The Empathetic One

When I was agonizing over the decision of killing the spider in my bathtub this morning, despite a deep-seated, nearly paralyzing fear of spiders, I realized that I may be taking this empathy thing a bit too far. I’ve always been empathetic. From my days as child, sleeping with twenty stuffed animals because I was afraid I might hurt the feelings of said stuffed animals (or the giver of said stuffed animals) if I didn’t include them all, to my days as an adult, crying long and hard over a dead goose in the middle of a busy highway.

I can’t help it. I feel, and I feel deeply. Relating to people, to animals, heck, even to things, is a gift, even if it’s also a curse. Let’s start by examining the gift side of things. I care. I care about how the world turns out. I care about people and their fate. I care about how you’re feeling and why you’re feeling that way. It helps me to connect to you and everyone else in this world, and I sincerely love that about myself. It makes me open-minded and inclusive. It helps me “see through another’s eyes” and “walk in another’s shoes” and all of those other tired clichés about connecting and relationships.

On the other hand, empathy hurts. It turns me into mush. It worries me. It’s “tearin’ me apart,” as James Dean might say. As a supervisor, my empathy has proven to be a bit too much to handle. Since January, I’ve been struggling along in my first supervisory role…ever. The fact that I’m now leading a team of 6 to 7 people on a daily basis, that they count on me for things like paychecks and guidance, well, sometimes it’s a little overwhelming.

Their problems become my problems. I spend time agonizing over how best to solve those problems, and most of the time, I just can’t turn off my mind. The same goes with friends and family. If I sense for even a moment (and I’m good at sensing feelings, too) that someone close to me is unhappy, my entire day is thrown off.  I focus on what must be wrong, how I can help, and all of the other things that empathizers focus on when their powers are at work.

Empathizing and worrying seem to kind of go hand-in-hand, although they aren’t mutually exclusive. In recent years, I’ve fine-honed my empathizing to turn off if I start worrying too much. That comes in handy when my mind starts getting carried away with things.

So, yeah, I would say being empathetic is both a blessing and a curse. It’s like I’m a superhero with powers that are both good and bad. Maybe a little like Superman. Run with me here. Superman sometimes hates the fact that he’s got all of these powers, because even though they help him save people, they also alienate him from people and keep him from living a normal life. I sometimes want to live a normal life, with a normal level of emotion and empathy. That’s all I’m saying. When you over-empathize, you end up driving yourself a little crazy.

But if Superman had the chance to give up his powers, would he? It’s the age-old question. If I could give up being so empathetic, would I? The answer always seems to be no. Because in giving up anything that is a part of you, whether it be a super power or a personality trait that happens to be in hyper-drive, you change that fundamental equation that makes you…you. And when the world is full of so many cool people, who are each different and super in their own way, who the heck would want to do that? 

The Best Years of Our Lives

When you come to certain turning points in your life, it’s completely natural, and maybe expected, to reflect on where you’ve been and where you’re going. I’ve been doing a lot of reflection lately. Partially because of an unexpected promotion at work, which has more-or-less changed the trajectory of my career path, and partially because of a little thing called Facebook.

Facebook is largely generational. When I was in college, it was just starting out. At that point, it even required a college email address. It was for college students to connect with fellow college students. A sort of year book and who’s who of your classmates. I can remember sitting in a computer lab at the University of West Georgia and creating my account. I remember scrolling through the profiles of my college classmates, and the joy I felt when I first saw the accounts of old high school friends.

After a couple of years, it became apparent to me that facebook was a lot like high school in a lot of ways. Your online worth was measured by the number of friends you had; the number of times someone wrote on your wall, or liked your status. It was all a popularity contest, and for the longest time, I struggled with the same feelings that overwhelmed me in high school.

Will they like me? Why didn’t so-and-so “friend” me? Why does she have so many friends, and I only have a handful? What am I doing wrong?

The insecurities ate away at me as they had done so many years ago. I suddenly felt like I was sitting alone in the cafeteria or walking to class by myself or fading into the background…again. You hear a lot about the good times people have in high school. I’ve heard people I know say it: “I wish we could back to those good old days. Things were so much easier back then.”

But is high school ever really easy for anybody? Am I the only person who would loathe going back to that awkward, lonely time? I know the answer to both of those questions is probably “no.” I wonder then why things like high school and Facebook come so easy to some and so hard for others?

I’ve long since stopped measuring my worth by the number of friends I possess on some website or even the number of acquaintances I have in real life. I know the people whom I can call genuine friends, and I know I can probably count those people on both hands. To me, that makes me lucky.

Sure, the insecure teenager of my past would look at things differently, but any day of the week, I would rather have a handful of real, authentic friendships than all the Facebook “friends” and “likes” money can buy. I’d rather sit in the cafeteria with my four true-blue friends at the “loser’s table,” all of us knowing full well that our best days are ahead of us, than sit at that popular table where social status is the measure of our worth.

Looking ahead, it’s easy to sometimes look back. I look back on the years I spent in high school and those when I was less secure and less proud of the woman I am with not regret or sadness but with a sense of appreciation. Appreciation of lessons learned and prayers unanswered. Appreciation that I do not look back on the best years of my life but am always able to look ahead to days that grow brighter with each passing year. 

Too Much

Crying in the Lowe's parking lot for fifteen minutes over a dead goose will really make you reassess your sensitivity levels. I didn't know the goose. I didn't know her family. And yet, there I sat, body wracking with uncontrollable sobs, overcome with emotion and unable to stop picturing that damn, dead goose.

I figure she had a family. She and her little suburban flock have long been a part of my local landscape. Their lake is a small one that's cut in half by a four-lane highway and surrounded by perfect little subdivision houses.

She and her flock made daily (sometimes hourly) pilgrimages from one side of the lake to the other, defying death and speeding Volkswagens for God only knows what reason. A flock of geese waddling across a four-lane highway has its way of slowing down traffic, but every now and then, when driving past the lake, you'll see a poor soul who has been mowed down by some careless driver.

The poor soul I saw this last time when driving by the lake threw me for quite a loop.

The tears didn't start immediately. No, we were well on our way to Lowe's and nearly to the other side of town when the dam finally broke. I kept picturing the goose and her family. I kept remembering that Canada geese mate for life. I kept wondering what her poor mate would do when he realized she was gone.

I don't know why but that solitary goose nearly broke my heart.

I realize that I felt too much in those moments in the parking lot, husband awkwardly patting my leg and telling me it would be alright, Lowe's customers curiously peering into our car at the sobbing crazy lady.

I realize that I feel too much in a lot of situations.

Whenever I think of my hypersensitivity to situations and people, I always think of that scene in How the Grinch Stole Christmas when the Grinch's heart grows three sizes. It becomes so big that it nearly bursts out of the frame.

                                                                             Source: google.com via Tifanie on Pinterest

Yeah, that's my heart. It's too big, too soft, and I feel too much. Too much pain. Too much sadness. Too much passion. Too much anger. Too much everything.

This is both good and bad.

Good, when I need to throw my entire heart into something.

Bad, when I cry over a dead goose.

Sometimes I really do wish I didn't always feel too much, especially when the pain is nearly unbearable, but in spite of that, I don't think I'd change my big, soft heart for anything in the world, because even though it's sometimes strange, even though it's usually oversensitive, even though it causes me plenty of trouble, I kind of think it's pretty special.

Hanging out with the pretty special folks at yeah write; won't you join us?

The Friendship Oak

Probably a maple tree but the closest thing I had in my picture album.

From beneath the shade of the ancient oak tree, the child separated herself from the world around her. In some ways, it was a self-exile, a way of escaping a world that was often cruel and hard to understand, but in truth, the truth that lay in the darkest corners of the child’s heart, the separation was a painful one.

For some, friendship came easy. Girls with perfect pink dresses and overflowing wells of self-confidence skipped along the playground, chatting and giggling and owning recess with their entire beings.

For her, friendship was a constant battle. She latched on to those popular girls with their perfect pink dresses, worshiping them as princesses and fueling their already secure self-esteem. Some days, the days when they needed her around, they would welcome her into their inner-circle, make her feel a part of their secret world. Other days, as if she were a pesky fly, they would swat her away, uninterested in her shy, bookish ways, unconcerned about her feelings and her paper-thin heart.

And so, she made friends with the squirrels and the occasional stray cat…and of course, the ancient oak with its loving branches and its reassuring shade.

The gnarled roots of the tree reached up from the ground and provided not only a cradle for the child but also an imaginary world where she could cook acorn stews and dance with magical fairies. From its comforting embrace, she would watch the other children and wish for someone to come by and steal away her loneliness.

And sometimes, someone would. A fellow loner, or a girl in a perfect pink dress looking for a side-kick. They would flit in and out of her life and her solitary playground world, but none of them lasted as long as the oak.

The oak saw her through happiness, sadness, good days and bad. The oak was her friend, her confidant, her source of joy and comfort.

The oak still stands in that quiet spot beside the playground, still sheltering shy and lonely children, still bringing a sense of friendship to those who may not otherwise feel it.

The child who loved the oak eventually grew up, leaving behind the playground and the ghosts who haunted it.

But she still lives within my heart. She still struggles with her shy nature. She still befriends the confident, popular girls in need of a sidekick. She still climbs trees and loves animals. In many ways, she’s still that same child who played beneath the oak, longing for friendship and struggling with insecurity.

Sometimes, I still feel trapped on that playground, playing amongst the roots of that ancient oak. Maybe, to some extent, I’ll always feel that way. Maybe we all feel that pang of loneliness from time to time, as we fumble our way through life seeking connection, friendship, and the comforting arms of an old oak tree.

Great reading and writing to be found at the wonderful place known at yeahwrite. Check it out, meet new friends, and improve your own writing!

Writing on Cue

The Lightning and the Lightning Bug wants us to write uninterrupted for ten solid minutes. Didn't think I was up to the challenge, but I managed. Will you join us? Click the link below! 

9:03pm

Ten minutes of uninterrupted writing? You’d think that’d be easy, and for some, it probably is, but for me…the classic overthinker…this exercise has been torturous. I’ve thought about it while showering. While lying in bed at night. While eating my fruit roll-up for breakfast. While grooming my four cats. I’ve thought, and I’ve thought, and I’ve officially given up thinking at this point in favor of getting something…anything down on paper.

I’ve realized something over the last few days. I suck at “just writing.” I need a purpose. I need an idea. I need direction. Sitting down and writing just to write? Nope, that’s just not me and that kind of makes me ashamed. I should be able to write on command, right? Yeah, not so much. I’ve never been that kind of writer. I need just the right amount of inspiration mixed with just the right amount of motivation mixed with just the right amount of wine, then I’m set. But until I hit that “just right” point? I can’t just write.

When I thought of this prompt on Sunday, I thought, “yay! Something I can actually participate in.” Because honestly, I’ve been running short on the inspiration department lately when it comes to prompts and writing. I just don’t get inspired like I used to; then again, I figure I’m just going through a dry spell. Happens to the best of us, right?

Well, I’m sick of dipping my quill into a dry inkwell. It’s time to get that inspiration back…even if it means just writing for ten minutes about absolutely nothing other than writing, which is probably boring for anyone but me.

I picked up my novel again over the weekend. And by “picked up,” I mean I opened the Word document it was hiding in and actually started looking it over. I even wrote a few paragraphs tonight. 250 words to be exact. Which is 250 more words than I’ve written for it in nearly six months. Sad but true. Like my new determination to walk off my jiggly beer gut and live a healthier lifestyle, I’m also determined to write this damn novel.

That means spending less time surfing facebook and twitter and looking at cute pictures of cats on the internet, but it must be done. I have a story to tell, and I’m going to tell it.

It feels like it’s already written in my head anyway; I just have to find a way to get it down on paper, and I will. I’m determined. If it takes 5,000 nights of 250 word spurts, then that’s what it takes. Becky Garrett wants to be heard; she’s sick of living only in my head.

Well, my last minute is winding down. I guess I can write on cue after all.

9:13pm

We Are Young

Source: Uploaded by user via Jenna on Pinterest

Sitting on the mountain, on that already sweltering early May morning, I almost wished I could steal their youth from the air. It felt electric, energized, and I breathed it in as if it might take me back ten years, to where they stood now.

I envied them. I envied the hopefulness and optimism that now coursed through their veins, like a sweet elixir fueling their dreams. I remembered feeling that, too, all those years ago; I remembered the possibilities that seemed just within my grasp; I remembered looking forward to a future in which I would finally call the shots.

But at this particular graduation, I noticed the students experiencing something that I did not remember, something that just wasn’t a part of my high school experience. And for this, I envied them even more.

Fifteen graduates were lined on that stage. Fifteen unique, vivid youths ready to conquer the world. Only fifteen. Not thirty. Not 100. Not 500. Only fifteen.

Their experience was unique, enviable. Lovely. Most of them had grown up together. Thirteen years together. Not rare but still unique in the fact that their class was so small, forever bonded by memories, experiences, and friendships that more closely resembled family.  

My high school years, on the other hand, were neither unique nor enviable. I expect that my experience resembled the experience of many. I was a wall flower, invisible, a lone wolf. I didn’t fit in with a particular clique, so I didn’t fit in at all. I was too different, too weird, too everything.

When I sat waiting to graduate that May evening all of those years ago, I don’t recall feeling particularly sad. I knew I would never miss those high school years of heartache and pain. I knew I wouldn’t miss being lonely, being self-conscious, being an outcast.

But the fifteen who sat on that stage in front of me now, they taught me something new, something valuable and sweet that I’ll hold on to for years to come.

They were sad, sad not only because they grew up together and were going to miss each other but also sad because they were going to miss something infinitely more important, something that was impossible to get back.

Youth.

I’m still young. At twenty-nine, I’m not one of those women who laments about how old I’m getting or worries over the years ticking away. I try to live a youthful life, with laughter, trips to Disney World, fruit roll-up lunches, an over-abundance of cats. You know the usual.

But when I was waiting to graduate, waiting to walk across that stage and into my new life, I wasn’t thinking about what I might be losing, what I would never be able to get back.

These kids were. You could tell it in every word they said, in the tears streaming down their faces. They knew that the days of after-school snacks, of family dinners, of tears in their parents’ arms, of bike rides with the neighbor’s kids, of catching lightning bugs at dusk—those days were coming to a close. This moment, a proud, exciting moment was the beginning of something new, but at the same time, it was the ending of something equally important, something that is precious and fleeting and beautiful.

I tried not to cry with them as the graduation came to a close. I struggled not to grab the hand of my Daddy, who was sitting next to me, and hold it like I did when I was a little girl. But I kind of wish I had.

These kids were incredibly lucky. Lucky to have grown up in the comforting, supportive arms of a very small school. Lucky to have found each other and the friendships they so obviously treasured. But even more than that, they were lucky to be wise enough to realize that saying hello to the future also meant saying goodbye to a pretty darn good past.

Source: Uploaded by user via Ann-Sophy on Pinterest

Once again, I'm with my friends at yeah write. Hope you'll do yourself a favor and click the link below to meet some wonderful writers and friends.

Patchwork of Love

Today, when driving in to work, I heard a phrase on the radio that I completely fell in love with. Two women were talking about their parents and how the relationship between their parents had shaped their lives. One of the women described seeing her mother and father exchange loving, tender glances. She stated that such moments helped build and shape a patchwork of love that would endure into her adult life.

Patchwork of love. Such a beautiful thought. When I heard the words, I immediately imagined a huge, intricate quilt with vivid and unique patches, woven together with a myriad of different threads. I imagined that my own quilt could stretch far across the sky, wrapping the Earth itself in a warm, comforting embrace.

There would be patches of the strangers who darted in and out of my life and yet left an indelible mark of kindness.

Patches of animals and pets, their fuzzy souls making everything more fulfilled and complete, their friendship filling a gaping hole of loneliness through so many heartbreaks.

Patches of friends, those I can touch and those I can only speak to through words on a screen, but all of those who reached out and whom I reached out to for a lasting connection of laughs and tears, shared happiness and fears.

Patches of memories. Of Pawpaw. Of vacations to Florida. Of Easter egg hunts and Christmas mornings. 

Patches of the family I so adore, the blessing of a lifetime, the genesis of my own patchwork of love, the memories shared, the bond of blood, the certainty that if I ever need them they’re always just right there.

Patches of the man I love, the partner and friend. Patches of his hugs and kisses and the comfort of his smell and the sweetness of his heart. Patches woven together across great distances with a strong thread that cannot be broken or cut or torn apart.

I am blessed with patches of many shapes, sizes, and colors, but as beautiful as my own quilt is, I find myself even more marveled and mesmerized by the patchwork of love of others, by the differences I see in each. Because truly, the most incredible thing about a patchwork of love is that not everyone's will be built the same or look the same. 

Some will be sewn together later in life, past the dark days of an undeserved childhood, past the void left empty by those who should love you the most. Some love has to be built from the ground up with a family that may not be from blood but is instead from the heart. The threads of this patchwork are like steel.

Some, the lucky ones, are born with a patchwork already started for them. From the moment they are conceived, so is the soft quilt that will envelope them through childhood and on.

Some will endure rips, tears, burns. Some may even begin to unravel at certain times, but they will be sewn back together. They will from this darkness be stronger than ever.

Some patchworks...most I would say...will revolve around family. Families of all shapes and sizes and colors. Families brought together by the only thing that really matters: Love. These are the patchworks that will be so alike and so different. These are the patchworks that we all must embrace because of that common thread, that universal thread that bonds us all, regardless of race, ethnicity, religion, or gender. 

Patchwork of love. Such a beautiful thought, and the even more beautiful thought is that each person carries with them a patchwork of love and that each one is stunningly unique and yet always tying us together with that common thread of love. 


What does your patchwork of love look like? 

Source: inaweofapplique.blogspot.com via Kristin on Pinterest

Boring

Source: tumblr.com via Roy on Pinterest

Truth is I’m boring. An ordinary twenty-nine year-old woman hiding behind fantastical stories and characters I can only dream of knowing. I grew up in an ordinary hometown. Was raised by two ordinary, if not amazing, parents. Had an ordinary, if not happy, childhood.

I’ve not traveled very far, no further than my own country for sure. My most exciting vacations have occurred in Florida: Orlando and St. Augustine, Pensacola and Cape San Blas. I’ve been to Texas, California, Illinois…and no further.

Truth is I’m a bit of a homebody.

My simple pleasures in life are eating a good meal, cuddling on the couch with my husband, tending a small vegetable garden. Nothing too exciting, pretty ordinary and boring I guess.

I wonder sometimes how it could all fit together. An ordinary woman from an ordinary town writing, or at least trying to write, extraordinary non-fiction and fiction. I don’t have a vast well of exciting experiences to draw from. I’ve not been in many relationships. I’ve not even had that many friendships. I’m pretty much a loner with loner tendencies attempting to weave together words in an appealing and interesting way.

All of my heroes had fascinating and exciting lives. They were expatriates and war heroes, serial womanizers and alcoholics. They traveled extensively and walked on the fringes of society. They were the Hemingways and Faulkners, the O’Connors and Poes.

They were tortured and unstable. Artists driven by pain and passion.

I’m cheerful. Happy-go-lucky.

Lower middle class.

Average.

Ordinary and boring.

The closest I come to tortured and unstable is with social anxieties and neuroses. And yet, I write…just like they did. I’m driven to…just like they were.

Not all writers write from dark places. I understand that. Not all writers lead romantic, sensational lives. I understand that as well. But these heroes of mine did, these extraordinary talents who inspire me and whom I aspire to be like were never ordinary or boring…at least by this fan’s approximation.

So how does ordinary, boring me expect to follow in their footsteps? Where can I find inspiration and passion that’s equal to theirs?

The answer is…everywhere.

In the twisting limbs of the ancient oak tree that grows just down the street, watching generations come and go and change with the wind.

In the smiling, toothless grin of the construction worker who’s working hard to bring air back into my office building.

In the laughs and shared secrets between me and my husband, whispered late at night to the summer song of crickets and hoot owls.

In the ordinary, boring days that drag on too long and yet never last long enough.

In the ordinary, boring life of a woman chasing her dream and catching handfuls of wishes-come-true along the way.

I don’t have to travel the world (like Hemingway). I don’t have to drink through pain and sorrow (like Faulkner). I don’t even have to marry my cousin (like Poe). I just have to live life and perhaps look a little closer for my inspiration…because what may first appear to be ordinary and boring may actually be pretty extraordinary after all.  

Where do you find inspiration? In grand adventures or everyday blessings?


Speaking of extraordinary, have you visited yeah write yet?

The "I'm Sorry" Jar

                                                             Source: when-pigs-have-wings.blogspot.com via Lauren on Pinterest

I'm not going to start by saying I'm sorry. When I'm at a loss for words, when all seems to be said and done, "I'm sorry" is my stand-by, my go-to phrase. It's the nervous tic I've never been able to conquer, the bad habit I just can't break. It's the motto and slogan and tag-line of a life-long people pleaser, of a self-conscious, socially-anxious, neurotic weirdo with an incredibly guilty conscience.

So, I'm not going to start this by saying I'm sorry. Because I haven't done anything wrong.

And I usually haven't done anything wrong when I say it. The things I apologize for are often beyond my control and have nothing to do with my thoughts or actions...and yet, I still apologize. In fact, I over-apologize.

About two weeks ago, in a meeting with my boss, I found myself uttering those dreaded words again. The meeting had run long, due to no real fault of my own, and I scurried to apologize.

My boss sighed. My tendency to overuse "I'm sorry" wasn't new to her. In fact, she'd admonished me for it before. "Katie, you have nothing to be sorry for."

And I knew that. Logically, I knew that my apology wasn't warranted or necessary.

Logically, I know a lot of things.

As we headed up the hallway from her office, my boss continued, "We're going to break that bad habit of yours. I'm going to start charging you every time you say 'I'm sorry.'"

One of my coworkers who happened to overhear our conversation piped up, "Yeah, we'll start her an 'I'm Sorry' Jar. Kinda like a Cussing Jar. She'll be broke in no time flat!"

The problem is she's right. Absolutely, completely, and embarrassingly correct in every way.

Since then, I've been thinking a lot about my tendency to apologize for anything and everything and nothing. I've been thinking about how those simple words undermine me, about how they take away my power and make me appear weak, about how they justify the actions of others...good or bad.

And when I use them too much? It strips away the power of the words themselves, making them pointless to say and pointless for others to hear.

Out of all the reasons to stop saying "I'm sorry," this was the one that really got to me, that really made me start thinking about how to break this bad habit. Sincerity is important to me. I'm not much of a talker; when I do talk, I want people to know that I mean what I'm saying. I want them to understand that I value words, and I value their meaning. I don't say something just to say it...

...unless I'm saying "I'm sorry."

The compulsion to utter that phrase has become less about the meaning behind the words and more about my own neuroses, my own need to avoid conflict, my own, nearly overwhelming, need to please others.

But I'm sick of being that person. I'm sick of having a perpetually guilty conscience for things that I haven't even done wrong. I'm sick of being a push-over who gains no respect from those around her, who has a reputation of being weak. 

I'm not sorry for who I am or for the decisions I make. I'm not sorry that I have opinions that don't match yours. I'm not sorry that you're having to do your job. I'm not sorry that I made one little mistake; everyone makes mistakes. I forgive them for theirs; when will I forgive myself for my own?

When I need to be sorry, I'm sorry. But for the hundreds of thousands of times that I haven't even done anything to be sorry for, I'm not sorry. 

Do you have an "I'm sorry" compulsion? How do you keep from apologizing all the time for nothing?

Linking up with some wonderful and supportive writers at Yeah Write! Click the button below:

Mirror, Mirror

Perception. Such a tricky thing. There’s how others perceive me:

Shy.

Nervous.

Malleable.

Weak.

Since I was a child, people have made similar snap judgments about me, as people are wont to do.

Oh, she’s quiet? She must be shy.

Oh, she’s blushing? She must be nervous.

Oh, she wants to please people? She must be malleable.

Oh, she avoids confrontation? She must be weak.

And maybe I am all of those things. But I’m not just those things. I’m not just a neurotic introvert with tendencies of being a pushover. And I’d prefer if people didn’t boil me down to that. Because I am so much more.

Would you ever guess that this shy girl loves to argue? Would you ever guess that when she’s driving she cusses like a sailor? In your skewed and narrow-minded view of me, would you imagine that I’m crazy competitive? Did you know that I have a quick Irish temper? The soul of a poet? The heart of a fighter?

Funny, while in high school, everyone said I was shy. They would say it with a twinge of sympathy coloring their voices: “Oh, Katie? Well, she’s shy.” In the South, we add “bless her heart” to the end of things like that, and all the sudden, insulting someone or talking about them behind their back suddenly becomes okay. At least that’s what we tell ourselves.

To be fair, being called shy wasn’t particularly insulting. I’ve been called much worse. But as a child, I remember perceiving that three-letter-word as the nastiest of insults. Hearing it would make me cringe, because I knew it minimalized me and my abilities; I knew that as long as that word hovered over my head, I would be held back by it.

In middle school and high school, I was help back by it. I was held back by it, because I started believing it. It was the word used most often to describe Katie, the word that popped out of nearly anyone’s mouth when asked about me.

I was Katie. I was the shy girl. I was boiled down to nothing more than a label.

I think that’s what happens to many of us in high school. We get labeled. We’re jocks. Or nerds. Or outsiders. Or shy girls. We’re square pegs forced into round holes. Never mind about how we perceive ourselves. In high school, it’s all about how others perceive us.

I realized today that life hasn’t changed much from high school.

Even though I turn twenty-nine in two days, I’m still allowing myself to be defined by others. I’m still letting someone else tell me that I’m shy or a pushover or not true to myself. I’m still letting someone else tell me what’s wrong with me, why I don’t quite fit.

Source: business-beware.tumblr.com via Ashley on Pinterest

Today, something broke inside me. A flood of feelings, a barrage of pent-up frustrations, each one assaulting both heart and head and leaving me exposed and sure of nothing. Afterward the dam broke, I sat in front of my computer for nearly two hours, the day’s events replaying shot-by-shot in my head, regrets and confusion bubbling to the surface.

And I wrote this post, then made this vow:

My last year of my twenties will not be defined by friends or enemies. My last year of my twenties will be about me: the good, the bad, and the ugly. I will be myself. I will be kind, caring, goofy, and strange. I will worry about everything. I will laugh about nothing.  I won’t let the negativity of others drag me down. I won’t let the opinions others have of me define me. I won’t let their misconceptions rule the day. I will be me, and I will love that person, flaws and all.

Have you ever been defined by a label? Do certain people in your life have misconceptions about who you are?


Linking up with the wonderful writers at yeah write. Click the button below for a wealth of great writing!

Kaleidoscope

Source: stitchedincolor.com via Michelle on Pinterest

As I played with Barbies in the floor of my purple childhood bedroom, I knew the names of my children. I knew, and my Barbies knew, and so together, we acted out complicated and dramatic scenes of family and futures that wouldn’t even come close to what my real future would turn out to be.

By the time I was eight-years-old, I had resolved that one day I would have babies. I named these babies Benjamin and Lucy and felt assured that nothing would change my desire for babies or their set-in-stone names.

As time passed, the desire did change. I became more interested in things like horses and travel and writing. I became less interested in my Barbies and any future babies that I might have. My future, once painted in reds and yellows and blues, transformed into vibrant greens and purples, becoming a rich kaleidoscope that no longer resembled anything I had previously imagined for myself.

College rolled around, and my kaleidoscope future at turns both settled and shifted, constantly changing to reflect my current moods and obsessions. When I met Jeremy, I was no longer an eight-year-old with dreams of future children named Benjamin and Lucy; I was a grown woman, and I didn’t know if I even wanted kids.

Jeremy was certain. Positive. He knew more than anything that he wanted a wife, and he wanted a family. Used to, when you asked what he wanted to do with his life, his answer was simple: he wanted to be a dad.

I was uncertain. Questioning. Mind reeling with possibilities and outcomes. When asked what I wanted to do with my life, my answer was complicated, multi-part, and almost never included children.

I worried that this would ultimately be a point of contention. I had seen other couples break up over similar decisions. If this, a most fundamental point of compatibility, was up for debate, then would we ever make it?

Despite my misgivings, Jeremy and I discussed possibilities. Kids, college, career paths. At one point, we even named our possible future children. Beautiful names that still give me goosebumps when I think of how perfect they are. I’ve always been a namer of things. Pets, random wildlife that wander into our sights, stuffed animals, cars. A thing has a name, and it has life, a purpose, a meaning.

Those dream children of ours have a life, a purpose, a meaning, even if they never come to be.

Together, Jeremy and I dreamed and planned, revealing a combined realization for the future that paled in comparison to past versions of the same future. As we built our own family of cats and each other, Jeremy’s desire for children waned. My own desires became less clear. To this day, they are still unclear.

Most of the time, I lean towards the “I don’t want children” camp. Admitting this is hard. I wonder if something is wrong with me, if something inside is broken. I’ve even had friends all but say that something is broken, that something must be missing from me if I don’t want to have kids, that I’m not whole.

And I wonder if that’s true, and honestly, it hurts to wonder that.

Everyone has different wishes and hopes. Everyone has a different kaleidoscope future. Would mine be less vibrant, less bright, less fulfilled if it didn’t include children? Or could I find my own sources for fulfillment and contentment through my husband, through my family, through my beautiful nephew, through my words?

Source: flickr.com via Ruth on Pinterest

Kids are a blessing, no doubt, but they are not the only blessing life has to hand out.

Ultimately, Jeremy and I have to decide what we want. We have to revisit the baby question and think long and hard on what our changing kaleidoscope future has in store. Lucky for us, if we do end up having kids, we already have some stellar names picked out…and if we don’t, well, we’re pretty dang good at naming cats, too. 

Author's Note:  I won't lie. This one was hard to share. Knowing I have supportive readers and friends gave me the courage to hit publish. 


And I'm sharing with the supportive community of yeah write as well. Please take the time to click the button below and discover some truly beautiful blogs. And if you have the opportunity, return on Thursday to vote for five of your favorite posts. 

No Maintenance

I have a confession. 

Self-respecting fashionistas and readers who take any sort of pride in appearance, stop reading now, because this isn’t going to be pretty.

I haven’t had my hair cut in almost a year. This isn’t a religious choice. It’s certainly not a choice based on aesthetics or beauty. In fact, it could hardly be called a choice at all. Truth is I’m just lazy. 

Taking the time out of my schedule of writing, working, and spending time with my family to get a haircut just isn’t high on my priority list. And for me, haircuts aren’t just a quick trip to the salon. No, a salon visit can take hours. Hours to cut. Hours to color. Hours I could spend doing something useful like spot welding or fixing the drip in our bathroom faucet.

I’ve been blessed with thick hair. I know it’s a blessing, believe me, I know that. But it’s also a curse. Every stylist I’ve ever encountered has marveled at my thick locks, eyeing the brunette mess on top of my head with a combination of admiration and horror… probably because they know they are about to have to deal with it. And dealing with it takes hours, y’all. Hours out of my precious life. Hours I’ll never get back.

Low maintenance is putting it mildly with me. I’m practically no maintenance. I’ve always been the kind of woman who’d rather play in the dirt than play with makeup, who’d rather throw my hair in a ponytail than spend anytime styling it. I’m a tom boy, the furthest thing from a frilly, pretty female that you’ve encountered.

I don't tan. 

I only wear makeup 'cause I'm scary if I don't.

I don't bother with perfume or pretty-smelling lotions.

My fingernails are never painted. Nor are my lips.

And I like it that way. Mostly. But there comes a time in every tom boy's life that a little TLC is necessary. A time when your split ends have their own split ends. A time when your eye brows must part ways and become two once again. A time when your gray hairs must take cover for something a little more civilized and a little less Bride of Frankenstein. 

So, my friends, I have decided to visit the dreaded salon. For the sake of those who have to look at me, I will brave having to sit in that uncomfortable chair for hours. I will make awkward small talk with the stylist and valiantly pretend like I'm a real girl. 

And to my Mama, my sister, and all others who beg me to get my hair done every once in a blue moon: enjoy this while it lasts, 'cause it'll probably be another year before it happens again.


How about you? Are you high maintenance? Low maintenance? Or, like me, no maintenance? All tom boys, raise your hands! 

High Notes

Something strange happens sometimes. You experience a moment, a flash in time that is so inspiring, so beautiful, that as a writer you can’t wait to record it.

The words spill out, each one crowding the next as they fly over the page, settling onto the white spaces of it like a flock of birds on a fresh-cut field. You write what could very well be your best work ever in twenty minutes flat, the inspiration so amazing, so beautiful that you can hardly contain it all in mere words.

                                                    Source: weheartit.com via Linda on Pinterest

And then it's over.

The world settles back into place around you, and you're left feeling drained, spent, mind reeling, wondering if you'll ever be able to write again. 

For those few precious moments, it was easy, a perfectly orchestrated symphony of words and images and phrases coming together to create something really special, something beautiful and unique. 

But most of the time, it's hard. 

When I first started writing, it was difficult to wrap my mind around the fact that not everything I wrote was going to be my best work. I just couldn't understand how one day I could write beautifully, and the next it was like I'd forgotten how to string together a coherent sentence. 

Well, it's the next day, y'all. It has been for about a week. 

Now, before this becomes one of those whiny writer's block posts that we all know I'm capable of writing, I figure I better shift gears a bit and talk about Seinfeld. 

Growing up in my dry and witty household, Seinfeld was a commodity, a staple upon which we feasted every Thursday night. I learned many life lessons (particularly what NOT to do) from the likes of Elaine, Jerry, Kramer, and George. I laughed about things like contraceptive sponges and being the "master of my domain," even when the meaning of both were largely lost upon me as a clueless preteen.

Despite the fact that it's been off the air for more than ten years, Seinfeld quotes still pepper the conversation of many a family gathering, where you might hear any member of my family shout out "Cartwright!" or "No soup for you!" over Sunday dinner. We like to say that for every situation life throws at you there is a Seinfeld episode that corresponds and relates in some cosmic way. 

The same can be said for the bout of "writer's block" that I'm currently facing.

This time I’m reminded of the Seinfeld episode when George tries to leave every situation "on a high note." He wants to leave a good impression, for everyone to remember him when he was on his game, and so he adopts an "I'm out!" philosophy. When he happens to pitch a good idea or tell a particularly funny joke, he immediately bows out of the room. He thinks that leaving on a high note will make him seem more clever to his friends and colleagues. And maybe that's true...for awhile. 

But, as in most Seinfeld episodes, George's plan eventually backfires, and he's left juggling more than he bargained for. The English major in me wants to over-analyze the message that the Seinfeld writers are sending. And so I will.

Life has plenty of high notes; if we're lucky, we all get to experience those precious moments when everything is perfectly in sync and grooving. With writing. With work. With life at home. But life has plenty of duds as well, and there's absolutely no way to avoid them. Eventually, they just catch up with us. 

The trick is to keep going. Write past creative blocks. Fight past bad days at work. Look past negative people. And just keep swimming. 

Wait, that's Finding Nemo, and I'm mixing my references, but you get what I mean. Bowing out is never an option, not even when the words escape you, not even when it looks like you may never write anything lovely again...

Because just when you've lost all hope, when you think that your voice is gone for good, that flock of words lights on the white spaces of your page and inspiration takes flight. 

For some beautiful inspiration and writing, I highly encourage you to visit yeah write by clicking the button below, and don't forget to visit again on Thursday when you can vote for your five favorite posts:

Falling In and Out of Love

Writing is not my best friend today. It was yesterday, my source of comfort and joy, passion and fulfillment. Today, it represents only pain and frustration, and as I scramble to get it back to good, I am forced to reevaluate our relationship and look at exactly where we stand.

An inevitable part of writing is hitting roadblocks. Lack of inspiration. Particularly harsh criticism. Self-doubt.

The key is to push through those roadblocks and continue on this bumpy journey, never giving in and never giving up.

This week, I hit a roadblock. This week, I wanted to give up.

Part of freelancing, I'm learning, is writing on topics I'm not particularly interested in. I'm given an assignment, and I write on that assignment, regardless of my feelings on the subject. I always want to connect with my subjects, but it's unrealistic to expect that I will be passionate about everything I write.

Until recently, I had that expectation.

When I'm passionate about something, my writing improves exponentially. This is probably no big surprise to anyone and may be true for most everyone, but it's true for me just the same.

I am a machine fueled by passion and love and feelings so strong that sometimes my heart just can't contain them all. So those feelings spill freely and uncensored from my fingertips, splashing onto the page like impossibly bright drops of paint, filling that blank canvas with ideas and characters and just the right words.

When my passion is on empty, the machine slows, choking and sputtering and tripping on every word.

This leaves me at a crossroads. To live the dream and get paid to write, I'll inevitably have to write on subjects of little interest to me.

Source: weheartit.com via Jenna on Pinterest

My husband says to write on those subjects I'll need to apply everything I know about writing, everything I've learned over the years and write from my head instead of my heart. For these assignments, I'll need to look at writing as more of a science instead of an art. I'm not a particularly methodical kind of writer. I feel the words, and I write them.

I don't outline.

I don't brainstorm.

I just write. Just writing has been the only thing I know and understand.

But now, at this crossroads, at this point of looking at writing as more of a profession and less of a hobby, I have to change gears. In order to produce the best work possible, I need to learn a whole slew of new skills.

How to interview. How to ask the right questions, get the right answers. How to inspire my contacts to give me the best quotes possible.

How to work with someone else's words. How to insert those words seamlessly into my own words and make the entire piece flow like water.

How to brainstorm. How to outline. How to draft. How to read an editor's mind and know exactly what they need from an assignment. How to give them what they need.

Relationships change. That's just part of life, I guess. But do I want my relationship with writing to change?

When I first met Jeremy, I tried to talk him into going to culinary school. He loved to cook, so my natural assumption was that he would also love to cook for a living. But he balked at that idea, citing the fact that he didn't want to make cooking into work. It was a passion for him, something he loved to do, and he didn't want the stigma that comes with "working" to change that passion.

At the time, I didn't understand. If you could do something you loved for a living, why wouldn't you? It seemed simple to me.

Today, I understand him and his reasons a little better. Today, my passion has changed.

Can I separate the two sides of myself that have a relationship with writing? Can I keep my passion and keep my work?

As a child, I loved the beach. I wanted to move to the coast and live there forever. When I voiced this dream, my parents always said, "Katie, if you lived there all the time, just like anything else, you'd get tired of it. It wouldn't be as special."

And I guess that's just it. I don't want writing to become living at the beach.



Author's Note: I want to be clear that I'm happy about having the opportunity to write for pay. After a bad week with freelancing, I'm just taking a moment to look at what that means for me and how that may change my relationship with writing. 
How do you feel about mixing work and play? Would freelance writing change the way you feel about creative writing?

Where You're Going

My husband’s college acceptance letter came in the mail last Thursday. When I got home from work, he was standing at the door waiting on me, our three cats winding in and out of his legs, a huge grin on his face. The grin was infectious. For a moment, we just stood in the kitchen, grinning at each other like idiots. After exchanging our hellos, I asked him what in the world was up, and he just smiled and handed me the unopened letter. The words Jacksonville State University were printed as the return address, and I knew immediately that this was a good letter.

He confided to me later that he was a little nervous at first. In his experience, college acceptance packages came in thick envelopes crammed with information about the school: orientation, registration, and financial aid. The thin envelopes were always bad news. But not this time.

We opened the letter together, and the first thing our eyes landed on was the slogan “Where You’re Going” printed on a bumper sticker. I’ll never forget that moment. We both hollered our hoorays, grabbing onto each other in a clumsy, hopping hug. This was the beginning of our future, a first day of the rest of our lives. Thankfully, there are many days like that in life, days that ring out with success and promise and hope.

We still haven’t come down from our college acceptance high. Jeremy has big plans after completing his four-year degree, and while there have been roadblocks and detours along the way, he’s never given up on making it happen.

I’m a firm believer of making dreams come true. For the longest time, when I first graduated college, I had given up on my own dream of becoming a writer. It seemed so out of reach, as I sat at home and searched ad after ad for a freelance writing or editing gig. Most of the ads were far from home, and as a family girl with a good sense of my roots, I wasn’t quite willing to travel far away for a job. The jobs that were within in reach required experience that I just didn’t have. It seemed like to break out in the writing world I only needed a chance, but chances, it turned out, were hard to come by.

Just when I had all but given up on my dream, several years after my college graduation, an opportunity presented itself. The opportunity came in the form of a weekly local column, and to this day, it remains the best gift I have ever received. This column led to another first day of the rest of my life. When I saw my name in print for that first “official” time, I knew that at least part of my dream had finally come true. And from the column, so many more dreams were realized; so many more dreams took flight.

I now have my own blog. Not a huge accomplishment but one that I cherish. Chicken Noodle Gravy provides a chance to connect with my readers and an opportunity to write every day. Since I began this web journal over a year ago, I have seen my own writing improve and grow.

I’ve been published in the fabulous regional magazine West Georgia Living. I’ve actually had the opportunity to work on real freelance assignments, to research and build a story from next to nothing. The entire experience has been amazing.

Dreams are easy to give up on. The older we get, the easier it becomes. But giving up on a dream means we could miss out on so much. I might have missed out on meeting so many new people, on reconnecting with friends from my past, on finally earning a dollar for my words, and so much more. Jeremy might have missed out on that college acceptance letter, that key to our future which will undoubtedly open the door to many dreams to come. 

Source: positivelypresent.typepad.com via Katie on Pinterest

Where are you going? What dreams do you never give up on in your life? 


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