52 Sundays

For what it’s worth, as the musical RENT quite melodically taught us, there are many ways to measure a year.

“Cheers to 28, may you be remembered well.

Cheers to 29, here’s to the life that is sure to happen as I learn how to measure this next year.”

For what it’s worth, as the musical RENT quite melodically taught us, there are many ways to measure a year. As for me, for this past year, I’ve decided to measure my Sundays.

365 days ago, 52 Sundays, I made the decision to step back into the church - this time to stay. I wasn’t going to visit, not to run into a boy, not because a friend had asked me to, not “just because.” I was going for me. I decided I couldn’t let one more year pass by where I didn’t try. God met me where I was - I figured it might be time for me to go to His house, to spend time with His people. I decided to at least start by giving Him my Sundays.

This last year has been a whirlwind. I’m not quite sure I’d call it a California superbloom level of growth but it’s been growth nonetheless. Growth that has felt both out of nowhere and meticulously sought after, beautifully easy and painfully tough.

What started as a year walking into church two minutes before service starts (with just enough time to walk in unnoticed and get to a seat) and leaving just as quickly ended with walking into church 45 minutes early (to pray, meet with a team, and spend time with my friends) and leaving six hours after the message was finished to work at a service event.

Somewhere in the middle there I went to dance practices, yoga trainings, I met new people, and I went to strangers’ homes with the hope of learning something new. I ate with a rowdy bunch at a local Mexican restaurant on more than one occasion that ended with push-ups in the parking lot. I hopped around a trampoline park with three of my favorite humans. I celebrated Christmas with my family. I burned fears and I blessed dreams. I learned what it meant to enjoy a moment rather than stress about the next one. (Or, at least tried to practice learning what that meant.) I claimed victory and healing by whatever means and whatever timeline. I had to remind myself constantly that this was my claim. I said fuck at the alter as my heart longed for proof of grandma prayers. I spent 1 AM at an emergency room. I was convinced I had thyroid cancer and prayed for joy unspeakable. Three weeks later, I praised God I was cancer free. I prayed over doorframes and empty chairs. I served people meals that were displaced from their homes because of a tornado. I listened to their stories. I ate dinner in Orlando before setting sail to the Bahamas. I sat on the floor in the back of a room waiting for someone to talk to me in an effort to be obedient. I was sick on Mother’s day but watched my mom go to church on that specific day for the first time in a long time. I waited tables at a 4 year old’s make-believe restaurant that featured magic potions and the occasional dinosaur encounter. I ate at my brother’s restaurant. I watched baseball games, the Elvis movie, and the Barbie movie. I spent Father’s day with my dad and Papow. I ate ice cream in Cuba. I attended meetings to be able to return. I answered big girl questions. I prayed over backpacks.

&& that was just the Sundays.

Not to forget the Mondays where I started therapy, the Tuesdays where I studied rabbit trails with a motley crew, the Wednesdays I built relationships with amazing women of God, the Thursdays full of toddler hugs, the Fridays I avoided as much as I could, and the Saturdays I spent at conferences that healed pieces of my soul.

I’m not sure what year 29 will hold, I suppose that’s the point. What I do know is this, 28 was kind to me and maybe more importantly, I was kind to me at 28. Twenty-eight introduced me to some of my favorite people and places. For that I am forever grateful.

Cheers to 28, may you be remembered well.

Cheers to 29, here’s to the life that is sure to happen as I learn how to measure this next year.

Semicolon ; The Other Half of the Sentence

For what it’s worth, this piece talks about the subject of suicide.

“My pause is forever stamped on my right hand. The hand I write with. The hand I place over my heart to remind me it’s still beating. The hand I stretch out to shake yours to maybe get the chance to tell you that you’re not alone.”

For what it’s worth, this piece talks about the subject of suicide.

Semicolon: a punctuation mark (;) indicating a pause, typically between two main clauses.

Project Semicolon: A movement that was started by Amy Bleuel and encourages people to get tattooed with the semicolon symbol. The idea is to spread awareness of mental health issues and empower people who are struggling with their own mental health. “A semicolon is used when an author could've chosen to end their sentence, but chose not to.”

In April of 2018 I got a semicolon tattooed on the side of my right wrist. Ever since then I’ve told the story of why anytime I’ve been given the opportunity. But, as the definition itself states, the very purpose of a semicolon is to separate two main clauses. Up until this point, I’ve only shared the clause that made me the ally, the empath, and the concerned. I have left out the part that painted me as the ailed, the broken, and the confused. I figure now is the time to tell the second clause.

The Half I Share ;

Not even a full year into teaching and I was convinced the month of April SUCKED (year two would go on to prove my point). Don’t ask me why, what, or how - it just does. There’s this overwhelming sense of urgency, expectancy, exhaustion, and uncertainty that hits a classroom in April that is almost palpable. The school year is coming to an end but there is still so much left to do. The weather is finally warm but the rain keeps you locked inside for days. Teachers are burnt out and the kids are too. Patience is thin. Emotions are fried. April is heavy.

I was teaching third and fourth graders at the time - truly one of the best pockets of ages I’ve worked with to date. These kids are pure life at its fullest. They’re right on the cusp of innocence and “the real world” (whatever that is). They’re the perfect level of fun that believes their 20-something teacher is cool for rockin’ a red and white tutu during spirit week. They’re also the exact amount of sass that will hold a whole class debate and vote about why the same teacher doesn’t have a boyfriend. They have a way of keeping you laughing and your ego in check all in the same breath. It’s a wild ride because half of them still believe in magic and wonder and the other half are already wondering what life is all about. They keep you on your toes as they try to figure out what parts of the world they get to claim as their own - from their thoughts, to their emotions, to the basketballs at recess, and everything in between. One thing I quickly discovered though, regardless of where they land on this spectrum of mystic to cynic, one thing is for sure - the weight of life’s heaviness and its burdens doesn’t hold back on you just because you’re nine.

It was April 17, 2018 and I was done. Finished. The light vanished. I had nothing left in me anymore. This would be the day I was ready to quit my job. This would be the day I wanted to wash my hands of all of it. I didn’t know what to do anymore. I didn’t know that I even wanted to try. All I wanted was a classroom of kids that were safe and that knew they were loved and cherished. Unfortunately, that wasn’t my reality. That Tuesday was the breaking point because in less than ten days time I had three students institutionalized. Three babies, three kids, three precious souls that could no longer come to school because they were a threat to themselves. Within the first two weeks of April three children, barely breaking ten years old, felt enough darkness that made them believe their lives weren’t worth living and that their minds were out to destroy them. Three. Three out of a class size of thirty-four.

Say whatever you want but you will never convince me that children don’t feel burden, don’t know stress, and don’t have a clue about what real darkness or pain is. I have seen their scars. I have heard their stories. I have held their hands.

I don’t remember everything I said to my mom after coming home from work that day but I remember the anguish and the weight of it all. I remember wanting to run away and never come back. I remember feeling helpless. I didn’t understand it then and honestly, as my eyes swell in the retelling of this story, I don’t understand it now. My kids, my humans, my little scientists and world changers were broken and it felt like there wasn’t anything I could do about it. I was exhausted. I was broken. I remember my mom telling me to take the next day off. Quickly I responded that I couldn't. There was a test I had to give, things I had to do, and two specific boys that if I didn’t give them a heads up that I’d be gone their worlds really might have imploded. Quitting wasn’t an option. I had to work on fumes and through tears; I just had to. My kids needed me. And, because she is the mother that raised me, she understood my stance. That said, because she is also the mother that has lived through similar moments, she knew I wouldn’t survive if I didn’t pause. Her wisdom was something along the lines of, “Yes, your kids need you but they need your steady - not your spiraling. If you can’t take off tomorrow change the rest of your week so that you can take off Friday.”

So, that’s what I did and that’s when I got the tattoo.

The Pause ;

I love language. I love stories. I love words. I, however, have a unique relationship with punctuation. I have two distinct memories that have forever imprinted their impact on my grammatical existence: 1) When I was in elementary school this native man with braided hair and a rawhide jacket read us a story that spanned across pages but only contained one sentence. I learned that day that (with the right punctuation) a sentence could be endless. 2) “When you write you put a comma wherever you would naturally breathe.” I don’t know why this is the advice English teachers give kids but someone should inform them this rule doesn’t work with asthmatics. Needless to say, I never know where to put my commas. Both of these core memories have left me seeing red marks all over my pages and forever confused about what proper punctuation looks like. Simply put, my sentences are either too long or too choppy. Exactly like my breathing. Then came the introduction of the semicolon and BAM! my sentence structure was forever spiced up like Emeril Lagasse. You see, a semicolon allows me to combine two thoughts; it provides an amount of space to tell you they’re different ideas but that they belong to the same sentence. If a comma is a breath, a semicolon is a pause. A semicolon could have been a period but it decided the sentence wasn’t over yet.

My pause is forever stamped on my right hand. The hand I write with. The hand I place over my heart to remind me it’s still beating. The hand I stretch out to shake yours to maybe get the chance to tell you that you’re not alone.

The Half I Hide ;

I wouldn’t call myself gullible but I will admit to having been a highly impressionable child. If you told me something that I could stick to any amount of logic, I would believe you. After all, why would you lie to me? Now, take this same concept, multiply it by whatever hyperbole of your choosing, and apply it to social rules that deal with people and I was sold. You see, I had one too many people tell me the story of a kid that was going to kill himself until one person was nice to them. Immediately, it became my responsibility to make sure that my kindness kept people alive … and if it didn’t …then clearly their death was my fault.

I want to stop here to say that I understand now this is not at all rational nor is it the purpose of the story of the kid that didn’t commit suicide. I understand that now. But I want you to understand, as irrational as it might be, this was my reality for many years.

The reality and direct impact of suicide entered my life during my senior year. I was in a very unhealthy relationship - if you can even call it that - with a person I met in an online chat room that, to this day, is just as real guy as he is catfish. Against the better judgment of myself, the forbidding of my mom, and the caution of the one friend that knew, I kept the conversation going with this somebody. Occasionally my head would readjust itself on my shoulders in an effort to be on straight and I would try to walk away from this mess I had found myself in. Only problem, every time I would start to pull away or say the interactions needed to be stopped he would respond by saying he’d kill himself if I stopped talking to him. Of course, I believed him. Then, to keep the trauma going, he’d go radio silent for a day or two, have a friend of his message me saying that he had gone missing, I’d be convinced that he had gone through with it with just enough time for him to pop back up in my inbox to repeat the cycle again. And again. And again. I rode this rollercoaster that was “being liked by someone so much that they'd kill themselves if they couldn’t have me” for entirely too long. Through it all I only ever blamed myself for everything that happened. It was my fault that I even talked to him and it would be my fault if he killed himself.

Three years later I find myself as shattered goo on the floor of my best friend’s bedroom. It’s midnight and my mom is calling me to find out if I knew that my brother was suicidal. I don't know if you've ever felt the world spin in hyper-speed through a solar eclipse while freezing at the same time but it's nauseating. To explain it any other way than my heart being ripped out of my chest, my stomach falling to my feet, my throat locking, my brain bleeding, and my eyes gushing all while I could hear myself blinking feels like an understatement. Questions flew across my mind like breaking news on a teleprompter. How could I not know? How did I miss this? Why didn’t he tell me? Did I not show him I loved him enough that he could have told me? Did I not love him enough that he thought his life was worth something? I couldn’t sleep that night. I was preserved in a state of shock. My brother was hospitalized and I didn’t know if he’d be alive tomorrow. I kept thinking the same thought: My brother, my best friend, almost killed himself and it was all my fault.

I stop the story again here to tell you that this is told with my brother's permission. While this is my recounting of the event this is not the full story. The information gained in the days that would follow this initial phone call would find some of the accusations to be false. My brother is doing well.

The same year I received this phone call was the year I was filling journals with poems liked "signed the girl that doesn't cut herself" and others about withdrawals from alcohol I had never tasted. I didn't say it then but I’ll say it now; I was depressed. The same mind that would illustrate what it was like to be surrounded by my own darkness would convince me I wasn't sad enough to be depressed. After all, I didn't cut myself. I couldn't be depressed. I had a job, a roof over my head, was going to college, and most importantly, I loved Jesus. People who love Jesus can't be depressed. It's not allowed. Right? People who have their physical needs met can't be depressed. No. No, I wasn't depressed. I was selfish and ungrateful. That was my problem - not depression. Man, if there’s ever such a lie I believed it would be this one.

Another three years pass and I get a message that one of my former coworkers committed suicide. No details. Nothing. Simply stated as matter of fact. Just like that the boy with the goofy hair, the wrinkled shirts, the intentional ties, and the best stories wasn't around anymore to ask questions about where to take his girlfriend out on a date or say something that made you overly aware of the age gap. Again, even with 200 miles between us and a year since we had worked together, I wondered, “was there something I could have done to stop this?”

This, along with the two attempts by my students, would be the last of the suicide stories before I got my tattoo. The last at least that I had a direct relationship with the person. There were even more scattered throughout this time that were friends of friends, classmates of my siblings, and some of my celebrity heroes. After getting my tattoo there would be three more stories before I finally reached my breaking point. Two additional students, attempts. One parent of a student, fatal.

The Breaking Point ;

I don’t know if you’ve ever had the chance to stand toe-to-toe with a delusion but let me tell you it is a special type of disorienting. I was coming back from a woman’s conference not even two years ago when the final straw broke. There I was, fresh into the chapter of “Recovering Becca”, riding the peace and excitement that was the presence of Jesus, flooded with new ideas, new hopes, and new grace. I felt so much clarity - that is, until I didn’t. I wasn’t even midway through a praise of gratitude when the intrusive thought rolled through my mind like a tumbleweed through the plains. Only this tumbleweed was barbed wire doused in kerosene lit in a blaze etching grooves in my mind that I am somehow the reason people kill themselves. “That woman you sat by tonight, she’s going to kill herself because you didn’t ask her her name.”

Have you ever told Satan to fuck off? I have. In fact, I just so happened to record the entire declaration. Pissed doesn’t even begin to cover it. I was livid and full of holy-table-flipping-anger. It was in that moment of warfare that I said no.

This is that declaration:

“No devil you don’t get this! God, he doesn’t get this. He doesn’t get to have this moment. He doesn’t get to take from this greatness. He doesn’t get to take from this healing that I just felt…he doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get the final stay. He doesn’t get to have the last laugh. He doesn’t get to take me to bed with guilt and shame because I didn’t say hi to a woman…. He doesn’t get it! So you know what he get’s instead. He gets a prayer that says God let your love shower over that woman. God let her find you and your peace and your healing. God let her know she is loved. Wrap her up in a sea of angels … she’ll show up tomorrow because she’s supposed to be there. He doesn’t get my shame any more. He doesn’t get my guilt anymore. He doesn’t get to have that weight. No. No! Fuck that shit because I am God’s - and she is God’s - and I believe in a God of grace and a God that hears my prayer. … No. No. I’m done assuming suicides are my fault. Oh, fuck…this is ridiculous. God, thank you for your grace. Thank you for your strength to shut that shit down because God you are the one. You will stop any trial … intersession on her behalf … intersession on my own behalf. … The weight of the world is not mine to bear. The weight of the world is not mine to bear. Fuck you devil. Fuck you and your demons that are fucking with me because you don’t get to anymore. Fuck your shit. Nope. You don’t get it. you don’t get my peace. You don’t get shame and you don’t get guilt anymore. They are not yours… In Jesus name. Jesus, You get this. This is Your moment. This is Your moment to show healing and restoration and power and strength. This is Your moment to say this one’s Mine. She’s Mine. They’re Mine. Go into some pigs - these demons are out of me.”

The Whole Sentence ;

No, I’ve never attempted suicide. The ropes I’ve hung, the guns I’ve loaded, and the pills I’ve swallowed have never been tangible. But I have laid in bed and truly wondered if anyone, anyone at all, would care if I didn’t wake up the next day. I have made peace with wanting not to. I have believed the lie that my sadness wasn’t real enough to count. That the blades I ran across my thought-life left scars that weren’t visible, therefore my pain wasn’t real. I believed the lie that my Christianity left me immune to depression. I didn’t dignify it enough to call it by its name. Instead I put band-aids on my depression labeling it exhaustion, selfishness, and ungrateful to never address the actual problem but instead perpetuate it.

So, yes, the half of the story I have told for years now is true. Yes, my tattoo is for my kids. To honor their lives and battles. When I look at it I see the names of six kids, all of which know this ink is for them and that I believe their life is worth a tomorrow. I see the faces of all my babies and cry prayers that they’ll never feel this pain. But, there’s more to the story and the more is that it is also for me. It’s a reminder that my thoughts whether or not they’re true doesn’t mean I don’t actually feel/think them and that they shouldn’t be given value. I feel the moments that led me to this point. I’m reminded that I don’t have to gratitude or faith away my feelings. I’m allowed to sit with them for a moment. I breathe in deeply and remember the importance of the pause. I see Jesus. I see a life in this dark and fallen world met with a reason for seeing the other half of the sentence. I see grace. I see chains broken. Lastly, I am reminded that though suicide is very real and a global problem it is not my fault.

To those of you that made it this far - thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow ;

To those of you battling your own demons please know you’re not alone, you are worth it, and that there’s more air to breathe on the other side of today. I pray I get to see you tomorrow ;

National Suicide and Crisis Hotline: 988 (Call or Text)

I Say F*&% in Church.

For what it’s worth, this title isn’t click bait.

“…I’m not going to call it right. I’m going to call it real. I’m going to call it tired. I’m going to call it weary and searching. I’m going to call it combatting depression, anxiety, apathy, and expectation. I’m going to call it what it is, and what it is is a wretched soul, saved by grace…”

For what it’s worth, this title isn’t click bait.

I’m not trying to spike your blood pressure, to set off your offenses, or even justify my behavior. I’m just trying to be honest. Trying to practice what it means to hurt and heal in public. Trying to not hide parts of who I am out of shame or because I don’t think you want to see them.

Let me be clear and remind you that I am a firm believer in know your audience. That said, I am also a firm believer in know your author. So, dear sweet reader, here is your opportunity to either put your assumptions on pause for a moment and get to know me a little more; an opportunity for you to see the heart of my statement. Or, this is your chance to abandon ship because this one just might not be for you. Whichever you decide, know that your decision is a matter of what you need to do for your heart, mind, and personal convictions - not a reflection mine, and that’s okay too.

Real quick, let’s point out any immediate concerns or false assumptions - I do NOT say it out loud, I’m NOT preaching it from a pulpit, NOT echoing it for my peers to hear, and definitely NOT saying it where any kids can hear me. I believe language is powerful and I recognize that it contains so many nuances, subjectivity, and reliance on context that to teach people the meaning of what I am saying could make for an exhaustive conversation. All of that to say, yes, I do say fuck in church. To answer your question, I’m typically saying it for one of two reasons: one, in a moment of awe and overwhelm from a heart and place of worship; or two, in a moment where I have been called out because the actions of my flesh and the desires of my spirit have met a crossroads and I have to decide which path I’ll continue to take.

I understand the concept of “Sunday Best.” I know there is something nice about cleaning yourself up, all nice and fancy-like (sing, Applebee’s on a date night). I understand the notion of presenting our best selves before the Lord (pronounce “Lawrd”) with steamed collars, polished pumps, and perfectly coiffed hair. I see the beauty there and believe it to be a sweet offering - it’s just not where I am right now. Right now, I’m walking into church in oversized sweatshirts, yoga pants, and hair that probably should have been washed the day before thrown up in a scrunchie. But, you know what, I’m there.

Simply put, I am quite done with seeing churches as museums with dress codes, pinned smiles, and a minimum “goodness” level required for entry. I’m not there to impress a room full of stone people who were taught to believe that their original creation isn’t good enough that they cast themselves in white paint to appear more pure (this is a real thing with historical statues - look into it). No. When I go into church I’m expecting to step foot into a hospital. I’m going to see the broken, the beaten, and the damned. To be in company with those who showed up because they need saving, healing. I’m going to join the infantry of prayer warriors, and believe me, I know soldiers and they know a few four letter words themselves.

Fact is, our battle as humans, as believers, is relentless. Our war is real and pain happens here. I don’t need a place that dismisses that or a place that believes that only the scars of Jesus are worth talking about. Yes, it’s because of His I find healing but it’s because of mine He chose to bare His own. Teach me about that love - about Jehovah Rapha, the only healer who has ever believed in and felt the weight of all pain.

So know this, when I say fuck at the alter, I mean it. I mean my heart has been ripped to shreds. I mean, “Damn, Holy Spirit look at you showing up and doing your thing.” I mean, “How dare you speak so boldly to the convictions of my heart and call me out on my bullshit.” So yeah, I say fuck in church…because I say fuck outside of it too. And let me tell you what I’ve learned, it’s no surprise to God. I truly believe He would rather me be in a crowd of His people with my self barely strung together with all my desperation and readiness for worship (full of fucks) than He would me showing up with a heart that hasn’t cried out for His once that week, with lips that don’t even say His name (fuckless).

I’m over performance, production, and protecting my own self-righteousness. They are damning to the soul. I’m here for what some of you call authenticity that I call honest. I’m not going to call it true. I’m not going to call it right. I’m going to call it real. I’m going to call it tired. I’m going to call it weary and searching. I’m going to call it combatting depression, anxiety, apathy, and expectation. I’m going to call it what it is, and what it is is a wretched soul, saved by grace that can finally walk into service without getting a visceral reaction that made them want to vomit because they didn’t feel like they belonged. Because, I know I do. I know my place. I know my place is in this kingdom - in this congregation. I too am a part of the body of believers in a good and faithful God. In a God, a God who knows my ugly. A God who knows my ugly and…get this, loves me anyway.

I’m done trying to hide the hurt so that I might actually find the healing. I’m done letting pretentious and self-righteous people decide the places I am welcome. I truly believe the modern pharisees will never see heaven’s gates the way that us sinners, who have chosen to make heaven our homes, will because we care more about His glory and radical redemptive power than our own.

So yes, I say fuck in church and maybe, just maybe, you should say it too. That is if that’s what your soul is crying out when you encounter the full and overwhelming presence of God.

Today

For what it’s worth, I sat down and wrote today.

“So, until forever more let me be able to say -

That in some fashion, in some way

‘I sat down and wrote today.’”

For what it’s worth, I sat down and wrote today.

Sure, I didn’t press submit - but I also didn’t press delete.

I sat down and wrote today.

I took a moment and decided to carpe diem that shit.

…trying not to care if the result itself might, in fact, be shit.

…trying not to think it could even possibly be.

I sat down and wrote today - because I had to

…because my body, mind, and spirit are working hard to conspire in her favor.

In the favor of who it is I want to be.

Who I need to be.

My autopilot of avoidance and apathy have yet to forfeit their hold

…but praise God, I can feel them losing their grip.

I’ve started speaking up more - talking about what I want

… even in the uncertainty of what exactly that is.

What I know is this:

I need to know what action feels like

…because my passions have atrophied due to an overuse of nouns and lack of verbs.

I need to seek the clarity and freedom found in abundance

…because I have become blinded and bound by excess.

So, because of this, I sat down and wrote today.

Yesterday. It gets no redos.

Tomorrow. It has no guarantee.

So, until forever more let me be able to say -

That in some fashion, in some way

“I sat down and wrote today.”

Thank You for Being a Friend

For what it’s worth, it’s a hard thing to write a piece on friendship when you are currently so damn grateful but that hasn’t always been your experience.

“Sure, having people you can party hard with is great fun. But, if you’ve never been a partier - it really does you no good to have that be your standard of friendship.”

For what it’s worth, it’s a hard thing to write a piece on friendship when you are currently so damn grateful but that hasn’t always been your experience.

My overwhelming feeling of gratitude has made me want to write this entry for a while now but I’ve struggled to figure out the pacing of it because when it comes to tackling the how these are the questions that I have been running laps around:

Do I give the full backstory and talk about how for the better part of a decade I felt like I had none? Knowing if I do that, I’ll feel compelled to acknowledge that I consciously know I did have friends to not hurt my old friends feelings while still admitting that, at the time, I felt all alone. Where ultimately, I’d try to oversell that it wasn’t their fault… it’s just because that’s what anxiety/depression/overthinking/and misplaced self-esteem does. It distorts truth and I didn’t know how to verbalize that at fifteen.

Do I talk about how I always wondered if everyone just saw me as the person that got the pity invite to the party because “the parents” wanted to make sure no one got left out? When I 100% knew (read: thought) I wasn’t really wanted there and I thought this because that happened all of twice in elementary school and I don’t know how to let shit go.

Do I talk about how I had the best of friends from kindergarten to third grade? How I felt like we ran the school and that we were untouchable because as far as I was concerned we were. And if I do that, do I leave out the part how that feeling ended shortly after changing schools three times after third grade?

Do I spend letters, upon words, upon paragraphs talking about how I hoped for more friends but I just never knew how it’d happen because I clung to overused statements like, “you’ll never have more friends than you did in high school,” or “you’re lucky if you have even three friends in adulthood”?

Or, do I just talk about the good, the great, and the now? Do I ignore the steps it took to get here and act like it’s always been glitter?

Truthfully, I still don’t know. What I do know is this - today is March 31st and I’ll be damned if I let Women’s History Month end (spot me catching that 11:59 deadline) without me celebrating the incredible friendships I have. Friendships I am constantly in awe of. Friendships that took years to build and others that happened in seconds. Reciprocal friendships: the type of friendships that I never thought I would have - one’s that I am poured into as much as I feel like I pour out, if not more. Friendships that make me routinely stop mid conversation because I am so thankful that I made it to this point.

Let it be known that my road to where I am now has not been easy; and believe me when I say this, it has taken me years to get here. Years.

For the better part of eight years most of my friendships were superficial: founded on Etnies Sneakers or Cheer Uniforms. I spent so much time trying to impress people who I knew I couldn’t stand because it seemed better to be included than to be alone. Bless.

Then came the seven years following high school graduation and the amount of people I considered my true friends fluctuated between one and six (family not included) - half of which hadn’t ever met the other. These people are made up of the one friend I kept from high school and the other five I met at work and formed friendships with from doing life together. These ladies became my foundation and I will forever be grateful for them and their consistency in my life. They are worthy of the highest praise (and at some point their own feature piece) because they have been with me through some of the biggest changes in my life and they have loved me through trying to figure out who I am and where my place is on this big blue world.

Honestly, at this point I thought I was set. I had strong friendships with great humans and if these were going to be the only friends I were to have for the rest of my life I would have been content. Sure, we all live about four hours away from each other but they are there for me whenever I need them - and I know that.

Then, a major shift happened over the last two years and that once content number of six multiplied rapidly. I know this because I actually sat down a few months ago and took into account all of the friendships I have. I thought about the people I cheer on and the ones I see doing the same for me. The people I want to show up for and those that have shown up for me. The number came to over two dozen women. (Mind Blown!) Two dozen women I consider my friends. Two dozen women I wouldn’t dare call just acquaintances. Two dozen women I absolutely enjoy the company of. Two dozen women I am elated to know and to have be a part of my world.

So, how did it happen? I would say it was a matter of three things:

1. I stopped believing people didn’t want to be my friend because I wasn’t cool enough.

   • When I first met two of my now closest friends I thought they were too cool for me. I was intimidated by who (I thought) they were because of my own negative view of myself. Turns out - I was right, they are dope ass people but, plot twist, they think I’m pretty cool too.

2. I learned what I actually wanted out of friendship and realized how many of those relationships I had actually already built.

   • Sure, having people you can party hard with is great fun. But, if you’ve never been a partier - it really does you no good to have that be your standard of friendship. I want friends that are there for me when my world drops - not just when the beat drops. I now know the type of people that make me feel safe, that make me feel brave, that make me feel like I can be myself in whatever capacity that might be. I no longer consider it a loss when I don’t mix well with someone. Yeah sis, I’ll cheer you on but my peace is important too.

3. I started showing up and doing things I loved for myself and ended up meeting friends in those places that were there doing the same thing for themselves.

   • In August 2021 I made three life changing friendships with people from completely different states that I wouldn’t have met if I didn’t take a chance on myself and go to a concert and get pictures taken because it was something I wanted to do. I stopped letting other people’s “nos” keep me from saying “yes.”

What’s funny is, I used to think that the basis of great friendships were movie worthy parties but the crowd I surrounded myself with I didn’t really enjoy their company. I was too caught up on who I thought I needed to be for them to like me that I didn’t feel like I could breathe without judgement. Now, I know that the friendships I value more than anything in the world are about sending each other songs to let you know you’re thinking about them, making birthday cakes for their babies, wearing matching pjs at Christmas, and showing up to help clean house. They’re about sleeping on each other’s couches, mourning the loss of pregnancies, and celebrating landing leading roles in feature films. It looks like helping each other unscramble their respective letters. It looks like “what are you doing right now because I have 5 minutes to hug your neck as I drive through your town.” It’s rebuilding old high school friendships because you’ve both grown up since then. It looks like sitting in a dark room binging seasons of tv in silence because you need company but not conversation. It looks like triple texts, two hour debriefing phone calls, and sending messages even though you know there wont be a response because the world is heavy right now but you want to remind them you’re still there. It’s people that love you the same whether you’re full of life rockin’ a crop top taking pictures with pirates, you’re sporting an astronaut costume on a random Tuesday (because why not), or when you’ve been wearing the same sweatshirt for the last three days because you’re mid spiral and your brain and body are at war. They’re there for the 2 AM projects your mania and procrastination drove you to, the 1 PM wake up calls to make sure you’re still breathing, and celebrating a Thursday because life is great and hard. They recognize all parts of you exist and they don’t make you feel like you have to change who you are to share in their company. It looks like sitting in driveways sharing prayers and dreams. It’s not seeing each other in person for over a year and picking up like no time has been lost. It’s supporting their businesses and laughing at the memes they share on Facebook. It’s watching each other grow, fall, and celebrating the humanity of it all. Friendship isn’t glamorous - it’s messy. And it’s these very messy, honest, beautifully broken, head strong, trying-to-figure-it-out women that I want to be partying with as long as I can because they make me feel more like myself than I’ve felt in a long time.

There’s an old proverb that goes: “Show me your friends and I’ll show you your future.” If this statement does in fact carry any truth, my future will be incredible and I mean that, wholeheartedly.

My friends are creative and ambitious. They’re wives who love their husbands, moms who treasure their babies, and they’re single women who are unapologetic. They’re dream chasers, picture takers, concert goers, and tea drinkers. They believe in themselves, and in others. My friends are bold and ridiculously talented. They are humble and stand up for themselves. They bust ass and protect their peace. They’re prayer warriors, empaths, introverts, and riot starters. They are professionals, they are fun, they are weird, they are compassionate, and they are beautiful.

So sweet friend, I hope it doesn’t take you twenty-seven years to realize you have more people in your corner than you ever realized but if it does, or if it takes longer, know that what the internet says is true: “You still haven’t met all of the people who are going to love you.”

Six Months

For what it’s worth, it has felt both like a blink and a lifetime away.

I can’t tell you where the next six months will take me or what they hold but here I am, raising a glass to what may come. Here’s to growth.

For what it’s worth, it has felt both like a blink and a lifetime away.

It has been six months since I pressed publish for the first time. Six months ago I decided to dive head first into a dream, slash my soul open and lay it on display for anyone to observe - I’m Proud of You.

Since then I have felt the weight of the water I jumped into, clawed my way out of the waves, laid lifeless like a beached whale, and have repeated the cycle over and over again. I’ve sewn my soul back together with strings of comfortable and cautious because bold and vulnerable is a different kind of ache.

Drenched in inconsistency, I have toured you through the rooms of my mind. I have spoken on apathy and exhaustion, hope and growth, and the journey of trying. I’ve done this all in an effort to expose my humanity - to not feel so alone - or maybe, just maybe, to get rid of the clutter in my cranium.

I’ve slid across the spectrum of “Here I am world!” and “BRB my bed is calling.” Don’t get me wrong, I am still proud of myself. Proud of the work I’ve done - proud of what I have posted - proud of who I’m becoming in the process. Proud but still wanting. Wanting more consistency, more belief in myself, belief in my writing. Wanting to care a little less about how I will be perceived and a little more about why I believe this to be valuable.

The last six months have been a blur of steps forward and fall backs - life itself I suppose.

I can’t tell you where the next six months will take me or what they hold but here I am, raising a glass to what may come. Here’s to growth. Here’s to the next six months. Here’s to twice as many posts and half as many breakdowns. Here’s to continuing to try over and over and beginning to care a little less each time even when it feels like failing. Here’s to us - to you and to me. Here’s to all of us out here trying our best to learn a little more about who we are along the way and finding out it’s all been worth something.

You Can’t Go Up If You’re Looking Down

For what it’s worth, I look down. I look down often - and let’s be clear I’m not just figuratively looking down; I literally look down.

“What, I don’t paint like Artemisia Gentileschi or write beloved poetry like Shel Silverstein on my first attempt - this medium must not be for me. I must never tell the world I even attempted.”

For what it’s worth, I look down. I look down often - and let’s be clear I’m not just figuratively looking down; I literally look down. I stare at my feet as if they are where I am going.

I suppose it seems obvious - if you’re looking down that’s the direction you’ll go. But, as you may know, understanding something and putting something into action are two very different things. One takes a quality explanation - the other a tremendous amount of effort and likely some unlearning to do.

When this great insight was shared with me it was after I was trying to hit a specific leap in the jazz class I was taking. I finished the leap and just knew something was wrong. I couldn’t specifically identify what I was doing wrong but it didn’t feel right in my body. I asked my teacher, the incredible PandaDansa herself, Chelsea, what I was missing. Simply and calmly she said, “Well, first of all, you can’t go up if you’re looking down.” I thought, “Duh - that makes total sense.” Actually, I thought, “Damn, if this doesn’t apply to my whole life.”

That specific dance class alone led to two or three other simple statements/directives that made me evaluate how I live my life in and outside of the studio. The other that left such an impact - “Do three in a row. No stopping.” You see, not only do I look down - I stop. I stop when I feel myself messing up. I stop when I get hung up. I stop the moment I no longer feel like I can perform the move or the sequence perfectly. In dance, as in life, what stopping does is train your body to continue to stop. You’re creating muscle memory and now your body no longer knows how to finish because you haven’t given it the chance and because you haven’t given it a chance to continue you never give yourself the chance to actually master what you’re out to achieve.

It’s odd to me, in my job I can problem solve all day long. I have fully embraced the mantra modify and adjust and roll with the punches. I know the importance of follow through and practice - hell, I teach the importance of it to others. But when it comes to the areas in my life that I want to pour into creatively I get hung up on trying to do them perfectly that I stop before I ever give myself the chance to grow. I don’t go up.

What, I don’t paint like Artemisia Gentileschi or write beloved poetry like Shel Silverstein on my first attempt - this medium must not be for me. I must never tell the world I even attempted.

Irrational, absolutely. What I actually believe based on my actions, yep. The only-used-once paint in my home and the last time I published anything to be read being in October proves this to be true. The problem isn’t the want to - it isn’t lacking inspiration. The problem is truly believing (and acting in the belief) that the very fact it makes me happy to do it means it is worth doing. That. That sentence right there is the exact reason I named this site Worth Something. It is because I know when it comes down to it I need that reminder constantly. I needed to make a space for myself that I shouldn’t have to worry about the value of what I am creating because the fact that I am even creating is valuable.

This was affirmed to me yesterday. I decided to go to an intuitive group session to welcome in the new year. It was my first time involved in something like that but when I was in there the guide said something that I hope to cling to this year and really the rest of my life. She told us it was time to create a safe space for ourself. Not a space to escape danger but specifically a space to find healing. This is that space. I need this to be that space. The space where I tackle the fear I operate under because of the expectations I have put on how things are “supposed to be.” There has to be a shift because fear isn’t interested in taking me forward and starring at my feet is getting exhausting.

I truly believe that 2022 will be a shifting year in my life, my body, my brain, and my soul. I believe that the seeds I planted and watered in 2021 are bound to flourish. I owe it to myself - both past, present, and future - to stop stunting my own growth.

After all, there are books I want to read - books I want to write, concerts I want to attend, friends I want to make, money I want to save, memories I want to capture - and perhaps most importantly, a life I want to live presently and actively.

I think the title picture for this post is the perfect representation of how I want to walk through 2022. Not only is my chin up and my eyes forward, I felt amazing, I was proud of myself, I’m wearing my favorite jacket and my legs look strong as hell. Look closer and you’ll see the lights behind me are green. I was crossing the road when oncoming traffic had the potential to be coming right at me but I didn’t stop. I walked head held high towards my destination with full faith in my photographer that this moment was worth the risk. Rachel didn’t let me down and I don’t think God will either. Why, because I believe God cares about this and I hope I show up in a way that puts that belief into action.

On Paper: Unrehearsed

For what it’s worth, as long as I can remember I have been stuck on this idea of making things (read: my life) “look good on paper”.

“…where I am right now: somewhere between I can do better and I’m doing the best I can.”

For what it’s worth, as long as I can remember I have been stuck on this idea of making things (read: my life) “look good on paper”.

So much so, that I when I go back and read things I’ve written - things like “Dear Future Me” assignments, 5,10,15 year plans, college degree paths, and hell, even some of my own journal entries, I wonder how much of it is what I really wanted to say vs what I thought people wanted to hear. Not to mention, and possibly more importantly, the amount of things I didn’t write down because I couldn’t justify them to “make sense”, to “sound good”, or to meet the expectations I assumed people to have of me. I’d love to say I’ve stopped acting in this mindset. I’d love to say that now I know without a shadow of a doubt that everything I write is what I want to write and not because I think you want to read it. I’d love to say that I now write without care but instead with extreme passion. I’d love to say that. I can’t. The proof of this? It’s been four weeks since I have made a blog entry. Four weeks since I’ve engaged on social media. Four weeks since I’ve shown up for myself in the very space I’ve created for myself. How long has it been for you?

Let it be known that I don’t feel like you are owed an explanation of my absence. Quite frankly, it’s none of your business. That said, if my intention is to write what I think is important, to write what is real, and to simply write, then I might as well use this as an open journal entry to get out of my head what has been spinning around in there the last month. So, here’s to having no clue where this might end up. To using this as a brain-dump rather than trying to create a thoughtful essay with a clear storyline to be loved by millions. Here’s to jumping on the train of thought full aware there are no visible tracks. To getting something down on paper, trying to not care if it looks “good”, and simply doing it anyway. 

Well, here it goes:

When I was in my undergraduate program I took this class called History of Sexuality. It was one of the requirements within my minor and where my eyes were opened to the greatness that is the musical Hamilton. I was taking the class with two of my friends who happened to be former classmates of one of my younger brothers. This information is important because when these friends were in high school their history teacher was the graduate apprentice of our current college professor (which our professor was aware of). Additionally important, one of them was a history major and had former classes with our professor and the other was an honors student within the humanities department. So, through a series of association, I was grouped in with two very talented and well known students. I went from fly-on-the-wall and random-psych-major to “this girl must also know what’s up.” To be fair - I did not (but I have learned how to play that part). A month into the semester and the time had come for us to turn in our first papers. I have no idea what the paper was about but I do remember being handed back my graded paper. I don’t remember the letter grade I was given but as my professor handed it back to me he said,

“I know you can do better than that.” 

I walked out of the class with my friends, heated. Sure I cared that my grade wasn’t an A but I knew I didn’t earn one (shout out to my procrastination). “How does he know I can do better? He doesn’t know me. He’s never read my writing before. I don’t have the history background that the two of you do. Honestly, what if this is the best I can do?” Comments and questions like these poured out of my mouth and into my friends’ ears. They agreed with me, laughed at me, and then laughed with me as I ended with - “Well, I mean he’s right. But how does he know that? He seriously doesn’t know me.” Then, of course, every paper after that I had to prove him right - I was better than that. 

Let it be known that I’m the type of person that gets just as mad at people telling me “You’re better than that” as I do with those stupid bumper-sticker-style, inspirational-text-photos that say, “You’re doing the best you can.” Yes. Both of them, as polar opposite statements, get one of three of the same responses from me: 1) the always favorite, “You don’t know my life.” 2) “You’re right”, and 3) “(choice expletive of the moment), no I’m not.” Why is it that both of these make me mad? Well, the full and deep answer probably requires a few more hours of therapy than I’ve sat in on but let’s go ahead and say: not liking other people to tell me/assume who I am (I know this contradicts my whole identity - welcome to my brain) and being aware of the negative effect both of these can have on someone’s mental health - or at least my own.

You see, when you tell someone they’re “better than that” and their best at the moment is honestly getting out of bed - you are only twisting the knife. You are invalidating real emotions that have a very real chemical reaction in their brain that leads to only making them feel worse. On the other end, when you tell someone they’re “doing the best they can” and they’ve chosen to sit down on the corner of apathy and fear you are only justifying their inaction. This justification ultimately ends up leading them to accepting numb as an appropriate state of being because Facebook told them they were “fine”. While both statements have their place and can truly be comforting; they can also be harmful. They have the potential to either lead to the burnout at the end of “more is more” and hustle culture or to the belief that it is acceptable to live life as a shell of a human full of apathy and void of passion. Neither of which are good or okay. I beg you, be careful as you interact with these words - both as a dealer and a consumer. 

So, where have I been the last four (really eight) weeks? I’ve been splitting days somewhere between the two.

When I pressed publish on my first post it was like I let those four words, “I’m proud of you,” leave this wall I’ve built around a large piece of my soul like a naked Miley Cyrus licking a sledge hammer, wrecked. I’ve never given birth, but pressing publish was probably the closest I will be to doing so for a while. I took something that has been stirring in my soul building up over the course of years and I let it out into the world. It was both exhilarating and exhausting. Within seven days 200 different people (or IP addresses) across twenty-three states took a moment of their time to read what I had to say. Take that amount of social interaction and add to the fact that my numbers brain became obsessed with the analytics - it was too much. I became consumed and needed to take a step back. This need for a pause became evident when I watched the numbers drop over the next two weeks. I was sharing things I was excited about but was becoming disappointed by the lack of views. I began questioning my place in this space. I felt like I didn’t belong in the very space I created for myself and I hated that feeling. So, I stepped back. Then, as things do, that step back turned into a sit down, to a lay down, to a “if I can’t finish a thought, I might as well go to sleep.”

This response wasn’t just reflective in my writing but also in my professional and personal life. I stopped drinking water. I stopped taking my nightly walks. I started eating far too much sugar. I spent more time just sitting in my car (IYKYK). I missed dance practices. I procrastinated on completing work assignments that are vital to my job. I essentially threw all my balls into the air, rubber and glass, and watched as they began to fall in slow motion - just waiting on which broken pieces would matter enough to me to care again. I used my emotional exhaustion as an excuse to stop doing everything else that made me feel like a person. Instead, I scrolled through Instagram blindly for hours, I binged New Girl for the third time - just because, and I managed to force myself to stay awake hypnotized by blue light rather than just go to sleep. I wrote, deleted, rewrote, and abandoned about four different pieces all because I didn’t find them to be “good enough.”  

I find it equally important to mention that within these last four weeks I have also attended a woman’s conference that quite literally will go down as a weekend that changed my life. I have made friendships that I hope to continue to grow and invest in. I have purged a solid one-third of my storage unit - a rather huge victory against my hoarding tendencies. I have shared belly laughs with growing little ones, I said yes to a spontaneous concert, and I started drinking water again. 

I recently recalled the back and forth that is expressed by Paul in Romans 7 and it perfectly sums up how I have been feeling:

“I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do.”

Listen, I know as I eat a bowl of fruity pebbles at midnight that I really should just go to bed. And yet, I pour another bowl. I know as I scroll mindlessly through Instagram that I should read one of my many unfinished books - or write one of my many unfinished entries instead. And yet, I skip over to YouTube to watch four year old CollegeHumor videos. Because, you know, seeing what nonsense Brennan, Grant, and Katie are being overly dramatic about is clearly a solid and better use of my time. 

Call it depression, call it apathy, call it exhaustion, call it anxiety, call it fear, call it whatever you want - I’ve dabbled in them all. Is there a difference between them? Well, in my own life, I’d say yes. To me, depression is a fight and apathy is a forfeit. There is honor in a fight. There is no honor in a forfeit. Taking that into account, I’ve decided I’m going to start calling it a direct attack on my soul. I’ve decided to believe that there must be a powerful impact waiting somewhere within my writing that the enemy is determined to take it from me. Not only is he determined to take it from me, the clever bastard is letting me take it away from myself. He doesn’t have to lift a finger when I let fear and idleness do the work for him. Well, in hopes to get back to the gusto I spoke with two months ago, let me speak plainly with a breathy and weary voice until I can scream it from rooftops again, fuck that shit. If this is war then it’s time I show up and start fighting. I can’t say what fighting will look like everyday - but I know all days it needs to look like time spent in prayer and with putting something down on paper. 

Well, that’s it. Words on paper: unrehearsed and unconcerned about how they’re perceived because they’re an honest reflection of where I am right now: somewhere between I can do better and I’m doing the best I can. 

To the friend that messaged me yesterday and told me it was okay to be a bum, thank you for valuing rest. 

To the friend that messaged me an hour later asking where my latest blog post was, thank you for valuing my passion. 

And, to the fortune that I got from eating at a delicious but unnecessary Chinese buffet earlier this week that read: “Many possibilities are open to you - work a little harder”, thank you for not so subtly calling me out on my bullshit. 

May I Never Forget

For what it’s worth, I don’t remember where I was September 11, 2001.

“..but what I do know is I have lived in the America built from the ashes of Ground Zero every day since. The America that has been able to stand because it is committed to being The Home of the Brave. ”

For what it’s worth, I don’t remember where I was September 11, 2001.

I don’t have a time capsule memory of where I was when the first plane made impact with the North Tower. I can’t tell you what it felt like when someone rushed in to tell me to turn the TV on or to turn up the radio. I simply don’t remember. I know- based on time, location, and routine alone - that I was seven years old, in second grade, living in Wyoming. I lived in the mountain time zone which meant at 8:46 EST when the first strike happened, my school day hadn’t even started yet - and by the time the last collapse occurred, I would have only been 30 minutes into my school day. Truthfully, I don’t even remember if I went to school that day. I just don’t remember. 

Honestly, when admitting that, sometimes I feel like a “bad” American.

According to estimations - at least 20% of the population today wasn’t even alive for the events but I was. I was old enough to form memories, and I don’t remember. I mean, I remember my kindergarten Halloween party and the time someone spilled milk on my snowsuit and how annoyed I felt that the nurse had to wash it. I know those took place before September 2001 and I remember those moments clear as now but I don’t remember the moment the world simultaneously froze, reset, stopped, shattered, played in slow motion, and happened in a blink for so many people. 

I’ve asked before why they (my parents) didn’t tell me the day of - overtime, Mom’s answer has made a lot of sense. Essentially it came down to this, how do you tell a child who already displayed signs of great empathy and high anxiety on a typical Tuesday that this Tuesday would change the world forever? How do you answer questions for a child whose favorite word was “why” when you had no answers to give? At the time, my parents were protecting me - in an effort to keep my world small, innocent, and bright  - even if it just meant for one more day. I like to believe it’s because they knew as soon as I found out it may never fully be those three things again.  

I do, however, remember when I learned what the rest of the world already knew. My mom says it was a few days after the fact. Again, I don’t know the exact date, but I do remember walking into my parents’ room to watch the events unfold on their 20 inch box TV that managed to fill the room like an IMAX theater. I watched as the news played “reruns” of the footage. I stood like a statue as my eyes watched men jump out of the windows as the towers caught fire. I didn’t know what any of it meant - I couldn’t grasp how any of it could be real.

Here’s what I do Remember: 

I remember how airports changed. I remember going from being able to watch my Grammy walk off the plane and straight to us to having to wave behind the glass as my cousin made her way through TSA all within a years time. 

I remember a friend of mine coming back from a trip to New York City and showing us photographs of Ground Zero. We were 11 years old then and even though we still didn’t understand it all we knew there was honor to be found in sunken ground and our class was silent. 

I remember honoring civilians and first responders just as proudly as the soldiers that fought in their memory.

I remember tighter hugs and longer “I love yous.” 

I remember learning the fear of “you never know when” through practicing lockdowns.

I remember watching soldiers wish their families Merry Christmas on ABC during the commercial slots of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer because they wouldn’t be home to say it in person. 

I remember writing notes and building care packages. 

I remember yearly writing prompts and slideshows of the same twenty images. 

I also remember being the one responsible for teaching the new generation. I remember having to teach them the importance of this day as I read them stories like, “America is Under Attack” and “14 Cows for America” - in an effort to keep the memory alive. I remember being the adult that had to answer the “why” questions and still, 17 years later (at the time), having no idea what to say...because, I too, wanted them to be able to play the part in keeping America remembering while also trying to keep their world small, innocent, and bright - even if it just meant for one more day.  

Now, here it is 20 years later.

Twenty years of life has happened. Twenty years of war and its aftermath has happened. Twenty years of individual, family, community, state, and nation wide pain has happened. But I promise you this, if you ask me where I was on the 20th anniversary of September 11th I will be able to tell you exactly where I was. And I pray, may I never forget.

I, because of being a member of AR Rock Squad, had the privilege of spending the 20th anniversary volunteering at the Little Rock Stair Climb. We were asked to serve as support and motivation to the climbers as they paid tribute to the 343 fallen firefighters of 9/11. I watched as men, women, and children chose to spend their Saturday morning wearing the names of heroes around their necks as a badge of honor. I watched as local and state first responders, their spouses, their children, and civilians alike took their place on the field of War Memorial Stadium, raised their hats to the Fireman’s Prayer, and began their march to the sound of bagpipes. I witnessed their smiles, their sweat, and their commitment as they kept climbing. I saw their utter exhaustion and pride as they stood at the end of their 110 flights of stairs (over 2000 steps) to honor the hero they climbed for and listened as they rang a bell in their memory. 

May I never forget the tears that blurred my vision as the event director said, “You keep taking those steps, and when it gets hard you look back and you say thank you for letting me take one more step. You keep going and you keep saying thank you.”

May I never forget the mix of both somber silence and joyful celebration that filled the air as I watched Americans take each step in honor of the heroes that gave their lives in stairwells to do everything they could to live out the words “protect and serve.” 

May I never forget the sound of the PASS devices echoing in the stadium to signify the very fallen firefighters they were climbing for.  

May I never forget Stella, who at 7 years old (the same age I was when tragedy struck) made the 110 flight climb. When I asked her why she chose to climb today she said it was because her parents both work for the memorial organization and it was important to her. She ended with, “You know, not bad for a seven year old.” Not bad at all Stella, not bad at all. 

May I never forget Amanda and Andrea, two volunteer firefighters who aren’t old enough (24 and 22 respectively) to have first hand memories of the event. Two women who serve today because they’re passionate about helping people. May I remember their smiles as they kept going to honor Manuel Mojica, Firefighter Squad 18 and Gerald Nevins, Firefighter Rescue 1 because that’s what they showed up to do. May I remember the small role of joy I was able to play with two sets of black and red pom poms on their final lap.  

People talk about what America looked like on September 12, 2001.

They talk about the unity - the absolute patriotism, the honor, the compassion, and the camaraderie to hold tight, stand strong, and to rebuild. I saw a glimpse of that America today. I watched a squads, units, and families left no man behind, as strangers cheered for strangers. It didn’t matter if they were in full gear or in a tank top and shorts, a member of the PD, FD, EMS, or a local fitness group, Americans showed up today with one common purpose. The cheers and celebrations were the same for those that finished first and those that ended the day because it wasn’t a race - it was a true memorial. 

Truly, I urge you, if you ever get the opportunity to attend, volunteer, or participate in a 9/11 stair climb - take it. You will see the very best parts of America. 

Never Forget. Always Remember. 

You see, even if I can’t tell you where I was when, I can tell you that unlike any historic tragedies before it, I didn’t have to be taught about 9/11 in history books - because its impact has always been a part of my life. From that day forward, every room I have walked in there has been at least one person that has had a direct connection to someone who was standing for our country because those towers fell. So no, I may not remember where I was September 11, 2001, but what I do know is I have lived in the America built from the ashes of Ground Zero every day since. The America that has been able to stand because it is committed to being The Home of the Brave. 

May we never forget.

I Want to Read About Women

For what it’s worth, the hardest part about filming this was deciding which of my many women themed sweatshirts to wear.

“I want to read about women that showed up, that took up space. Women that believed they were worth the space. I am worth the space.”

For what it’s worth, the hardest part about filming this was deciding which of my many women themed sweatshirts to wear. I like the choice I made.

Let it be known that I originally considered letting this post be nothing more than a landing pad for this video. I wrote maybe five sentences introducing you to it and proclaiming “this is what I wanted to do this week - so here you go.” But, as you might have guessed, and will surely come to know, brevity is not my strength. Less than three hours away from this video going live I decided to tell you more - because I had more to say.

So here is more. More to the story; more on the origin of why this video is important to me. However, this is not the origin of the content - no, my friends, that is for another day in itself. This is an origin story of the delivery method.

I can’t even begin to place a timestamp on when poetry imprinted on my soul. I was raised on the radio, Shel Silverstein, fairytales, bedtime stories, Bible verses, and Sesame Street sing-a-longs. The rhythm and rhyme of language is something I naturally think in. Words strung together so purposefully that you can’t help but to feel every single one - and if you’re lucky, you see them.

What I love the most about poetry is that it comes with specific rules and then shows you how to freely break them. Poetry can show up in a polished love story, a silly sonnet, in perfect iambic pentameter, syllable counts that make it questionable to whether or not they get to call themselves a haiku (all depending on the accent of the reader), or in prose. Prose - the very category of poetry that screams, “If you want to call it a poem - call it one! No rules here!” - I like prose for this declaration that it makes.

Poetry is what I turn to when my heart is bleeding out, when my brain is overwhelmed, and when my body feels out of place. I have a very distinct memory of going into what can only be described as intoxicated by sadness, where I purchased four poetry books within 5 minutes because they were the medicine I needed. But poetry is also where I go for a laugh, a smile, where I go to feel inspired, and to be seen. Poetry is a cornerstone on which I build my foundation of existence and I hope to forever be both lost and found within it.

Though I may not be able to trace back the day when poetry changed my life, I can tell you when Spoken Word boosted it’s power. It was February 2008, my English class was working its way through our poetry section when our teacher introduced us to Poetry Out Loud. For those of you that do not know, and to put it simply, the nature of Poetry Out Loud is to - and get this - read poetry, out loud. More than that, it is this organization that hosts spoken word poetry competitions for students to compete in by performing the works of other poets - and in some cases, original pieces. I was one of the only people in my grade asked to perform in our school’s competition - and I was the youngest to do so. My piece was titled, “Playing Dead” by Andrew Hudgins. To this day, I can recite nearly every word based on memory alone. I remember being so excited to recite the poem - excited enough to tell my mother she was not allowed to look at me when I did. Reciting was important for me, by the world changing part - was listening. Magic happened when I heard my competitors stand up and give monologues that I would have sworn were their own words. All grace, love, and adoration to Maya Angelou - but on that day you wouldn’t have been able to convince me that “Phenomenal Woman” wasn’t penned by a ninth grader named Arica. She lived and breathed those words. Every inflection was her own. Every pause made with intention. I heard her power. I felt her conviction. We all did.

It was there - there that spoken word poetry shifted so much of who I wanted to be. There is this indescribable beauty in hearing poetry by the people that composed it, by the people that feel it, and by the people that echo those words to be their own truths. The inflection of each word in one reading and how it changes to the next has the ability to shift the mood and the meaning to a magnitude in a way that is soul shaking.

I will forever be grateful for that opportunity to stand on that stage and spit out rhymes about stinky feet and peeling back eyelids. I believe it led to me finding a piece of my soul, it put me on a national stage (Shout Out Beta Club 2012), it helped me find kindred spirts, and it lined my closet with words I wear as mantras.

What you will find below is one of my own pieces of Spoken Word poetry. The original recording of this piece was created July 3, 2021 on a car ride home, in a voice memo. The very definition of me at my most honest. Some revisions were made after hearing it back, some planned, and others simply caught on film. Each time I say the words out loud and every time I listen to them play back to me I find new lines that hit my heart - that make me proud - that honestly, make me tear up a little bit. That’s what I want to write. I want to write words that make me cry. Why, because I believe that is powerful.

I hope you choose to take the time you will spend mindlessly scrolling through TikTok anyway to listen to this video. As you listen, I challenge you to find yourself, your friends, your family, your heroines somewhere within these words. I believe you’re (they’re) there. That was the very intention.

Challenge:
Dear Women and Girls:

I challenge you to find one sentence, at the least one word, that describes you within this piece. It was created for the very purpose that you could find yourself within it.

If those words are broken and bitchy, let them be.

If the sentence is, [a woman] who prayed relentlessly, let it be.

Whatever the description you find today, let it be. And if the words change for you tomorrow, let them.

Whatever day it is, know I believe you are in here and I want to read about you.

Let me read your stories by telling me where you find yourself today by declaring who you are in the comments below.

I’m Proud of You

For what it’s worth, I didn’t think writing this post would be so difficult.

“I’m ready to be proud of myself and to be bold enough to say it out loud in agreement with you. Only, even better, I’m ready to not need to hear it from you. Because you know what, I am proud of myself.”

For what it’s worth, I didn’t think writing this post would be so difficult - we’re talking five drafts discarded, difficult. I mean, I knew it wasn’t going to be easy - but it’s been more of a challenge than I want to admit. You see, dear sweet reader, you are not who I am talking about. If I was trying to write a post about why I was proud of you I could probably knock that out in about 20 minutes - tops. I would tell you all the things you’re doing well, all the joy I get from you, how I think you’re crushing life simply by breathing the air it takes to live it. I would shower you with pride - mean every single word, and prove to you why I believe them to be true when I learn from your eyes you don’t believe me. I would do that - no problem. But, I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to me.

Dear me, I’m proud of you. (insert eye-roll here)

See, I’m a words of affirmation person - like big time - like so much so that it’s probably detrimental at this point. I need (read: needed, remember, your girl is in recovery and this is one of the things she’s working on) to be told I’m doing well. Between the acknowledgment of a job well done, others appreciating my contributions, a confirmation of my ideas being “good ones,” and others using what I see as the most valuable currency (language) to fund my esteem I could go for days off of one “atta girl”. That is, until I couldn’t.

I can’t pinpoint the time when words started making my eyes roll, my stomach turn, and starting sending the sensation of knives to my heart but I can tell you, at some point those same compliments, praises, and huzzahs put me in a place of doubt rather than bliss. It’s a weird feeling when what you’ve used as fuel for so long begins to poison you. When you feel like such an imposter because you see none of the things in yourself that others claim to see. You start to wonder who is the fool - is it you, is it them? Are they the ones lying to you or are you lying to them? Because, while someone is saying they wish their daughter would grow up to be like you, you're praying all kinds of prayers that they don’t because you don’t like who you are and you’re convinced they shouldn’t either.

When people compliment your academic achievements: all you think about is the number of late papers you turned in, the fact that you’re graduating a year later than you should have, and that you’re not even sure if you actually know the information or if you just are a really lucky test taker. Not to mention that they seem to be the only type of achievements you’re able to obtain. 

When people compliment your friendships: all you think about is how crappy of a friend you must be because you never have the energy to do anything, you feel completely isolated, and clearly you’re not a good enough friend to appreciate the ones you do have.

When people compliment your faith: all you think about is how you would rather sleep than go to a Sunday service, you think about how the only Jesus you take in is from the radio, and you’re not even sure if God is talking to you anymore because you know you’re not, so why would He.

When people compliment your career: all you think about is how it’s the only thing you do, it’s the only thing you are, it’s the only thing you have to talk about - and that’s typically to the very people you work with who know the only stories you have to tell.

When people compliment your X, Y, Z: all you think about is how selfish you are to either not appreciate what you have or wish you had more.

When people tell you how proud they are of you and all you want to do is vomit because you certainly don’t understand how someone could feel that way about you. And, if in those brief pockets of time when you do agree, and you’re also proud of yourself, you don’t dare say it out loud because then you’re vain and that is unbecoming.

Well, you know what, I’ve spent years feeling this way, years trying to get over it, and years cycling back, but I’m done.

I’m done with assuming negatives. I’m done believing that I’m a side character in my own life. I’m done using the very language I adore to cripple my spirit any longer. I’m done with being mean to my brain and letting my brain be mean to my body and soul.

I’m in charge again. Me. The real me. The fearfully and wonderfully made, me. The made for such a time as this, me. The formed you in your mother’s womb, me. The more than the degrees, more than the occupations, more than the XYZs, me.

I’m tired of these expectations, obligations, limitations, and restrictions that overtime I allowed myself to believe were true. I’m saying “Fuck that Shit” to all of it. I’m praying Sarah Jakes Roberts’ Get Up Girl over my every day. I’m no longer saying no to things I want to do because I can’t find others to come with me. I am reclaiming adjectives I told myself I didn’t deserve.

I’m learning to listen to my body to give it what it needs. I’m figuring out what my passions are and I’m making time for them. I’m discovering who I am without all the identities I’ve clung to.

I’m ready to cash in on a promise I made to myself two years ago. I’m ready to be proud of myself and to be bold enough to say it out loud in agreement with you. Only, even better, I’m ready to not need to hear it from you. Because you know what, I am proud of myself.

I’m proud of the fact that I’m diving into the things I put on a vision board - and I’m not going to be mad that it took me six years to do it.

I’m proud of the fact that you are reading these words right now - and I’m not going to be mad that I did more to make that happen in five days than in the 15 months that I’ve had the idea.

I’m proud of the fact that I am finding more days that I am able to end with - I liked myself today and truly mean it.

I’m proud of stepping away from things - even though I’m still not ready to talk about them. 

I’m proud of every moment that led me to my breaking point - because now here we are! 

I’m proud of myself for being so committed to this change of spirit to engrave these very words on my skin, in my own handwriting, and to be able to wake up and go to sleep to them daily.

I’m proud of you.

Image Context: Over the last month, I’ve thought about getting this tattooed. It was after getting pictures taken in Atlanta and ending my session with Rachel saying, “I’m proud of me.” She simply responded, you need to do it. That conversation was on Sunday, August 8th. On Monday, August 9th, I wrote this down on scratch paper. Four days later, August 13th, I drove three hours to get the tattoo. This is what I’m committed to.