Why I Am This Way // This is Progress

Honestly, even the title of this is starting off on the wrong foot. I don't know exactly what makes me think this way. But anything I associate with myself, nearly every single thing that I associate with myself, I automatically label as wrong. Or bad. The thought patterns are so well worn that it has become first nature. It is my norm, my go-to. I am actively trying to reverse this pattern of thinking, but I am finding this to be an incredibly difficult task, so difficult that I feel like I haven't made any progress whatsoever. 

But writing this down is progress. As difficult as this weekend has been, I would consider the block of time that has passed over the last two days as progress. Sometimes progress is a slow back and forth. It's a "I feel fine one minute and terrible the next." Sometimes it's just a recognition of your humanity and a little bit of grace and patience with your own self. 

Yesterday, I found myself fixating on a thought. A negative thought that brought a rush of bad feelings with it. I kept replaying this thought in my head over and over and over again. And then I would immediately invalidate the bad feelings that came with it, immediately berate myself for the way I was thinking and feeling, immediately compare myself to any other person I could who was more graceful, more diplomatic, more calm, more not like me. This would trigger my typical panic attack of: you are not good enough, you are not worthy of love and friendship, you are a drain and a burden on everyone who knows you. And this would play out again and again and again.  

I started the day with a book, Notes from Your Therapist by Allyson Dinneen. I read the book in one sitting and clung to certain words from it. One in particular that resonated strongly with the moment I find myself in was: "there are some things I will never be over." For some reason, this comforted me. Because the thought I had yesterday that kept playing on repeat was from a really old wound. One that I want to recover from and heal from and move on from... and so when I'm having that thought, the reason I berate myself sometimes is that I think I should be "over" it. After all this time, I should be recovered and healed. But honestly, who says there's a statute of limitations on pain? Who says there's an allotted amount of time that you can be impacted and then it should be over?

For me, it's human connection that jerks me back from the brink. When I realize that I am not the only one who feels a certain way, when I realize that I am not the only one who is awkward and trying to heal...that's when I feel better. Some might call this being outwardly defined. Some might say that I should find my worth and value from within. And I would agree that loving myself is the most important part of my journey. It's the one goal that I work on every single day and fail at every single day but keep going with because I know it's value and worth. But also, self-love is about having the grace with myself to say: this is not just you. And when someone says something or writes something that reminds me of that, that helps me. It is a coping mechanism, and I need to remember that when I just want to hide and retreat and pull away from people because I am so desperately afraid they are going to pull away from me first. I must remember that I need some kind of connection to help me remember that I am not innately bad or wrong. 

About halfway through the day yesterday, I found that I could stop the thought that I was fixating on from happening part of the time. When I felt its tendrils begin to reach at the edges of my consciousness, I could stop it by quickly replacing it with another thought or distraction. This felt like power. Anxiety sometimes feels so completely uncontrollable. It strips away everything about who you are and leaves you as vulnerable and bare as possible. It grabs hold of you so quickly that it literally leaves you breathless. The powerlessness that often comes with anxiety is honestly one of the scariest things about it, because you can't predict its timing, you can't plan for its attack. It's just suddenly there, and you are at its mercy. 

And so when I was able to stop myself from that ugly thought yesterday, I felt some brief moments of power. And this is progress. 

I woke up this morning and read another book. Untamed by Glennon Doyle. This one I didn't finish in one sitting (it's a bit longer), but I let myself be present with the words, and I let myself feel how it was impacting me. Through reading, I felt connection. I felt again that impactful: this is not just you. 

When Jeremy woke up this morning, I told him about yesterday's thought. I told him that it was still trying to infiltrate my day today. I told him about the shame it brought and the fact that I thought I should be over it. I cried and told him everything. I felt connection again and that helped. 

And this is progress. Identifying what helps in the midst of it all, embracing what helps in the midst of it all. This is progress. Writing all of this down. This is progress. 

Today, I am going to continue to try to read, write, and replace thoughts (even if it has to be through distraction). I am going to try to be okay with how I cope and who I am. But I am also going to be okay when the thought inevitably comes back or another negative thought replaces it. Because there's power to be had there, too. 

(And for good measure, I'm going to add to my title.) 

 

Two Steps Forward and Two Steps Back

I've had Paula Abdul stuck in my head ever since this coronavirus stuff really started ramping up.

Until a few weeks ago, 2020 had been an incredible year for me and my mental health. Counseling was making a big difference. I was beginning to practice true self-care. I was setting healthy boundaries at work. I was in a decent head space. Though anxiety and depression were still part of my daily life, I felt, for the first time in a long time, that I had taken back control. Yes, there were still bad days, but the good had begun to outweigh the bad.

And now this. Hence the feeling of two steps forward and two steps back.

I don't think I'm alone in this thought pattern. I've heard friends say the same thing. I've seen memes saying the same thing. And it got me to thinking about something I've shared before but never truly allowed myself to believe:

Growth isn't linear. Some days are good. Some are bad. Sometimes your brain stops telling you lies. Sometimes it tells you more lies than ever before. Sometimes you are strong, and sometimes you feel weak. But bad days do not wipe out progress. And growth is growth is growth.

The last week I feel that I have "relapsed" to that worst version of myself. The scared, distrusting, paranoid, anxious, self-deprecating version of myself that visits on the bad days. The one that tells me I'm not good enough and that no one loves me. The one that seeks validation desperately. The one that searches in a panicked-state for love from outside herself because she can't find it within.

I'm trying to have grace with this version of myself. I'm trying to understand why she is here today and that it's okay to be in this space for now. This is temporary. Both our current mental states and what the world is going through. Just because we feel stuck right now doesn't mean we are stuck forever.

To combat the overwhelming anxiety, I am trying to talk to my friends and my family. I'm trying to tell them what I need. But even that is hard. The talking and saying aloud what I need makes me feel desperate and annoying. It makes me feel like I'm bothering them. It makes me feel like a burden. But I keep reminding myself that I am loved. That I am not a burden. That we all need a little more right now.

The thing about me is that I give love without reservation. I try to support and reassure and anticipate the needs of those I love. But I don't ask for that in return. In fact, I push it away with both hands, because I feel like I don't deserve it.

We all deserve it though. No matter if we feel like we're growing or standing still. No matter if we have had a bad day or are the absolute best versions of ourselves. We deserve love. I deserve love, and even when I feel like the things that are happening around me are out of control and scary, I can have grace with myself and understand that I am doing my best and that is enough. 

Social Distancing, Introversion, and Anxiety

Hi, guys.

Wow. So we didn't expect this, right? None of us anticipated what the world is going through right now. And each day we wake up to an even newer version of our new world. To say things are a little bit crazy right now would be an understatement. 

Currently, I have the privilege of working from home. I realize that this is a privilege, and I count my blessings daily that I have a job that can be done (for the most part) remotely. I expected to like working from home, too. Although, I've worked from home before and hated it. Honestly, I am now fully realizing that I need human connection, which is surprising to me...but shouldn't be. 

I know from lots of research and reading that introversion is more about energy and less about being "shy" or "distant" or "quiet." You can be a social introvert, and I guess that's what I am. But I also think that a lot of my needing human connection comes from my anxiety. 

When I'm away from people, my brain begins to tell me a series of lies: they must hate you, they're probably talking about you, they are glad you aren't around. Of course, this is all related to a lot of things that have happened in my past around friendship, things that I continue to work on my counselor with. And my brain tells me these lies even when people are around to be clear, but when I'm isolated, the voices get louder. 

Thus, working from home isn't all that great for me or my brain, even though I'd like to reiterate how grateful I am for the opportunity. 

The fact is that none of what is going on is great. During times like these, times of challenge and struggle, we see and are both the worst and the best of ourselves. Right now, I feel like we're standing on a line between today and tomorrow, between what the world is like right now and what it's going to be like, and none of us want to cross it. Especially alone. And right now, we all feel alone. 

That loneliness and time to reflect (and overthink!) leads to a lot of social anxiety, as I mentioned above...but what about the general anxiety that is flooding us all right now?

What happens next? is a question on everyone's minds, and I'm not sure any of us have the answer. For those of us who have control issues, what is there to control right now when those answers allude us? We can't control the government or the virus. We can't control our places of employment or the healthcare system. 

But we can control how we prepare. How much food we buy, where we go, how we interact with others. We can control how we get through our days. Where do we sit to work (living room or office). When do we take our lunch break. What do we wear. 

We can control how much we reach out to those we love. For connection. For reassurance. For a break from all that is uncontrollable and so uncomfortable. 

For me, that human connection has been so necessary over the last few days, so I know it will be of paramount importance moving forward. Because this is just the first few days. We don't know how long this will be our new normal, and we don't know what the world is going to look like when we come out on the other side of this. But focusing on what we don't know only amplifies our already anxious minds. So here is what we do know (and coincidentally, they all start with C):

• Connection and love is critical right now. Even for us introverts. Connect with someone every day. Share your love with them, speak it to them so that they feel it across the distance.
• Communication is key. Reach out when you're feeling lonely, anxious, or overwhelmed. Speak your truth and your feelings. This is now more important than ever. Don't stop processing just because you aren't physically around those you normally process with. 
• Control what you can. Work outside for an afternoon. Take a shower even if you're not leaving the house. Make your bed. Take your control where you can get it, even if it is a "tiny" thing.
• Continue to make the choices that make you happy and are still options. If binge-watching Love is Blind helps you disconnect from a scary reality, then do it! Do the thing. Don't forget about self-care during this time. Take a bubble bath. Read an inspiring book or article. Look at pictures of cats and dogs online. 
• Cuddle your fur-babies and real babies. Kids and animals are the real MVPs here. Let them comfort you with their soft fur and silly antics. Reassure them and you'll feel more reassured yourself. 

Basically, keep being the incredible human that you are. Don't forget that you are doing your best. Breathe through the anxiety and lean on those you love. 

We'll get through this together. Much love, stay well!

Control Freak

When I was younger, I always tried to be prepared for anything life might throw my way. I liked to at least feel like I had some kind of control over the things that happened throughout the day. I would stalk my former supervisors’ calendars trying to predict events that I might have to speak at or things I needed to be ready for. I would set my own daily schedule in neat blocks of time, so I would know what I would be doing and when I would be doing it.

You might have called me obsessive. Or a control freak. Definitely a worrier.

I’m older now, and life hasn’t been this way for me for quite some time. Don’t get me wrong. I’m still an obsessive control freak who worries a lot. But life is no longer predictable. It’s no longer controllable. Throughout my day, I have constant distractions and new problems to tackle, almost to the extent that, if a day goes by uneventfully now, I almost feel bored. But hopefully the universe doesn’t hear me say that.

What I’ve learned as I’ve grown into a more mature and adaptable woman is that life isn’t predictable. You can’t be prepared for all the things. As much as you’d like to be.

Right now, my life is about as chaotic and unpredictable as it’s been in awhile. I don’t know what the next day holds, and there are a lot of things that are up in the air and worrisome. I feel out of control and a bit discombobulated. But in the midst of the chaos, I have learned to look for my calm.

Calm for me is coming home from a great event at work and cleaning house, organizing the mess that comes from living.

Calm for me is working on loving myself more and minimizing my self-deprecating tendencies. Yesterday, I told my boss, “everything that is bad and stressful today is happening because of me.” I said those words. About myself. This morning I almost apologized to my husband for crying over a couple of stressful health situations going on with my family and my friend.

Both of these trigger reactions are one unhealthy ways I have been coping with stress. And today, I made a conscious effort to limit this behavior.

Instead of apologizing to my husband, I kept crying until I felt better. And first thing this morning, I texted my boss and told him that I shouldn’t have ever blamed myself for stressful things in the office, and, just to be a little more self-loving, I bragged on myself to him.

Calm for me is getting better even when I feel at my worse. And every day, despite what I sometimes tell myself, I am getting better.

Life is messy right now. And the next few months are likely to be messy as well. But instead of trying to control the mess, I’m going to live the principles I’ve read in the book my dear friend Anna and I recently read together, No Mud No Lotus. The theme of this little but powerful book is that without suffering and adversity there would be no happiness and light. In the midst of the struggle is often where we find the beauty.

And today, I am going to embrace both the beauty and the chaos. 

Fuel

On Friday of last week, a group of my friends and I crammed into our tiny SUV and went to early vote. It's the first time I've ever early voted. It's the first time I've ever gone with a group to vote. The feeling was electric.


We didn't discuss politics in our car ride there or back. We didn't argue or debate. We joked around, laughed. We respected each other and everyone at the polls. For a minute, just a few moments in time, we were all connected by a common purpose.


These days we seem to forget that we are ever connected. We fight over every little thing. We spit and claw. We lash out. We hate.


We're living in a time where our leaders want us to be divided. Divided, we're easier to handle. Divided, we're easier to control. It's a cliché for a reason: united we stand; divided we fall. My call to action for you? Don't let that happen.


Disagree with people. Know that we're all different and so we're all going to have different perspectives and opinions. And it's okay that we disagree with those perspectives and opinions; it's okay to have discourse and discussion and conflict. What's not okay? Hate. Ever. In any way. I don't necessarily prescribe to any certain set of religious or spiritual beliefs, but I'm pretty sure almost all faiths encourage kindness and love over hate...and if they don't, maybe find a new faith.


But gosh, lately, there seems to be a lot of hate. It comes in the form of name-calling, belief- and opinion-shaming, passive aggressive statements made under our breaths and just within earshot, ugly memes and jokes on social media. It honestly reminds me a lot of middle school. And who liked middle school? Aren't we better than middle school, y'all?


I get it. There are a lot of polarizing issues. There are a lot of people challenging beliefs and ways of life on both sides. This isn't easy stuff. But at the end of the day, it's not going to do any of us any good to hate on each other. At some point, and I hope this happens soon, we need to be able to come together, despite our differences, and hear each other. Hear both sides, hear all sides, and then work together on compromises that can benefit the whole and the future.


We can't hand the world over worse than we found it. Today, we're poised at a crossroads where we can make change for the better, where we can make the world better. Let's try to do that, through love and respect, kindness and listening. Because really, what is the alternative?

Shiny Happy Voters Holding Hands!

Reframing

When I was a kid and my parents realized I needed glasses, they took me to the eye doctor, and I picked out the tackiest, most ostentatious frames a twelve year-old had ever dreamed of.  Those glasses were hella ugly, y’all, like blue and yellow and pink zigzags and dots with lenses the size of tea saucers. And I wore those ugly things for the next several years, completely oblivious to my optical faux pas.

High school called for some new frames, and the ones I ended up with weren’t much better than those hideous glasses of my preteen years.

Finally, at 35 years, I’ve reached glasses Nirvana with a pair of black wayfarers that embody my nerdy, vintage style perfectly. 

The point of this long winded trip down memory lane is to talk about the importance of reframing your outlook throughout your life. Just like I found myself new frames for my glasses for different periods of my life, so have I found new frames and perspectives as I have grown and developed as a human.

I read an amazing blog this morning that reminded me how important this reframing process is in life.  The article challenged its readers to reflect on the insecurities of their youth that they now look at as strengths. This process of reframing was so poignant and powerful to me, particularly since I’ve always struggled with overcoming my insecurities. Growing up, I hated many things about myself. My freckles. My sensitivity. My height. Nowadays, having traveled at least partway down the road to self-love, these are some of my favorite things about myself. My freckles are the constellations of my skin, charting the course of a childhood spent in the woods and in the sun. My sensitivity helps me connect with people and forge strong ties built upon empathy and trust. My height makes me feel powerful and beautiful, if not still a little awkward sometimes.

From this reflection on how my view of the insecurities of my youth have changed, it occurs to me that many, many things in life are truly about how we look at them and what lens or frame we look at them through.

We all have different frames we look through and different lens coloring our world. These frames and lens change as we grow, as we have new experiences, as we meet new people. We are lucky to be complex, evolving creatures who can embrace a variety of experiences and perspectives; we are lucky to be able to change, because change is growth.

This recent election and many of my current challenges in my own journey have made me happy that I am a fluid, open-minded creature, who can embrace many perspectives. Because here’s the thing. None of us are completely right. None of us have all the answers. None of us can be the one true ring. But together, with all of our many lens and frames and experiences and beliefs, we create this kaleidoscope of humanity that is truly something to see, something to embrace, something to learn from.

So next time you’re feeling particularly sure about an ugly pair of glasses, maybe take a moment, practice the pause, and see what other options life has in store. You just might find the wayfarers you always dreamed of.

As a kid, I loved those stupid glasses with the bright frames and huge lens. Looking back, as an adult, I completely hate them. But that’s the beauty of growing up, we can change our minds, we can be better people, and we can learn to fully love ourselves. Freckles and all.

Demons

Sometimes you wake up with demons.

They don't announce their presence right away, but, by the time you're fully settled into your morning, right around the time you're waking up and trying to be a fully functioning adult human, they pounce.

This morning was such a morning, and lucky for me, the demons stuck around all day. 

Being a big feeler of big feelings, sometimes my greatest fear is losing people. The demons know that, and they prey on it.

When I was a young girl, playing on the playground, under the nurturing branches of the friendship oak, I lost a person.

Her name was Naomi, and she was my "best friend." Despite the happenings of that day, Naomi remained my "best friend" for a few years after that, but on that particular day, she was feeling a little mean. On that day, she announced, "I'm no longer your best friend; I'm Heather's best friend." And off she went to play with Heather, leaving me a big puddle of emotional trauma and scabbed knees.

There are moments in life that define you, and looking back, I guess that was one of my moments. When asked by those that love me, "why do you lack any self-confidence or self-worth," I don't really have a good answer. I grew up in the loving arms of loving parents. I was reminded on a daily basis how great I was. But for some reason, I always focused on those moments like the one on the playground. In spite of all the love and care, I couldn't seem to get past the self-doubt.

When I lost Naomi that day, I didn't really lose her completely. As I said, we remained friends for a few years after that, although I eventually moved away, thus ending our grade school relationship. No, instead of losing Naomi completely, I think I lost a little bit of my trust in people. And with that loss of trust, friendship became a bit of a pattern for me.

Wish for friends. Get friends. Don't fully trust friends. Let anxiety dictate friendship. Lose friends.

As a 35 year-old adult, I now know what true friendship is.

There are no best friends. Love and friendship can't be boiled down to labels. My friends today know me for who I am, warts and all, anxiety and all, self-doubt and all. And yet, they still choose to love me. They choose to be there on days like today, when the demons are bad.

And, today, I woke up with demons. And they're still here. They remind me of the child version of me and tell me that everyone will eventually get fed up with me; they tell me that everyone will eventually abandon me. They dig in with their claws and rip apart what little trust I have in others.

With the help of my friends and family and love, they will subside, these demons. They will gradually hide away, lulling me into a false sense of confidence and security, waiting in the shadows for that next moment of weakness, waiting to kick me while I'm down. On that day, like today, they will feast upon the insecurities of a woman who never really grew up from the child who could never really see how incredible she was and is.

The truth of me: zit, mascara smudged from tears, lips hopelessly chapped.

Becoming

"All life events are formative. All contribute to what we become, year by year, as we go on growing. As my friend the poet Kenneth Koch once said, "You aren't just the age you are. You are all the ages you ever have been." - Fred Rogers

Becoming is an interesting thing. As you grow up, as you encounter challenges and experiences, you become yourself. Even though you were always yourself, you somehow become more yourself. The self you were destined to always be.

When I was a little girl, I was me. I was shy, a little cautious, a lot awkward and quirky, and I stumbled through, always making the most of life and what it offered. I had a real soft spot for animals, and my parents indulged this through a crazy cat named Cocoa and a lazy basset hound named Barney. I also pretended to "own" all the wild animals that would visit our house in the country. The deer (one of whom was my pet named Bambi), the birds, the squirrels. And I had my fair share of self-doubt.

Now, I am me. Shy, a little cautious, a lot of awkward and quirky...still stumbling through and making the most. Still having a real soft spot for animals. Six cats! Countless birds at the bird feeder. A daily visit with the neighbor's dog, whom I've given my own names: Old Yeller and Fuchsbau. 

And yep, still that ever-present self-doubt. 

It's weird to think that you can go through so much, so many life experiences and still be essentially yourself. It's comforting to think that. I like me. 

Through my life, I have been exposed to my fair share of Fred Rogers. Through Mister Rogers' Neighborhood. Obviously. But now, through youTube videos and books and quotes. He, along with my parents, my PawPaw, and Jimmy Stewart, is my hero. I have lots of heroes...probably more than listed here...because I admire a lot of people. It's easy for me to see the good in others. But despite the powerful words of Fred Rogers, it's sometimes hard for me to see the good in myself. 

This was a hard week. I trusted my instinct. I made tough decisions. I felt overwhelmed. I stressed. I was basically a walking nerve-ending by the end of the week, ready to collapse from the sheer anxiety of it all. And I wasn't perfect. I kept stumbling. But with each stumble, I learned. I grew. I became. 

I'm a lucky person. I have been nurtured. I am cared for. And when I am at my very best, the very best version of me, I am nurturing, I am caring for. I have had the opportunity to do a lot of nurturing and caring lately, a lot of just being there. It's simple and brilliant at the same time, and it makes me deliriously happy. Sometimes, I let that happy fall victim to stress and to doubt and to other. And that's when I get mad. I let the anger roll in, and I scream that it's UNFAIR.

And then, I pause. I breathe. I become. 

Sometimes, it's hard to like me. When the self-doubt takes over. When I listen more to the naysayers than the lovers. But at the end of the day, I am proud of the person I am and the person I'm still becoming. 

And if today and tomorrow and the day after that I can strive to become more myself (and maybe a bit more like Fred Rogers), I'll be proud.

With Feathers

I don't pretend to know grief. Not because it hasn't touched my life; it has. In the last year, it has touched the lives of my family in a deep and profound way from which we are still reeling. In truth, a life not touched by grief doesn't really exist, but still--I don't pretend to know grief.

I don't pretend to know grief, because I have seen through the grief of my sister, through the grief of my nephew and niece, that grief cannot truly be known. 

To each of us, grief is different. For me, when my brother-in-law Ken died a year ago today, grief first manifested itself as anger. The anger has long since subsided, but in that moment, in the time of the longest year of our lives, the grief I knew was red and raging. 

Well-meaning people always try to understand another's grief. They try to define it. They try to compartmentalize it. They try to push it along. I was well-meaning. In my mind, I wanted my sister and her children to be healed immediately. I wanted them to go on about their lives without a ripple, without a pause. 

Watching my sister hurt was unbearable. It intensified my anger in such a way that was alarming, nearly overwhelming. I watched as she cried, as she held everything together for her kids. I watched as she searched for a place to put her grief, as she pointed her pain to rebuilding her life. 

Well-meaning, as I was, I hoped she'd heal. "Hope is the thing with feathers/ That perches in the soul," and the thing about hope is that it can fly away as easily as it lands. My hope that my sister will heal hasn't gone, but the reality of grief has finally dawned.

When feathers appear, angels are near.

A photo posted by Katie Ross (@katieross83) on Jan 23, 2017 at 7:53am PST

I don't know grief. None of us do. Oh, we may be intimately familiar with its ebbs and flows, with its phases and stages. With the bullet points and books and hollow words that attempt to explain it, to explain us to ourselves. But grief has many faces. It wears many masks. It speaks in tongues that our ears cannot hear and cannot know. 

My sister's grief is her own. I don't try to understand it. I don't try to define it. I don't hurry it along. I don't know what words will help, so I stick with an old stand-by that never says enough: I'm sorry.

And I am sorry. I'm sorry that I ever tried to know her grief. I'm sorry that her grief has become her constant companion. One that she faces bravely even on the hardest of days. 

Today is a hard day. I know it will be, but I can't know how hard. Only she and her children are living the reality of their tragedy, the daily weight of it that punishes and takes.

I watch them survive and thrive despite the pain. I watch her raise two of the most loving, intelligent children I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.   

But a life passed doesn't just disappear. It doesn't vanish. It doesn't end. 

Ken lives on. He lives on in so many ways. In Garrett's silly dances and songs, in his stubbornly huge heart that constantly watches over others. In Tessa's sweet giggles and sharp intelligence, in her perfect hugs and bright, smiling eyes. His children were his perfect gift. 

The grief we feel over Ken's passing is unique to each of us. We live through it every day. And yet, life does go on, even when you feel like it shouldn't. 

A year has passed, and it's been both achingly long and breathtakingly short. We miss you, Ken, and wish daily that instead of this unknowable, unbearable grief that, just for another moment, we had you. 

Blue Door

Actually, the door is gypsy teal, but "blue door" sounded better for a title. The fact that our front door has been black ever since we bought our house in 2009 is an indication of nothing really...perhaps our laziness but nothing else.

Nonetheless, the door is gypsy teal now, and the difference it made in the look of our house was quite remarkable. We painted the door after we had hardwood floors installed this weekend. Funny how doing one little improvement makes you want to do all the improvements. All at once. This motivation is sure to end. 

With the door now gypsy teal, the front porch needs a new coat of white paint...and the shutters need painting. And the whole house could use pressure-washing. Funny how one little improvement makes all the other flaws stand out. 

Over the last two years, I worked on earning my Masters degree in Higher Education Administration. In December of 2016, I finished. Basically, my life has a blue front door now. And as with the improvements to the house, I am now looking at all the flaws that I need to work on personally. 

Self-doubt is a long-time companion of mine. From time to time, she visits to remind me of those flaws, to remind me that I'm not worthy somehow. But this little swing into "who am I" and "what now" feels a little different than those in my past. It feels different because I'm different. I'm a more confident version of myself. I still care what others think but not nearly as much as before. I'm no longer defined by it. 

This time I'm able to tell myself that I am enough and that where I am in life is enough. Sure, I do have a new, blue front door, but a new door doesn't mean I need to know what my next improvement project is going to be. After all, so much of our life is spent waiting, spent looking at or to the next thing, that we sometimes seem to miss what is sitting right in front of us. 

The lovely. The mundane. The beautifully boring and deliciously ordinary. The life that needs living in our own way that isn't anyone else's way, that is perfectly imperfect and bumpy and gorgeous and awful, all at once. 

As of today, I have a blue front door. I also have a Masters Degree. But I have much more to offer the world than my house or my job. I will live and love the here and now. The future will wait and so will flaws and improvements and the crap that causes self-doubt. Blue doors are lovely but so am I.

The Time Has Come

"The time has come," she said, "to write."

At what moment do you start being a writer? The moment that you start writing.

At what moment do you stop being a writer? The moment that you stop writing. 

The definition of writer has never been that simple for me. I always thought you needed to get paid or published or maybe even do it full-time for it to really be true. But hey, I was paid. I was published. And although, I never had the pleasure of being able to write full-time, I can now say with confidence that it has nothing to do with all of that. It's really as simple as you either write, or you don't. 

I didn't write for so long. Sure, I had excuses. I was in graduate school. There was a lot going on with my family. Blah, blah, blah. Whatever. Those are just excuses. The fact was that I quit being what I loved. I quit. And then it became harder and harder to become that person I loved again. It seemed that the obstacle I'd created for myself was insurmountable. Sure...another excuse.

I believe in signs. The Universe speaks to us. Whether that be in the form of a higher power, a forest spirit, an electromagnetic field, I don't know, but it speaks to us, and if we choose to listen, if we're BRAVE enough to listen, we can find magic. I ignored all the signs for so long. I excused the signs.

I need to read for school.

I need to vacuum.

I need to buy groceries.


No. No, the Universe screamed. You need to write!

I need to write. I've abandoned it for too long, something simple, something profound that brought me such joy, and I want it back. I want blogging back. I want Chicken Noodle Gravy back.

School is finished. I'm two years older and wiser. I have two whole years of experiences to write about. The material is there. The words are on the tip of my tongue. So. The time has come.

To write.

Tessa Rose

I was gone to Starbucks when the news you were coming arrived. My phone, which had scarcely left my side for the last several weeks as I impatiently waited on news of you, was sitting on my desk; the text message announcing that you were on the way sat unseen and unread on my phone, an eagerly awaited message that would have to wait just a little longer.

When I returned to the office, iced coffee and bacon gouda breakfast sandwich in hand, I absently checked my phone and saw the message I’d been waiting to see for weeks. “Your new niece is on her way!”

The thirty or so minutes after that are largely a blur to me. There was a lot of squealing, a lot of dancing around, a lot of running from office to office to share the exciting news. I called my Mama (your BB) first, as she’s the one that sent the text, and then I called Jennifer, your Mama, to see how everything was.

You were definitely on the way, she said, and before she drove herself to the hospital, she was going to stop at a fast food restaurant to grab some fries, because naturally, she was hungry. Labor’s hard work. This is your Mama. She’s the strongest woman I know. When she went into labor with Garrett, your big brother, she insisted on doing a load of laundry before she left the house. She’s like Super Woman on steroids, and if you’re anything like her at all, you’ll be amazing.

After much celebration at work, your Uncle Jeremy arrived to whisk me away to meet you. We went home, fed the cats (your cousins), grabbed the camera, and away we went. For a good twenty minutes of the hour-long car ride, I squealed intermittently. You can ask Uncle Jeremy. I was pretty excited and pretty annoying. It was about 5:00 by the time we were on the road, and Atlanta traffic can be a nightmare. But not that day. That day everything was perfect.

We made it to the hospital in plenty of time. You were in no real hurry. Your Mama was patient and calm, and for awhile, we just hung out with her and your Daddy in the hospital room. They would only let in two of us at a time, so we took turns. Me, BB, and your Papa. I would say the three of us were equally excited to meet you; we’ll always be your biggest fans.

The waiting room was crowded at first. Families came and went. Babies were happily announced, hugs were shared, even a few tears were shed, and still, we waited.

By 10:00pm, the waiting room was just me, BB, Papa, and Uncle Jeremy. We were ready for you to arrive, and an electric current of anticipation was buzzing in the room, but there was also a strange sense of calm. When your big brother arrived, I don’t think any of us were calm, but with you, things were different. After meeting you, I realized calm was just part of who you were.

We finally did get to meet you at about 1:00am. You were, and still are, beautiful. Your Mama was beautiful, too. When we came in the hospital room to see you and her, she looked amazing. We kept asking how everything went, and she would just shrug. Easy peasy. I know very few women who shrug after labor. I told you your Mama’s pretty amazing.

I’ve held you and kissed you and cuddled you close. Soon, you’ll be a week old, but I loved you before you were even born.

Tessa Rose, I wish you a life of giggles and bare feet, of ponytails and sunshine. I can’t wait to know you even better, to play with you and kiss your boo-boos and be the best aunt in the world. You’re already the best niece.  

  

 

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. 

Endings and Beginnings

What better time than the holidays and the new year to start reevaluating where we are in life and where we are going? I’ve had plenty of time and cause to consider these very important questions lately, as I find myself embarking on a new career and a possible new educational pursuit.

I’ve also been asking myself the age-old question that’s been hotly debated and intensely considered by kindergarteners everywhere: what do I want to be when I grow up? Good question, and I’m still not sure that I’ve ever really answered it. If all my dreams were to come true, I’d want to be a writer, but really to be a writer, all you have to do is write, so I’ve already accomplished that in a sense. I guess what I should really say is that I want to make a living writing.

I’ve been so busy in pursuit of my new career that I’ve barely had time lately to focus on writing, and it wasn’t until I received a kind note today from an old, dear friend that I realized how much my lack of focus on that thing that I loved so much was putting it in danger.

When our lives become busy, we tend to start cutting things out. Going to the gym? Nope, no time. Reading a book by my favorite author? Well, there’s always tomorrow for that. Writing fiction and poetry and updating my beloved blog? First, I have to do laundry, then cook dinner, then dishes, and ironing and….

Before you know it, your life has become nothing more than work, work, work, and though you may feel fulfilled by that work and though you may love it, you aren’t giving time to the things that you really love, the things that fulfill you creatively and keep you passionate and excited. Things like family and reading and writing and kitty cats, and all of the things that make me…well, me.

As I try to nail down the program that I want to pursue for my Masters degree, I know that life is about to take another strange and complicated turn. My evenings and weekends now that are already so busy are only about to become busier, as I balance school, even more responsibilities at work that come with a new promotion, family, and myself. Where does writing fall in this future? I’m not sure, and that scares me.

Earlier today I told a friend that I may have to give up writing my column in order to make time for everything. The thought of giving up this column that has now been a part of my life for over three wonderful years is a sad one for sure, but I don’t know how else to make everything fit, and I don’t even have any kids to put in the mix!

To me, life is all about challenge and change. With every new year, every new season for that matter, we are faced with exciting and sometimes scary new adventures, and with those adventures, we have to make choices. I have some big decisions ahead of me in the next couple of weeks. My thanks to that old, dear friend Emily for helping to make sure that writing isn’t lost along the way. 

Don't Yuck My Duck

A week ago, if you’d asked me about Duck Dynasty I would have shared my canned opinion on reality television. In fact, I’ll share it now; I hate it. The writer in me longs for old-fashioned story-telling: the kind with well-developed characters and a stimulating plot, with rising and falling action, and a setting that leaps off the screen. But this was all before I sat down last week and watched three straight hours of sweet tea swillin’, duck killin’, good ole boy shenanigans and hijinks. Now, it’s safe to say I’m a changed woman.

Duck Dynasty pleasantly surprised me. I won’t lie and say that I would have ever thought a show (which I assumed was) about a bunch of bearded guys making duck calls would be my kind of show, but life’s full of surprises. I don’t know exactly what it is that won me over. Maybe it was the way Si charms the ladies or the way the boys in the warehouse are constantly getting out of work or the way Phil delivers a line, Jack. Maybe it’s all of it. Maybe it’s refreshing to watch a show with family values and good, clean laughs. Maybe it just makes me happy, happy, happy. Whatever it is, the spell has been cast. I’m a non-believer no more.

I feel kind of bad now though. For all the times, I dismissed the show. For all the times, I crinkled up my nose when it was mentioned. For all the times, I thought, who would want to watch a show like that? It’s just another reality show, another Jersey Shore or Keeping Up with the Kardashians. Another, dare I say, Honey Boo Boo? Gasp!

But at the end of the day, what’s wrong with any of these shows? What’s wrong with reality television for that matter? Other than the fact that I just don’t happen to care for it myself. If I gave it half a chance, a chance like I gave Duck Dynasty, who knows? I might just like it after all.

I try to live life with an open mind. I would hate to miss anything in life because of my own misconceptions or stubbornness, but even in trying to do the right thing and live the right way, I often mess up. I often yuck other people’s yums.

What do I mean by yucking a yum? Well, back in March, Jeremy and I were watching television, which for us means hulu, Netflix, and lots of random web series on youTube. One of the random web series we watch is by a very insightful comedian named Ze Frank. Ze did a video on yucking yums, and since then, I’ve tried to be more aware of my interaction with others, particularly when it comes to something they love.

For some unknown reason, when we hear that someone we know is listening to a band, reading a book, doing an activity, or watching a TV show that we don’t happen to like, we jump on an opportunity to yuck their yum. We criticize them for watching something so silly, stupid, outdated, “insert your worst insult here.” Even when we know that that thing brings them great joy, we make it a point to share why we don’t think they should like it anymore. I did this every time I rolled my eyes at someone for watching Duck Dynasty.

“You don’t watch that, do you?”

Well, what if they do? Why does it matter? If the yum is harmless, what harm could possibly come from its enjoyment? Ze Frank reminds us to not steal someone else’s joy just because we might not have the same tastes, and I’m here to remind myself to not dismiss these yums quite so easily. Because someone else’s yum, which I may think of as a yuck, may eventually be my own yum and source of happy, happy, happy. 

A Monday Romp

It was time for some retail therapy. The morning had been your typical Monday with fires popping up left and right and us with neither the time nor the energy to put them out. We were both grumpier than usual, and by the time lunch rolled around, we knew we needed to get the heck outta Dodge.  

Allyson, my fashionable coworker and fabulous friend, suggested a trip to a trendy boutique just down the street from us. “They’re having a sale,” she urged. “It’ll be great!”

Considering the morning we’d had so far, I readily agreed to this little adventure. Truth was, I wanted to buy something cute for myself and restore that always great weekend feeling that had been stolen away, per usual, late Sunday afternoon…

The words “trendy boutique” should have been my first hint that maybe this shop wasn’t for me. Not surprisingly, my nerd senses started tingling the moment we walked through that door and into the land of sheer pastels and flowing maxi dresses and strange creatures called bandeaus. Everything inside me screamed, “Get out!” And the snooty looks on the employees and patrons faces should have sent me running.

But y’all, shopping at thirty isn’t easy. You’re caught in some sort of no-man’s land between the youthful, trendiness of your twenties and the more mature, chic wardrobe of your thirties. You haven’t quite decided that you want to give up things like unicorn tank tops and skinny jeans and sparkly Toms. Or at least, I haven’t.

This boutique seemed as good a place as any to search for that elusive sort of clothing that was both youthful and chic, both mature and trendy, and to heck with snobby women who think they possess some secret membership to the “I’m cool” club; in true Pretty Woman fashion, I was going to show them that this nerd had money to spend and bandeaus to buy!

A bandeau, as I have learned, is an undergarment meant to be worn with the sheer fabrics that are apparently all the rage these days. Nearly every article of clothing I touched was some form of see-through; laces and tulles and soft, thin cottons crowded the racks and screamed, “You could never pull me off!” at the top of their little fabric lungs.

After being run off several times by pushy, confident twenty year-olds who seemed to think I was either invisible or not worth common courtesy, I finally settled in at a rack that seemed more my style. Within minutes, I’d gathered three adorable tanks that were more-or-less of a solid fabric and (mostly) age appropriate. Never mind that all three were probably meant to be worn as dresses…

Triumphantly, I presented my tanks, along with some jewelry selections, to the cashier. She eyed me, my frizzy hair, and my less-than-fashionable work outfit, doubtfully, then rang me up with a little smirk. The nerd inside me sang as I imagined how cute I would be in my new tank dresses tops and trendy little earrings.

When Allyson and I arrived back at work, I showed off my purchases to some of my other co-workers, all young women in their twenties. They oohed and aahed appropriately, and I beamed when I reached my favorite tank, the blue one with white dragonflies on it.

Ashley, one of the trendiest women in our office, sweetly interrupted my fashion show. “Uh, Katie, isn’t that a romper?”

A romper?! Wait, isn’t that something a toddler wears?

Shocked, I grasped around at the bottom of the garment and realized that it was, in fact, a one-piece, an adult onesie, if you will. In my quest to recapture just a bit of my youth, I had gone back way too far. I looked up at my friends and coworkers in horror and screeched, “I accidentally bought a romper!!”

The joke around the office now is that I should at least try it on, but I know better. Bandeaus and rompers and sheer clothing aren’t for me; it’s time to turn in the sparkly shoes and unicorn tanks. Adulthood, unceremoniously, has arrived.

The offending garment

There's No Excuse

Via

Our laundry room is in the basement. Fortunately, it’s not one of those creepy basements like you see in the movies, but I still avoid it like the plague. Primarily because the laundry room is down there, and to me, that is scarier than even the scariest basement ghosts and goblins.

Unlike my big sister, who infamously did a load of laundry while in labor with my nephew, I am not a fan of this the most mundane of mundane chores. I do it only when completely necessary, and usually when only granny panties are left in the underwear lineup. The excuses I can fabricate to evade laundry are both numerous and varied and, at points during my history as a laundry-doer, have included: 

1. Well, I need to give some of my other clothes a chance to be worn anyway.
2. I don’t want to go downstairs and risk aggravating my creaky, possibly injured knee on our reasonably steep staircase.
3. I heard something in the basement and will wait until Jeremy gets home to investigate (at which point, I totally forget about doing the laundry and successfully put it off to another day completely).
4. The laundry basket is too heavy and may cause me to fall down the stairs.
5. Meh, it can wait until tomorrow. “After all, tomorrow is another day.”

Making excuses is easy. It’s one of the easiest things I do. If it’s something I don’t want to do, I can give you a list of at least a dozen reasons to delay it or to not do it all. You could call it a skill of mine. For the longest time, Jeremy and I made excuses for not exercising. The most common excuse? “We don’t have time.”

Strangely enough, we did have the time to sit around and watch TV, to play around on the internet, to immerse ourselves in video games or books. We could do any of those activities for hours in the evening after work and not even blink an eye, but somehow we didn’t have time to go work out.

In the last few weeks, we’ve attempted to stop making those excuses. We faithfully go to the gym three or four times a week and make a conscious effort to not talk ourselves out of it. But even as I write this, I can feel my need to start making excuses again bubble up. Especially in light of some of the recent and upcoming changes in my life.

I’ve had a writing breakthrough. After a long and complicated dry spell (fueled by more excuse making), a turnaround is upon us. I’ve committed to spending more time focusing on writing and making a bigger effort to finish my novel.

In January, if all goes well, I will begin Graduate School to complete my Library and Information Science degree.

Both of these goals mean that I will have to be more disciplined and determined than ever. I’ll have to quit making excuses and start making things happen. But with each new challenge, time becomes more and more precious and fleeting. The time that I devote to going to the gym will be time away from writing and away from studying. Because of this, I could continue to make excuses. I could give up something in the name of time. I could go back to being less than all I can be. That would be the easy thing. And Lord knows, we all need a little more easy in life…

But instead, I’m going to continue to fight against easy and excuses. I’m going to ask more of myself and expect more of myself. Time is precious and fleeting, that’s true enough, but that’s the exact reason we should not waste a second of it.

But hey, when you hear me still making excuses to not do the laundry, don’t judge. It’s a long way down that staircase…  

Burning Stars

Whether it hits you personally or affects you across miles and time, tragedy is always hard to process. It can steal your breath, take away all of your tears, and leave you feeling drained. Of course, we all handle it differently. My husband Jeremy broods on it in silence, mulling over any pain with deliberate and focused thought. I’ve only seen this laidback character cry once and that was over the loss of his beloved childhood dog.

I, on the other hand, am a crier. I wear my big ol’ heart right on my sleeve, and I also tend to dwell on the sadness until its all-consuming. It’s the curse of being a sensitive, empathetic soul. I once spent fifteen minutes crying over a dead goose I’d never even met, and I’ve spent countless hours crying over sad stories about animals and people on television, in movies and books, and even on the internet.

All the crying and hyper-sensitivity probably gets on Jeremy’s nerves, but in the end, neither of us have mastered the correct way to grieve or deal with tragedy…mainly because there is no correct way.

This subject came up over the weekend.

Despite it being Sunday and one of the few days that we can sleep in, I rose early last Sunday. We had plans to meet my parents for breakfast, but the truth was that I just woke up early and couldn’t go back to sleep. I went about my morning ritual as normal. Brush teeth, shower, then I went in the living room and checked my phone.

The first news I saw was pretty unbelievable, and at this point, I’m not quite sure I was awake.

Friends on Facebook were lamenting the death of Cory Monteith, my favorite actor on the television series “Glee.” Status updates like, “I can’t believe Cory Monteith is dead,” caused me to wake up faster than I had ever intended.

I loped back to the bedroom, jumped on the bed, and shook Jeremy from his sleep. “Cory Monteith is dead,” I said, watching his glazed over eyes slowly focus on me. “He’s dead!” And then with all the drama of a teenage girl who had just been broken up with, I sobbed.

Looking back on that moment, I feel rather silly. I didn’t know Cory. I can’t even pretend that there was the slightest chance that I would ever meet him. He wasn’t family; he wasn’t a friend. Later in the morning, while moping around the house in a grief-induced fog, I asked Jeremy why the death of a person I didn’t know had affected me so.

His answer was profoundly simple and shed a light on my grief, as well as the grief of millions of others when faced with the tragic death of a celebrity.

He said, “He was part of something you valued; plus, it’s always sad when someone dies.”

When Princess Diana died, I remember crying as I watched her funeral on television. Just the other night, while watching a documentary about Nancy Reagan, I teared up when they showed the footage from Ronald Reagan’s funeral. I didn’t know Princess Di. I didn’t know Ronald Reagan. But both were a part of my childhood, a part of something that with their deaths we would never get back.

Cory Monteith was a part of “Glee.” Faithfully, through good episodes and bad, I have watched “Glee” since it first aired in 2009. I have laughed at, cried with, and cheered for the character of Finn Hudson, portrayed by Cory Monteith. I have sang along with him on my iPod and read about him on Twitter. I didn’t know him, and now I never will. He’s another star that burned out way too soon, a tragedy that will stick with this fangirl for quite some time. 

Disconnect

Appropriately, the lead singer led the way. Surrounded by security and eager fans, he weaved through the stadium, guiding his rag-tag band mates to the center of the floor. Lighting guys struggled to readjust spotlights for the impromptu crowd session, and the entire stadium came alive with a new kind of excitement and energy. Hundreds of fans rushed to pull out cell phones, desperate to catch a shot of the band up close.

Jeremy and I watched from our seats, too far away to really see the band well but close enough to feel the energy. After a few moments of getting set up, the first strains of an acoustic guitar quieted the crowd. The piano and cello joined in, building up tempo, and then suddenly, they all stopped.

“I’m gonna ask that you put away your cell phones.” The lead singer’s surprising request had the crowd breaking into giggles. He glanced around the auditorium and nodded. “No, seriously, just for this one song. Put away your phones and be present with us in this moment.”

Most of us did as he asked and that song turned out to be one of the best of the night. We were there with him in that moment, no picture-taking, no texting, no distractions. We were engaged.

Since that night a couple of weeks ago, I’ve thought about the lead singer’s words, about the beauty and intimacy of that moment, about the meaning of disconnecting from technology and connecting with the world around you.

These days so much of society is dictated by technology. So much of our lives are spent staring at television screens, computer screens, tablet screens, phone screens. If we were to add it all up, the minutes, hours, the days and weeks would shock us I’m sure. When I was trying to track my own phone usage the other day, I could barely keep up with the number of times I looked down at that tiny black box.

Jeremy and I used to watch other couple’s in restaurants, sitting right across the table from each other and staring down at their phones. We’d laugh that if we ever became that obsessed with our phones that we would need to just throw them away. Well, my friends, that day has come. Over the weekend, I had to fight the urge to check my phone during a lunch date with my husband and that realization was sickening.

I thought back to the concert a couple of weeks ago, to those few moments when I was completely engaged with the world around me, and I felt ashamed.

We held out for the longest time in getting smart phones; neither of us liked talking on the phone much. We didn’t care for texting, and we were fine with surfing the internet from the anchor of our laptop or desktop computer. But finally, when the rest of the world seemed to have left us behind, we buckled and purchased our first smart phones.

We’ve only had them since January, but in those six months, our lives and habits have changed drastically. Now, there’s never a moment of just sitting and waiting, just thinking and enjoying the world. Now, those moments are filled with facebooking and email-checking, with game-playing and googling. In some ways, the information and knowledge at our fingertips is wonderful; in some ways, I even feel like I’ve started learning more from the world around me because of this new reference tool that I carry around in my pocket.

But in much more distinct and impactful ways, I feel and sense a loss. A loss of time, of random thought and imagination, of simply being.

Over the last few days, I’ve made an effort to take that songwriter’s words to heart. I’ve made an effort to engage and exist in a moment without the aid of technology or a device. I’ve remembered what so many of us seem to have forgotten, that living doesn’t require a plug or charger or a wifi signal; it only requires us, our hearts and minds connected, engaged, and present.