I go to church

I am leaving my job this week. I started this job when I was 18. I moved to a new state, with a new wardrobe, in my old car and started working for something I knew nothing about (pre internet you just had to do stuff). And tomorrow is the first day of my last week. I am sad, excited, scared, and feel a sense of freedom. 

Here I have met almost every person I love, with the exception of those I am related to. Here I have had opportunities to meet neighbors and students that I would never have had the courage to meet. Here is where I have found my voice, found my footing, found my home. This job was everything for part of my life, then it was an important thing, and now it's a place I worked. 

When I moved to Arkansas there were five of us who worked to start up this new thing, four of us lived in the same building, and the person that introduced me to my church home lived next door. He was completely nuts, and completely kind, and completely one of my best friends after 2 years of being my neighbor. Before he left Little Rock, he took me to church with him, and it was there I found a community I did not know existed. 

We have established that I have crazy anxiety that can be crippling. I want to do so many things and often sink into the nothing that keeps me safe and is fueled by fear. When I went to church I knew I wanted to be part of this community. I wanted to know the people in the pews and I wanted to praise God here in this place. So I did. 

I was invited over and over and it was not until I was sitting at Betsy's house with my small group crying and praying that I realized I belong. Not because I was the hardest worker, or the one to say yes, or the one to speak her mind. I belonged because I was with a community that loved me, they just loved me. 

Today I sat in church nearly 15 years from the first time I visited, and a year and a half since quarantine. I hugged my church family, worshiped with my family, and cried as I listened to the sermon. I belong here, if I have ever belonged anywhere it is here. Part of anxiety and early childhood trauma is disassociating, not feeling you belong, or  wanted, or a part of something. It's like looking from the outside when you are standing in the center. 

Today though, I stood in the center and felt like I was in the center. The center of Christ's love, the center of my life, the center of where this long journey has taken me. Today a young boy stood in front of the church, next to his dad, and said I want to be in the center of this love. And today I mourned a kind man that was a church deacon and called me every month during the pandemic to see how I was doing. Not to ask me for anything, just called to chat and let me know I belonged.  

I am leaving my job this week, a community that I have loved and cherished for 25 years. A place where I grew up. And this week I realized that God has been at the center of that work. It's not something I talk about. It's not something I can or should talk about as the boss and leader, and it's true. God was and always has been at the center of the work. The center of the bravery. The center of the decisions. My work was my ministry. 

And though I will be leaving this job I loved, I realize it is not the work that gave me 25 years of friendship, love, growth, and belly laughs. It was my faith. A faith that I share with my family at Second Baptist Church. It seems fitting that the week I leave my job, the sanctuary opened. 

I go to church. I love going to church. I belong to a community that loves Christ, Loves Neighbors, and loves me. I am so lucky to have a life where God sees me, knows me, and gave me a place. 

  

Anxiety: A story about Christmas Cookies

I spent time with a gaggle of guy friends in High School. They were always at my house eating leftovers, (my parents are really good cooks), drinking Mountain Dew (my mom bought just for them), and watching cable. They were never boyfriends, maybe an unrequited crush or two. 

When you grow up chubby, with PTSD from early childhood trauma, and regular teenage anxiety you don't realize that these boys are at your house because they are your friends.  You think: "They come here because my mom always has junk food and Mountain Dew" "They come here because we have cable and my parents don't care if they say fuck" or "They come here and act like they are having fun and then leave and talk about you" 

One night when I was 16 and a senior in High School two of the guys who had graduated the year before (one that I could not believe was my friend because he was so handsome and smart, and the other I could not believe was my friend because he was so creative, mysterious, and kind) came over with a plate of Christmas Cookies and I hid in my bedroom. 

I was having a full anxiety attack and I could not face them. I did not have the energy to worry about what they were thinking about me, thank them for cookies, and wonder why I deserved this treat. I wanted to be invisible. I remember sitting on my bed crying hearing my mom tell them that I could not come out. I could hear the disappointment and questions in their voices. Two boys that I adored standing in my living room, a wall away from me, with a plate of cookies. 

I don't know if I ever talked to them about this night. I don't know what excuse or lie I may have made up on why I could not come to the door. I know I did not tell the truth, which was I couldn't. This was the first time I remember making a decision that was focused on my care and not the care of others. I needed to sit on my bed. I needed to breathe. I needed to be invisible. I needed to cry. This does not mean I did not feel guilt or pain as I heard my friends in the other room. But I did not get up. I did not betray my feelings. I sat. 

I was thinking about this story over the past couple of weeks as I was at my parents house for Christmas. I used to think that I would see those guys every year. That their families would live in the same town my family lived in forever. That we would all get together as adults. That's now how growing up works. 

I do wish that I had another night when my anxiety was not drowning me. When I could greet them at the door. When I could laugh and eat cookies that my friends made for me. That I could feel that warm belly feeling that the comfort and love of being with true friends gives you. That I could bask in the joy of being special enough to have cookies made just for me.

And, I will always be grateful for the winter night where I chose to honor my feelings. 

It would take years and hours of therapy to understand why I feel anxious often. It is a daily battle to remember that my anxiety can take time away from people I love, and can give me time to learn to love myself simultaneously. I am still learning to listen and untwist the lies that you tell yourself when you don't believe that you deserve the kindness you are being offered. When you don't feel worthy. When you can't get off your bed. 

So why this story tonight? I needed to be reminded that it's okay to sit. It's okay to stop and breathe and even disappoint someone, even if they brought you cookies. More importantly you deserve to be without obligation for a moment. Let's take our moment before anxiety requires us to. Let's find the kindness in sitting still and wrap ourselves up in it, and breathe, and wait. You have always been more important that a plate full of cookies. 

Oh and those friends came to your house because they liked you. They liked the leftovers, the cable, the Mountain Dew, and the ability to say fuck. But they also liked you and think you are kind and funny, and ridiculous in all the right ways.

Four years ago tonight!

Four years ago tonight I was excited. Around this time, I was headed to the Javits Center with my favorite people Trent, Rebecca, and Travis (yes I have more favorite people than just them, I hear you Kristie and Laura) and was going to an event that was designed by my friend Greg. 

That day had been picture perfect! It was a lovely fall day in New York, the trees were showing off all gold, red, and autumn brown. We spent a lazy morning at Laura's apartment and then headed across the park to the Natural History Museum. We walked through the exhibits with a sense of peace and excitement knowing that we were going to see history in just few short hours. We had a late lunch and then headed back to Laura's to change. I wore my best pants suite with my Hillary t-shirt. The shirt I am wearing as I type this. I remember getting in the uber and thinking I can't believe I get to see this! 

When we arrived at the Javits center we found Rebecca, Emma, Tom and Travis and headed inside. It was like being at Disneyland and Christmas Morning all wrapped in one, but better and more exciting. The Javits Center was BEAUTIFUL! We were right in front of the stage. We knew we had some time to wait so we made spot on the floor and checked our phones every 5 seconds. We talked, laughed, and made friends with the people around us. We talked about how amazing it was that we were inside. We cried in anticipation and joy, knowing that tonight was going to be something that our children's children talked about. 

Time and space made no sense after awhile. We were all checking websites and saying, "Nate Silver said..." The huge screens were showing the news and we saw states turning red one after another. I know that it sounds dramatic but the only word I can describe how I felt is despair. Here we sat in this beautiful venue, looking up at a glass ceiling and it felt like it was falling in on us. One by one people started leaving. We waited. When it looked like their was no hope, we left. 

We walked outside to what was going to be a street festival and looked like a ghost town. We found cab and went back to mid-town to drop off Rebecca and Emma and find pizza. We forgot that the Trump party was in mid-town. If we left a ghost town, we walked into mardi gras. People celebrating and streets blocked off. We found shitty pizza and sat inside and ate in silence with an occasional,  "Fuck" and "What are we going to do" mumbled under our breath.

It has been four years and I have thought about that night every day. I was so hopeful. Hopeful that we were going to have a woman president. Hopeful that the work would continue. Hopeful that America and Americans would not vote for a misogynistic bully. Before we left Laura's for the Javits Center, I remember Logan, Laura's son, saying we can't have a bully president. Then 8 hours later we did. 

At some point we went to sleep, got up, got on an airplane and went home. And life has happened in four years. The world did not end, but it got a little worse. Refugee children were stolen from their families, more black people were murdered by law enforcement, walls were built, healthcare for women was not a priority and was defunded, education has been privatized at a higher rate, the LGBTQ community has lost more rights. And some good things have happened, Trent and I got engaged, friends and family have had babies, I have had some amazing trips with old and new friends. 

But the despair of that night on the Javits Center floor has not left, endlessly wondering what will happen to us? I used to feel safe all the time. I know that is a sign of my privilege. In the past four years I have felt less and less safe every day. I feel like every day is a fight for justice. I feel like I am swimming in a pool of lies and I am constantly surprised by those who believe them. 

So tonight I sit in my Hillary t-shirt, eat chicken pot pie, and watch the West Wing. I have lived in worry. I have lived in despair. I have lived in a world where more and more, women and people of color are treated like less and less. I am not brimming with hope and excitement tonight. I have a small ember of hope deep inside and I keep it safe. Tonight that ember is glowing and I am hoping against hope that justice will win, and bullies will step down. 

Meteor Shower

Summer in the desert is made for night time. When I was in high school my friends and I would sleep most of the day and then have adventures at night. It was the 90's and we lived in a poor small desert town where at midnight the temps would get down to 100 degrees. We drove cars from the 70's and early 80's with tape decks and 8-track players. There was a freedom of driving through the dark desert night with music playing while the windows were down, the hot air stinging your face was both assaulting and refreshing at the same time.

One night in the summer of '94 there was a meteor shower. I was 16 and I remember thinking that night, that this is something, something special. We all piled into our shitty cars and drove out to the new housing development on the hill. The houses were being built and the roads were all newly paved. I remember being nervous as we drove through the streets where no one lived. I was always a little nervous about everything, but this night was different. I was not nervous about what I was wearing, or if I was cool enough to hang out with these people, or if I would ever find a boyfriend. I was nervous that I would not see or feel what I was supposed to when the universe opened up and that stars fell. 

We all parked our cars. As I got out of the car with my friends there were already people lying in the middle of the road. It wasn't a large group, less than 20. It was dark. I found a clear spot and laid on my back. The asphalt was warm against my skin. I looked up and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust, and then the sky started to fall, slowly, piece by piece. I remember breathing consciously and wanting to remember the moment.

I have no idea how long we laid with the warm asphalt on our backs. I don't really remember getting back in the car or the drive home, that part gets blurred into a 100 of other nights we drove circles around town not trying to get anywhere, but to simply be somewhere. I do remember the moment we had on that hill when I felt small, and loved, and safe and scared of all of those feelings. When the heat of summer was cooled by the falling nights sky. When my biggest worries and fears were washed away by a meteor shower. 

Tonight I am feeling overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by fear. Overwhelmed by hate. Overwhelmed by death. Overwhelmed by work. Overwhelmed by poverty. Overwhelmed by sickness. Overwhelmed by change. Overwhelmed by a culture that does not value justice. Overwhelmed with no where to go. 

And as I breathe, and breathe, and breathe, there is no meteor shower tonight to wash this feeling away. It is just me. here. now. 

Meteor showers happen when the earth burns up the debris that enters it's atmosphere, at least that's what google just told me. It turns cosmic trash into celestial fireworks. There is something beautiful about that, something almost healing. So tonight I will breathe. Tomorrow I will wake up and I will be my own meteor shower, I will let the light and life inside of me burn all the injustice I can. I will spark and flair. I will speak up and speak out. I will try to feel the safety of the desert night as I light up the sky. I remember what it feels like to passively watch a meteor shower happen and I ache to make change that lights up the night's sky. 

So this is 40.

The day I turned thirty I was sitting on the floor of SFO, headed to Chicago for my annual Birthday trip to see Kristie and all of my "Once a year friends", crying. I had lost all of my worldly possessions in a fire just a little under a year ago. I had been kinda sort of fired from my job.  And  I  had just got off the phone to find out I did not get another job that I had been a finalist for. I boarded a plane, went to Chicago and was whisked away into a trip of kindness, theater, singing, and laughter through tears.

This morning I woke up in a messy house, warm and snuggled next to two dog and the man of my dreams (honestly he is the man that I could not even dream because I didn't know that this much goodness existed in a person or that I could be loved like this.) I have a job that I love! I still have my once a year friends, who are actually Kristie's friends who are in Chicago and scattered other places, and I still sing and laugh through tears with Kristie.

When I turned thirty I was terrified of what my life would be. What job would I have? Will I get married? Will I have kids? I had plans, things I needed to accomplish in my thirties. I needed to become something, be something, do something. And the journey through this idea of what I should be was long and I was able to learn SO MUCH.

I eventually stopped crying on my thirtieth birthday. I got off the floor and got on a plane and flew to Chicago and at some point that weekend I decided that I was going to be BRAVE and BOLD. I did not know what that looked like but it was the motto of my thirties. I would often ask myself, "Is this decision Brave and Bold?" That is who I wanted to be in the world. This led to moving back to Arkansas, applying to my dream job, going to fat camp, meeting a boy that I had only talked to on the phone, and doing countless little things that made me nervous but eventually became part of who I am.

My Thirties were an adventure! I learned what my voice sounded like and how to hear it in all of the chatter. I went to a lot of therapy. I had two executive coaches. More people said yes than they said no. I made myself uncomfortable because that is where I grow. I fell in love. I lost people and dogs that I loved dearly. I took myself less seriously. I didn't have a baby. I watched my sister find happiness. I found people that are more than friends and I held on to them with all of the love I have in my heart. I was baptized in a church where I can be me and love the Lord and social justice and swear. I learned that nobody cares for you as much as you do. I paid all of the money and saw the original cast of Hamilton. I learned how to ask for what I needed.

And today I am 40. I don't know what the next 10 years have in store for me. I do know that I am less afraid then I was 10 years ago. I have a new adventure in front of me today. A new decade to fill with love, mistakes, learning and trying to do better than I have done. I am so blessed to live this life, and I want to honor all of those blessings. My deepest desire is to fill my life with laughter, kindness, and do everything I can to make a difference. I want to grow more, listen more, and say yes more than I say no to myself and to those around me.

So this is 40, and it's better, and I am better, and today that is enough.

Sometimes I get sad.

Mostly I live in a world that is unbelievable. I have these friends that are kind and smart and beautiful beyond measure. I am loved and liked. People care about me. And sometimes I get sad.

It's hard to describe this intermittent sadness and even harder to say, "I suffer from depression." When you tell people you feel sad they often come at you with phrases like, "It will all be okay" "Don't be sad" "Think of all you have to be happy about" "This will pass".  And they mean well because they love you and they don't want you to feel this way.

But sometimes that sadness sits with you. You think of happy things. You cry.  And if you are lucky you know eventually it will go away. Today though, it just rests in your heart. Right now it is resting in mine.

I have made the commitment to live my life with people. To share my thoughts, my stories, my emotions with others. Though I know it's a choice, it doesn't always feel great. It seems the older I get the riskier it gets. As I sit here thinking about sharing my story I am going through a list of people who could be reading this. And as much as I want to normalize mental health it is scary to say out loud, that sometimes my emotions are bigger than I can manage.

I am nervous about putting these words on this page, It's easy for me to diminish my emotion by comparing it the tragedy and struggle of others. I have so many privileges and my sadness does not seem equitable to the amount of privilege I am granted. Earlier this month I heard a lecture from the social justice warrior Bryan Stevenson who said:

“Sometimes we’re fractured by the choices we make; sometimes we’re shattered by things we would never have chosen. But our brokenness is also the source of our common humanity, the basis for our shared search for comfort, meaning, and healing. Our shared vulnerability and imperfection nurtures and sustains our capacity for compassion.” 


I want to sustain my capacity for compassion. So tonight, a random Saturday in July, I share with you that sometimes I get sad. Sometimes I get so sad that my belly hurts and tears fall from my eyes and I can not move off the couch to do the dishes. Sometimes I think about how my life would be different if when I was 4 years old someone didn't hurt me. Sometimes I fall into the arms of my significant other and let him hold me and remind me to breath until I can see clearly again.

I want to be strong, brave, and full of compassion. I want to see people, hear their stories, and be part of the system that makes change. I want this overwhelming sadness to turn into relentless energy that allows me to be part of the solution. I suffer from depression.

"our brokenness is also the source of our common humanity, the basis for our shared search for comfort, meaning, and healing."

When you are not a Mother on Mother's Day.

I don't remember having a lot of dolls when I was little. I had lots of stuffed animals, my glowworm and teddy bear Snuggles were my favorite, but I wasn't really into baby dolls. My sister was more of the mothering type. I was a bit more non-conventional  in the love and care I showed the little furry make-believe lives I was entrusted with. I often spoke to them as if they were grown, I did not baby them. I depended on them to help me do things, from listening to my rants about how unfair my parents were for making me clean my room to mandating them to be part of the class as I  played teacher and my messy room was my classroom.

I am blessed to have been in lots of kids lives. I have been a tutor and mentor at work, I have led small groups and helped with children's activities at church, and I have always been connected to my friends kids. I am a Godmother, official and unofficial aunt, and it fills my heart with joy when I hear one of "my girls" call me Miss Sarah. But, I want to be a mom.

I am 38 and the desire to be a mom seems to grow a little stronger everyday. I say this not for pity or for people to tell me how great I have it because I am free of the responsibility of parenthood. I don't say this to publicly push the person I am in love with to want the same things I want at the time I want them, I say it because it's true. I want to be a mom.

When I tell my friends or family that I want to be a mom they often say things like, "Oh you can have mine, ha ha ha" or "There is no way you could do what you do and travel as much as you do with a baby". Sometimes I will get the heartfelt, "I understand, being a mom is my favorite thing." That is the response that resonates. The person who sees me as mother, someday.

Tomorrow I will call my mom and wish her a Happy Mother's Day and tell her how grateful I am to have been raised by a person as loving and kind as her. I will call my sister and share in the joy and delight that is my nephew who was so longed for and is so loved. I will be on facebook and I will find joy in the posts of my friends who are being told what amazing moms they are and what amazing moms they have. But tonight, I will sit in my living room and I let my mind wander and my heart hurt all the way down to my belly.