OWN YOUR SH*T. OWN YOUR LIFE.

I’m not going to mince words, I’m a bit woo-woo. I’d stake my life on reincarnation, and I practice manifestation on the regular. I believe that, in the words of Neale Donald Walsch, via God (stay with me here), “our thoughts are creative.”

I started reading The Secret years ago and never finished it, but I engulfed every page of The Law of Attraction by Jerry and Esther Hicks, from the first cover to the last. It resonated so hard that I would’ve swallowed that book if I could’ve. It’s far from my first read on spirituality, acting as the icing on the cake, the final stitches that brought the tapestry together, creating a comprehensible masterpiece.

I’ve written about this before, but I want to delve in a bit further, because it’s the most empowering concept of humanity, in my humble opinion. Owning your shit. I'm sprinkling in a little manifestation talk, too. Check out these basic principles of attraction, borrowed from http://www.abraham-hicks.com/lawofattractionsource/teachings_brief, and my elaboration upon each.

1. YOU ARE A PHYSICAL EXTENSION OF THAT WHICH IS NON-PHYSICAL.

Whoa, people. Just whoa. It’s all the same fabric, and we’re all cut from it, but still of it. That’s a miraculous, beautiful concept to ponder. All of our individual and group energies are continuous and congruent, tailor-made to commingle and contribute to that fabric.

2. YOU ARE HERE IN THIS BODY BECAUSE YOU CHOSE TO BE HERE.

Own it. Own your life choices. Once you do this, once you take responsibility for the challenges, the joys, the relationships, you empower yourself to change them as needed. As long as you’re blaming the elusive “other” or are pissed off at the “World at Large”, you’re no longer in the driver’s seat of your life. We can't change the "other" or the "world," only our interactions and responses to them. When we sever our capacity to do that, via anger and blame, life is happening to us instead of for us.

You want to be here. You chose to be here. Your soul has a plan. Quiet the fear and the chatter so you can hear it.

3. THE BASIS OF YOUR LIFE IS FREEDOM; THE PURPOSE OF YOUR LIFE IS JOY.

That’s right. Life isn’t about sucking. It’s about joy, finding and pursuing passion and service to others. Free yourself from a lot of emotional strife by choosing empowerment. Choose empowerment by choosing personal responsibility and gratitude. Be the driver. Own your shit. Love your shit. That one bears repeating: Love your shit. Gratitude is the gift that keeps on giving. Finding thanks for the good, the bad, and the ugly is the path to freedom from struggle, anxiety, depression, and anger. When we allow these experiences to own us, our lives no longer belong to us.

4. YOU ARE A CREATOR; YOU CREATE WITH YOUR EVERY THOUGHT.

This is tough to swallow because we’ve all been through devastating circumstances. Believing that you’ve created those things via your thoughts is where people say adios. I’d like to reframe that to instead express that you’ve created the lesson born from the tragedy or the pain. We’re here to learn. Our souls know what we still need to integrate to become more whole. The ultimate Growth generally is accompanied by discord and discomfort. There is beauty to be found in pain, but you may have to look really hard for it, and that involves making a very powerful and conscious choice to do so.

Your love for this fabric of souls, your universal kin, has influenced your willingness to contribute to that loving energy, to expand it via your human existence. Only in human form can we experience the type of limitations that contribute to such amazing growth. Ego- the struggle is real.

On a smaller scale, I’m sure everyone reading this has had several defining moments when you got sick of your own bullshit and finally pulled the plug, vowing to have a mental shift, and what happened? It changed, didn’t it? You changed. If thoughts are the muscle behind change, positive thoughts are the steroids.

5. ANYTHING THAT YOU CAN IMAGINE IS YOURS TO BE OR DO OR HAVE.

Yeah, I know. It doesn’t feel possible, but that mindset is the problem. Many of us (read all of us) have abundance blocks. Know that you deserve to have what you desire. It’s okay to want a fat bank account, success, or a lovely house, but if you carry subconscious guilt or associations with money, those need to be worked through. A lot of this comes from the attitude surrounding money that you were raised with. If wealth was “bad,” or “greedy,” at the expense of doing what you loved, or only came with “back-breaking” work, that’s a block. If your family belief was that “we just don’t have financial luck," you may still be operating from that headspace. What do you tell yourself about abundance? Think about it. Explore those ingrained, irrational notions.

6. AS YOU ARE CHOOSING YOUR THOUGHTS, YOUR EMOTIONS ARE GUIDING YOU.

This is so important. Fear and love are the dominant emotions. If Fear is the underlying feeling, you can imagine what kind of thoughts you’ll be creating. When we create from Love, for ourselves and others, we’re back at the wheel. Our intentions become pure and our paths cleared. Fear is a self-imposed limitation, a brick wall to progress. We're pretty adept at dressing it up with pragmatism, so it may take some deep examination to uncover camouflaged Fears, like "I'm too old to go back to school," or "We don't have enough money to risk a career change," or "I don't know what I'm passionate about"... You most certainly do, be still, and dig deeper.

7. THE UNIVERSE ADORES YOU FOR IT KNOWS YOUR BROADEST INTENTIONS.

Remember, we are the cloth, and we are cut from the cloth. Of course the Universe adores you. The Universe is you and you are the Universe. No, I’m not high on pot brownies right now. Choose your intentions, shape your life. I set my intentions regularly. This could be as simple as telling myself that we’re going to have a “safe, uneventful, barf-free, tantrum-free car ride,” or "this morning, my kids are going to get ready for school peacefully and quietly, while enjoying one another's company." The key is to say it, believe it, and feel joy while doing so. If you exude anxiety, not gonna work. I close my eyes, do some deep breathing, put a lil’ smile on my face, then tell myself how I want things to go. Be detailed and specific. On my end, it has about a hundred percent success rate and is how I survived 40 hours of travel from Bali with three small children. You can do this several times throughout the day. I find it most effective performed in small increments, relegated to each activity.

8. RELAX INTO YOUR NATURAL WELL-BEING. ALL IS WELL. (REALLY IT IS!)

It doesn’t always feel this way, but the light is there, even when you can’t see it. Trust that you were born to be alright, that things will invariably work out. Just keep moving and believing. The Universe wants what you want. That’s a pretty intense notion, but you wield A LOT of power. What you think you want and what you're putting out, via your thoughts and (often negative) self-talk, can be two vastly different things, so don't take that statement at face value. Listen to the words you tell yourself each day. Be the observer of your own thoughts. You'll learn a lot about what you "want."

9. YOU CAN NOT DIE; YOU ARE EVERLASTING LIFE.

Our souls live on after our bodies are no longer needed. There is purpose to this madness we call Life, to every joy and sorrow. Your soul is constantly integrating the lessons thereof, ever expanding in light and love, continually reincorporating within the fabric.

For the Love of Self, and the Love of Life, go forth and take your power back. You were always meant to drive.

-Angi

CAT PERSON FAN FICTION

This story is written in response to Cat Person, by Kristen Roupenian, published by the New Yorker on December 11th, 2017. 

Robert came home on a Wednesday night babbling to himself. He smelled faintly of Red Vines as he pulled off his Pendleton and threw it across the sofa. Yan jumped down from our shared place at the windowsill and without hesitation began thrusting himself between Robert’s pacing shins.  I took refuge under the coffee table and watched as our human traversed the living room, clearly lost in a thought. He repeatedly licked his thick, flushed lips hidden under an abundance of facial hair. His eyes were narrowed and focused. His hands ran up and down the length of his own torso as Yan mewed, desperate to fulfill Robert’s apparent need to pet.

I anticipated the light kick he would give Yan on his next trip across the room but instead, Yan’s persistence yielded affection. Robert paused at the far wall and stooped down from his giant height to pluck Yan from the ground. “It’s time to get rid of her shit,” he said half to Yan, half to himself. His large clumsy hand pulled a game of Balderdash from the bookshelf and glanced around the room, eyes resting on the Salvador Dali poster above the chair. “I always hated that one.” Then his eyes lowered to mine and as he had done repeatedly over the last eight weeks, he cursed the woman who named me; “Fucking Alice.”

By the next week, he was barely recognizable as the caretaker we’d come to know. The routine of our mornings halted by his frozen leviathan presence in odd places throughout the house. He startled me several times in the hallway, his form paused except for the thud of his thumbs resounding against a glowing screen. Back in the kitchen Yan and I caterwauled incessantly for the Meow Mix fixed in his hand. His eyes were locked, scanning the message on the screen in his other hand. Perplexed, he spoke to himself, trying out some humorous rebuttals, then laughing alone with his ego, he set the box of food down so his thumbs could resume their relentless flutter, and walked out of the kitchen. After he left for work I pushed the box down from the counter and Yan and I ate the spilled contents off of the linoleum floor.

I had come to know Robert as all house cats know their caregivers, too intimately. I found myself locked behind a closed bedroom door with him only once. My hackles stood involuntarily on end, ears flattened, as I cowered beside his bed. I had heard these shameful monologues before from the safety of another room. Yan never seemed to mind the vulnerability he displayed during these fantasies. Tonight the groans of pleasure echoed into the dark corners of the bathroom, where Yan and I rested, tails swishing on a bed of Roberts dirty laundry. Yan could always foresee the sensitive way Robert would interact with us afterward, free of all self-loathing. We were drawn to the temporary calm of his unwavering aura, the result of a satisfied human who seemed momentarily comfortable in his pink, hairy skin.   

Margot became a household name in the following weeks. Robert’s intensified escapades in the bedroom were saturated by the name; strained vocal chords always asking her “Do you like that?” One night after he emerged from his room looking expended, he retrieved a drink from the kitchen where he found me tucked into a ball on a dining chair.  He gulped down his water while he stroked my neck reassuringly. “What Mu,” he asked with affectionate mockery, “Yan avoiding you and your shitty-ass, cat moods?” Afterward, Yan bathed my muzzle reassuringly, reminding me that my vulnerabilities could be a curse or a blessing, and in any case, at least Robert had called me “Mu”, instead of “Alice’s fucking cat”.

As a cat, I didn’t have to go through the infernal suffering that humans did with their relationships. Alice and Robert had adopted us as a couple. She named me Mu. I remember the way Robert immediately chose Yan’s name afterward, making an attempt to be clever. Mui- fluid, lucid and moving. Yan- straightforward, like an edge, never changing. I could care less that Alice had left. My “shitty cat moods” allowed me to be detached, as long as Robert could remember to feed us.

But it all got worse. We noticed that Robert’s giddiness had dwindled. The excited expressions drummed from Robert’s thumbs had ceased. Instead, he sat with a sullen expression, his gross faux-fur hat pulled over his large head, as he stared transfixed at Margot’s glowing messages. Yan took a direct hit from the phone as Robert thrust it away from him and into the couch, crushing his tail without any remorse. He retreated to my side, where I  crouched under the chair, judging our care-less-taker. Robert continued to sit, struggling in his voluntary remorse, resisting the urge to respond to Margot, obsessing over their shared text history, and inventing every imaginable form of betrayal hidden between her words.

We resorted to drinking from the toilet for an entire week as our water bowl sat empty. Robert resorted to drinking from a bottle of whiskey in his bedroom, silently watching porn, no self-expression left in his arousal. The cat box overflowed with shit. Humiliated, Yan and I scratched pathetically for a vacant space in the litter.

Then one day Robert’s dysfunctional fog suddenly lifted. The house became a torrent of motion as Robert dusted and vacuumed, stuffing dirty clothes into baskets and lighting a scented candle left behind by you-know-who. He heartily blurted out the lyrics of a Cake song from the shower, hot steam rolled from under the door as Yan and I sat outside it, ears twitching. As evening descended, something volatile was in the air.  With wet hair dangling in his face Robert pulled off the jeans he had just put on a minute ago and shook his naked legs into a pair of khakis instead. “I’m too old for this.” he murmured while glancing up into his nostrils, face pressed into the mirror over the bathroom sink. I stealthily followed him through the house as Yan napped, unperplexed by the recent uptake in Robert’s energy.

Nervously Robert checked and rechecked his pockets as he stalked through the tidied house looking for his car keys. He found a forgotten pack of Starburst on top of the fridge and tore into them, eating half the package before checking the breast pocket in his jacket and finding his keys there. He rushed out the door, slamming it behind him. I jumped a moment later when he came barreling back through the door. He tore the Salvador Dali from the wall, leaving Starry Night up over the mantel. With his free hand, he swooped down and grabbed Yan from his reverie on the couch, stuffing him beneath his arm so that he could grab me with his free hand. I made to run down the hallway but he caught me by the scruff of the neck. I yowled as Yan dug his claws in silently to Roberts Pendleton and his grasp tightened, pulling my skin.

Then nothing but the night air was holding me. Flung into cold darkness, over the hedge of the neighbors, the framed poster shattering just beside me as we both hit the ground. I couldn’t see where Yan had hit. I quickly dove under the hedge and watched Robert stuff his supersized self into his white honda civic. He peeled out, leaving a wake of colorful starburst wrappers to settle in the gutter. “Fucking dick” I hissed.

-Emily

MADE ANEW- Why I Like Myself More as a Parent.

We’ve started going to church. Honestly, it feels more like a workshop on mindfulness than anything religious. It’s Unitarian. You know, church for the sensible, grown-up hippie of the 60’s and their liberal offspring, right down to the magazine-worthy modern design and proudly hung rainbow flag billowing in the breeze.

A few weeks ago, after the ministry, a man in his 50's approached us. We were all chatting, and he mentioned something that resonated. He said that he likes himself more as a parent than he did as a childless person. Not Earth shattering information, but I was surprised that I'd never had that specific thought before.

I’ve often contemplated the gifts that parenthood has bestowed: patience, perseverance, mental stamina, fortitude, selflessness, priority…. qualities I’m not sure I’d have developed, to this extent, without motherhood. Of course, they’ve come at the price of independence, time, sleep, hygiene, and guilt-free personal indulgence, to name a few, but when it boils down to it, I like me so much more now.

My first child didn’t require much sacrifice of personal freedoms. Most of the things I’d enjoyed, pre-parenthood, were still possible with a little bit of tweaking. I was showering every day, drinking a cup of coffee to completion (without any treks to the microwave), running in the morning, legitimately styling my (clean) hair, reading, sewing, etc etc... That’s probably why having a second didn’t sound like too big of a deal. But, for me, round two more or less pounded the final nail in the coffin of my previous self. There was no way my needs or desires could ever come first again, at least not without acting as a detriment to my parenting.

And, with River’s birth, I also lost some of my capacity for self-reflection. Alas, I wasn’t using it wisely anyway, still spending too much time worrying about how others perceived me. One of my favorite sayings is that “It’s really none of your business what other people think of you.” I had enough time before that second kid to make it my business. After him, I may have thought about it but didn’t have the emotional space to grant it effect.

But, I was still trying to operate like a mother of one, still attempting to pull off a flawless house, remodeling said house, a busy work schedule, all healthy homemade meals, yard perfection, body perfection, things I had no business putting so much energy into when I had two little boys to tend to.

Then I got pregnant again. I was hanging on by a thread, my health was failing, my marriage was fragile. How was I supposed to pull this off? At the time, I was petrified, feeling like a derailed train maneuvering through a dark, endless tunnel. Today, I realize that my daughter saved me from myself. From my overachieving, ridiculous self.

It was by far my most difficult pregnancy. I was sick for the duration. I was exhausted, battling adrenal fatigue from the aforementioned lifestyle. But, I still pushed myself too hard, getting up at 5 am every morning to exercise till the very end, working 10 hour days on my feet, and continuing to do all the house stuff. The Universe was trying to tell me something, and I was the heedless teenager with her Walkman blaring, holding up her middle finger.

Indigo was born, and I got legitimately knocked on my ass. Back to work four weeks later, colicky baby screaming in the next room, breastfeeding, up all night, trying to parent two little boys, finishing our remodel and then selling our house, packing and moving to another state- operating in pure survival mode, all before she was even a year old.

Living through that, the utter chaos of it all, broke me.

And I needed to be broken. A fragile vase, too close to the edge of the shelf, I could feel myself teetering, and then slowly losing footing, eventually shattering to a million little pieces.

But those fragmented bits of me found their way back together, some rightfully lost to the rubbish pile, and others spared. With each subsequent child, we’re made anew. For some, it takes longer than others to accept the beauty of that transformation (me, me, me), the necessity therein. It took space and time to unravel, moments of quiet that hadn’t existed when I’d worked and lived in a project house. There was depression as I lost my sense of self, then redefined it and my priorities. My importance, my worthiness was no longer a derivative of hard work. Now, being a mother to my children is distinction enough. But, it took all three to get me there.

And, I like myself so much better now.

-Angi

BODY LANGUAGE- Teaching Our Children to Value Their Bodies.

We were the new neighbors. I had just unpacked the last box and paused by the window to appreciate our green lawn when the sprinklers popped up to do their scheduled watering.  Delighted by this new pleasure, I hollered up the stairs, “The sprinklers are on!” My six-and-under trio flew past me and burst out the front door.  They threw off their clothes and, within seconds, surrendered all their tiny dignity to the wet spray. I felt at home as I hunkered down on our new porch steps with my five-month-protrusion resting between my thighs. I sipped my tea and surveyed our tiny slice of Eden, filled to the brim with gratitude… (gratitude and a growing baby.)

I guess I just expected that the population at large would embrace the sight of my naked kids. I still adored their tiny curved bellies, their smooth little bottoms, and their complete abandonment to joy, sans all clothing. Only now, we were not in the middle of a secluded forty-acre plot, we were visible to other homes.  And I very abruptly learned that we were wearing the emperor’s new clothes. 

“Look! Those kids are all naked!” a shrill voice heckled from the end of the driveway. Side by side, two little kids pointed fingers from the serenity of a shared Power-Wheel.  My children, unaware of their indecency, sprinted forward at the sight of the new comers just as the Power-Wheel, admitting shrieks of terror and glee, turned on a dime and disappeared back down the rode.

I pregnant-strutted as quickly as possible down the steps and across the driveway to gather my flock.  We had done nothing wrong. I could fix this; make sure the shame of this moment didn’t stick. “C’mon,” I said, taking in the next row of houses, people inside, probably watching, “er…let’s all go inside.” I escorted my little exhibitionists into the house, but fearfully forgot the lesson outside.  I soon learned it takes more than one naysayer to break the unclothed spirit of a kid. 

The following week I was pleasantly surprised to learn that the house right next door was a family of crazy homeschoolers, “Like us!” (I assumed incorrectly.)  My eldest daughter gregariously enveloped this shy, polite as-all-heck, neighbor girl. Holly was one year older and loved crafting and reading and make-believe, and seemed to be a perfect companion. I had hopes upon meeting her that she would become an example of maturity and manners for Haven. 

We all became accustomed to the intermittent ring of Holly’s baking timer whenever she came over to visit. Every fifteen-minutes, a jangle notified her that it was time to run home and “check in.”  I didn’t think too much about it, until one afternoon when her mom came knocking on my door to confront me about the picture of a naked woman that my five-year-old son had in his bedroom. Confused, I allowed Holly to escort her to a poster on his wall of animated super heroes, complete with an overly busty Mystique in her blue skin.

An acute awareness befell our home during those future fifteen-minute increments.  Of notable interest was how often my family was categorized as “weird” in a squeaky little girls voice.  My 6 year-old son without a shirt on, or myself exposing a breast to feed my new born, were observed to be “gross.” If any proper names were used for body parts, I could be sure to have an overly friendly confrontational chat with the mother. We both kept the peace by fake laughing over one another about the crimes our children were committing. Exhausting!

But our girls were friends, both homeschooled. We owned houses next door to each other. There didn’t seem to be another solution. I felt panic when that sweet little face appeared at our front door.  She gently swayed side to side in her new dress, thoughtfully calling me “Miss Emily” and politely asking if Haven could play. I can still see my children’s confused expressions as she shrieked through laughter “STOP LOOKING AT ME” while they played dress up in the living room.  Later she chastised them for kissing their dad and me on the lips.  I began imagining the horror of what the neighbors would think if they found out I sometimes showered with a kid or two.

I wish that I’d foreseen the impact that this little friend would make in such a short time.  Gone were the moments of pure nudity, but I had expected that sooner or later (definitely later).  And in its place a growing fascination was fostered for all things that could be suspects of shame.

That’s when I decided to get real naked with myself. I was leading by example when it came to being comfortable in my own skin, but that hardly required me to talk about the opposition. I didn’t know how to deflect the harm of other’s judgments. I was a little kid all over again and silence reined over the ridicule of our human bodies.  If I allowed it, another family would interpret what I knew was right for our individual family, and it wouldn’t be with a favorable artillery of words.

I began to use any comparison with the neighbors as a soapbox moment in my anti-humiliation campaign.  I was not immediately successful at this, and even fearful that I couldn’t or even shouldn’t, be telling my own kids about their own bodies. Thankfully, with every new word tackled: “sex,” “vulva,” and yes, even *gasp* “masturbation,” I realized that my kids were way less mortified than I was.  I made it clear that what I expressed to them was unique for our family, just like the neighbors had their own very unique way of talking (or not talking) about bodies. 

We discussed “sexual objectification” at the Target check-out line while analyzing Kim Kardashian’s magazine cover.  We shared beautifully illustrated books about different types of bodies, allowing these to be coffee table friendly, regardless of who was visiting that day. This last year when an adult discussion on politics lead to my daughter asking some very specific questions about her president, we had an empowering talk about consent.  And nobody turned into a three-horned-sexual-ghoul.  Nobody was emotionally stunted or robbed of their innocence. If anything, after our experience with the neighbor friend, I feel that I have given that innocence back to them.

I have heard similar stories of parents who speak freely about bodies and sex with their kids. I wish that someone had told three year-old me that having a body was okay. In fact, it is super-cool, and special, and fascinating to learn about and absolutely worth protecting.  I won't pass the fear I felt about my own body onto my kids, a fear that grew mostly from silence.  My parents didn’t want to talk about it, and that void filled up with misconceptions. 

Had I not faced the obstacles that our neighbors provided us with, I may have missed an invaluable opportunity to cultivate the natural flow of conversation about our bodies. Although we struggled in the moment, I appreciate the opposition that parenting with others provides. It allows us to dig deep and get critical about why we have the values we do. As a budding teen, Holly is a less frequent visitor at our house, but we have maintained a healthy relationship with our neighbors. I hope that we have been a catalyst for productive conversations in their home, as they so clearly were in ours (even helping us to identify how Mystique was being sexually objectified right under our noses). 

I have healed some of my own un-ease about my own body through ensuring that my children value theirs.  And consequently, I can’t shut up about it now.  The more that I discuss this issue with the people in my parenting world, the more I realize that I am SO not alone. Do you have a personal stigma attached to body image from your childhood? And, does it effect the “sex /body talk” in your own home? 

-Emily

A LONG DECEMBER- THE GREY AREA OF MARRIAGE.

One of the things I miss most about my 20’s is the self-centered naivety, the notion that I knew it all and whatever I decided was simply how it was, without question. I made no apologies for my spontaneous decision making, and I honestly never second guessed myself. Confidence preceded me (not necessarily a genuine self-assuredness but I certainly had myself fooled) and for the most part, I got what I wanted. As I close in on the end of my 30’s, the only thing I can say I’ve learned for sure is that nothing is black and white. The world is eternally polarized; “This is how it ought to be, This is how it is, Period.” This is what I believed for a number of years.

Silly me.

Nothing is actually as it seems. We exist in the grey area. Perceptions and ideals with not much solid data. A million varied opinions. Everyone thinks they know everything, and everyone thinks they need to educate one another. We are all blind mice stumbling around, attempting to find a clear cut path through the darkness. The path is there, but it’s anything but obvious. This is where I find myself at age 38, living in the grey, seeking out my path in a monochromatic world where the palette is recognizable only to the colorblind.

It’s so simple to distract ourselves from the truth that lies just under the surface of our presumptuous lives. I’ve written the book on how to busy myself to the point that issues are not just swept under the rug, but the rug is superglued, stapled, and permanently affixed to the floor, preventing so much as a glimpse of the truth from showing it’s ugly face. I’m a pro at telling myself “I'm good," and actually believing it. I think it’s a gift/curse many women have become proficient in to get through the day.

When my friend asked me to contribute to this blog, she had one request- to end each post on a positive note. I think I’ve done okay, but this is not that. I can’t continue to lead readers down a path believing every day holds a valuable lesson for me or that my children go to sleep content and confident in our family unit. They aren’t made privy to details, but children are tenaciously discerning, sensing dischord without hearing a word. It’s become increasingly difficult to focus on parenting, given the current state of my relationship. Over the course of several years, but most recently and most intensely the last few months, it’s come to my attention that things are not as they seem. I’ve always had those moments where things aren’t adding up, curiosities that get instantly shut down and flipped around, leaving me asking myself if I’m nuts. “Gaslighting,” as the professionals call it. So many professionals with so many solutions. So many books and so many authors. A myriad of self-help books to teach me who I am and teach me “self-care.” “Love is a choice,” they say. “It takes hard work on both ends,” they say.

And in the end, no real change.

People think they know, boy do people know what’s best for me and my children. With whole-hearted certainty. Do they? No one knows. I felt the same about my friends’ personal situations. I've made snap judgments. I was critical, only seeing the absolutes, the decisions that clearly needed to be made, not taking into account the trickle down effect on every life involved. I thought I knew the answers. They were glaringly obvious. I feel humbled now for being so self-righteous.

I know now that nothing is black or white, and I need to live in reality. I need to know who I married ten years ago. I need to feel connected and safe. And if I can’t, I’m perfectly okay to go it alone. I’m not fearful of what alone looks like. My self-care workbooks have taught me about boundaries. We can make requests of our partners, but demands and ultimatums hold little value. Requests and agreements are supposedly the healthiest forms of communicating our needs. If this is true, then I have a simple request, and I’m hoping God will oblige: “Please, God, when the truth is brought to light, show me a clear-cut path.  A vision for what you know my life and the lives of my kids should look like. Please, God, give me clarity.” This is all I can ask, my urgent prayer in the midst of chaos, hurt, and confusion.

I so desperately want to live in that black and white world of fact or fiction again. Where lines are crisp. Where the simple words “yes” and “no” are true to their meaning. A world where I can trust those who have committed to honesty, and transparency, and all of the other qualities a relationship should consist of.

For now, I’ll accept my warm welcome into the rawness of a world where the rug and the broom have been banished, where I'm left to sift through the dirt and fragments of what I once thought was best left undisturbed.

-Shelley