Obstacles

This weekend, I served as an adult leader on a student retreat for spiritual formation and discernment.  I was asked to give the talk on Obstacles.  The entire retreat was extremely rewarding.  I was moved by the stories shared by the student leaders.  I was touched by the kind words and affirmation given by the participants.  I was humbled to be a part of such an incredible experience.  It was one of the many times for which I was grateful to have such an incredible job.

Each talk by the leaders started by playing a song and ended by playing a song.  Here is the story I shared, with links to the songs I chose to accompany the talk:

Opening Song: Forgiveness

Like many of you, this is my first Kairos.  So when I was approached to attend this retreat, I looked up the meaning of the word.  I found endless definitions, and regardless of specific wording, they all pointed to the same thing:  Kairos means the sense of the right moment; of God's time; of God's action; the moment at which God moves, acts and intervenes in our lives.  The definition gave me pause.  Who am I to talk about the moments in which God intervenes in my life?  As a childhood CCD dropout and an adult who has struggled with the meaning that faith and spirituality play in my life, who am I to try to articulate such times and actions?  But as I sat and reflected, a voice inside of me reminded me that the answer to these questions; the answer to "Who am I?" is "I am me."

So I am here, present with all of you, to talk about obstacles...to reflect upon both extending and accepting forgiveness...and to think about relationships in your lives that may be in need of healing.  Forgiveness has been a major theme in my life.  As a young child, I suffered heavily from low self-esteem and a lack of self-worth.  If someone treated me poorly, I was quick to forgive, less so because I had mastered the meaning and value of forgiveness, but because forgiving meant avoiding more negative attention or conflict.  In junior high school, one of my closest friends began to tease and torment me on a daily basis.  Day in and day out, I felt anxiety about what cruel words or deeds he would do to me at school and which people would join in on laughing at me.  His bullying came out of nowhere, as does most childhood cruelty, and it ended as quickly as it started.  One day, as we were leaving the classroom, he tapped me on the shoulder to ask me a question, and just like that, we were friends again.  In that moment, I forgave him for his actions, not because I could comprehend the deeper issues behind them, but because I didn't value myself enough to cause a stir.  Though I don't think this is a stellar example of forgiveness, it did pave the road for future obstacles that I would need to overcome.

Years later, I would experience a strangely similar situation with another friend.  As an adult, you hope that maturity has set in and unexplained cruelty becomes a thing of the past, but sadly, that isn't always true.  I am fortunate that I have a strong circle of friends with whom I grew up.  These are the people who were by my side for formative milestones, such as driving tests, broken hearts, proms, graduations, college acceptances and career choices.  In May of 2000, we toured the east coast visiting each other's college graduations - celebrating another milestone.  And two months later, one of us was killed by a drunk driver on his way back to Jersey so that we could celebrate as a group before we all set off to our post-graduate adventures.  In this moment, my world stopped.  And without the support of this tight circle, I'm not sure any of us would've survived.

So you can imagine my surprise when a year later, one of my friends stopped returning my calls.  And when we were back home for the holidays, he ignored me at group gatherings.  I had been shunned.  And I was stunned.  I reached out to him in a letter asking to talk and to make amends for whatever had happened, and I was met with more silence.  This silence lasted for years.  And I felt a lot of pain and hurt.  One day, on a dance floor at a friend's wedding, years after I had given up hope that we would ever connect again, again I was tapped on the shoulder to turn around to come face-to-face with a friend who had caused me pain.  He said, "Can I hug you?  I miss you and I'm sorry."  I said, "Yes.  I miss you too, and thank you."  And I forgave him.  Unlike 20 years earlier when my forgiveness was based on a worry of continued teasing, this forgiveness was about something more; something deeper.  It was about knowing that this is a person who I love and care about, and who had clearly been dealing with his own baggage and issues that would cause so many years of silence.  And while I could punish him for this, I could also accept the genuineness of his apology, and allow his love and friendship to reenter my life.  The choice was mine, and I chose opening myself to love over holding on to anger.

See, what I knew about this situation...something that I now understand about my childhood situation that I couldn't possibly comprehend then...is that there was more to the story than I was experiencing.  My friend had his own baggage...his own issues with which he was dealing that manifested itself into how he treated me.  And yes, I wanted to know why.  I wanted explanations for what happened, but I knew that sometimes we don't get to know why.  And likely he didn't have an answer to explain his actions.  And while I don't condone those actions, I do forgive them.  Because haven't I been guilty of allowing my issues to negatively impact others?  And during those times, haven't I deserved forgiveness?

In my professional career, I have supervised countless staff members throughout the years.  A number of years ago, my supervisor sat me down and told me that some of my staff members were upset that I hadn't been present at a series of meetings and trainings that they were required to attend.  I knew that the reason I wasn't there was because I was working on a different project, but regardless of what I knew, they were upset.  So I swallowed my pride and sat down during our next group meeting and apologized.  I explained to them why I wasn't there and apologized for upsetting them.  I also encouraged them to come speak with me if they had other feedback.  As we left the meeting, one of my staff members pulled me aside and asked if we could talk.  She explained that recently she felt as though I was not present to her during her 1:1 meetings or when she needed guidance.  She said she knew that I had other things going on, but that it had been difficult to get support and be successful without the presence of her supervisor.  Her words shot through my heart.  I immediately wanted to defend my actions and explain why I had appeared not present.  But I realized that that defense would just feel like empty words to her and would only serve to assuage my guilt, not heal her hurt.  So I looked her in the eyes, and I apologized.  I apologized for how my actions were impacting her, and I vowed to work harder to meet her needs.  And I thanked her.  I thanked her for being open with me and trusting me enough to hear her concerns.  And trusting me enough to attempt to make up for my actions.  I apologized, and she forgave me.  She did not punish me for the baggage that I carried.  She did not focus on why.  She forgave.

Forgiveness.  The song that I opened with is one of my favorites.  And one of the lines that I find particularly haunting...particularly poignant...is when she says, "It's hard to give.  It's hard to get.  But everybody needs a little forgiveness."  There is so much to say about the power of forgiveness and the obstacles you can overcome if you can truly embrace the notion of forgiving.  Because when you are unable to forgive, it is typically a barrier to something else.  Two years ago, I watched my mother pass away from cancer.  For over a year, we were given hope from doctors about her health.  First, the news: she has breast cancer.  Don't worry; we are confident about her chances.  Then, the treatment: chemo was a success, let's do a mastectomy just in case.  Now we think radiation would be helpful, more of an insurance, really.  Then the good news: She's in remission; let's move forward with reconstruction.  Then the setback: it appears the cancer has spread to the lungs.  Time for more chemo.  Then the day it all changed: the cancer is in the brain.  I was sitting at my desk at LMU when I got that news.  My world stopped.  Everything around me stopped.  I vaguely remember how the next few hours unfolded, but I do remember crying hysterically in my supervisor's office and frantically talking with an airline agent all before jumping on a flight back to New Jersey.  I had a backpack.  I had no idea how long I'd be gone.  Maybe the weekend.  Maybe the week.  I was gone four months.

In that time, I became the caretaker of my family: A nurse to my mother; an aide to my father; a consultant to my brother.  We were all in new roles, and as things unfolded very quickly, it became clear that time was of the essence.  We were angry.  We were devastated.  We were numb.  She was so young.  She was so alive.  She was all of our rocks.  How could this be happening?  My father's anger increased the more he thought about moments - arguments - opportunities for forgiveness that he missed.  My brother's and my regret increased the more we thought about moments - missed phone calls or skipped family holidays - opportunities for connections that we missed.  Amidst these emotions, a voice inside of me reminded me that this wasn't important.  We had more important things to focus on.  We had to forgive ourselves for these moments because I was sure that mom had forgiven us.  And if we didn't, we would miss so much during such a precious time.

But who or what was this voice inside of me that gave me such insight at such a difficult time?  At the time, the hospice worker said to me, "Briana, you clearly are the one providing strength to everyone in the family, but I have to ask you, from where do you get your strength?"  The answer came to me immediately: "From my mom.  She's always been my strength."  So, at the time, I could only assume that the voice inside of me was hers, guiding me the way she always did.  But now, I think maybe that this was a Kairos moment - a time at which God intervenes in my life.  And I'm surprised that I'm saying that.  As I mentioned, I'm a CCD dropout who has struggled with belief and spirituality always.  Growing up, religion didn't feel right to me.  I had a lot of anger and questions.  If there was a God, why did my grandfather suffer when other peoples' lived?  If there was a God, why was my best friend killed by a drunk driver when he had so much life left to live?  These were questions that plagued me; resolutions that I wasn't able to find.  So, why now do I sense God's presence in these moments?  I believe it's because of forgiveness.  Rather than punishing myself for not fitting a typical religious mold or holding on to anger at a God whose actions I don't understand, I've learned to forgive and let go of the why.  And I realize that must sound audacious to some of you.  Who am I to forgive God?  But for me, this has been part of my process.  And an important one.  Because another definition I found when looking up Kairos is, "The moment at which we 'arise from our slumber' to be attentive to God's work within us."  And at 3 a.m. on October 6, 2011, I was woken up from where I had fallen asleep next to my mother's bed.  The house was silent.  My brother was curled up in the hospital bed with my mom, my niece and dad were peacefully sleeping on the couch.  None of them nudged me awake, but make no mistake of it, I was nudged awake.  And in that moment, the second I opened my eyes, I knew it was time.  I got to my knees and grabbed my mom's hand.  Her breathing was shallow.  I kissed her.  I told her I loved her.  I assured her we'd be okay.  For a few minutes, we sat there together; just me and her.  Then she took her last breath.  Had I not literally arose from my slumber, I would've missed this moment.  Had I been focused on being angry at losing my mom at such a young age or watching the pain she was in, I would've missed this moment.  And this is a moment I will be eternally grateful that I didn't miss.

Because of forgiveness, I was able to hurdle over my obstacles and be aware of the present moment; be aware of the messages that were being sent to me.  And that awareness has carried me through some difficult times.  Since my mom passed away, I find myself sitting more peacefully in quiet moments waiting for answers that I previously would have frantically been searching for.  As I walk across campus, I let my mind clear and I listen for my mom's voice to guide me to answers.  I am now aware of the moments when she does.  Many people who have known me a long time often ask me how someone who has struggled so long with spirituality can find such peace in watching for these moments of intervention, and I am very honest with them.  I tell them that while I may have spent a lifetime questioning if a higher power existed, there's one thing I know for sure and that is that I refuse to believe in a world where my mother doesn't exist.  And my mother had a very strong faith; stronger than most people I've ever met.  Three days before she passed away, we had a priest come to the house to give her her final blessing.  And though she hadn't been able to speak a full sentence in weeks, in the presence of that priest, while praying hand-in-hand with him surrounded by her family, she perked up and prayed loudly.  There's no medical explanation for that strength.  The light was shining from within her.  It was another moment; another sense of the right time.  So I know she's here now.  She's guiding me.  She's intervening in my life.  Of that, I am fully aware.

My mother's favorite band was The Beatles.  She bought herself Beatles Rock Band and would sing along into the microphone not caring about her score, but enjoying every second of letting her favorite music wash over her.  So, I know she would want me to leave you with a Beatles song.  So this one is for my mom, Irene.  Listen for her voice and what moments she is calling you toward.

Closing Song: Let it Be

Sixth Time's a Charm

I couldn't have run the Rock 'n' Roll Los Angeles Half Marathon, my SIXTH half marathon in one year (and ever), without the following support:

• To my dad who sent me a text before I started reminding me of how much he loves me;
• To AJ for sending me a text at the exact moment that I crossed the start line, giving me the boost I needed to start the race;
• To the guy dressed as Elliott who ran in jeans and a red-hooded sweatshirt, reminding me that if he could carry ET in a milk crate, then I could carry myself;
• To the many good looking men on the course who served as lovely eye candy along the way;
• To the guy dressed as a squirrel chasing an acorn who reminded me to laugh along the way;
• To Michael Cruz-Herrera for giving me a big, sweaty banana hug around mile 7;
• To Kat Daley for giving me a chance to provide someone else a little encouragement on the course;
• To the bridge at mile 9 that kept me humble;
• To the lady at mile 11 handing out mini-belgium waffles;
• To the various cheerleading squads who reminded me of my favorite EHTHS cheerleaders who always make me smile;
• To Matt Nathanson, Stephen Kellogg, Ingrid Michaelson and the other musicians who filled my iPhone with tunes to guide my path;
• To the many Elvis's running by who reminded me that if you have a legendary life, you'll never be forgotten;
• To the lovely spectators along the course holding great signs of encouragement on the sidelines;
• To Lisa Slavid whose advice years ago at WTI reminded me that just because I run slowly doesn't mean I am not a runner;
• To my body for waiting until mile 10 to start with the foot cramps and blisters, reminding me that sometimes you have to slow down but that doesn't make your accomplishment any less amazing;
• To Anthony for being the Woody to my Buzz Light Year;
• To all of you, my friends and family near and far, who sent me texts, tweets and posts to remind me that I am loved; and
• To my mom who was the angel by my side for every step of the way.

I am a lucky lady who is truly blessed.

Simply Beautiful

My maternal grandmother passed away in April, and this is the eulogy I gave at her memorial service.  It took me awhile to share it, but yesterday, I saw an older woman eating fast food, and I immediately thought of her.  I smiled and knew it was time to share these words.

Ask anyone who ever met my grandmother. One of the first things they'll tell you is that she was beautiful.  From a young age, I knew this to be a fact.  When she entered a room, all eyes turned toward her.  When she moved, it was with grace. When she smiled, you were immediately won over. When she spoke, it was intoxicating. Like a movie star. Like royalty. Like a dream. She was truly one of the world's most beautiful women.

And for some, beauty is only skin deep.  But my grandmother's beauty went beyond her aesthetics. Her beauty reached down to who she was at her core; and at her core, she was a simple woman.

Don't get me wrong. There was plenty about grandma that matched her fancy exterior. This was, after all, a woman who was on a first-name basis with the staff at the Clinique counter at Saks and who could recall the address of the diamond district faster than any of our birthdays. She taught me early on the importance of treating yourself to a fine piece of jewelry or a designer bag. But this was just a small part of who she was.  And for those of us who knew her best, we knew the truth.  And the truth is simple.

Grandma liked the simple things. Did you ever share a meal with her? I've spent countless hours with her at The Mansion Diner on the corner of 86th and York. There was no way that after 27 years of ordering the same thing that the servers didn't know what she wanted, but each time she ordered as if it was the first time. "I would like one cheese omelette with three JUMBO eggs and American cheese. Well done." As if there were different size eggs in the back just waiting for someone to choose between the regular and the jumbo eggs. And that may be the most complicated thing she craved. If you gave grandma her choice of anything in the world to eat, she'd likely choose an Arby's sandwich or a McDonald's hamburger. To her, these items were all you could ever ask for. They were simple. They were beautiful.

And grandma didn't need any extraordinary means of entertainment. There were many times when I'd visit her in the city, and as I would leave for the night, she'd say, "Brianita, mi amor, go and paint the town red." It was a phrase of which she was always fond. What was most ironic is that while she was urging me to live it up, she was never happier than when she was at home surrounded by the people she loved. As a kid, I can remember her sitting around the kitchen table at Tulip Hill playing "anillos" with all of the females in the family. As an adult, I can remember her playing American Girl dolls with Kayla and Sami. But one of my favorite memories is of grandma curled up on her couch in Manhattan, with her knees pulled to her chest, talking on the phone with my grandfather. One would never have guessed that they were watching a conversation between a couple who had been divorced for decades. All you could see was the love. She looked so happy. So youthful. So content. The moment was simple. It was beautiful.

This is how I will remember my grandmother: a perfect balance between two extremes. She was simple. She was beautiful. She was simply beautiful. And she will be missed. So, to use her own words, today we say goodbye. A big kiss. Un beso. God bless you.

For Love

In one month, I'm doing something crazy; I'm running a 200-mile relay race.  The Ragnar Del Sol team recently sent a post out to all runners asking, "Why I Run?"  Those with the best stories may just get featured in the race magazine.  And while being featured in a magazine doesn't actually make the list of why I run, self reflection and making meaning of experiences is right up my alley, so I thought I'd give it a shot.  So, here is why I run:

January 1, 2012.  I had never run more than a mile at one time in my more than three decades of life.  Most of those runs were in high school when my gym teacher was clocking me for the Presidential Fitness tests, and I was consistently one of the last to finish.  Health, wellness, weight.  These were all things I struggled with from childhood to adulthood.  In March 2010, I decided to start a journey into a healthier life.  Slowly, but surely, I began to lose weight, and with every pound I lost, I also lost a little bit of the fear I had of exercise.  I would find myself crossing the threshold into the rec center at work and climbing onto the bike or the elliptical with a little more confidence each time.  I'd get on the treadmill and start to walk, sometimes even cranking up the pace to run for a minute or two at at time.  I specifically remember the day that I ran for 15 minutes straight.  I couldn't believe I had it in me.

So on January 1, 2012, a year and a half into my wellness journey and 100 pounds lighter, a friend asked me if I wanted to join her team for a local 5k for charity.  I laughed and told her that I don't run, and she assured me that there was no pressure to finish it quickly.  She said I could even walk it.  Not wanting to miss out on a fun morning with my friends for a good cause, I signed up knowing that I could easily walk 3.1 miles.  I began doing more runs at the gym to prepare, all the while knowing that I would walk most of this race.  And on the morning of the 5k, I started to run.  And around two and a half miles, I felt tired, so started to walk.  I took three steps when I thought to myself, "Briana, you're almost there.  You can do this."  And I did.  I picked up the pace and started running again.  And I haven't stopped.  That was January 28, 2012.

On January 5, 2013, I ran my second half marathon.  This is the first race of a year that I've dedicated to running, with the main event being Ragnar Del Sol, which takes place four days before my birthday.  I've gathered my closest friends and family members to congregate in Arizona for a weekend of running to celebrate how far I've made it and how much further I can go.  Because when I run, I feel free.  I feel free of the weight that held me back for so long.  I feel free of the insecurities that stopped me from taking on many adventures.  And I feel free of boring workouts where I am staring at the same TV or spot on the wall too long.  I run because it heightens my love for the people in my life who are sharing this experience with me.  It heightens my love for being outside as I get to watch the world as I pass through it rather than it passing me by.  It heightens my love for myself because with every run, every step, I am reminded of what I can accomplish if I just keep putting one foot in front of the other.  And anything that can fill your heart with that much love is worth running toward.

Too Soon

The calendar tells me it's been one year. And since this was a leap year, that makes it 366 days. 527,040 minutes.  31,622,400 seconds.  The larger that number gets, the further away it may seem from her last day, but for me, no matter how big that number is, it's too soon.

Too soon.  My mom was barely 60 years old on the day she passed away.  Just a few weeks earlier, we had gathered around the dining room table, a place where we had celebrated so many birthdays before, and we celebrated her.  We sang.  We smiled.  We laughed.  And each one of us, despite what we said aloud, wondered if this would be our last time to celebrate with her.  Things had changed so quickly.  Wasn't it possible they could change back just as fast?  Wasn't there some doctor, some treatment that could bring our lives back to normal?  It was too soon for this to be her last birthday.  She had so much life left to live.

Too soon.  Once we accepted that our time left with her was truly limited, it was terrifying how quickly it went by.  Every day, hospice told us to expect it at any moment.  So we didn't take any moment for granted.  We sat by her side.  We told stories.  We sorted through memories.  We each took turns having some alone time with her and sleeping by her side.  We never left her.  The nurses told us she would go when she was ready.  So we waited for her to be ready, something we knew the rest of us would never truly be.

Too soon.  It was before midnight when I fell asleep holding her hand, but the clock read just past 3 a.m. when suddenly I was woken up as if someone had tapped me on the shoulder.  It was a gentle awakening, but I immediately sat up and grabbed for her hand; I had let it go in my sleep.  The house was silent.  My brother was curled up next to her in bed.  Kayla and Lindsay were both asleep on the couch.  My dad and uncle were asleep in the living room.  It was just me and her.  Her breathing was slow, and I knew it would only be minutes.  I didn't dare leave her side because I didn't want her to be alone.  I told her I loved her.  I told her we'd be okay.  And after just a minute or two more, she took her last breath.  I sat holding her hand, watching that last breath and silently crying because it was just too soon.

Too soon.  So much of the past year has been such a blur.  The weeks that followed that last breath were full of details that I never dreamed I would deal with so soon.  My brother and I choosing funeral arrangements.  My dad and I learning about survivor benefits.  My grandmother and I transferring power of attorney.  So many details.  Health insurance.  Wills.  Life insurance.  Social security.  All I could do was breathe.  And think of her last breath.  It came too soon.

Too soon.  When I went back to work, it felt too soon.  When the holidays came, it felt too soon.  When my birthday passed without hearing her voice, it was too soon.  Every time the phone rang because someone wanted to check in or share a memory they had, it was too soon.  None of it felt real.  Would it ever feel real? 

So, as today grew closer, the realization that it would officially be one year washed over me.  It should have been no surprise that it felt too soon.  But my anxiety about this day has only grown, and I've been trying to figure out why.  And the more I thought about it, the more I realized it's because it IS too soon.  I'm not ready for what a year means.  I'm not ready to be in less pain.  I'm not ready to be in less of a fog.  I'm not ready because the pain hasn't lessened and the reality hasn't set in.  I'm not ready to give away the remainder of her belongings.  And I'm afraid that once a year passes, the world will expect me to be in a better place.  And the truth is, I just don't know that I am.  Because I still miss her with every breath.  I miss her through every second.  And it all feels too soon.

But here it is.  One year.  How did that happen?  So much has happened.  So many times I've reached for the phone to call her just to remember all over again that she is gone.  So many times I've caught myself thinking, "I can't wait to tell mom," just to remind myself that I can't.  So many times I've needed her advice and sat in silence waiting to find it within myself.  Each of these moments leaves me thinking of all the moments she won't be here for in the future, and I crumble on the inside.  It's just too soon.  And while I know that she is still here with me - that she is with all of us - it just isn't the same.  It will never be the same.

And while it's not the same, I know I need to continue forward and honor her life.  I dare say that no one knew my mom better than me, so I know how she would want us all to shape our daily lives.  She would want us to live each moment to its fullest.  She would want us to embrace love and continue to enjoy each day.  She would want us to believe that she is still with us, even though she is not here.

So, today, I hope you will all join me in a toast to my mom:

"I wish you could have been there for the sun & the rain & the long, hard hills.  For the sound of a thousand conversations scattered along the road.  For the people laughing & crying &; remembering at the end.  But, mainly, I wish you could have been there."

Mom - I miss you with every breath, I love you with every heart beat, and I wish you could be here for every second.  And though you were taken too soon, thank you for leaving this world and our lives a better place.  Thank you for being the voice in my head that guides me through each day.  Today and every day, I celebrate you and the legacy of love you've left behind.

When it Rains, it Pours...

...And sometimes the rain is just what the garden needed.

After taking a risk and sharing my reflection yesterday, I have received an overwhelming amount of messages with some of the most kind and humbling words I could ever imagine.

Some of the comments I received:

"I am so proud of you.  Proud of you for setting a goal and reaching it and proud of you for being vulnerable enough to share with all of us."

"Every word of that was amazing!!!"

"Even though I was only fortunate enough to know you for a short period of time, I sincerely hope you know that you really inspired me.  A lot."

"What an incredibly brave woman you are.  Thank you for being so generous with yourself.  I have certainly been enriched by reading your story."

"You are a great example of the pursuit of true health, something we should all be striving for."

"But please know that by sharing, you probably not only got a (figurative) weight off of your chest, but are showing other people that it's okay to not be perfect, and that there is nothing wrong with struggling."

And while I am so moved by these words of support from all of the wonderful people in my life, I am more amazed by what they have chosen to share back:

"'How does Briana know so much about me??!' I can't tell you how much your story aligns with my own.  Afraid?  Hell yes, I'm afraid."

"And just so you are aware and know us 'skinny kids' have all the same emotions and fears from being skinny!!"

"I know how hard it is because my constant companion, fear, is always by my side."

"I think lots of people, myself included, can relate whether it's weight or a different hang up."

"I myself finally accepted going to therapy about a year ago instead of fighting it which I did for years."

"I don't think there was really a particular day when I decided that I was 'too fat,' but sooner rather than later having a few extra pounds turned into not really being worth anything as a person."

As I spent a great deal of yesterday reading these amazing messages, I couldn't help but think about how much we are all experiencing similar things as we sit in silence juggling the world around us.  And I began to wonder how something as seemingly small as 1900 words of honesty could make a difference in the world around me.  So, again, I felt it was time to share some of the love and returned honesty I was feeling, because now was not the time to be selfish.  Now is the time to continue the momentum.  So today I leave you all with the following encouragement:

Take a moment.  Reach out to someone.  You don't have to open yourself up to the world, but open yourself up to someone.  Be honest with what you are feeling.  Be vulnerable.  See what you get in return.  You might be amazed that it is just the push you needed to make it over the next hurdle.  And maybe the next time it rains, you'll ditch the umbrella and dance in the puddles instead.

100 Pounds Later

I've been staring at this screen...staring at this keyboard...for days...even for weeks, trying to find the words to express what I'm feeling right now.  There is so much happening in my life currently, so much that I want to talk about and process, but I know that I can't let this moment go by without giving it the reflection and the credit that it deserves.  Two and a half years ago, I started on a journey to find a better and healthier version of myself, and today, I can sit here and state that I am officially 100 pounds lighter than the day that I started.  Actually, in fairness, I am a 102 pounds lighter...but who's counting!  It's such a big achievement, but as I said, I'm having a hard time finding the words to express what this means to me.  Usually, I'm able to find a creative and articulate way of stringing together words to tell the story of my emotions, but instead, today, I am going to let myself babble my way through this.

Weight.  For as long as I can remember, weight has been a major issue in my life.  As a child, I spent a lot of time thinking about the concept of "baby fat" and wondering when mine would melt away.  As a teenager, I shrunk behind each extra pound, and felt more and more "broken" because somehow I couldn't overcome being heavy.  Food provided comfort for every mean thing another kid said to me or every time I felt sad.  Both of those things happened frequently, so food became my only comfort.  It was safe.  It never made me feel badly about who I was.  And it helped fill the void of being lonely and having no self-esteem.  As a young adult, in college and in my early twenties, these trends continued.  But they were compounded with life stresses, like choosing graduate school, writing papers, the loss of friends, paying bills.  And through all of this, I was drowning in a sea of no self confidence or self worth.  Not to mention, for a person who was fairly successful academically, I was completely uneducated about my own body and wellness, and how so many factors are connected.  So all of this, combined with a few health issues that exasperated the issue resulted in me being a fat kid...both physically and mentally.

What does it mean to be fat physically and mentally?  Well, physically, it's quite obvious.  I was overweight.  I've been 5'4" since the sixth grade (that's 1990 for all of you out there who weren't even born then!  Yikes!)  But as my height stayed the same, my weight continued to grow.  I was carrying around way too much weight for my frame.  So, physically, I was fat.  But being fat mentally is a whole different thing.  It's a part of your identity.  I've been fat for so long, that it's difficult for me to think of myself any other way.  Even today, 102 pounds lighter & 34 years wiser, my trainer called me skinny and I cringed.  Skinny?  Me?  Not possible.  I'm a fat kid.  I'm a kid who sat in the Ralph's parking lot crying last night because of other life things, who ended up walking into the store to buy cookies.  And yes, while I bought Newman-O's instead of Oreo's (organic, whole foods), and I only ate three of them instead of a whole sleeve, I still turned to food when my emotions were saddest.  102 pounds later, I am still mentally a fat kid.  I've come a far way, but many of the things that led me to being fat still linger in my mind.  They are still a part of my identity; a part that will take a lifetime to change.

And change isn't an easy thing to come by.  I've had many people ask me over the past two and a half years, as I've slowly but surely made this change in my life, "how have you done it?"  And the simplest answer I have for them is, "It's been a lot of hard work."  Because it has.  And the work hasn't been just about eating and exercise (though that is a big part of it), but it's also been the work on the inside of me as well.  As I tell my students and staff all of the time, I am one of the  most openly private people around.  That means while I am not likely to tell you every detail of my life, I am pretty open about sharing the overview of my struggles and triumphs.  Part of that is therapy.  Therapy is a part of my life.  A permanent part.  It took me 26 years to get myself to swallow my pride and overcome the taboo from society to get myself to a counselor.  And while my journey into therapy could be a whole other reflection, I would be remiss if I didn't mention it here because it has been a big part of the work that I've done in losing the weight and getting healthy.  It has been the exercise and adjustment to my diet for the mental fat kid, not the physical the fat kid.  It has been key in helping me get to a point where I can come face-to-face with my fears, and be strong enough to sit down and share these thoughts with all of you.

Let's be clear, fear is a big part of this.  I can feel the fear all the way to the tips of my fingers as I type these words.  I keep asking myself, "Am I really going to share this?  Can I really put myself out there like this?"  And, thanks to years of therapy, I am able to ask myself, "What am I so afraid of?"  I'm terrified to admit out loud that I am a fat kid.  I've made plenty of jokes at my own expense over the years, but in typical fashion, those jokes were meant to deflect attention.  To send a message to the world, "Yea, I know I'm fat.  You don't have to make the joke; I'll do it for you."  So to actually put it out there to the universe in a serious way feels very vulnerable.  It's like taking my guard down and letting folks see the real me.  And I'm afraid of failure.  It took me two and a half years to lose this weight, but I've previously lost weight before (never this much, but at least part of the weight).  And each time, I put it back on.  So, admitting to my world that I've lost the weight makes me terrified of swallowing these words in the future if I should put the weight back on.  I'm not planning on doing that, and I do believe that this time is different for many reasons, but the fear is still there.  What if I fail?  What if I really am a permanently fat kid?  What does that say about me?

But fear be damned!  As terrified as I am, I have promised myself to make this reflection public because if I've learned anything over the years it's that if we share our stories openly and authentically then we help each other out in ways we can never imagine.  I work my butt of on a daily basis in my job, and the best feedback that I get from my staff and my students is that I have helped them just by being genuinely me.  I remember the first time a student told me that; I think I laughed.  How could I have helped them just by being me?  Me?  I'm a mess!  But the truth is, it's owning my mess and owning my journey through life, and this realness apparently has more impact on the people with whom I work than any program or learning outcome I could ever develop.  Because of this, I look fear in the face, and I know sharing my path is important.  Maybe it's the reason I'm here.

I also think it's important to share my story because there are a lot of people who have helped me along the way.  And I truly believe in giving thanks to those in your life.  Over the past few weeks, as each pound has melted away, I knew this day was coming.  And as I started to think about all of the people who have helped me, I became overwhelmed and humbled.  There are some people, like my family, who I could detail how each day they were by my side helping me along.  And there are some people who would be shocked if I reached out to them to thank them because they might not even recognize that they helped me along the way.  Maybe it was a smile of encouragement or a compliment on a bad day.  But whatever it was, however small that gesture might have seemed to them, to me it has made a world of difference.  And while I could probably not capture every person and every gesture, the ones that come to mind are important to me to recognize.  So, to each of you, big or small, thank you.  From the bottom of my heart, I am so thankful to each of you.

But I can't wrap up without directly thanking two people who every day go above and beyond to be a support in my life.  The first is my best friend.  He is more than a friend; he is my family - like a brother.  He has been there for me at my worst and at my best.  He holds my hand when I am crying and comforts me when I am sad.  He challenges me when I am pouting.  He has cared for me when I am sick and fought with me when I am mad.  Besides my actual brother, there is no one else in the world that I can have fun with and fight with with such unconditional love.  Every day, I am reminded how lucky I am that life brought him to me.  I am a handful and yet he still is by my side.  He truly has taught me what friendship is about.  The second person is my mom.  There's no one in my life who doesn't know what my mom means to me.  This is a woman who is literally my heart.  There was never one day of our life together that she didn't demonstrate to me what it means to love whole-heartedly and live life to its fullest.  And regardless of how amazing she was, as her daughter, I know there were times when I was a pain in the ass.  There was no one I fought more with or took my bad days out on more than my mom.  And there was no one I called more to share my triumphs and happiness with than my mom.  Even this morning, when I got off the scale, I reached for the phone.  There is nothing else I wanted more in the world than to hear her voice and tell her about this milestone.  To her, I will forever be thankful for so many things, and especially helping me through becoming healthy.

So, what have I learned through these 100 pounds?  If I had to sum it up, I'd say that I've learned that I'm worth it.  And that I am so thankful to have people in my life who think I'm worth it, too.

Night Swimming

As always, my mind has been spinning with thoughts these days.  I wake up in the morning with a ton of things on my mind, and this continues until I am laying in bed at night trying to wind down.  With every breath, I'm considering things that need to be done at work, the path in which my life is headed, steps I can take to be a better version of me, ways in which I can help my friends, items that need to be checked off my to do list, places that I want to visit, people that I want to see.  The thoughts are endless.  Many times a day, I begin to "write" some sort of reflection or observation to share, but before I get time to sit down and put those thoughts into a coherent sentence, I'm already bogged down by my next thought and too tired to muster up the energy to sort back through my mind to recreate the ideas that I was so excited to process.  So instead, I lay in bed wondering how another day went by without allowing myself some space to write, to talk, to get out of my head.  Which might be why I have spent so much of life externally quiet and internally loud.  I haven't quite found a time, place or person to let me take the time and just release some of what is floating around in this brain of mine.  And sometimes, I am swimming in it.