Facing Demons: Feel the Feelings

Gabe and I don't believe in distracting Elle from her feelings.

There's definitely a place for redirection ("We're not gonna play in the trash can, but you can pull things out of the recycling"; "We're all done with chalk for now, but we can read a book when we go inside"), but if Elle is crying/scared/throwing a fit, we think it's important that she feel those feelings and process them, rather than cheer up at any cost.

To me, this goes along with the "meltdowns are not teachable moments" idea I touched on in The Riskiest Post to Date. When Elle is in the middle of big feelings, I try to hold her (if she's open to that) and say absolutely nothing, at first. I want her to know that her big feelings don't scare me, I can handle her even when she's difficult, and I'll be on the other side when she gets there too, but talking to her does nothing but contribute to overstimulation; she can't actually hear me in the moment.

After she's felt her feelings and begins to calm down, we'll either talk about what went wrong—like if she fell out of a chair, I show her why she fell and what she can do differently next time—or move on to something happier. We don't want Elle to be an adult who can't stand to be in her feelings long enough to come to peace with them and move on healthily.

Well.

Sunday night, Gabe and I got into a stupid fight after Elle went down. Afterwards, he stayed in the living room and I went upstairs to tidy up Elle's room. I walked up the steps, seething, and pulled out my phone to get a podcast going to take my mind off things.

Oh.

In the middle of Elle's room, I realized I was doing the exact thing we don't want Elle to do. Instead of sitting with my feelings and sorting through what they were trying to tell me, I wanted to drown them out with the story of someone getting murdered.

I put my phone down and sat with a sigh.

"Fine," I muttered. "What am I feeling?" I was mad, frustrated, discouraged, a little sheepish. The fight was stupid, but I could see how it had happened. I knew a podcast wasn't going to make me feel better, nor was the TV I planned to watch after cleaning Elle's room.

I picked up my phone again and texted Gabe: "Well that was a terrible way to end the weekend."

He responded with three texts in a row, honoring my side of things, owning his own, and offering to talk it through if I wanted to come down and talk. I did, so we did. None of that would have happened if I hadn't forced myself to face my feelings instead of distracting myself.

People talk about the importance of "feeling your feelings" instead of "thinking your feelings," and I'm not good at that. I don't quite understand what it means. I don't know if what I did Sunday night was feeling my feelings or thinking them, but either way, I know it was a step in a right direction. Too often I try to ignore my feelings because they're inconvenient/annoying/confusing/inevitable. I don't want Elle to do that, but if I'm going to teach her a better way, I'm gonna have to start some trial and error.

~Stephanie

"That's Kinda on Me"

A few years ago, I saw this TikTok. In it, a guy hands his 18-ish-month-old niece a little bottle of orange juice and lets her pour it into a martini glass, which she does...but she sloshes it over the glass, onto the glass, around the glass, and keeps pouring even as the uncle gasps and tries to salvage the situation. There's a moment where they both look at the camera, and then the uncle says something that has changed my brain chemistry when parenting:

"For some reason..." he says calmly. "I didn't think you'd pour the whole thing. That's kinda on me."

That's kinda on me.

Babies are gonna be babies. Kids are gonna be kids. If an adult doesn't want something to happen, it is their responsibility—as the one with life experience and impulse control—to prevent it from happening.

If you give a baby an open bottle of orange juice, it is not their fault when it ends up all over the table.
If you put your Starbucks drink in the Target cart cupholder, it is not the baby's fault when it gets thrown on the floor.
If you let a baby help unload the dishwasher, it is not the baby's fault when she drops a bowl and breaks it.
If you have unregulated emotions, it is not the baby's fault when you feel like screaming.

At first, I would've assumed that this mentality would make me MORE stressed out. Like, great—so everything is MY fault. How is that better? But I've actually found that it allows me to let go of a lot of anger toward my baby.

First of all, the phrase "that's kinda on me" feels like lighthearted closure. You've acknowledged the situation, you've chalked it up to living and learning, and you're poised to move on. It's like an anti-dwelling motto.

Second, taking ownership means that it isn't the baby's job to change anything; it's yours. Maybe you need to hold your match latte in your hand if you know your baby is in a "throwing things" phase. Maybe you need to set different boundaries ("Elle can help unload the silverware, but only Mama unloads the dishes"). It is not the baby's fault.

And if it's not the baby's fault, then it doesn't make sense to be angry at her.

I really struggle with anger. I grew up with the mentality that people can cause you to be angry, and it is then their fault—not yours—if you're snippy or impatient or mean to them. I truly believed that provoking anger was a transgression, and that people were justified in being angry at the transgressor. They caused the anger by being annoying/tardy/inconsiderate/stupid so they get to suffer. Or, even if someone is mad and it isn't another person's fault, it's still okay to act angry at or around them because anger is simply the natural and unavoidable outcome of someone or something tripping a trigger.

Then I married a man who believes that there is NEVER an excuse to be rude. I'm not exaggerating. Gabe dead-ass thinks that it's never okay to be unkind, no matter how angry or frustrated or tired you are. And he lives that way. Gabe has genuinely never been mean to me. We have been married for a decade next month, and he has never been mean to me.

I've known for years that I needed to get my anger issues under control, but having Elle made it absolutely crucial. I do not want my moods or frustrations to be the weather in our home. I do not want Elle to wonder if she's going to get the patient version of mom or the pissy version. I do not want to model being at the mercy of my emotions, demanding that she control herself when I cannot.

Thanks to Jesus, Gabe, TheYeetBaby, the book Good Inside, and baby Elle, I'm trying to change. I'm trying to believe that people can't "make" me angry; anger happens inside MY mind. If someone is annoying me, it is still my responsibility to control myself. If someone is rude to me, it is still my responsibility to choose kindness.

This is SUCH a steep uphill battle, but I'm proud of myself for climbing. I blew my own mind by not getting externally mad at Elle when she chucked my drink. I literally said, "That's kinda on me. Mama should not have put her drink there" and went to find a Target associate to tell about the spill. Was I seething inside? Yes, I was. It had already been a tough week and we're being really careful with money and I'd been thinking about that matcha latte since the day before. All I wanted was to have a few pleasant minutes in Target, and my baby ruined it by doing what I had repeatedly asked her not to do.

But she's a baby. And my anger is my problem, not hers. And it is never okay to be unkind.

It's after 10pm and I've reorganized this post three different times and it still doesn't feel right and I'm tempted to use ChatGPT to help me but it's really important to me that I maintain the ability to express myself in a clear and orderly and beautiful way, and I don't know if I've done that, but there's SOMETHING here and I hope it makes sense to you, and I'm really tired and I'm going to bed now.

~Stephanie

Re: I Quit My Job

On January 8, I started a post called "I Quit My Job." I worked on the post once or twice, never finished it, and then I had to send my laptop back because it belonged to the company. For the last five weeks, I've been without a laptop for the first time in about seventeen years.

I didn't consider how difficult that would be for me. I used to be an avid journaler, from childhood until a few years ago. I don't know why I stopped except maybe depression, but blogging replaced the practice. It's not the SAME as journaling, because writing for the public is necessarily different than writing to yourself (or to no one), although I admit even my journaling style is sort of...self-conscious? I write as if someone might read it, not in terms of content, but style.

Anyway, that's sort of a tangent. The point is, for the first time in more than half my life, I found myself without an outlet.

A laptop has been like my right arm for a long, long time. Yeah, the particular one I had for the last nine and a half years (replaced periodically) was company property, but—and maybe I'm not supposed to say this?—I also used it for personal writing in my off time, and watched YouTube on it over lunch. I blogged on it. I checked Facebook on it. I organized photos for our annual Happy New Year cards on it. The images for this blog were stored on it. I bought baby shower and birthday gifts on it. It had all my browser bookmarks. It's how I accessed the documents I needed to do my job. It was my brain.

All the sudden, I had quit the job I would have had for a decade in June, which was at the company through which I'd been schooled since I was ten years old, and had to give up the piece of hardware that stored and helped process the thoughts in my increasingly colander-like mom brain.

Was it a relief to quit? Unbelievably so. I went from doing two jobs—mothering and curriculum developing—poorly and waking up every day feeling like a stack of Copper Lodge Library books was piled on my chest, taking meetings camera off and "in listen only mode, sorry" so my baby could sleep on my chest, rushing through baby-led weaning breakfasts of yogurt with raspberries so I could try to rewrite sections of a writing book I'd been developing for four years to...

Waking up to freedom. Not living under the crushing weight of nap math married to meeting math. Breakfasts that could take as long as they needed to, followed by clean-ups completely devoid of urgency. Walks. Target runs. Brushing my teeth every day.

But also...a weird void. A shapeless silence. Not because of a lack of work, but because of a lack of writing.

I had a lot of feelings about quitting my job, which I had started to process in the "I Quit My Job" draft, but had to abandon. Could I have used Gabe's laptop? Absolutely, and I did, for some things, because I am still working a tiny handful of hours a week as a contractor. But using a different interface without all my bookmarks and documents and trackpad settings felt like trying to write a dissertation in crayon with my left hand. I could do what I HAD to do, but no way was I going to try to blog. So the thoughts sat unprocessed.

In a way, I might be glad? I haven't read over the "I Quit" draft, but I know it's disorganized and filled with lots of guilt and catharsis/validation seeking. I didn't go out at work the way I wanted to. I ran myself into the ground and then resigned knowing there was much that my team needed me to do that I never would. I'm embarrassed and sad.

But now that I've had six weeks to settle, I care less. I've gotten some distance. There's no way I could've continued the way I was. I am so much happier. Elle is getting a much better mother. Classical education will always be there. Zero regrets.

I guess the biggest lesson I've learned so far is how important writing is to me. I've always known that on an intellectual level, but I've been reacquainted with the fact on a gut level. My mind has not been well for last few weeks, and I can feel it unfurling and breathing a sigh of relief with this post. I have so much to say, so much I need to bring out in the light of words and examine.

I've had four blogs since I was fourteen, each unintentionally paired with an era of my life, although they overlapped. The first was called Carpe Diem and it was naive and bubbly and random, exactly what you'd expect from a girl in 2008. The next one began in 2011, I think, and was called Pandora (a darker, sadder, grittier side of myself, but theoretically paired with hope), renamed to Peripeteia ("a sudden reversal of fortune or change in circumstances") when I felt like I had synthesized the light and dark sides of myself. (You'll notice this blog isn't linked. I've set it to "private." We don't talk about the Peripeteia phase now XD) Then there was Reason in the Rhyme, from 2013–2020ish. I guess I'd call that my thoughtful, sort of academic stage. Then we have Becoming Me, from 2019–today.

I'm beginning a new era now, and normally I'd start a new blog. However, this one is different, because it's always been about changing, growing, becoming. Maybe this is my forever blog home.

One thing is for sure: writing is my sanity, and I don't intend to go this long without a dose ever again.

~Stephanie

What's in a Name?

One year ago today, I found out I was pregnant with Baby Elle. A chemical pregnancy/miscarriage in April 2024 and my allergy to believing good things kept my reaction on a very short, cynical leash.

To be honest, I don't feel a connection between Baby Elle and the baby who lived in my stomach, even though I eventually allowed myself to be joyful about the pregnancy. The person whose booty made my right ribs ache does not seem like the same person who laughs when I shake my head and say "kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss!" She was very considerate in the womb: never woke me up, didn't give me nausea or tummy stretch marks, kicked reassuringly whenever I started to question if she was okay. Still, I was hesitant to ascribe personality to her because I didn't really know her, so it didn't feel respectful.

On the outside, Elle is not exactly "considerate." She fusses if she's left alone for more than 20–90 seconds and wakes us up many times during the wee hours. I will say she still has a habit of sighing or twitching whenever I worry about her while she sleeps, which is nice. When she isn't feeling lonely, she's very sweet and chipper. She is the queen of eye contact. She is generous with her smiles. She actively tries to cope with discomfort (although she does often fail) and is a delight to take places, from the Honeybee Festival to Garrett and Nia's wedding. She does get impatient and vocal when frustrated (e.g., trying to crawl), but same, girl.

When I look at the pregnancy test or pictures of me pregnant, it doesn't feel like "Elle" in there. Maybe that's because we didn't settle on her name until right before she was born? (And we didn't settle on her middle name until they asked us in the hospital and we realized we knew.)

Although, in a way, Gabrielle has been named for a very long time 🙂 She's named after Gabe, yes, but may I present to you an excerpt from a post on another blog, before Gabe and I even became boyfriend and girlfriend.




(The other name was Kendra, but unfortunately that one died due to the classic "no, because I knew someone with that name" protest from Gabe.)

If Baby Elle's first name is for Gabe and all of these folks that I love, her middle name, Ember, is for me. Ember is the name of the main character in the Fire Faery Story, which I've been working on since I was twelve years old. The other characters were originally based off of friends (including the Ellie, Jesse, and my sister referenced in Gabrielle), but Ember was based off of me.

Gabrielle Ember Meter. Your name is full, but I know your God-crafted soul is fuller, more beautiful, and more beloved than our human minds can even imagine.

~Stephanie

The Rise of Brunette Superwoman

There are a lot of things I DON'T want this post to be.

I DON'T want it to be an endorsement for having kids as a way to level up.

I DON'T want it to be a negation of all my past Brunette Superwoman revelations.

I DON'T want it to be a post that ages badly because I'm so new and naive in the world of parenting.

But lately...it kind of feels like Brunette Superwoman has actually shown up.

It took me years (and blog posts like this and this) to come to terms with the fact that my life won't magically be taken over and completed by a super version of myself. My life will only ever be lived by me, as fumbling and inconsistent and non-super as I am.

But a couple of months ago, I took Baby Elle for a walk outside by myself. I assembled the stroller, got her into it, and walked around with the human I had created. My body felt good. The baby wasn't crying. I was doing something I'd seen mothers do for years and thought, "Wow. Look how together she is."

Now, was I together? Not...really. But I HAD done something that really intimidated me, and I had just DONE it. I hadn't dithered about it. I hadn't let myself get overwhelmed or down. I had decided that it would be good for us to go for a walk, and I had made it happen without any help. I was living my tiny dream, and it made me feel so strong. Empowered.

That was mostly an isolated incident. Life has felt very overwhelming on the day-to-day. There is always laundry and dishes and never quick enough lunch food and I've actually had to write "brush my teeth" on my to-do list.

But recently, I had to have a postpartum procedure to deal with some scar tissue. It involved being chemically cauterized down there with silver nitrate. I was very aware that it was going to hurt. A few months ago, a procedure like that would have kept me up at night for—at minimum—a week before the appointment. I would've been panicking to Gabe daily and sweating on the way to the obgyn.

However, none of that was the case. I made the appointment myself, had completely normal days leading up to it, drove myself to the appointment, did not sweat in the waiting room, and endured without making a sound.

Did it hurt a lot? Oh yeah. But since becoming a mother, there's just...there's like, a LOT that sucks. There's a LOT that's hard, a LOT that I don't want to do—and I just have to do it anyway. Giving birth was hard. Healing postpartum was hard. Nursing was hard. Getting no sleep was hard. Giving up virtually all my "me time" is hard. Accepting that I'll often be covered in spit up is hard. Not reacting in anger when my child head butts me is hard. Smiling and saying, "that happens sometimes" when she poops all over the new diaper, changing table, and clothes mid-diaper change is hard.

And I just have to do it anyway.

Until the silver nitrate procedure, I hadn't noticed this; I hadn't been feeling like Brunette Superwoman, but as I sat on the crinkly paper with a blue sheet draped across my lap, I couldn't believe how nonchalant I felt. I wasn't scared of the pain. I certainly wasn't looking forward to it, but something about the last three months had BROKEN me in a way that unleashed a new level of It is What It Is.

And "broken me" is exactly what I mean. New parenthood shares some real similarities with torture, like sleep deprivation, sensory overload, loss of autonomy, and the sheer relentlessness of it all. There's a lot of trying really hard and failing. There's a lot of doing the right thing and haven't it make no difference at all. It kind of destroys you. It is trial by fire. It is leaping off a building and building your parachute on the way down. There is so much that I'm not afraid of anymore, because I've lived a lot more of "but did you die?" than I ever have before.

I will never, ever be the same again after the last three months, but I've had to put myself back together stronger. I don't mean that I'm an amazing parent, but that I'm STILL HERE, and that takes a lot some days.

In a way, Brunette Superwoman DID take over. I don't feel like I chose to become her as much as Old Me straight up died and something else rose from the ashes like a phoenix. Or like a really bedraggled duck trying its best.

If "Brunette Superwoman" is a character with perfect hair and muscles who has it all together, then I'm certainly not her. But if she's tough and brave and confident and willing to face the impossible for someone she loves, then, guys...

She may have arrived.

~ Stephanie

The Riskiest Post to Date

I am cripplingly aware that the "best parents" are people who don't have kids yet, which makes me self-conscious/embarrassed/hesitant to post anything parenting- or baby-related that Gabe and I have been talking about. We don't actually know what we're doing, and the likelihood is so high that I'm setting myself to fail or to write things that will discourage me when I look back on them years later.

Since I was twelve, I've kept a Valentine's Day Journal where I chronicle each Valentine's Day, and in 2020, I started saying, "Maybe this is the last Valentine's Day just the two of us!" and every year, I'd look back on that, still childless, and feel bitter and discouraged. If I now put into writing our goals and plans and hopes and parenting theories, then I have a checklist with which to give myself a failing grade in as little as 12–24 months (not to mention people often feel they have the right to critique, and that's exhausting).

However. This blog is called "Becoming Me," and since its inception in 2019, it has been the place where I record the thoughts I'm having and changes I'm making with regard to evolving as a person. Upgrading to "Mom" is probably THE BIGGEST change I'm ever likely to make. It would be insane not to process my thoughts and struggles here.

So, here I go, opening myself up to critique from all of y'all and, even worse, Future Me.

Gabe and I went away last weekend to plan: books to read, birth plan, courses to take, boundaries that are important to us, parenting ideas, etc. Most of that doesn't warrant a lot of unpacking. The books we ordered were Good Inside; Boundaries in Marriage; Hunt, Gather, Parent; and Simplicity Parenting. The birth plan basically boils down "I want to be left alone and given the freedom to listen to my body." The courses we signed up for are "Built to Birth," a Red Cross infant CPR class, and a giant on-demand course called Parent Prerequisite that has videos on everything you could possibly want the first year.

The more interesting, fun, and risky conversations surrounded boundaries that are important to us, and our general stab at parenting philosophy. I think this post will be about the second one.

The Airbnb where we stayed had a fire pit and s'mores supplies, so we sat by the fire, ate, and brainstormed on paper. No goal, limits, or sorting at first, just things that were important to us or phrases that felt foundational. The page became littered with things like "you are loved," "independent play," "psychologically, meltdowns cannot be teachable moments," and "listen to your body." It was fun letting our minds unfurl and seeing where we agreed or brought something brand-new to the conversation.

After brainstorming and talking, we took some time by ourselves to take a break, read, whatever. I ended up sorting the brainstorm session into four categories, which are like a draft of our parenting pillars/philosophy. It is those that I'm going to record here, knowing that we know nothing 🤣

Healthy Religion
- You are loved.
- God is powerful and mysterious.
- God works through people.
- Know thyself.
- "God made you special, and he loves you very much."

Listen to Your Body
- Independent play
- Baby-led weaning
- Food/eating is neutral.
- Allow risks, remove hazards.
- We don't talk about other people's bodies.
- Your body belongs to you (and God).

Mental Freedom
- Your boundaries matter.
- Imagination
- Reading
- Independent play
- There are different types of intelligence.
- Sharing is a choice.
- You can do hard things.

Emotional Intelligence
- Regulation tools
- Meltdowns are not teachable moments.
- You can be mad, but you can't be mean.
- All feelings are welcome; all behaviors are not.
- Everyone is responsible for their own feelings.

I'm literally sweating putting all this out there XD Which, I know, is a choice. Like, I could just not say any of this out loud.

*stares at the wall and nods*

But here we are.

My plan is to write a post about each of the four categories to help myself think through what I mean. There's also the added benefit that, if you're reading this, we want you in our baby's life, and being on the same page can only make that richer and smoother for everyone ☺️

Here's to publicly diving into a sea of ignorance and naïveté. *raises bottle of coconut Bai water*

~Stephanie

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

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

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.

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 :)