ways unexpected

It happens every year. 

My One Word 365 unfolds in ways unexpected.

As usual, I started the year with an idea of what I hoped my word would accomplish in me. And, par for the course, I've already been surprised to discover how much more it holds. 

Inevitably, there are layers to it that I don't even know to anticipate. 

When 2016 began, I had no clue that badassery would lead me to buy a second home, wear things I swore I'd never wear, say yes to uncomfortable situations and say no to things that aren't life-giving, feel my own confidence growing, or share publicly about my chronic illnesses. 

And I certainly didn't imagine that badassery would take me to Southeast Asia. 

Back in January, I sent off my passport to be renewed. Ten years and thirty countries worth of stamps later, it was time for my fourth passport. With my current one expiring this summer, I figured I'd just go ahead and start the renewal process early.

When I mailed it off at the post office, the postal worker asked me if I had an adventure planned for which I would need my passport. "Sadly not," I told her. "But I want to be ready in case one comes my way!"

Three days later I received an invitation to Southeast Asia.   

On April 1, I'll be boarding a plane with my passport, carry-on, and badassery in hand. I'm traveling there to experience The Exodus Road's work in action, as they help search for and rescue victims of sexual slavery and human trafficking. 

I still feel pretty stunned by the humbling and overwhelming opportunity I've been presented with: To see, experience, and partner with true badasses, risking their lives to help end modern day slavery... I just keep shaking my head in disbelief. 

I know I will witness and learn all manner of intense, heartwrenching things, and that the emotional heaviness will likely be tangible for this deep-feeler. But I will also get to experience a new and beautiful culture and see hope at work, piercing through the profound darkness. 

I want to be able to clearly see, feel, embrace, and then share both sides of that bittersweet paradox. 

Walk with me?

Walk with me into these stories of oppression and liberation, of darkness and light, of despair and hope? 

Do me a favor and follow The Exodus Road wherever you typically hang out online. This way you'll get all the updates along the way, even when I may be unable to post.

Follow The Exodus Road on:

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I'm eager to share this whole journey with you as it unfolds. Even the uncomfortable bits and the parts that I can't reconcile and the answerless questions. (Maybe especially those things...) 

Yet again... Ways unexpected.

Walk with me?

A short art piece developed for The Exodus Road, an organization advancing freedom by refusing to let slavery flourish on our watch. Filmed in India & Thailand | October 2015 Executive Producer: Nate Griffin & Katherine Keating Cinematographer/Editor: Jeremy Stanley Producer: Hope Ammen

on jelly beans & chronic illness

Close your eyes and imagine this with me... (Or rather, do whatever the eyes-open-so-you-can-still-read-this version of that would be.)

You have in your possession a bowlful of jelly beans that represents your supply of energy to get through the day: physical, emotional, mental, and relational energy.

Every single person on the planet has their own small bowl of jelly beans every single day. As we go about our lives, we lose a jelly bean each time we expend a significant amount of energy. Thankfully, most people have more than enough in their pile for the day's needs. So much so, that they're not even aware of how many jelly beans they have or how many they use up in a day. They don't need to pay attention to that because they have a sufficient amount at their disposal. 

It's different for anyone battling chronic illness. 

I know.

I have fibromyalgia, Chronic Active Epstein-Barr Virus, Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever, chronic fatigue syndrome, IBS, endometriosis, and a heart condition (IST/SVT). And I assure you: My daily jelly bean pile is far smaller than I wish it were. 

Those of us with chronic pain, fatigue, and/or illness are acutely aware of how we spend our finite supply of jelly beans.

We don't sleep well, so we usually wake up in the morning feeling no more rested than when we went to bed the night before. We lose a jelly bean (or possibly a few) simply by forcing ourselves out of bed, into the shower, and through the process of getting ready for the day. If it's a high pain day or we are in flare, we may use up a quarter of our supply before we even leave the house—before the day has really even started. 

We go to work and quickly lose jelly beans left and right: for sitting too long, for standing too long, for engaging in conversation, for doing our job well, for not taking pain relievers before the last ones wear off, for trying to minimize others' awareness of our health, for running back and forth to the bathroom, for typing too much, for walking too far... Jelly bean. Jelly bean. Jelly bean. Jelly bean. 

By the time we leave work, our bowlful is now a mere handful. 

And then there's still the rest of life. Laundry, -1. Dishes, -1. Cooking, -1. Cleaning the house, -1. Exercise, -5. Family demands, stress, financial concerns, -10. 

This is all before we've even gotten to do anything we really want to do, like spending time with friends (jelly bean), hosting others for a meal (jelly bean), playing a game with our kids (jelly bean), or going for a walk (jelly bean). 

Quite often, there simply isn't enough energy to do everything we need and want to do.

There just isn't. 

So we are forced to make choices about how we use our jelly beans—how we want to spend (and how we need to save) our energy.

Out of necessity, we are acutely aware at all times of how much we have left in our reserve tank. We have to ration. We have to decide when, where, with whom, and why we are going to expend our energy. We have to decide how close to the last jelly bean we should let ourselves get—because what if an emergency arises that demands more of us than we have left to give?

We're forced to make choices that others never need to consider, because they don't get down to the bottom of their jelly bean stash every single day like we do. Clean the house or catch up with a loved one on the phone? There may not be enough physical or mental capacity to do both. 

Sometimes we borrow from the next day's bowl, but we know we have to pay it right back—with interest. And so we negotiate with ourselves until we find a compromise. I'll go out with friends tonight and spend the next couple evenings quietly at home.

And every night, we go to sleep with an empty bowl—hoping our jelly bean pile fully restocks overnight as we already begin anticipating the next day's to-do lists and stressors.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Saying all of this scares me a little bit. (Okay, a lot a bit.) I'm afraid of coming across as more dire or desperate or hopeless than I intend. My aim isn't pity (or even sympathy), but understanding.

(While I realize that if you don't live with persistent illness or pain, it's impossible to fully comprehend, I figure every little bit of clarity helps us better care for those we care about.)

What you've got to realize is that this becomes our normal. We—or at least I—no longer spend too much time really thinking about the nuances of these habits; they've just become second nature. Sure, there's the occasional woe-is-me moment when I may contrast my life with others', and deep down I wish for different, but mostly I've adjusted and learned to live this way. What other choice do I really have? 

If you don't personally live with chronic pain or illness, I imagine you have someone in your life who does. And though you can't loan them any of your own jelly beans, you can give them the gift of your presence, grace, support, and understanding. 

And wine. 

Wine always helps.

(Incidentally, wine doesn't pair well with jelly beans. So bring chocolate too.)

h/t: butyoudontlooksick.com

an extra day

It's Leap Year.

So I guess that makes this Leap Year Day.

February 29th only comes around every four years, and each time it does, it feels like a bonus. An extra day. (Which makes it One Word 366 this year, doesn't it?)

Here we are, on this extra day, and it's got me thinking about what I'm going to do with it. Because I don't want to squander these extra 24 hours we somehow get. (And I won't let myself think too long about all that, because it kind of trips me out.)

I know every single day is a gift. (Even Mondays.) (I say begrudgingly.)

And I know that today is no more special than yesterday was or than tomorrow will be. But still, Leap Year Day seems to mess with me a little more than yesterday or tomorrow.

It makes me think more specifically about the fact that these 24 hours — these however oh-so-many breaths, these fleeting moments — are once in a lifetime. Not just today, but every day. Every moment. Once in a lifetime, never to be repeated. (If I think too long about that, it trips me out too.)

So today I'm more mindful to live with purpose and intentionality. I'm challenged to really see who's in front of me, hear what's unspoken between the lines, fully feel whatever comes my way, and live — wholly and truly — from my heart. I want to give more than I get, focus on others more than myself, and continually choose the next wise thing.

I want to steward this Leap Year Day as best I possibly can. And then I want to steward every day that follows it equally as well...

Watch out, February 29th.

I'm coming for you.

when i'm overwhelmed

Sometimes life gets overwhelming. 

I have moments where it feels as though my brain simply can't (or won't) compute anymore. The details are too vast, the to-do lists are too long, the worry and stress and anxiety are weighing too heavily. My breath quickens, my heart races, my mind is going a mile a minute but not landing anywhere concrete... 

Overwhelmed. (That doesn't even seem like an adequate word for it, but it's all I've got.)

And it seems to be happening more often lately. 

Maybe I overwhelm easier these days. Or maybe I'm plunging myself into the deep end more often (a-hem, badassery). Or maybe it's a little bit of both. 

But I've started paying more attention to my responses in those moments and I've realized something about myself.

When I start feeling that incapacitating level of overwhelmed, I seek out something that will allow—no, force—myself not to think for a little while. It's like an internal act of surrender: throwing my hands in the air and shouting into the sky "I quit!" 

I know that doing so doesn't actually solve anything that's going on in my life. It doesn't cross anything off my ever-growing lists, or provide answers to the challenges I've been wrestling with, or tackle my inbox for me. But, you know what? In those moments, it doesn't even matter. 

There is greater benefit for me (both short-term and long-term) to turn off my brain before it self-destructs (because that's certainly what it feels like is happening when I'm that overwhelmed). I force myself to focus (or, I guess, it's more like not focus) on something—anything—that has zero bearing on my life. Something that isn't my problem to figure out. Something that isn't dependent upon me in any way. 

I know full well that when I return to the "real world" afterward, my situation will be exactly as I left it. That everything that weighed on me before will be there to weigh on me again. I know that. But for those moments, however short and fleeting, it's all just...gone. My own personal mental blackout. 

Ahhhhh, that's called escapism, you say? 

I know. 

And, to be honest, I'm okay with that. I'm not talking about peacing out on my own life when things get hard, and I'm not talking about denial of reality. But I think small doses of "retreating" can be healthy. At least for me. It clears my mind enough to be able to take those weights back on, and suddenly, for a little while anyway, they don't feel quite as heavy, paralyzing, and constraining. 

So sometimes when I'm overwhelmed, I plop on the couch, turn on Netflix, and hit play. And then I watch the next episode. And then the next one. And the next one.

Sometimes when I'm overwhelmed, I pour myself a glass (or two) of wine. It forces me to slow down, take deeper breaths, and embrace calm.

Sometimes when I'm overwhelmed, I text a friend about something random—anything but what my brain has been stuck on. 

Sometimes when I'm overwhelmed, I open the fridge. Or the pantry. I'm one of those people who easily eats when she's bored—and when she's stressed. "Oh, I don't have time to do everything I need to do? Let's have a snack."

Sometimes when I'm overwhelmed, I'll distract myself with fun errands (rather than the ones I should be doing). I'll decide I'm in the mood to buy shoes—and as a non-shopper I should embrace those moments when they hit me, right?!

Sometimes when I'm overwhelmed, I'll blare music and dance around my house... or, better yet, go out dancing with some friends. And believe me, I can't actually dance. But I sure have fun trying (even though I know I look ridiculous).

Sometimes when I'm overwhelmed, I'll crawl back into bed. 

And, apparently, sometimes when I'm overwhelmed...

I write blog posts. 

What do you do when you're overwhelmed?

so you want to be a badass

The older gentleman asked what my word is for this year. "Badassery," I replied with a laugh. He threw his head back and chuckled. And then promptly asked, "So... when a waiter messes up your order, you're gonna tell him off?"

Ummmm.... No. Not at all.

Badassery is not the same as assholery.

(Apologies to those I may have offended. I legitimately can't find a tactful way to say that.) 

(#bygones)

(And don't worry, mom. That's not what I said to him.) 

But please hear me. By badassery I certainly don't mean unkindness.

I actually mean more kindness—toward myself.

Let me back up...

It was October when I decided this would be my word for the year.

A friend told me, "There's a general badassery about you." And I was floored. Straight up shocked. Me?! Cowardly, awkward, insecure ol' me?! The others in the room echoed full agreement, and I just sat there shaking my head in disbelief. What?!

After I scooped my jaw off the floor, I thought more fully about what they'd said. I certainly couldn't see what they saw, and I knew then and there that badassery was my word for 2016.

Because I want to live into it. 

I want to intentionally be that woman that my friend sees in me. I want to be able to see it for myself, by purposefully developing my badassery muscle. 

Brené Brown describes it best. Of course. (And yes, if you couldn't tell before now, I have a total girl-crush on Brené. #fangirl)

“When I see people stand fully in their truth, or when I see someone fall down, get back up, and say “Damn. That really hurt, but this is important to me and I’m going in again”—my gut reaction is, “What a badass.” ... People who wade into discomfort and vulnerability and tell the truth about their stories are the real badasses.

We need more people who are willing to demonstrate what it looks like to risk and endure failure, disappointment, and regret—people willing to feel their own hurt instead of working it out on other people, people willing to own their stories, live their values, and keep showing up.”

— Brené Brown, Rising Strong

Dang, right? 

What she describes? That's what I want to live into. I want to be that girl. 

I want to treasure my own voice enough to use it confidently. I want to embrace what I have to offer this world (after figuring out what the heck that is) and then offer it fully.

I want to lean into possibilities, start believing in hope again, and stop second guessing myself. 

I want to develop eyes to see what others see in me, which means recognizing, accepting, and owning my good qualities as well as my bad. I seem to have no problem owning my weaknesses. My strengths are another story. To do so conjures up loud internal voices, shouting that it's arrogant and self-seeking, and slinging all manner of guilt and shame at me. This is gonna be a rough one... #DeepBreath

I want to foster authenticity and vulnerability in myself and my relationships (which is soooooo scary and risky). 

“So
You want to be tough
You want to be rebellious
You want to be a badass

Then show your heart to everyone...
EVERYONE.”

— Michael Xavier

Yeah. That.

I commit to being more fully honest, starting with myself. I'm going to stop doing things I don't actually want to do—things I typically go along with just so I don't rock the boat, voice a differing opinion, disappoint someone, or step on any toes. #AdventuresInHonesty

Putting others first doesn't mean putting myself last. I'm still learning that truth. I need to get better at prioritizing myself in healthy and needed ways.

I'm going to let myself be genuinely happy when I have reason to—which means fighting the breath-holding of waiting for the other shoe to drop. And not caring when the haters hate. 

I'm going to learn how not to be a doormat. There will be lots of boundary setting and maintaining (which is oh-so-uncomfortable), and I will learn to say no with grace and dignity. 

I'm going to wear more red (breaking my personal rule of dressing to blend into the background to avoid standing out in any way). 

And I'm going to stop waiting for a special occasion to drink good wine.

A friend summed it up best: 

Do no harm, but take no shit.

That's my badassery motto this year. 

Can you see now how it's a continuation of my wholehearted journey from last year? Sheesh.

This stuff is hard. And takes a lifetime.

I'm keeping a badassery list, writing down all the times I do something badass. Do me a favor?

Tell me when my badassery is showing.

Since it's so difficult for me to recognize in myself, lending me your eyes every now and again would be an enormous help. 

Also, in case you're wondering, hitting publish on this post is going onto the badassery list.

Because.

Yeah.