, THANK YOU! You are the glue holding the fabric of society together right now. You are appreciated more than you may know. Stay safe.

And to those of you sheltering in place, I know you're going stir crazy. I know you're stressed. But you're doing your part for the greater good of society.

Try to think of it this way:

You're not stuck at home. You're safe at home.

I'll say it again.

You're not STUCK at home. You're SAFE at home.

And finally, to those of you ignoring the shelter-in-place requirements because you don't like it...

WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?!? STOP IT!!! STOP BEING SO GODDAMN SELFISH!!! THIS IS NOT ABOUT YOU OR YOUR PERSONAL PREFERENCES OR PREVIOUS PLANS!!! THIS IS ABOUT FLATTENING THE INFECTION CURVE SO AS TO GIVE DOCTORS AND NURSES A FIGHTING CHANCE AT TREATING CRITICAL PATIENTS WITHOUT BEING OVERRUN!!! THIS IS ABOUT PROTECTING VULNERABLE COMMUNITY MEMBERS, EVEN IF YOU AREN'T ONE OF THEM!!! THIS IS ABOUT REDUCING THE NUMBER OF FATALITIES AS MUCH AS POSSIBLE!!! THIS IS ABOUT SLOWING THE NUMBER OF INFECTIONS AND STOPPING THIS VIRUS IN ITS TRACKS SO WE CAN GET BACK TO NORMAL LIVES AS SOON AS POSSIBLE!!! DO YOUR PART!!! STAY HOME!!! GEEZ!!!

*Ahem*

I digress.

Stay home. Stay safe. We will get through this together.

I Did... NOT Let That Sh*t Go...

2020-03-19T12:07:00.000-07:00

Hey y'all! Remember in my last post when I was all optimistically going to chill a little bit and cut myself some slack and not let stress weigh on me so badly?

.........

Yeah, that didn't go so well.

The last few weeks kicked my ass. Like, straight up left me bleeding in the gutter. Holy crap.

I had my final paper due for winter quarter, and due to my aforementioned stress over how strictly my instructor graded, that paper nearly killed me. Then my youngest fell playing soccer at school and broke his humerus pretty badly. Add to that the COVID-19 situation here and, well, suffice it to say, I was done.

D. O. N. E.

My anxiety was through the roof. I was grouchy. I wasn't sleeping well because my brain wouldn't shut off. I was on the verge of tears all day erryyday. And I hated it.

And it got me thinking.

The last few weeks have been a struggle, yes. They've been stressful, to say the least. Things are crazy in the world right now, more so than usual. News feeds are filled with scary updates on death tolls, forced quarantines, and future projections that are far from comforting. Grocery stores are wiped out, people are fighting over and hoarding basic necessities (and preventing others from getting what they need). Here in Washington State, we are in a two-week mandatory lockdown of public spaces, which may extend longer if needed. Schools are closed for six weeks at minimum, potentially extending to the fall if the worst case scenario comes to fruition. Countless businesses have been forced to close their doors; those that can work from home are, and those that can't are facing dire financial situations. Our normal lives are completely disrupted and no one knows for how long. And it's unnerving.

But it's also absolutely vital.

And that's what I was mulling over for a few days. Weighing out my personal life stresses and anxieties in comparison to the bigger picture.

I had to ask myself if my level of stressball struggles were proportionate to what I was experiencing, or if I was snowballing my emotions unnecessarily.

The answer I've come up with is... yes.

It's both.

My stress was real, my feelings were valid. But they were also far more consuming than they needed to be. And I think I've finally sussed out why.

In terms of my personal stress, I basically haven't had a break since before the holidays. I've been burning the candle at both ends with school and writing and mom-ing and all of the various curveballs life likes to throw into the mix. My self-care routines took a hit in order to accommodate my overly-full plate, which of course only compounded my stress. I wasn't utilizing my outlets frequently enough to relieve stress and get back to center. And because of that, I've basically been at max capacity since... early November?

Then all hell breaks loose on a global scale.

Then my kiddo gets seriously injured and (at the time) his prognosis for treatment was unclear because medical facilities are maxed out and everything non-COVID-19 has to take a backseat.

And my lizard brain hit its limit.

And it became clear I had to sort out my shit before I cracked.

The first step was taking an inventory of what, exactly, was weighing on me. I don't know about you, but when life gets chaotic and things start piling up, my brain becomes a big ball of yarn. All the stressful thoughts and topics kind of blend together and it becomes one big overwhelming swirl that I can't even begin to address. So I started untangling the individual things one by one.

From there, I had to essentially prioritize what things to give my energy to, and what things needed to have a pin put in them for later.

My final paper? It was done. Turned in. Out of my hands. No longer worth carrying. (I did subsequently get a really good grade and glowing feedback from my instructor, which felt amazing!)

As far as kiddo's treatment, we just had to wait until he could be seen by the orthopedic surgeon at Swedish Pediatrics. We had that appointment on Monday, and little dude does not need surgery. That was a huge relief.

And in terms of the global pandemic we're facing and all of the fear and uncertainty that comes with it? I'm basically forcing myself into radical acceptance. I joke that as an introvert I've been preparing for this my whole life, that I'm built for social distancing. But deep down? I'm scared.

Not because I have to stay home and avoid people. That is quite literally my life goal 98% of the time.

No, I'm scared for my friends and family who are at risk because of health conditions or age. I'm scared for the catastrophic national and global economic implications. I'm scared for my husband who works as a first responder and puts himself at risk every time he's on shift. And I'm scared for the unknowns that are inevitably to come in the proceeding days and weeks.

In Washington State, I do not believe we have hit the top of our curve yet, and that honestly frightens me. I worry about vulnerable populations. I worry about those, like my husband, working at the front lines of this and facing direct exposure while helping others, and if/how our medical infrastructure will hold up. I worry about the psychological impacts this experience will have, especially for kids.

But, all those worries aside, I am aware that so much of it is beyond my control. So I am doing my part. I am practicing social distancing, otherwise known as the introvert's dream. I am figuring out plans for home education for my youngest, who is in elementary school and does not have the online learning options that my older kids do. I am meal planning and maintaining adequate food supplies (while not taking it too far out of greed or panic). And I am practicing radical acceptance despite everything feeling like one big ball of fiery chaos.

Things are nuts right now, y'all. Look out for each other. Be kind to each other, kinder than usual. Show gratitude and empathy. Find joy. We need it right now. Check on your neighbors. Wash your hands. Hug your kids a little tighter, because they're probably freaked out too. And for goodness sake, follow the social distancing and self-quarantine measures. While you may not be at risk, others are.

Let That Sh*t Go

2020-02-29T14:22:00.001-08:00

The past few weeks have been, shall we say, a wee bit stressful. School has been brutal, and this final push toward the end of the quarter just might kill me. Life has been hectic and tiresome, mostly in good ways, but also in HOLY FUCKING SHIT ARE WE THERE YET kind of ways. Writing has been a struggle because all of the tired has made creativity feel impossible; I sit down to write, stare at the blinking cursor for what feels like an hour, and then just shut the laptop and go watch Netflix. Oh, and I started working on three professional certificate programs as well, because why not?!?

I'm doing all of the things. And lately I've felt like I've been doing none of them well.

That's the thing about stress, it becomes this vicious cycle wherein you're too stressed to do the things you need to do, then become increasingly stressed about the not doing of the things you are too stressed to do. And the things you do manage to do despite the stress aren't as good of quality as they otherwise would be were it not for the aforementioned stress. Ya dig?

I'm trying to be a good wife, a good mother, a good student, produce good writing content, complete these certificates in a timely manner, exercise, drink enough water, and try to get enough sleep to not look like gollum...

Actual footage of me without mascara on, trying to force a smile because someone is daring to talk to me before the coffee has hit my bloodstream. Precious is not happy you have disturbed us. Just sayin'.

So what do you do when the life crap starts to pile up and you feel yourself getting all bajiggity? (Yes, it's a word, I promise)

See? Told ya.

But I digress.

What is your go-to coping mechanism for pushing past the stress and getting back to business?

No, I'm not trying to be motivational, I'm looking for ideas. 'Cuz mine aren't working and I want to steal yours.

Okay, I'm kidding... ish.

Sometimes all it takes is a tried and true method to get back to basics: a hot bubble bath, a solid nap, a good run, a shopping spree.

And sometimes, all your usual tactics end up backfiring, only adding to your stress because you are acutely aware that you are doing something other than the very thing you know you need to get done, and this knowledge only adds to your stress...

Le sigh.

That's where I've been recently.

And it started with school.

This quarter has been kicking my ass. My instructor is... shall we say, demanding. So demanding that it has made me completely question myself as a student. Okay, that sounds a little dramatic to admit that getting a B on a paper rattled me that much.

But it did.

I don't get Bs.

I haven't received anything below an A- since high school (and even that A- bummed me out hard). And while admitting this might make me sound arrogant and douchey, it's true. My education is something in which I take a lot of pride. I want to excel, I want to achieve... hence the three certificate programs on top of grad school on top of building my writing career. I want big things for myself, and I am the one accountable for delivering that.

But recently it's been at a cost.

I think I've been too focused on perfection lately, too focused on doing all of the things with panache and a big flourish, when really, that's not necessary.

Getting that B rattled me. Badly. It showed me areas of weakness in my school work that I needed to address, and have been ever since. But in my attempt to make up for my self-perceived failure to be perfect, I have piled on a metric fuck ton of added stress. And it has been affecting everything else, snowball style.

And quite frankly, y'all? I'm tired!

There are only a few weeks left in this quarter, and I have committed myself to just chilling out a little bit. Yes, I will continue to strive for my best work, because that's just how I'm wired.

But I'm also going to work on giving myself a little grace. I have so many irons in the fire, and only so much energy in a given day to put into any given one. I give myself permission to not be perfect. I give myself permission to set down the weight of the stress I've been carrying, take a deep breath, and just be.

When Something's Gotta Give

2020-02-06T21:27:00.000-08:00

Worst kept secret in history: I have anxiety.

I have for as long as I can remember. I just didn't know it.

I have always been a worrier, an over-thinker, a Neurotic Nelly.

Growing up, my home life wasn't the best. It wasn't terrible, mind you. But it certainly wasn't stable. There was a palpable degree of familial tension and dysfunction that really resonated within me, with lasting effects. I never felt at ease in my own home, which in turn resulted in me never feeling at ease in my own mind or body. I was also a highly sensitive child. I never wanted to upset anyone or rock the boat, and I took it really hard when people were unkind to or judgmental of me. And I never, ever stood up for myself.

I gave myself an ulcer at 9-years-old worrying so damn much about things your average fourth-grader hadn't even considered, let alone obsessed over. I'm pretty sure I was the only kid in class who watched the nightly news religiously and was so emotionally tormented over events in the Middle East, Somalia, and the Eastern Bloc that I needed Mylanta.

One time I stood up for myself and told a bully at school that I hated her... and subsequently tortured myself with guilt for weeks after. I apologized to her and told her I felt bad for being mean, something she used against me well into the following school year.

I was afraid of everything from lightening storms to chronic illnesses, home invasions to internal hemorrhaging. I read a lot, and my highly advanced reading level meant I was poring through books far too grown up for my mental and emotional maturity, exposing me to real world topics my little fear-based brain couldn't handle. I was afraid of everything. I worried about everything. And it held me back.

As a teen, these worries benefited me in certain ways, as I never had any interest in drinking, drugs, or the general party scene. I barely dated. I avoided drama as much as I could. I was sheltered both by my mother, as well as by my own acute awareness of all the dangers, risks, and consequences inherent in being a wild and crazy kid.

But I also didn't have many life experiences from which to grow and learn, which only held me back further. I didn't leave the confines of my safe zones, I didn't take even the most basic of risks; in all honesty, I didn't have much fun. Because what if...? What if this bad thing happened, or that bad thing? What if I did something stupid or embarrassing and someone said something bad about me? What if I got in trouble? What if I got hurt?

Those "what ifs" kept me tethered to a highly limited existence.

I got married young, like, super young, and my "what if" brain continued chugging along. I worried obsessively over my then-husband as he commuted long distances for work. I checked on my children countless times throughout the night, making sure they were still breathing and hadn't been snatched from their beds. I checked the doors and windows of my house over and over, just in case I'd forgotten to close or lock one of them, or they'd... I don't know... self-unlocked? I imagined all of the ways things could go wrong, so that I could figure out ways to prevent that from happening.

And this is the trait that has stuck since.

Catastrophizing.

My brain needs to run through all the "what ifs". On repeat. To the point of mental exhaustion.

The particular topics vary, depending on what is happening at that given point in time. But the cycle is the same.

And it was this cycle that finally led me to the realization that, holy shit, I have anxiety! (Something that literally everyone around me knew... except me...)

A few years ago, I was on the struggle bus. Hell, I was piloting the entire fleet of struggle buses. I was in a near-constant state of stress and upheaval, trying to rebuild my life from scratch, and it was really fucking hard.

I had gotten divorced, moved halfway across the country back to my high school hometown (a place to which I'd vowed I'd never return), and was simultaneously trying to build a solid career, raise my kids, drink enough water, eat a vegetable or two, and get enough sleep to remain somewhat functioning.

My ex and I were also in a very, shall we say, contentious phase of our post-marriage relationship, which was incredibly stressful and miserable (thankfully that phase has passed and we're cool now). To top it all off, I was in a new romantic relationship that I knew deep down was a dead end but was determined to make work anyway (yay denial!), and had ended up surrounded by individuals who were toxic, though I hadn't yet figured that out.

Suffice it to say, it was a lot. A lot of intangible stressors. A lot of negative energies and bad vibes that were gnawing at me, but I couldn't quite identify. A lot of fake friends, fake support, false pretenses, and ulterior motives. Though I was surrounded by people, I ultimately could feel just how alone I truly was.

And it broke me.

My anxieties finally won out.

I was utterly consumed by fear, doubt, worry, even paranoia (although in some cases my paranoia was actually gut instinct, and it was spot fucking on, but that's a post for a different day).

I didn't know in whom I could trust. I didn't know what to think or how to fix it. But I knew I couldn't carry on feeling this way.

So I started making changes.

Slowly at first.

I started seeing a counselor in order to gain an understanding of why my brain was always convinced the sky was falling. I started poring through self-help books, reading countless articles, and downloading podcasts all in an effort to establish a baseline. I started unpacking three decades worth of emotional baggage I didn't realize I had been carrying. And finally, ever so slowly, I began to heal.

And it felt amazing.

So I built on it.

Yoga. Meditation. Mindfulness. All that spiritual, hippity-dippity brouhaha. I became addicted to self-improvement, to mending my broken pieces, to living a life of authentic inner peace and happiness.

And in doing all of that, in really digging in and trying to fix what I felt were the broken parts of myself, I started being able to identify the different sources of my anxiety. I started to pinpoint the epicenters of toxicity that were plaguing me, those who were amplifying my anxieties through insecurity, triangulation, gaslighting, pot-stirring, and other general drama instigations. I had unwittingly surrounded myself with people who thrived on my struggles, who were fueled by me being down, all while pretending to have my back.

In being so lost in the chaos of my life during that season, I didn't notice any of this. After all, when you're up to your eyeballs in mud, you can't see the crocodiles surrounding you.

I had finally started clearing away the muck and mire of my anxious little brain, and was shocked and devastated to realize that as I'd been tirelessly shoveling the mud away, people in my inner circle were just scooping it back up and dumping it back in.

And it became clear to me, those toxic energy vampires had to go.

I was never going to get my anxiety under control, I was never going to heal my past wounds, I was never going to grow and truly thrive, if I stayed surrounded by their garbage.

In the months and (almost) years that have followed, my healing and growth have grown by leaps and bounds. It is amazing how much better you feel, how much easier it is to heal, when you're no longer surrounded by asshats. However, I am well aware that while I was absolutely being fueled by the toxicity around me, that was not, at the core, the root cause of my anxiety. They simply enabled and instigated what was already there. My empathetic, anxious personality is what allowed such individuals to stick around as long as they did; after all, when you're wearing rose-colored glasses, the red flags just look like flags.

After I cut out the flying monkeys who were gleefully adding fuel to the fire, I took a hard introspective look at what was making me tick, at the very traits that permitted such individuals to prey on my vulnerabilities, and I did the necessary work to rectify it. I am committed to living in an asshole-free zone, and early asshole detection is key!

(I say that in jest, but it's also completely true)

Self-improvement and personal growth aren't easy. Not if you're really doing the work. And it's not linear. Two steps forward, one step back, occasionally a step or two sideways. Essentially you sometimes feel like you're doing the hokey-pokey, but that's what it's all about.

(Oh you know that pun was intended!)

But in all seriousness, that really is what personal growth is all about. It's about intention. It's about commitment. It's about hard fucking work.

I still have anxiety. I am still that worrywart, that over-thinker, that Neurotic Nelly.

But nowhere near what it used to be.

Nowadays, my anxieties are triggered less often. When they do show up, I have much stronger coping mechanisms, and am surrounded by much better people, people who help me through it rather than berate me, belittle me, or talk shit about me all while lending a sympathetic ear. I also have a much better understanding of where my anxieties stem from, what causes it to rear its ugly head, and how to get myself back to center faster and more effectively.

It's not perfect, but it's pretty damn great.

Let's be honest... being a person is complicated. The least you can do is be happy while you do it.

The Struggle is Real

2020-01-28T21:51:00.001-08:00

As I mentioned awhile back, I left my job in government to fulfill my passion and pursue my writing career.

I also subsequently bitched about it.

Because here's the thing. Are you ready? Imma 'bout to drop a truth bomb on your face. Here goes...

Being a writer is hard.

Yeah, I said it. Fight me.

Yes, I am pursuing my dreams. Yes, I love it. Yes, it also sometimes sucks a little bit.

And because of this, there are some times... okay, most times actually, where I have a little bit of hesitation in telling people what I do for a living.

"Oh, you're a writer? That's so fun!"

No Karen, it is not fun. It's actually somewhat soul sucking and plunges me into the occasional existential crisis.

"You should write my life story!"

LOL Debra... your life story isn't that interesting. Also I require a retainer for such services and I doubt you planned on paying me. My time is not free. Run along.

"Tell me what your story is about!"

Put simply .... no.

"How's your writing going?"

*open weeping whilst chugging white wine* It's fine. This is fine. Everything's fine.

When I tell people I'm a writer, I usually get some variation of this, or a darling anecdote about their brother's neighbor's dog walker's college roommate who wrote a thing once for funsies that may or may not have gotten published by a big publishing house because of some fun little twist of luck.

Cool. Thanks for sharing.

Does that sound bitchy? Oh well. Ask me how much I care. (Kidding... mostly.)

In actuality, I am hugely supportive of anyone who has the cojones to purge their heart and soul onto paper and dare to send it out into the world. Because that's what writing is. That's what any art is. You're taking a vulnerable little piece of yourself and exposing it to the world, hoping to not get clobbered in the process.

More often than not though, you still get clobbered. Very few of us get to be that brother's neighbor's dog walker's whoever it was.

And that's why I'm arguably a little pissy in my responses. Let me explain.

It took me years, YEARS, to finally fully commit to my writing career. And even once I finally bit the bullet and did so, it's not like anyone from The Big 5* immediately came a-knocking on my door.

This is not a "if you build it, they will come" kind of thing.

It's a "constant grind, keep plugging away, write every damn day despite all the self-doubt and writer's block and obstacles that get in your way" kind of thing.

It's a "everyone will doubt you and judge you and you have to ignore it even when you doubt yourself because crazy hard work and hustle is the only way this pays off" kind of thing.

*For those not in the know, the Big 5 are the major U.S. publishing houses, and suffice it to say, they don't give a flying fuck that I (or anyone else) decided to put my big girl panties on and pursue my dream. True facts. But I digress.

When I tell people that I'm a writer and their response is anything other than "ouch, here's more coffee", it's immediately clear they don't get it.

The sacrifice, the struggle, and blood, sweat, and tears you pour into your work only to have a client, publisher, or agent tell you it's "not Twilight-y enough".

Um, thanks Greg, but that was kind of the point.

You see, writing is not just sitting down with a happy little cup of coffee and productively typing away for an hour and boom, finished product. And if this how it is for you, well then, with all due respect, kindly fuck off. Because I do not know a single writer for whom the process of creating quality work is easy and painless. On the contrary, it can be pretty fucking brutal trying to get into words the exact thing you're picturing in your mind's eye.

Words are hard.

Words are stupid.

Words are a time consuming clusterfuck of emotions.

Ask any writer.

It's a love-hate type of thing, and some days the hate part really wins out. It is a struggle to create, to produce, to bring about a physical manifestation of your imagination. And when you get brave enough to share that struggle with someone and they don't understand it or respect it? It crushes you.

Writing is not as simple as non-writers think. It's not easy. It's not this quaint little way to pass time. And when you have a scene, or a story, or the perfect set of dialogue right at the tip of your brain but you can't express it the way you want to? Or when you give your precious manuscript to someone for consideration and they brush it off? Or when someone smirks because you haven't published anything in a hot minute "but you still call yourself a writer"?

Fucking sucks.

But at the same time, it's what my soul is called to. It's this hole in my chest yearning to create, even when creation is a fickle and fleeting thing. It's staring at the blinking cursor on my screen, picturing the scene perfectly and not finding one. damn. suitable. word. to describe it.

So no, Susan, I don't want to tell you what I'm working on. Not even a little bit. But we can talk about puppies instead.

I didn't choose the caffeine-addled life of a frustrated writer, the caffeine-addled life of a frustrated writer chose me. Now bring me a damn coffee. Please and thank you.

Extraordinary, Intentional Love

2020-01-21T21:23:00.000-08:00

I got married a few months ago, and I still very much like my husband and he still very much likes me.

While that shouldn't necessarily be a huge accomplishment less than six months in (though for some people, maybe it is!), I am acutely aware of how quickly a relationship can go sour.

And I intend to avoid that this time around.

I have only been in two other serious relationships, neither of which were particularly healthy, each for its own reasons (that's a post for another day). From both of these experiences, I learned a series of lessons, painful yet worthwhile, about my strengths and weaknesses in relationship, as well as my strengths and weaknesses individually.

I also learned what I absolutely require in a relationship, and what I will and will not accept moving forward. I set standards, I set intentions, and without even looking I stumbled into the most wonderful love story, one that I never thought possible.

It's okay, go ahead and vomit. I'll wait...

You good now?

Okay cool, I'll proceed.

Yes, Hubs and I are disgustingly, nauseatingly happy. It's gross. We're sappy and affectionate. We laugh constantly. We send each other cheesy texts, flirt incessantly, and engage in obnoxious PDA. Our pun game is off the charts. We're thoughtful with one another, going out of our way for each other in order to show how much we care. We tell each other how we feel daily. We are, in short, intentional with each other.

And that's the topic of this post.

Being intentional with your partner.

Many relationships (though not all) follow a similar trajectory: In the beginning, it's fun and exciting. You are purposeful with your time together. You go on dates. You have plentiful one-on-one time full of laughter, conversation, and bonding. You crave your time together, and it seems like electricity is in the air constantly.

Then as time goes on and commitment deepens, the initial heat begins to fade as you sink into the comfort and minutiae of everyday living. Real life takes precedence over romance. Running errands often becomes a substitute for date night. Flirting gets replaced with debates over whose turn it is to pick up toilet paper or grab takeout on the way home from work.

Eventually, that real life minutiae takes over and you start to take each other for granted. You both settle into the comfort, into the assumption that your partner just is, just will be; that they will be there, that they will do this thing or that thing, that the status quo will continue no questions asked. This mentality opens you up to the risk of drifting apart, living separate lives, and losing the very thing that brought you together in the first place: the intentional fire you had for one another.

Sadly, this seems to be a socially accepted trend. The "end of the honeymoon phase" we've all heard about. Some couples go on existing in this place, content in the mundane comfort. Others find this a miserable existence and the relationship ultimately ends.

Controversial opinion: The end of the honeymoon phase is crap!

Why does the so-called honeymoon stage have to die out? Why is a relationship becoming stale and stagnant an accepted thing? That, to me, is utter garbage.

It really is as simple as this: If you're not growing, you're dying.

That's just a universal fact of life.

If you're not flourishing, you're withering.

Look at trees. Or flowers. Or the human life cycle. It all follows the same pattern.

The growth stage, followed by the decay stage.

I do not accept that relationships have to be on this same path toward inevitable decay, and I'll take a gander that you don't like it either. Hence the purpose of seeking intention within your relationship.

Pursue your partner with the same love, the same passion, the same interest that you did when you were first together. Court your spouse. Date your spouse. Continue to place value on your relationship even when you're roaming through Costco or taking the garbage out or running through the other 8,000,000,000,000 responsibilities of your daily round.

Yes, the day-to-day stuff has to happen, that's called being an adult. But there's no reason why your relationship has to suffer because of it.

I don't know about you, but I don't want mundane. I want extraordinary. Thankfully, so does Hubs.

So we have made it a priority to be intentional with each other, in order to keep our nauseating, diabetic-coma-inducing love story alive.

"But Sarah, how do you do this with 1,000 kids and full-time jobs and busy, hectic, tiresome days full of adulting?"

Well I thought you'd never ask!

With daily, consistent, intentional effort.

Another controversial opinion coming at ya: If you let the honeymoon phase die, it's because you are lazy in your relationship.

There, I said it.

If the honeymoon phase dies, it means you quit pursuing your partner. You quit prioritizing your relationship. You allowed mundane complacency to take over. You got too comfortable. And that's entirely on you.

Only you get to decide how much effort to give your partner, whether that's 100% or 15.7%.

(And if you are hovering around the 15.7% mark? You're essentially just roommates. And barely even that.)

I have been lazy in a relationship, and I have accepted laziness in a relationship, and I vowed to never do either again. And yes, sometimes life kicks your ass and you temporarily lapse in how much effort and intention you are giving your partner; that happens. And it's important to allow each other space to be human. But it is equally important to come back to center as quickly as possible, before you drift for good.

I am lucky to have found a man as committed to this as I am.

I am married to a man who is as thoughtful, as loving, and as intentional in pursuing me now as he was on our first date. And I am as crazy about him, as enamored by him, and as appreciative of my time with him now as I was in the very beginning as well.

My husband is really and truly my best friend. We tell each other everything, good and bad. We support each other's endeavors, goals, and dreams. We call out each other's bullshit (with love, of course). We are partners in life and have an absolute blast doing it, even on the shitty days when everything goes wrong and life just fucking sucks; yes, even then we've got each other's backs. We lift each other up, and we root each other on.

I'm literally living a Hallmark card 80's power ballad sappy romcom kind of life.

And here's how...

Hubs and I go on weekly dates, sometimes to a fancy restaurant, sometimes to MOD pizza. We go on monthly adventures, from weekends in fancy artsy hotels, to hikes, to concerts, to random Airbnb's in a neighboring county where we explore a new town for a few days. We go away on trips as often as our schedule (and responsible financial management) allow, whether across the state, across the country, or out of the country altogether. We regularly plan time together without kids, without stress, and without distractions in order to reconnect.

And our in-between time (you know, the time spent actually adulting), we slow-dance in the kitchen while I'm cooking whatever latest meal I found on Pinterest. We snuggle on the couch and watch a comedy special or a documentary or a movie. We snuggle in bed at the end of each day and talk about whatever is on our minds. We go on walks on the trail by our house as frequently as possible (and as frequently as I'm willing to tolerate walking in the stupid winter rain, let's be honest). We are purposeful with one another, intentional with how we express our love, and consistent with making each other our priority.

Because life is hard enough as it is. But it's utterly miserable if your relationship sucks.

There's no place for mundane. I expect extraordinary.

And I hope you do too.

Grad School is for Suckers...

2020-01-10T15:03:00.001-08:00

Yeah, I said it!

Okay, I'm kidding.

Kinda.

Ish.

Except that I am that sucker. That sucker is me.

"Get your master's", they said. "It'll be fun", they said.

*facepalm*

Although, to be fair, no one actually used the word "fun". So there's that.

When I first began my bachelor's program, I never really saw myself pursuing higher education further than that. After all, I was already doing four extra years of schooling, why on earth would I want to do more than that?!?

However, as I progressed through my program, it quickly became apparent to me that in this day and age, a bachelor's degree is essentially a dime a dozen. It no longer sets you apart from the crowd. In fact, it's usually a prerequisite for any decent entry-level job. In order to even be considered for anything above and beyond that, a master's degree is oftentimes preferred, if not required (unless, of course, you are graduating college with 20 years of work experience already under your belt... which I was not).

Le sigh.

So, after doing a bunch of research and considering what I wanted to be when I grow up (don't ask me, I'm still figuring it out), I enrolled in a graduate program. Initially, I was accepted into an MBA program, because my postsecondary degree is in business management, so an MBA seemed like the next logical step, yes?

Turns out, no!

Upon further research, I discovered that MBAs were also now a dime and dozen; they are basically as common as a bachelor's degree and virtually useless (they're also essentially an accounting degree with a touch of management, and I hate math).

*big ol' fat fucking face palm*

Cue a montage of me frantically doing more research and figuring out what to do....

I needed a program that was marketable, that provided current, in-demand skills and knowledge, and that wouldn't make me go insane with so much math, aaannnnddddd....

I finally landed where I am now. Master of Science in Managerial Leadership with an emphasis on the nonprofit sector. Whew!

Still a bit of accounting, but a tolerable amount.

And I will confess, part of what led me to select this program is that it had the inklings of a liberal arts degree. You know, where there's no real wrong answer and there's a lot of room for interpretation, creativity, and problem-solving?

Yeah... not so much.

These classes are freaking hard, man. And for someone for whom school has always been pretty easy (when I apply myself, lol, aw senior year of high school, that's my bad...), this strugglebus status came as a bit of a shock to the system.

The first few quarters were fairly easy peasy. But this last quarter? Kicked my ass. I was essentially on official hermit lockdown. And quite frankly, it's not looking like this quarter is shaping up to be any better. The course content is somewhat dry and very challenging. And to top it off, my dumb ass scheduled two vacations within the first three weeks of the quarter.

*seriously the biggest facepalm known to mankind*

I have spent this week finishing two week's worth of schoolwork, because I will be out of the country next week. Then, the week after we're back, I have a paper due when we will be out of town on a family trip.

Because of course.

Because why not?

Because I'm an idiot who likes to bite off more than I can chew on an all-too-regular basis.

*self-five*

However, as with personal growth, I believe education is the greatest gift you can give yourself. Pushing yourself to do better, to be better, to always keep learning; that to me is of vital importance.

It's certainly not easy. Particularly as a card-carrying member of "The Grownups" with a spouse and kids and work and errands and life.

But stagnation and ignorance are not something I am willing to accept for myself.

So while some people will be happily watching the latest iteration of Keeping up with the Real Housewives of America's Got Talent; Top Chef Shark Tank Edition, I'll be over here reading Alexis De Tocqueville and debating the strengths and weaknesses of eleemosynary organizations with respect to the current economic and political climate from both the national and global perspective...

Send wine.

Requisite Resolutions Post

2020-01-07T17:03:00.000-08:00

So I haven't posted in awhile. I don't know about you, but the holidays were pretty crazy for me. On top of that, I was enrolled in the hardest quarter I've had thus far in my master's program, and yeah. Very little time for blogging. Or sanity.

But I'm back!!! So let's dive in, shall we?

In case you somehow missed the memo, one week ago we entered into a new month, new year, and new decade simultaneously. Parties were had to commemorate. Massive resolutions were made. Declarations were screeched from all corners of social media of this being the best year and the best decade and best everything ever.

I.... rang in the New Year snuggled up on my couch with my hubby, watching documentaries and drinking seltzer water. I know, pretty wild, eh? I'd been sick since Christmas, and had zero interest in leaving the house.

(Hell, we're seven days into the New Year and I STILL have zero interest in leaving the house! The holidays were far too people-y for me, and my introvert brain is still recovering. But I digress...)

This year, I avoided making any sort of New Year's resolution announcement. In fact, I pretty much avoided making any sort of official New Year's resolution at all. Not because I'm all hipster and against it, but rather because I don't see why we have to wait until a new year to decide to make changes or improvements.

As previously mentioned, I have been on a personal growth journey for awhile now, and 2020 isn't going to be any different. Successful personal growth takes time. It is a lot of hard work, baby steps, consistent progress toward your ultimate goal. Some days you leap forward in your progress; other days you might slide backwards slightly. It is never something that is simple, linear, or complacent. And, quite frankly, it's not something that can really be summed up in a simple resolution.

At least, not for me.

I entered 2019 a little worse for wear. I had dealt with some absolutely craptastic garbage in the final quarter of 2018, and quite honestly, I'd had enough. I had already been pursuing personal growth in the year or two prior to this (a pursuit which, ironically, led to some of the crappy nonsense I experienced), and it became clear I needed to really double down on the process. I needed to cut out all the toxicity in my life, both in terms of people and mindsets. I needed to address some hurts, traumas, and baggage I was still carrying, and set it all down once and for all. And I needed to figure out what exactly I wanted for my life, and then commit to getting myself there.

For the most part, 2019 was a success in that manner. It was a hard year, for sure. A lot of life challenges popped up. A lot of stress. A lot of external situations that forced me to really examine where I was on my journey and make course corrections as needed.

But 2019 was also an amazing year. It was a year of finally having the cojones to pursue my dreams. It was a year of getting to know my true, authentic self in a way I hadn't in ages, if ever. It was a year of ending patterns that were no longer serving me, of facing and healing deep wounds, and finally reaching a place of self-assurance I had never experienced. It was a year of adventure, laughter, true love, and genuine happiness. It was the year I stopped being distracted and finally started living.

It wasn't easy. It wasn't perfect. But it was pretty damn incredible.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what I will be taking into 2020. That same determination, that drive to continue improving, continue growing, continue being a better version of myself. No new resolution to lose 20 pounds or climb Mt. Everest or swim with manatees (although manatees are truly the best and I would absolutely swim with them!).

Instead, I resolve to maintain this journey. Because it's hard, but damn if it isn't well worth all the work. Because the life I'm living now? Nothing, I repeat, nothing like the life I was living a couple of years ago. And I could not be more thankful for that.

And, okay, if you really need me to make an "official" resolution... I guess I'll get a new tattoo. Twist my arm. You're welcome.

An Apple a Day... Keeps Anyone Away if You Throw it Hard Enough

2019-10-30T16:57:00.000-07:00

I am not, nor have I ever been, a particularly active person. While I enjoy hiking and camping, I am at my core an "indoors" kind of girl. I like cups of tea, fuzzy blankets, and good books. I like naps and Netflix binges.

My name is Sarah, and I am lazy.

There, I said it.

I will never run a marathon. I will never be a gym rat. I'm fairly certain that 6-pack abs aren't in my future.

I am a couch potato.

My entire adult life so far, I have primarily relied on my mother's genetics and an overabundance of anxiety to maintain my weight. Certainly not fitness regimens. And while I have generally always eaten well, the last few years my food choices went to crap as life got hectic and overwhelming, and my give-a-shit-factor all but gave up. Convenience foods, fast food, garbage snacks, those became my mainstays. I would cook gourmet meals on the weekends, but during the week it was essentially a sanity-saving free-for-all.

No mas!

My health has been a key factor for me since I was a teen, when my father was diagnosed at 40 with Stage IV fully-metastasized colon cancer and died less than a year later. Initially I ignored it (super healthy coping mechanisms coming in hot!), but after a few years I began reading up on colorectal cancers. The increased familial risks. The genetic factors. The dietary factors. And it basically scared me healthy.

I ate a clean, organic, whole grain, primarily vegetarian diet. I scrutinized ingredients. I thoughtfully paired together foods that ensured both forming perfect proteins and the inclusion of amino acids very easily left out of a plant-based diet. I canned all of the things. I baked my own bread. And I loved every second of it.

I was... mildly obsessed.

Still lazy, mind you. But very healthy nonetheless.

Gradually, as the fear subsided, I relaxed a little bit. But only just. I was fully, wholeheartedly committed to maintaining my health. After all, I had three babies to stay healthy for, and my biggest fear was getting sick. I knew what that loss felt like; I couldn't risk putting my kiddos through that.

I was a mama on a mission.

And then about 5 years ago, everything went to shit. My world as I knew it was crumbling around me, and I could not for the life of me figure out how to fix it. And that's when Survival Mode began.

Fuck organic and all natural. Boxed mac and cheese is perfectly lovely when your life is resembling a dumpster fire, amiright?!? I hit the drive thru. I bought frozen meals. I stopped reading ingredients. I hit the drive thru more. I bought items I previously solely made from scratch. My sole goal was to get through each day, put food in my children's bellies, and not succumb to the soul-crushing pain in which I was so deeply engulfed.

As months passed and the pain gradually began to subside, I started to step out of the fog bit by bit. But I was still deeply entrenched in Survival Mode. The ease of convenience meals maintained their allure as I spent my days running around like a chicken with my head chopped off. I was burning the candle at both ends, as well as several places in the middle. I was barely treading water. I was doing all of the other clichés associated with the hectic blur of single motherhood.

And in that place? In that overwhelming, exhausting, lonely, emotionally-draining existence? You do what it takes to make it through one. day. at. a. damn. time.

Keep the tiny humans alive and don't lose your shit in the process. Those are the only two goals you really have. The rest is superfluous.

And that's what I did.

And I was so wrapped up in this excruciatingly challenging season of my life that I didn't notice my health starting to decline. The migraines beginning to occur with greater and greater frequency. The nausea and heartburn occurring almost daily. The general feeling of bleh. And the subsequent weight gain.

I was trudging along, pouring my entire being into my children, into trying to create a life for us, into trying to create our happy little corner of the world, and I wasn't taking care of myself. I was pouring all of this from an empty cup.

And it took its toll.

Because of my heightened familial risks, I go in for preemptive screenings every two or three years, checking for any signs of colorectal or digestive cancers. And every time, those screenings have always come back clean.

Until now...

Changes are occurring. And while they're nothing super dangerous yet, they're signs that my risk factors have increased. Between my last test and this most recent one, the only real difference is the utter crap I've been putting in my facehole.

Like I said... no mas!

It was time to make some changes, tout suite.

(Yes, I am aware I just used Spanish and French in back-to-back sentences. I feel like it makes me complex and mysterious, mmmkay?)

While I'd known for a while that I needed to get back on the healthy track, I let my laziness, my stress, and the lure of convenience continue to dictate much of my meals.

These test results?

You guessed it.

Scared me healthy again.

I have too much life to live, too many good things happening, to risk it all for crappy (albeit tasty) eating habits.

I'm rapidly getting back to my old self; the health-obsessed girl poring over cookbooks and online recipes (Pinterest is my boo thang). I'm cooking gourmet meals virtually every night. I'm back to eating whole foods and ingredients you can actually pronounce. And while I will always love me some toxic plastic nacho cheese sauce, I haven't hit up the Taco Bell drive thru in... I honestly don't remember.

Oh! And my couch potato status?

Mildly in jeopardy!

I know right?!?

I mean, I haven't joined a gym, and I'm still nowhere near marathon or 6-pack status, nor do I desire to be. But I've been attending hot yoga 2-3 times per week lately, and going on 3.2-mile walks (yes, I've clocked the trail we take) as many times per week as the hubby can get me to. I admit, I'm still occasionally resistant, when the lure of the lazy beckons me, but I still begrudgingly acquiesce the majority of the time.

Because health, or whatever.

And also because fuck cancer.

Regurgitated Ideas and Probably a Vampire

2019-09-24T12:49:00.001-07:00

Be a writer, they said.

It'll be fun, they said.

However, today puts the FU in fun. Why?

Writer's block is a bitch. There, I said it.

When the words are rightthere. When the story is righthere. When it's all freaking RIGHTTHERE. But nothing comes out.

Well, that's not true. Muttering to yourself comes out. Swearing comes out. Inane chores and attempted busywork comes out. Distraction on all levels comes pouring out like a broken levee.

But the words?

Yeah, not so much.

Maybe this candle will help?...

(Yes, shopping is one such form of distraction.)

I have a multitude of manuscripts in various stages of completeness. Some of which I utterly adore, and others need varying degrees of attention, editing, and maybe a flamethrower. Each one represents a slightly different genre or subgenre, and none, I repeat, none of them are currently striking any sort of inspiration in my brain.

The one I chose to focus on today is by far the least developed. Which is perfect, in that it offers me the most freedom and fewest constraints and editing requirements. However, this openness also means I have zero predetermined guidance; very little plot or established trajectory to which to cling desperately. The onus is on me to do the damn thing.

But my inability to do the damn thing is exactly why I'm writing this post instead. They say to write through the fog. So I'm writing about writer's block. Because irony.

Stupid elusive words.

Like every author, I have several ways in which I attempt to address writer's block, to varying degrees of success. I clean. I cook. I read. I fall down the Pinterest rabbit hole. I watch wordy TV shows like Gilmore Girls or The West Wing. I buy candles like the one shown above in the hopes its mere presence will elicit some sort of story inspiration.

Sometimes it helps. Sometimes I've just wasted hours of my day, with zero written words, lofty redecorating goals, and a few new candles to show for it...

It is a common assumption that writing is easy. When you tell someone you're a writer, the most frequent response is something along the lines of "oh I'd love to be a writer, that must be so fun!"

Fun, Debra? Fun?

Sure, if crippling self-doubt, an inability to describe the most basic scene, failing to balance the proper level of interpersonal conflict in order to keep the plot going all without making your characters unlikeable or unrealistic, and forgetting the word "turquoise" sounds fun! Then yeah, it's fun.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go find something distracting to do, in the hopes that my words find me and my imaginary friends start playing nice. I see some fall/Halloween decorating in my immediate future. And tea. Lots and lots of tea.

But seriously, someone please buy me that candle.

Forgive and Forget? Fck You and Fck That...

2019-09-16T12:08:00.000-07:00

Okay, that might be kind of a harsh way to kick things off, so let me dial it back.

It's no secret that I have been actively pursuing personal growth and healing for quite some time now. First with therapy, then books, podcasts, articles, meditation, spirituality, etc. Some real hippie shit up in here! I faced hard truths, both about myself and those around me. I discovered patterns of thought that had been sabotaging my wellbeing for years. I broke through a lot of baggage, trauma from my past that I'd never acknowledged, let alone shared with anyone. I walked my way through a lot of heavy emotional shit. It was uncomfortable. It was extremely difficult. Some days it was downright brutal.

But you know what?

It was freaking worth it. Because the person I am now? So much better than before! Current Me is far happier, more self-assured, more confident, and just all around lighter and more joyful than Previous Me.

But there is one area in which I still struggle, one area in which I still need some work, one area in which the baggage of Other People's Opinions still trips me up.

And that area is forgiveness.

As an inherent people-pleaser, it was my natural life-long instinct to force forgiveness upon myself, otherwise I felt I was inconveniencing those who trespassed against me, not being a loving person, or being a bitter harpy. I mean, heaven forbid I have any lingering negative feelings about the hurtful thing you keep doing while telling me I'm being too sensitive, amiright?!?

(Side note: if someone in your life keeps doing the thing you have repeatedly told them hurts you, know they don't respect you. Real truth.)

I made myself let things go on the surface for the sake of keeping peace, when deep down I was still incredibly hurt by what someone had said or done. As time went on, this pattern of forgiving before I was truly ready created some significant, deep-seated pain that went on to impact my self-worth, my self-confidence, my boundaries, and my relationships with those around me. I accepted behavior that I didn't like. I overlooked treatment that I didn't deserve and patterns that were giant red flags. I was a doormat for toxic people. And all the while, I pretended like it was fine, like a simple "I'm sorry" was enough, even when the behavior never changed. My inherent drive to be a nice person superseded my willingness or ability to look out for myself, to protect my feelings, to stick up for myself. And even as I was powering through other areas of self-growth like a mother-effing boss, I was still a freaking pushover to people. That's what nice people do, right? Best to not upset the apple cart, after all.

Or so I thought.

Over the last few years, certain events and certain people finally -- finally -- pushed me to my breaking point. Something inside me snapped and, for the first time in what felt like my entire life, I pushed back. I lashed out. I raged. That deep-seated pain that had been percolating under the surface finally boiled over, and I was ready and willing to go to war with the next person who so much as looked at me wrong.

I was going to burn.their.village.down.

Initially, this felt good. No, it felt damn good. Fuck the toxic people. Fuck their bullshit. Fuck the lies, the manipulations, the abuses, the mind games, the gaslighting, the control tactics, fuck it all. I was taking back my power.

Or so I thought.

What I was actually doing was allowing all these hurts, these betrayals, the years of doormat status to still be in control, only in an equal yet opposite way. Rather than being miserably passive, I was miserably aggressive. Every hurt, every slight, every twisted or ill-meaning action from every person who had ever wronged me sat on my shoulder like a really jaded parrot. For the first time in my life, I hated. I truly hated. Not in the way we throw it out there casually --"OMG I hate peas!"

No, no.

I physically hated people with the fire of a thousand suns. It consumed me. Rather than taking back my power like I'd thought, I had simply unleashed years of pain that had been bottled up, and I didn't know how to handle it.

Cue another round of utterly painful self-reflection. And unpacking that cargo ship of baggage was freaking hard, y'all. Facing things I'd long since buried, acknowledging hurts that had been brushed away since childhood, actually saying the feelings out loud; it broke me. But in the most amazing way. And I came to an incredibly powerful realization that lead to the biggest leap forward.

You ready for this?

You do not have to forgive anyone, for anything, until you are truly ready.

I'll say it louder for the people in the back.

YOU DO NOT HAVE TO FORGIVE ANYONE, FOR ANYTHING, UNTIL YOU ARE READY.

Why?

Because doing so does you a grave disservice. By forcing forgiveness upon yourself, all you are doing is putting a bandaid over an emotional bullet hole. It might cover up the wound, but that slug is still in there, festering, destroying the flesh around it, creating gangrene of the spirit. You gotta dig that sucker out, purge the wound, let it ooze and bleed and hurt like a bitch, until your body finally begins its own natural healing process.

True forgiveness takes time. You have to walk through the emotions of what happened to you. You have to feel it in order to heal it.

Again, for the people in the back...

YOU HAVE TO FEEL IT IN ORDER TO HEAL IT.

And yeah, feeling it fucking sucks. It's easier to put the bandaid on, distract yourself, and act like everything is fine. But that wound still exists, and it will never properly heal if you just ignore it.

There will be plenty of people who tell you to turn the other cheek, to just forgive no matter what, to let it go or get over it. I hate to be the bearer of hard truth, but those people?

They're toxic.

Maybe they mean well, but their advice is shit.

Anyone who expects you to just "get over it"? They're not your people, and they don't have your best interests in mind.

Systemic forced forgiveness is unhealthy, if not abusive. And it's pervasive. But if I have learned one thing, it's this: never, I repeat, never allow anyone -- friend, family member, romantic partner, anyone at all -- to dictate to you what your feelings should be or how you should process them.

Ever.

Because forced forgiveness is a lie we tell ourselves to make others comfortable.

Real forgiveness?

It's messy. It's hard. It takes time.

But it's the only way to truly heal the hurt and move forward. Otherwise, eventually, something will happen that will be one hurt too far, and you'll end up bleeding on people who didn't cut you.

I did this. I bled on everyone around me. The hurt in my heart festered, it ate at me. I was snarly to hide the fact I was sad. I was vicious to cover up the vulnerability. I was judgmental to make myself feel like the better person. I put on a hard shell to protect the gooey caramel center that was my hurt. And it sucked.

And I am truly sorry.

That's not who I am. I am not hardened. I do not want to be nasty and jaded. I have a tender heart; I always have, and I hope I always will. And I finally got tired of carrying the weight of pain masquerading as anger. That shit gets heavy, fast.

I was finally ready to forgive.

And therein lies the baggage of Other People's Opinions mentioned above. I didn't forgive immediately, because I wasn't ready. And that apparently means I can't forgive ever.

Evidently it's one or the other. They have to be mutually exclusive.

For some, there is the perception or assumption that I have to carry a grudge forever, otherwise I'm being too passive. For others, failing to instantly forgive and allow people back into my life means that I am being too harsh, stubborn, or vindictive.

However, the truth of the matter is that it's neither. I am not obligated to forgive and forget, nor am I bound to carrying the weight of hurt or betrayal for the rest of my life.

I am learning the delicate balance of forgiveness with parameters, of letting.that.shit.go without letting go of the lesson the experience taught me.

I'm not holding on to a grudge. I'm holding on to boundaries. Boundaries that I fought hard to learn, and that I am no longer willing to overstep for the comfort or convenience of others.

I have people that I have forgiven fully and welcomed back into my life as though nothing happened. I have others that I've forgiven, but will always keep at arms length. Still others, the most egregious betrayals, will never be granted access to my life again, but I am no longer carrying the weight. And finally, I admit, there may be one or two individuals with whom forgiveness is still a work in progress. I'm human, y'all, cut me some slack!

But the lesson here is this: it is up to me where to set my boundaries with each given situation. It is my choice when and how far to forgive, and when to decide to set the weight down once and for all. Because if you do something shitty? That's on you. If, however, I choose to let that shitty thing dominate my psyche? Well that's on me.

Turn the Page

2019-09-14T11:55:00.001-07:00

This week marked some major changes in my world, and the start of an entirely new chapter in my life. The first big thing will actually be discussed in a forthcoming post, because I like to keep the mystery alive.

(Hey, I'm building content here, people. Work with me!)

But the second thing? Well here it is, y'all!

As mentioned in my previous post, I finally bit the proverbial bullet and took a chance on my dreams, brushing off the naysayers and diving head first into the thing that stokes a fire in my soul. It's terrifying, exhilarating, daunting, and making me absolutely giddy at the same time.

Two and a half weeks ago, after significant deliberation, I submitted my letter of resignation to my boss (about which he was incredibly bummed out, and emphatically requested I change my mind on multiple occasions).

Yesterday was my last day, which brought out a mixture of emotions, some of which caught me off guard (I wasn't teary-eyed in the elevator as I left the building, you were teary-eyed in the elevator as I left the building...).

I will miss seeing those people every week; I will miss the humor, the camaraderie, and the positive changes and big ticket items coming down the pipeline for our division. There are good things in store for them, and I'll be excited to watch from the sidelines as they are brought into fruition.

However, while I enjoyed my job, I knew something was missing. I needed more. I needed to light my soul on fire. I needed to be more available to my kiddos. I needed more personal fulfillment. I needed a way to combine that whole pesky paying-bills-and-being-an-adult thing with the flexibility and freedom of self-employment. And thus, as of yesterday, I am officially a full-time writer!

It was an incredibly difficult decision to make, leaving the safety and security of a cushy government gig and taking a gamble on myself in this way. And I know I'm going to have to hustle if I want to be successful. But I'm also freaking stoked! I have freelance clients lined up. I have a couple of curated sites I'll be writing for. I have my own stories I'll be self-publishing. And, of course, I'll be documenting the entire journey on here.

My next chapter starts now.

Stay tuned!

I've Got Magic Beans*

2019-09-01T13:22:00.001-07:00

*If you don't get the quote, we can't be friends. I don't need that kind of negativity in my life.

As the saying goes, opinions are like assholes... everybody has one.

These days, it seems like everyone has ALL OF THEM. All the opinions. All the time. Shoved in your face. Incessantly.

I'm coming out of the gate a little hot, so let me back up.

It's no secret that in this day and age, we are constantly bombarded with 1,000,000,000 opinions at once, all of which are viewed by the opinion holder as sanctified by Holy water or something. You are entitled to what they think or feel on any given subject, but they tend to seem less enthused to hear your side. Everyone is talking AT each other, not so much talking TO or WITH each other. Everyone wants to be heard, but no one wants to listen.

And, frankly, it's exhausting.

And it's made me pull back.

People in my life have noticed that I've been more withdrawn lately, more private, less communicative. This has been purposeful. And not because I'm miserable, grumpy, or bitter.

On the contrary, I am the happiest I have ever been. My life is unfolding in ways that I never imagined. I have found a love story I never thought possible. I am pursuing personal growth daily and doing the hard work to be a better version of my badass self. I am hustling like a boss, making my dreams come true and finding new, exciting paths to personal and creative fulfillment.

And quite frankly?

I don't want y'all Negative Nancys crapping all over it!

I post funny memes on social. I share cute anecdotes or snippets from my daily life. I give brief updates on certain events, if asked directly. And because of this, people assume they know all of the things about me.

But I'm an iceberg, baby!

You see the 10% I'm willing to share with you, while guarding the other 90% close to my heart. Because that 90%? It's precious. That's where the magic is.

I have recently had some wonderful things fall into place; an opportunity that has brought about some major winds of change. Change that is exciting and terrifying and nerve-wracking and incredible all at the same time. Change that involves a major investment in myself and my dreams. Change that will bring some wonderful things into my world.

Change that, I also discovered, brought out a new round of the Opinion Police.

Boom. Truth bomb just dropped.

Because these life things that are happening? They're not for everyone. And I get that. Taking risks, taking chances, going out on a limb, it's all terrifying. And many people aren't willing to step outside their comfort zone like that. Heck, many people don't even have dreams that require stepping out of said comfort zone in the first place, making these individuals even more baffled by my decision to do so.

And that's fine.

But keep it to yourself, pleaseandthankyou.

You don't have to fully understand something to be supportive. It doesn't have to directly resonate with you. It doesn't have to be your dream or align with your values in order for you to champion it for others. You can even think it's completely ridiculous and insane and be fully expecting it to crash and burn. That's fine. But please be aware, your opinion is not fact, it is not truth, it is not the cipher through which others must decode their lives.

It is with utmost awareness of being cliche that I say this: you. get. one. life.

Are you living it? Fully living it? Or are you simply existing? Are you being true to your authentic self, or are you pigeonholed by what others think, expect, or want of you? The most powerful question I recently heard was this: Are you happy, or are you distracted?

I have spent the vast majority of my life simply existing. I am inherently a people-pleaser; I never wanted to rock the boat. Making waves was a risk I wasn't willing to take because god forbid I make anyone else uncomfortable or give them a reason to tsk tsk me! I dove into things that were pre-screened for approval, things that others had given their tacit permission to enjoy. I was living confined. I was, in short, distracted. But I was not happy.

Then, after many years of living a limited life, I finally got tired of asking permission. Permission to have interests and aspirations that weren't aligned with the opinion-holders around me. Permission to have dreams. Permission to step outside of society's pre-determined box. In short, I stopped giving a crap what others thought.

Because I realized something invaluable: I will never make everyone happy. I am not tacos.

No matter what I do, someone will have an opinion against it. If I go left, someone will think I should have gone right. If I go right, others will think I should have gone left. If I stop and do the hokey pokey, well, people will think I've cracked and tell me to stop being weird. It is impossible to please all of the people all of the time.

Go for your dreams, but also don't be a dick.

So guess what I decided to do?

Stop trying!

I am no longer interested in making others comfortable, contented, or understanding of my path. It is my path, after all. I am going to follow my heart. I am going to live my truth. I am going to take the risks necessary to live an extraordinary life. To live with intention, purpose, and passion. To be bold and vibrant. To be unapologetically myself. I am going to take the risk and do the thing that is scary, because that is where fulfillment lies. It's still not always easy for me, the people-pleaser, to do my own thing at the expense of others' judgment. But the more I let my freak flag fly, the more natural it becomes.

And if your response is disapproval, disdain, or a barbed pseudo-supportive comment... feel free to take that ish elsewhere. Because guess what? 1) I'm not doing this for you, and 2) you don't have to get it. And both of those things are okay.

And to anyone reading this who has that dream? That idea? That thing that is burning a hole in your soul because you so badly want to take the plunge?

GO. FOR. IT.

You only get one life. Don't waste it living for others. Take that 90%, that fire, that passion, and invest in yourself.

Make your magic.

Don't take 'no' for an answer. Also, caffeine is your friend.

The Necessity of Self-Care

2019-04-07T22:47:00.000-07:00

Self-care Sunday.

That phrase elicits images of pampered housewives spending the day at the spa, drinking mimosas and gossiping about the goings on at the country club, amiright? You know I'm right.

The notion of self-care is oftentimes dismissed as selfish, frivolous, something silly in which only the hoity toity get to indulge. And while the hoity and the toity do seem to get more time to engage in self-care activities, that does not in any way mean it is only for them. Nor does it mean one has to drop a hefty penny at a snooty spa in order to recharge their inner batteries.

As women, we tend to go go go, to burn the candle at both ends, to bite off more than we can chew and continue gnawing on that bite whilst working full time, running the kids to soccer practice or track meets or appointments, then coming home to cook, clean, and help with homework (unless you're like me and have geniuses for children and their math homework looks less like logical equations and more like Egyptian hieroglyphs... but I digress). By the time we get everyone to bed, we're drained. And yes, I acknowledge that this is 2019 and men are more evolved than their 1950s brethren, and are therefore also involved in family life too; I'm not denigrating that at all.

But...

I'm a woman, and this post is geared toward my ladies. Sorry, guys.

As women, we are expected to do it all perfectly, and with a smile on our faces no less. And quite honestly, it's exhausting. I don't know a single mother who hasn't had the urge to run away to a tropical island and never return. And that's not because we don't love our families. We're just so. damn. tired. And you can't pour from an empty cup.

Enter self-care.

Self-care can be anything from a solitary bubble bath WHERE NO ONE BOTHERS YOU FOR ONE GODDAMN HOUR, to a weekly mani/pedi sesh with your best gal pals WHERE NO ONE BOTHERS YOU FOR ONE GODDAMN HOUR, to regular therapy appointments, a solo hike, sleeping in on the weekends, arts and crafts, yoga, or whatever the heck makes you feel a little more refreshed and ready to tackle little Bobby's science project he forgot to tell you about and is due tomorrow.

Self-care is necessary. It's "me time" for your mind, body, and soul. It's a little slice of personalized heaven. You know how when a piece of technology isn't working, and the first solution is always "have you turned it off and turned it back on again?" Yeah, the human equivalent of that is self-care.

It is not selfish. It is not frivolous. It does not make you a bad mom. It makes you a human who needs a little piece and quiet, and a chance to get back to center. We all need to shut off and reboot once in awhile.

Things have been crazy for me lately. Full time job. Full time mommy. Full time fiancé. Rebooting my freelancing career. And now full time school again. That's a lot of full times and, last I checked, still only 24 hours in a day. I've been stressed, tired, overwhelmed, and quite frankly, just a lil sick of everyone's shit. Yes, even you. Don't give me that look. You know what you did.

So today, I focused on taking it easy. I cancelled today's plans and just spent the day at home with the kids. I had a good cry listening to a podcast the bestie sent me (so.many.feels). I snuggled with my Little Man, and cracked jokes with Daughter and Eldest. I communed with warm and fuzzy souls whom I love and adore. I had a gigantic cup of herbal tea. I took a long bubble bath, slathered myself in aromatherapy lotion, and snuggled into bed with the fuzziest of fuzzy blankets. And I purged my thoughts into this blog post, so as to clear up the writer's block I was having on my freelance project.

And honestly, I'm drained. But in a delicious way. A way that tells me I took care of myself today. I put my truest needs first, and refilled my emotional, mental, and spiritual cup.

Granted, that doesn't make me feel more ready to face Monday, but I'm definitely ready to face my full times. Hell, I might even smile.

For Whom the Bell Tolls....

2019-01-21T14:34:00.001-08:00

Or for whom you write.... you know, whatever.

I admit, I've not read much of good ol' Ernest. A realization that hit me awhile back, and something I began rectifying by giving Amazon more of my money.

(As if they weren't already getting most of my money to begin with, let's be honest.)

Obscure Hemingway references aside, every writer has a different motivation for writing. Some for the money or recognition. Others just to make ends meet. Still others as a way to purge internal monologues and stress. But for most writers, there is a compulsive need to get the words on paper; something drives them. It can't always be explained to non-writers. Hell, it can't always be explained to ourselves!

But the riskiest-- and sometimes least rewarding-- reason to write is for the satisfaction of others. As a freelancer, this is something I relate to far too often. It's a tricky thing; balancing that pesky need to pay bills with stifling your creativity in order to meet the parameters of others. How much of that effort do you still retain for yourself? Are you sacrificing your voice by not strictly sticking to your own private works? Or does writing anything at all, in any form, serve as a catalyst for further creativity?

As someone who took far too long of a hiatus from writing because, well... life, I can attest that simply putting words on paper again is a wonderful feeling. Even if it is for others, I'm still doing the damn thing.

Hemingway took the title of 'For Whom The Bell Tolls' from a 17th-century metaphysical poet named John Donne's 'Meditation XVII', published in 1624.

No man is an Iland, intire of it selfe; every man is a peece of the Continent, a part of the maine; if a Clod bee washed away by the Sea, Europe is the lesse, as well as if a Promontorie were, as well as if a Mannor of thy friends or of thine owne were; any mans death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankinde; And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee.

While Donne was writing meditations and prayers on pain, health, and sickness, referencing the medieval practice of funeral tolling, the quote can be abstractly applied to writing in general. If you write solely to please others, you'll never be truly happy. But if you simply find happiness in writing, any form of your craft will feed your soul. You have a truth within you that needs to be released, a bell that only your authentic creativity can answer.

For whom does the writing bell toll?

It tolls for thee...

To Words or Not To Words... That is the Struggle

2016-10-02T12:01:00.000-07:00

Every writer knows the feeling. Every writer relates. That painful moment when you're on a roll, you're lost in your story, that stream-of-consciousness flowing of ideas pours through your fingertips onto the page with seemingly no effort. You're tapped into the vein. You're in it. You're there. And then.....poof. You get stuck. The creativity train derails.

Ugh.

It's usually over something small too; some tiny little detail that seems inconsequential to anyone else, but you know you can't move on with the scene until you find the exact right adjective to describe the pinecone at your protagonist's feet, you can't put your finger on the exact shade of blue in the eyes of the love interest, or you suddenly blank on the difference between 'affect' and 'effect' and worry you've chosen the wrong one and begin to rethink your entire life's choices...

Le sigh.

That's where I'm at right now.

I hadn't actively written on my main WIP in ages. A disconnect had developed where I couldn't work past a few key plots points in my head. I knew where I wanted it to go, but getting it there seemed impossible. There were too many obstacles between Point A and Point Q. And I hate the deus ex machina mechanism with the fire of a thousand suns, so unless I could logic my way through these plot holes, I wasn't moving forward. Because stubborn purist.

So in the interim I began working on other projects, focusing on entirely different genres to clear the creative pipes, so to speak. I finally reopened this story a week or so ago, and since then it's been smooth sailing. I was back in the groove. I was tapped in again. I knew how to get my girl through this phase and to the next stage of the story. I had it locked down and away I went. And then the inevitable happened. I can't figure out the exact way I want to describe the smell of the forest, the sounds of silence surrounding my MC, and the panic rising in her chest as she works her way through the crisis she finds herself facing. In short, I'm stuck again.

Because words.

Cue the open weeping...

The Purge

2016-09-22T11:20:00.002-07:00

The purge is coming.

No, not that one. I know Halloween is right around the corner, but not everything needs to be all "murder-y", mmkay?

I mean the emotional and mental purge that comes with writing. Any writer can attest to the transformative benefits of leaving it all on the page, of taking your swirling torrent of thoughts and feelings and putting them down in some form, whether it is sensical or not. Some of my best writing, my most honest words, have taken place when I wasn't trying to get it right; I was just trying to get it out.

2014 was a banner year of suckitude for me. 2015 didn't start out any better. But what got me through, what kept my sanity (largely) intact, was writing. I poured my heart out. In blog posts, freelance work, and my personal WIPs, I laid my soul bare. Made an emotional mess and then came back later to reassess and clean it up. And it worked.

2016 has, thus far, been a fantastic year. A few struggles here and there, and stress like you wouldn't believe, but overall a year of growth and love and happiness and gratitude. Yet my anxiety has run amok. Why? Because I haven't been writing as much. I haven't maintained the purge.

Over the course of rediscovering the badass woman I am and making my life what I want it to be, I allowed myself to become too busy for writing. I have a tendency to make everyone else my priority, to make sure everything else is taken care of first. There's always something to do, something to attend to, another set of adulting to accomplish. (The curse of an overly-nice, overly-responsible, Type A first-born, perhaps? Also, procrastinator. But who's counting?)

Anyhoo, after several conversations with my besties, and a few emotional breakdowns to my amazing, long-suffering, and ever-supportive man, I'm taking back the reins on my writing. It's the only way I feel complete, the only way I feel truly centered. Yoga is great. Tea is fantastic. But only writing, only the act of unceremoniously dumping words on a page (and then cursing myself during the editing process) gets me to the mental and emotional zen space I crave.

This blog is only one facet of this. It keeps me focused on the larger task at hand. I currently have two works in progress going. One, a YA dystopian novel that, ironically, plays right into our current political cycle. The other, a contemporary chick lit romance with lots of bad words and dry, sarcastic assessments of life in your 30s. I also have four more novels started, and about ten bouncing around in my head for later. Plenty of fodder for keeping myself busy and utilizing the creative outlet at which I am best.

So like I said. The purge is coming.

No, still not that one. Weirdos.

I Like Big Words and I Cannot Lie...

2016-09-16T13:27:00.000-07:00

My name is Sarah and I'm a wordaholic.

I like words. I like the history behind words. I like the nuances and subtleties of purposefully selecting one word over another in order to convey a highly specific meaning. I love to read words, write words, and learn new words daily.

In short, I'm a total nerd.

In a society that seems to embrace the evisceration of the written word-- replacing proper grammar with leet speak, unnecessary abbreviations, and trendy nonsense slang-- I still make a point to use the real words behind those meanings. I text in full, grammatically correct sentences. I utilize multisyllabic words, even when a monosyllabic one may suffice. My eye twitches whenever someone uses the improper version of to/too/two, your/you're, their/there/they're, etc. I refuse to use words like "bae", "turnt", and "on fleek". I do not shorten sentences down to "lol" or "omg". And don't even get me started on the sheer laziness of using numbers to replace words. It does not take that much longer to type the actual letters. And yes, I'm am a self-proclaimed Grammar Nazi.

To me, the vernacular choices I make reflect my manner of thinking, the things I've read, and my thirst for knowledge. Honestly, my vocabulary seems normal to me; the words I utilize are part of my everyday conversations and trains of thought. I like to challenge myself, to keep learning, to keep my mind active.

Because of this, I'm frequently accused of being pretentious.

This used to bother me.

Greatly.

I hated the thought of being seen as a hoity toity book snob. I felt judged and misunderstood.

But you know what? I'm good with it now!

Because I'm saddened by the dumbing down of our society. I'm disappointed to see intelligence derided and devalued for the sake of fleeting celebrity trends. I don't harp on the immutable use of language, because I understand that language is, in and of itself, fluid and ever changing. But I also uphold the importance of challenging ourselves to learn and grow, and not become mentally complacent. Does this make me old fashioned? Possibly. Does it make me pretentious? That's for others to decide. Anyone who knows me personally understands I'm not a snob. I'm just a booknerd writer who loves the complexities of language.

However, the assumptions others make about me based solely on my manner of speaking and writing does provide one other benefit beyond my wit, learning aptitude, and intelligence... the title for this blog!

So follow along as this pretentious pedant employs her extensive and highly diversified jargon to provide thoughtful commentary on the world around her whilst finishing her forthcoming novel...