Category: Personal Journey

Infusion

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A piece started almost a year ago, and finished tonight: 

Love. I have written as I was falling in love. I have written as I deepened in love. I have written when I expanded in love. I have written when I contracted in love. I have written when I hated love. I have written when I didn’t know what love wanted from me; why it wanted me to be tortured. I have written when love healed the edges but couldn’t reach the center. I have written when I was released from love. When I diverged from love. When I surfaced from love. When I detached from love and forgot love’s name.

I think when I detached from my ex, I left love behind. So much of love and him and us and fate were intertwined. I couldn’t release myself from just one. I had to walk away from everything, just to save my life.

But in the process, I forgot about the brilliance of love. I forgot about the tenderness of intimacy. Of familiarity. Of safety. Of being known. Of being seen. Of taking someone else in. There is something so soft about love, isn’t there? Something so…unknowable. Something incredible. Something stirring.

I miss love. It was a friend of mine once ago. It took care of me. It brought fire. It brought clarity. It brought joy, I think. There was a lot of joy. A lot of laughter. I miss all of it…

***

These days I write of self-love. Of finding the roots that cultivate good-for-the-soul love for yourself. I write of finding love in nature and its magnificence. I write of finding love for one’s body, one’s mind, and one’s spirit. I write of love cultivated in friendships: love that shows up for you, again and again. I write of family love: a love that endures the waves of growing up. I write of searching for love that makes you feel whole. I write of love for one’s hobbies that become passions. I write of love that doesn’t require shrinking but expanding. Love that brings calmness and sweetness to you. Love that feels easy. Love that creates space for you and others to thrive. Love that is filled with belly laughs and quiet understanding. Love that isn’t necessarily attached to one person but is infused into all the elements of this life.

Maybe love didn’t leave me like I thought it had. Maybe it reshaped and ventured out. Maybe it was always here, asking me to expand to find it.

Embracing love has been the greatest journey of my life. I hope I keep searching for it…

 

“Nobody but nobody makes it out here alone. What really matters now is love. I mean, that condition in the human spirit that is so profound it allows us to rise. Strength, love, courage, love, kindness, love, that is really what matters.”

 – Dr. Maya Angelou

Building Home(s)

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If the life you are building looked like a house, what would it look like? What would it feel like?

How did you build it? From love? Necessity? Both? Neither?

Did you make it a home? Does it feel like it is your own? Does it feel strong and vibrant and changing and fulfilling? Does it feel suffocating? Airy? Expansive? Exposed shiplap? Does it feel like a place we can welcome others in? Does it feel safe? Do you?

I want to build a home out of my life that is beautiful at its core. It is warm. It is inviting. Solace and peace whisper in the paint color. It is vibrant and steady. The beams are strong and radiant. The ocean is nearby. Salt speaks to the foundation, teaches it how to cleanse; how to endure. The patio has fireflies and crystal lights. Everything, illuminated. It is my own. It is awe-inspiring.

We can’t build homes out of human beings.

Maybe we can build them out of our souls.

 

“I long, as does every human being, to be at home wherever I find myself.” – Dr. Maya Angelou

28 Intentions: Unfold

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In less than 3 hours, I’ll be 28. I don’t have any particularly strong feelings about it, surprisingly. With Hurricane Irma just days away, I don’t even fully feel like it’s almost my birthday. I barely remember it’s almost the 7th.

A year ago, on the night before my 27th birthday, I wrote 27 Intentions. It felt right, needed, triumphant, and appreciative. I was so ready to welcome a new year into my world. But it felt like immediately after I pressed “publish”, my life began to unravel.

Since then, I’ve stopped writing. Stopped yoga-ing. Stopped documenting for my 3-second-a-day video project. Stopped feeling so solid and brave. I don’t really know why. I just…lost the drive. I lost…something. And since, I’ve felt endlessly adrift.

I’m trying to find it again.

I’m trying to find my place in this world. A place that feels somewhat solid and wholly my own. I don’t have many deep lessons from my 27th year around the Sun – I suppose they’re all still in the process of unfolding. In the meantime, I try to remind myself that the person I was one year ago was exactly who I needed to be to survive this past year. That pressing “publish” was a call to arms of sorts, a way to remind myself of how strong I was and how far I had come.

I try to be patient with myself and to savor the sweeter moments in my life. They are plentiful and deeply needed, even when I forgot to record them.

The last words before my 27th birthday was: “I imagine my 27th year around the sun will be an ongoing exercise in assessing the contours of resilience and growth. My intention for this year is to continue to cultivate a deeper happiness, and to find every way possible to bring happiness to others.”

I was right about resilience and growth. I almost wish I wasn’t haha.

For my 28th year around the sun, I hope to unfold. By that I mean, I want to acknowledge and understand that nothing is a fixed point. Happy days. Shitty days. Days when we feel overlooked at work and forgotten. Days when our dog is well-behaved and snuggly. Days when friends disappoint us to our core. Days filled with hospital beeps and medications I can’t pronounce. Days filled with dazzling ocean blues. Days filled with missed emails. Days filled with the best conch chowder you’ve ever had. And days when hurricanes postpone birthdays.

None of it lasts forever. And that’s a good thing. It’s all unfolding into a beautiful, messy, painful, belly-laughter-filled, tear-soaked, journey called growing up.

Unfold, brilliantly.

 

“How wild it was, to let it be.” – Cheryl Strayed

 

Returning

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Lately, I’ve been bobbing just below the surface. I stopped writing in any depth a while ago. I stopped reading for the soul. I stopped meditating. I stopped yoga. I stopped crying…

There are so many reasons why. So many moving pieces here.

At first, it was because my mummy got sick and there was no time for anything. Then it was the holidays. Then my laptop broke. Then it was prepping for the start of the new year. Then it was…

It was always something.

Mostly, I think I needed some time to step away from everything, especially this blog.

So much of the last few years has been tumultuous, transitional, and chaotic. So much of me has been raw. Between grad school, and leaving DC, and the heartbreak of returning home, and finding a job, and the final destruction of my relationship, and Mum’s horrible medical turmoil, and her difficult recovery, and the outcome of the US elections…I was just reeling. It felt endless.

Although I’ve always turned to writing to deconstruct and restore, for the first time I didn’t find much solace in it.

I think for a minute, I just needed to stand still. I wanted to get my footing. I wanted to not be cracked open or feel so raw. I didn’t want to dissect why I felt so adrift. So I stopped writing. I stopped exploring. I stopped reading. I stopped capturing my 3 seconds a day. I just…stopped.

It felt healing and it felt substantial. So I continued to be still. I didn’t plan. I didn’t write. I didn’t put together videos. I didn’t listen to music. I didn’t run.

But with every month that went by, my stillness felt heavier and heavier. I began to wonder if I could ever start again. If I could ever write to the level that I had written before. If I could ever find the bravery that lined so much of my steps last year. If I’m honest with myself, fear crept it’s way into my solitude and stasis. It often does.

I don’t really know what changed and got me writing again. But I spent the last few days editing my video of my trip to Portugal and Spain last summer. It reminded me of how full life can be: full of colour, full of light, full of friendship, full of joy.

So I’m back (…I hope). I’m gonna commit the next few weeks to catching up with my 3-Seconds-a-Day videos. They are important to me. And so is this writing space.

Please enjoy the video 🙂

3s: An Ode to Eeyore

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** Beware: this is a self-indulgent post about my dog. It’s gross, mushy, and firmly places me in the crazy-dog-lady category. But I have a point, I swear!

The best things come in 3s.

Hence, I celebrate our 3-legged ball of subdued, pensive joy. George has been in our family for the last 6 years – give or take. If you meet him, the first thing you’ll notice is he’s adorable, caring, and…oh yeah, he has three legs.

George3.jpg

He lost his front, right leg a couple years ago because his Houdini antics of escaping the house landed him in the road, in the path of an oncoming car.

I was never much of a dog person. They’re usually too much. Too excitable. Too loud. Too obvious. But George is different. He’s quiet, sensitive, and loving. He gives off a little more of an Eeyore than Tigger. But way less Debby Downer-ish. And then there are a few strange things to love about George: this dog can jump! – 3 feet and counting; he loves people and has a general disdain for other dogs (specifically his adopted brother Sam hahaha); he never likes to be alone; and he loves to be carried like a baby.

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This is how George feels about Cap
george4
This is how George feels about Sam, who is just out of the frame and about to pounce on him (hahaha)
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Sam is unbothered by all of this and will continue to pounce

I say all this to say: George is going into surgery on Thursday. It’s been a couple years since his leg was amputated. And now it’s causing him some problems. Enough problems that the vet recommended going in and taking out the remaining bone in the arm. The news hit me hard, unexpectedly. The vet asked if George would be ready for the surgery on Thursday – took a beat – and then asked if I would be ready. In all my “not a dog person”-ness, I never expected to love these crazy animals. But when I’ve felt my worst, they’ve always been there. All I had to do was get on the floor and let them climb all over me. It’s more healing than anything else. With my mummy being sick, they’ve been a source of stability, care, and humor.

Somewhere along the way this butterscotch colored, pogo-stick jumping, Eeyore has become my best friend.

Please help me in wishing him a speedy recovery.

*** UPDATE: George’s surgery went perfect. He is healthy, happy, and still trying to ignore Sam every chance he gets 🙂

The Mundane & Tedious

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The last couple weeks have been harder than I thought they’d be.

After going through the health crisis with my mum, I thought I would get minute to catch myself, to un-clench the tightness in my body, to breathe again. I am so grateful that she is doing much better. I feel that gratitude each day. It’s honestly a miracle.

So then why am I not happier? Why am I so…drained?

These weeks have felt disappointingly draining and heavy. Not in any sweeping, grand way. It has been overwhelming in the mundane and tedious way life can be sometimes. I feel bogged down by an annoying to do list that keeps expanding instead of shrinking. My laptop crashed (not even 2 days after I was just thinking how I can’t afford a new one right now.) I’m feeling really conflicted on who/what I want to be/do moving forward in my career. Our dog, George, needs surgery to correct something a past surgery left undone. Communication amongst my family is at an all-time low. I feel like I’m getting sick. Work has been at this insane level of busy that I don’t eat until 5pm. And this insanity has also made it difficult to go back and visit my mom until mid-November

Honestly, I’ve been feeling utterly exhausted. All the time. I can’t even explain it. I’m so tired and so anxious.

For Second Chances

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If I could encapsulate all the things I am forever grateful for, it would breathe life into the dead trees that lost their way in the storm. It would calm the ocean and quiet the winds.

I am grateful for second chances. For recovery and restoration. For Cleveland lights, cold air ambulances, and for doctors who constantly reminded her where she was and that she was going to be okay.

For late nights and early mornings.

For quiet but confident doctors and nurses who saved her life.

For my Wesleyan Sweatshirt, which became an opener for so many soulful conversations with hospital strangers in cold waiting rooms.

For being exhausted beyond belief, but not giving a shit about how I looked. For being so afraid, the exhaustion became an afterthought. For clarity in times of despair and shock.

For distractions. And precise surgical hands. And beeping monitors.

For giving up, giving in, and surrendering. For prayer. And God. And love.

For the Au Bon Pain in the hospital.

For less tubes, more movements, more laughter, more independence. For Judge Judy and tear-filled laughter. For new hearts, new arteries, a new medical dictionary on my tongue, and caring night nurses.

For calm words, and kind deeds, and talking to her like she was a person. A truly embodied person. Not just a sick, sleeping person with no connections to this world.

For health…

It is most precious of things. The most priceless. The most needed.

For second chances. Always, always, always. For second chances.

Ground Shift

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So…the ground has shifted (a lot) since my last post.

The last few weeks have been exceptionally tumultuous. My mummy became suddenly and seriously ill in late September. After a couple weeks of treatment in the Bahamas, and her not really getting better, we flew her to the US to seek further treatment. We got out less than 48 hours before Hurricane Matthew hit the Bahamas.

In essence, only a few weeks have passed. But it has felt like years.

Truthfully, I didn’t know how to start a post like this. Six weeks ago I never would have had to start a post like this. How could I possibly put into words what this experience felt like? It feels so alien and apart from reality. And yet, it wasn’t.

Throughout everything, I constantly felt the need to make a record of everything we were going through. And yet, I never started. The swells of emotion that typically bring me back to my writing came. And yet, I never wrote. I couldn’t understand why.

I struggled with how much to share because it isn’t really my story. It’s hers. And it belongs collectively to my family. So I want to protect that; keep it private. But this medium would be hollow if I only spoke up about the good moments. So in the next few posts, I will do my best to work through some of the more profound realizations that have seeped in.

We aren’t completely through the woods. But at least we have a moment to breathe and some solid ground to stand on.

me-and-mum

27 Intentions

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This last year has been the most difficult and dislodging one of my life.

But as my birthday approaches, I’ve been reflecting on where I am today. Truthfully, I’ve been surprised at how full I feel these days. At peace, whole, resolved, fierce. I have prayed, traveled, laughed, stretched, run, lifted, yoga’d, sung, dressed, raged, danced, meditated, explored, let go, written, cried, listened, whispered, begged, filmed, and read. Somewhere along the way, happiness was spoken back into my life.

And it is a different kind of happy.

Because it is mine.

It isn’t rooted in the past or in a soulmate, like it used to be. It isn’t predicated on being seen or accepted by others.

It isn’t wedded to fate or feeling like I have to fulfill some destiny.

It isn’t dependent on a job (or more often that not, the lack thereof), or in being in DC.

It is mine because I have worked on it. It’s mine because there were days when I didn’t work on it and I simply fell apart. It is mine because I have experienced belly laughs on my worst days. It is mine because I have experienced utter despair on my best days. And yet, I continued. I felt like the biggest failure. All of my worst fears were realized. I experienced so many setbacks. And yet, I continued.

This isn’t meant to be boastful; only reflective. I look back on this past year – which was the most difficult rebuilding process of my life – and I am proud of myself. I’m proud I dug deep. I rebuilt a shattered foundation. I did it on my own. But also with the help of others.

I feel full. I feel wholehearted. Brave. Loving. Excitable. Strong. Maybe not completely open, but I’m on my way. I’m excited for a future of exploration, aspirations and becoming wild.

I imagine my 27th year around the sun will be an ongoing exercise in assessing the contours of resilience and growth. My intention for this year is to continue to cultivate a deeper happiness, and to find every way possible to bring happiness to others.

“I was entering. I was leaving. California streamed behind me like a long silk veil. I didn’t feel like a big fat idiot anymore. And I didn’t feel like a hard-ass motherfucking Amazonian queen. I felt fierce and humble and gathered up inside, like I was safe in this world too.” – Cheryl Strayed, Wild

Running Chronicles: The Intro

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So I’m doing this thing.

A thing that would make past me roll my eyes at future me.

I’m “training” for a “10k”. The quotation marks are intended to add maximum sarcasm to both those words. If you’d met be 3 months ago, I would’ve told you I’ve never run a full mile in my entire life. Yes, my high school had an annual mile run. Guess who walked 2/3 of it every year? So the fact that I am saying the words, “I’m training for a 10k” means a lot.

But I want to get serious about my health in the event that I live long enough to see Oprah or Adele crowned Queen of the World (or dare I say: joint Queens!). So I will begin with a couple steps, that will become a couple runs, that will become a journey.

Thus far, my training has comprised of 1-2 mile runs with weeks-long gaps in between. Not surprisingly, nothing about my ability to run improved on that training schedule. So now I’m getting serious. I’ve signed up for a 10k in November. I’ve paid the fee. And I’ve run 3 times in this week.

Feel free to follow along. I’ll be periodically updating about my running journey and all the ridiculous thoughts I have along the way. (Teaser: my last run generated this motivating chant: *Michelle & Barack did not put up with 8 years of Republican bullshit for me to quit at Mile 2. Get it together, girl.*)

PS.   If you have any tips, tricks or playlists that you use, please share. I’d love to hear em.

Sunrise Run.jpg

Sunday Anxiety

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You know those Instagram photos showing someone relaxing in a bed of fluffy white blankets? There’s a cappuccino to their left and the 30th book they’ve read for leisure this year sitting to their right. Often the hashtag #LazySunday or something like that ends the post. You know this scene?

LazySunday2

Yeah, me neither.

My Sundays – honestly, since before I can remember – have never looked like that. When I was in grad school, it was mostly chewed pencils, Kleenex, and overweight textbooks scattered around my bed. Now that I’m out of school, my bed is not even in the picture anymore. I constantly have a looong list of shit to do. Grocery shopping. Laundry. Buy birthday gifts for loved ones. Wash day for my hair so it doesn’t revolt against me. Actually read that damn book that’s been sitting on my side table for 3 months. All things at the top of my list. (Ironically, “update blog with new posts” is up there to. So…can I check that one off?)

As doable as this list seems at the beginning of each week, I am always painfully humbled by my lack of success by the end of each weekend. I am only responsible for myself, and yet I still can’t get shit done in my free time. Why!? And how do people with partners, children or people who depend on you, demanding jobs, and community service activities get anything done beyond the essentials??

My point with all of this is to say: Sunday anxiety is real. There’s this unworldly expectation to both relax the day away in a puffy heaven of bed sheets while somehow simultaneously wilding out on your to do list for the week. If you succeed at both, you’re “guaranteed” to have a flawless upcoming week. But where does that leave those of us who can’t quite do either with ease? Often, I feel tired, unprepared, and stressed out most Mondays. And worst, I scan through social media and feel like everyone else is doing their weekends (and life) better than me. This is obviously BS and I need to remind myself of that more often. No one can live up to the social media ideal all the time. And if they do, we were never meant to be friends.

So with that, I will close my computer and try to accept that what is done is done. Tomorrow is a new day and week. And I’ve done all I can do to prepare for it.

Now to channel my anxiety towards watching Fear the Walking Dead…

Checking In

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I wanted to take a moment to pause and reflect on what this space is and has meant to me. Kind of like a mid-point check in.

First of all, thank you to anyone who has read even one of these posts. Sometimes, my writings feel like a shot in the dark. Often, I just need to write it down so I can put it to rest in my mind. But to know that someone reads anything I’ve put out, really means everything. I’ve had some incredible one-on-one conversations with people who’ve felt a connection to the experiences I share. And this is more than I could’ve hoped for.

This blog has been a tumultuous journey of “collecting, sorting, and storing [memories] with the intention of holding on to the good things for the journey up yonder” (Megan Devine). When I began, I was dealing with a very recent separation from the person I thought I’d spend my life with. Added to that, I had moved back home for the first time in 8 years, jobless and completely lost. Together, these were (and still are) very traumatic and dislodging experiences. I looked around and I felt like I was sitting on square one. Probably even negative one.

But it has been a really liberating and strangely natural experience of sharing my personal journey on these pages. What began as an act of self preservation, has become an act of self care and self reflection.

What I’ve learned is that it’s okay to still be in search of my joy. I will find it. Or more likely, it will find me.

When I first began this blog, I wasn’t sure what I wanted it to be, I just knew I was no longer afraid to share my voice. If anything, I hope that’s what you take from it: that you’re no longer afraid of anything. Heartbreak. Returning home. Unemployment. Failure. Zombies. None of these things will end you (except for zombies, obviously). So gather your pieces, and continue on…

You have my unending support.

 

“Be brave enough to break your own heart.” – Cheryl Strayed, Tiny Beautiful Things