You slipped away like sunlight melting on the edge of dawn— like the sway of the wave returning to the ocean just the hush of petals falling, softly after the bloom.
The sky didn’t weep. It opened. Rain falling, filling the space you left Tears falling, us feeling bereft.
A soft wind gathered you in invisible arms, and you rose, a feather in the breath of something vast, something eternal.
We did not lose you— we simply felt you ascend bound for the golden quiet beyond our reach, where laughter echoes without end.
Your love lives in fresh baked cookies in houses with open doors your warmth in the way the sun leans into the roses.
You are not gone. you have become the melody between moments. the pause that fills the heart with grace.
And though we ache, we smile— for the wind took you gently, joyfully, home— into the waiting arms of true love.
Motherhood starts with blood, sweat and tears – LITERALLY. It continues on with hope mingled with fear and joy. There is exhaustion. There is panic. There are late nights that blur into mornings. BUT there are smiles. There are quiet snuggles. There are moments when your heart is full and tears track down your cheeks. There is nothing in life that can prepare you for it.
The evening of March 24, I went to my 39-week-pregnant daughter’s place to bring some food for her and her husband. She hadn’t been feeling well and I wanted to check on her. After speaking with her, we made a call to the nurse and my suspicions were confirmed – she was in labor. I had her shower and my son-in-law pack and do what he needed to do. I did the dishes and cleaned up odds and ends. I assured her I wouldn’t leave until they left for the hospital. Once out of the shower, she sat on the couch to wait through a contraction. As I looked at her with her wet hair, I asked if she’d like me to french braid her hair. I combed through her hair and went through all the motions that I have done hundreds of times before but this was different. This was a mother braiding her child’s hair, her child who would soon be someone’s mother. My heart was so full and quite a bit tender. Little did she know, that with each swath of hair I intertwined with the next, I let tears track down my cheeks. With each step of the braid, I silently prayed and pleaded for her health, her joy, her strength, and her peace. I braided in all my love. I braided in all of those memories, all those moments when the tiny hands I held were hers. I smoothed in the late night feedings when I held her close in the rocking chair. With each pass of hair, I poured every piece of my mother heart to her future. As I took the hair tie from her hand, I felt the distinctive click and close of a chapter of life.
The next day, I anxiously sat in the waiting room waiting for news, ready to head back in an instant. I sat alone praying for my baby who was bringing her baby into this world. In a hushed moment, I heard the most beautiful sound – the loud and proud cries of my first grand baby. Moments blur and fade. Details get lost with time. However, the heart keeps snapshots. My hear will forever hold the snapshot of being able to brush back my baby’s hair and tell her how much I love her, how proud I am of her, what a beautiful baby she brought into our lives.
Yes, there is nothing in this world that can prepare you for being a mother, but, today as I spent time with my husband, our four children, a wonderful son-in-law, and the perfect grandson, I felt the rustle and joy of the start of a new chapter. There is absolutely nowhere else I would want to be. There is no one else I would want to be with. I am so grateful for the loud moments, for sad moments, for the messy and scary moments, and for those moments when your child runs back in after heading out because they forgot to hug you. It continues on with hope mingled with fear and joy. There will still be moments when your heart is full and tears track down your cheeks. We braid those moments together, weave them securely to our hearts, so that with each swath of memory passing over another they are tied to generations to come.
This is not one of my sarcastic posts, so if that’s what you came for, you may want to move on. Also, please excuse grammatical errors. This post is heart-driven.
I’ve been thinking about pain a lot lately. As someone who suffers from chronic migraines, it frequently passes my mind. Friends who know me well, know that I am religious. I’m not the perfect example (sometimes I wonder if I’m even a good example) but here we are. When I have questions about how things work, I research. Stop laughing. I never said I was a good example of being cool either. With pain on my mind, Easter coming, and my natural sense of curiosity, I wanted to learn more about crucifixion and Christ’s physical state before and during.
If you’ve read the Bible at all or know someone of Christian faith, you’re probably familiar with the events that led to Christ’s death. Here’s my disclaimer: I am not a scriptorian or any type of Christianity expert. Please take my interpretations and understandings for what they are – personal interpretations and understandings.
After a Passover meal, Christ gathered his disciples. He took them with him to a garden called Gethsemane where he intended to pray. While he prayed, alone, he sweat drops of blood. There is an actual medical condition called Hematohidrosis. Hematohidrosis is a very rare condition of sweating blood. It also is supposed to leave the skin extremely tender to the touch. At that physically low and hurting moment, he was betrayed and arrested.
He was marched to the governor, Pilate, and then marched to the king, Herod. According to what I’ve been able to find, that distance would be over two miles. But, it wasn’t a leisurely stroll. He would’ve been tired from not sleeping, body most likely aching, skin tender, all the while being mocked, spit on, hit by stray rocks and goodness knows what else the mobs decided to throw at him. Sinking even physically and emotionally lower, Herod sentenced him to die by crucifixion.
Christ was then subjected to further humiliation and physical torment. He was tasked with carrying his own cross after he’d been flogged by leather whips that had sheep bone embedded in the strips to make more damage. Roman guards then took a “crown” of thorns (Euphorbia milii) and pressed it to his head. Apparently, not only are the thorns painful but any sap that lingered would have caused more pain as the sap is poisonous thus causing his already sensitive skin to become even more irritated.
At this point, Christ would be in a great state of blood loss, possibly in shock. Could this have been something to help him endure? An odd sort of tender mercy? Soldiers threw a robe on him as a type of patch or glorified bandaid but later negated the robe’s usefulness after they ripped it from his skin causing his wounds to reopen and bleed again. At this point, Christ’s physical health would have been in a deathly critical state. Blood loss, weakness, and pain prevented him from carrying his cross the rest of the way so Simon of Cyrene helped him complete this task.
Did you know the word excruciating is derived from the word crucifixion? Excruciate: “to torture, torment, inflict very severe pain on,” as if by crucifying, 1560s, from Latin excruciatus, past participle of excruciare “to torture, torment, rack, plague;” figuratively “to afflict, harass, vex, torment,” from ex “out, out from; thoroughly” + cruciare “cause pain or anguish to,” literally “crucify,” from crux (genitive crucis) “a cross” (excruciate | Etymology). Crucifixion is said to be the most painful death ever invented by humans.
Christ would have been laid down on a cross on the ground, then hammered in place with 7-9 inch nails to hold him. Further torturing a sensitive, bleeding, dehydrated, emotionally drained, exhausted body. Once “secured”, the soldiers then lift him up and let gravity take its tortuous course. The nails in the wrists would have most likely severed a nerve which would have shot new waves of continual pain. Eventually, gravity and the body’s weight would’ve caused Christ to distribute his weight, eventually taking it to his chest: “He would immediately have trouble breathing as the weight caused the rib cage to lift up and force him into an almost perpetual state of inhalation” (Jha). He would not have been able to breathe in. Have you ever had the wind knocked out of you? So basically like that but so much worse.
Unfathomably, Christ was able to muster enough strength and breath to still plead for forgiveness for the unforgivable: “Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do” (Luke 23:34).
I’ve thought about this a lot – the theological and scientific aspects. Instead of science diminishing the power of the Easter story, it has done the opposite and made it more powerful. I think that we, at times, think “Oh, Jesus was super powerful so, of course, he could handle all of that.” But here’s the thing, he was still mortal. He still felt pain. God removed himself leaving Christ with the physical limitations we all share. He literally was just our brother trying his best to carry a load he knew we could not.
He hurt. He bled. He cried. He suffered. He did all of that willingly. And, in the end, with all the anguish and suffering of gasping breath he still pleaded for those who were hurting him, mocking him, abusing him, denying him. Even with the pain that I experience, with the trials and tragedies I’ve had to experience, I cannot, with my meager human understanding, comprehend his level of pain, of emotional anguish. But here’s the thing, I don’t really have to.
Because of Him, I have someone pleading on my behalf even when I’m stupid. Because of Him, when I am low and hurting, I have His strength. Because of Him, when I am in the darkness of pain, I have His healing. Because of him, when life’s sufferings are causing me to be in a perpetual state of inhalation, I can breathe. Because of him, when my soul is in the depths of anguish, I have his soul-comforting peace. When I am in the abyss of despair, tormented, hurting, and unable to carry the burden, He is there to lift me, to fortify me to be able to carry on knowing that I am not alone. Never alone. And that, beyond theology, beyond science, THAT is all I really need to know.
My children (May 2011) seeing the Christus in the Mesa AZ Temple Visitor’s Center for the first time.
“excruciate | Etymology, origin and meaning of excruciate by etymonline.” Online Etymology Dictionary, 3 May 2020, https://www.etymonline.com/word/excruciate. Accessed 8 April 2023.
When I was a very little girl, I had my heart set on a baby doll that came with her own cradle. I searched for it in the JCPenney catalog, wrote Santa a letter, and wished for it every night. That was the very thing that I received Christmas morning, and I thought I knew what Christmas was truly about
I got a little older and wanted Christmas to feel like Christmas. It’s weird growing up in the desert around the holiday and what I really wanted was a white Christmas. I woke up Christmas morning to a blanket of white, and I thought I knew what Christmas was truly about.
As a young teen, I DESPERATELY wanted a boom box, a cool one like all my friends had. I got one with huge speakers, a radio, AND a tape deck. It was the coolest thing, and I thought I knew what Christmas was truly about.
A Christmas or two beyond that, my parents were divorced. I was not looking forward to Christmas and just wanted it to be over. There was a struggling family nearby with young children. I was able to help gather supplies and make things so that their children would smile on Christmas morning, and I thought I knew what Christmas was truly about.
My first baby came a week before Christmas. I was excited. I was terrified. I was so grateful. I held her in the middle of the night by the lights of the Christmas tree, and I thought I knew what Christmas was truly about.
Trying to give four children under the age of 10 the Christmas they want on a young family’s income was rough. I had nothing to worry about because they just enjoyed the simple things and wanted to play in the snow, and I thought I knew what Christmas was truly about.
Children get married, head out to college, and just grow up before you know it. You end up spending Christmas without everyone near from time to time. It makes you sad but you’re proud of everything they are accomplishing. You can call, FaceTime, exchange gifts and cards. The love is still there and life goes on and you think you know what Christmas is truly about.
This year, I had all of my children (plus a son-in-law!) under one roof for the first time in three years. I even had my dad with us. I was once told that children take a piece of your heart when they are born, and that’s how you are linked. I’m not sure I agree with that. I think that children add to your heart; they fill the cracks and bruised places. They heal and fortify the hurt places. Children are an extension of God’s love. It’s his way of making the intangible into something solid, something “real”.
As I listen to my children laugh (Oh, the laughter!), tease, and talk, as I watch them play, help each other, hug each other, and love each other I know I have everything I need and want. And, finally, I understand what Christmas is truly about.
“Christmas…is love in action. Every time we love, every time we give, it’s Christmas.” – Dale Evans
Grief is stupid. One minute you’re laughing and the next you’re trying to conduct music in front of a church congregation and trying not to cry. Grief is also as inconvenient as it is brutally honest. Combine grief with a sprinkle of hindsight and prepare yourself for some pretty heavy self-loathing. But sometimes, I think, we need that dash of reality.
A few months before my 13th birthday, my parents told us they were getting a divorce. As I’m sure you can imagine, that left me lost without any hope of a strong footing. Just as I was finding some mildly even ground to walk on, my dad told me he was going to get married. I was…I’m not sure what I was. It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t necessarily sad. It just was one more tremor of my already shaky ground.
Let me start off by saying, I was not a nice step-child. I felt like the world had crapped on me and that I had every right to be sullen and angry. I did all that I could to stay close to my dad. I did all that I could to distance myself from Charlotte. She tried so many times to show me that she cared for me and that she wasn’t trying to replace my mom. The more she tried, the more I pulled away. I struggled well into adulthood. I couldn’t find that solid ground that I so desperately was seeking. But she never gave up trying.
After Jake and I had been married for a few years, he literally sat me down and told me I had to stop holding Charlotte at a distance. I’m not sure why I kept doing it. (Was it a defense mechanism? Was it because accepting would feel like a disloyalty to my own mother? I’m sure some therapist somewhere would have a field day with me.) It was hard, but I tried. I wish I could say that I was a good person who embraced the love she so freely gave, but I still held her at arm’s-length. But she never gave up trying.
When I started having children, Charlotte and my dad were sure to be as connected to my children as they possibly could. That love was showered on my children and they knew and loved their grandparents. Jake became very loved by Charlotte for his hugs – “Jake Hugs”. She was always very good at telling people “I love you”. And I did much better at accepting but I still kept a tiny barrier up. But she never gave up trying.
I’m not sure when it happened but somewhere through the years, that barrier lessened. It’s only now that I’m realizing that the reason the barrier isn’t there anymore isn’t because of anything I did or said. It really is because she always called to check up on me and my family. It’s because of yearly visits and time spent. It’s because of her effort. It’s because somehow she knew I was a tough nut to crack. But she never gave up trying.
In October of 2020, Jake and I made a trip to Thatcher because Kennedy and Jordan were getting sealed in the Gila Valley Temple. Charlotte met me and my girls at a local boutique. I mean, shopping with the girls is a must. We were all looking at dresses and tried on quite a few. Charlotte and I found the same dress at the same time. They only had one left in a size that would work for both of us. I told her to take it because I knew how much she wanted it. It was cute, comfortable, and had pockets! (The freaking golden prize, am I right?) It looked cute on her too. She tried to give it to me a couple of times, but I told her it was all good. It was perfect for her. She literally tried to give me the clothes off her back. When I wouldn’t take the dress, she tried to give me money for another dress. I wouldn’t take it. I wanted her to keep her cute dress and her money. But she never gave up trying.
On Sunday, January 23rd, my dad called me to tell me he was at the ER with Charlotte. She had been struggling but he was very worried because she couldn’t move. That night, the test results came back and told us she had pancreatic cancer. Further testing would show the cancer had spread from her pancreas to her liver and into her lungs. Tuesday night, I got a phone call from my dad. The hospital was letting all the kids and grandkids come in to see her. I frantically was trying to figure out how to make a very quick trip to Arizona. I think he knew, even then, that I would not make it in time. My dad put me on speakerphone. I had the opportunity to speak with Charlotte. Though her voice and speech were almost gone, I was able to tell her that I loved her and hear her soft “I love you”. My dad assured her he’d give her a gentle “Jake Hug” from us, which – he said – garnered a beautiful smile from her.
Those were the last words we ever got to exchange. As far as last words go, they are the best ones, I suppose. The problem is I’m left with regret and I can tell you that I’d rather deal with physical pain than the sting of regret. Regret hurts so much more. Sometimes, it catches me and I can’t breathe. I regret the wasted time. I regret those years of my reluctance, my distance, my barrier. But I can’t tell you how thankful I am for her patience and long-suffering in dealing with a pain-in-the-butt stepchild. You could probably ascertain that I didn’t deserve any of it. But she never gave up trying.
Grief may be stupid, inconvenient, and brutally honest, but it’s an inconvenience and honesty that’s needed. I thought I had more time. One more visit. One more chance. Don’t make my mistake. I’m mainly writing this all out for me; however, if you find yourself in a situation where you are holding back, afraid or reluctant, just let go. Don’t be like me. Your energy is best spent on those who love you. If you are the one trying to get through to your reluctant loved ones, keep on going. Keep telling them you love them. Keep showing you love them. “Love when it is scary/ Love when it is hard/ Love when you don’t want to/ Love and let down your guard”.
Just, please, whatever you do, never give up trying. You’re needed more than you will ever know.
This is a talk that I gave in church on January 9, 2022. For my friends of different faiths or those of my atheist friends, you may not be able to apply everything that I spoke about but please know that I will be the boost when you’re trying to take that first step or your safe place when you don’t know how to start your climb.
I know I’ve mentioned before, probably obnoxiously so, how much I love mountains. I grew up at the base of Mount Graham and it’s gorgeous. It’s beautiful. I love it. It was kind of like a source of security and protection because it just encompasses the valley.
I’ve always been a daddy’s girl. Whenever he would head to the mountains to cut wood, or scope out areas to cut wood, or just take a drive to clear his head, I would beg him to take me with. Just me and him. I loved the mountains – something that hasn’t changed. On one particular outing – I was probably 8? 9? 10? – we drove up to the mountains until my dad found a good spot to park and look around. There was a section of rock that was piled up. It was my mountain and I wanted to climb it. He discouraged me explaining that I wasn’t dressed for it (It was summer and I was wearing the traditional summer uniform: shorts, t-shirt, and sneakers – I had flip flops on but he made me put sneakers on before we left.) and that even though it looked like a small climb it was bigger than I thought. Now, I’m sure it’s surprising to some of you guys but I’m a little bit stubborn. So, I complained and pestered and complained and pestered until he finally gave in and told me to climb the mountain. He’d be nearby. Excited, I ran over and started to climb. The first couple of footholds I was doing quite well. On the next foothold, however, the rock gave way and I slid down. I hadn’t made it very far up but even sliding down that short distance made its mark – my hands and knees were bloodied and scraped. In tears, I ran to my dad who scooped me up and made sure I was okay. He would’ve had every right to shake his head at me and tell me “I told you so” but he didn’t. After calming down, we talked about my mountain climbing approach which wasn’t so much of an approach as it was me hoping I could just barrel my way up.
I’ve thought of this experience numerous times throughout my life. We talk a lot in the gospel about “moving mountains” but to me, it’s more important to know how to climb them, create security/shelter from them. More recently, my thoughts have turned to the “mountains” in our lives – pain, doubt, confusion, illness, depression, or any other problem affecting us – and our need to know the proper approach to “climbing” them instead of just trying to barrel our way up or through.
That day so many years ago, my dad walked me back over to the climb and pointed out areas that had a better footing than others. I listened intently as he helped me map out a path and I could pick out the areas he was talking about. A foothold here, a place to grab hold there. Each step helped guide and lift me to the next. All the steps needed to be taken in order for me to make it to the top unscathed. Sure, I probably could have hopped around and eventually made it up but I would definitely be worse for the wear.
After my dad finished explaining the proper approach to my climb. I was too afraid to try again. My hands were raw and throbbing. I had scuffs and scratches on my knees. If you know my dad, you know that “NOT trying” is NEVER an option. He embodies the “walk it off and keep going” mindset. He walked me over to the lowest foothold and once again showed me how to get started. I just didn’t know if I could do it or if I even wanted to try.
In life, sometimes, I just want…to stop. To give up. I don’t know about you but sometimes I grow tired of climbing. It seems as we reach the top of one peak, another looms in our way. Sometimes, I don’t know if I have enough strength, enough faith. President Nelson has told us “…exercising faith can seem overwhelming. At times we may wonder if we can possibly muster enough faith to receive the blessings that we so desperately need…The Lord understands our mortal weakness. We all falter at times. But He also knows of our great potential…The Lord does not require perfect faith for us to have access to His perfect power. But He does ask us to believe” (“Christ Is Risen”). He goes on to say that “The Savior is never closer to you than when you are facing or climbing a mountain with faith” (Nelson).
I stared at that climb in front of me while my dad offered encouraging words. He assured me he’d stay by me. I shakily lifted one foot and secured it in place. Then I reached with trembling fingers to my first handhold. Cautiously and probably painfully slow, I made progress. I never felt impatience from my dad who I’m sure had other things he wanted to do. He stayed right there encouraging me along the way. I took it one foothold at a time, one reach at a time. Terrified of falling again.
“[Our] mountains will vary, and yet the answer to each of [our] challenges is to increase [our] faith. That takes work. Lazy learners and lax disciples will always struggle to muster even a particle of faith. To do anything well requires effort. Becoming a true disciple of Jesus Christ is no exception
Study…Immerse yourself in the scriptures…Internalize the truth that the Atonement of Jesus Christ applies to you. He took upon Himself your misery, your mistakes, your weakness, and your sins. He paid the compensatory price and provided the power for you to [climb] every mountain you will ever face. You obtain that power with your faith, trust, and willingness to follow Him
[Climbing] your mountains may require a miracle…Miracles come according to your faith in the Lord. Central to that faith is trusting His will and timetable—how and when He will bless you with the miraculous help you desire. Only yourunbelief will keep God from blessing you with miracles to move the mountains in your life” (Nelson).
Faith takes work. Faith is a verb and not a passive one. (Well, maybe more of a noun that can be used as an adverb, but you get the point, right?) Faith requires action. If you can do nothing more than have that particle of faith, ask the Lord for help. “The Savior is never closer to you than when you are facing or climbing a mountain with faith.” (Nelson).
It probably took me waaaaaaay longer than it should have to climb that day. But I did it. It wasn’t smooth and it wasn’t skillful but each successful step helped me believe that I could make it. Helped me have more faith that each step would find a solid footing. And, through it all, I knew I wasn’t alone.
“Through your faith, Jesus Christ will increase your ability to [climb] the mountains in your life,even though your personal challenges may loom as large as Mount Everest” (Nelson).
I don’t know what mountains are currently looming in your way. I don’t know what mountains you may be asked to climb. I can only tell you that no matter how big that mountain is you don’t have to climb it alone. If you can’t remember anything else from my words, please remember that: you do not have to climb it alone.
Choose to believe and have faith. Choose to take the needed step. Not sure what step to take? Ask. Ask for help. Take your question to the Lord. Study with even that small particle of belief and let that faith increase and grow. “The Lord understands our mortal weakness. We all falter at times. But He also knows of our great potential. With faith in Him, we can [climb] the mountains in our lives” (Nelson). So climb. Just take one foothold at a time, one reach at a time, and before you know it, you will reach the top and be stronger for it.
You are so very loved and no matter what, you never walk nor climb alone.
Today marks one year of one of the wildest ideas I’ve ever had, and no, I don’t mean getting married and moving to Wisconsin. On March 25, 2020, I woke up, realized I had a daughter getting married in a matter of months, and I looked like the Pillsbury Dough Boy’s busted sister. (Don’t pacify me, I was getting pretty squishy.) I finally had been able to ease migraines enough to start running again. I decided I would kick my run up from 3 miles up to 4 and then, crazily, thought “Why not put in 4 miles every day?” And so it began…
*Full transparency, I ran 4 miles a day Monday-Saturday. On Sundays, I walked 4 miles. There were a handful of days in this past year, because of migraines, travel, etc, that I was only able to get in 3 miles.
Here’s what I learned:
While I got stronger, my knees got angry.
Apparently, if you are only running 3 times a week and immediately kick it up to 7 days a week, your body will not like it. I thought I was doing super awesome but by week 4 my knees went on strike. After a switch to the treadmill and trying out three different types of compression knee sleeves, I got back on track. Side note: compression knees sleeves with spandex shorts isn’t fashion but it is a choice. 🤷🏼♀️
I don’t like dogs and, ironically, now have a major Pavlovian “flight” response every time I hear a bark.
Before I started running, I actually kind of liked dogs. Now, not so much. I have been barked at, chased, and snipped at. I’ve gotten so close to being bitten that the backsides of some of my shorts probably have dog teeth impressions and possibly trickles of urine. TMI? Seriously, a couple of them got close enough to actually bump my bum. I have employed yelling, talking in my sweetest voice, and freezing in fear. I’m currently looking to invent a whistle that will render a dog incapacitated long enough for me to get away. It’s either that or I’m going to have to start keeping dog treats in my pockets. But, wait, won’t that make them want to follow me even more?
My Apple Watch is super bossy.
Don’t get me wrong, my watch was a great motivator to keep me going. However, there were days when I just didn’t want to do anymore but my watch was always like “Keep on moving” or “You’re almost there”. Oddly enough, I swear there were RuPaul undertones commanding, “You better work!” Once I translated it to RuPaul’s voice, I got a move on. Ain’t nobody want to let Mama Ru down!
If I don’t take care of my body, my body won’t take care of me.
One of the downsides of running was that I started to realize all of the things that I loved to eat and all of the bad habits that I had were working against me. If you know me, you know that Coca-Cola is one of the great loves of my life – behind my husband and kids, of course. I went from drinking soda every day to treating myself to a soda once, maybe twice a week. I am not a morning person. If allowed, I would sleep in until 9 or 10 every morning. However, in order to get a run in every day and work around my schedule, I’ve been waking up sometimes as early as 5:00 IN THE FREAKING MORNING. That fact will probably shock more people than the fact that I’ve almost cut out soda. I suppose it’s been worth it. I can now walk up my stairs without risking lung collapse. Heck, I can run up and down my stairs with barely any change in my breathing. My coordination and ability to run up or down the stairs without tripping, slipping, or falling is something I’m still working on.
Running every day will NOT make you “skinny”.
I put in 4 miles for 365 days. (Except for a few 3 mile days…) Yes, I did lose weight – 17 pounds but I did gain a few back – but the major loss was in inches. I still don’t understand the whole “muscle is more dense than fat”. Don’t try to explain it to me. Others have tried and failed. I do know that my clothes fit differently. I guess, better (?). I’m not sure what my current weight is. My doctor scolded me because I was a bit obsessive regarding the number on the scale. I was told to stop looking at the scale and to just pay attention to measurements. I’ve shoved the scale out of the way but each morning it sits there biding me to step on…
Forget diamonds, bellies are forever.
I really had hoped to have abs of steel at this point. Spoiler alert – it didn’t happen. I’m now left with a decision: do I continue my daily routine or not? For now, I will probably continue it. If nothing else, I will at least put in a workout as I’m trying to find the best ways to get rid of my kangaroo pouch. You’d think that if modern medicine could perform a miraculous procedure like a c-section, they could figure out how to add a little bit of liposuction or plastic surgery while they’re closing you up. They could have cut off some excess before they stitched me up. Help a girl out, man.
In conclusion..
I’m not writing this to start a running movement (is that repetitive?). I think the most important thing that I learned is to shift my body perspective. I’m not going to lie – I still want to look at the scale and have it be 20 pounds less than the last time I looked at it. I still want my measurements to continue to go down. However, I’ve started to rely less on gauging myself by the beautiful women around me and try to find the beauty in the woman staring back at me in the mirror. Solid truth – I totally suck at that right now but I working on it.
I’m trying to celebrate successes:
– I’m down 15 inches since I started last March. Don’t be too impressed. It’s a combination of inches lost from thighs, hips, waist, bust, neck, and arms.
– My arms don’t remind me of thighs anymore.
– I don’t have to wonder if the button on my jeans will survive under the pressure of my ever-growing waistline.
– I only have 2 1/2 chins instead of three. (Did you seriously think I was just going to be done with self-depreciating humor?)
I’m not working on perfection, just still trying to figure out who I am. Apparently, who I am is an individual who enjoys torture because tomorrow morning, I will be waking up early so I have enough time to run before I have to teach my first class of the day. And the days after tomorrow? Who knows? Maybe I’ll train for a marathon…
For years, I had frequent headaches. I thought they were just sinus headaches but after speaking with a specialist, I realized they were actually migraines. In August of 2019, I suffered the worst migraine I’d ever had. It lasted 18 hrs. I could not eat – everything came back up. I could not sleep. I took Tylenol with Codeine and could not get relief. Any sliver of light was like a sledgehammer to the head. I actually couldn’t talk because it hurt so badly. My husband was at work, so I resorted to texting my children and asking for things like popsicles and water. The next day I called my doctor and she said I should be seen. Apparently, I probably should’ve gone to the ER with that bad of a migraine but there was no way I was moving.
My migraines were increasing in both frequency and pain. My doctor ordered an MRI to be done. I am SUPER claustrophobic but that’s a post for another time. I survived my MRI. I didn’t have any tumors, but they located areas of white matter areas common to individuals who suffer migraines. Basically, the MRI told us that I was suffering from migraines. So glad I paid money for a test to tell me what I already knew…
The docs had me try a couple different meds. I changed my diet. I was going to a chiropractor and even had some massage therapy sessions. I was still not finding significant relief. You have to realize I was having approximately 2 migraines a week and daily headaches. I was near tears every day. It was like living in a brain fog. I started doing some research on my own and came across mention of a daith piercing for migraine relief. I did more research and a crap-ton of praying (Is it okay to use crap-ton as a measurement for praying???) and it all kept leading me back to a daith piercing.
On January 15, 2020, I went and saw a piercer, one who was highly reviewed specifically for daith piercings. She was amazing. She talked me through the knowledge she had (20+ years piercing experience). As luck would have it, when I showed up I was having my daily headache but she was thrilled because that allowed her to explore the pressure points in my ear to see what would give me some relief. Normally, you’re supposed to choose the side that you experience the most migraine pain. Unfortunately for me, I suffered equally on both sides. Once the right point was identified, she pierced my left daith.
I paid her, got my care instructions, and headed to my car. I got inside my car, locked my door, and started to cry. My headache was gone. It was the first time in months I was actually pain free.
I’ve kept a headache journal. In the last year, I have had about 4 migraines on the left side (even with the piercing). However, they have not reached the intensity I was experiencing before the piercing. I still get anywhere between 1-4 mild migraines a month but almost exclusively on my right side. Since getting my left daith pierced, I’ve only had 2 migraines that were REALLY bad. As I said above, I was having daily headaches and weekly migraines (usually 2-3). This is AMAZING progress. I’ve continued to research and found a great article from Medical News Today (https://www.medicalnewstoday.com/articles/tragus-piercings-for-migraine#effect-on-migraines). It discussed how tragus and daith piercings working together could help relieve and prevent future headaches and migraines. Within the first month of having both ears with a tragus piercing, I’ve noticed a further decrease in pain. I now plan to pierce my right daith to see if I can decrease the migraines/headaches on the right side of my head.
Here’s how my first year went (some pictures are kinda gross, sorry):
1/17/2020 – Day of piercing. You can see some swelling and purple ink from the marker used to mark “the spot”
4/4/2020 – I did great until about April. I had noticed some swelling about a week prior, and it progressively got worse. I know this one is gross, sorry.
4/15/2020 – I had developed a keloid or blood blister. My piercer suggested Apple Cider vinegar as a treatment. No pain.
5/13/2020 – ACV didn’t help so I used Liquid Colloidal Silver. That helped TREMENDOUSLY.
6/6/2020 – The swelling was gone and just a bit of a bump left. No pain.
8/15/2020 – It’s always been common for my ears to turn red for random reasons. Still getting goopy leakage from time to time. No infection. Just irritation.
9/29/2020 – It turns out the hoop I had in was not surgical steel and was causing irritation. My original piercer went out of business (thanks a lot, COVID) but I found another great one who replaced my jewelry with a surgical steel bar.
12/12/2020 – I added a tragus piercing. We have a nerve called the vagus nerve that runs in through the daith and tragus parts of the ear. The piercings work together to relieve and prevent migraines.
2/8/2021 – Doing better every day!
My migraines were the extreme case. Do daith piercings work? I can answer with confidence that they do. Do they completely eliminate migraine pain? From my experience with just my left daith pierced, I’d have to say no. However, my pain has decreased substantially and I believe it has helped to prevent migraines. I’ve been asked if getting your daith pierced hurts. Well, yes. It really depends on your pain tolerance, but I did not think it was too terrible. Remember, I was having daily headaches and even went to my piercer with one. The almost immediate relief outweighed the pain. It will be interesting to see what my experience is when I get my right daith pierced.
In short, if you are suffering and can’t find relief, give this a try. If you have any questions, feel free to comment down below or shoot me a message. Good luck!
Do you ever know you want to say something but you’re not sure how to say it? That’s where I’m at right now, so please bear with me.
On January 21, 2021, my sweet Grandma Una passed away. Grandma never met a person she couldn’t be nice to (at least not that she let us know of) and never came across a sewing project that she shouldn’t conquer. From blankets to potholders or doll clothes to full-sized patchwork dresses, Grandma Una was the Michelangelo of sewing (or perhaps the MacGyver…). I made the arrangements that I needed to and headed on my way to be with family.
The day before the funeral, I headed to the funeral home to help my sister do Grandma’s hair. As strange as it may sound, I wanted to be there to support my sister but also get my last few moments with Grandma. My mom and I met my sister Natalie, my Aunt Emily, and my cousin Kelsey. Once the funeral home was ready for us, they brought us to a room where Grandma was. Natalie and I took a moment to breathe through impending tears along with everyone else. The funeral director showed us the cart that held all their beauty supplies and encouraged Natalie to use anything she needed that she may not have brought. He then went on to let us know the supplies were there to do Grandma’s makeup. We all looked at each other because that was not something that had been talked about or planned for. My mom, being the “helper” that she is volunteered me and Natalie. Natalie looked at me and said, “I’m doing her hair so you can do her makeup.” Sisters. Am I right? I waited for the panic to set in but it didn’t. I thought I could do it. At least, I hoped I could. I could always use Google for help, right?
Before we went any further, the funeral director asked us if we’d like to start with a prayer. Again, my mom volunteered me. I can’t tell you what I said, but I can tell you that I meant every word.
Aunt Emily and Kelsey dressed Grandma for the very last time in her beautiful white dress. A beautiful white dress that was, of course, one of her creations. Once she was dressed, we went to her to take in the moment. I looked down at her little form and saw the pockets on her dress. Think me silly if you will but they were the most beautiful pockets I’d ever seen. Pockets that Aunt Emily told me Grandma was very proud of. They looked like a bloomed flower or even a little pocket of sunshine. Made with love.
Natalie got started with Grandma’s hair. Kelsey and Aunt Emily helped with some direction. I just hovered and started to look through the makeup for the shades to use on Grandma. Here’s the thing: I don’t think I EVER saw Grandma wear makeup. I knew whatever I did had to be very simple. However, I don’t know if you’ve ever seen funeral home makeup but it’s full of wretched orange hues. As I looked, I uttered a silent prayer for help and to not mess this up. I was just getting ready to say I was making a Walmart run for makeup when I saw a very pretty burgundy that could be applied very lightly. The perfect hue.
After helping Natalie finish adding some fluff to Grandma’s hair, she stepped back and let me help Grandma. I applied some soft color to Grandma’s lips and a light blush to her cheeks. Simple just how Grandma liked things. While we worked, Aunt Emily told us stories about Grandma that we had never heard before. All the details bringing a smile to our faces and reaffirming what we always knew, Grandma was an amazing angel of a woman.
Let’s be real. I am not exactly skilled as a makeup artist. I do okay as a regular artist and kept my fingers crossed those skills would see me through. As I was working, I realized something. No brushstroke was going to change the way she was seen. No blending was going to change the way she was loved. Grandma was already a masterpiece.
Once finished, I stepped back and joined Natalie. There was nothing to do but put our arms around each other. Kelsey joined us and made it an even better hug. An even better moment. This was exactly what Grandma would want – love from us to each other.
I’m sure you’re sitting there reading this getting weirded out or even nervous on my behalf, but I’ve got to tell you, it was a special opportunity that I will cherish. Providing service for Grandma was the most natural thing I could do. Being there allowed me some last moments with a woman who loved her family and her God with unassuming strength and fierceness. There is a peacefulness in sharing those last possible moments with someone you love.
I meant it when I said Grandma was a masterpiece. A life, a woman of outstanding artistry, skill and workmanship. She approached all aspects of her life with the care and attention to detail that she showed in her beautiful pockets. Spending that last bit of time with her helped my heart. It reminded me of the important things that I have forgotten. It reminded me to put greater emphasis on my family. It reminded me to put more trust in God.
I took a picture of one of her pockets. They are the perfect summation of the example I need to follow. I want to follow Grandma’s example and put as much love and care and detail in my work, in my relationships, in my life, and in my spirituality that she did. When I lose my way, I want to think of the hands that so willing cared for others, so effortlessly loved others. The gentle hands that fit so perfectly in those beautiful, little pockets.
As a kid, my sister and I had to get creative to find ways to entertain ourselves. We mastered the art of monkey climbing the archway to the dining room, we figured out how to jump from furniture piece to furniture piece without stepping in hot lava, aka the floor, and we spent hours outside perfecting the perfect mesquite-bean mud pie. One of my favorite things to do was to take the hand mirror from the bathroom (sorry, Lisa or Mom) and walk with it through the house. How was that entertaining, you ask? I pretended I was Alice in Wonderland and was seeing things through the looking glass.
I spent what I am sure was an embarrassing amount of time wandering through the house with that mirror. The trick was to take the mirror and place it directly under my chin. That way I could not see the floor, and because the mirror was wide enough, I could not even see anything from the edges of my vision. Now that I’m typing this, I’m realizing what an epically stupid thing this was to do. I could’ve ran into so many things and hurt myself. I didn’t, so I guess we can move on.
Quite frequently, the motivation for mirror walking was because I didn’t like where I was or what I was seeing. I wanted to be somewhere else, see something else. With the mirror under my chin, the ceiling became the floor. I found new obstacles and new wonders. Ultimately, it allowed me to see my surroundings through new eyes and remind me that I was in a good place if not all the time at least most of the time. Perspective is an amazing thing.
Recently, one of my children came to me with a friendship dilemma. One of their friendships has changed in the past year or two as each one of them has grown and had different experiences. The question or dilemma my child was wrestling with was this: “How do I stay friends with someone who sees things so much differently than I do?” We talked for a bit. I mentioned that having differing views is not a bad thing. In fact, being friends with individuals of all schools of thoughts and perceptions is a great thing. It allows us to see things with a different set of eyes. I did, however, make sure to mention that if the relationship becomes strained and even harmful that then it may be best to part ways. But ultimately, cherish the opportunity to see things from a different perspective.
I have been so incredibly blessed to have individuals in my life who worship differently than I do or do not worship at all. I have a rainbow of friends that help me keep my eyes open. I always say that I don’t believe in absolutes and classifications. I hate stereotypes. I don’t believe that because you are one thing or fit with one group that by default that is the only thing you will ever be or the only group you will ever fit in. Do you only see the world in black and white? Maybe it’s time to shift perspective.
I’m not suggesting that homes run rampant with adults mirror walking through their houses, but it could be a start. Do you find yourself disliking a group of individuals because of their classification, their name? Do you find yourself taking things at face value and never looking beyond for another side? I’m not suggesting that you have the wrong view, but sometimes looking at the same thing a different way can be quite enlightening. Life has a way of grunging up our view. “Your assumptions are your windows on the world. Scrub them off every once in a while, or the light won’t come in” (Alda). Who knows what a clean window or a clean mirror could really show you?
Here’s the deal: I do not have everything figured out. As open as I try to be, I still do the wrong things, still say the wrong things, and even still see the wrong things, BUT I am trying. I guess that’s what it boils down to – our willingness to try and see things differently. In this tumultuous, volatile, confusing world we live in, it would benefit everyone to see things from all angles. So, every once in awhile, dust off that mirror, take a stroll and allow yourself to see through new eyes.
Dandelion Max 