First Trimester Blog

There are some terms in this journal that you'll need pregnancy definitions for, so I've provided them below:

Increased appetite: a need to eat every two hours otherwise you transform from a functioning human to a withered husk barely able to drag yourself to the pantry in about three minutes

Fatigue: your battery is so low that it manifests in weakness and dizziness (and increased appetite)

Cravings: While—for me—pregnancy cravings feel the same as non-pregnancy cravings, when they're SATISFIED? It feels like a drink of water when you were seconds from dying of thirst (or probably your first sip of blood as a vampire). When a craving is satisfied, it feels like consuming the one and only thing your body was created to consume.

A note about progress photos: Endometriosis means that I can look 4+ months pregnant at nearly ANY time ALL the time. I'm not even kidding. The bloating (or whatever goes on inside of me) is unbelievable. So, in order to have a consistent baseline for tracking progress photos, I've been doing transverse abdominal contractions during photos (the healthy, muscle-based cousin of "sucking in"). I'll know the baby is taking up real space when I do a TVA contraction and there's still a bump :)

Weeks 0–4

Symptoms: Absolutely nothing? Vivid dreams?
Cravings: "Tea cakes." I didn't really even know what that was, but as I sat on the couch reading Rebecca, they kept talking about tea and suddenly I NEEDED a crumbly, mildly sweet, very understated pastry thing. I have baked probably seven times in my whole life, but I Googled "tea cakes" and made myself some. They hit.

Typo below: *thing
Inside reference below: "the Eunice." Maybe I'll explain eventually XD



Week 5
Symptoms: some soreness and bigness in the chest region, increased appetite, trouble sleeping
Cravings: none

Week 6
Symptoms: fatigue, continued chest soreness and bigness, increased appetite, trouble sleeping. Google says you don't need any extra calories in the first trimester. My body gives that the finger with f l o u r i s h.
Cravings: Harley Gordon's baked beans (shoutout to her for talking me through her recipe when I texted DEVASTATED that plain canned baked beans didn't taste right), mint chocolate chip ice cream

Over the last couple of years especially, I've been tracking my cycle in every way, from knowing when my period or ovulation are coming to knowing that I'll have more social energy on Week X or be too tired to lift heavy at the gym during Week Y. My food, workouts, social events, sleep needs, eyebrow waxes (pain tolerance is higher around ovulation), and work tasks have been planned with an eye on my cycle. Suddenly being cycle-less feels like being blind and being unchained at the same time. What do I...do? The road map to my body has evaporated.

Week 7
Symptoms: less fatigued, less fatally hungry, less trouble sleeping, aversions to lots of food (especially protein)
Cravings: strawberry ice cream, tomato soup, mac and cheese





I keep saying to Gabe, "Ugh, I just don't know what's WRONG with me!" whenever I don't want to eat something or don't have the energy to clean the whole house in one day or feel kind of nauseous.

Gabe:


Week 8




I wore the ring Nana gave me and Paw Paw's memorial necklace so that they could be with us too when we told my parents the good news :)

Symptoms: insane evening bloating, food aversions continue
Cravings: frozen blueberry waffles with mini chocolate chips, KitKats, chocolate cake, Mentos



Week 9
Symptoms: nausea, headaches, insane evening bloating, food aversions continue
Cravings: spaghetti with lots of red sauce, elephant-sized portions of veggies (?!), biscuits and gravy. Gabe made biscuits and gravy three nights in a row.





Shoutout to Daniel Griffin for not actually asking XD

Week 10
Symptoms: trouble sleeping, food aversions continue. Aversions are by far the worst part of pregnancy so far.
Cravings: frozen orange juice, citrus in general

Not being in debilitating pain for days every month is the biggest gift of all. Every single pregnancy symptom combined doesn't even come CLOSE to equaling the horror of periods with endometriosis. Can I just keep getting pregnant back to back for the rest of my life? XD

Week 11
Symptoms: nausea, trouble sleeping, food aversions continue
Cravings: nothing new

Week 12


Symptoms: trouble sleeping, food aversions continue
Cravings: nothing new



Week 13

Symptoms: trouble sleeping, ulcers on my gums, my clothes don't fit right, food aversions continue. Every meal is annoying XD When will this stop.
Cravings: nothing

At my most recent scan, I learned that I have an anterior placenta, which just means it'll be later (probably Weeks 22–24) before I can feel the baby kick, because the placenta is positioned between the baby and the outside.

Even though I can't feel anything yet, seeing the baby do a bunch of wiggles on the ultrasound monitor was WILD. I couldn't believe that all that was going on inside of me and yet I wasn't feeling anything?! It feels like the baby and I exist in separate universes, on separate planes of existence, and seeing the ultrasound screen is like peering through a portal.

I also saw the baby's face last time. Spitting image of ET.

~Stephanie

Apparently We CAN Get Pregante*

My period wasn't even late.

I was supposed to start on Monday or Tuesday, but by Sunday night I'd had zero PMS symptoms, which was unusual. I have endometriosis, and I'm usually in pain for at least couple of days before starting. This month, nothing.

That night, I had really vivid dreams. I woke up at 6:00am before my alarm, went to the bathroom in a smooth burst of spontaneous momentum, and took a pregnancy test. I didn't plan to do it. I didn't tell Gabe I was doing it. I don't even remember deciding to.

But this journey starts AT LEAST five days earlier on Wednesday when I had a chiropractor appointment. I usually go on Mondays, but I'd had to reschedule this time, and it was time for my three-month evaluation appointment. A lady named Stacey and I went into a little room together to discuss my progress and anything else I wanted to talk about.

Everyone at the chiropractor knew we'd been trying to get pregnant, so it's something that comes up in evaluations. This time, Stacey—whom I'd never had an evaluation with before—focused on our trying to conceive with more heart and compassion than I was anticipating. Everyone at Twin City Health** is phenomenal and compassionate and attentive, but there was something Different in the room with me and Stacey that day.

As the evaluation drew to a close, Stacey asked if she could pray for me, about getting pregnant specifically.

In all honesty, guys, I was just tired at this point. Gabe and I had both quietly given up hope without telling each other, and I didn't know what God was doing, but "getting me pregnant" wasn't it.

But, like the good, God-fearing ENFJ in the chiropractic office that plays Christian music 24/7, I said, "Sure, I'd love that."

"Do you mind—and this is totally up to you—if I lay hands on you?" Stacey asked.

"I—sure," I said—again, just tired but trying to keep up the act for her benefit. She was being really kind to me and I really did appreciate it.

Stacey prayed for me and laid hands on my stomach, and I tried to keep my mind in the prayer and believe. I've known people who have been healed. I've been around miracles. I already believed they could happen, but they also don't happen for a lot of people, so *shrug*. It occurred to me during the prayer that no one had actually laid hands on me about this before.

I texted Gabe after I left: "During my quarterly chiropractor paperwork check-in a lady prayed for us to get pregnant and laid her hands on my belly :) No one has ever done that for me. We'll see."

And that following Monday, I did see.

My heart actually wasn't pounding when my phone timer went off and I looked at the stick, because I was barely in the moment. Like I said, I hadn't really even meant to take the test, it was just that my dreams that night had felt Different.

There was no doubt about the second line in the little results window.

I went to get Gabe from the kitchen, because he would be leaving for work any minute and I didn't want to have to sit on this all day.

"I need you to come look at something," I told him.

I have no idea what my face or body language was communicating, but he cocked his head, suspicious and maybe distantly suspecting, and followed me back to the bathroom.

I think I just pointed.

"It's early," I think I said. "Obviously. But. I mean. It's there."

"It's there," Gabe breathed, keeping himself tightly in check for me. He knows I don't like to be disappointed, which too often means refusing to get excited in the first place. "It's there. Okay. Okay."

"Okay."

And that is where I sat with it for WEEKS. I made myself go two weeks before calling the doctor, and when we went in for the confirmation ultrasound, I was so convinced the tech was going to murmur, "Oh, I'm sorry" that I mentally missed the first half of the appointment. I clued in with a wand inside of me, my hand inside Gabe's, and the tech saying, "Mmm, see that flutter? That's the heartbeat."

"You mean it's okay?" I said, feeling like I must've glitched into an alternate universe.

"Riiiiiight on schedule for growth," she said.

"Oh." I looked at Gabe, who was radiating quiet joy so big I could practically see an aura.

This is a God thing, 100%. No could could figure out why we weren't getting pregnant, and no one but God knows why we are now.

Except, I feel like I do?

There are a million tiny and not-so-tiny things that God has aligned lately, and I know he's been listening to the prayers of dozens of people lifting us up.

This all feels like a giant exercise in trusting God, which is probably why this post sounds more wary and fearful than joyful and excited. I am joyful and I am excited...but trusting and letting go of control are the two most difficult things in the world for me. They're horrifically uncomfortable physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually.

The baby isn't even born yet and God's already using it to teach me XD Gabe and I are about to be refined like never before—for the rest of our lives, I hear.

Please continue praying for the health of the baby, for wisdom for me and Gabe, and for me to believe that God wants good things for us.

~ Stephanie

* A reference to this video that makes me and Gabe laugh til we cry.

** I cannot recommend them highly enough. They have done more for me and my health (including interpreting bloodwork, suggesting that I might have endometriosis, explaining diagnoses I've received from doctors, etc.) than any doctor has ever even come CLOSE to doing. Everything that's broken about the medical system is whole at Twin City Health.

Five Reads Later...

So, I'm reading The Great Gatsby again. I guess this is going to be an annual series.

I think the first time I posted about Gatsby, I said I was starting to think the term "great" in the title was sarcastic. I don't remember what I wrote about last year, but the post title has the word "evanescence" in it, so it must've been something about the fleeting, ephemeral vibe of the book.

This year, I'm noticing the narrator, Nick, and coming away with a new perception of him.

Nick begins the book with a piece of advice from his father about not criticizing people because they might not have had the same opportunities he's had. "In consequence," Nick says, "I'm inclined to reserve all judgments."

Nick then proceeds to write a book that is nothing short of a collection of judgments.

Nick also says that he himself is "one of the few honest people [he's] ever known," but does things like "pretend to be surprised." He even says to another character that because he's thirty years old, he's "five years too old to lie to [himself] and call it honor." So, he used to lie, at least to himself? He used to justify dishonesty being calling it honorable?

Nick is the narrator. He's the only way we learn anything about the characters. We don't know what Tom or Daisy or Gatsby or Jordan really meant or thought or felt or even said; we only have Nick's version of it.

Nick who claims to reserve all judgments and to be honest, but who judges people constantly and apparently lies under certain conditions.

On several occasions, Nick is sarcastic.

"Do you want to hear about the Butler's nose?" Daisy whispers to him at dinner.
"That's why I cam over tonight," Nick says. Of course, he's not being serious.

"Oh, do you like Europe?" someone asks Nick later. "I just got back from Monte Carlo."

Nick replies, "Really." You can hear the flat, sarcastic tone Fitzgerald gives him. No question mark. Just a judgmental "Really."

Later, chapters after telling readers that Tom dislikes being labeled "the polo player," Nick asks after "Mr. Thomas Buchanan, the athlete?" in a voice, I imagine, loaded with irony.

When a woman has just been struck by a man at a small party, Nick leaves. He takes his hat from the chandelier and walks out the door, tired of the drama.

For a time, Nick has a "short affair with a girl who live[s] in Jersey City," but ghosts her when her brother starts giving Nick mean looks. This is while he is corresponding with a girl back home to whom he's loosely engaged. He's been writing her weekly letters and signing them "Love, Nick."

At one point, Gatsby tells Nick that their mutual friend Jordan has "kindly offered to speak to" Nick about a matter concerning Gatsby. Nick's reactions are as follows: he's annoyed because he doesn't want to spend his date with Jordan talking about Gatsby, he assumes Gatsby's request via Jordan will be "something utterly fantastic," and for a moment Nick wishes he'd never even met Gatsby if this is how things will go. Up to this point, Gatsby has been nothing but gracious and friendly to Nick, and yet Nick reacts with annoyance, judgment, and pettiness—even if it is just in his head.

Of course, Nick is there for Gatsby at the end. Nick applies himself like a true friend and is justifiably upset at the way humanity treats Gatsby. At the end, Nick is one of the only good, true people.

If we believe him.

Nick might be a very fair narrator. He might be showing us his ideals and his flaws because he is honest. He wants to paint a realistic picture of everyone, himself included, even when that makes him look bad.

Or he might be an unreliable narrator. We don't really have any way to know. We have no one else's account of the characters or events. Maybe he tries to paint himself in a good light, but the truth shines through the cracks.

Maybe no one should be allowed to read The Great Gatsby five times.

For what it's worth, I lean toward Nick being a perfectly reliable narrator who doesn't even realize that he might be coming off like an ass at times. I mean, it took me five reads and fifteen years to see it myself.

~ Stephanie

We Married the Wrong People

"If you were writing the job posting for 'Stephanie's Partner,' what are three qualifications you'd require?" I asked Gabe one night.

Gabe, unfazed by any part of this question, held up fingers and listed off, "1) They'd have to have a lot of personal agency, 2) be very kind, 3) be socially empathetic."

"Mm," I said. "Yeah. That's good."

We started getting ready for bed. I took a breath and said: "It's interesting because you're not all of those things. You have agency and you are very kind, but you're not socially empathetic."

"I know," Gabe said, smiling. "I'm not the perfect person for you."

"Yeah," I laughed. "I'm not who I'd design for you on paper either."

And we continued getting ready for bed, unbothered, because it wasn't the first time we'd recognized this fact.

I love Gabe an unfathomable amount, on an absolute soul-level. By the grace of God, we've been knitted into one flesh in two bodies—but I really mean by the grace of God. In a lot of ways, we do complement each other: he likes deep cleaning, tedious projects, and having lots of choices. This works out great because I hate all of those things.

But in a lot of other ways, we are fire and water. In a lot of other ways, you almost couldn't design a WORSE match.

When we first got married, Gabe was rigidly independent. It did not occur to him to allow me into his thought process, tell me when he needed something from the store, or check with me before watching a show or movie without me. To me, it felt like his ideal relationship was me leaving him alone.

When we first got married, I needed everything to have logical reasons. If Gabe couldn't present his thoughts to me in a persuasive essay, then he had to be wrong and we were NOT doing things his way.

I was (still am) WAY extroverted—I barely felt like I existed unless I was interacting with someone—and Gabe was WAY introverted. Life on a desert island with tourists who visit for two hours every other weekend was about his speed.

Gabe likes artsy movies and, in the beginning, he liked to watch them alone on his laptop. He hates movies with awkward situations or people making stupid choices and, well, that's most movies, so finding something to watch together was tough. His tastes in media were inextricably tied to his mood, so we'd go weeks or months not being able to finish a TV show because he just didn't feel like it.

I wanted a guy who would confront the people sitting in our seats at the theater or knock on the neighbor's door when he was being too loud. That isn't Gabe.

I loved showing Gabe love and gratitude on social media; he wouldn't reciprocate because he didn't like doing that kind of thing and thought it wouldn't feel authentic. That made me feel unloved and embarrassed.

I loved expressing my thoughts in writing (journaling, blogging, writing letters), and Gabe mostly couldn't.

I processed quickly, externally, and passionately. Gabe processed slowly, internally, gently. His opinions and heart were constantly splintered by the battering ram of my reactions.

I received love through quality time and physical touch, and Gabe seemed unable to speak either of those languages. I liked showing love by performing acts of service and words of affirmation, both of which made Gabe feel guilty and uncomfortable. His love language was gifts, which is my absolute Achilles heel. I felt awful.

For the first couple of years, I worried that I'd married the wrong person, that I'd made a mistake. As much as I loved Gabe, we weren't a good match. We were too different and we would never make each other happy. We'd doomed each other. (I confirmed a couple of years ago that Gabe had felt the same way.)

I never considered leaving him because that wasn't an option in my mind. I just thought we'd be a little bit unhappy forever.

But I think maybe God wanted to make a point? I've heard it said before that "marriage isn't about happiness, it's about holiness." Gabe and I shouldn't have gotten married because we thought we'd make each other happy, although I think that's what everyone does to some extent, and obviously you do want to be happy with your spouse.

I think God put us together because we both needed MAJOR remodeling as humans, and God wanted us to go through that journey together. It goes back to the post I wrote about being willing to change. If we had continued our marriage the way we began, we'd probably be miserable. But little by little we've changed just about everything about how we do marriage and our relationship. We've figured out what works for us and what doesn't. Gabe has learned that just because I sound angry doesn't mean I am. I've learned that sometimes Gabe says the wrong thing because he's still editing his thoughts, and I need to give him patience and the benefit of the doubt. Et cetera.

So many fights and panic attacks were started back in the day because one of us would drop a bomb that the other wasn't in a place to disarm. Now, we start every potentially stressful conversation with "I have something stressful to talk about" and give the other person time to brace him/herself. Or we'll ask, "Are you in a place to talk about X?" before launching into the topic, and respect the other's answer one way or the other.

At our cores, Gabe and I are the same people, but in some ways I barely recognize us. I genuinely cannot believe how different our marriage and personalities are from what they were eight years ago.

Are we perfect for each other on paper? Hell. No. But—not to sound cliché—I almost think that's made our marriage stronger. Two perfectly compatible people can have a beautiful marriage for sure, but there's something to be said for two people who went to WAR for each other's hearts, who shed blood, sweat, and tears to stay together.

(Note: I wouldn't want a young person to read all this and come away with, "See, my boyfriend/girlfriend and I CAN work out despite what everyone else says. We love each other enough to fight to stay together."

That's...not exactly what I mean. Or maybe it IS, but you both have to ACTUALLY be willing to change and do the work—not just say you're going to. Not just stay together in a crazy-dysfunctional relationship that isn't improving. Not just stay with someone because he/she says he'll change but you see no consistent, lasting difference. Like I said in the lucky post, Gabe and I both happened to marry people who were willing to change, but that is not everyone. I've been in "crazy-dysfunctional but we love each other enough to stay even though nothing is really improving" too and that's not worth it.)

Anyway, Gabe's and my marriage is obviously a young work-in-progress still, but I am proud of how different we are today.

Oh, and, in case this wasn't clear, I am now so, so, SO happy :) This post is probably gonna need a Part 2.

~Stephanie

unspecified loss

thinking your feelings versus feeling your feelings

I think I'm missing a whole center with the way I try to feel grief

it's in my mind. and it's like I think that if I can get myself to cry, I'm feeling the feeling instead of intellectualizing it. it's like I think that if I can think about sad things to the point where it makes me cry, I'm "feeling." But I think maybe that's just going straight from the head center to the body center.

aaron said that feeling your feelings is like imagining that you're sitting with the feeling on the couch together. you're not talking, you're not doing anything, you're just sitting with it, like a friend.

when I try to do that...it's like there's a forcefield around the concept. I get bounced back away from it.

is crying the best I can do? is that better than having grief ONLY in my head? is it less genuine if I TRY to make myself cry, in order to...heal? do the right thing? does it not count? is it disingenuous? is it gross? wrong?

it must be better than refusing to encounter sadness at all, right? like at least I'm not totally suppressing it?

I don't know how to sit with these feelings. I don't know if I want to or not. and I don't know what the point is. why would bringing myself down—or even letting myself fall—be...productive? healthy?

I'm probably viewing this wrong, because when I typed "productive" something snagged in my mind. not everything has to be "PRODUCTIVE."

(but doesn't it? isn't it? wouldn't grieving properly BE productive?)

my chest feels heavy and sad. is that the heart center or the body center again?

am I thinking, or am I writing? am I performing? I never know. ember and I have that in common too.

but I don't think ember would even be sad.

Permanently Scarred

I like to get a tattoo about seven and a half years XD I now have two.

Honestly, my first tattoo barely counts. When I went to the shop to get the second one, the artist asked if I'd ever gotten a tattoo before, and I said, "Barely. Like point five." The asterisk sits behind my ear where I can't see it (a very important requirement of a tattoo for me) and is slowly blurring because it was done slightly too small.

Cassidy and I first started talking about getting matching/best friend tattoos in May of 2023. One idea we threw out was a minimalist cat-eye eyeliner wing, our signature style in high school. We'd be getting ready together and one of us would lean away from the mirror, turn to the other, and say, "Mkay" and the other would scrutinize the wing angle, thickness, and length, and then give critique. You'd have been hard pressed to find more symmetrical wings when we walked out together.

But that tattoo would've been tough for a few reasons, including getting the shape and size just right (and you heard how important that is to us) and knowing where on the body to place a line of eyeliner. That idea faded, but the concept of matching tattoos never did.

Last July, Cass had the idea of getting tattoos that coordinated rather than straight-up matched. That made a lot of sense because while we've been best friends for about thirteen years, we are extremely different in most ways.

Cassidy enjoys being home; I could be happy living out of a van.
I'm impulsive; Cassidy is a researcher.
Cassidy is an Enneagram Nine, the Peacemaker; I'm an Enneagram Eight, the Challenger.
I have a phobia of vomiting; Cassidy doesn't mind throwing up so much.
Cassidy could have her arm blown off and say nothing; I will let you know if I have a hangnail.
I can live with mystery and unspilled tea; Cassidy needs to know all the things.
I embrace conflict as a way of increasing intimacy; Cassidy would rather live in peace as much as it is possible with her.
No one has ever accused me of being easygoing, whereas that is one of Cassidy's trademark characteristics.
Cassidy loves animals; I am allergic to cats and scared of dogs.
I would rather be hot than cold; Cassidy would rather be cold than hot.
Cassidy loves hoodies and cozy clothes; I love crop tops and generally wearing as little as possible.
My favorite season is summer; Cassidy's is winter.
I'm intense; Cassidy is calm.
Cassidy is a night owl; my mood is tied to the amount of sunlight I can get.

One might even say we're as different as the sun and moon.

*finger guns*

Now, I struggled a little bit with the idea of being the sun, because I'm obsessed with the moon and its phases. However...let's be real: I am not the moon.

After settling on this concept, there were still a lot of decisions to be made, like where and what exactly to get. Because of my OCD, it's important that I not be able to see my tattoos; I will obsess over any perceived imperfection. I had put a temporary tattoo on the back of my elbow in May 2023, and loved that placement.

And that temporary tattoo had actually been the sun symbol from Tangled.

It is important to me for my tattoos to have layers of meanings. While I love tattoos, I need a lot of symbolic bang for the buck when it comes to permanently scarring my body. Getting matching tattoos with my best friend was the main event, but if I got the sun from Tangled behind my elbow...

It would be a symbol of a bright spot in my very dark November of 2010.
It would champion the Disney movie Gabe and I think is criminally underrated.
It would match the temporary tattoo I had when I visited Paw Paw for the last time.
It would remind me of the last night of the beach trip, where we watched Tangled and I got to breathe the same air as some of my best friends (and even lean against Aaron).
It would remind me of the core of myself, which is more like Rapunzel than I'm usually comfortable admitting.

So, it was settled. Cass and I pored over styles and images of moons, and tattoo artists' Instagram pages. We chose an artist. We chose a date.

Two days before, I had this thought and texted Cassidy:

Growing up, I was discouraged from getting tattoos because "they're a permanent reminder of a temporary decision." What if they're a permanent reminder of a decision you've been confident in for six months? A year? Thirteen years? The reality is, Cassidy's friendship has marked me whether or not I choose to represent it on the outside. There are lots of permanent things in the world (including having children); permanence in and of itself is a neutral quality.

And when your best friend is involved, it might be one of the biggest blessings in your life.

~Stephanie

Insatiable

When Gabe and I have a nice date or a fun conversation or an amazing trip, Gabe enjoys the experience and then is glad to part with it and move on with the happy memory.

I never want it to end.

I have an insatiable appetite for fun/experiences. If something is good, I want it to keep going. It doesn't compute for me that someone can both be enjoying something AND want—or even accept—its conclusion. There are plenty of times that I do want something to end, but it's because I'm no longer having a great time. Maybe I have been, but the amazingness is winding down or wearing off. It's hard for me to believe that's not the case for everyone. I feel like if someone is ready for something to end, they are no longer having a good time. If I'm with them in such a scenario, I believe I am not fun enough to keep them engaged. They have gotten bored and/or tired of me.

This means that if Gabe and I are having a great evening together, I feel an invisible cloud of doom hanging over us: he is waiting for things to wind down so that he can move on to something else; I have a chokehold on the happiness and I'm trying to make it so good that he can't possibly want it to be over.

As you can imagine, this takes a toll on fun experiences. I begin mourning their ends prematurely; Gabe feels compelled to reassure me that he IS having a good time, but we DO still have to go home/go to sleep/go inside/etc. I always feel like he can't genuinely be having a good time if he is okay with things ending, and he always feels like he's raining on my parade. I fear that he's going to end a fun conversation before I'm ready (which is never), and he fears that he'll hurt my feelings when he does.

When I was little, one of the refrains I heard constantly whenever I was doing something "cute" or playing with adults was "part of having fun is knowing when to stop." As an enneagram Eight (craves intensity) with a Seven Wing (craves more), this translated into guilt for apparently involving people in things that they weren't enjoying, and a paranoia that there would never be enough of the world for me. Someone else would always get tired first. Someone else would always leave the party first. Someone else would always get over me first. I would always be left standing alone, wanting more from every situation long after everyone else had gotten their fill and gone home.

Am I envious of people who can be content with conclusions? Honestly no. I would rather everyone else expand their capacity for fun XD However, since that has proven unlikely and the only thing I can control is myself, I know the solution is to work on being content. I need to work on a) being present so that I don't have regrets about missing things in the moment, and b) cherishing memories without living in the past.

I've never been good at living in the present. When I was little (like birth until age sixteen), I dwelled in the past mostly. I got nostalgic super easily and mourned friends that I didn't see anymore or places I no longer lived.

Since college, I've been bad about living in the future: when we have kids, when we have a house, when the Fire Faery Story is published...

Right now is nice, I guess. I'm at Local Roots and it's sunny and warm enough to sit outside. In a few minutes I'll leave, and I guess it isn't because I'm not having a good time anymore, but because I've finished my thought and I have other things to do.

I dunno.

~Stephanie

A Fundamental Belief About Men and Women

So, Gabe and I are both a little bit sexist, but unusual ways that are both opposite and the same. It's going to be difficult to articulate, but this is the blog where I try anyway. It is definitely going to be offensive to some because 1) it divides the world into two genders, and 2) it's fundamentally sexist (although I want to work on it).

I would consider both of us to be feminists in the healthy sense of the word. (What do I mean by that? Ask me in person and I would love to talk about it.) However, we are both a little biased. Gabe is biased toward women and I am biased toward men.

If you told Gabe that he had to choose between two strangers to converse with/hang out with/have a meal with and one was a male and one was a female, he would choose female every time. When interviewing potential engineers, his gut is going to be to hire the female candidate over the male (although he's aware of this bias and doesn't actually make unfair decisions). If a heterosexual couple that he doesn't know well (e.g., friends of friends or people on a reality TV show that he walked in on) is arguing, he's going to assume the woman is in the right until presented with irrefutable evidence to the contrary.

In Scenario 1, there's like a 55% chance that I'd choose a male stranger to hang with. In Scenario 2, my gut is equally biased against both candidates until one of them proves me wrong. In Scenario 3...this is where it gets tricky.

See, I realized something a couple of weeks ago: I have a core belief that deep down, men are fundamentally dumb and fragile. I also have a core belief that deep down, women are fundamentally savvy and tough. Because of this, I seem to have an infinite supply of sympathy and grace for men, and absolutely zero for women. Like it's the women's job to take care of the stupid men because they can. With great power comes great responsibility XD

If a man is sad in a relationship, how dare the woman have made him feel that way*. She should know he's pitiful and fragile and protect him. If a woman is sad in a relationship, she's probably fine; she's tough enough to get over it, and smart enough that honestly she should've known better than to let herself get into that situation. If a man does something "wrong" in a relationship, it's probably because he's dumb and oblivious and a slow learner and maybe emotionally stunted. If a woman does something "wrong" in a relationship, it was intentional and unacceptable because she knew EXACTLY what she was doing. I try to be very careful not to hurt guys' feelings. I assume girls will be fine.

*let's that sit there for a second*

Yeah. I hear it. I hate it too. I don't know where this core belief comes from and I know I need to work on it. Maybe it's because I AM a girl and I know firsthand that I'm savvy and tough? I just think the world is a giant showcase of women being stronger and smarter, but like, I don't want to say that because what if it makes the guys sad? XD

The funny thing is, Gabe actually shares the exact same belief, he just thinks it's the men's problem and women shouldn't have to deal with it. Yes, men are stupid; that's why he prefers women. Yes, men are stupid; that's why things are probably their fault.

What does this mean? Well, on a personal level, it means that I've let men treat me much worse than I would let women treat me.

"Yeah. Sigh." I once texted Cassidy about a male who had crossed an emotional boundary I had worked hard to set clearly. "He's, like, dumb and arrogant, but he isn't malicious."

Her reply: "I don't think you'd tolerate this nonsense from a female XD"

And she's for sure correct.

Again, what does this mean? I don't really know, except that recognizing my bias is a step toward...toward what? Giving women more grace? Refusing to excuse rude and ridiculous behavior from men? Probably both.

The older I get the more things I have to evaluate. Life these days is a series of firm beliefs turning to loosely held ideas that get thrown into triage on their way to being deconstructed and—hopefully—rebuilt into something closer to the truth.

~Stephanie

* I know we're all responsible for our own emotions and no one can "make" someone else feel a certain way.

Society and Cynicism

I've been thinking about this idea for a long time, like years. It's a little saltier than I usually care to be here, but I'm ready to get these thoughts "onto paper" and out of my brain.

I saw a video today about rest. A YouTuber had recently been bed-ridden for five days due to sickness, and the experience reminded her of the importance of rest—not just when you've finished something or had a period of high achievement, but as a part of regular life. You don't have to "earn" rest.

I think this resonates with a lot of people...but only on a surface level. We don't actually believe it. In fact, we hate people who operate like this. If someone we perceive as lazy or underachieving takes a Saturday to lie around, we roll our eyes and judge them. If someone says No to plans just because they want to do nothing instead, we react with puzzled, even offended, disapproval. All righty then.

If you have surgery or get injured, you are expected to push your limits. You're expected to require friends and family to exclaim, "Now, stop that! The doctor told you to take it easy!" If you actually did take it easy—refused to lift heavy things, stayed home from work, lay on the couch, stayed off the foot—then people would accuse you of milking the situation, or at the very least think that you were taking the doctor's orders a little too seriously. We demand that people push themselves just so we can tsk at them, while secretly being proud or taking it for granted that they will ignore rest.

There's a lot of talk in the world about believing you're beautiful and body positivity, but we only push this type of thinking for people who are ugly or overweight. If a pretty, thin girl conducts herself like she's beautiful, she's "conceited" or "vain." We push loving oneself, but mostly as a form of pity or condescension. We don't actually mean it in every case.

Now, maybe this is just me projecting. Maybe you are putting your beliefs where you mouth is and your social circles really do want people to rest and think they're beautiful. It's very possible that I'm just cynical. I have very little patience for perceived hypocrisy. I would much rather people say what they mean even if it comes across as heartless than have people champion things just because they think they should. I wish I could be sure of what people say.

But maybe society's "faking it" is the first step toward its being reality? Maybe if we fake-support resting and recovering and loving ourselves, eventually it'll become true, especially for future generations. In general, that's not a bad strategy.* Don't feel brave? Do it scared and fake it. Don't feel confident? Fix your posture and fake it. Don't feel like worshipping? Put your hands up and fake it. Best case scenario, things flow from the heart, but realistically? Sometimes we have to fake it and let the universe meet us halfway.

If that's what's happening with society's disingenuous support of rest etc. then maybe I can get on board. But in the meantime, I see through you, Society! You're not fooling me. I know you secretly love it when people work til they're burnt out and act insecure about their appearances.

I see you.

~Stephanie

* says the girl who just talked about hating hypocrisy. What can I say, I have an asterisk tattoo for a reason.

Hot Tub Bass Transformational Evidence: Processing the Beach Trip

I get really overwhelmed by good memories. But I'm going to ATTEMPT to process and record at least a bit. This post will be long and basically just a journal entry for me because typing is so much faster than handwriting. I'll probably share it anyway, but I'll include headings in case you're not interested in reading a pure journal entry XD

In this essay I will...

- Explain what the beach trip was
- Record (or at least suggest to myself) some specific memories I want to remember
- Talk about how weird it is being back to normal life
- Remind myself of an important truth that occurred

What was this trip?
Yesterday, we got back from my 30th Birthday Beach Trip, a dream that has been in the works for about eighteen months. I have been blessed with some DYNAMITE, SOUL-CONNECTION friends, however...a lot of them live super far away. Like, Florida, Oregon, Texas, Utah, Virginia*. Summer of 2022, I had the idea of getting all my far-flung best friends together for a week at the beach. I threw out the idea and started texting everyone every few months being like, "And don't forget, February of 2024 if you're available..."

Well, we did it, with the tragic exceptions of Original Fire Faery Ellie from Florida (thanks, Covid) and First Blogger Best Friend Jordan (thanks, being an adult and having responsibilities). I know this trip would have been even more incredible with y'all on it, so we're gonna have to do it again. Love and missed y'all so much!

Some Memories and Moments
The majority of the trip was just chilling. We watched TV shows (Jury Duty, Modern Family, Raising Hope) and movies (Disney's Robin Hood [adorable], Behind the Curve [hilarious], Horrible Bosses [classic], Airplane [educational...?], Tangled [nostalgic], Prince of Egypt [epic]). We read (I finished a book that Cassidy had let me borrow and started another one that she brought for me), did crossword puzzles (well, I leaned over Gabe's shoulder and offered limited but accurate help), did daily games like Connections, Wordle, Quordle, and Octordle. We also played games like The Voting Game (among other things, I was voted most likely to win the lottery but lose the ticket, and most likely to have had "No" as her first word), Hot Seat, Love Letter, Star Wars Imperial Assault**, Wavelength (Star Wars is fantasy, not Sci-Fi?), and Fishbowl.

We also talked, a LOT. These people know the way to my heart is asking dumb crap like, "Would you still love me if I were a lamp?" and seeing what happens. In that particular case, what happened was a discussion of if you had to turned into a sentient but immobile object for ten years, what object would you want to be (some answers were a stuffed animal [Cassidy], a blanket [Aaron], or something useful like a computer [Ryan])? Which led to would YOU rather be a sentient but immobile object for ten years or would you rather your PARTNER be the object?

Such random games of Would You Rather persisted throughout the week whenever there was a lull, and occasionally they wandered instead into How Much Would It Take, where we asked each other how much money we'd require to do ridiculous things, like let a stranger touch your bellybutton (complete with a noodling sound effect, to which Stephen would always reply, "What was that?"), French kiss a dromedary (you need to Google "dromedary tongue" right now), only be allowed to poop outside for two weeks, eat a live cockroach, give up the internet, put a pigeon in your mouth, etc. All of these questions required lots of debate and qualifications (Is the pigeon alive? Yes, but gently sedated. Is it diseased? No, it is healthy; you will not contract any illnesses from the pigeon. Are you picturing putting it in your mouth head first, butt first, or wing first?)

At one point (late at night, only me, Alicia, Cassidy, and Aaron were still up), the questions led to the fact that I think baths are gross because I don't like the idea of putting my bare skin against basically a wet floor. Cassidy pointed out that that's what we'd been doing in the hot tub the night before, albeit it with bathing suits on. That led to a brief silence, which led to me sharing a bucket list item of mine, which led to us braving a spider-guarded electrical box to heat up the hot tub at 1am, which led to said bucket list item being checked off. (Aaron tastefully remained upstairs until we returned a suspicious hour later.)

As silly as it was, the adrenaline-spiked fun of doing something even slightly risky with two of your best girl friends in the wee hours of the morning is a special kind of elation. These girls are genuinely my soul-mates. Cassidy has been a source of love and support*** through all of the worst times of my life, sticking by me when I was a version of myself that I personally would never forgive. Alicia and I share the unique bond of two strangers who were thrust together in a Spanish-only-speaking home in Spain for three days, and subsequently cried in front of each other and braided hair and wandered Europe relatively unsupervised.

Post hot tub event at the beach, I was grinning like an idiot and my skin tingled like it was carbonated as I tried to go to sleep. One of the top ten happiest times of my life. I was unreasonably happy, deep down in my soul.

At one point during the trip, I texted Cassidy, "I literally feel like I can breathe easier with all y'all around. Like this trip is contributing to my physical health."

I also sent a text that said, "Me in this car with the bass = Joey about to watch the movie that has Ursula instead of Phoebe in it: 'I'm so happy,'" which will only make sense if you're a huge Friends fan, and leads me to another top moment of the trip: riding in Bumblebee with Aaron.

For the fifteen or so years I've known Aaron, his dream car has been a Camaro. I used to take pictures of Camaros with my crappy slide-keyboard cellphone and send them to him. Well, last summer, Aaron finally got his Camaro, and not just any Camaro, but the *doesn't remember any specifics about the year etc. but it's apparently the exact one that is Bumblebee from Transformers? If you know, you know, and if you don't, you now know enough*.

But it's, like, not just the fact that I was riding in a car that we used to dream about. It's that I was in the car with the OLDER BROTHER I adopted over the internet when I was fifteen, who has shaped who I am today, whom I trust to drive me places in a sick car, and also: the car's bass was amazing, which...I'm pretty sure me with bass music is a lot of people on actual drugs. The combination of "wait, I feel so safe and loved?!" + "holy sh*t this car is cool" + "I can feel the bass vibrating my organs" = I don't even have words. An unreal time. (In exchange, he got a thoroughly authentic little sister experience because not only was I like, "Hey can you drive somewhere?" but I also brought no money for the boba tea I wanted, then I spilled it in his car, right before I realized I had lost my phone and had to go back into the tea shop to look for it, but it wasn't there, it was actually under my car seat. So. Really just a winning experience for everyone.)

It's also always a good day when I don't have to be the first person to ask a group, "So, did anyone have weird dreams last night?" Alicia had that covered for me.

Weird Being Back
I'm doing my best, but I don't know if it's possible to explain how incredibly good the trip was for me. *sits and stares at the computer* Yeah, I don't know what else I can say. It was one long dream come true. It was transformative.

Or was it?

I'm sure most people have experienced this feeling at some point. You go on an amazing trip or have a really meaningful night with someone or...I don't know, something BIG and AWESOME happens, but then...

You go home. The night ends. The moment passes.

It affected your soul, so you feel like everything should be different afterward, but your house still looks the same and your job still exists and you're alone again and...it's like the Amazing Experience happened on a separate plane of existence and now you're back in the real world and everything is...kind of the same? How can that be? How can it be over and in the past and life picks up as it was?

I don't know what to do with myself now. I don't know how to live regular life after being THAT happy and fulfilled. The trip has convinced me that there's another quality of life out there, life with more love and more people and more happiness and more kindness and more fun, but...how do I make a change? What do I need to do to live in deeper and more incarnate community? How can I love people better and be around them more? What do I need to DO?

I don't feel like I can go back to living so shallow and unfulfilled after a trip like that, but I'm also afraid that my depression is gonna kneecap me and keep me from making the changes necessary to live better. Or if not my depression my...allergy to vulnerability. Living in deep community takes courage because you have to be vulnerable. For the beach trip, I basically invited all the people with whom I'm already comfortable being vulnerable, but—as I've said—they are the people I DON'T get to do life with. Some of them live half and whole countries away from me. If I want to live deeper and better in my everyday life, I'm gonna have to learn how to be vulnerable with new people, and that thought makes me a little nauseous. But clearly, based on the beach trip, it can be so worth it. But I have to be so brave first.

An Important Truth
While riding in Bumblebee with Aaron, grinning like an IDIOT while my hand vibrated against the armrest, knowing that Gabe and Cass and Alicia would be home when we returned, I had a thought:

These are some of the best days of my entire life, and I would've missed them if I had let my depression win.

I've heard the quote that says something to the effect of, "When you're sad, remember that some of the best days of your life are still to come." But trying to believe that and EXPERIENCING it are two completely different things.

The fact that if I had given up when I was afraid I would never be happy again, I would have missed Hot Tub Bucket List At 1am and Bass Music With My Older Brother was a sobering and deeply joyful realization. Not gonna lie, I teared up in the car.

And then to think that maybe there are STILL some best days to come is a hope that feels like it might sustain me. When I feel sad and hopeless, I can use the beach trip as empirical evidence that even after pitch darkness, there can be blinding, so-worth-the-wait light. I know there's value in being present and not living for the weekend or for the future, but sometimes, in the midst of depression, living for the future is the way to go. It might suck now, but it'll be worth it again one day. There is real hope that there are more Beach Trip Days in my future, and that is an encouraging thought.

~ Stephanie

* Well, Virginia is only like an hour away, but STILL.

** And by "we" I mean "the four guys played, while the three girls sat in the hot tub and talked about The Last House on Needless Street, ACOTAR, and The Fire Faery Story"

*** And humor, wisdom, devil's advocate, shoulder to cry on, animal knowledge, learning to see multiple sides of an issue, logic, sarcasm, etc.

Third of Life Crisis

Oof. I haven't felt this much pressure to present a Changed, Updated Self since I got married in 2016.

Before that, I felt the same pressure in 2011, when I came back from taking a three-week trip to Europe without my family.

These are the only three times I've felt this exact brand of pressure. What is causing it this time?

Turning thirty :)

Thirty is still young—for sure. But you're not a kid. You're definitely, undeniably NOT a kid. You're not a teenager. You're not a "twenty-something." You may be immature and you certainly still have a lot to learn, but you're an adult. It feels like the grace period for figuring out life has expired. By this point, you should know how to do your taxes or who to pay to do them for you. You should know how to cook meals. You should know how to get established at an eye doctor and a dentist. You should know when to buy expensive staple pieces and if it's appropriate to by anything trendy.

There is now a whole, fully functioning generation that is younger than you, but old enough to be in college.

Of all the topics I've blogged about multiple times, this is The One: this concept of constantly being surprised that I'm still Me. At every milestone age, I'm confused that Brunette Superwoman hasn't taken the baton from me. It's still just Me. I guess maybe that won't ever stop blowing my mind?

And now I'm wondering something. See, I can do all of those things I listed above. I do know how to get my taxes done (even though that means handing Gabe all the necessary paperwork and saying, "Mkay do you want me to refill your water while you do this?"). I can cook and make appointments and buy expensive clothes when I need to. I can really do most things that adults are supposed to be able to do.

So I think the question buried under all of this is actually, "When will I be able to be proud of myself?"

See, I've always been proud of Brunette Superwoman, who is a fictitious projection of what I thought I would/could become by age thirty-ish. She's a powerhouse. She's so capable it's scary. She's maybe what I might've become without depression, but...that's a dumb, dangerous game. There was never a version of me who didn't struggle with depression, because—in reality—there's only ever been one me. I'm not going into any multiverse theories right now.

I guess what's really happening in my mind isn't "When am I going to feel grownup?" or "When do I become Brunette Superwoman?"* but "When will I ever feel like I've 'done it'?" And maybe that answer is still "Never." Maybe no one ever feels like they've "done it" or "made it."

I did have a really weird out-of-body experience last week. This'll be too mystical/spiritual for some people, but last week while lying on the couch, something in a TV show triggered something in my brain and I was inhabited by my College Self for two minutes or so. College Me was alive and present in my brain alongside Current Me, and I got to watch her look around at the life I'd built with Gabe.

"This is your apartment?" she breathed, staring at the gray-purple walls and big TV and space, all the space that was legally mine—mine and my husband's. She realized that her future husband was a chemical engineer, and she was a curriculum developer. She had real job—a career.

She was enchanted by the decorations. Everything was gray and teal and she loved it. She couldn't believe I owned all this stuff. We'd bought a couch and a couple of perfect chairs and a really nice dining room table.

"This is your life?" she breathed. "How can you feel like you haven't made it?"

Until I started typing about it, I had actually forgotten about that bizarre experience. (Man, this keeps HAPPENING to me lately. I'll be mid-post and get T-boned with something that takes the post in a completely different direction.)

So. Jeez. Never mind, I guess? Maybe I'm doing okay. Maybe we all are. Maybe our younger selves would be impressed. Maybe we're all the Super Versions of ourselves just by freakin being here still. If you're alive, you've done it. You've made it. Damn, sometimes just being alive is the hardest part.

If you're reading this, I'm telling you that you have permission from this random thirty-year-old to be proud of yourself—NOW. Whatever it's taken to get you here, you got here. Whatever state you're in, YOU'RE HERE, and that's something to be proud of.

Every time I blog about her, I think it'll be the last time Brunette Superwoman haunts me, but she still pops up in my mind's eye as a wistful future possibility. Maybe she always will. I know she's not coming, there's only ever gonna be me, but...

I dunno, maybe I can do it. Maybe it's like when they needed the Ring to be destroyed and all they had was Frodo to do it. He wasn't Brunette Superman, but, I mean, he still got the job done.

I guess I'll try to be proud of myself as I am. If I'm going to assume everyone else is doing the best they can, the least I can do is give myself the same courtesy. So.

Yay thirty. I've decided that I've made it :)

~ Stephanie

* I can feel some of y'all prepping your "But you ARE Brunette Superwoman to me!" All I can say is that whatever you're seeing isn't what I'm talking about.

The Power of the 10-Minute Timer

I don't know why I started doing this, but recently I've been setting a timer for ten minutes and doing as much of a task as I can in those ten minutes. When the timer goes off, I'm allowed to stop and check "do some of X" off my to-do list.

I'm not so much a procrastinator as I am an avoider. Those feel like different things in my mind. Sometimes I will know that something won't take very long and I'll actively want to do it, but it's like I'm scared of it. It's that quality of being stuck in Flight mode all the time.

Other times I'll know that something will, in fact, take a very long time—more than one day's worth of time and effort—but I know that I need to do some of it today, and I just...can't. It's that fear/Flight mode.

But the ten-minute timer has solved this problem about 95% of the time. In fact, this post has been rattling around in my brain for about a week and I've been putting off writing it. However, I said to myself, "Just write what you can in ten minutes," so here I am, with 1:24 minutes to go. (Yes, it has taken me over eight minutes just to write four paragraphs.)

And here's the thing: In 50 seconds, the timer on my phone will go off, and I'll hit "Repeat" and keep writing. Because that's the thing:

Starting a task is BY FAR the hardest part. Like it's actually unbelievable how hard it is to begin a task compared with how hard it is to keep going. It's like the human mind is a giant dresser that needs to be slid across the room, and once you get a little momentum, it's possible just to keep pushing it until it's in place.

This is old news to some of you. I'm sure there's psychology about this, but I don't know what it is. It probably has to do with depression and dopamine. I just know that if I give myself permission to do a task for only ten minutes, more often than not I put in a legitimate amount of time and effort, and it's not that bad.

Sometimes I do stop after the timer goes off, and that's always acceptable too. I'm not lying to myself that I only have to do ten minutes while secretly having an agenda to do it longer (although that is totally something I would do). The deal is that I only have to do ten minutes, and if I want to keep going after that, of course that's allowed too.

For me, this has worked with cleaning the apartment, tackling big work projects, going to the gym, and more. I don't know if it'll work for everyone, but I think it's worth a shot.

Set a ten-minute timer and see what happens.

~Stephanie

The Fourth Heartbreak Continues

Four years ago today, I published this post, called "My Fourth Heartbreak," where I talk about making the decision to move to Winston-Salem for Gabe's job. I talked about how hard it is to leave my friends, my church, my tribe, but I was so confident that God knew what he was doing, and that if he was calling us away, it was to something even better. I said that God's "better" might not be better friends or a better church, but even if it's just a better relationship with him, it'll still be worth it.

Well. I don't know what to make of that post today. I imagine my feelings might be like how it feels to reread your marriage vows after getting divorced.

A lot of unexpected things have happened or not happened in the last four years. When I wrote that post, I didn't know Covid was gonna hit and prevent us from saying goodbye to our friends or our church before moving. I didn't know Covid was gonna keep us from meeting neighbors and making new friends and exploring the new area. I thought I would have kids by now, which would usher in a new season of life and new kinds of relationships. I didn't know I'd lose my personality and willpower to depression.

The Stephanie who wrote that post could rock her life in Winston-Salem. Unfortunately, she died and there's just me. I don't know who to blame for that. Me? God? Covid?

There's no way for me to write this post without making the people who love us here feel inadequate.* Y'all are probably gonna read this and feel some version of, "Well damn, sorry I'm not as good as your Raleigh friends, asshole," and that's fair. If someone I knew wrote a post like this, that's how I would feel too. I don't know what to do with that, but I need to process this anyway, so I'm just gonna keep writing.

Honestly, I don't know why life feels the way it does to me. Maybe it really is something about the aborted grief we're trying to navigate as we mourn the lives—and people—that Covid killed. It's a weird thing to mourn. Being mad a disease isn't profitable, and I'm not really sure if Covid's to blame for what's going on in my heart anyway.

Am I just mad at God? At this point, kinda, yeah. I wasn't four years ago. I was sad, but I trusted God. I trusted that he would bring us Better.

But what we have now doesn't feel better. Certainly not a better relationship with him. I am spiritually sucked dry. I don't even have the spiritual energy to drag my body to the well.

I know tons of Bible characters and tons of people could attest to feeling the same way. It looks like God isn't gonna keep his promises, but he always does. Sometimes it takes him a long time. Sometimes there's wandering around in the wilderness for forty years.

I guess that's what it feels like: wandering around in the wilderness, trying to believe in a Promised Land.**

The January 2020 post ended with, "But I really do trust God. I really do trust my husband. I really do believe that if we're supposed to move, it will be a good thing, and one day I will look back...and know why [God] wanted us to do this."

Well, I still don't know. Maybe it's the friends I'm getting closer to now. Maybe it's being nearer Sarah and James and Gideon and Baby Grace. Maybe it's Gabe serving on the leadership team at Crossroads. Maybe it's Gabe being an awesome engineer at Unifi. All those things sound good, right?

So what's my problem? Maybe it really is just depression? Maybe this life IS the Better and I just can't feel it?

(I don't know if that's better or worse, to be honest XD)

Now that I think about it, I'm a little bit made at Past Me too. I'm mad at her for having so much hope and confidence, because I feel like if she hadn't taken me so high, there wouldn't have been as far to fall. If I had said, "Ugh, this move sucks and it's not gonna get better," then at least things wouldn't be so disappointing. Like if you go into a movie with super low expectations, you usually enjoy the film more.

In general, this is my philosophy. I don't like to get excited about things or hope for things because I feel like I'm just setting myself up for disappointment. Gabe tries to convince me that hope is a good thing, but I don't feel that. Past Me did, apparently, and she was indubitably healthier than I am, so maybe she and Gabe are right. Maybe it's Present Me that has the problem.

(I mean, I don't think any of us doubt that.)

On the whole, I would say maybe I'm doing better lately than I have been. I mean, I did write a couple of super hopeful new year posts less than a month ago (here and here).

Gah, why can't I hold onto to attitudes like that? It's so frustrating.

I think I would've been fine if I hadn't read that post from four years ago. I don't think I realized how far removed I was from the girl and attitude that wrote "My Fourth Heartbreak." Maybe it's like feeling good about your fitness journey and then seeing a picture of yourself from years ago when you were far healthier and being like, "Oh, great. Never mind. I'm definitely still fat."

Sigh. You can't relive the past (Gatsby). You can either run from it, or learn from it (Lion King). All we can do is choose what to do with the time that is given to us (Lord of the Rings.)

Maybe I need to stop reading old blog posts. Maybe I just need to focus on my life now. After all, there is no Past Me anyway. There's only Now Me.

~Stephanie

* I'm genuinely so thankful for the friends I'm getting closer to these days; y'all know who you are. I don't know how to reconcile the genuine joy and gratitude I feel for y'all with what I'm also feeling about having to move and life in general. How can two such opposite feelings exist at once?

** So dramatic. My life isn't a W I L D E R N E S S. How can I even say that with how many good things are going on?!

Souls and Poetry

I don't know that I can say I love poetry. I'm not one of those people who can curl up with a book of poems and just read them for a block of time. If that's what has to be true for me to say "I love poetry," then no, I don't.

But there are certain poems that I absolutely love, in the way I love some songs, in the way I love some people. A love that makes my chest feel full, like my heart is physically swelling with warmth and I'm overwhelmed with the intensity of the feeling.

It's moments like this that I am most convinced we're eternal beings. I can feel that I'm incapable of holding all that there is to feel; something inside me is spilling over into a dimension I don't have full access to yet. Poetry stretches the veil thin enough that I can know there's a Beyond, even if I can't live there yet.

As Gabe left the apartment today, we were trading versions of "I love you" and I was reminded of the sign he painted me for Christmas a few years ago. It's a picture of our souls intertwining, based on a poem I wrote about him in college where I described his soul as being green and gold. That reminded me:

"You know the Robert Frost poem about green and gold?" I asked.

He said he didn't think so.

"Nature's first green is gold?" I prompted. "Her hardest hue to hold? Her early leaf's a flower, but only so an hour?"

"Dang," he said, gathering keys and wallet. "You know a lot of it."

"I do," I said, just as surprised. "It's not very long. It mentions Eden later. You'd really like it."

We kissed and I had to Google the poem after he'd left.

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

Something Magical happens toward the end of Frost's poems. I'm only very familiar with four, and I love all of them very much, and all of them get me somewhere in their last half/last third. I don't know if it's something Frost did on purpose or if the lines I like just happen to fall in that region.

In "Nothing Gold Can Stay," it's the leaf subsiding to leaf that gets me. There's a turn there. The first four lines are about beginning...but then it's not the beginning anymore. Beginnings don't last forever. Eventually they become middles, and then eventually, they become ends.

Nothing gold can stay.

Leaning against the kitchen counter, surrounded by dishes that needed to be put into the dishwasher, I looked up "The Road Not Taken," and that one made me cry.

It was five particular lines that got lodged in my throat this time, and although they were consecutive, they weren't part of the same stanza.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveller, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth.

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same.

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference.

There's something so beautiful and so sad and so true there. The lines are filled with yearning and nostalgia and regret and contentment and wisdom. I don't even want to touch them with my thoughts out loud. They just make me cry, and if they make you cry too, it's in a slightly different way. I think poetry speaks to the soul, and everyone's soul is unique. No two people can love a poem in exactly the same way.

I'm so excited for the dimension where I can feel all of what poetry makes me feel.

You know what, yeah—I can say I love poetry.

~Stephanie

P.S. Here are the other two Robert Frost poems I love so much.

"Fire and Ice"
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

"Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening"
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though.
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
And miles to go before I sleep.