11.01.2017

the "f" word.

(we can't share photos of the girls, so i'm getting creative. this photo was taken in 2012, back in my old life in WI.)

"Are they having a birthday party, too?", Big Sis asked. She was hanging off a lifesize wooden bear statue outside a country themed diner, her face skewed into a confused expression.

"Who?" I responded, distracted by a larger crisis we had on our hands.

It was Big Sis's 8th birthday...a surprise we'd just discovered outside the restaurant, when their foster mom called to make sure we knew. We didn't know, because the paperwork we'd received weeks prior had listed her birthday incorrectly. Gabe and I were frantically trying to plan a birthday celebration on exactly zero minutes notice, in a city we weren't at all familiar with, for a kid whose affection and trust we were trying desperately to win.

Talk about being thrown right into foster parenting.

"Those people," Big Sis pointed across the lawn. "The lady said, 'Rick, party of 3', and then they got to go in. Is it because they're having a birthday party, too?"

"Ohhhh," Gabe said, taking a break from our frenzied birthday planning. "Well, party is another way to say 'group'. When you go to a restaurant, they'll ask how many people are in your group, or party, so they know what size table to seat you at. How many people are in our party?"

"One, two, three....FOUR. We're a party of four." She smiled, proud of herself for using the phrase correctly for the first time.

The girls continued playing on the carved bears, and once inside the restaurant, we ordered giant birthday sundaes, unsure if we'd be able to find birthday cake later in the day. The girls were delighted. The rest of the day went off without a hitch thanks to some quick thinking (god bless you, Yelp), as well as a woman at a theme park who shared her own unicorn birthday cupcakes with our girls (an angel from heaven), and the magic of a birthday that falls near Halloween (weekend trick or treating events, I'll sing your praises forever).

Throughout the day we joked with the girls about staying with our "party" in busy places. I was actually relieved to have tripped across that word. "Group" felt too much like a 3rd grade field trip, but we'd avoided "family" incase it felt too loaded for the girls. Their "family", in their minds, is probably their biological family or their foster family. Party worked well for us. Plus, it was fitting for a birthday outing.

The next day we had another visit scheduled and the girls asked to return to the same diner for dinner. Gabe put our name in at the hostess stand, and the girls played with the jukebox while we waited to be called. It was a quiet Sunday evening, so within a few minutes, the hostess came back.

"Gabe, party of four?"

"That's us! That's us!", the girls excitedly shouted at her, gathering their things from the waiting area and grabbing our hands.

The hostess led us back into the restaurant, past the table we'd sat in the day before and towards a larger booth in the corner. Little Sis dropped my hand and bounced ahead of the hostess, lifting her grey stuffed bunny in the air and dancing it past tables as she skipped by...delighted with the smiles and attention of other diners.

Big Sis walked behind the hostess, a few feet in front of me, seeming to think to herself. And then, confidently, as if to everyone and no one at all, she said:

"Family of four. We're a family of four."

"Yes, Big Sis," I said...trying not to tear up. "Yes, we are."

10.30.2017

the end of a childfree era.



I'm surrounded by a pile of pink...ice cream sheets, gemstone comforters, and a cheesy 1950's style poodle nightlight...all of which our foster girls excitedly picked out this weekend after a big talk about their first sleepover visit to our home. A talk in which we tried to act like this was normal...that it's normal for kids to spend hours on the weekends with near strangers, picking out bedding for the room that will be theirs in a few short weeks.

With each visit during this slow transition from their foster home to our fost-adopt home, we've tried to steer past the words "adoption" or "mom" or "dad" or "move"...all these words are loaded for kids who have been in the system for a while. But, they're smart. They know...and this is not their first go at a potential adoptive family. They can feel the change in the wind, and each day we see them, they ask, "Can we live at your house forever?" and "Are you gonna adopt us?".

And we can feel the change, too. Standing at the brink of parenthood: finally knowing our girls' names and faces and personalities, preparing our home for them, and yet not having them here just yet. It leaves this little gap of space and time for feelings to creep in. A gap between everything we've hoped and prepared for, and the joy and tough work that will come once we're all living within the same walls.

Mostly the feelings in that space are elation, joy, compassion, and love. We've been preparing for this big change for years, and we couldn't want it anymore. But, with every major life change, there's always something you worry you'll leave behind.

When we started talking about fostering years ago...back before we even got married...we had a list of worries. We spent six years building a small, happy life...walking through each concern and realizing we could handle it. Our worry list dwindled down to one: Our pets. Anyone who knows us personally knows we are The Crazy Pet people. Our lives revolve around our cat and dog. And we love it. So, naturally, we had a lot of worries about shifting some of our focus to human kids. Would it be fair to open our small home to two kids at the age of peak rambunctiousness, when our critters have known nothing but quiet and snuggles? Could we still honor the furry little beings and their needs in our day-to-day life, if suddenly two new beings in our home required lots of focus and attention?

Ultimately, we hoped we could overcome any challenge that might come with integrating kids and pets in one home...and that our family, kids or not, would always be an animal loving group who could honor both people and pets. And I know it's possible. I see it out there.

But, in some moments, especially as we get close to placement...I feel like I'm trying to soak up the last few sweet, simple days with our pets. Our critters are healthy and still in middle age...but as a sensitive soul, I suddenly feel so aware that pets don't live to be 80. Perhaps I'm grieving the moments with them I know we'll lose by expanding our family and hearts. Or maybe...feeling guilt in realizing that in our pets' lifetimes, our home will never return to the quiet sanctuary they love. That someday I'll have to say goodbye to them...and will I say that goodbye knowing I was fair to them? That I'd honored their presence in our lives and home, even with this big shift? That they knew how much they were loved?

When I confided in a friend about this recently, she reminded me that the beauty of pets is that they're fully present. For our pets, their "present" will now include a busier mom and dad...but also two new little friends who are so excited to love them. And, that after a few months of adjusting, the pets will see our girls as an expansion of us...two more humans who will spoil and dote on them.

I keep reminding myself of her words...as well as our hope that in this major life change, we can also give our animals and our community the gift of raising two little people who will spend their lives respecting, loving, and caring for animals in need.

Maybe this is all a bit heavy, or overthought. It wouldn't be the first time I'd really waded into the thick of it when dealing with change...and I know not everyone is an animal lover who can understand these feelings. But it must be normal to have some guilt or grief about pieces of your life that will change, especially the pieces of your home or life that touch other lives (animal or human)?

Parents of children...did you feel guilt or grief at any point in your decision to have children?

Parents of animals...have you ever made a major life change, and felt guilt over how it would affect your pets?

I'm not wrapping this one up with a bow. It's just me, closing my laptop to go snuggle our dog for a bit before making up the kids' beds for the first time...hoping I'm not the only one who's felt this way, and knowing it's all probably going to be totally okay.

10.18.2017

life update: match.



We met our girls 27 days ago, at a picnic for older foster children and foster families hoping to adopt. They were dancing in a sea of sunshine and bubbles...a scene so sweet it was quite literally like a movie moment. 

Until that moment, they'd been two grainy photos on a one page document listing somewhat impersonal facts about their background and time in foster care. It would have been easy to flip right past their profile…we couldn’t even make out their faces. But in that moment last month, there they were: leaping into my real life, anything but dull or grainy. They were the most beautiful, vibrant girls I could have imagined. You couldn't flip past them if you tried. 

We attempted to play it cool at the picnic that day, taking up spots near the bubble machine that had transfixed them and then convincing them to join a group parachute activity a few feet away. They dashed under the floaty nylon parachute while it softly fell, and then right at the last moment, darted back out into the sunshine and bubbles. Over and over again they played this game, giggling harder if we trapped them underneath the cool, cave-like shade just long enough for the falling parachute to tickle the top of their braids. My face hurt from laughing; my arms ached from lifting the parachute up and down. I caught Gabe's eye, shifted my head towards the girls and mouthed "My heart!”. He smiled wryly, and mouthed back, "I know, I know..."

This is his classic response when I'm emotionally 40 miles down the track, but the train bound for reality hasn't even left the station. Nothing is ever quick, easy, or guaranteed in foster care, and chugging so quickly down that emotional track can lead to heartbreak. Even if our hearts were melting right there, watching the girls play in the sunshine, it didn't mean we were the perfect family for them. 

Ever since that day, I've held my breath. Through countless texts and emails to our social worker, hundreds of miles and numerous hours driving to meetings....we held our breath. At first being fully read in on the girls' file, then asking more questions, and finally sending our official decision. Yes, we wanted to foster and, if the case continues as projected, adopt the girls. But, even then, we needed to wait to hear if the girls' social worker wanted to move forward with us.

"It's not about you," I reminded myself during the few days we waited for a decision. "It's about the girls. They need the right family for them. Maybe it's us, maybe it's not."

Last week, we got the news: "Congratulations!", our social worker texted. It was an official match! There were so many happy tears as I called my parents to tell them they were officially grandparents, and my sister to tell her she was an auntie.

A few days ago we met the girls one-on-one for the first time, playing in a park and beginning to bond. This weekend we have a full day visit and are able to take them out for the day...just the four of us. Like a normal family. Our social workers have us planning to transition the girls to our home in the next month. Adoption is the distant goal, but there are many benchmarks to reach before it can be possible and there's no standard timeline. It can take months or years.

And so, right now, we’re focusing on the present:

Our girls are 5 and 8. They are funny and fierce and precious. They love pink, and stuffed animals, and the Trolls movie. They want piggyback rides and can't get enough pizza. The littlest's free spirit and friendly nature will brighten your day, and the oldest's dry humor and deadpan comments will make you belly laugh. In so many ways, they are just like their kindergarten and second grade peers.

And yet life has been unfair to them, and demanded they be stronger than a child should ever have to be. For them, there are moments of frustration while grappling with loss and change. For them, the world has never been stable and adults haven't always been people you trust. They're still learning to untangle and express these big feelings in a healthy way.

But, despite it all they are vivacious and big hearted and joyful. They are little miracles.

And, now that we're in the thick of it all...I'm reminded that foster care and adoption are this beautiful, messy, tricky dichotomy. On one hand, you're required to envision a life where these little beings will be with you forever. Just like every other parent, you envision kindergarten graduations, holidays, birthday parties, teaching them to ride a bike (and dear God, someday a car?), watching them get ready for prom, and dropping them off at college. Your whole heart has to be in it, because just like every other kid, they deserve that level of love and commitment. If they are with you forever, you want to remember being fully in it. Fully present. And yet on the other hand, there's the near daily reminder that you have no legal claim to these children. With the slightest change and no notice...they could just slip through your fingers and out of your life.

Somehow, you have to be okay with that. If I said I'd made peace with these mutually exclusive possibilities, I'd be the biggest liar you know.

But, regardless of how this ends...I am lucky. My husband is lucky. Our families are lucky.

We will all be lucky to get to love these girls, no matter how long they are ours.

8.09.2016

my favorite souvenir.

(Left: Reflective birthday cat, "What does this birthday MEAN?" 
Right: Spirited birthday cat, "Screw this birthday hat.")

Four years ago today, I slammed my laptop shut and demanded Gabe drive us out into the Kuwaiti desert...immediately.

Why, you ask? An orphaned 3-week-old kitten in Kuwait had caught my attention on the internet, and if we didn't go pick it up right now, life wasn't worth living. Gabe rolled his eyes, assuming my pleading was all a bit hyperbolic. (It usually is.) It was nearing 9pm, and he was less than pleased about spending the remainder of the evening attempting to navigate our way to one of the thousands of identical sand colored address-less apartment buildings in Kuwait to pick up a feral street cat. I pled my case:

"He's only three weeks old, and doesn't even have a mom or siblings to keep him warm! How can you say no to something that small and helpless? I promise, it won't change anything in our house. Cats are so easy!" (Hah. Sweet, sweet naivety. Also, "he" turned out to be a "she".)

Gabe slowly started putting on his shoes, while I shoved the keys at him and impatiently flapped my hands in the "COME ON ALREADY!" gesture that wives have oh-so-lovingly used for centuries. Out into the desert we went, and hours later we returned home with the teeniest little kitten I've ever held.


(We had a killer view of the Persian Gulf. I used to write inspirational quotes on our window.)

The past four years have flown, and along the way we've learned that feral kittens will change things in your house, and no, they will not be "easy". (Whoops. Sorry, Gabe.) In so many ways, we see her feral roots show through...like the fact that she has not let a vet touch her for the past three years, or that she'll willingly have a hissing , swiping showdown with an adult human male sitting on her corner of the couch.

She's a feisty one, and has taught me so many great life lessons.

Lessons I Learned From My Cat

 Don't buy a gift if you could amuse the recipient with only an empty box.
You can't have nice things anymore.
Always check your luggage for stowaways before leaving the house.
Act like you own the world, and people will start to believe it.
Cat snuggles > therapy.
Never buy in bulk: taste preferences will change as soon as you do.
Just because you're little doesn't mean you don't matter.
Don't be afraid to speak up our swat out if something doesn't feel right.
You don't own a cat. It owns you.

In hindsight, we realized we brought home very few souvenirs from our time in Kuwait: a cheap scarf from the Souk, a few seashells collected from the Persian Gulf, and an adorable rag-tag street cat with a real attitude problem. The latter is clearly the best souvenir we could have bought (er, picked up curbside near a nameless apartment building in a foreign country). 

Happy Fourth Gotcha Day, you magnificent beast. We can't imagine life without you.


Welcome to the World, Lucky Bear. from bethany wuerch on Vimeo.

8.08.2016

nine hundred and forty four days later.




Yesterday, my phone buzzed with a text from Gabe:

"Your blog domain is about to expire. Do you want to renew it again?"

I set down my phone, and let out a whooshing, melodramatic sigh. This is annual conversational territory for us, usually responded to with a half-hearted "I guess I should"...but after 943 days of my blog gathering dust, I knew I needed to either retire this space or return to make use of it (which would include deleting all the spammy love spell and fortuneteller comments I've passively allowed to populate the comments section for the past three years).

"Let me sleep on it," I typed back. Having known me for years, he deciphered my code: I'll procrastinate on making a decision and toss a coin in the morning.

My main dilemma was this: when I blogged regularly, it was an exciting season of life. Mysterious pen-pal, turned boyfriend, turned fiancee! Romantic trips overseas! Parisian proposal! Wedding planning! Becoming an expat! Solo trips to Rome and Prague!

But, life for the past 944 days has not been particularly full of those top-of-the-roller coaster, highlight reel moments one would take time to photograph and write about. Life now is a 6am goodbye kiss on the way out the door, a walk with the dog around our quiet neighborhood. It's the daily shooing of the cat off my laptop while I respond to work emails, it's dinner eaten while watching The Daily Show. And, if we're having a particularly wild month, a wine-tasting date night squeezed in between book club meetings and family birthday parties.

Gabe and I often talk about the funny contrast between our lives just 5 years ago, and our lives now. There are days we miss the excitement of not knowing exactly where life was headed, of genuinely needing to have our passports handy at all times. Honestly, I'm not even entirely sure where my passport is these days. Is it underneath that pile of crumpled papers from the DMV? Perhaps it's tangled among that ridiculous ball of outdated iPhone cables in the junk drawer? God only knows.

Note to self: suss out my passport situation, should life ever become exciting and sexy again.

But here's the real truth: while I miss the excitement of those days gone by, I like the predictably of this season in life. The way Gabe comes home every day between 3 and 5, and that he often has a bottle of wine tucked under his arm. That our pets run--meowing and barking--to meet him at the door. The way he sings that silly little greeting song we made up to sing to our pets while we kiss them "hello". How he clips a rose from the blush-blossomed rose tree he brought home one weekend, and brings it inside just to make me smile. Or the way he makes pancakes every Saturday morning, and knows exactly how I like my latte.

Or the fact that after nearly five years of marriage, we've just created a mutually agreeable laundry-folding system. If that's not a memorable moment, then I'll be damned.

These little memories deserve to be tucked away too, I decided last night. Someday I'll want to return to revisit them, to smile over these simple yet sweet days. After all, there's beauty to be found in even in the simple moments that others would rightfully view as fairly mundane, and I've missed taking the time to preserve life beyond just an Instagram photo and an attempt at a witty caption.

So, in an effort to succinctly update you on my now 30-something life, here's a rundown.

Life moments, in numbers, since early 2014

Moving trucks packed: 2
Pets adopted: 1
Jobs accepted: 3 (Gabe-2, Bethany-1)
Squabbles over boring married couple issues, like whether crockpots are safe enough to be left running while gone, or what date is appropriate for setting out fall decor: 17
Books read: 23 (approximately)
Cars purchased: 1
Peaches harvested from our backyard: Innumerable
Jars of peach jam I made: 11
Jars of hot jam dropped on the floor: 3
Businesses launched: 1
Laptops killed: 2
Children had: 0 (maybe someday we'll get around to it?)
Friends made: 9
Times I felt genuinely grateful to share a life with someone I like and love : 944

Well, then! That catches us up to speed quite nicely doesn't it? 

All that to say, hello again...and I'll be back soon. :)

1.08.2014

where i was when i wasn't here.


Throughout the course of 2013, my friends, family and the occasional kind reader would comment on my blog's radio silence...and ask if I planned to start blogging again. I never knew what to say, since the answer was not definitive, concise or logical. 

When we left Kuwait, I assumed that somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, a switch would flip and I'd be old Bethany again...ready to take photos, make stuff and write about regular ol' life in the US. I tried to start again, but just wound up staring at a lot of blank screens. In time, that creative self would simply click back on...right? 

But months passed and it just didn’t happen.
Instead of eager to start my creative life again, I felt confused about what I was supposed to do next. Frustrated that I'd lost a year of my life to a place most people can't find on a map. Disgusted with myself for gaining a bunch of weight. Nervous about being apart from my husband for seven long months, while he returned to the Middle East for work.

My mind just churned in one destructive circle as I attempted to restart life in the US, sans Gabe, and make sense of the life we'd quickly left behind in Kuwait.

Lesson learned: It's hard to restart when you haven't forgotten the past. 

Looking back at the whole year, it seemed like a failure, and so many negative messages snuck into my head. It happened slowly over the course of the year abroad and continued when I returned to the US. With each tiny perceived failure or flaw, a little note wriggled its way in:

“These pants don’t fit…because I am fat and ugly."
“I haven’t crafted or taken photos in months…because I’m not creative."
“I don’t write anymore….because I’m not interesting.”
“I just ate a cookie…because I cannot control myself.”
“My husband is working in Afghanistan, and I forgot to take care of this little errand he asked me to do…because I am a terrible wife.”
“I didn’t send a birthday gift…because I am an awful friend.”

Every aspect of my life played into these messages, and in time they became a chorus of self-fulfilling prophesies. Even if I had the best intentions to change, my mind would talk itself backwards with a, “Why start, when you’ll quit anyway? Save yourself the disappointment.”

Then, those little messages stopped manifesting themselves as attacks on character attributes or unfulfilled goals and instead became one big overarching refrain about who I was. Like a song on repeat, it was always playing, always rewriting any positive thought that happened to sneak through my dark mind.

“I am worthless. I am nothing. I am and will always be a failure.”

Oof.

That’s a hefty message…with a whole lotta baggage behind it. 

After a few months back in the US, my reaction to all this was to toss my feelings into a dark corner, even the few happy ones that were left, and operate as a numb robot for a while. Instead of processing all that muck, I threw every ounce of energy at losing the weight I’d gained abroad. Those 40 pounds followed me around every day…a nasty physical manifestation of where I had gone wrong, taunting me with every glance in a mirror. A constant reminder that I’d failed. 

I had to lose it...and I just knew that when the scale read 135 pounds, I would be whole. And so I walked. And sometimes jogged. I walked until the sun went down, peddled my bike anywhere I could. I ate healthily, hippie food and re-veganized myself. I wore yoga pants to real yoga classes. (I think my pants were confused.) All that control and all that movement felt so good.

One day, the scale read 135. But there was no magical feeling that life had begun anew. Or that I’d erased all my missteps from the previous year. I still felt all mangled up, tangled up inside.

One-thirty-five didn’t feel like enough, so I kept going. 133. 131. 130. 

And finally, the scale read 129. I rejoiced at the smallest number I’ve ever seen on a scale in my adult life, and that I'd done it all quite healthfully...but took note that once again no confetti dropped from the sky announcing..."a brand! new! Bethany!" It was just the same old me, same problems, same struggles, staring at my startlingly naked self in the mirror. And 129-pound-me still winced at her naked reflection, and at her lack of having life figured out.

I slowly began to realize this:

No number will ever make my life complete, allow me to love myself or solve all other problems I’ve created. There will never be a "perfect time" to change....and work on one’s self will never be finished. My body will never be perfect, neither will my personality, relationships, home or hobbies. There will always be room for growth and improvement, but growth can only occur long term when you have the grace to forgive yourself and the continued desire for something better.

It's time to forgive myself for falling down. Time to let it go. 

So, I made three resolutions for 2014. Two are unrelated to this topic. But, one of them is to forgive myself for my failures, perceived or real, and to stop negative self-talk. Thus far, it works. I acknowledge the negative message when it occurs, but attempt to replace it with a positive or realistic message about myself.

This sounds cheesy, I know, but it’s something I’ve gotta do. I am better than a life full of negative messages. I am worthy. I can be a success...if I get out of my own damn way.

So, now that I’ve shared where I was when I wasn’t here blogging…I’m nailing shut the 2012-2013 door. 


Here’s to 2014, friends. To starting new. To dreaming big and loving thyself…and other hippie mantras I learned in yoga. ;)

11.18.2013

a long distance advent calendar.


A few years ago, I made an intense advent calendar for Gabe. It involved 24 separate gifts, a mini-Christmas tree and lots of wrapping. Oh, and arranging it all in a box which could be shipped to Iraq for less than $50.

Ahem, overachiever.

But....now that we've been married for nearly two years, there's less pomp and circumstance in our relationship. Isn't that the way it goes? :) He'll be back in the US four days before Christmas, but will spend most of the holiday season in Afghanistan...so, I wanted to send a little cheer and make him feel remembered.
 
While perusing the local craft store, I stumbled on a burlap bag garland...24 bags on a lengthy string. The perfect little advent calendar. So, I popped down a few aisles to grab some faux greenery for $1.50 and a pack of scrapbooking numbers for $2.39.
 
Can you believe that $5 of sequined trim found it's way into my basket? So unexpected, I know. :)

 
The bags were dressed up quickly with a hot glue gun, the few items I'd picked up at the store and some ribbons from my craft hoard. Then, rather than spending money on tons of different candy or gifts...and since holiday activities aren't an option given distance...I decided to fill each little pocket with love and memories. I trimmed cream cardstock to fit the 2"x 3" bags, and then wrote out twelve things I love about my husband + twelve of my favorite memories together.
 
I kept most of my "memories" holiday related, and my "loves" were simply his most endearing qualities.

 
Into each bag, I slid one note and a tiny candy cane or mini Ghirardelli chocolate bar. (Ghirardelli has a special place in our hearts since we spent our first New Years Eve at the Fairmont Ghirardelli in San Francisco. And also, it's delicious.)
 
 
It's mushy. But it's such a quick craft and a great way to make someone feel remembered...especially if they're far away this holiday season. So long as you can list a handful of favorite memories and their endearing qualities, you could gift this to a far-away friend, your at-a-distance mom or even your kid who's off to college until right before Christmas.
 
A few suggestions:
 
If you can't find a burlap bag garland at your local craft store (I've spotted them at Beverly's and Michaels), but still want a rustic look...check Amazon for small muslin or burlap bags like these. The top of the back side of the bag can quickly be hot glued or sewn onto a piece of twine!
 
If you're a girl on a budget and fabric bags are too pricey, try a pack of small glassine envelopes or pretty kraft paper bags...both of which can likely be found at Paper Source, Michaels, etc. Decorate + number the outside, then just attach to twine with glittered clothes pins.
 
 
Also, this baby was a breeze to ship since nothing was perishable or breakable, and all the materials were very light. I just coiled the garland around a piece of cardboard and taped down both ends of the twine.
 
Ta-da.
 
Now to shop for a real gift for my husband. (Is it just me, or are men hard to shop for?)
 
P.S. Hi again. Thanks to the kind people who gently (or not so gently) nudged me to start blogging again. And to the person who called my mom to make sure I was still alive. ;) I attempted to write a post to explain my 5 month absence, but it was just so long. So very, very long. Eventually, I just said "Screw it, let's start by 'doing' rather than talking about 'doing'."
 
So...that's that. How are you?

6.04.2013

i'm home. and happy.


Over the years, I've written about my struggles with depression, an eating disorder and all the traps that came with living an ocean away from  home. When I was in that place, Kuwait specifically, there were some incredibly murky days. Days I never wrote about because the thoughts were too scary and private to put into words...but days where I almost gave up. I was so lost and exhausted with fighting to want to be alive. Although the words never crossed my lips, my husband seemed to know instinctively. And he carried me.

Then three weeks ago, I came home...back to the United States. And I am so happy. So happy that sometimes I just cry because I'm inspired or fulfilled...experiencing those emotions again always surprises me, since there were days I thought they were gone for good.

But all this happiness has left me thinking about the time I almost gave up. I remember being so ashamed that I wasn't living up to every inspirational quote that told me I was just a smile away from a good day. Or a well-intended but less-than-helpful reminder that someone else has it worse. Or a new article or book preaching that we all choose happiness. (Really? I tried to choose it. A lot. It lasted about two hours.)

I'm just going to say it: screw that. Because at some point, many of us walk through dark waters that are deep and murky enough that we might drown. We're just barely keeping our head above water and BEING! HAPPY! is such a far away thought--maybe not even a hope anymore. When the waves are battering you from every side, they can't be calmed by your choosing for them to stop. The only thing keeping us from slipping under are friends or family members holding our hands and telling us that ceasing to paddle is just NOT an option.

To anyone who is in that murky place: please don't feel ashamed...just keep paddling. Cry out for help and cross your heart you'll keep fighting. And when you can't paddle anymore, let someone else carry you. I know it's hard to believe, but there's a gorgeous shoreline in your future. Don't cheat yourself out of it...you want to get to shore, I promise.

Because when you do, it's pretty freaking amazing.
 

LinkWithin

Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...