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.

The F Words

(Edit: This is one of those posts that didn't go where I thought it would. I'm glad I wrote it.)

We've all heard of the "fight/flight" response to a perceived threat. Well, apparently there are more options than those two.

A few years ago, I heard the "freeze" response added to the list: fight, flight, or freeze. Still more recently, a true crime podcast introduced me to the fourth—and so far final*—member of the list: fawn.

When you're confronted with a perceived threat, your body produces hormones (maybe adrenaline and epinephrine? I'm not a scientist) that fire you up to handle the danger in one of those four ways.

Until about ten years ago, I operated under the assumption that 1) there were two responses to a threat: fight or flight, and 2) that everyone was predisposed to favor one response or the other. Since humanity's threats are now less "a sabertooth tiger is chasing you" and more "your inbox is overflowing," I assumed that we got to choose our stress response, and the choice was more personality-based than anything else. Some people are fighters, some people are flighters.

Naturally, I wanted to be categorized as a fighter, and between those two, I think I probably was.

Was.

The thing about stress** is that it puts a lot of—well, stress on your body. It's exhausting. It's unsustainable. We cannot operate under stress forever, at least not without real consequences, like depression and anxiety and hormonal imbalances.

I think I spent a lot of my life being a fighter, and kinda thriving off of it. I always enjoyed arguments and challenges. I have a sign in our kitchen that says, "Underestimate me. That'll be fun." My character Ember is 100% a fighter.

But...I think I got tired?

As for most people, age 18–22 was a season of change for me. And for me, it wasn't a season of good change, at least on the whole. Yeah, I went to college and won awards and learned a lot and made friends that are still with me today. But a lot of the trauma I carry with me happened in those years too. I internalized a lot about relationships that I'm still unlearning. I shoulded myself out of 95% of the college experience in favor of a GPA that I couldn't even tell you today. I sought counseling and couldn't get any. I went to church alone for a couple of those years and cried and felt invisible. I watched out my dorm window as people played in the snow and realized I didn't have anyone to play with. I sank back into an eating disorder for a bit. I just...

Basically, I got really, really tired and stopped being a fighter. And I don't know that I ever really "rested" from that season in a soul kind of way. I'm not sure I know how.

I'm doing a lot better now. I was doing a lot better by the time Gabe and I got married, and holy CRAP am I doing a lot better now than I was when we got married. I think the Covid years hit all of us pretty hard, and I'm still processing all that too.

But I still don't feel like a Fighter. A while ago I told Gabe that I feel like my brain has been living in fight/flight mode for years and I'm so exhausted that all I can do is flight***—from just everything. Like some days I can't even face getting up, much less working or cooking dinner. I hate that because I consider flight to be the coward's way out, the weak way out. Stand and fight your battles, dammit. Stand and brush your teeth.

When I heard about the other two stress responses, freezing and fawning, I had to reconsider.

Freezing is what it sounds like: neither fighting nor seeking shelter from a perceived threat, but becoming paralyzed by it.

Fawning is a learned trauma response and it applies when the perceived threat involves another person. "If I can please/placate/flatter this person who threatening me, maybe I can avoid conflict with them."

Maybe I am worse than a flighter, I thought. Maybe I'm a freezer. When it comes to certain types of interpersonal conflict, I'm a fawner too, although maybe that's the ENFJ. It ain't the Eight, that's for sure.

As I sit here and write this post with no point as of now, God has suddenly struck me with two things:

1) None of the stress responses are inherently dumb or cowardly. They're all designed to save you in different scenarios. If you're faced with a sabertooth tiger, fleeing is probably the smart course of action. In a situation where you've hidden from a threat, staying frozen is probably wise. In some kidnapping situations, fawning has bought victims time and allowed them to escape—or fight—at more opportune moments. God didn't wire our brains with one "right" stress response and then three others for those too weak to use fight. The stress responses are all tools and we need to use wisdom to understand which to employ at what time.

2) I always think about the Fighter/the Eight part of myself as being the "real" one, and maybe that's not true. I have this idea that I need to get back to being able to fight all the time. I need to get back to not feeling so much. (Even though I'm also on a journey to feel more?) I need to get back to being tougher and more active and more aggressive and more sarcastic and more "me."

But maybe that's not the truth. Maybe—just like God didn't make one "right" stress response and three loser ones—God didn't create me to be one side of myself. Maybe the Fighter/the Eight is me, but so is the part of myself that's really, really tired. Maybe that part of myself doesn't need to be amputated; maybe it's telling me something important. Maybe the part of me that's bubbly and attuned to other people's emotions isn't an overly sensitive people pleasure, but represents virtues like compassion and mercy.

Maybe the "realest" version of myself is an integrated version where all the parts have an open dialogue with each other, and all four of the stress responses are available to me as appropriate.

Well huh. I don't know where I thought this post was going, but not here. I think I meant to talk about the four Fs and define them and ask everyone to consider which one feels most accessible to them? But now I think the goal is to have all of them accessible and not be angry at yourself for choosing a "dumb" one.

The thing is, we're all doing the best we can. The ultimate goal is to increase our capacity for better, but until then, you're fine. You're okay. Have a little compassion. You're not going around hoping that you do a bad job of your day or wanting to sabotage everything you love. On a day when you only have 40% to give and you give 40%, you gave 100%. Everything you do or don't do is a part of you trying to talk to the other parts. Maybe we just need to get better at listening.

And, as always, I'm talking to myself, I'm just doing it in written form because that's the only time I actually listen to me. I do hope something in here was encouraging to you, even if the journey was a little indirect.

~Stephanie

* In the midst of Googling for this post, I did see a list of five: fight, flight, freeze, flop, friend. I'm guessing that in the list of five, "fawn" was broken up into flop and friend.

** She says with authority, having done diddlysquat research and relying only on things she thinks she remembers hearing on podcasts and YouTube videos.

*** I know it's "fly" or "flee." I don't care.

I Thought I Was Being Rude

I can be a really high-energy person. I can be really social. I can make conversation with all types of people, genuinely care about their life and job and pets, and share fun related anecdotes. I can laugh and learn and make new friends.

I can be this way—but I am not always this way. I cannot always be this way.

When I was younger, I think I could be. Age 2–18 was one long streak of social butterfly-ing broken up by a few bouts of preteen and teen depression. For the most part, I was comfortable and confident in my own skin. I had a lot of social energy, and enough outlets for it. This is the version of me that you met and got used to if you met me when I was age 2–18.

I am no longer that way, and it's really difficult to reconcile.

For the past few years, I've struggled with depression, and maybe that's it. Maybe I just don't have the hormonal composition to be Miss Life of the Party as often. Maybe it's something else. But the why isn't the point of this post. This post is about when I learned that there is apparently a difference between "being rude" and "having lower energy."

Sometimes when I have an evening to myself, it's great. I make the dinner Gabe doesn't like and watch my own shows. But more often, I get really down and dark and it's a good idea for me to get out and do something, see people. It was armed with this knowledge that I went to a late afternoon social function full of people who met me when I was age 2–18.

I was not doing well that day. I was in the middle of my Anti-Shoulding campaign, and this event was kind of riding the line. I went mostly because I thought I should, even if it was because I thought I should get out and do something, see people.

But I wasn't doing well. I didn't have the emotional energy to show up like I normally would. I didn't have the energy to initiate or even prolong conversations. I didn't have the energy to smile with my eyes or relate to people in an engaging, appropriate (I thought) way. I felt like a ghost of myself haunting the event and everyone could see through me.

I was being rude. I was bringing down the energy of the group. People were judging me and wondering what was wrong with me. They were probably thinking to themselves that I used to be so cool; what had happened to me? Who or what had sucked the soul out of my body? Maybe I had peaked in high school, or at the very least, something must be terribly wrong?

When I left the function, I blared music on the drive home and screamed and cried. I felt like I was utterly losing my mind—my identity, even. Who the hell was I if I wasn't who I used to be? Someone worse, that was for sure.

At the time, I had no further thoughts or revelations. I did feel better after the music and the screaming and the crying, and I managed to turn the lonely evening around, which I'm really proud of. But since then, I have had two revelations.

One revelation was brought to me by my therapist when she asked a lot of probing questions about the event when I tried to gloss over it. How dare she see through my façade and want to dig into my despair.

I described my experience at the event and told her that I didn't know what was wrong with me and that I didn't know why I hadn't been able to avoid being so rude. She asked me what I had done that was so rude.

"Well, I—I didn't make a lot of conversation," I said. "I wasn't the super energetic, social self that these people know and love and expect."

She kind of cocked her head. "Okay. That doesn't sound rude."

And this was a new branch of thought for me. Maybe being lower energy isn't rude. It isn't as though I actually scowled or avoided eye contact or refused to speak to people. Basically I was just quieter. Not being the life of the party isn't being rude, even if it's a deviation from what (I think) I've constructed as the norm.

The second revelation is all my own: I was bringing down the energy of the group? They were probably thinking to themselves that I used to be so cool; what had happened to me? Maybe they were not thinking about me like that at all. Maybe I was thinking too damn much of myself when, in fact, no one cares that much and I do not have that kind of control over the atmosphere of a group. Maybe I need to get a grip.

Either way, it's some good stuff to think about. Some days I have the energy to be ~Social~ and some days I don't. I can be polite on either day. I do not need to feel guilty for taking a backseat or a supporting role at a social gathering. Sometimes simply showing up is okay.

I'm tentatively trying to believe this and notice it in action. A few weeks ago in dance class, I felt myself Trying To Be Social and pressuring myself to respond with emotion to everything said by someone in the group, even when it wasn't addressed to me specifically. I did not have the emotional energy to be that way that day, but I was forcing myself to try anyway.

Then I remembered that I don't have to do that, and I stopped. I settled for making eye contact and smiling and not forcing myself to say anything or contribute further.

And that was enough. No one was angry. The vibes were unharmed.

And that was big for me.

~Stephanie

The Tyranny of Efficiency

My brain is obsessed with efficiency, to the point that it becomes inefficient.

When clearing the table, most people probably think—or do without thinking—"I will take my plate and cup to the dishwasher at the same time." It just makes good sense. Both things are there in front of you and both of them will be going in the dishwasher. Just make one trip. No big deal.

Well, at some point, this normal mindset grew so big that it's been trying to eat me for the last couple of years. Sometimes I'll be trying to do something—often cooking—and I'll get in a state that's an oxymoronic combination of being in a frenzy and being paralyzed. THIS FIRST—NO THIS FIRST WHILE THIS—NO, THAT—WAIT, OVER THERE—NO, GRAB THA—NO, STOP. It feels like it has something to do with my having OCD. I need things to be the most efficient:

Open the cabinet, grab the pepper THEN the salt behind it, leave the cabinet open, season the meat, put the salt back then—no, you need the salt for the brussel sprouts—leave the salt and pepper on the counter—the cabinet door is still open, which bothers you, but it's okay because it doesn't make sense to close it yet—wasted energy—chop the brussel sprouts, get their bowl—while you're on this side of the kitchen grab the spoon you'll need, close the silverware drawer—open the other cabinet, get the oil, don't close the cabinet door because you'll have to put the oil back in a second, now two cabinet doors are open, which bothers you, but it's okay because it's efficient, pour oil in the bowl with the brussels, add salt and pepper, put the salt and pepper away FINALLY, close the cabinet door, while you're on this side of the kitchen—oh, should've brought the cutting board with the brussels sprout ends on it because the trash can is on this side of the kitchen too, wasted trip, ugh, go back and get the cutting board, yes, now you have the cutting board and you can put the oil back and close the other cabinet FINALLY and slide over and step on the trash can and the lid opens and scrape the brussel sprouts ends into it with the knife and while you're here you should get the tin foil out of the drawer, but your hands are full of cutting board and knife but you're here so put the knife on the cutting board and balance it and grab the tin foil out of the drawer and take everything back with you, the drawer is open and that bothers you but it's okay because you'll just have to open it to put the tin foil back in a minute and do you think you could get the maple syrup out of the fridge too though because you're right here beside the fridge and efficiency and—

Slowly but surely, my OCD brain has become consumed not just with counting sounds and making sure I blink right, but with efficiency. Everything has to be as efficient as possible. No wasted time, energy, effort—

Except that I am wasting time, energy, and effort. My brain comes up with cost-saving plans only to abort them and replace them halfway through with new, grander, more efficient plans, filling me with artificial urgency and robbing every moment of its potential for quiet joy.

I can't just brush my teeth. I have to be catching up on work messages or listening to a podcast or—hey, what about BOTH? You could TRIPLE-task, wouldn't that be the MOST efficient?

This is much more than just getting the groceries in one trip; this is...not being able to take out the salt and pepper unless I can find a second activity to pair that with, to make the most of every second.

Where is this coming from? Who has told me that things must be fast and efficient?

No one, really. It might be the mental illness, or it might be "society." We are a people obsessed with instant gratification and a fast pace, which might be related. I'm not sure, but I am sure that this growing obsession is making me a little crazy.

For a few months, I've known that this is something I need to get ahold of. I'm heaping huge amounts of stress onto myself for absolutely no reason. I am rarely in a legitimate rush. There is usually no one around me to impress with my speed. I have nothing in mind that I want to do with my saved time or energy.

So, in December, I decided to slow down. I decided to go so slowly. I decided to be as inefficient as possible.

After folding laundry, I made myself take each stack into the bedroom separately. I took only my socks to the closet and put them away, then I went back and got my underwear and put them in the drawer right under my sock drawer. I could've easily done that in one trip, but I chose not to.

When I refilled the water pitcher, I stood in front of the sink and watched it fill. I only did that. I didn't rush to the pantry to get my drink mix before the pitcher overflowed or try to put something away while the pitcher filled.

When I unloaded the dishwasher, I took out the silverware holder and unloaded it by itself, even though it would've been more efficient to take the cutting boards with me since they go in the cabinet right under the silverware.

I've continued to discipline myself to do this in the new year.

How much more time does all of this take? Negligible. Cannot even tell a difference.

How much more peace am I able to retain?

I N F I N I T E L Y more.

There's no rush. There never has been any rush, I just convinced myself there was, for no reason.

When I die, I don't want to be able say that I saved the most time putting away the salt and pepper. What the hell? I would like to be able to say that I enjoyed my life, that I noticed little things that made me happy, and that I was able to confer peace on others.

I'm sharing this for two reasons: 1) It clearly falls under the umbrella of "becoming me." I'm trying to become a less hurried person. But also 2) I wonder if other people struggle with the tyranny of efficiency. You know, if you choose to slowly, it's not "losing." You can't lose a game you're not playing. Don't play the efficiency game. Go slow on purpose. See what happens.

~Stephanie

The Year Where Nothing Happened

Twenty twenty-three was a weird year to define. It was a year where people would ask, "So what's new with you guys?" and we wouldn't have anything to say. Nothing was new. Except...

Things were fundamentally changing, and I mean that literally-metaphorically :) Things were changing at the foundation, at the core, deep—where no one could see it.

We had zero visible life changes in 2023. We didn't move. We didn't change churches. We didn't get new jobs. No family members were born. I didn't finish the Fire Faery Story Book 1. We didn't even do a Random Roadtrip. We didn't do anything in 2023.

Normally a realization like this would fill me with frustration and discouragement. What a waste of 365 days. Nothing happened.

But that's not how I feel at all.

Twenty twenty-three was a year of readying, and I know that. I feel that. We may not have done much, but we became; we changed.

I started therapy.
I started saying "I'm not lazy, that just isn't within my boundaries right now."
I read some non-fiction books for fun—and actually enjoyed it.
I re-established the habit of going to the gym.
I learned the importance of validating kids' emotions first, before following up with my version of reality.
I uncovered the toxicity of my level of "shoulding."
I began to couch my work communication in fewer "maybes" and "I thinks" and "justs."
I learned that there's a difference between "being rude" and just having lower energy.
I learned that there's more to tracking my cycle than predicting ovulation and periods.
I discovered that I can write something other than the Fire Faery Trilogy.
I started trying to believe that other people are doing their best.
I started giving Gabe the benefit of the doubt instead of reacting in conversation.
I started coming to Gabe to say, "Can you talk about this feeling with me?"
I became more comfortable trying to learn things that I should've known already.
Gabe and I both began working to be less codependent.

And that's mostly just me. Gabe would have his own list, just as long.

There wasn't a lot to take pictures of in 2023, but damn, a lot changed.

In the language of "ready, aim, fire,"* last year was a year of readying. We were actively preparing to be the people we will be in 2024.

I don't know what will happen in 2024, but I know we'll be better prepared for it, and I am fully satisfied with that.

~Stephanie

* Hence the photo :)

New Year, New Me—for Real This Time?

I'd been meaning to blog ever since we got back from Nebraska, but now I'm glad I didn't. I want to say something different than what I would've said a week ago.

A week ago, I planned to blog about the epidemic of loneliness that has been exacerbated by social media and Covid, and maybe I will eventually. There are some discouraging stats out there about the state of friendships or lack thereof. I've been sort of filled with resentment lately, feeling lonely and powerless.

But last night and this morning, things have felt different. Actually, let me be more accurate: *I* have felt different.

For a long time, New Year's Eve was my second favorite holiday, but I think it's moved into first place. I am a sucker for fresh starts: blank journals, Mondays, hair wash days. I LOVE making lists and setting goals and getting "streaks." January's fresh, clean, blue vibe is one of the best parts of winter.

I've always been big into making New Year's resolutions too. When I was younger, it didn't bother me if I didn't achieve my goals; it was fun to forecast the year and dream. But as I've gotten older, my goals have started to feel more like tests to pass than personas to try on. I've started to feel like a failure when I don't achieve my goals year after year. I've started to feel like my life isn't real if I don't check certain boxes, like Gabe and I are in the waiting room of life.

Every once in a while, I'll get hit with the realization (accompanied by the Switchfoot song) that no, this is my life. There's no waiting. There's no "until." This is IT. We can't live like this isn't it. We can't just WAIT.

And that'll buck me up for about twelve hours or so, but then I start to melt into the Slough of Social Media and the worthy task of pretending to watch TV while scrolling on my phone.

This year, I didn't make traditional New Year's resolutions. I do have some specific, measurable goals divided into six categories (personal development, relationships, finances, career, attitude, and health), but here's the thing:

THEY'RE ALL THINGS *I* CAN ACTUALLY DO.

I'm going into this year with a completely different mindset than I've ever had before—and I didn't even realize I had my old mindset until today.

Until today, I've thought of each new year as a sentient creature with agency who could grant goals and bestow gifts on me. I would look out over the new year and wonder what it was going to do for me, bring to me. I didn't know the future; the future was in the hands of the year.

This year, it's like the blah blah blah my therapist has been telling me about "control" finally clicked.

Twenty twenty-four isn't going to DO anything. It's not a creature. It's not conscious. It's just a unit of time. There's nothing special.

Terrible things might happen in 2024. Amazing things might happen in 2024. There are things I can control, and things I can't.

I can't control how other people drive. But I can control if they make me impatient or grumpy.

I can't control the housing market. But I can save money and talk to Katie Little.

I can't control how close I feel to God*. But I can read the Bible and pray every day.

I can't control the prices at Walmart. But I can choose gratitude that we have enough to buy what we need.

I can't control the weather. But I can turn the damn thermostat to a comfortable temperature and eat the 12 cents.

I can't control my acne. But I can eat well and change my pillowcase more often.

I can't make the world quit social media. But I can show up in person the best I can every time.

I can't understand why people act the way they do, but I can choose to believe they're doing the best they can.

I can choose what books to read, what shows to watch, what podcasts to listen to, what music to listen to, what events to attend, what events to plan, what breakfast to cook, what journal to buy, what blogs to post, what trips to take, what foods to eat, what tone to use, what approach to take...

I don't think I'm doing this mental shift justice. It's the paradoxical, oxymoronic realization that there are both so many things I can control and so many things I can't.

When I woke up this morning, I just felt this explosion of contentment regarding the things within my control. I felt happy. I felt like God was showing me how to do what is mine to do, and how to let go of the things that are His to do.

Whether I achieve my New Year's resolutions or not is...

Honestly? It's irrelevant. That's the best word I have right now. I feel like life isn't a list of goals, it's just a bunch of time filled with habits and hobbies and conversations and choices that lead...somewhere. We don't really know where. Some people seem to do everything right and none of their dreams come true. Some people seem to do everything wrong and yet life hands them victories hand over fist.

In a weird way, I feel like God is calling me to be shorter-sighted this year. I am so future oriented that I will start getting sad that something is over before it has even begun. I feel God calling me to put my attention 1) on the things I can control, and 2) on the things now. How can I respond now? How can I pray now? What should I eat now? Who should I text now?

Goals are big and far away. I have the sense that, for me, it would be better this year if I just forget about them and focus instead on being present and doing the work, being happy in the moment.

So, to sum up:
The New Year does not itself have agency.
There's a lot I cannot control.
There's a lot I can control.
I like making goals.
Maybe I should forget about goals.
Goals are achievable.
Goals may or may not be achievable; we'll just have to see.
Social media is the worst.

I hope this helps.

~Stephanie

* I'm sure some would disagree. Maybe we could talk about it in person sometime :)