Packet of Wildflower Seeds

As someone plagued with self-doubt, I have long envied those who appear so confident. I regularly question my parenting decisions, my career choices, my faith...you get the idea. My doubts would make me uncomfortable, but on top of that, the very fact that I had those doubts in the first place made me feel inferior. If I were a better mom, I reasoned, I would be secure in my decisions. If I were a true Christian, I believed, I wouldn't have so many questions. While I was unpacking this at counseling one time, my therapist interrupted me. "You are not the type of person who will ever stop having questions." She proceeded to describe her understanding of my personality. She noted that I am inquisitive, which means I happily read about novel ideas. Afterward, I will process them to determine if I should discard them or incorporate them into my belief system. I believe in science and research, so I will seek out data to inform my decisions. Research changes, so my beliefs may

Last month I watched a documentary about the prevalence of eating disorders in the climbing world. Perhaps it isn't surprising given the nature of the sport: you have to haul yourself up a wall, and it seems easier to do that if there's less of you to haul up. The athletes in the documentary described the devastating effects of the illness on their lives, though. Many of them experienced organ failure, and all of them continue to have problematic relationships with food even after treatment. I watched the documentary and nodded in agreement every time someone said the culture needed to change. I shuddered when one young athlete described being on the verge of kidney failure.  A small voice also whispered, "why can't you have that dedication?" Yes, I was actually jealous of people with eating disorders.  Is it any wonder that horrid thought could have crept into my mind given the emphasis that society places on being slender and "beautiful?" For me, the p

People have varying reactions when they learn that you have, in the past, engaged in self injury.  Loved ones often ask you to promise that you will never do it again. Since it is impossible to predict the future, and I don't like to make promises I'm not confident I can keep, I politely reply that I will reach out for help when I need it - but I can't make any guarantees.  Some people don't want to hear it, including those who don't believe you should have talked about it in the first place. It's personal, it's ugly, it's shameful, and it should be kept to yourself.  Then there are the ones who have known about it so long, they no longer react. They may sigh or roll their eyes, but then they turn away. Maybe they are in pain, too, and it is a protective mechanism. Maybe they've become numb after all these years.  Or maybe, a tiny voice says, they no longer care about you. Would anything make them care again? Those insidious thoughts inspired the poe

A couple months ago, when I shared that I was struggling, a handful of individuals took issue with the fact that I included “suicidal ideation” in my confession.  Suicidal ideation doesn’t have to mean that you are suicidal or that you have a plan, which was why I chose those words. The extent of my despair was that the pain was sometimes overwhelming enough that I wished I could fall asleep and not wake up. My intention was misinterpreted, though, and some people assumed I was a danger to myself or others. I was told that if I had such feelings, I should share them privately and keep them away from public scrutiny. Now, I am very fortunate that I have friends and family members who support me unconditionally. I could have reached out to them individually and gotten help. What about those who don’t know where to turn? What if someone hasn’t disclosed their illness yet but recognizes they need assistance? Why can’t they ask for that help publicly?  It’s considered perfectly acceptable t

 The past couple months have been a bit of a roller coaster. Allow me to share the ride with you. As you possibly know, my anxiety was increasing throughout the spring. I made no secret of that. In fact, I reached out for help rather publicly. Some people didn't approve of that. The following are comments that were made to me by various individuals: You should reach out to someone in person, but don't share it publicly. You don't want to damage your professional reputation. A parent could be nervous to have their child in the room with you. Why do you even want to share that on social media? Don't post anything you wouldn't want in the newspaper. It could go viral. I was raised not to air my dirty laundry. It would be hard to defend. It would be a distraction to the students. Keep it positive. When I started this blog several years ago, one of my earliest posts detailed my desire to help others by sharing my reality. It has been a form of therapy for me, too. I slow

  We have big news They announced out of the blue And I joked that they were going to tell use you were dead But while I said it in jest, They did, in fact, tell us you were gone And just like that, I had to process the loss - All the things we had accomplished, all the memories and plans for the future Gone I was heartbroken And angry But no one asked how I felt And no one else seemed to feel the same pain I was told to smile and move on As if your demise was no more noteworthy than a change in the weather As if people weren't spewing venom in your absence Saying you deserved to die And maybe you should've been gone a long time ago But I did as I was told As I always do While trying to honor your legacy I pondered how to move on without you And eventually the pain dulled And the bleeding stopped But sometimes I remember Everything that was lost And how I was denied a chance to mourn And I cry again In secret Alone

If you are like me, you are struggling with the realization that we are about to hit the one year mark since the pandemic changed our lives in dramatic and unexpected ways. When we first began quarantine, I, like so many others, set forth some new goals for myself. This anniversary seems like a good time to evaluate my progress on these goals. Learn French - I can count to ten and say "I don't speak French." I keep repeating the same "basics" lessons on Duolingo. CHECK. Finish the scrapbooks I intended to give my friends as Christmas gifts - I added stickers to each of them. Both friends have since had babies, meaning I have more material I need to add before I gift them. CHECK. Organize the house and improve storage - I donated our crib to my coworker so it is no longer taking up space in the attic. My husband chucked some broken furniture out the second-floor window. CHECK. Make progress on my reading list  - I finally returned the book my boss lent me a year

I can't remember the last time I believed I was "good" at something. I played softball for several years. I enjoyed practice, but during the games, I literally prayed that the ball would not come to me. I was afraid I would mess up the play, and everyone would see how bad I was. I avoid playing games that require more skill than luck. I am afraid that the other players will see how stupid I really am or - perhaps worse - I will be reminded of my shortcomings. Every time I got a good grade on a test, paper, or project, I didn't think I was smart or a good student. I was afraid that I'd fail the next assignment and my charade would be revealed. My friend once asked me to sing with her for a talent show. Wanting to help her, I at first said yes. When we had our first practice, I was afraid to sing in front of her. How could I let the entire school hear how bad I was? I know all the things I was bad at: swimming, playing the flute, designing science experiments, inter

I had this one friend in high school. Although we didn't talk often about significant issues, I socialized with her frequently. Though we went to separate colleges, we invited each other to parties and communicated online regularly. This continued after college - up until a certain point. This girl met a boy. He was quiet in person, but online he was very vocal about his opinions. My friend soon adopted his views and started to share them as well. At first, they were tentative suggestions. Then they became loud proclamations. They included such beliefs as "if you do abc, then you are a bad Christian," and "if you do xyz, then you are a bad mother." She was the type of person to say that my depression was the result of too little exercise, saffron, and Jesus. After years of declining communication and an increasing number of these posts, I decided to unfriend her. "Couldn't you just unfollow her?" You may ask. Indeed, that is an option on social med

The other day I was looking at pictures of puppies in shelters, and I came across a boxer. In addition to being incredibly cute, he reminded me of my optometry school roommate's boxer. His name was Oscar, and I loved him. I am less confident in my feelings about his owner. I just don't know what my life would have been like if I had never met her. During the brief time our paths intersected, AL impacted me in unpredictable ways. It all started in botany class. I sat in the front row but off to the side; I placed my purse beside me to discourage anyone from sitting near me. AL walked in and sat at the opposite side of the table, and one of the first things that she said to me was that she liked my purse. She continued to be friendly and chat with me. I hadn't taken any classes with her before, so her openness surprised me. She was blonde, thin, and pretty, a girl you knew was extremely popular in high school. I didn't expect someone like her to take any interest in a shy