Being aware of my body isn’t something I learned growing up. If anything, being a child in my generation often came with (explicit or implied) instructions to ignore what I was feeling in the name of doing what I was told. Read: respecting elders was a non-negotiable, even if their definition of respect was questionable. Thankfully, these days, the elder that I’m most often tasked with abiding by is me. And I wouldn’t dare tell myself to “sit down and be quiet.”
“Alexa, play the lo-fi radio station.” I’ve been low energy lately, so this is a low pressure check in.
I see her, and I wonder - what type of world prompts such a dear heart to call herself dumb. What if it’s me? What if I’m getting it all wrong while trying my hardest to do this right?
Until a few hours ago, I only knew a few things about my late grandfather.
His name was Leon.
My grandmother feared him and ran away with my mother to escape his harshness.
He showed up at my grandmother’s new home, out of state and unannounced, and took my mother for nearly a year in hopes of urging my grandmother to return to their marriage.
Having aborted previous pregnancies due to familial expectations or uninvested fathers, I wanted to experience a pregnancy where I felt grounded and undoubtedly sure about the union I was bringing a new life into. It took nearly seven years for me to fully accept and feel as if I existed within an emotionally safe environment, and then I experienced a miscarriage.
Being home during the panini press that was last year showed me that there’s an anxious version of myself that runs on autopilot whenever doing so feels easier than actively caring for myself. She makes choices that undermine what feels best and most gentle in the name of efficacy and completed to do lists. Last night, she and I were reintroduced as the first day of school had me struggling to choose how much I feel able to prioritize my own wellness over the expectation to perform.
This is for every mama doing her absolute best. Who simply shows up and continues to try… no matter the hand dealt. This is a reminder that your best can look different on any given day… and it’s no less impressive or praise worthy.
My body is saying rest. And still… I’m setting unrealistic expectations for myself. And experiencing frustration when things take longer than expected. And adding more plans to the plans. And pushing back on my husband when he encourages me to acknowledge this sabotage.
It is an eery thing. To recognize the ways you are moving counter-intuitively all the while feeling beyond your own control. Because there are things that must get done. And you must be the one to do them.
I was barely in my 20’s the first time I realized that one of my dearest friendships had lost its familiarity. Having spent high school within a clique of girls… the ranks began to fizzle out, and going off to college was slowly shifting my views. Armed with a bunch of feelings I didn’t have the emotional intelligence to express, I just knew that the friendship began to feel more hard landing than safety net.
About ten minutes before we needed to leave the house, I decided to finally buckle down and wake the sleeping giant. She kept her eyes closed and maintained dead weight as I sat her up, pulled her to the edge of the bed, and did a 10-second count down asserting the amount of time she had left if she wanted to choose her own outfit versus forfeiting her right to autonomy. (In hindsight, I recognize that this was one of my biggest mistakes. Like an amateur… I opted into a power struggle with a tired six-year-old.)
At the recommendation of a dear friend, I attended a workshop hosted by The Well on March 31st. After roughly an hour discussing intentionality, Radiah Rhodes (of Evok Life) said something to the effect of, “I know that I don’t know you, and you don’t strike me as a woman who settles - but you’re settling when it comes to your book.” Then she proceeded to give me a gentle read on how I had allowed noble causes to stand in the way of my end goal. That conversation called my bluff. Never have I been spoken to so candidly by someone without the relational capacity that would warrant such directness.
As a first hand participant in a love story that had its share of nosedives, I know better than to believe that love and pain are mutually exclusive. I also know that the world’s standard for love will have me summoning the magical intervention of Disney princesses and fairy Godmothers instead of recognizing my trauma responses and how they play a hand in the partners I’ve chosen and/or how I show up in relationships.
To be clear, this is not written in attempt to victim blame or relieve abusive partners of accountability. However, this is a call to self-reflect on whether your default setting has you predisposed to foolishness. It seems wholly unrealistic to enter a union expecting wellness when your habits, mental space and capacity for engaging in the key components of a relationship stem from a broken and unhealed place. Ask me how I know.
For the first time, I contemplated beating Zora. I needed her to know that not only did she try it - she disappointed me. She scared me. She acted outside of the good sense God and intentional parenting granted her… Zora, in all of her “four and a half” years of age, lacked discernment. I’d been praying for the ability to recognize when I’m operating within or beyond God’s will, and there was my baby girl running freely in disobedience, demanding the grace I request on the daily.
For all the advice offered on character building and potty training, there’s little to no guidance on how to protect our children from online hackers. Never mind that child identity theft is the fastest growing crime in the United States.
Without saying, “my reality is more than I care to process,” I neglect it by way of acutely orchestrated “reality” television. I tell my brain to take a break and allow the chaos of these self-sabotaging co-stars to comfort me. To make me feel ordered and aware. Woke, even. I’ve been seeking a place of refuge from my own thoughts, and I’m slowly learning that they should, instead, be my safety net.