THE DIRTY ON WHOLE 30.

I’ve done a Whole30 before. It’s everything you’ve heard: time consuming in the kitchen, withdrawals that may cause you to lash out at loved ones, and significant weight loss accompanied by an eventual energy gain. And, when that thirty days is up and you engulf an entire sleeve of Oreos (what?! They were organic!), you will think your body is destroying itself from the inside out. A full week of comfort eating will be the only way to feel normal again.

On top of that, those extra pounds that took 30 days to lose, BAM! They’re back, helped along by sudden access into the land of quick and easy carb-options for dinner (pizza anybody?). And the worst part, after my body adjusted to 30 days without processed sugar and white flour, I gave myself eczema by returning to my old eating habits so quickly. The eczema lasted for over a year! And I had it on my face! Ugh. Whole 30. Worst ever.

So, why in the hell am I on day fourteen of another Whole30?! It’s the caveman diet. No, literally, you can have the thinking skills of a paleolithic man while eating this way. I am not counting calories or portion controlling my meals. I’m just cooking with the options that I have and making sure I feel full. I don’t even have to scan ingredients, because I know anything that comes packaged is basically a no-go. Am I in the kitchen cooking for the majority of the day? You would think yes, but I have tweaked this Whole30 to fit my agenda.

First of all, my husband is joining me this time around. It was actually his idea. Twelve years ago I quit smoking cold turkey because John suggested we both kick the habit, strength in numbers. Also I wanted to impress him... I am still the same girl.

We begin our day with a can of sardines. I can’t even call this breakfast because it feels wrong. This is something John has done for awhile. I chastised him for his disgustingly fishy smells while I wolfed down syrup-laden pancakes (what?! They were homemade!). But, I LOVE simplicity and nothing requires less effort than pulling open a can and eating. Bonus reward, no extra dishes to wash afterwards. Perfection. We pair our sardines with a hot cup of coffee, complete with a dollop of coconut oil. I feel satiated and have energy that pushes me through to mid-day, which means I’m not heating up the cold coffee left overs in the Chemex to keep my eyes open.

At lunch time, I make us a meal fit for a caveman-Thanksgiving. It is all combined in a single bowl and tastes like heaven . That is the saving grace; roasted squash (spaghetti, butternut, pumpkin, crookneck) or potatoes (sweet, yams, yukon) used as a base. Slow cooked tomatoes with artichoke hearts, mushrooms, bacon, eggs and herbs dumped on top, with a handful of fresh kale, chard, or arugula. It’s easy to mix it up and also to prepare an abundant amount of base carbohydrates for next day’s lunch. John comes home for his break and we feast.

Dinner is being completely disrespected. We juice the crap out of some veggies and suck it down through a straw, while distracting ourselves with a video game. Realistically, it’s not that bad tasting, but attaching it’s consumption to Ms. PacMan tricks me into enjoying the process. We use celery, cucumbers, lemons, and green apples as a base. We change the leafy green depending on what we have on hand: kale, chard, collard greens, spinach. That was the hardest part in the beginning, I guess because dinner feels like more than a habit. It is our custom, or what is left of our accumulative cultures, that seems to flourish as we share a meal together. If I hope to successfully keep some of these new habits after our Whole30 has ended, I will have to incorporate that feeling of family camaraderie during lunch as opposed to dinner.

The deal breaker for me will be sugar. As a steadfast rule, I should be saying no to sweets in all forms right now. By meeting my cravings for simple sugars, with protein, I am rewiring my brain (or so I have been told). But, I have already caved on this, by freezing ripe bananas and blending them with coconut milk and unsweetened cocoa. Mondays are our once a week family movie night, which includes eating ice cream. As I write this with Monday looming, I will make an extra effort not to let my cravings command me, and skip the fake ice cream until after our Whole30 is up.

The ultimate goal (for me) is feeling better. After eliminating so many foods that I ordinarily eat, I have an opportunity to introduce things back into my diet and gauge how I feel (dairy, grains, legumes). I am not quick to judge a food based on one day of reactions. I have frequent headaches, bloating, and mood swings, so I know that my gut is not happy about a lot that I am ingesting. After kicking my two main food evils out (processed sugar and flour), I hope to have a clean enough slate to determine if anything else is messing with me.

After all this is said and done, I hope to make great strides towards addressing my adrenal fatigue. Please read Angi’s brilliant previous post, "If you're a woman, you probably have adrenal fatigue. Here's how to fix it.". I know that we as mothers are faced with the insatiable needs of others and can’t imagine giving up on life’s small pleasures to carry us through the day. I have found myself in tears this past week when I realized that I couldn’t resolve my frustration over a bowl of cold cereal or drown my emotions in a glass of wine (I don’t actually drink that horrible stuff, but writing “glass of bourbon” sounded too raging alcoholic…). Crazy thing is, not having a crutch to rely upon made me deal with it, right then and there. It blew my mind how conscious that choice felt; be a pissed off mess or have power over my response.

Whole30 is not long term. To me, it is an extreme elimination diet that I am using to expedite detecting what foods mess with me. It isn’t a sustainable lifestyle. If anything, it sucks bad enough that once I reintroduce rice or beans, I might get that pleasure release I need to continue making better eating choices. I would kill a man for a taco right now, but I’m looking ahead. Once I can eat the things that make my body thrive, I have goals: I would like to begin a yoga practice (Tara) and begin supplementing the vitamins and nutrients I can’t get from my diet with other methods (Angi). I am so thankful for my Mindful + Mama women and this chapter in my life that I get to share with others (not to mention the accountability that just might keep me away from the cookies this time).

-Emily

TEACHING OUR CHILDREN THE POWER OF SELF TALK.

I've got these two amazing little boys who happen to have incredibly different temperaments. The oldest, in line with the definition of first born, is more serious. He plays by the rules; we don't have to worry about him acting reckless or taking advantage of others. He’s quick to notice shifts in our voices and details others might miss. His brain is methodical. He's empathetic but less sympathetic, because he's had to grin and bear the disappointments of Lego creations being destroyed, by two different toddlers, for several years now. He's observed the inequity of everyone getting a jelly bean after dinner, even if they didn't finish their meals, because mom and dad didn't have the mental stamina to withstand screaming. He's been punished for hitting the little brother that's wanting to be hit, asking for it in every way. He's felt the rejection of a parent who can't hold him because a baby is crying. Like his Mama, an oldest child myself, we pick ourselves up by our bootstraps and just deal with it, because we’ve accepted that life is notoriously unfair and we expect those around us to do the same, thus the lack of sympathy.

Then there’s the younger boy, who manages to find the giggle in every situation. The world is a friendly place, where if one asks for help or hugs, they're likely to get it. He requires more affection, but reciprocates in kind. If I stub my toe, he's the first to put his hand on my back and ask, “Are you okay, Mama?” in a gentle voice, sweet as honey. My oldest son let me know when he was four, and I’d tripped and fallen in a tearful heap on the ground, that “children don't ever want to see grown ups cry,” and that was that. A sentiment true and profound for a child of his age; sensitivity of a different breed.

I've had to push my eldest to play soccer each year. He's not innately aggressive and struggles when he doesn't feel adept. Plus, his life experiences have taught him to fall back in the face of challenges from others, because it's unlikely things will work in his favor anyway (i.e. aforementioned chronic Lego destruction). The truth is that he's a fantastic player, but his fear of failure and unwillingness to confront hold him back during every game. He relinquishes his upper hand to other players each time the ball comes his way. He's got the skill set, but he doesn't have the confidence to back it up.

The youngest isn't the hardest worker. He's learned that love is unconditional, and knows that even if he doesn't give it his all, life is still pretty peachy. He's a less than mediocre soccer player, with little to no skill set. I'm not sure he has ever even looked for the ball on the field, but he chases the crowd around, grinning from ear to ear. In his mind, the amount of fun he's having is in direct proportion to how good of a player he is, therefore he's the best player on the team.

Jen Sincero, who has put out a couple great books (see below), says “our ‘realities’ are make believe- whatever we make ourselves believe, we experience,” a simplistic yet mind blowing concept. My eight year old does not believe he is a good soccer player, and as long as he rolls with that mindset, his fate is sealed. I won't be surprised if the youngest goes on to bend it like Beckham, because he already believes that he is.

It's worth sitting down and questioning which beliefs you hold that are limiting. If analyzing the whys is important for your personality type, then do that too, but sometimes just the realization and subsequent behavioral shift are enough to be life changing. And, know that the opposite is true as well, if you believe you are amazing at something, then that's your reality.

As the eldest sibling, I identify with my oldest son’s struggles. I see him through the eyes of my eight year old self. I remember falling back in other ways, to prevent disappointment and rejection. There were so many things I never tried, because I didn't want to lose the label of “smart” or “good.” Even still, I refrain from attempting things I'm not sure I'll succeed at. It's tough to think about how much further I may have gone and how much more joy I'd have experienced if I hadn't given such weight to how others perceived me.

Helping my son through this is imperative, so that fear doesn't dictate his future experiences. It's my duty to protect him yet push him, sporadically allowing discomfort, so that he can acclimate to it.

The whole realization and process of seeing your own personal fears surface in your children is strange yet beautiful. It carries a weight, a responsibility, but it offers the chance to be introspective and to make right our own perceived inadequacies. In sculpting my child, I heal myself, one of the many gifts of parenthood. I find self forgiveness for not becoming who I’d wanted to, and grant myself grace because I am but a product of my upbringing. It is no more my fault than it is my parents for having me before my sister. My fear of rejection has evolved from being a weakness to an obstacle that I have the choice to learn from.

I hope that my son will find the gifts in my misgivings, in the parenting I couldn't give him while I nursed his little brother and sister, when I was too tired to play. There are such strengths to be found in forced independence. My other children will have their own sets of challenges from being the middle and the youngest. My intention is to teach them that every step of the way, they have a choice about who they want to be and that mere belief can change the outcome of their futures. And, of course, that the obstacles of who they are and how they were raised, will be the gifts that pave the way.

-Angi

ROAD TRIP- PART 2.

On the first full day away from my kids, the bewildered task of determining what I could do came at me in waves. I awoke from a foreign thing, something called “adequate sleep,” and slowly stretched from inside the confinements of my warm sleeping bag. My eyes slowly adjusted to the colorful art adorning Athena’s walls in her Cottonwood home. I rolled onto my belly to meet the gaze of Charity. She looked as leisurely perplexed as I felt. We crawled from the well rested embrace of our beds and embarked on a day of self. Breasts were tended to, and hot coffee was drunk in marvelous silence. We ate breakfast al fresco, at an adorable cafe, and meandered around the shops downtown until it wasn't too early anymore to have a beer. It felt oddly familiar, this continuity of independence. I could almost reach out and touch a person I had been, but she had known so much less than I did now.

Gratitude lifted with the elevation as we headed toward the hills of Jerome. We found treasures in the local shops and ducked into historical landmarks and sipped cool beers and stood in the wind on a ledge overlooking the growing twinkle of lights in the city below. I snuck away on several walks or fell behind in a store while the girls went ahead. I basked in moments of complete un-needed-ness.

Later that night, the pinnacle of our trip would be born on the lips of a drunk man. On the patio of a bar back in Cottonwood, we heard described a rarity called Childs, a hot spring hidden away down a dusty, beaten-up road. We took mental note of the obscure landmarks he mentioned and headed out early the next morning, eyeballs peeled for any recollection of what the old guy had spoken of. We rounded a bend, and felt sure that the road to our right, jagged with ravines and strewn with broken glass and shattered tumbleweeds, had to be the way to the Hot springs. We crawled along over the bumps and dips at a steady 5 miles per hour. As the landscape, unchanging, rolled past, Charity and I scrambled from the confinements of the car and ran ahead down the road like wild coyotes. We howled at the wide open spaces and kicked dust up as we jumped from tiny boulders sticking out of the dirt. Sara halted behind us at a particularly deep gouge in the road. Charity and I scrambled back to the car and went to work, filling the voids with rocks, to even out the way forward. The sun was just beginning to feel hot against our bare skin, as Sara maneuvered her Forester through another patch of rough road. We were too excited and the day was too young to feel exhausted. We eventually returned to the car, music blaring from opened windows, as well as a succession of feet, arms and faces. Anticipation filled each of our chests as we inched on. Suddenly the road veered to the right, our chins raised to see what lie ahead… We were back on the same stretch of highway we had turned off of an hour ago. Tears of laughter, ran over our dusty cheeks. We had gone nowhere and everywhere on what we deemed “the training road”. Afterwards I felt sure that the only way to Childs was making the mistake of that road before getting to the correct one. Which we did.

On the (real) road to Childs, a sheer drop off at our right provided ample views of buttes strewn with neon yellow flowers and a densely hidden gorge wedged between mountains. We stopped to peek over the cliff and move around. My dear friend, Athena, insisted that I paint. I was reluctant but try not to question the brilliance of this woman who seems to have an omniscient knowing about most things. She set me up with a water coloring picnic and let me be. No one rushed me or bogarted my supplies, or upturned my water. I painted the landscape before me and felt filled to the brim with peace, quietly inspecting the minute shapes of leaves as I attempted to replicate them. The girls clambered back from nowhere as I packed up and we continued on our way.

Two hours later we approached the camp area of Childs, a friendly sign alerting us that clothing was optional gave us a moment to reflect before Adam and Eve approached us from the shade. She had huge grapefruits (no, actual grapefruits...) to share with us. “Just follow the piles of rocks,” she said simply, pointing her tanned arm up beside the Verde river and into the great unknown. We set off, a bit behind schedule after our journey, but practically there. The river poured past us like green velvet. The light bounced off of rock cliffs illuminating the depths of those dark luscious waters. It was breathtaking.

We spotted our first cairn of rocks and picked up our pace. The second pile was off the beaten path but we trudged over large river rocks in search of our destination. We reached a second road that cut back up into the mountain toward the campsite. We had missed it somehow. We doubled back to search, the four of us spread out. Nothing. The sun had just ducked behind a mountain, stealing with it what was left of our day. I panicked. I headed out alone to brave the wild trees lining the shore, always keeping the river in view. Feeling beat, and tired, I almost gave up when a shamble of colors peeking through the thick mesh of willow trees caught my eye. I shoved forward through the dense plants and there, sitting on the shelf of a cliff directly across the river, was the hot spring. “I found it!!”

The girls appeared within minutes. We were discussing where to forge the river when a gentleman came striding out of the thigh deep torrent of water ahead. This was it. The water was freezing. We piled shoes and bags onto our heads and clutched to skirts and dry clothes and free hands as we painstakingly inched across the water. We followed a narrow trail along the cliff, back down the river, and rounded a corner until we were on a wide ledge. On our left, fifteen feet below us, the Verde river tore past. Up ahead an ample gash in the exposed rock cliff was filled with steaming water. I suddenly felt the (literal) weight of my insecurities as clothes were excitedly peeled off.

A brick room with an exposed ceiling, sat furthest at the back of the ledge. Voices and more steam lifted into the air above. I hopped into the warm water with bra and underwear on, feeling like a trespasser in this natural world. But the four of us together, buoyant bodies pleasurably embraced in nature, were quick to forget our cares. A baby’s faint cry pierced the air from the inner dwelling, followed by a man’s calm voice and the tinkling laughter of a woman.

Another traveler joined us in the hot spring and commented that the hottest spring was found within the tiny building. Just then a noise caused us to turn our attention towards the cliff. The woman had emerged. Her naked body strode to the ledge where a bucket was. She met our gazes with a friendly acknowledgment before bowing and lifting the bucket to her chest. Ogling, we watched as she poured the cold contents of the river over her. Exposed to the vast world, ample curls of dark hair flourished from beneath her arms and between her legs. The freezing water halted the mist veiling her body. Haphazardly she wiped the droplets clinging to her. I could not hide my riveted attention towards her. It was that red carpet moment, when the limo door is opened and out of it the most beautiful woman in existence commands all eyes on her. Only she is twisted and pinned, and picked. She is shaved, primered and dyed. She is stuffed, detached and packaged. My eyes were overwhelmed by the full force of this woman taking up space in a world that only seconds ago I felt I needed to shrink in. Confidence seems a meager word to describe the herald of this woman; not apologizing to anyone for her imperfections or lack of adherence to social norms, she was filling every corner of her own body with complete abandon. I’ve never been more impressed by someone’s beauty.

I think she may have changed all of us a little on that trip. After their departure, the four us took up residence inside. The walls were riddled with a mix of painted colors, quotes, doodles, and other offerings of art. I sunk into the shallow scalding water and imagined my insecurities vaporizing into the air with each wave of steam. Athena called us back to reality in time to make it home through the growing dark. Arizona gifted me the permission to feel beautiful by a different standard. I had traveled down the wrong road for the majority of my life to get to this place, and now I can return to it by heart, anytime I want. Emily

FINDING YOUR PURPOSE IN THE MIDST OF MOTHERHOOD.

There you are, again, sitting on the floor, neck deep in the drudgery that is rumpled laundry waiting to be folded and distributed to its respective dressers, wondering if there is more to life than this? Post kids, finding fulfillment becomes extra challenging. There are rewarding activities that come from a little self indulgence (going to hot yoga or reading self help books in the bathtub… oh, is that just me??), but I'm not referencing that type of fulfillment, I'm talking about actual purpose.

Many of us, men and women alike, will never even make it to the self exploration required to identify our purposes in life. Kids or no kids, it's a struggle that requires time, intention, and introspection. The few, the lucky, will seem to come out of utero primed to do what they were born to, and then there's the rest of us.

It's easy to get lost in momming and never make it out, sorta like when you dress your pajamas up with a jacket, call it an outfit, proceed to wear it all day, and then roll right back into bed with them still on. Self neglect is widespread in the realm of parenting, and it's a sure fire way to stunt growth. Many of us will go to our graves never having found our reason for living.

This is probably going to hurt a little, but your soul purpose (the play on words is intentional) is not “only” to be a mother. Ouch, I said it. Don't hate me. I say “only” not as a way to condescend or minimize the immeasurably important role that is motherhood, just to express that there is more. Let's break this down logistically for a minute, somewhere between 80-90% of women have children during the course of their lives. That's the bulk of the population. The world needs variety to make it go round, child rearing is more or less a given in a woman’s life. That's a whole lot of us filling the same bracket. Birthing and raising children is a requirement for our species’ survival. Yes, it has purpose, loads of it, but as far as being your reason for living, unlikely. The reason you're alive, yes- you, me, and everyone else, but that's completely different from your purpose in living. Make no mistake, a solid two decades of our lives will be dedicated to sculpting and nurturing our children. Flour, water, and yeast don't make bread unless crafted by our two hands. And, fostering the growth of our children is purpose laden, fundamental stuff. Decent humans make for a decent world.

But, here's the problem with parenting being a soul purpose- It ends. At some point, your children leave the nest, and your work is over. You'll forever worry about them and field the occasional phone call, but assuming you did your job right, they won't take up residence in your basement or look to you for constant support, post adulthood. So, who are you after that?

Unintentional parenthood came early for some, and that's put a strain on personal progress. Not to say that we don't learn copious amounts about ourselves during the process of child rearing. Strengths are identified that we never knew we had and priorities are shifted in ways they'd never have been otherwise. But, parenting also serves as a major distraction from the individual woman that resides somewhere in there, amidst the boo boo kissing, dinner making, soccer games, school drop offs, and dishes. The focus is on others. Much of learning yourself, as a woman, happens with the mistake laden, self indulgent and self absorbed craziness that is your entire 20’s. Motherhood and womanhood are two exclusive beasts, with vastly different types of growth inherent to each.

Others have chosen parenthood early. It’s a natural social progression to marry and start a family. If you were blessed enough to meet the yin to your yang in high school, that process is accelerated, and the aforementioned exploratory 20’s may have bypassed you. You might have checked right into motherhood or a career that fell into your lap, and has thus far made all of the choices for you. Pursuing your passion can be scary stuff and feel like an overwhelming responsibility. For most women, this isn't a conscious choice, but a subconscious avoidance. Knowing what feeds you as a woman is, for many, life’s greatest mystery, and entertaining the idea of figuring it out can be so mind boggling that it leads to paralysis.

Generally speaking, it's nice if you can identify what makes you tick before you procreate, but things don't always come in pretty little packages with perfect timelines. It's going to be difficult to do your soul searching with a bunch of hungry, dirty diapered toddlers tugging at your apron strings, but it's more than possible. It's imperative. Listen now and listen hard, if you want to lead a truly satisfying life before, during, and/or after children, you have got to identify what the hell your soul was put here to do.

This is always, every single time, going to involve serving others. Being instrumental in the lives of your fellow humans comes in a myriad of forms. Maybe you bring health and confidence by teaching yoga. Maybe you inspire young brains of the world by teaching. Maybe you prepare healthy meals that invite nutrition, or create music that gives a voice to others thoughts. Whatever this thing is, once you acknowledge it, a spark will be ignited that cannot be burned out, and you won't be able to turn your back on it without significant emotional repercussions.

I have a lot of things that I love to do. Decorating makes my heart go pitter patter, exercise lights me up, reading feeds me, cooking and baking warm my soul, but none of these things are IT for me. I exist to accumulate knowledge via reading and life experiences and then dispense that information. It is my raison de vivre. I can't not do it. Anyone who knows me will attest to this. If we’re in the same room, at some point I’m going to unload info that I believe will be of use.

Initially, I went to school for interior design, but towards the end of the program I realized that this field was too aesthetic for me, and centering my life around it felt trite. I resigned to make it a hobby, something to help friends with, and then promptly changed my major to psychology. A year away from a master’s degree in marriage and family therapy, I quit the biz to become a hairstylist. Probably doesn't sound like a smart move given my passions, but at the ripe old age of 27, and in the midst of a struggling marriage that was soon to end, I didn't feel equipped with enough life experiences, patience, or know how to counsel anyone through anything.

Doing hair was creative for me, but never purposeful. My soul found a way to emerge within the constraints of my job, as it often will, and what drove me was the interaction I had with the women in my chair, a captive audience to dispense the aforementioned information to. Two hours of face time lends itself to intimacy. Women who get their hair done with any consistency, spend more uninterrupted personal time truly engaging with their hairstylist than most anyone else. Bonus for the girl who loves talking about relationships and human nature.

After my third child, work became overwhelming, given my propensity for depth in interaction and communication. Between my job and parenting, I didn't have much left to give. I was running on empty. When we moved, I decided to stop doing hair and try my hand at being a stay at home mom.

Care taking fuels me in many ways. I'm a nurturer by nature, but my kids aren't interested in the ramblings of a 40 year old woman or why the mucilage emitted by chia seeds is cleansing to the digestive system.  After almost a year of having minimal outlets for communicating and sharing, angst set in, commingled with a little depression. Facebook and Instagram became unjustifiably interesting, and I often found myself lost in my phone, trying to fill a void with crap that other people were posting to fill their voids, i.e. pictures of dogs cuddling kittens and chalkboard signs for every non monumental event in their children’s lives. Not gonna work. I knew I wasn't feeding my soul, but didn't know how to remedy the situation. Doing hair again, and building a clientele from the ground up, wasn't realistic or financially sensible with three kids, and would land me right back into the exhausted boat I started with. I asked the Universe for an answer, it arrived in the form of blogging. When the inspiration showed up, it was like a sucker punch, swift and clear, stopping me in my tracks. I knew exactly what I needed to do and exactly how to do it. When you identify your passion, it'll hit you hard, there will be no denying it. Blogging may not be the end all be all, but my eyes are opened, and I have unwavering faith that my path will unfold before me if each step I take is conscious and with purpose.

Let's chat about how to work this out for yourself:

1. Be mindful, take moments for yourself to be still and listen. Ask for guidance, whether that's to God, Allah, the Universe, or your spirit guide. This may take time. Ask and ask again. But, you've got to be still to hear the answer. Make that space for yourself. Get off your phone and hide in the closet for five minutes. Go for a run without music. Turn off the lights when you're on a bathroom break. Quiet your mind in the shower. Breathe and listen. No excuses.

2. Pay attention to how you feel when you’re pursuing different endeavors. This requires mindfulness again. Is there anything that you're doing, be it ever so small, that ignites purpose? For me, when I'm talking to people about subjects that evoke passion in me, it's like my brain goes on autopilot, and I'm a bystander to my own words, because my soul is acting through me. It may be different for you, but there should be some sort of spark, a soul’s remembrance if you will, when you're in the zone of pursuing your purpose.

3. Read some books about the subject. See recommendations below.

4. Journal about it.

5. Talk to a friend, brainstorm, voice your deepest ideas and fears. Epiphanies are easily met when putting thoughts into words.

6. If there is a fear holding you back or a contextual issue, list the worst things that could happen if you went for it. And, remember, step one doesn't have to be moving to a third world country to join the Peace Corps. It could be as simple as organizing a food drive at church. Work within the realm of your own world.

7. Know this with complete assuredness, when you open the door to progress and desire, to something meaningful that enhances you and those in your wake, turning your back on fears, you will be doubly rewarded. Doors will fly open all around you. But, you have to take the first courageous step, keeping the fear of failure and inadequacy at bay, or you’ll never even see those doors. The prize of personal risk is progress and nothing halts progress quite like fear. Fear often comes in the form of excuses; “I'm too busy,” “I’m too tired,” “I’m too broke.” Bullshit. This is what you were born for. Get it.

And on that note, I'll leave you.

-Angi

GUILT OR PLEASURE, ROAD TRIP Part 1.

I was intent on ruining my good time as we crested the hills of Tehachapi. For the first three hours of our journey I felt sick to my stomach, a passenger during a drive where I could have contented myself with conversation amongst friends, or enjoyed music. I spent my time instead glancing out at sad dairy cows and tilled-up acres of farmland, consumed with wallowing in my own guilt. I didn’t belong here. I said it over and over. My 15 month old would need me. I had abandoned my family to deal with her misery.

With her natural disposition as an independent woman, and her joyful propensity for adventure, it was Sara’s firm conviction that life would continue on without me, I only had to go. We were now in route, three friends on their way to Arizona. Sara sang along softly to the lyrics as she drove. The wind coming in through a cracked window picked up strands of her golden curls and tossed them freely about in the air.

But I was intent on thinking about John, the kids clambered about him like a tiny mountain as we pulled out of the driveway. “Have a good time.” He had said it endearingly, like he knew the cost of my absence, but my enjoyment would make it a worthy expenditure. I was letting him down. We were headed to Cottonwood, Jerome, Sedona and ultimate freedom. He would have to do it all. The cooking, the cleaning, the butt wiping, the peace making.

The giant white windmills droned silently through the sky and led us to the valley below where we stopped to stretch our legs amongst the Joshua trees. I flung open my door and headed straight out to nowhere. The sand sunk into the backs of my shoes as I walked. I stopped in the thin line of shade provided by a sad excuse for a tree. My breasts ached, filled to capacity with nourishment that my daughter would never receive. I trudged back to the car and grabbed by handheld breast pump. I almost grabbed a container to collect the milk, but of course, there was no need. I popped out a boob in the evening desert air and watched as the white liquid trickled off the end and straight into the sand. This might have sent me over the edge if it wasn’t for another very dear to my heart friend. I watched as she tucked her hands over her own swelling breasts. She asked “Can I use that when you’re done?”

The desperateness that we were both feeling in that moment, she a mother to a year-old child just as I was, I realized we could wallow in our self loathing together, or we could mirror each other’s strength. We both began to laugh at the terrible situation, our liquid gold squandered to the earth like a splattered sacrifice to the journey ahead. Breasts resolved, we looked around us at the alien landscape. It was all here for me, right now. I was suddenly aware of the vacancy that unrelenting responsibility had left. What did I want to fill that space with? That day, absorbed in the now, I chose joy. We darted through the sand past the crooked giant hands of Joshua trees, reaching up out of the ground. We dragged sticks behind us leaving swirls and circles in the sand. I promised not to waste the gift that my family was giving me with this trip. And after that moment, it was an easy promise to fulfill.

As a woman I experienced a plentitude of wealth on that trip; rediscovering the delicacy of solitude, identifying and calmly challenging my social vulnerabilities, and restoring the awareness of my natural beauty by a hippy woman along the shores of the Verde River, (but that’s another story!). My family invested in me, and I returned to them as a more complete person, ready to resolve disputes, slice apples, hose off muddy feet and be loved by my favorite people in the world.

-Emily