The good still lives here

The good still lives here

Even when the news isn't what we hoped.
When there's more appointments ahead.

Good still lives here.

Even when our bodies are weary, worn and aching for rest.

Good still lives here.

Even when it's hard.
When tears of frustration become a normal part of every day.

Good still lives here.

Even when we are low.
Defeated and frustrated and depleted.

Good still lives here.

Even when the only constant is change.
And nothing surprises us anymore.

Good still lives here.

It's the 'feel better' notes.
The long, steady hugs.
The dance parties we are 'forced' to take part in.
The puppy cuddles.
The sweet messages from friends.
The distanced help from ‘ride or die’ family.

Proof that the good still lives here.

It’s looking in the eyes of your partner and knowing that,
while we ask aloud,
what else could possibly go wrong,
we are grateful because we know it could be worse.

Now is the simultaneous existence of
present moment awareness,
complete exhaustion and anxious thought.

It’s life.

And the good still lives here.

Twelve months of twister

I've had a hard time finding the right words to share, over the last 12 months. What normally flows so naturally from my inner monologue has been somewhat silenced. I can't put my finger on why.

I feel like I’ve been playing an endless game of twister.

I spent the first few months of the pandemic feeling motivated and empowered to sustain positivity in my thoughts and words.

I was scared.
I mean, who wasn't?
It was all so new and outrageous. An actual pandemic? A lockdown? What?

But it was happening whether we liked it or not.

By the summer I was fatigued, but re-energized by the sunshine, slower days and time spent in nature. I read more, laughed more and even though I struggled to make decisions I was relatively calm and confident. The game was getting old, but I was still playing it and encouraging my kids to find fun as the spinner kept spinning away, beyond our control.

Fall came.

I felt 75% normal. I was worried about back to school and term but I felt like we could handle it. It was a relief to see the kids act like kids, again. I had the energy to greet them with a smile and hug away the worst parts of their day.

The continual pivots at work were slowing. Difficult, but manageable.
Twisting and turning, tired but focused.

Then holidays approached.

I meticulously planned ahead. Worried more than I should have about everyone else's feelings and complaints. Felt a new level of exhaustion and began dragging my butt out of bed. Noticed I needed the kids' hugs more than they needed mine.

It wasn’t the same, but we made the absolute most of it.

We celebrated.
Toasted.
Made new memories and found joy.
Rested. Relaxed. Read.

The moment the calendar flipped to 2021, I felt a renewed sense of optimism. I was hopeful for a better year. I felt more positive and ready to face whatever was coming next. I set goals!

That lasted a whopping two weeks.

The second lockdown drained my last reserves, and those of my kids. The game’s been going on too long. Too many twists, too many turns, too many things out of our control.

We are weary. Deflated.
Sensitive.
Hypersensitive actually.

Each family member requests hugs, but are often too tired to give them.
We make ‘big’ plans, then struggle to accomplish them.
We cry a lot. All of us.

The game is not fun anymore.

I am burnt out.
Playing twister for a year.
Every move more exhausting than the last.
Intertwined with my kids' fluctuating emotional waves.
And my own.
The odd giggle and fit of laughter.
Trying so, so hard to keep it fun and positive.

Truth be told, I am absolutely sore, weak and tired of playing.
There's no time for parents to tend to their own needs.

Don't tell me to take care of myself!
(Lord knows I am trying)

I am busy pouring every ounce of myself into the act of holding my kids steady.
Cheering them on.
Holding it allllllll together.

Can we stop yet?

Throw the damn spinner in the garbage.
And don’t ever ask me to play, again.

I did not sign up for 12 months of twister.
No one did.

Yet the arrow keeps on spinning… and we are forced into our next move.

Hindsight is 2020, after all

When we look back on 2020, what will we remember?

Will it be the heavy feelings? 
Worry. Isolation. Grief.

Or the small blessings?
Extra cuddle time. Homemade meals. Rest.

Will it be the negative comments?
Nastiness. Judgement. Trolls.

Or the kindness shared by others?
Surprise deliveries. Lovely words. Gratitude.

What will we remember, when we look back on 2020?

I hope it's the time I spent baking with my kids.
The movie nights and snacks, both outdoor and in.
The extra donations made to charities we love.
The lunch breaks chatting with my husband.

2020 was hard. So entirely exhausting.
Who would have ever dreamed of this?
Certainly not I.

Perhaps we'll uncover the lessons, when we look back.
Hindsight is 2020, after all. 

Certainly we'll remember the waves. 
The constant state of flux.
Standing on unstable ground.

But I'm not sure, what we'll remember. Only time will tell.

I notice I feel stronger, when I am less busy.
Maybe I'll remember this when my calendar is full, later next year.

I've come to appreciate the sound of silence, for no other reason than it's peaceful.
Maybe I'll remember this when my house is alive with guests again, someday.

I've found joy in having no-where to go.
Maybe I'll remember this and prioritize 'space' more often.

I can promise I'll remember the love I shared with my children and husband in 2020.
The deep conversations, and the silly ones.
The tears and the hugs.
The frustration and fear.
And the simple joy of spending time observing their own unique gifts.

Here we are, day 365 of 2020 and just hours from a new year. And while I know that midnight will not end a global pandemic, I believe we can make the choice to enter 2021 with positive, peaceful thoughts and our eyes set on the ultimate prize... a return to hugs, celebrations with the people we love and appreciation for all we learned during this very incredible year.

From my heart to all of yours; may 2021 bring you good health, a deeper awareness of self and a greater desire to do all things with love in mind.

xo

Surrender

Surrender.
Don't hold it all so tightly.

Surrender.
Let your emotions ebb and flow like gentle undulations above your heart centre.

Surrender.
Breathe in and out, noticing the rise and fall.

Surrender.
Hold yourself in stillness and notice the space.

Surrender.
Listen to the moments unfolding all around you.

Surrender.
Be at peace. 

Nothing to do.
Nowhere to go.
Just simply, be.

Surrender.

Reflecting on nine months of a global pandemic

We are now ending our ninth month of pandemic life.
It's wild, right?
I marvel at how different the world continues to be.

My experience has been full of questioning, wondering, worrying, ruminating and even falling apart a few times here and there, as the weight of this experience has changed so much of our family life.

Nine months working from home, without the collaboration and friendship of my co-workers.
Nine months of holding back hugs, kisses and other acts of authentic love from my heart.
Nine months without hosting a single party, get together or birthday celebration.
Nine months since I had the people I love, in my home.
Nine months of reminding my kids to wash their hands a million times a day.

It's been a long nine months.

Lately I've been struck by the different perspectives, lived experiences and concerns of the people I care about. Some have said they don't feel uprooted by the pandemic, others mildly inconvenienced and more still a great majority are feeling burnt out, depressed, anxious and overwhelmed.

I think it's safe to say this pandemic has pushed many of us to unhealthy emotional states, like it or not. I know I have leaned deeply into my self-care practice, and there are still some days where I feel like I cannot keep it together for a moment longer.

This has been so friggin' hard.
So hard.

Waves wash over me.
Days of exhaustion.
Crazy dreams.
Mannequin-like moments,
Unable to move.
Frozen.

Parenting during a pandemic, in my experience, means questioning even the small every day things I was used to taking for granted like...

Kids playing basketball together.
Driving friends around in my van.
Online chats and gaming.
How many school sweaters to buy.

At times paralyzing, this pandemic has proven once again that life can change in a heartbeat, and we have no control over it's timing.

But then this happened...

This afternoon, as I sat with Brookie preparing a surprise for some friends, I stopped dead in my tracks when I read a simple message from a neighbourhood friend:

"I just had Nolan come in. He's a lovely boy. You should be super proud of him."

I'm teary again, as I type this.

You see, today I let him hang out with a small group of boys from his school. They rode bikes, played basketball and stopped at a local corner store for a treat. They had the good fortune of just being kids, aside from my requests to sanitize and be safe. They had a relatively normal afternoon.

My awkward, sweet 12 year old pre-teen bought a treat and paid for it himself.
He did good. Really good.

Today, despite a pandemic, my friend took a moment to share positive words with me. She had no idea I was agonizing over his safety, or worrying he would be disrespectful in public or gluttonous in his purchase. Today she thought of me, and took a few moments to reach out.

Today she lifted my weary soul.

And this, this is the way forward during this difficult, sometimes divisive time. 

We must reach out.
Be proactive.
Thoughtful.
Check in.
Share a positive note,
Warm reflection,
Quick love story.

We need to lift up every single person we love.
Find and support the weary hearts.
Prioritize love.
BE LOVE.

Because the pandemic isn't over and the world keeps turning, the bills keep coming, the kids keep growing up and we continue to live our lives, for the most part.

So DO LOVE, this week. 
Reach beyond your own challenging life to envelop a weary heart in loving kindness.

xoxo

Maybe we won't go back

I've been reflecting lately, on this crazy year we are having. 2020 will most certainly never be forgotten, for a million different reasons. At times I've fought with it, hated it, cried about it and many times I have gone to bed thinking there was no way I could make it through another day. 

But then I thought, perhaps this is what we are supposed to learn. 

That grey is a medium place. 

It's not good, but it's not necessarily bad. 

It's non-striving. 

It's being. 

It's stepping outside of the stories we create in our own monkey minds. 

During this time of awakening, perhaps we are being called to listen. 

Actively listen to our bodies, our partners, our neighbours and children. 

Perhaps this time can teach us to find gratitude in each moment as it unfolds. 

Maybe we won't go back. 

Maybe experiencing non-striving is the gift, here. 

Finding joy in simply being. 

Remembering what it's like to not have plans, throw big parties or take marathon shopping trips. 

Maybe we won't go back. 

Perhaps this is the new normal. 

Less scheduled driving, more time to explore our own minds and beliefs. 

More time to look inward and support others in a new consciousness. 

Maybe we won't go back. 

Maybe this time is teaching us that our before was truly unsustainable. 

It was too fast, too wasteful, too superficial. 

Too far from mother earth and the beautiful gift of simply being. 

Maybe we won't go back. 

Perhaps the grey is teaching us to trust Him more. 

To pray on our struggles and consider this parable's lesson. 

Believe that God's plan is exactly ours, as well. 

In a world that was so egotistical, so full of wants confused as needs, perhaps we shouldn't go back.

Perhaps the little humans we are raising will be better for this time, better for the grey, better for being.

So, don't be so quick to want to go back.

Perhaps there's no such thing, and the only sure thing is the experience we are having right now. 

As we commit to being. 

Non-striving. 

Trusting.

Living.

 

To the ones who don't understand

I'm sorry.
I know I can be confusing.
I am confused, to some extent.

But my instinct is strong, right now.
Confused at times, but strong in my resolve.

I will do everything I can to protect my kids, while I have the choice to do so.

Have you ever wondered if your child might die?
Seriously, without an ounce of dramatic flair.
Have you ever really looked your child's mortality in the eyes?

Have you worried every single day, each time you prepared a meal, bought groceries or watched your child eat that today might be the day they stop breathing? That the food you lovingly bought and prepared for them might actually kill them?

I don't mean to sound crass or lean into stories of trauma and terror for attention.

All I mean to say is this:

I thought cancer might kill my daughter.

I live with daily chronic stress related to raising a child with anaphylaxis. I wash my hands more often than those most fearful of coronavirus because my actions directly impact whether my son survives, every single day.

I had no control over their diagnoses.
No choice to make.
All I could do is learn to live in the uncomfortable space and breathe through the dark moments.

Since the pandemic began, I've found the grey area exhausting to navigate.

What is safe to do?
- grey -
Who is safe to be around?
- grey -
What level of risk is comfortable?
- grey -
What happens when I change my mind?

It continues to bring me to tears.
It's hard and wild and unrelenting.

But inside this pandemic, I've found I have some choice.

I can choose to reduce my family's risk of becoming sick.
I can choose to make decisions about what feels safe.
I can choose to speak up when something doesn't feel right.

So, I might sound confusing to some.
Overreacting to others.
Difficult.

But the truth is, I am still healing.
Trauma is engrained in my bones.
Chronic stress in my blood.

And while I am not living in fear as a result of this pandemic,
(I trust in God and feel protected by my family of angels)
I am making the choice to take precautions for the health of my children.

And those precautions are subject to change.
In fact, they change pretty regularly.
Even when I don't want them to.

This pandemic is confusing, and new information means the grey area continues to be just that.
So. Damn. Grey.

But because I have considered more than once that my child could die... injected an epinephrine needle into my son's tiny leg... stood in a surgical waiting room wondering when the oncologist would provide an update on her prognosis... begged God to take it all away from them and give it to me...

I am always considering what choice is best to protect my children.

I know you don't understand.
But bear with me.
Be patient with my confusion.
Notice, but please do not judge.

Consider that you'll never fully understand how it effects my healing heart for me to have a choice to protect them, this time around.

The familiarity of a pandemic

It's been six weeks since our family moved towards what we now call, quarantine life.
A month and a half, already.
That amount was shocking for the kids.

No friends at school.
No coffee chats with the ladies at work.
No commute.

I've been trying all week to come up with the words to explain how we've adjusted as a family. This new life of ours is all at once very, very different.

But also,
familiar.

I know that probably sounds wild, but over the last six weeks I've noticed that many of the feelings other people have expressed during this global pandemic, have been lived in our home before now.

Frustration.
Difficulty with blurred lines between work and home.

For many who now find themselves working from home while supporting the distance learning of their children, many days are ending in tears, arguments and a sense of helplessness. I sit very comfortably in this feeling, however, because I freelanced for nearly five years. Never once during that time did I have boundaries between home and career, often working with a baby on my lap. It was some of the most exhausting work I ever experienced, and while it is truly difficult, I feel well-prepared this time around, for the most part.

Fear.
Intense, debilitating fear.

We know this beast well. We looked cancer in the eye and genuinely wondered if it would take our daughter. Fear of loss and sickness continues to rear it's ugly head when triggered, especially right now. We continue to look it in the eye at a distance, as we meet new childhood cancer families and stand behind, but always part, of their support network. This one requires the strongest mindfulness techniques to combat, from my experience.

Anxious, debilitating worry.
Never-ended rumination about what could happen.

This is our life with anaphylaxis. We legitimately worry about dairy attacking our son the way many describe their ongoing concerns about COVID-19. It's stop-you-in-your-tracks worry, but it's literally our life, every day. It's not going away. And just as the world hopes for a cure, we pray for new therapy to reduce the life-threatening nature of a simple allergen. From experience, anxious thought requires open, honest communication to lessen the rumination.

Isolation.
Being alone and feeling unconnected to others.

Ah, this feeling was also prominent during Brooklyn's cancer journey. Whether it was isolation in a hospital room, or in our home, we felt incredibly detached from our usual community. At some points we stopped reaching out to others because we were just trying to survive. My guess is that this is a very normal feeling when dealing with life-changing health events.

Who knew that five years of freelancing, a cancer journey and living with food allergy, along with a conscious choice to buy less 'stuff' and slow down our family lifestyle, could have prepared us for a pandemic.

But it has.

And I find myself oddly comforted by these familiar feelings. I lean into this crazy, wild time and find myself thinking,
if we survived all of that, we'll get through this too.
And I believe we will.
All of us.

But that doesn't mean it's been easy.

We endured two weeks of very scary germs, in the last six weeks.
Said goodbye to our sweet old dog, Moses.
I have had near daily dreams about scarcity, forgetting important items and not knowing what to do.
I cry, a lot. In fact, every one of us cries pretty regularly.

I MISS HUGGING THE PEOPLE I LOVE.
This one deserves capitals. It's not enough to see their lovely faces, I am a hugger and miss the transfer of love that comes when family and friends embrace for a moment or two, to say they care.

This is an exceptionally difficult time to be alive.
But if I am right, it's one we will look back on someday and feel really proud about.

We're learning a lot about ourselves.
Other people.
Bad habits.
Things we really didn't need.
How the earth can heal.

How will the world awaken from this pandemic?
What will people never go back to doing?
Will people see how much 'stuff' they never needed?
What family values will change as a result of this time?
Will the earth finally receive the respect it deserves?
Will healthcare heroes continue to feel the love through long-lasting changes in the availability of PPE to keep them safe?
Will frontline workers finally get the living wages they deserve?
Will the world idolize the wealthy few less, and the collective community more?

I am so curious.
And optimistic.

And I hope you are, too.
Hang in there. Ride the waves. Anchor in self-care.

We can do this.

- B R E A T H E -

It's been a week.
A wild ride, a wavy sea of change.
A never-ending tale of discomfort.

I've felt everything from gratitude, love and hope,
to anxiety, panic and fear.

We've never done this before.
Or have we?

Something I did not anticipate was how old trauma would surface.

Flashbacks to a hospital room I couldn't leave.
Feeling cagey.
Terrified.

Isolated to ourselves.
Trying to keep things 'normal.'
Exhausted.

Right now is also an old memory engrained in my soul.
My mind racing back and forth.
Then.
Now.
Us.

- B R E A T H E -

Ground into the earth.
Feel the roots of my spirit protecting me.

- B R E A T H E -

Love myself and my family.
Hug and touch and cuddle and hold.

- B R E A T H E -

Pray.
Meditate.
Journal.
Every day.

- B R E A T H E -

We can survive this.