I AM NOT YOUR GURU- Sometimes when you let go, the people around you grow the most.

When I met my husband, I was well read in the virtues of new age spirituality and quick to run my mouth off about it. Alas, the walk didn’t match the talk. I’d done little to actually integrate anything I’d learned.

In my defense, reading had brought me to a point of understanding my beliefs about the afterlife and not left me with much in the way of how to live the one I was still in. It was like knowing my ABC’s but not yet how to read. Or maybe I just wasn’t ready to see that part in the books. Having recently come out of a failed marriage, personal progress was less of a concern than survival. If your energies are tied up in an emotional battleground, whether with yourself or another, stagnation is a typical byproduct. Even though I was out of that situation and in something healthier, I was still finding my footing, regaining my confidence.

Sean, my now husband, found all of my spiritual mumbo-jumbo to be just that. He wasn’t interested, having chosen Christianity of his own accord in high school, and practicing with friends for a few years. There was skepticism about religion as “big business” and blind obedience to socially ancient political agendas. I saw that willingness to question established dogma as a crack in the foundation that I could weasel into.

I used my newness with him to push my perspective, dropping books in his lap left and right. Out of kindness and respect for me and our still novel relationship, he kinda read some of them.

It should come as no surprise that he found them to be absolute bullshit. He wasn’t looking for anything. They weren’t calling to him like beacons in the night, the way they had to me. He’d come with his own vision for spirituality, but I’m an infamous know-it-all, relentless to a fault, so I kept pushing. Cue the annoying girl at the party, forcing drinks down everyone’s throats, “making” them have a good time. You know my type, you’ve met a few of me before, probably nursed hangovers because of the me’s in the world.

I’m going to fast forward six years, because it was all more of the same, but with a slow and subtle decline in pushiness. Three children later, a lack of time had robbed me of my ability to care very much about other people’s life choices, a brilliant and much-needed thievery.

The afterlife part was concreted for me, it was nothing I needed to hash out and didn't receive much attention anymore, being of little bearing on my todays and tomorrows. The reading continued, but with emphasis on how to live in a fulfilling manner while owning my own shit. Self-help books instead of Sylvia Brown books riddled with countless trips to psychics, trying to wrangle information from them that could dismiss me of personal responsibility for the outcome of my life. I never did end up with those two sets of twins promised by the chain-smoking, botched plastic surgery faced Gerry.

But that husband of mine, I still couldn’t get him to agree with me, dammit, in spite of all my reading aloud from Earth-shattering books (poor Sean). There were fights, lots of them. He was slightly broken down. He didn’t really subscribe to his previous beliefs, but he wasn’t buying in to mine either. Full disclosure- he’s stubborn, and I’m pushy. This can be difficult, on an array of fronts. (I will not ever try to buy him clothes again.)

And then I just gave up.

I decided to quietly believe my shit and leave him alone. In fact, I decided to do that with everyone (except in my book club on spirituality, cuz that was a proper venue).

I don’t know if his beacon was calling to him or if me shutting up made space for him to see it, but something incredible happened. He started to believe. All by himself.

He didn’t read any of my books. He bought his own, decidedly more pragmatic in nature, but at their core, the same damn business. They weren’t about the afterlife. That’s of zero interest to him. Nothing too “woo woo,” but all in the same vein as my core beliefs: You are but the product of your thoughts and because of that, you have control over your responses and can manifest greatness and abundance or their opposites (in a teeny tiny nutshell). He even started eating healthy and waking up early. Gasp. Wtf. It’s 5:30 am and Sean is currently downstairs meditating, doing yoga, and gratitude journaling, while drinking Bulletproof coffee. Seriously, wtf.

I’m not pulling any “told you so’s.” I’m just giddy about it, in awe of the coalition that has arisen from this coming together, the strength that we possess as a unit, now rooted in personal power and responsibility. I respect that he’s come at it from a completely different angle than me, for his own purposes, to fulfill his own desires, and answer his own questions. I’m growing leaps and bounds through our mutual points of view of varying origins, through enlightening, empowering dialogues, and cohesive desires.

But, I needed to give him the space to get there. There being wherever he needed to be. I shouldn't have had expectations, or projected my "right." Constant chirping didn’t sway him. The ideology may have cracked the door a little, or slightly opened his mind to unconventional credos, but ultimately, this seems to be where he was always meant to land, with or without me. 

Having witnessed this process within my own marriage, friend and family relationships, and studying the art of allowing people to just do them, something that doesn’t come naturally for me (I know I’m such a weirdo… the why’s of that are a whole other blog), I’m slowly learning that everyone gets wherever they need to be eventually, whether in this life or the next, emphasis on slowlyyyyy- it’s that difficult for me to de-invest from other people’s lives. I’ll never stop sharing information because you can lead a horse to water… it’s the make them drink part that I’m working on.

In life and at parties, no more pouring drinks down anyone’s throats. Just some clinking of glasses over the beauty of our differences.

It feels good, not shouldering the weight of other’s choices, a self-imposed burden I was never meant to bear.

-Angi

HISTORY AND HELL RAISING- How Generational Gaps Among Families Serve to Bend our Beliefs.

The day after Christmas two of my favorite people show up on my doorstep; they appear unannounced like it’s going out of style. It’s kind of an “old-school bad-assary” vibe as they walk through the door. They have shunned all the hype about the ways of the interweb; social media is for idiots and sinners, and they are ‘keeping it real’ without the constant communication of cellular devices. They are like a couple of really sweet, familiar gangsters that roll up on you in the middle of the day while you’re wearing sweatpants, no bra, and a greasy top bun: they’re old, they do what they want. These are my grandparents.

I tell myself, as I feign a wide relaxed smile, that it’s okay to be loved for who I am. The kitchen is littered with last night’s dinner dishes, a shocker to any 50’s housewife. I wince at the thought of them focusing in on my holiday banner: “Peace on Earth, Good Will Towards Feminists, People of Color and LGBTQ.” They probably wouldn’t sneak-attack visit me if I made more of a priority to go and visit them on the reg. But, since I don't (and clearly harbor some shame for my ingrate-granddaughter-ness) they have a pass to get all up in my business whenever they feel like it.

Well into their eighties, my grandparents come with all the quirks that most human beings suffer from at this advanced age: aches and pains are accumulating, minds are wandering, and little fucks are given about what is acceptable to say to people’s faces. On their surprise visit, prior to this one, my grandma picked up the Rad American Women A-Z book from our living room shelf and flipped quietly through the pages. She noted, with spitfire efficiency, that an honored lesbian woman was being celebrated on one of its pages. Dismissively, she tossed the book down onto my coffee table and turned to my grandpa. “Gene,” she said, not a bit under her breath, “they’re raising a bunch of queers.”

Obviously, these two beloved people have ways of thinking that are ingrained. I lack any true resolve to promote a progressive opposition. The ‘Fox News’ laced opinions that they share with me are just the tip of the iceberg. I hear the history in my grandparent’s judgments. My grandmother’s childhood looks like Steinbeck’s Grapes of Wrath; families of farmers subsisting on the little fruits of their own labor. The only great thing about the midwest at this time is a depression. Folks are terrified by the changes in supposed “separate but equal” policies. My own great-grandmother depended on an orphanage to raise my grandma during some of her formidable teen years. Shit. Was. Real.

After my grandparents were married and anchored down in California suburbia, the honeymoon was short-lived. They were handed two young cousins to raise, as well as providing for the three children that they brought into this world on their own. There was a strict adherence to the literal reprimand of “spare the rod, spoil the child”. My grandpa spent long hard hours on the road as a trucker. Roosevelt's “New Deal” must have felt like a smack in the face to a man who had to choose between devoted husband, attentive father, or reliable provider. I feel a deep sadness for the young motherhood that my grandma had to traverse mostly on her own. I know my grandparents did the best they could with the lives they were given.  

On this day, my children are blessed to have great-grandparents. They came to our house laden with presents, wrapped in paper and ribbons that would shame JC Penny’s gift wrapping department. I’m also pretty sure that the only reason Avon is still in business is due in part to my grandma’s loyalty. My four kids tore through the fancy packages to reveal an abundance of trinkets and toys. I am relieved that, for the most part, they manage to make eye contact and say thank you. My youngest buries her head in my stomach only for a moment, to burst into tears as the last presents are opened, and she can’t control her desire to have more. Oh, Christmas. I manage to say something humbling about expectations and kids. My grandma noticeably glances at my grandfather with a look of disapproval.

They have come like the wise men, suddenly there, bearing gifts and judgment, and Dollar Tree bread: two whites and two wheats, because they didn’t know which type we preferred. I thank them graciously and imagine the geese that we will feed this bread to at Bass Lake, the following day. I am well aware that a treasure trove of wisdom lies in these two worn vessels; they have lived entire lives, more than double my own. The deep well of memories I can draw upon to recall my youth is flooded with their presence: loving me as a child, guiding me as a teenager, and supporting me as a confused adult. No matter the circumstance, they have always been there to embrace me as one of their own.

I walk them slowly out to the driveway a short hour later. My grandma maneuvers out from her walker to get into the car as my grandpa unfurls a dozen dollar-store noodles out of his trunk and into my arms. I buckle the shrinking mother of my mother into the passenger seat, making sure she is comfortable. I glance at the Trump bumper stickers plastered across the dash; ‘Jesus is King’ dangles from a windchime attached to the rearview mirror. I fear that my grandpa’s view of the road will be obstructed, that they are too old to be so independent. I feel like we are miles apart from each other, even as I kiss my grandma’s cheek.

She tenderly grabs my children one by one and pulls them into her frail arms to plant kisses on their cheeks. She reminds us that not a day passes when she doesn’t pray for each of my family members by name (even the future queers). Maybe our very existence is a startling opposition to what they believe. Because we are family, they will love us first and quietly chastise us second. Hopefully, the takeaway will be that not all democratic, snob-bread-eating, non-believers are monsters. And I can look forward to the handful of times that I still have left to spend graced by their sudden presence in my life.

-Emily

OWN YOUR SH*T. OWN YOUR LIFE.

I’m not going to mince words, I’m a bit woo-woo. I’d stake my life on reincarnation, and I practice manifestation on the regular. I believe that, in the words of Neale Donald Walsch, via God (stay with me here), “our thoughts are creative.”

I started reading The Secret years ago and never finished it, but I engulfed every page of The Law of Attraction by Jerry and Esther Hicks, from the first cover to the last. It resonated so hard that I would’ve swallowed that book if I could’ve. It’s far from my first read on spirituality, acting as the icing on the cake, the final stitches that brought the tapestry together, creating a comprehensible masterpiece.

I’ve written about this before, but I want to delve in a bit further, because it’s the most empowering concept of humanity, in my humble opinion. Owning your shit. I'm sprinkling in a little manifestation talk, too. Check out these basic principles of attraction, borrowed from http://www.abraham-hicks.com/lawofattractionsource/teachings_brief, and my elaboration upon each.

1. YOU ARE A PHYSICAL EXTENSION OF THAT WHICH IS NON-PHYSICAL.

Whoa, people. Just whoa. It’s all the same fabric, and we’re all cut from it, but still of it. That’s a miraculous, beautiful concept to ponder. All of our individual and group energies are continuous and congruent, tailor-made to commingle and contribute to that fabric.

2. YOU ARE HERE IN THIS BODY BECAUSE YOU CHOSE TO BE HERE.

Own it. Own your life choices. Once you do this, once you take responsibility for the challenges, the joys, the relationships, you empower yourself to change them as needed. As long as you’re blaming the elusive “other” or are pissed off at the “World at Large”, you’re no longer in the driver’s seat of your life. We can't change the "other" or the "world," only our interactions and responses to them. When we sever our capacity to do that, via anger and blame, life is happening to us instead of for us.

You want to be here. You chose to be here. Your soul has a plan. Quiet the fear and the chatter so you can hear it.

3. THE BASIS OF YOUR LIFE IS FREEDOM; THE PURPOSE OF YOUR LIFE IS JOY.

That’s right. Life isn’t about sucking. It’s about joy, finding and pursuing passion and service to others. Free yourself from a lot of emotional strife by choosing empowerment. Choose empowerment by choosing personal responsibility and gratitude. Be the driver. Own your shit. Love your shit. That one bears repeating: Love your shit. Gratitude is the gift that keeps on giving. Finding thanks for the good, the bad, and the ugly is the path to freedom from struggle, anxiety, depression, and anger. When we allow these experiences to own us, our lives no longer belong to us.

4. YOU ARE A CREATOR; YOU CREATE WITH YOUR EVERY THOUGHT.

This is tough to swallow because we’ve all been through devastating circumstances. Believing that you’ve created those things via your thoughts is where people say adios. I’d like to reframe that to instead express that you’ve created the lesson born from the tragedy or the pain. We’re here to learn. Our souls know what we still need to integrate to become more whole. The ultimate Growth generally is accompanied by discord and discomfort. There is beauty to be found in pain, but you may have to look really hard for it, and that involves making a very powerful and conscious choice to do so.

Your love for this fabric of souls, your universal kin, has influenced your willingness to contribute to that loving energy, to expand it via your human existence. Only in human form can we experience the type of limitations that contribute to such amazing growth. Ego- the struggle is real.

On a smaller scale, I’m sure everyone reading this has had several defining moments when you got sick of your own bullshit and finally pulled the plug, vowing to have a mental shift, and what happened? It changed, didn’t it? You changed. If thoughts are the muscle behind change, positive thoughts are the steroids.

5. ANYTHING THAT YOU CAN IMAGINE IS YOURS TO BE OR DO OR HAVE.

Yeah, I know. It doesn’t feel possible, but that mindset is the problem. Many of us (read all of us) have abundance blocks. Know that you deserve to have what you desire. It’s okay to want a fat bank account, success, or a lovely house, but if you carry subconscious guilt or associations with money, those need to be worked through. A lot of this comes from the attitude surrounding money that you were raised with. If wealth was “bad,” or “greedy,” at the expense of doing what you loved, or only came with “back-breaking” work, that’s a block. If your family belief was that “we just don’t have financial luck," you may still be operating from that headspace. What do you tell yourself about abundance? Think about it. Explore those ingrained, irrational notions.

6. AS YOU ARE CHOOSING YOUR THOUGHTS, YOUR EMOTIONS ARE GUIDING YOU.

This is so important. Fear and love are the dominant emotions. If Fear is the underlying feeling, you can imagine what kind of thoughts you’ll be creating. When we create from Love, for ourselves and others, we’re back at the wheel. Our intentions become pure and our paths cleared. Fear is a self-imposed limitation, a brick wall to progress. We're pretty adept at dressing it up with pragmatism, so it may take some deep examination to uncover camouflaged Fears, like "I'm too old to go back to school," or "We don't have enough money to risk a career change," or "I don't know what I'm passionate about"... You most certainly do, be still, and dig deeper.

7. THE UNIVERSE ADORES YOU FOR IT KNOWS YOUR BROADEST INTENTIONS.

Remember, we are the cloth, and we are cut from the cloth. Of course the Universe adores you. The Universe is you and you are the Universe. No, I’m not high on pot brownies right now. Choose your intentions, shape your life. I set my intentions regularly. This could be as simple as telling myself that we’re going to have a “safe, uneventful, barf-free, tantrum-free car ride,” or "this morning, my kids are going to get ready for school peacefully and quietly, while enjoying one another's company." The key is to say it, believe it, and feel joy while doing so. If you exude anxiety, not gonna work. I close my eyes, do some deep breathing, put a lil’ smile on my face, then tell myself how I want things to go. Be detailed and specific. On my end, it has about a hundred percent success rate and is how I survived 40 hours of travel from Bali with three small children. You can do this several times throughout the day. I find it most effective performed in small increments, relegated to each activity.

8. RELAX INTO YOUR NATURAL WELL-BEING. ALL IS WELL. (REALLY IT IS!)

It doesn’t always feel this way, but the light is there, even when you can’t see it. Trust that you were born to be alright, that things will invariably work out. Just keep moving and believing. The Universe wants what you want. That’s a pretty intense notion, but you wield A LOT of power. What you think you want and what you're putting out, via your thoughts and (often negative) self-talk, can be two vastly different things, so don't take that statement at face value. Listen to the words you tell yourself each day. Be the observer of your own thoughts. You'll learn a lot about what you "want."

9. YOU CAN NOT DIE; YOU ARE EVERLASTING LIFE.

Our souls live on after our bodies are no longer needed. There is purpose to this madness we call Life, to every joy and sorrow. Your soul is constantly integrating the lessons thereof, ever expanding in light and love, continually reincorporating within the fabric.

For the Love of Self, and the Love of Life, go forth and take your power back. You were always meant to drive.

-Angi

CAT PERSON FAN FICTION

This story is written in response to Cat Person, by Kristen Roupenian, published by the New Yorker on December 11th, 2017. 

Robert came home on a Wednesday night babbling to himself. He smelled faintly of Red Vines as he pulled off his Pendleton and threw it across the sofa. Yan jumped down from our shared place at the windowsill and without hesitation began thrusting himself between Robert’s pacing shins.  I took refuge under the coffee table and watched as our human traversed the living room, clearly lost in a thought. He repeatedly licked his thick, flushed lips hidden under an abundance of facial hair. His eyes were narrowed and focused. His hands ran up and down the length of his own torso as Yan mewed, desperate to fulfill Robert’s apparent need to pet.

I anticipated the light kick he would give Yan on his next trip across the room but instead, Yan’s persistence yielded affection. Robert paused at the far wall and stooped down from his giant height to pluck Yan from the ground. “It’s time to get rid of her shit,” he said half to Yan, half to himself. His large clumsy hand pulled a game of Balderdash from the bookshelf and glanced around the room, eyes resting on the Salvador Dali poster above the chair. “I always hated that one.” Then his eyes lowered to mine and as he had done repeatedly over the last eight weeks, he cursed the woman who named me; “Fucking Alice.”

By the next week, he was barely recognizable as the caretaker we’d come to know. The routine of our mornings halted by his frozen leviathan presence in odd places throughout the house. He startled me several times in the hallway, his form paused except for the thud of his thumbs resounding against a glowing screen. Back in the kitchen Yan and I caterwauled incessantly for the Meow Mix fixed in his hand. His eyes were locked, scanning the message on the screen in his other hand. Perplexed, he spoke to himself, trying out some humorous rebuttals, then laughing alone with his ego, he set the box of food down so his thumbs could resume their relentless flutter, and walked out of the kitchen. After he left for work I pushed the box down from the counter and Yan and I ate the spilled contents off of the linoleum floor.

I had come to know Robert as all house cats know their caregivers, too intimately. I found myself locked behind a closed bedroom door with him only once. My hackles stood involuntarily on end, ears flattened, as I cowered beside his bed. I had heard these shameful monologues before from the safety of another room. Yan never seemed to mind the vulnerability he displayed during these fantasies. Tonight the groans of pleasure echoed into the dark corners of the bathroom, where Yan and I rested, tails swishing on a bed of Roberts dirty laundry. Yan could always foresee the sensitive way Robert would interact with us afterward, free of all self-loathing. We were drawn to the temporary calm of his unwavering aura, the result of a satisfied human who seemed momentarily comfortable in his pink, hairy skin.   

Margot became a household name in the following weeks. Robert’s intensified escapades in the bedroom were saturated by the name; strained vocal chords always asking her “Do you like that?” One night after he emerged from his room looking expended, he retrieved a drink from the kitchen where he found me tucked into a ball on a dining chair.  He gulped down his water while he stroked my neck reassuringly. “What Mu,” he asked with affectionate mockery, “Yan avoiding you and your shitty-ass, cat moods?” Afterward, Yan bathed my muzzle reassuringly, reminding me that my vulnerabilities could be a curse or a blessing, and in any case, at least Robert had called me “Mu”, instead of “Alice’s fucking cat”.

As a cat, I didn’t have to go through the infernal suffering that humans did with their relationships. Alice and Robert had adopted us as a couple. She named me Mu. I remember the way Robert immediately chose Yan’s name afterward, making an attempt to be clever. Mui- fluid, lucid and moving. Yan- straightforward, like an edge, never changing. I could care less that Alice had left. My “shitty cat moods” allowed me to be detached, as long as Robert could remember to feed us.

But it all got worse. We noticed that Robert’s giddiness had dwindled. The excited expressions drummed from Robert’s thumbs had ceased. Instead, he sat with a sullen expression, his gross faux-fur hat pulled over his large head, as he stared transfixed at Margot’s glowing messages. Yan took a direct hit from the phone as Robert thrust it away from him and into the couch, crushing his tail without any remorse. He retreated to my side, where I  crouched under the chair, judging our care-less-taker. Robert continued to sit, struggling in his voluntary remorse, resisting the urge to respond to Margot, obsessing over their shared text history, and inventing every imaginable form of betrayal hidden between her words.

We resorted to drinking from the toilet for an entire week as our water bowl sat empty. Robert resorted to drinking from a bottle of whiskey in his bedroom, silently watching porn, no self-expression left in his arousal. The cat box overflowed with shit. Humiliated, Yan and I scratched pathetically for a vacant space in the litter.

Then one day Robert’s dysfunctional fog suddenly lifted. The house became a torrent of motion as Robert dusted and vacuumed, stuffing dirty clothes into baskets and lighting a scented candle left behind by you-know-who. He heartily blurted out the lyrics of a Cake song from the shower, hot steam rolled from under the door as Yan and I sat outside it, ears twitching. As evening descended, something volatile was in the air.  With wet hair dangling in his face Robert pulled off the jeans he had just put on a minute ago and shook his naked legs into a pair of khakis instead. “I’m too old for this.” he murmured while glancing up into his nostrils, face pressed into the mirror over the bathroom sink. I stealthily followed him through the house as Yan napped, unperplexed by the recent uptake in Robert’s energy.

Nervously Robert checked and rechecked his pockets as he stalked through the tidied house looking for his car keys. He found a forgotten pack of Starburst on top of the fridge and tore into them, eating half the package before checking the breast pocket in his jacket and finding his keys there. He rushed out the door, slamming it behind him. I jumped a moment later when he came barreling back through the door. He tore the Salvador Dali from the wall, leaving Starry Night up over the mantel. With his free hand, he swooped down and grabbed Yan from his reverie on the couch, stuffing him beneath his arm so that he could grab me with his free hand. I made to run down the hallway but he caught me by the scruff of the neck. I yowled as Yan dug his claws in silently to Roberts Pendleton and his grasp tightened, pulling my skin.

Then nothing but the night air was holding me. Flung into cold darkness, over the hedge of the neighbors, the framed poster shattering just beside me as we both hit the ground. I couldn’t see where Yan had hit. I quickly dove under the hedge and watched Robert stuff his supersized self into his white honda civic. He peeled out, leaving a wake of colorful starburst wrappers to settle in the gutter. “Fucking dick” I hissed.

-Emily

MADE ANEW- Why I Like Myself More as a Parent.

We’ve started going to church. Honestly, it feels more like a workshop on mindfulness than anything religious. It’s Unitarian. You know, church for the sensible, grown-up hippie of the 60’s and their liberal offspring, right down to the magazine-worthy modern design and proudly hung rainbow flag billowing in the breeze.

A few weeks ago, after the ministry, a man in his 50's approached us. We were all chatting, and he mentioned something that resonated. He said that he likes himself more as a parent than he did as a childless person. Not Earth shattering information, but I was surprised that I'd never had that specific thought before.

I’ve often contemplated the gifts that parenthood has bestowed: patience, perseverance, mental stamina, fortitude, selflessness, priority…. qualities I’m not sure I’d have developed, to this extent, without motherhood. Of course, they’ve come at the price of independence, time, sleep, hygiene, and guilt-free personal indulgence, to name a few, but when it boils down to it, I like me so much more now.

My first child didn’t require much sacrifice of personal freedoms. Most of the things I’d enjoyed, pre-parenthood, were still possible with a little bit of tweaking. I was showering every day, drinking a cup of coffee to completion (without any treks to the microwave), running in the morning, legitimately styling my (clean) hair, reading, sewing, etc etc... That’s probably why having a second didn’t sound like too big of a deal. But, for me, round two more or less pounded the final nail in the coffin of my previous self. There was no way my needs or desires could ever come first again, at least not without acting as a detriment to my parenting.

And, with River’s birth, I also lost some of my capacity for self-reflection. Alas, I wasn’t using it wisely anyway, still spending too much time worrying about how others perceived me. One of my favorite sayings is that “It’s really none of your business what other people think of you.” I had enough time before that second kid to make it my business. After him, I may have thought about it but didn’t have the emotional space to grant it effect.

But, I was still trying to operate like a mother of one, still attempting to pull off a flawless house, remodeling said house, a busy work schedule, all healthy homemade meals, yard perfection, body perfection, things I had no business putting so much energy into when I had two little boys to tend to.

Then I got pregnant again. I was hanging on by a thread, my health was failing, my marriage was fragile. How was I supposed to pull this off? At the time, I was petrified, feeling like a derailed train maneuvering through a dark, endless tunnel. Today, I realize that my daughter saved me from myself. From my overachieving, ridiculous self.

It was by far my most difficult pregnancy. I was sick for the duration. I was exhausted, battling adrenal fatigue from the aforementioned lifestyle. But, I still pushed myself too hard, getting up at 5 am every morning to exercise till the very end, working 10 hour days on my feet, and continuing to do all the house stuff. The Universe was trying to tell me something, and I was the heedless teenager with her Walkman blaring, holding up her middle finger.

Indigo was born, and I got legitimately knocked on my ass. Back to work four weeks later, colicky baby screaming in the next room, breastfeeding, up all night, trying to parent two little boys, finishing our remodel and then selling our house, packing and moving to another state- operating in pure survival mode, all before she was even a year old.

Living through that, the utter chaos of it all, broke me.

And I needed to be broken. A fragile vase, too close to the edge of the shelf, I could feel myself teetering, and then slowly losing footing, eventually shattering to a million little pieces.

But those fragmented bits of me found their way back together, some rightfully lost to the rubbish pile, and others spared. With each subsequent child, we’re made anew. For some, it takes longer than others to accept the beauty of that transformation (me, me, me), the necessity therein. It took space and time to unravel, moments of quiet that hadn’t existed when I’d worked and lived in a project house. There was depression as I lost my sense of self, then redefined it and my priorities. My importance, my worthiness was no longer a derivative of hard work. Now, being a mother to my children is distinction enough. But, it took all three to get me there.

And, I like myself so much better now.

-Angi