I’ve been trying to process through a lot of feelings and emotions lately. I partly blame my youngest daughter. She’s been having “big emotions” recently and is struggling to understand how to manage them, both in her head and in her body. It results in a lot of tears most of the time.
And I struggle to help her in the heat of the moment. Especially when her big emotion is “anger”.
In the midst of all of that, I’m also trying to understand what it means to “re-parent oneself”, because there are a lot of things I wish would have been different when I was growing up.
My immediate reaction when Mothra has her big emotions is to walk away. I think for the longest time, I’ve been telling myself that it’s better to walk away than to also get angry. But I think that’s an excuse. I think what’s really happening is that I don’t know how to help her because I was never really allowed to have big emotions.
I think that’s a common theme for us Xennials and Millennials.
Recently, I’ve noticed that when I walk away from Mothra’s big emotions, I end up finding her hiding in her closet, telling herself to “stop crying!” and “knock it off!” which is fucking heartbreaking.
I’ve ALWAYS wanted my kids to feel safe having big emotions at, near, or around me. Even because of me. And it turns out: one of my kids doesn’t feel safe doing that right now.
TIME FOR A COURSE CORRECTION!
I need to start reminding myself that the reason I’m so apt to walk away from her big emotions is because I didn’t have a safe space to experience my own big emotions. Maybe watching her go through them will help remind me that, yes, big emotions are real and necessary and common and ALLOWED. And of all the things they are, they are allowed to happen with me, in my presence, in my understanding, in my comfort. I need to remind myself to say to Mothra the things I wish would have been said to me.
I’ve been thinking a lot about surprises recently. It’s a combination of teaching my kids the difference between a secret and a surprise and coming back to some kind of painful memories of surprises I’ve experienced in the past.
First, to get it out of the way, our family doesn’t do secrets. That’s an “absolutely not” situation. Secrets often have an underlying tone of ickiness and “something bad” so we just don’t do them. Instead (and I think this is true for a lot of this generation of parents), we do surprises. Surprises have a much more fun and light-hearted tone. It’s likely no one is going to get hurt in the making, keeping, or receiving of the surprise. Things like gifts or activities or adventures or whatever. Our family LOVES surprises! Even if we’re often times terrible at keeping the thing a surprise because we’re just too damn excited for the person to find out what it is!
But there are times when even surprises can be hurtful or painful.
My 16th birthday is an example of just such a thing.
I wasn’t popular in high school. Or ever. But dammit did I want a blow out bash of a 16th birthday party! So my parents let me invite basically my entire high school to our house for a party. I honestly don’t remember much.
I remember that people came either because a) they felt sorry for me, b) they were afraid of my mom (who was pretty much everyone’s foreign language teacher), c) they wanted to hang out with my foreign exchange brother (who was ridiculously popular and very very cool), or a combination thereof.
I remember that all I really wanted and all I really asked for was a The Little Mermaid themed cake. That’s it. For as often as my family likes to think I asked for the world, I really don’t remember ever asking for much. A cake. That’s all I wanted. But my parents said no, because it was going to be really expensive (a whole other thing that retrospectively, I kind of take issue with). So I naturally got upset. Like, really upset. Which led me to researching how to make my own damn Little Mermaid cake. I got to making the cake the morning of my party. I was upset and disappointed and frustrated…it turns out that, at 16, I had very little experience or skill in the cake decorating department. It was not going well. Which mad me even more upset.
I spent the majority of the day and the majority of my party feeling dejected and, well, sad.
And then it came time for the cake.
And my parents brought out what can only be described as a monstrosity of a The Little Mermaid cake in all its glory! It was perfect! It was huge and beautiful and delicious and literally everything I had been wanting.
Then the guilt set in.
I felt AWFUL for how upset I had been that my parents were actually doing the thing I had asked for (but said they weren’t going to do). I felt terrible that I’d probably made them feel terrible because all they wanted to do was surprise me for my 16th birthday with the ONE THING I had asked for. I felt so ashamed for how I’d treated them over this fucking cake.
But restrospectively?
I had very little to feel bad about. My attitude, at times, was abhorrent and I probably could (and should) have handled it better, but I was also 16 years old.
They surely could see how upset I was getting, how disappointed I was becoming that my party (which was already going to be a disaster because #highschoolsucks and #bulllying) was not going the way I wanted in the least.
There probably should have come to the realization that their surprise was actually hurting me more than it was going to surprise me. It should have been okay for them to say something. Anything. “Don’t worry about the cake; we’ve got something planned.” Literally anything.
At some point, if the keeping of the surprise is actually doing more harm than good, it might be time to call it on the surprise, either partially or completely. The mental health of the recipient should be exponentially more important than the surprise itself.
There’s a lot of other underlying shit that made my party the nightmare that it turned out to be, and that’s all shit that I’ll need to unpack either in therapy or with my journal, but the umbrella issue that I’m learning is that sometimes, surprises aren’t fun for the recipient and it’s important to take that person’s personality and mental health into account.
And a lot of that understanding comes in the knowing of the person.
I think the question I hate right now more than anything is, “What do you love doing?” or it’s variants, “What lights you up?” and “What sets your soul on fire?”
When you’re in the throes of depression (and this is absolutely the worst bout of if I’ve ever experienced), it’s hard to think of the things you actually NEED to do (like shower and wash your face and do the dishes). It feels damn near impossible to think of things that make you happy.
And that’s where I’m at right now. I know the things that USED to make me happy. But none of that really does anything for me right now. I’m just pretty damn passionless at the moment. I used to have so many things to say, so many things I loved doing. It’s the most frustrating thing to WANT to have something that lights you up, but not being able to muster that energy.
It’s hard, somedays, to even get out of sweatpants. I have to force myself to go to the gym (something I have historically loved doing). Even taking a shower sometimes feels overwhelming.
And what fucking sucks is that I have SO DAMN MUCH that needs to be accomplished in a day, just to keep our house tidy and ready to be sold (because nothing is more fun than being feeling this shitty and also having to do, like, big, daunting tasks that absolutely cannot be put off).
I also realized the other day that I don’t actually have anxiety. Oh no. It’s much worse than that. I have just full-blown panic. I am constantly in a state of sheer, unadulterated panic. To the point I wake myself up at night over things I know I cannot change, things that happened a million years ago, or things that simply do not matter in the long run. I can’t remember the last time I slept through the night or even got a good night’s sleep.
I think sleeping through the night is the thing that would make me happiest right now.
I wish someone could just tell me what the future is.
There have been so many times in the past that I’ve actually read the last few pages of a book first, just so that I could know where I was heading. Even with TV shows, I’ll often look up, “when do these two characters get together?” or “when does this character die?” just so that I can prepare myself.
I want that for my life right now. I want to know that our current house will sell in the timeline that we need. I want to know that I’ll have done something meaningful with my life. I want to know the end so that I can somehow start working toward that goal.
I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing with my life right now and I feel incredibly lost because of it. I feel purposeless and I hate that feeling. I have an extreme amount of anxiety right now about literally everything. So much so, that it’s manifesting itself in my dreams, which causes me to wake up in the middle of the night. And do you know what happens when you take meds to help you sleep and then you wake up in the middle of the night and can’t fall back asleep? You’re even more tired during the day.
It’s a pretty nasty cycle I’ve been stuck in for a very long time.
And I want out.
But in order for that to happen, I need to know the future.
I wrote a blog with this exact same title a few years ago. And here we are again.
My husband and I have been talking a lot recently about our move to Texas and everything that has happened to us since we left Washington state. It’s a lot and if you know what happened, you know. I don’t really want (or need) to rehash the trauma. It’s not necessary (unless you’re my therapist and even she hasn’t asked me about it yet).
But we finally made it to Texas only to end up buying a house that’s literally everything we did not want. It’s on a small lot, in an HOA, it faces the wrong direction, the back patio is boring AF, the kitchen sucks in ways I can’t describe, and there’s only one window facing the street…and it’s in the office so we can’t put our Christmas tree in the living room front window like we’d always wanted.
We were sort of backed into a corner and had to buy this house. It was a last resort. Retrospectively, there are some things we should have done differently (like rent until we found our dream house), but that’s neither here nor here.
But here’s the thing: this is OUR house. It’s the first house we’ve owned together and it’s OURS OURS OURS.
We can do with it whatever we want.
So we are. We won’t live here forever. God, no. It’s too small and doesn’t work for our family in the long run. But what we can do is live as if we’re already in the perfect house. We’re making it ours in meaningful ways…updating lighting, painting walls, installing a kick ass back patio…all these little things that will make it right for right now.
It’s kind of in line with the idea of manifestation, right? The energy that you put into the universe is what will come back to you. And basically, since March of 2023, all I’ve been thinking and talking about is everything that’s gone wrong and how everything sucks and isn’t what we thought it would be. And things just keep being…hard. Not overwhelmingly difficult, but, like, annoyingly hard.
So we’re now choosing to find the happy where it shows up, find that little ways the universe is saying, “It’s going to happen!”
I’m not getting any doula clients right now, but I am routinely meeting other birth workers and connecting to the birth community in DFW. I’m posting (what I think is) meaningful content on my business social media. I’m continuing to educate myself about birth and the birth culture in DFW (it ain’t great and I’m making it my mission to change that somehow).
Our house isn’t our dream house, but we’re making it dreamy in certain ways. I’m working on creating a cozy “apres ski” hygge vibe in the house (with the help of my bestie who is a brilliant designer and lets me ask all the questions). We’re updating all the closets to make them more functional thereby making the rooms seem bigger and more useful. We’re getting bids for the backyard living space we’ve been hoping to install since we moved in. The pantry, somehow, doesn’t feel as aggravating as it once did. Our front hall is coming together beautifully.
It’s taken me some time (#introvertsunite) to make friends, but I got ballsy and started a book club in our neighborhood and a TON of people wanted to join and our first meetup was an absolute success! The women I met that day are incredibly lovely and I’m so excited for our next meetup. I’m sort of making connections in the witchy, metaphsyical communities in DFW. I found a hairstylist that I LOVE. I’m finding it a little easier to insert myself into conversations at my daughters’ dance studio and do jang (apparently that’s a thing people do in Texas? Just overhear a convo and if they have something to add, they just…will. And it’s not rude or intrusive. It’s so foreign to me).
So yeah. I’m choosing to find the happy where it shows up for me, to see evidence of our dream life where it shows up, to find friends where they show up, to be okay with being weirdly me because it’s who I am, to look for the ways my business is growing and thriving in unexpected ways.
And eventually? Our dream life will just be the life we’re living.
It’s been almost two years since I’ve written anything for this blog. Things got busy. And rough. And frankly, I just forgot.
Which sucks.
Things are finally starting to settle down for our family. But my personal self feels quite a bit out of sorts. Ever since we moved to Texas, I’ve felt an overwhelming sense of “purposelessness”. Like I’m not doing anything that matters. And I want to do something that matters. SomeTHINGS that matter. I don’t mean that I want to produce something. To hell with capitalism and all it’s awfulness. I just want to know that my life will have meant something; that my kids will have good stories to tell their friends and their families when I’m gone.
I think about all the things I wanted to be when I was a kid: a CIA agent, a White House speech writer, a staff writer at Vanity Fair, a backup singer.
I think about all those things and wonder, “Why didn’t I do any of them?”
It’s easy to blame other people, right? I didn’t have ANY guidance counseling in high school and even if I had, it probably wouldn’t have been great (trust me on that). I maybe should have asked my parents if I could go to a different school with more opportunity and more guidance.
But at the end of the day, it’s really just me that’s the problem.
I’m the only one that can decide what it is I want to do with my life.
I thrive within structure and guildines. I like having things mapped out for me, step by step. I could probably rebuild a fighter jet if someone laid out the steps for me. So when it comes to my life, I think I always thought someone would be there to tell me, “If you want to get HERE, these are all the steps that you need to take, in the order you need to take them.” I’m not afraid of doing the work. It’s that I don’t even know where to start.
So that’s where I’m at and part of why I haven’t written in nearly two years. I have nothing of consequence to speak on right now. Because I don’t know who I am or what I want to be.
There are very few things in life I actively loathe.
Mushrooms. That’s the biggest one. I have a visceral and physical reaction to those demonic “food” items. They are horrifying. I’ve met maybe four other people in my entire life that hate them as much as I do.
But if you know me at all, you know that road trips are the only other thing I make a point of avoiding, if at all possible. When it comes to travel, I’m very much about the destination, not the journey. Screw the journey. Just get me to where I’m intending to be. And get me there as quickly as possible. What I wouldn’t give for the Concorde to still be a thing.
I’ve spent the majority of my adult life with other people trying to convice me that road trips are amazeballs. I just don’t enjoy them. The only reason I choose to endure road trips anymore is that my husband and I now have to pay for our two children to travel and it’s just cheaper to drive anywhere than to fly.
Toward the end of our time in Japan, my husband began researching overlanding in earnest. It was pretty much the only thing he spent his free time thinking about. His YouTube, Instagram, and Facebook is almost entirely about overlanding. He bought a Jeep back in 2012 and really drank the Kool-Aid…the Jeep wave, Jeep clothing and merch, whatever paraphenalia he could find… he wanted it all (and almost always purchased).
So we started getting really excited about the prospect of retrofitting his/our Jeep to do some backcountry camping when we moved back to the States. We spent an insane amout of time researching rooftop tents and lift kits and air pumps and tires and other misc. gear we’d need to safely and comfortably do this kind of camping. He bought apps and maps and by the time we’d finally made our way back to Colorado (and then Washington), the Jeep had been modified and test driven on fire service roads and other such nonsense.
I’m not going to lie: I was nervous about doing this. Because of the whole “I hate road trips” thing. Overlanding requires a ton of time in the Jeep…we have to drive off the island we currently live on, then make our way via interstates and highways before finally getting to a fire service road. Then we slowly (and I mean s-l-o-w-l-y) make our way up or down the road, often times getting stopped by downed trees, snow, or unmarked dead ends which we have to precariously back out of. By the time we actually find a campsite we like, we’ve very likely been in the Jeep for five or six hours…and we’re hungry. And crabby. And we still have to set up camp (which doesn’t take long, but it does feel like an eternity when two little girls are whining and bitching about literally everything). By then, it’s almost time for dinner and bed. Then we’ll wake up the next morning, eat breakfast (which I notortiously screw up because I don’t like breakfast so I don’t make much of an effort to learn how to make it), then clean and pack up all our stuff and make our way either home or to the next site.
This really ony takes about 45mins to set up
It’s exhausting.
AND SO DAMN MUCH FUN!
We have seen things that you cannot get to or see without a pretty capable vehicle.
I used to be absolutely terrified of driving the Jeep off-road. The dips and divots in the (inconsistenly maintained) roads are deep and can make it feel like the Jeep is about to roll over. But my husband forced me to do a few things to get over it. First, he had me watch hours and hours and hours of people (a lot of them women like me) driving these bonkers trails. Then…he made me actually do it. And I did it. We all survived. The Jeep and all our gear remain entact.
AND I LOVED IT!
So much so that when we decided to make our way to the Bethel Ridge Road (where we scored the most cherry site ever), I actually requested to drive the Jeep through the hardest patch of trail we’ve ever experienced. Part of it was because I really wanted to drive it; the other part was that I needed my husband to scout and guide me through it. He’s much better at it than I am (except when we’re trying to make it around steel gates…but that’s another story).
Not even a little mad about this campsite.
We spent close to two hours navigating about a mile or so of road (“road”) before making it out the other side. There were a few other people on the trail that day, but not many, which made it fun and also a lot less stressful for me. We discovered that I’m really good at driving the Jeep, my husband is excellent at navigating, our daughters barely even noticed how insane the trail was, and that we all make a damn good team!
Overlanding is about the only form of road trip I’ll request to take. The things we’ve seen and the adventures we’ve had have made the time, money, and effort 100% worth it. We learn new things about our gear, our setup, our strategies, and ourselves every single time we hit the road.
Overlanding really is 50% the journey and 50% the destination. Sometimes it favors one over the other, but they are inextricably linked. There’s no doubt about that.
Summer 2022 will be our final summer in the PNW and there is so much we still want to explore, specifically in the Olympics. We’re planning a long weekend to Mt. St. Helens (it’s going to be a sentimental trip for me) and husband is already scouting trails and sites for us to explore! The Kaijū have new hiking poles to add to their collection of gear and we finally put a new stereo and navigation system in the Jeep.
Imposter syndrome. What a nightmare, bullshit feeling. I feel like, unless you’re an absolute sociopath, every person experiences Imposter Syndrome at some point in their life.
Why is it that, regardless of how many people tell us (nay, even PAY us) to do the jobs we want and love to do, there’s at least a little part of us that says, “How dare you think you’re good enough to get paid the dollars to do this work?” It’s such an overwhelming feeling.
I feel it almost constantly with my work as a doula. I’ve been doing this work for four years and, save the first two or three clients, I’ve been getting paid good money to do the work. When I’ve talked with therapists about my work, I’m super confident in my capabilities. I’m good under pressure. I don’t get phased by crises that aren’t mine. I can help my clients think logcially through all their options. I almost always know exactly what to say at any given moment during a labor and delivery. I work well with pretty much every doctor, midwife, and nurse I’ve ever come across.
So why, when I’m by myself and alone with my thoughts, am I constantly judging myself and questioning my abilities? There’s the part of me that thinks I have absolutely no business charging money for the work I do (despite having been hella trained and have successfully helped SO MANY people birth their babies). There’s the part of me that thinks this doubt is just my brain’s way of keeping me humble. What a load of absolute nonsense. Some of the most successful people I know, across a zillion fields, have never once said something so ridiculous. There’s nothing wrong with not just being, but knowing, you’re good at your job
Without getting too deep into it, I honestly think a lot of Imposter Syndrome is a product of our weird capitalist society. Literally everything we do has to be monetized and quantified. There’s a not-very-small part of me that wishes we lived in a bartering society. Just simple tradesies for goods and services. I know it’s not that simple. But I wish it was.
For my entire working life, I’ve never been paid more than $42,000 annually. [And another thing: why are we so afraid of talking salaries and wages? Honestly, we should be more open about it. It would solve a lot of issues.] That’s an absolutely laughable wage. A person cannot functionally survive on that low an amount of money. On top of that, I AM EDUCATED. I paid twice that for my college degree, so in what universe do I not think I deserve to make at least that much annually? There are way too many companies out there that have ridiculous requirements for entry level pay. It’s absolute bullshit.
Anyway.
I’ve been doing way too much work over the course of my life for little to no pay. Most of the yoga instruction I’ve done has basically been free. I AM A TRAINED INSTRUCTOR. I deserve to be paid for my work!
So no more. No more, y’all. Stop doing your work for pennies. Stop taking less than you know you deserve. And if you don’t know what you’re worth, 1) Google your field and find out what you’re worth, and 2) get friends like I have who will brow beat you into believing your worth.
It’s amazing what a good group of smart friends can help you understand about yourself. And when you start to doubt yourself again (as we all inevitably will), hit up those friends again.
We don’t need to walk around with low self worth. We’re all worth a lot more than we believe.
I honestly can’t remember the last time I’ve written anything, let alone anything of value. The last year or so has been a huge drain on my creativity and, frankly, my ability to think cohesively. There are reasons for that. Plenty of reasons. And every time I think, “Damn, I really miss writing and I should do the thing”, I just get overwhelmed with all the things I want or (think I) need to write about.
Everything always feels so important and so pressing all the time. There are so many things going on in the world and so many issues that need to be addressed and I’m also trying to figure out how to just let things go while also navigating the idea of choosing just one or two “causes” because I don’t have the mental or emotional capacity to be involved in everything, but how do I choose the things that are the most important to me? It’s an absolute mess in my head. I suspect that’s true for a lot of people.
I even struggle with things like choosing the next journal I should write in. I’d rather just have someone else make the choice for me. Any time I leave the house, I make sure I have three types of books, seven types of pens, two journals, an iPad, my laptop, and my phone because I don’t know what I might need or might want to use and what if I only have one pen, well, what if that pen doesn’t feel right when I’m trying to write?
I have a few hours to myself every day while my kids are at school. I want to read and write and work and rest and work out and do yoga. I need to clean and finish laundry and unload the dishwasher and make sure I have everything for dinner and work on our budget. I get so overwhelmed with options that I end up just shutting down and doing nothing. Which results in me feeling guilty and lazy and unaccomplished.
It’s exhausting.
And it turns out there’s a reason.
Over the last year, I’ve noticed my brain going haywire more often than usual. I figured it was fatigue or stress or depression or anxiety. And it was. It is. But I also started to wonder if it was something deeper. My anxiety meds weren’t working as well as they had in the past. But was that because I was SO happy and healthy in Japan and suddenly SO depressed when we moved to the States? Maybe. Probably it was a lot of that, too.
But it turns out, I also have ADHD. Which can very often present as anxiety and depression. So my meds weren’t “attacking” the correct thing in my brain. My meds would work for a while and then…nothing. So I figured I’d get tested to see if ADHD was something I struggle with. I mean, there’s really no hard in getting tested, right? Either the psych would tell me I had it or I didn’t. And either way, I’d have a way to move forward.
So here I am, a few days into new-ish meds (it turned out the anxiety meds I was on was correct, but the dosage was way off), hoping that I can start to get some balance and control over the inner workings of my brain. I know that medication alone won’t solve everything. I do need to take practical steps to manage things a bit better. My magic Apple watch has been an absolute godsend, helping me set reminders and taskers and generally just letting me empty non-essential shit out of my brain. Technology is absolutely glorious sometimes! I’m much more intentionally meditating and saying affirmations every morning which is keeping my heart rate down. And I’m (finally) working with a PT to fix my pelvic floor, so running is (slowly) coming back into play…and I’m trying to get back to my yoga practice on a more regular basis.
I’m not sure this was writing that was of any substance. Or if it was more of a brain dump/journaling situation. Who knows? But it does feel really good to write again. I should do this more often.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned during this quarantine, this pandemic, this exceptionally insane moment in history, it’s how little I actually need.
My birthday is coming up in less than two weeks. I’m turning 40. It’s kind of a big deal. I mean, it feels like it’s a big deal. I remember when my mom turned 40 and the insane surprise party my dad threw for her. It was epic. It was colorful and happy and wonderful and a true celebration of the woman she is and the life she’d led to that point. So I always imagined my 40th birthday would be equally as fantastic! I’ve earned it, dammit! I have lived 40 years without dying while also accomplishing some pretty awesome things. I HAVE EARNED A GIANT EFF OFF PARTY!
Enter the military. “Nope! You’re very likely going to be flying out of one one country into another, laden with eleventy-seven suitcases, two whining children, and one stressed-out husband. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, YOU FOOL!”
Enter COVID-19. “HAHAHAHA! Now you won’t even be on an airplane to visit your family. Your flights home will be delayed indefinitely and, by the way, we’re taking 80% of all the things you own, packing it into crates, and shipping it to the States. We’re not sure when you’ll see it again, if ever.”
Enter Military Pandemic Mode. “You thought you’d have a chill backyard party with your closest friends in Japan, painting pictures of mountains, drinking homemade kombucha cocktails, eating fancy macarons, all under a zillion fairy lights? NOPE! We’ll send ya to the brig if you even look like you’re going to be within six feet of another human you don’t actually live with!”
So yeah. My 40th birthday is probably going to consist of frozen pizza and champagne with none of my friends.
I’m currently sitting at the dining room table, listening to my husband talk shop with our neighbor while our kids play with their friends. Everyone is wearing a mask and everyone is having fun. This is what I want. I want to hear my children having fun and being loud (outside anyway. They are way too damn loud when they’re inside and I CAN.NOT.TAKE.IT.) and making up games about princesses and goblins.
Summer is coming very quickly. I live for the summer months almost as much as I do the Christmas season. The sun staying up late, kids playing until they pass out, backyard barbecues, evening cocktails around firepits. It’s everything I love. And this pandemic is showing me how much I really do love the simplest things. Laughter, a good cocktail, and my framily.
When I think of things going “back to normal”, these are the things I hope for: lingering conversations and snail mail and belly laughs and shared meals.
I don’t need Target or Starbucks. I need my people. I need to know they’re happy. That they’re safe. That they’re loved. I need companionship. I need ease. I need the most basic thing in all of human existence: to know that we all matter.
Use. The. Clutch. 