lisa99460

[lisa99460]

There is a profound emptiness that comes with waking up from anesthesia remembering that the surgeon who shook your hand that morning just removed a dead baby from your uterus. Pardon my crass story telling style, but if you’ve lived this story, which I pray you haven’t, you understand that there’s no gentle way to talk about miscarriage.

I warned the nurses that I have a tendency to come out of anesthesia either sad or angry. I had never, however, gone into anesthesia both sad and angry. Waking up was worse than I imagined it would be. Three harsh bright lights and an operating room set to below freezing.

The anesthesiologist asked me why I was crying (and that’s why she went into anesthesiology.)

One of the nurses answered for me:

“She’s just really sad.”

“I can’t believe it’s really over.” I added.

When they wheeled me back to the room I had been waiting in, I continued to cry as I saw Joe.

“It’s really over. It’s like it never happened.” I don’t know why the surgery made me feel this way.

Joe told me:

“Before today I never thought our relationship could get any stronger, but now I know that it could have, and it did.”

I loved him so much harder than I ever had in that moment. And he was right. There is both a sickening sense of relief and a renewed sense of fear that comes with living through something you thought would kill you.

Quite literally, two months ago when I told a friend I was pregnant, I told her that I would “literally die” if anything ever happened to this baby. And while a part of me did, there’s an even bigger part of me that is still very much here. And hopeful.

It’s harder at night, mostly. I picture the doctor’s face as she rolls the ultrasound probe over my belly. The gel wasn’t even warmed this time. I picture her biting her bottom lip and squinting (never a good sign when someone is doing your ultrasound, FYI) I remember her saying “it’s just really hard to see...”

“What are you seeing?” I asked her, what felt like maybe a million times before she finally told us.

I remember wanting to cry but I couldn’t. I just asked questions, like I was a student eager to learn.

“Why does this happen?”

“How does this happen?”

“What percentage of pregnancies does this happen in?”

“What are the odds this will happen again?”

As she answered, I realized I wasn’t even listening. Her mouth was jumbled as the nurse came in and gave me a pair of mesh underwear to put on (a fine way to add insult to injury, by the way.)

On the way home, I thought about all the plans we had made. The gender reveal set for February 8th. The daycare tour I had set up for the end of the month. The registry items I had already saved in a list on my phone. I thought about that time I told my friend that I would die if this ever happened. And then when we got home and laid down, both Joe and I agreed:

“We will try again.”

Reading that statement the rational side of me thinks “ARE YOU CRAZY? AND RISK GOING THROUGH THAT AGAIN?” And the emotional side of me channels all the love we had for that tiny baby that I carried for almost 12 weeks and imagines it multiplied times infinity coupled with the sensitive realization that I didn’t have before in my naive state of early pregnancy: none of this is guaranteed. But all of it will be worth it.

It has only been 6 days. 6 days that have felt like a year, but 6 days nonetheless. Physically I feel back to normal, which is a new kind of pain as your body quite literally forgets your pregnant and your boobs suddenly fit in your bra again. Emotionally, I am being gentle with myself. I am doing my best to accept that this was a trauma, and spending most of my free time on psychologytoday.com trying to find someone to process this with.

The day after my surgery Joe and I went to Jordan’s Furniture to buy stuff for our new apartment. The salesman that helped us (picture a 40 year smoker with the strongest Dorchestah accent you’ve ever heard), asked if we wanted the warrantee on our new leather couch:

“You’s guys got kids? Nah? Not yet?” (Insert the knife and twist it a few times)

“Maybe in 2 years, say you’s guys got kids, the kid spills somethin on the couch- you want the warrantee.”

All I’m thinking is: please Dave, please don’t tell me we have to wait two years for this baby.

“We’ll take the warrantee” I tell him quickly without even asking what sort of robbery they’ll charge for it.

Dave then tells us he’s going to be a grandfather in February. I feel the knife going back in again.

“My daughter tried for 5 years. This is the first one. It’s always special to get a grandkid but it’s even more special because it took her 5 years! Boy, can you imagine?”

I suddenly don’t feel the pain anymore. After the 30 seconds of jealousy I felt towards Dave’s daughter who I literally had never met before- I felt nothing but happiness for her and hope for our own family.

Yesterday I told one of my clients that pregnancy is the most anxiety ridden time in someone’s life. She didn’t know the experience I had been speaking from, but I think she knew I wasn’t just saying that hypothetically. This is still raw, the fear is still there, but I’m choosing to focus more on the faith that got us here in the first place.

People say that miscarriages cause you to feel isolated and alone, but of all the things I’ve felt over the last 6 days- I have never felt more supported in my entire life. I hope that if you’re reading this and you’ve suffered a pregnancy loss yourself, that you talk about. Either to a therapist, or to me, or to anyone who will listen. You’ll see that when you open up, others open up too. And the loss of a baby is a terribly tragic thing to keep to yourself.

[lisa99460]

I wrote a post about suicide and I’m not embarrassed to talk about it. You?

Statistically, I spend anywhere from 40-60 hours per week talking, thinking, and writing about suicide. If that number seems shockingly depressing to those of you that crunch numbers in front of a computer or maybe those of you that work in childcare jobs surrounded by mostly happy children; rest your minds...I am not broken by this. In fact, I love what I do. I recognize that suicide is not a sexy topic. It’s not the highlight of any dinner party and it isn’t the topic cover of any magazines, but it’s important. And it’s real.

Alas, I don’t know if it’s a culmination of a long week at work or a long 4 years of being exposed to this heartbreak over and over and over again in my career, but the news of Kate Spade’s suicide is really weighing on me. I didn’t know her personally, nor did any of you. In fact, before my career in psychiatry, I was fortunate enough to say that I’ve never known any one personally who’s attempted or completed suicide. A lot of what I have read of the media coverage of Kate’s life is what actually propelled me to write this in the first place. The headlines are heavy:

“Fashion mogul takes her own life amidst hidden marital problems.”

“Legendary designer commits suicide leaving world stunned.”

Nowhere in the media did I see this reported for what it really was:

“A human being suffering. Period.”

I wonder if she had talked in the months and years before her death and if anyone was really listening. I don’t ask this in an accusatory way, but rather in a way to make us all think about the ways in which we ask questions. Have you ever caught up with an old friend you haven’t seen in ages? The questions are pretty standard, written as a script almost.

“How’s work?”

“How’s your husband/wife/boyfriend/girlfriend?”

“How are the kids?”

“How’s the house?”

We usually lead with a quick informal “how are you?!” But then we jump. We jump into the questions about other people. We see the person across from us overcome by a sense of relief. Phew. Deflected. The opportunity to talk about others’ well-being fills the scary gap of potential of almost having to talk about ourselves and how we’re doing.

We are not our jobs. We are not our relationships. We are not our children and we are not the roofs we live under. Yet still, those questions are easier to ask and easier to answer.

Why though? Are we afraid to be too honest? Are we afraid to be too vulnerable? I know for myself, I’m afraid to tell the truth. Sometimes I’ll meet my friends after work. I’ll get to the table and the conversation will be light. Someone is talking about a first date or a recent vacation and they’ll stop to politely ask me how my day was.

“I saw a patient who had a really serious suicide attempt and watched his/her parent cry in my office for an hour.” I want to say, but I don’t, too afraid to suck the life out of the room. Instead I say the generic:

“It was fine!”

I wonder if Kate had coffee with a friend recently and said she was “fine.” Maybe she was afraid to tell the truth. Or maybe no one asked?

Let’s commit to getting deeper with each other; to getting real, honest, vulnerable, unafraid of being too dark or too sad or too boring. Let’s ask the real questions:

“Are you happy?”

No?

“Do you need support?”

Yes?

“What’s making you happy?”

Now for all of my none clinical friends reading this. I know what you’re thinking:

“Lisa don’t you dare show up at the bar and try to Sigmund Freud me while I drink my rosé .”

Relax. I’m not going to. I recognize that light conversation is healthy, and normal, and fun. I want to be all of those things and I want those things for all of you but all I want is for us to also be honest.

Suicide is not a dirty word. I talk about it all day, almost every day. Even when I leave work, I read interesting articles about it or watch interesting documentaries about it. I want to learn as much as I can and understand as much as I can so that I can help as much as I can. And you can too.

You don’t have to study it. You dont have to go back to school. You just have to listen. Really, truly listen.

If you know more than 6 people, statistically someone in your life is struggling right now is struggling with depression or anxiety. Maybe it’s you. Maybe it’s a parent. Or maybe if you’re like me you’re fortunate enough to feel happy right now. If you are: that’s wonderful. Now use that gift. (Yes, happiness is a gift). Use it to help those who aren’t as fortunate. Together we can talk about hard things. It doesn’t have to be embarrassing or shameful.

We have to. For Kate Spade, for Tim Berling (Avicii), for Chester Bennington, and for the thousands of other names we didn’t publicly recognize this year who have lost their lives to suicide. We have to talk about it.

It’s okay to not be okay.

It’s not okay to stay silent.

[lisa99460]

365.

When I am caught in the tundra of January, I try to remember what life felt like in July: sitting in my car, my heat soaked face full of caked on makeup pressed against the air conditioner vents yearning for anything even slightly resembling the cold. Disconnected by only six months (and what feels like a million degrees) the two points in time feel isolated; the cold cruel air biting my face convinces me that the latter never existed. How could it have?

This is what happens with happiness, too, I think. When we are in the midst of something difficult, the burden owns us. The monster creeping up from under the covers swallows us whole before we can even get out of bed in the morning. The light comes up through the window flashing a glimmer of hope and then suddenly it is dark again; we are buried with no escape. The opening we once crawled into sewn shut by our own minds. But when things are good? When we are happy? The covers lift themselves, propelled by springs on the mattress inspired by that same flash of light in the window that we once hid from.

I don’t believe in New Years resolutions. I go to the gym year round. I don’t peg a calendar with a certain day by which I will lose a certain number of pounds. I keep a close watch on how I am treating others and adjust accordingly when I am not being the person I know I am capable of being, even when it’s not the year end. But I do believe in goals. At the beginning of 2017, I set a goal to know myself better by the end of the year. I turned 28 this year and while I’m constantly reminded by anyone even a month older than me of how young I am- I couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that there were things about myself that I needed to learn on a deeper level. By my early 20’s, I learned more about my career path, what I wanted to “be when I grow up” and how to get there. By my mid 20’s, I had a good sense of who I was as a friend, as a daughter, and as a sister. I knew I was dependable and a good listener and that I didn’t know how to change a spare tire or sew the hem on my pants (thanks mom!) and by my late 20’s I learned I would never be the kind of girl who lies about liking sports to impress a guy (mainly because I tried so many times and failed.) But still- what else was it about me that makes me, me?

I started small: do more things alone. Baby steps: going to the mall alone instead of waiting for my friend to get out of work and come with me, staying in on a Friday night fighting against the current of the pressure to go out, taking a writing class with a bunch of strangers. Excelled with flying colors. I made friends in the Sephora line, I read aloud in my writing class and strangers became familiar week after week. Then in June I went to Spain alone. Trip to the mall alone → trip to Europe alone. BIG JUMP. I don’t really know what prompted it- but looking back, I think it was fear. I think I knew that I didn’t speak a word of Spanish beyond “despacito” and that being thrown into a different culture where even my hairdryer didn’t fit in [to the wall] would be eye-opening.

On my first night in Barcelona, I got locked out of my airbnb at two in the morning and I couldn’t communicate with anyone to ask for help. I was holding a 10 piece chicken mcnugget because it was the only place I could get food by pressing buttons on a screen using pictures instead of having to order in another language. I was fighting back tears as a man walked by and all I could say to him was “Hola. American” (as if he couldn’t tell) Luckily, he knew a gentleman who lived in the building and within minutes I was in my bed, peacefully aware of my safety and appreciative for those moments before when I was uncomfortable and afraid. The rest of the trip went smoothly and better than my wildest imagination could have predicted, but that first night- that was the cold cruel January air biting my face and the reason I traveled alone in the first place.

When I got to the airport before my trip, I found this little wine bar through the international terminal at Logan that I never knew existed. It was dark and intimate and sort of made me feel like I had already gotten to Barcelona before even getting on the plane. A friendly looking blonde woman sat down next to me and neither of us had our faces shoved into our iPhones which I took to be some sort of miracle occurring on earth and so I asked her where she was headed. Toronto for a conference. She just finished grad school for her Master’s in education and was also planning her wedding. I told her I was heading to Barcelona by myself for a few days, just to get away. She was unassuming in her response- talking about how great it was that I was traveling alone and how she wished she had done more of it in her 20’s. I got the feeling that there was something hiding behind the stonewall of friendly airport conversation and as she packed up to head to her gate she left me with it.

“I was engaged to be married once before too, when I was your age. We were going to honeymoon in Europe. He called the wedding off and I never went. I’ve still never been. I really hope you have an amazing trip by yourself.” She lingered on the last part of her statement; by yourself.

And there it was: the proof that we are all so alike with our ability to inspire others with our truths, yet we spend so much time clinging to our secrets; the connection that we try to avoid with tablets and headphones and rushing by with our heads down.

And this is sort of sums up how 2017 has been for me. I know more than ever now who I am, and to be honest- I really like her. Beyond a friend and a daughter and a sister and someone’s colleague- I am a truth teller. I am vulnerable and not afraid to be so and I am never a stranger. I am a deeply feeling person and I cry at news articles and songs and all of the Johnson & Johnson commercials and other people’s wedding photos and I’ve come to accept that about myself. I feel things for other people and I carry them, too, but this year I’ve learned I need to ask for help to hold them so I don’t get worn down. I am relentless in many ways- in my search for happiness and in my newfound knowledge of what that means. I am wiser in my expectations of what I deserve and resolute in my refusal to settle on what is not meant for me. I am tired but I still give and I have dealt with things that should have made me harden but at my core I am still soft. And that brings me back to the conclusion that I am brave and even if I am only that- I am at peace. 

Happy New Year, wishing you all the same in 2018.

[lisa99460]

Annual well-check.

365 days older & wiser.

I know we say this every year- but this year, I actually feel it; it’s skin deep- down to my core. I am wiser. The learning curve began on my 27th birthday. I sat in my office at work with the door closed, fighting back tears as I took pity bites of the donuts my colleagues brought me just to get something in my stomach. The night before, I received some less than pleasant news. I woke up that morning, newly 27 years old, wondering if it was possible to actually cancel your birthday on account of inconvenient timing. 

“Not a good day, universe. Scratch the whole celebration thing please.” Alas, I walked into a room full of donuts and cards anyway. The air of celebration actually potentiating the air of devastation.

But that was then.

In five short hours, I turn 28 years old. While I believe that birthdays are about celebration (more donuts tomorrow, please)…I also know that they’re more so about growth. Like how children go for their annual well-check to make sure they’re physically on track, I use my birthday as my annual well-check to make sure I’m on track with who I want to be compared to who I’m actually becoming.

Review of my chart shows the following, a text received today:

“Happy Birthday, Lisa. You are in such a different place personally in one short year. It is so great to see you happy.”

There you have it folks, got the affirmation. All done!

Just kidding, there’s more.

I remember what I wished for last year as I blew out my candles: the ability to be happy again. 

I realize now that I kept it simple for a reason, the idea being that I actually felt so shitty on this day last year that really anything else I could have wished for wouldn’t have made a difference.

Review of my chart, also shows the following:

Saturday night as I was out celebrating, a friend pulls me aside.

“You look great.” She says. Knowing that she’s the kind of friend who sees well beyond outer appearance, I know there has to be more. I wait.

“You look different. Like you’re glowing. I can just tell you’re really happy.” She finishes. I just hug her. I’ve never had a birthday wish come true until this last one. 365 days ago I wished to be happy again. It sounded simple, but at the time, it really felt impossible.

“I love you for noticing. I am happy. Really and truly happy.” I tell her.

It wasn’t just the passing of 365 days that got me here, though. 

Although my wish was simple, the process was anything but. I had to do a lot of work this year, work that at times felt cruel, work that at times made me wonder if it was easier to just stay the same because trying to change felt like I was crawling out of my own skin at times.

In year 27, I had to learn that I was capable of forgiving people that had no business receiving my forgiveness. Not to toot my own horn or anything, but I knew that I could do this one; being the girl who forgave her estranged father for walking out of her life when he resurfaced 21 years later (High five, 21 year old Lisa! Killin’ it!)

This time felt different though. This time I had to give forgiveness to a part of my life that didn’t have 21 years worth of time to heal. I don’t remember when I did it, either. In fact, I remember a lot of times this past year when I still felt really angry. I realized that anger is something we hold onto when the thoughts come up that are too painful to sit with. It’s like we know if we acknowledge them they’ll make us feel sadness or disappointment which are downright terrifying emotions so we feel anger toward them instead as a way to excerpt control over them.

But in year 27, I had to learn that I didn’t want control. I just wanted to let go. And that I did.

In year 27, I had to learn that contrary to feeling as if I wanted to wrap my heart in that fun little plastic bubble wrap and never let another person influence my emotions for the rest of my life, that life is really all about connection and if I did that, I might as well be gone.

In year 27, I had to learn that connection not only takes work but it takes risk that may eventually yield a reward far greater than the potential of pain. 

In year 27, I had to re-learn self-worth. This one was the hardest. 

I didn’t really know where to start and then three gin & tonics down, my friend suggested I start by writing a pretend eulogy for myself. I remember thinking it sounded pretty morbid but like I said, three G&T’s later and even writing your own eulogy sounds like a good idea. 

Guys...spoiler alert: nothing makes you realize how badass you are until you pretend you’re dead and write a list of all of the really nice things you hope people would say about you. Luckily for the sake of this blog post, I still have it in my phone. I’ll recap briefly in an attempt to not make my mother cry.

Lisa’s [alive] Eulogy

“Lisa is the kind of person who walks on the side of the street where the sunshine hits her face. She does this because even if it seems small, it may be the only form of self-care she gets for the day, and she values that. 

She has a big heart, too…her tenderness extends to strangers who are lost on the T, to her patients, to her friends, and of course to her family who she credits for everything she is. But most importantly, Lisa loves her life immensely. 

She has a true understanding of how precious it is and how short it can be and she knows that things can change in an instant. Because of this, she knows that every day is one to be appreciated and that nothing should be kept inside. What a waste if it was, she believed. 

She made it a point to tell people how she felt, be it a compliment to the person in line in front of her at Starbucks or a really difficult conversation with someone she was close to. She took the risk because she knew the only moment that mattered was the one she was guaranteed, and not a minute after.”

I don’t know about y’all, but what I learned this year is that I really love the person I just described, so it really doesn’t matter if you do. And this is how I relearned my self-worth.

A year ago, I never imagined I would be where I am today (on the couch dipping broccoli bites in ranch dressing…lol jk, but not.) I won’t lie though, while I’m happy to have gotten here, I sort of hope 28 is a little easier on the personal growth side. 

If possible, I’d like to just kick my feet up and float instead of treading water, but I guess the beauty is at least now I know I’d never drown, because I finally have it down:

Who I am What I stand for What I don’t What I’ll settle for, and what I won’t.

[lisa99460]

Solo Uno.

On Friday night I returned home from Barcelona. I took the trip on a whim, by myself, after thinking about it for all of 30 minutes before booking it. I wavered back and forth about whether or not it was a good idea and continued to ask myself that question until I got off the plane. I wrote the post below while laying on the most beautiful beach in Costa Brava when the answer had finally become clear. It was not only a good idea, it was the best idea I’d ever had.

“Solo uno.” I tell the waiter who insists on putting down a second place setting at the table where I am sitting. I already told the receptionist this as she walked me into my hotel room where there were two bathrobes on the bed and two pairs of slippers on the floor.

“Solo uno.” I told her, as she took away the second robe and slippers.

“Ah! Brave girls in estado unido.” She says; her Spanglish cracked like an egg, but she is trying. I nod and smile. I just spent 10 minutes to explain that I wanted an iced coffee only to end up with a shot of espresso with an ice cube in it and so I am not trying anymore.  

She looked me up and down, glancing at my tattoos and then at my outfit, not hiding the fact that she was doing so while rolling her eyes. A common trend that I had noticed amongst Spanish women, a complete lack of fucks to be given. I respect it, I decided early on in my trip.

I think she was wondering why I was in yoga pants and why my hair wasn’t done but I convinced myself she was staring at me wondering how the hell a 27 year-old girl from the States ended up in Begur, Spain by herself. Gotta tell you guys…not sure how I ended up there either. What I do know is I drove two hours down the highway laughing as Siri tried to dictate directions to me by butchering the Spanish street signs with her horrible robotic accent, so I guess that’s sort of how I got there.

I just walked down 105 stone step to get to Platja Fonda. The view at the bottom looked like the scene from Game of Thrones except with neon green-blue water, or, as Tula calls it when she selects a polish color at the nail salon “greenish mixed with a little bluish” Case in point, it was unlike anything I had ever seen before. The woman at the hotel explained to me that Platja Fonda and most of Begur had been taken over from Cubans who settled there. Many of the large “castles” I saw on the beach were made of red clay stones and bricks that were crumbing. They were uninhabited for years but they looked full of life to me, like the cracks were actually mouths with years of stories waiting to be told.

I’m suddenly floating in the same green-blue water that I had been looking down at. The water is colder at Platja Fonda, in comparison to the bath water at La Barceloneta beach. It is so crystal clear that I look down and can see the goosebumps on my legs. Every once in a while the sun reflects off the water and creates an illusion that looks like a neon green laser zapping the sky. It is blinding but it is beautiful. I look around and realize there is no one else here and suddenly I feel like I’m on the island from Cast Away. In theory I had been “alone” all week but this was the first time that I had truly been alone. Salted tears come down my face and I can’t tell where they end and where the Mediterranean begins. It doesn’t matter though; in that moment we were one.

I imagine someone is looking at me and wondering how I could be crying in such a beautiful place. I would tell them I am crying BECAUSE I am in such a beautiful place. Not just this physical place, but just in life; I am in such a beautiful place. Last year at exactly this time in June, I was not in such a beautiful place. I was sleeping about 13-14 hours a night, some nights before the sun even went down. I felt defeated, anxious, and was doing anything I could to avoid the majority of my life because I hadn’t liked the way it turned out. I don’t talk about it much to anyone because I don’t like to remember that I ever felt that way, but being in a place like Platja Fonda where I felt so alive and appreciative reminds me that I have to talk about the other times, too. Remembering a time when I felt alone made me appreciate more the choice that I had made to be alone, here, in Spain. 

I don’t talk about that time in my life very much, but last night I talked about it with Patrick and Andrea, a young couple from Ireland that I met when they were seated at a table behind me on a quiet outdoor patio at Hotel Aiguablava. They were with their adorable 8 month old daughter, Alice, who naturally…I was waving at (to be fair, she was waving at me, too.) Fast forward six hours later, two bottles of wine, and two plates of Crepes Suzettes and we were finishing eating dinner together. We talked about traveling, our families, our childhoods; we talked about really hard times and then really good times. We talked about enjoying life because it’s short and even though I just met them I knew they were special because they weren’t just saying that to sound like they had perspective on life- they really meant it.

I could hear the waves crashing at the beach next to us and I had one of those moments again when I knew I was in exactly the place I was meant to be. Begur, Spain…the random beach town I had found, the outdoor patio I sat at, the table I chose; I realized none of it was random. We erupted into laughter as Andrea asked me to do my best “Bahstan” accent. I repeatedly inserted the word “Dorchestah” into sentences as she belly-laughed into her glass of wine. She asked if they would be in my blog, and also if Alice would be in my blog, and I said of course they would, as their connection was so much so the meaning behind why I chose to travel alone.

I got back to my hotel at the end of the night and the silence was penetrating. I thought about all of the people I had met that week and all of the places I promised to go visit. I thought about how before I took this trip my therapist told me it would be life-changing and I didn’t really believe her but I nodded anyways because she’s basically a genius and I’ve been nodding in agreement to everything she has said for the last year and it’s worked for me thus far.

I came to Barcelona alone. Like, really alone. I said “solo uno” so many times that it began to feel natural, it began to make me proud. Mind you this is coming from the girl who picks up my best friends to come along for the ride when I go put gas in my car. I don’t do things alone. I put out the energy that Dr. Berger had encouraged me to put out: this trip was life changing and I was ready for life to change.

And then I met TJ, who was traveling alone as well after going to his friend’s wedding in London. He was from New York and we connected instantly on being two east coast kids from the states randomly introduced in a foreign country. We had dinner on a rooftop terrace followed by pitchers of sangria and then we roamed the charming streets of Barcelona until 4 am. We found an Irish pub when we were tired of the sangria and drank beers as we sang loudly (and terribly) to the acoustic cover band playing “Wonderwall.” We went to the beach the next day and had drinks again the next night.

TJ went back home to New York and we vowed to keep in touch, vowed to visit and half-heartedly but maybe seriously joked that we would meet up in a foreign country again next year. Then the next day I met Paige and Corey while on a wine tour, two girls about my age traveling here from Denver. The wine tour became pitchers of sangria over dinner that night and life talks about our families and hopes and dreams followed by night out and a drive to the beach the next day where we floated in the ocean and had talks that felt surreal in a setting that felt surreal. We continued to reiterate to each other that there were moments we had to pinch ourselves because we didn’t believe we were really there. There was so much to soak in and so little room left in me to add more memories and more emotions. When we parted we vowed to keep in touch and visit each other. Spending time with them felt like spending time with old friends and it both amazed me and saddened me that I had only met them 48 hours before and that I had not known them longer.

I came here alone, and in theory, I was alone, but what I realized was that when I was finally okay being alone, all of these amazing people came to me with an almost magnetic force. Like they were meant to be a part of this journey with me. Like I was constantly in the right place at the right time.

“Solo uno” I said to the waiter at breakfast this morning. It is the last morning of my trip. TJ is home. Paige and Corey are back in Barcelona before heading home, and Andrea and Paddy are continuing their “holiday” down the coast with little Alice. He puts down a second place setting, again. I wonder if he doesn’t understand me so I gesture for him to take the other setting away. He looks at me puzzled and so I let him leave the place setting. I think to myself that maybe he has never traveled alone and that maybe he should and then he will stop putting down extra place settings in front of people who are trying to eat a meal by themselves.

I finish my day by driving up the coast to the spa at Mas Ses Vinyes. I don’t even know what that means but doesn’t it just sound beautiful? I find it and it is a hidden oasis again made of red clay buildings nestled behind lush green and bright pink flowers. They tell me Noelia is my masseuse but she is late so I must wait by the infinity pool. They tell me this as if they are sorry about it and I laugh. This place is serene as can be. My skin is still glistening with salt crystals that are saved on it from my swim this morning. The landscapers are drilling lawnmowers into the grass next to me and I am so still even that sounds like a lullaby.

A week ago, I came here alone. Tomorrow I am leaving alone, but I am in the best company. “Solo uno” I say again, when the masseuse greets me and asks if it will be a massage for one or two. This time I just smile.

[lisa99460]

The company we keep.

What I know: it’s hard being alone. What I also know: it’s good to learn how to be alone.

I just took a spin class alone, and now I’m sitting at the B.Good on Boylston street alone. I’ll go home alone, and then get into bed alone, by default…I’ll wake up tomorrow, alone.

A few months ago, the thought of being alone was the tipping point for me. I had just gotten out of a serious relationship, I had nowhere permanent to live, and I had forgotten how to spend time with myself, mainly because I no longer recognized myself.

I went from my mom’s couch, to my car (cried the entire drive to work), got my shit together just enough to get through the day, and then texted any friend I’d ever had from kindergarten through college to ask what they were doing.

“Can I come sit on your couch? I just don’t want to be alone right now.” I asked, pretty regularly for a month or so. I felt like this was pretty normal, given the breakup, given the fact that a girl needs people to sit around and talk shit with…you know, people who care about her at a time like that.

It was great, for a while. I reconnected, I made new friends, I went new places. It lasted a while and then all of a sudden, I was exhausted. I was spending money, I wasn’t sleeping because I was staying out and awake as long as possible to avoid being alone at night, and I could sense everyone else was growing tired too.

It felt a lot like it does when someone dies. Everyone is there during the initial grief. They’re bringing you casseroles and walking your dog and cleaning your house for you. Then the wake and funeral passes and suddenly your fridge is empty again and there’s dust collecting on the shelves. And there’s no one there to clean it, and the person you lost is still gone. Where the hell did everyone go?

But you’re there. You’ve always been there. You just forgot how to be alone for a while.

This is what happened to me. My friends started to go back to their busy schedules with work, school, babies, and just laying on their own couch, by themselves, without my sad sorry ass laying on the other end. I didn’t blame them for it. I didn’t want my ass to be sad, or sorry anymore, either.

I wanted to be myself again. Except I knew that becoming myself again would mean being by myself again. I had to start small.

I started to drive to work without the radio on which quickly lessened the chances that I would find myself crying to Kid Rock and Sheryl Crow (you’d be surprised how fast that one gets even the strongest of people.) I went back to spin class again, by myself, and after, I went to get dinner, also by myself, much like I’m doing right now.

When I first sat down in Sweetgreen, alone for the first time in months with my own thoughts, I felt like I was on display. I glanced at my phone, then at the book I brought to read, then at everyone around me. They must have been staring at me, I thought. They probably felt so sorry for me, sitting there alone, wondering why I wasn’t with someone. Then I looked at all of their faces, carefully enough to be discrete but close enough to really see them. They could be lonely too, I thought. They are all together, but they could be alone.

Suddenly, I didn’t feel alone at all. I felt strong. I chose to be alone. Maybe not at first, but when I accepted it, I was learning to celebrate it instead of ignoring it. Don’t get me wrong, I knew I could have avoided it. I had 3 dating apps on my phone and I knew if I wanted to I could have swiped right a few times and never have to be alone again. But that’s not how it works. That wouldn’t bring me back to me.

So now I’m sitting alone and I’ve just written about how hard it was to be alone and honestly- I feel like a fraud because I’m so content being with myself that I can’t even remember ever being afraid about it.

And I guess that’s the beauty of it all. When you’re in it- you can’t imagine what will happen on the other side. It’s dark, and you’re tired, and if you’re like me- you can’t eat, so you’re weak. You wonder if you’ll ever be happy again, if you’ll ever feel like you have enough.

The other day I watched my little nephew waddle around the playground. It was a beautiful sunny 70 degree spring day and since he’s just learning to walk, he stumbled a few times, but he got back up, often clapping when he did. He popped out from behind the playground structure as my mom said,

“Where’s auntie?! Can you find auntie?”

He spotted me and with a huge smile on his drool-soaked face, he said “boo!”

I had never smiled so hard before. I remember thinking in that moment, how did I ever wonder if I had enough? I have so much.

He waddled away again, only to pop back out so he could find me, again. And this went on for what felt like an eternity.

You can lose yourself, momentarily. Even for a little longer than may be healthy. You have the right to do that. You can dwell in your own sadness. You can cry alone in your car and annoy your friends every night. You can survive off only a few bites of Ben & Jerry’s a day for a few days at a time until your appetite comes back. You can do all of that. You can lose yourself, but you have to come back. You have to find yourself again.

Just then my nephew came back for his last “boo” before moving on to his next conquest. He had lost me repeatedly, but he always came back. He always found me. And I’m so happy he did. I’m so happy that I found me.

In this moment I am alone, and I’m so happy with the company.

I think I’ll keep her.

[lisa99460]

I want time.

Some days I want to quit my job and be a writer. If I mention this and people say “but you are a writer”, I get it, I write. So I am a writer. But some days I really want to be a writer; I want to have a mind with some vacancy and the space and the time to fill it up with pages and pages of beautiful words. 

I want to sit in a coffee shop that’s far away from my home and not worry about running around the corner in 20 minutes to change my clothes from the washer to the dryer on the one day off I have a week to do my laundry.

I want many days off, uninterrupted, uninvaded by tasks and appointments, and worries about bills piling up. I want those days to be spent writing. I want days more than I want nights. I have nights, but they’re useless. They’re filled with long train rides and treadmill runs that all feel uphill after a day of work. 

They’re nights of grocery shopping, and cooking, and filling up Tupperware containers to the brim for the next five days and if I could just be a writer, I could prepare all of my meals the day that I actually want to eat them. Imagine?

My nights are not my nights. My nights are not when I can sit still to write. My nights are when I process the day; what made me sad, or what made me happy, what made me remember why I still actually love my job despite the fact that I am writing this. I do, love my job. I just want to write. I just want time.

I want time that is mine and mine alone. I want time that is not shared with to-do lists and time that my work cannot selfishly steal. I want my work to stay at work and if it can’t I want to be able to tuck it away in the back corner of my mind so that maybe my time can become more my own when I am alone.

I want mental freedom and dimly lit  libraries and notebooks filled to the brim. I want 40 hours a week of 40 hours a week where I am free to come and go as I please, and speak as I please, and jot down words as I please.

Some days I want to quit my job and be a writer. I write, so I am a writer, and I get that. But I want time. 

Imagine?

[lisa99460]

The flame that burns us.

The flame that burns us is also the same flame that warms us; the same flame that comforts us and heals us. Before I understood this, I wondered why we keep putting our hand over the flame even though we know it feels hot.

I knew there had to be a reason. I knew that we didn’t just get up; that we didn’t just show up for nothing. I knew that regardless of the wounds that we do this because we know it’ll be worth it again, when the scars are so lightly faded that you have to look real close to even remember that they’re there.

Lately I just can’t be sure. I put my hand over the flame ever so slowly but then I pull it back, because I don’t know what exactly I’m seeking from it. Do I keep going until I feel the hot glow below my skin or does the fear of being burnt make me turn away? Life’s great balancing act, I’m sure of it.

But that’s not exactly true. I was never much of a balanced person. I was always more of the “jump-right-in-no lifejacket on-maybe I’ll sink maybe I’ll swim but either way I’ll get my feet wet” kind of person.

I’ve always taken pride in living life with my arms stretched wide, saying:

“Come at me. I can handle it.” Whatever it is, however much it hurt, however much I had to lose, I welcomed it.

I thank my mom, mostly, for raising me to know that this is okay. For leading by example and showing me that no matter how terrible something is that happens to you, if you just keep getting up and showing up, eventually something not so terrible will happen. Then, after that, maybe something sort of good will happen, and maybe after that something really great will happen and it will make you not only forget about the terrible thing that happened but it may even make you grateful for it.

This year though, I questioned at times if I wanted to keep living that way. I came face to face with a few painful moments where I thought to myself that maybe the risk wasn’t worth it anymore. Maybe the act of taking off my armor and handing it over to someone and saying  “Here. Don’t you dare make me regret this” was just too risky after all.

And then last night I saw the movie “Collateral Beauty” and here’s what happened:

A father lost his young child and continued to grieve so heavily for years that he was missing the remainder of his life. I spent the first few scenes watching him mourn and thinking to myself that maybe I didn’t ever want to have a child because I’m not sure I could bear the pain of ever losing one. Then in one scene, on the day his daughter died, a woman in the hospital said: “Just make sure you notice the collateral beauty.”

One of the supporting characters went on to talk about idea of collateral beauty and how a year after her child had died, she was on the train and noticed people smiling and laughing and noticed that the sun was shining and that there it was: the collateral beauty, the light after spending so much time in the dark, the connection to other things and people that made the pain worth it.

The quote was as follows:

“You’ve been given a gift. This profound connection to everything. Just look for it, and I promise you its there, the collateral beauty.”

There it was: Connection. The reason why I knew that I had been wrong for questioning if I wanted to keep showing up. The reason that casted a shadow over the fear that something could go wrong again. I decided to start looking at this past year through that lens instead, through the lens of collateral beauty and connection. I decided to try not to see risk and potential for loss anymore but instead to see growth. I decided to see the rebirth, the new beginning and the lessons that have come along with it; to see the chance to do something differently next time, and to know that in order for that to happen, there has to be a next time.

I’m deciding to try again this year, to show up regardless of what happened in 2016, not because it will be easy but because I know that the most challenging things in life give way to beautiful things. I’m deciding to identify with connection over loneliness, love over fear, and living over simply existing.

There’s the collateral beauty. There’s the reason why we keep putting our hand over the flame, why we trust in something that could both burn us and comfort us- because both are necessary, vital, unavoidable parts of life. Unless of course, you choose not to live. Unless you choose a life without connection, without risk, because the fear of being burnt is greater than the desire to feel warmth.

That’s your choice.

I’ve made mine.

[lisa99460]

Let’s try this again.

From birth, the human body has been trained to protect itself from painful stimuli. We have receptors that fight off harmful intruders, we have layers upon layers of skin that serve as a barrier between our delicate skin and the heat that is sometimes given off from this cruel and unforgiving world; and at birth we are immediately placed into the arms of another human being as to say:

Protect me. Hold me. I know that this is the easiest day of my life and it’s only going to get harder from here and I’m not sure I can do it alone. Teach me. And while you do, please keep me safe.

I wish we knew in that very moment, while taking my very first breaths of life, that some of the most beautiful and exonerating experiences I would ever have would be born from some of the most painful and terrifying ones.

But we can’t know that then. We can’t read about it, we can’t hear it from the mouths of others and believe it to be true. There is no number of self help books or Coldplay songs that can spare us from the painful moments of life, the moments where the layers of skin between us and the heat are not nearly enough- we will get burnt, on our own, no matter how tight someone else holds us.

I remember being 12 years old and coming home from school hysterically crying. My awful hair-sprayed bangs were soaked with sweat from walking up the hill and my chubby little legs survived as a souvenir just as they did every day before.

“He called me fat.” I cried to my mother. To be fair, I was fat, but there were only a handful of people who were allowed to call me fat: my pediatrician, and my two older brothers. This time was different. This time I had finally found the courage to walk up to the boy I had been pining over and hand him a letter detailing my inner most thoughts. I was the most sentimental, poetic, hopeless little preteen romantic and more importantly, I was brave.

I looked in the mirror that morning before leaving for school, extra roll-on glitter accentuating my cheekbones and my nicest powder blue eye shadow on. I didn’t see fat, I saw strong. I saw beautiful, confident, and worthy and I knew that this was not the effort of my 12 year-old self-esteem but rather of my mother who had consistently told me I was all of the above.

But now I was angry. She was wrong. I was not beautiful and worthy. I was fat and he had told me so. The boy that I had put the roll-on glitter for told me and because he was not the person who’s arms I was placed into at birth to protect me, he must have been telling the truth. My mother on the other hand, must have been lying.

“You lied to me!” I cried to her.

“I am not beautiful! You just had to say that because it’s your job! The words echoed.

There it was. The projection that would pave the rest of my life: it was her job. She was the layer of skin between the heat in the world and my naïve heart. She, someone else, was responsible for my comfort, emotionally and physically. She was never going to tell me that the most popular boy in the school was not going to receive my love letter well.

She was not going to tell me that teenage boys were awful and cruel and would not find me pretty because I didn’t meet the standard small frame requirements of the other girls my age and the mannequins in the clothing stores. I was “pretty-plus” and because it was my mother’s lifelong duty to keep me safe she was not going to tell me any of those things and instead would tell me that the “plus” meant I was just extra pretty. God, she was good.

I will never forget the way I felt when I learned the truth on my own. Not just the truth about the reality behind the “plus”, but the truth behind all of it; the cruelty of other kids, the cruelty of rejection, the cruelty of life itself. I will never forget the sting, the equivalent to pouring rubbing alcohol on the rawest scraped knee.

I learned that day that it didn’t matter what anybody told me, it was going to hurt, eventually. Things were going to hurt and there wouldn’t always be a barrier between that hurt and my heart.

[lisa99460]

This, or something better.

“This, or something better, please God. And thank you in advance for the future and for the present. Amen.”

These are the words I say to myself every night before I go to sleep. Sometimes I’m talking to God, and sometimes I’m just talking to whoever will listen.

Before this, I used to ask God for specific things, things I wasn’t sure if He wanted me to have but things I thought I needed. I prayed for certain people and certain things to come back into my life after He had already removed them for a reason. I prayed for them anyway. It made me angry when He didn’t give them back to me. Picture a child at the playground waiting for a turn on the swings, huffing and puffing and stomping his feet impatiently. That was me, every single day.

“What gives?” I would wake up and ask God every morning. I was praying, and I was going to work and helping sick kids, I was being a good friend, a good daughter, I was doing everything right. I held the door for people. I gave my seat to old people on the train.

Why wasn’t He listening? I asked through my childish huffs and puffs.

About a month ago, it hit me.

He was listening just fine, and He was answering. I just wasn’t hearing what I wanted to hear in return so instead I heard silence.

He was doing things for me, too. He just wasn’t doing what I thought I needed Him to do, so I thought He wasn’t doing anything.

I went to bed that night feeling guilty for my lack of appreciation and decided it was time to change my tune.

“I’m so sorry I kept asking you for things that you knew I didn’t need. Thank you for removing them from my life. I trust that you did it for the best and that you will bring me something better.”

This, or something better.

Then, things started to shift. I went to work the next day and I just felt different.

“How are you doing? You seem better. You seem happy.” My coworkers would say.

“I am happy.” I would want to answer. Except I didn’t even have to say the words. I just smiled and it said enough. I just smiled and they felt it.

Night by night, I went to bed and said the same thing:

“Thank you. This, or something better. I trust you.”

And I meant it. I didn’t at first, I used to just repeated it like the lyrics to a catchy song, but now I really meant it. I trusted Him.

Things started to shift. People started reaching out to me with opportunities that I knew weren’t coincidence; I knew I had to be attracting them. I knew it was because I deserved them and I could learn from them.

I started meeting people, too. Everywhere: on the train, in the grocery store, in a bar, in the hospital while I was in the Starbuck’s line. I just started talking. Some were colleagues, some turned into romantic interests, and some just friendly strangers. But it worked. It was like I had the hottest new fragrance on and it was a magnet for opportunity and the tool I needed to attract newness.

What had happened? I kept wondering. What did I do to deserve all of this positivity?

Last night I had the pleasure of hearing Gabby Bernstein speak. She is a New York Times bestselling author who recently released the book, The Universe Has Your Back. When I heard the title, half of me wanted to laugh and roll my eyes but the other half of me, the half that needed to hear it, deeply believed it.

Her words resonated deep beneath the surface:

“When you think you’ve surrendered, surrender more.”

This was it. THIS is what I did to deserve the positivity that was following me. I surrendered.

Every night when I went to bed and stopped asking for the things that I thought I needed, I surrendered my control. Every night when I went to bed and told God that I trusted him, I surrendered.

And I meant it. I knew I meant it because I felt it. It was real, and when you feel things that are that real, other people feel them too.

The Universe has my back, lately. Thank you, universe. Thank you, God. Thank you for removing things from my path that were simply taking up space. Thank you for removing people from my path whose hands were too small to hold my big heart.

Thank you for planning something better for me than I could ever imagine. Even if I can’t see it from where I’m standing, I trust that it’s there- hiding just within reach.

Every conversation I have with someone new, I see a glimpse of it. Every time I smile and attract opportunity, I see a glimpse of it. Every time I go to bed at night and wake up the next morning, I see a glimpse of it.

I know it’s there.

This, or something better. I’m ready for it.

[lisa99460]

The only way out, is in.

I can hardly keep anything down right now.

Emotionally, that is. The words and the feelings just keep coming up, whether I like it or not; they’re spewing out of me so quickly that I just had to duck into a coffee shop with my laptop to get this out.

I am writing through the pain right now. And it. Fucking. Sucks. (There usually is no place in my writing for curse words, but when you’re writing through the pain there are no rules.)

Sunday night I found out something that hurt me deeply. I don’t need to go into details, because those close enough to me already know what happened, but I need to share this with the rest of you, because I need you right now, because I’m being strong enough to admit that.

In the last 48 hours I have felt a range of things from betrayed to angry to downright pathetic. I have felt like a fool, like a raging bitch, and then I have just felt sad. I’ve felt it all. Oh, and yesterday was my birthday.

I don’t write this to excerpt pity from you. I’m writing this so I can write through the pain. I’ve accepted already that there is no way to escape this. Since I don’t do drugs to numb things like this and I’m strong enough not to dive into a new relationship to ignore my pain- I’m stuck with it. I belong to it and it belongs to me. There is no easy way out. The only way out, is in. (Thank you Junot Diaz- I love that quote.)

But if there’s anything I’ve learned over these last few months, it’s that pain does something to you. Sure it makes you lose weight all while simultaneously feel like you’re constantly carrying around a boulder on your back while walking up hill (even when you’re just laying there), but it does something else to you. Pain makes you soft.

I am not an angry person. 

At my core, I am loving, and graceful, and genuine. People tell me this all the time. They tell me that just being around me makes them feel better. They tell me that I make them feel calm and comfortable when there is chaos going on. I hear this at work, i hear it from parents of patients who are in the midst of crisis, I hear it from friends and family, and sometimes I even hear it from strangers.

Calm is my identity, and I’m missing it right now. 

This is where pain has no space in my life.

I have no room in me for grace when pain takes up so much space. Still, I know I have to feel it right now.

The irony in this is that although this pain is making me feel so weak- I see through it in glimpses and I feel strong. I feel strong that I am walking into it instead of shying away- I feel strong that I am not burying my pain in the chest of another person and depending on false happiness to make it go away. I am not a coward, and I know that there are easier ways to handle pain, but I know that the easy way out almost always inevitably leads back to the pain you chose to ignore. Pain never goes away until you face it head on.

I can hardly keep anything down right now. That’s why this is so raw. I sat down to write it and I had the intentions of making it pretty and eloquent, I wanted the words to flow nicely and the paragraphs to be shapely and the feeling to be calm. Instead, I hope you can sense the strength through my words. I know there is anger, and sadness, and a lot of defeat, but if you’re reading this, I hope you know that I am writing this because I am strong.

Pain is temporary. I know this. I have been in pain before. Each pain is different, but it always eventually ends the same way.

I know I will feel like this for a while. I will look pale for a few more days, and tired. And I will be tired, too. I will lose a few more pounds, which may seem unhealthy now but in a few weeks when I’m back in the gym and I can see a few abs poking through before I even start working out, I’ll be happy about it. I will wear my hair in a pony tail for a few more days, too, because I don’t have the energy to lift my arms over my head continuously to use a curling iron, and I know that people will notice but I won’t care because I won’t have the energy to. I won’t laugh as much and I know that people will definitely notice this because this goes against who I am and what I stand for, but the beauty is this will pass.

Pain is temporary. It always is. And it is SO predictable.

One morning I will wake up and I will feel hungry again. Like actually hungry, to the point where I will eat something and enjoy it. I will decide to do my hair again and I won’t feel exhausted after and I will likely even go out after work and enjoy myself. It won’t happen overnight, but I know it will happen again. Because as pain is predictable, so is the ending of pain.

I will be thankful for pain, once it is gone. I will be thankful that I felt it and I will be thankful for it to leave. Pain will leave me a little differently than I was before it, but the beauty is that it will never leave me the same.

I am growing, right now, as I write through the pain. I am growing when I am sad, when I am angry and when I lay awake at night.

I will never be the same person that I was before pain.

I will be better.

I will be better than the person and the situation who caused it, and I will be better to others because of it. I will love harder, and deeper, and more genuinely. I’m rolling my eyes at myself right now because it seems impossible that I will ever love again, but the old me who has felt pain before and come out of it knows that isn’t true. I will love again.

I will be a better friend, a better daughter, a better sister, and a better human being in general because pain has made me soft.

I will feel more for others, and I will feel it deeply, just as I always have. I will have empathy for others who are in pain, even for strangers.

Although I will say it again- it Fucking. Sucks, but it won’t be the end of me. It won’t be the end of any of you, either (incase you’re feeling pain right now.)

Pain is always temporary, it’s just how you choose to handle it that determines if it makes or break you.

I refuse to ever let pain break me. I may be ready to embrace it- but I am here, and I am raw, and I am writing through it.

And that’s all that matters.

And because I’m hurting, I’m cool with being honest. There’s something liberating about feeling like you have absolutely nothing left to lose so you throw it all out there. I wrote the poem below a few weeks ago and I was going to keep it to myself but I shared it with someone I deeply respect and he urged me to share it with the world. 

So here you go world, thank you for sharing in my pain with me. I can’t wait to share my joy again too.

“Then you realize that this was never really about him, anyways.

You slowly start to see pieces of yourself fall back into place. You're smiling again, and you're eating healthy. Hell, you're just EATING again, period. You start to sleep through the night without waking up staring at the empty space next to you. You even roll over into the space, claiming it as your own now.

Your friends notice you're smiling again. You don't notice it- because you're trying so hard to not cry when a memory comes up, but it doesn't matter- they notice it. People notice it. It's real and it's happening and you're smiling and that's all that matters.

You find yourself fixing your hair and putting on makeup. And even though you don't want to talk to a man right now it doesn't hurt when one smiles at you and notices the effort you put in. That effort hasn't been there for a while and it's nice to know it's worth it.

You're not only getting up and going to work- but you're thriving. And people are noticing. People are complimenting you on your strength and the way you hold your head so high during tough times that you forget you ever felt weak. You forget you ever fell down.

Of course, you have moments. You have moments where you think of him and wonder where he is or what he's doing and wonder how it ever got so bad that he became a stranger. You wonder if you ever really knew him at all. You have moments, but on the scale of life- the moments of courage far outweigh these moments.

These moments are the moments where you're born again. These are the moments where you put two feet down on the floor each morning and step out of bed- not just because you have to, but because you want to. These are the moments where you come home from work and choose to be alone- even though it's new and foreign and uncomfortable but you choose it anyway, because you know you are your only constant in this world. You know you are your rock.

And then you realize, this was never really about him, anyways. This was almost always, most definitely about you. This was about you and the battle you fought within your self to hold onto a man you thought you needed without realizing that you really only needed yourself. This was about you and the courage to embrace newness at a point in your life when all you wanted with familiarity and content.

This was about you and your future that is far from familiar but so promising and so unforeseen but you trust it anyways. You trust that wherever you end up- with whoever you end up- that it doesn't matter anyways, because it was never about them.

This is about you.”

[lisa99460]

Time stands still?

I’ve never taken a physics class in my life- so this may be complete and utter bullshit, but I swear there are times when the hands of the clock defy the laws of motion. (If you’re going to tell me that clocks run on batteries- shh, I’m writing here.)

I’ve separated my life into two seasons as of recently. The first season is the season where the hands on the clock seemed to stay still, like stagnant- dead weight, literally not moving at all no matter how hard I stared. The second, is the season where the hands wouldn’t slow down, almost as if they were offering me some sort of belated gift for having moved so slowly when all I wanted was speed.

In the first season, I felt like certain things would never be again. I remember waking up and looking at the clock first thing and making note of the time.

“6:30.” I would get in the shower, and get out.

“6:40.” I was so angry at time for only passing 10 minutes by.

I wanted nothing more than to move forward. Gone was the longing for slow, still days. Slow days meant existing in a reality that I wasn’t willing to accept- still meant the only thing left to move was my own self. I was in a place where I just didn’t want to face that, so I cursed the slowness and slept through the stillness.

Some mornings, I slept for an extra 10 minutes just to close my eyes and know that when I opened them, the clock would have moved again. And at nighttime, I went to bed an hour earlier to do the same.

I don’t know how long I spent here, because ironically I wasn’t keeping track of the time- I was just wishing it away.

Before I knew it, I was here.

Here is a place where the clock gives back to me. It’s as if time knows that I’m using it more wisely now and we’ve decided to be in a mutually exclusive relationship where I appreciate it and in return it’s spewing out minutes and hours so fast that I’m exhausted at the fullness of each day.

I’m not sleeping enough in this season.

In this season my body feels tired not because I’m watching the clock but because I’m not even looking at the clock until I climb into bed, an hour later than usual, because I was writing, or reading, or drinking a beer with a friend on a Tuesday because I HAVE TIME ON MY SIDE and hell- when you have time, you drink beer, and you do it whenever you want to, and you don’t watch the clock because you know the clock is watching out for you.

You know that time is on your side.

Yesterday was the 15th anniversary of September 11th. I thought to myself,

“How have 15 years gone by so fast?”

I know that yesterday, I was thinking from the perspective of someone in the season where time is flying by. You know those people, the ones who get on the phone with a friend and say,

“I can’t believe it’s already September!”

But yesterday there were thousands of people who probably didn’t feel that way.

Yesterday, there were thousands of people who probably feel like they’ve just lived the slowest 15 years of their lives, and are onto to the next slow, painful 15 years, until they live enough 15 years in a row to reach the end where they can go and see their loved ones again.

Yesterday made me think about time: how we perceive it, how we fight it, how we wish for more of it- and more importantly, how we spend it.

Time, as it turns out- will go on anyway, regardless of any of the above. 

If we think the clock is dragging, time passes. If we think the hands are flying by, time passes. If we think “I’ll just wait until I have _____ and then I’ll ______”, time passes anyway.

All around us, in every season, for those of us who wish it away or those of us who can’t seem to find enough of it- time passes.

I’ll never get back those months I spent cursing the clock. I’ll never get those 10 minutes I spent in the morning with my eyes closed or the hour of extra sleep I spent hiding from the world back. 

It makes me sad in a way to think that, because that was time I spent alone. That was time I spent wishing time away when there are people who would beg for time back if they could.

I don’t know quite where to go with this, but I do know that I have time to figure it out. All of it. This blog, this night, this month- this life.

I have a lot of time, or at least I hope I do.

I hope I never again have a season where I wish time away.

I hope time knows I forgive it for going so slowly when I wanted it to pass. I hope time forgives me for wasting it away; in it’s precious and invaluable state.

I hope you use yours wisely, whatever you do with it- however you perceive it,

I hope you know it won’t always be there.

and because of that, I hope you use it.

[lisa99460]

Heroes & heroines.

ENOUGH.

I’m not going to tell that story anymore. 

I think this is the best possible outcome of any story- when we realize we've been telling a story that longs to be rewritten, one that feels stale and unchanged. And then we do something about it. 

There are chapters that we’ve been sleeping on. Chapters that have gotten so hot that they’ve melted like wax seeping into our brain and if we don’t do something about them soon it could burn the house down. We've spent so long replaying and re-telling it, over and over again, not noticing our audiences faces growing old and wrinkled with redundancy as they've heard the same lines before. 

Each time we choose to tell that same story, we choose to become that same character again; we choose the version of ourselves that is broken, worn down, and disheartened. Each time we tell that story, we keep it alive. 

We have to choose when we want to close the book. We have to choose to stop telling the same story if we ever want the story to end. Sometimes though, we don’t choose when this happens- and it chooses us, when we least expect it, when we think it will never come, the cover slams shut.

You see, as much as we are the tellers, we are the authors as well. We invite a new beginning, a new "once upon a time", a new title even.

We capture our audience with excitement and that excitement eventually replaces the sympathy. No good story teller wants the audience to leave feeling sad and sympathetic. When we decide we are done telling the old story that we've been telling, we transform ourselves from the old character into the heroine. 

The audience begins to admire the strength needed to tell a new story, to abandon the old version that we could have told a million times which would be easy except it would never change the ending- it would never bring a new beginning. 

Sometimes, the next page is blank. Our audience is waiting and we have to tell them something, anything. We're on the spot and forced to come up with something good.

And that's where it begins: you open your mouth to the chance to tell a story that hasn't yet been written, even though it would be so easy to retell the old.

 Nobody wants to hear the old story anymore, you decide. YOU don't want to hear the old story anymore, either. 

You know how your audience feels- tired, bored, longing for content that isn't going to leave them feeling like they've been spinning their wheels waiting for the plot twist that is never going to come.

That story has ended. The ink has run dry, the characters have died. There is no editing left to be done, no sequel even, it is finished.

Only when we decide "I'm not going to tell that story anymore", can the next story begin. 

Enough.

[lisa99460]

“Self-love is an ocean.”

Things have been sort of hard lately. But mostly, things have been good. I’m pretty tired- but tired is good. Tired used to mean that I was just doing a lot, but lately I’m tired because of the quality of the things I’m doing.

Lately, I’m doing a lot of really hard work.

Last night I went to my second Buddhist meditation class. I don’t know how to determine whether one is “good at meditation” but let’s just say the first week I was making a grocery list in my head the entire time and this week I actually remember the content of the meditation. So I don’t think I’m quite ready for Bali yet, but I think I’m improving.

Last night’s teacher said something that struck a chord with me:

“The whole world is really just made up by our minds.”

Fact.

It’s easy when something happens in our life to label that event as “bad” or “good” but what happens after that? The association is there, the emotions follow, and then the memories shortly thereafter. If we are quick to label the event as a bad one, the aftermath is generally bad. But what happens when we use the power of our minds to decide what happens next?

The truth is- it matters not what happened but how you choose to think about it.

You always have the control.

I’m going to use a very honest example from my own life. I’m not going to do this because I love sharing the depths of my soul and personal life with the internet, but because I’m a writer and I know that no good writer succeeds without honesty. I hope that by sharing, I may be able to help someone who feels out of control right now.

I recently got out of a relationship with the person I thought I was going to marry. I really don’t know if I lost him forever, or if it’s just a passing season in my life- but regardless of God’s now unknown plan, it hurts in a way that I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy.

In the beginning when the breakup first happened, I let my mind control the healing process. I decided that this was inherently awful and painful and there was nothing else I could do besides feel sad and miss him. 

I let that happen for about a week, and then I realized that when I trained my mind to stop thinking of the negative- it was so much easier to think clearly about things. (Go figure.)

I started to think of this as more of a lesson and less of a loss. I didn’t lose him. I gained a lesson. 

When I could begin to see what the lesson was, I started to admit to myself:

I lost myself in my relationship. (…that’s hard to even type.)

But on the promise of being honest- it’s the truth. And truth is never something to be ashamed of.

I went from being the strong-willed independent spitfire who used to thrive off of being alone to this shell of myself who could not be recognized by my own self, and  let alone my boyfriend at the time. Of course, no one person is responsible for the outcome of a relationship but I can take ownership as this part being on me. It's not blame, it's ownership. It's how we avoid making the same mistakes twice.

It didn’t happen overnight, but by the time I noticed it was happening, I was too entrenched in the webbing of my own emotions to crawl out. Instead of trying to build my way back to my old self, which I knew would likely mean being alone…I latched on harder to the relationship because it was the safer option, because I was afraid to lose him.

Don’t get me wrong, this is someone that I love deeply. And that was never a question. That part will always be real.  I just didn’t realize that I had to save some of that love for myself. I’ve always been a caretaker by nature- a doer, a giver, a listener.

So why wouldn’t I have done the same for the person I love? I thought that the more I gave of myself, the more that showed love.

Please don’t ever let anyone make you think that is what love means. Don’t ever fool yourself into thinking that by loving yourself it means you love others any less.

Love is a balancing act; it is an act of being able to love yourself enough to know that your significant other needs you to be whole. He or she doesn’t want you to give yourself entirely away to the relationship.

I told myself, he didn’t fall in love with a fraction of who I am- why did I think it would be sustainable for him to continue our life together with anything less than the whole?

Nobody ever deserves the burden of feeling responsible for your happiness- nobody besides you gets the pleasure of creating and maintaining that.

I’ll keep the details of what happened next to myself, but in short: things just imploded. The relationship had been nothing but supportive and loving. There had been no real arguments, no disrespect- no warning signs that I could see with my blinders on.  I felt hurt and confused.

That lasted a brief while, and then I began to feel something new. Something that people don’t usually feel after they go through a breakup with someone they love:

I actually felt okay.

I felt like I was given a second chance, maybe not in the relationship- but in my relationship with myself.

I had to relearn myself all over again. (Ongoing, for the rest of my life, FYI…)

“Hi Lisa…

What makes you happy? What do you like to do? What makes you get up out of bed every morning?”

I made myself answer those questions, whether written down, or aloud- to myself, every morning.

The answer could not have anything to do with my past relationship, or with my future regarding relationships. The answers had to be things that no one else could influence or take away from me.

I began to discover that I really missed spin class, and how happy going to class made me. I discovered that I missed walking down the street to get a salad after class;  I missed simple things like connecting with old friends who I saw at the studio.

Those things make me happy.

I love to write, I remembered. I really, really, love to write. It’s harder sometimes, but it still makes me feel like me.

I love my job. I don’t remember the last time I felt so happy to get out of bed in the morning as I do now that I get to come to Children’s every day. It drains me some days, but I never drag my feet coming to work. And I know a lot of people can’t say that.

I started running again, even when I didn’t want to. I started appreciating those little side cramps and really feeling the sweat pour down my face. I really love that feeling.

I began reflecting more on my family and how lucky I am to have them. Especially my mom, who I never planned to live with at age 27 but generously, took me in for the short term.

I started having really difficult conversations with friends; conversations beyond weekend plans and the weather- I started having conversations about what scares me and what hopes I have for myself, conversations about what I hope for them and their lives, without censor. (They felt brave enough to tell me that they were worried I had lost myself in my relationship, too, and I felt grateful that they are honest and forgiving people.)

I couldn’t have known what was going to happen in my relationship the day it started. But now that I do- I wouldn’t change a thing. I would like for it not to have ended- but I wouldn’t do it differently regardless.

Why? Because I needed this, although that sounds like something nobody would ever think they need…I needed to love and lose.

I needed to lose myself to see how important I really am, to see how essential it is that I never, ever, lose myself again. Not in a relationship, not in my job, not anywhere, ever.

I needed to hold onto someone else so tightly to learn that I can never let myself go again.

I needed to realize that loving myself and taking care of myself is invaluable, irreplaceable, and essential- it literally will make my world go round.

I also needed to forgive myself. I needed to let go of the notion that I had made a mistake, that I should have done things differently. That maybe if I had been more self-aware I wouldn’t have lost the person I love.

That notion is false. That notion is impossible to even consider because I chose to see this as a lesson instead of a loss.

And how do we learn lessons?

We try. We try the only way we know how until we know better. And when we know better, we do better.

I am going to do better, next time, in my next relationship, whether it is with the love I had to let go of or the love that I have yet to meet- I am going to do better because I have learned this lesson.

I am going to do better because I am going to spend this time of growth in a relationship with the one person who truly needs my love right now; me.

I am going to continue to learn about myself, to do the things that make me shine even on the days when I want to do nothing at all. I am going to be so good to myself, to not only make myself whole again but to keep myself full, full of love for myself and full of the ability to eventually be able to give just the right amount of that love to someone else.

Love comes into our lives in different forms. Sometimes, it comes in at the wrong time- but if it is truly meant to be yours, nothing can keep that love away.

They say that love is meant to change you, to challenge you, and most importantly- to help you grow. While it didn’t happen in a way that was most desirable, I can smile when I say that love has done just that for me.

Although it hurts some days, I appreciate this period in my life.

I appreciate the opportunity to grow, the opportunity to learn from it, and the opportunity to try again, whenever that time may come.

I never thought I would say this. But I am thankful for this hurt.

Never say never.

“Self love is an ocean and your heart is a vessel. Make it full, and any excess will spill over into the lives of the people you hold dear. But you must come first.”▼  

-Beau Taplin

[lisa99460]

Hello, grace.

I just went through my inbox and deleted 1,300 old messages. It was daunting to even think about, because I had let them pile up over the last few months and I knew they were there, just taking up space.

Have you ever done this? Not with emails, per se, but with anything in general; just let it pile up only to realize that you’ve now made it so much harder to clean up?

Over the last few months I’ve been doing a lot of cleaning up. I’ve moved 3 times. I’ve accumulated, I’ve packed, I’ve unpacked, I’ve thrown things away, I’ve clutched onto things I didn’t want to lose, and then eventually, I let go of things.

More importantly though, I let go of the need for control.

I surrendered, if you want to put it in fancier terms, to this idea of how my life was going to play out. I just had to box it up, pack it away, and let that shit go.

“Relinquish control. If it’s meant to be, it will be. Focus on the present. Let things happen. Let things go. If they come back, it was meant to be yours.”

I wrote all of these things down about a million times but I never actually believed any of them. I was never forced to believe them. I had always had everything planned, my plan had always worked, and I had no doubt that things would just continue to work, as they always had before.

And then recently, my plan changed, and I thought to myself,

“Shit. Now what?”

But something was different this time. I thought "now what?" but I only thought it for a brief second in time. I only felt it momentarily, as a glimpse into confusion before I simply began to feel at ease.

The last time something happened in my life that threw me off of my plan was when I failed my NP boards the first time. This one episode felt toxic. It seeped into every pore and every other area of my life. I lost my appetite, I lost sleep, and I isolated myself. I viewed myself as a failure, and because of that, it took over. I refused to accept it. I knew I didn’t study hard enough, but I refused to take ownership.  I had latched onto the idea that I was not good enough to be a nurse practitioner and I blamed everything beside my own poor studying habits, and because of that, I could not let it go.

 I was holding on so tightly to the blame that I couldn’t let go and refocus my energy on rebuilding, on studying harder, on preparing for a second chance. Two years later, here I am, sitting in my office at Children’s, and unless I'm seeing things, I’m pretty sure the name plate hanging on the wall outside my office says “nurse practitioner.”

Well, would you look at that? There it is, that plan that I had, working out.

I think back to that episode in my life and now I refuse to call it failure. It was a stepping stone, a learning experience, something that truly helped me appreciate where I am today. In that moment, though, I couldn’t see it that way. Isn’t that always how it goes?

Right now, I’m going through something that two years ago, I probably would have viewed as “failure.” I probably would have chosen to feel defeated, lost sleep over it,  and refused to accept it. My plans have changed, but something about this time feels different. Something about this time has never made me once question if I’m going to be okay, has never made me once doubt that my life is going exactly the way it should go right now and setting me up for something so wonderful that I can't even begin to imagine it from where I stand today.

That something is called grace.

Grace is what I lacked when I failed my NP boards. Grace is practicing the belief that if you simply let things happen, exactly how they’re meant to happen and whenever they’re meant to happen, that they will in fact, happen. Grace is me letting go of the idea that I am in control of what happens next.

Grace is letting go of the belief that just because things aren’t happening in the order that I had believed they would, that things are going wrong. Grace is actually believing that there’s no way things can go “wrong” because there is no RIGHT WAY that things were supposed to go in the first place, but rather it was only the idea and the belief that I had created in my mind.

A person who is very important to me recently told me “this is not failure; this is a bump in the road.” This person knows me pretty well, well enough to know that in that moment I was feeling like I had failed. In that moment, I felt as if I was losing control.

It took me a little while, but I am ready to surrender my life to whichever direction it chooses to go in. The only control I will maintain is the control over my body, my mind, and the way in which I react to the things that are placed in front of me.

I am choosing to acknowledge that this is a difficult time in my life, but this is not indicative of the rest of my life. I am choosing happiness over holding a grudge, choosing progress over staying stuck. I am choosing grace over control.

I look back and wonder why I couldn’t have done this years ago and I wonder if maybe it’s because we don’t get to choose grace,

But maybe instead only when we are open to it, only when we have proven that we are ready for it,

Grace chooses us.

[lisa99460]

On hope.

Tonight I feel like talking about hope. I think that as a society we tend to draw a bold-faced line between hope & reality. On one side, we encourage people to believe that everything will work out for the best, and on the other side, we caution them to expect the worst. It's protective, in a way, to prepare yourself for the worst; why do we do that to ourselves? Today I sat across from two distraught parents who asked me all sorts of questions and demanded all sorts of honest answers. I explained to them, very delicately and with a whole lot more clarity than I can explain right now, that their child would likely struggle from here on out to ever think clearly again. That their child, who they raised and dreamt of college and athletics would quite possibly struggle greatly to accomplish any of those things. They want to know why, they wanted to know what caused this; it felt cold to even mention a chemical imbalance. It felt wrong to tell them what I had learned in a book or a lecture. This is their child, they are parents who want to protect and fix things and all I could do is talk about chemicals, because that's unfortunately all we know. I told them to always, however, keep hope that maybe I am wrong, maybe doctors and science and hospitals don't have all the answers. Maybe God doesn't want this to be how it plays out. Maybe the disease process will slow down, or the medications will kick in and everything will go back to normal. They wanted to know if I truly believed this and I knew I couldn't lie as I told them that historically, the odds are against us, but to please have hope anyways. Please continue to keep one foot over the line between hope and reality. Please realize that without hope, why bother even trying? Without hope, why take the medication? Why quit your job to be there for your child? Why take a chance on loving someone when it could go so terribly wrong? Without hope, why would I show up to work everyday to try to help these very same kids? I compare it to being in the middle of a really nice dream and then your alarm clock goes off; that's the balance between hope & reality. I think sometimes we do ourselves a disservice when we don't press snooze and continue to dream. I think I'm going to continue to tell people to hope for the best while I do the same for myself and my own life. Why? Because what is life without hope? It's simply reality, and sometimes a little glimmer of hope can really keep you going. I think sometimes we all just need to keep going, regardless of where we may end up.

[lisa99460]

Walk in a straight line.

From a very young age, we teach children to walk in a straight line. Single file. One behind the other. This usually lasts through grade school, until the early teenage years when pre-pubescent hormones turn us into wild hallway animals who can’t be tamed.

But then it happens again, in early adulthood. Walk in a straight line, we’re taught. Only this time, it’s figurative. Go to college, get a job, find a partner, live together, get married, have a baby, the end.

Of course there are a few exceptions to this innate pattern. Those trendsetters who refuse to conform, the ones who “don’t believe” in careers, or marriage, or settling down…but for most of us, we line up, and start marching, single file, one behind the other.

I began my march at a very early age- 17 to be exact. Laced up, I went into the trenches, off to college- pre-med, even though I deep down wanted to be an English major, I knew very early on that writing usually doesn’t pay the bills (however, feel free to donate after reading this…) Off I went, neuroscience classes, biology, calculus, followed by bouts and bouts of misery. I remember thinking,

“This sucks.” Followed by, “but a doctor is a great career.”

So I got back in line and kept marching, until I failed chemistry and got bumped out of line. I remember thinking,

“Shit. Now what do I do?”

A few bumps in the road, and I found myself back on track. I would study psychology, then go to graduate school, and then become a nurse practitioner. Solved. So I did all of the above. I spent senior year studying chemistry (again) while my friends were out celebrating Thirsty Thursday, then I graduated, and at 21, I walked, single file, right back into school to get my Bachelor’s in Nursing and then my Master’s. Phew, still on track.

I kept thinking to myself,

“My poor friends who don’t have a career yet must be so worried and bored. I’m so glad I have it all figured out.”

Then I graduated, passed my boards, and started working in a private practice. Patient after patient, I felt the pats on the back as I heard the usual,

“Wow, you’re so young. Good for you for figuring this all out so young and knowing what you want.”

The words further perpetuated the straight line theory. Keep walking, no time for fun. I remember seeing other people my age going out on weeknights, living at home and spending frivolously on trips around the world while bouncing from job to job. I pitied them, but at times, I secretly envied them.

I envied them when at 24, I was lying in bed at night worrying that my patient I saw earlier might hurt themselves that night. I envied them when I thought about the little girl I saw that week and how she got kicked out of preschool for being violent because she was forced to see her dad assault her mom every night of her young life. I wanted to be out, with my friends, traveling, laughing, and feeling like I was 24. Instead, I told myself, I should be thankful to have what I have at such a young age; I turned the burden of responsibility into feelings of pride, and kept marching on.

Then I met Drew, my wonderful, handsome, genuinely kind-hearted Drew. The first love of my life, who lived right around the corner from me in the North End apartment that I couldn’t afford but chose anyways because hey, in your mid-20’s, you live in the city. We fell in love fast, hard, at a speed in which I never thought was imaginable. At a depth which I never thought I could feel for someone. We fell in love like you see in your dreams- except it was better because it was there when I went to sleep but when I woke up, it was still real. I could still see him, I could still hold him.

We danced without music in the kitchen, we ate late night pizza in bed after drinking one too many beers, we cried about things that hurt and laughed about things that made us feel good. I had found him, my person, the one who makes my heart feel still and quiet when inside everything else is beating loudly. I had found the next step in line.

Then, we moved in together, paid bills together, talked about marriage together, talked about kids together, and we stopped dancing as much. We stopped laughing as much. We never stopped loving each other, we just didn’t show it as well, as often as we used to. Life got serious, we had moments where we sat on the couch eating ice cream out of the container, moments where we stayed in bed on Sunday mornings and talked about the future, and to be honest- I never doubted it, it just felt different. I know what you’re thinking, that’s what happens in relationships, and it’s just real life. But this was different, this felt within our control, like something we let happen.

And then this weekend, Drew moved out. My heart suddenly went from being a whole entity to falling down into the pit of my stomach into a million, tiny, fragmented pieces. How could this happen? WE LOVE EACH OTHER. We were just lying on a hammock in Turks and Caicos holding hands talking about how rare it is to have what we have. We were just sitting at the hospital awaiting the arrival of my nephew; we were just talking about engagement rings. We were just walking in a straight line, dammit. Just like we had been taught.

I was furious. I was confused. I was scared.

Then I looked at him as he was packing his bags, my nearly-empty tear ducts squeezed out a few last drops that I had saved from the 24 hours prior, just when I thought I had nothing left in me. We sat on the bed and started to talk.

“When did we get like this?” We asked. I was so mad, I felt so betrayed, but then I heard what he was really saying.

We walked so fast, so far down that straight line that we forgot to slow down and enjoy each other. We forgot to take care of ourselves along the way. I kept marching on, through my own anxiety, through the feelings of depression I began to experience, because I didn’t want to lose my place in line. He explained to me,

“You’re not who you are when I first met you. I want you to find that person again.”

I was still crying, but I was so happy. I was so relieved. There’s a part of a relationships that no one tells you about when they’re coaching you on walking the line. They never tell you it’s okay to feel scared, to have doubts, it’s okay to step BACK instead of forward, and it’s okay to ask for help. We realized, we had taken so many steps forward, so fast, that we forgot to hold on to ourselves while we were holding on to each other for dear life.

I felt that confusion and fear turn to hope. We agreed that in this case, moving backward is the only thing that will help us move forward in the future.

“I want us to be better by ourselves so we can be a strong force together.” He said.

It hurt, but I stayed while he packed his bags. I couldn‘t help but feel sad and grateful at the same time. Sad because this is the person I had slept next to every night for the last year, sad because this was the home we built together. But then I felt grateful that we were getting a second chance, I felt grateful that our love is strong enough that we can admit our own flaws and practice patience with each other, instead of giving up on each other because it wasn’t perfect at the time at which we thought it would turn out perfect by. I felt like we had an opportunity to work on ourselves that some people don’t get until it’s too late, until there are mortgages and kids involved. We are so young. Our love is so real, it has time. We have time.

This morning I woke up by myself. I’m not going to lie, it hurt. I got ready for work and walked through the beautiful streets of Charlestown that didn’t look quite as beautiful today. I got to the spot where Drew and I say goodbye and go separate ways every morning and tears began to roll down my face.

“Better by ourselves, stronger force together.” I repeated to myself as I kept walking.

This time, the line isn’t as straight as it used to be. It feels different; no single file. I thought to myself, maybe sometimes we should teach kids that it’s okay to walk out of order sometimes. Life is out of order sometimes. There isn’t always a linear progression, and that doesn’t make it wrong. The path of which we walk down to love each other is as unique as the ways in which we love each other. There are a million different ways to do the same thing. There are infinite ways to tell the same story.

I was fearful because I thought we had let life get in the way of our love. I thought our story was ruined, but now I realize it’s just being told a little differently, a little out of order. We will live together again, when it feels right, when we address the weight of the things that we ignored out of fear. It’s easy to ignore the scary things, I always tell the kids at work this everyday. It’s SO easy.

But you know what’s hard? Being strong enough to face them. Walking head-first into them, as dark as they may be, even if it means temporarily losing your place in line.

And for the record, I was ALWAYS the kid who got in trouble for walking out of line.