MIRROR, MIRROR ON THE WALL- Changing Bodies, Aging, and Motherhood.

The morning after giving birth to my first son, I slowly made my way to the bathroom, waddling through the tenderness between my legs. Mostly unclothed from nursing, I knew the mirror was soon to confront me and tell truths I might not be ready to hear. I'd consciously avoided it's stares thus far. Inspecting the changes in my body elicited apprehension laced with terror. After a deep breath and internal pep talk, I let my gaze slowly shift toward the floor. My belly appeared to be stretch mark free and only slightly swollen. A wave of relief swept through, after months of horror stories and worry. Then the weigh-in. The scale granted more relief; I was 12 pounds heavier than I’d been pre-pregnancy, having gone to great lengths to ensure minimal necessary weight gain. I could manage 12 pounds. I’d put on 25 and run three miles daily, until the final month, stopping only to avoid the inferno that was August. I then sentenced my awkward body to 30 minutes of the elliptical machine for the remainder of the pregnancy. Hell-bent on giving my baby as healthy a start as I had control over and keeping myself in prime condition for a smooth home birth, I ate well throughout, only succumbing to cravings for pizza in the first trimester, when literally everything else sounded like a recipe for barfing. And, of course, I still wanted to look good postpartum, to retain my non-mommy body, clinging to the idea that I could and should exist as both, separately and simultaneously. Read on, lest you think me a fool.

My teens were awkward, at best. I carried extra weight after moving to a rural town in Wisconsin. I mean, it’s the cheese state, and the school cafeteria served unlimited homemade cinnamon bread at lunch. Sugar was a just reward for enduring teenage years at a new school with people who didn’t seem to want me there. Heaping bowls of Cheerios right before bed became a regular thing, cus it was fat-free, so why not? High school came to a close (praise effing be), and I sported minimal self-confidence with a Rachel cut gone terribly wrong. Think A-line bob with a long tail attached to it, seemingly from nowhere, because the 50-year-old hairstylist at the generic version of small-town Supercuts had obviously lied through her teeth when I asked her if she knew who Rachel from Friends was. I should have intuited that from the vapid stare she possessed after my description. Needless to say, attractive was not a quality I assigned to myself.

We moved back to California shortly after my rat tail was cut off, leaving me with a chubby, pale face framed by a not so flattering bob. My friends were all away at college, and I was alone. This led to mild depression, the shitty poetry phase, as I've mentally coined it. The melancholy halted my appetite and leaned me out. My hair grew. My pasty skin got a bit of California tan, I traded in my over-sized farm girl attire for feminine vintage finds and... started to get noticed. Late to the party, but nonetheless in attendance, I finally began dating.

That attention gifted a high like no other, something other girls had probably gotten in their early teens and were well over by 20. But, I needed it still, to build self-worth, to know that I held value to the opposite sex. I wasn’t just the “smart girl” anymore. My still malleable identity accidentally got intertwined with being stylish and thin. I had other attributes I was proud of as well, but it was all a jumbled up mess and remained that way beyond the birth of my first son.

And beyond the birth of my second.

Then came Indigo. A move. And 40. And no job. And no second income. And another body to tend to that wasn’t my own.

I had to skip workouts regularly because, Life. And because I didn’t want to throw myself back into adrenal fatigue from pushing too hard or pulling myself out of bed before the sun, sacrificing much needed rest in the name of fitness. Energy trumped skinny out of pure survival.

Botox wasn’t in the budget.

Cute clothes weren’t either. I was a stay at home mom for the first time ever, dressing up would certainly be lost on my toddler. And, I’d moved to a notoriously casual town. Think Patagonia- a puffer jacket, jeans, and tennis shoes, with a greasy bun on it. It sure helped that these new moms I was sharing a city with weren’t prioritizing the aesthetic either. My new local trendy was fleece paired with “don’t give a shit,” and the timing couldn’t have been more kismet. Don’t mistake this for self-neglect. These chicks get things done. It’s really just a shift in priority commingled with a more action-oriented definition of being a woman. I needed that.

For most, this epiphany doesn’t require three children. It took that many for me to officially lose the emotional space to give any fucks about going out into the world and being noticed. There was no conscious choice made. It was forced upon me by the requirement of caretaking. Cus, ain’t nobody got time for that (that referring to anything/everything and anybody referring to mothers).

Untangling the value of beauty and youth from motherhood, from womanhood, from personhood, was less angsty than I’d anticipated. I’d watched my mother come to terms with aging, often seeing a woman far less beautiful than was there, and I worried how I’d manage, what the mirror would reflect back to me, unwittingly imprinting upon my self-worth.

But, I see the grey hairs springing forth from my scalp for the first time this year, like tiny radars tuning in to a higher frequency as I level up, and I smile, not rushing to cover them with dye. I earned each one with colicky babies, years of late nights spent snuggling and nursing instead of sleeping, with the endurance of one temper tantrum after another, the hysterical refusals of eating seemingly benign dinners, three children crying in unison while my husband and I exchanged vacant stares, taking mental leave for survival, and brother’s turning on one another at a moment's notice, screaming in the backseat because someone’s unwelcome fingertip is resting upon their forearm.

I earned this shift in perspective. I’ve never worked harder for anything, and I deserve the new brand of beautiful bestowed upon me.

Now, the smiles on my children’s faces act as the most important mirror of all, reflecting a worth that is predicated upon the joy they experience, the fullness of their bellies, the love held in each beat of their hearts. Of course, there is so much more to me than motherhood, and I welcome any and all “nice butt” comments my husband has to offer, but the way I look and how others perceive the wrapping of my soul is of little consequence in comparison to my role as “Mommy.”

-Angi

WANT TO BE FRIENDS? Mothers discovering strength in numbers.

I leave the warmth of my bed at 5 am because there is someone I care about expecting me to. I wolf down a fried egg and complete the timely morning ritual of preparing coffee; I need the warmth from the cup in my hand as I brave another winter drive to the gym at five minutes after 6. My dear friend Charity will excuse my slight tardiness because she knows I’m good at other things.

Today she is already upstairs on the treadmill. Her long, blonde braid hangs down her back, swaying in rhythm with her steps. I make a quick wish that she is able to check out mentally for these few moments. I envision all of the remaining minutes left in the long day ahead of her; each action fulfilled in the company of her five, beautiful children. Through sheer endurance, she manages to homeschool, to nurture a supportive marriage, to expand her own mind as a student (who, I might add is pulling off straight A’s on her quest to becoming an LVN) and she does all of this and still finds things to laugh about with me on a Monday morning.

We wrap up our gym routine with 15 minutes of the worst racquetball anyone has ever played. We can barely connect two hits, but I’m sweating and in tears watching Charity ricochet a ball off the wall with the pent-up rage of motherhood, and then crumbling in retaliation as the ball shoots straight back into her lady bits.  We’re on hands and knees gasping for breath over the hilarity of it, that or we are just way fucking out of shape.

It wasn’t long ago that I couldn’t even imagine myself this way; spending the first part of a day away from the needs of my own little people, existing in an act purely for myself, and all in the blessed company of another woman. Early motherhood consumed many of the friendships I had as a younger me. The giving of oneself to children leaves a minuscule portion of time left to supplement any extra relationships. I had all but given up on the fact that there was a whole population of women just like me out there, somewhere, having babies and maneuvering what future friendships looked like.

Connecting with people while endeavoring to mother: breastfeeding, tending to crying babies, unsuccessfully sucking in an empty-womb-tire that now exudes over the top of my pants no matter what shirt I’m wearing…all this was foreign. And truth be told, making friends after motherhood was one of the hardest things I was yet to do.

My recollections of mommyhood with three tiny people are overwhelmingly magical moments mixed with spouts of intense loneliness. On normal days I existed tucked away with my brood, down a gnarly dirt road, doing my damned best to harvest my growing kids with a side of wild, but basically using the same techniques other parents did: potty training (that ultimately only trained me to lower my expectations;) the night-time routines that whitled me down to a hollow person who only read picture books, sang the same sought after songs, exhausted enough to fall asleep on myself while half standing beside a bunk bed; the adventures in nutritious eating that required every molecule of my creativity to be expended, and then every ounce of patience, as a meal made of complete amino acids was thrown to the ground on the whim of toddler refusal.

I often looked away from these moments of despair in search of someone who could witness the crazy amount of will I was expending in the act of not losing it; someone who wasn’t going to analyze what I could have done differently; someone who was there to validate the pure raw difficulty of being a caregiver; to just acknowledge that shit was rough but light was at the end of the tunnel… unfortunately, this person wasn’t going to drop out of the sky and find me. I had to brave the public world, a place that doesn’t welcome the regular outbursts of small children.

I wrangled my untamed babies into the car: 4 years, 3 years, and 5 months old, got them to a decent looking state, packed a sensational amount of necessities for a 20-minute ride, and headed into town with hope. Baby Gym was the destination; a warehouse filled with soft-cornered playthings, trampolines, balls, and moms with preschoolers. I saw four walls segregating me from normalcy. Pay $3 per kid and hang out with mothers who were once young women with friends, now morphed into messed up versions of themselves; no sleep, desperate to talk to someone, conversations funneled into the deliriums of child-talk.

There were clicks, and age gaps, and religious barriers and all manners of insecurities running the entire gamut of parenting, including but not limited to: co-sleeping, bottle-feeding, vaccinations, pacifiers, discipline methods… Our conversations consisted of how many times a baby barfs per hour, what kind of rash you think this is, how a baby’s daddy failed to man-up. I knew I fit the demographic. I knew I was supposed to fit in here. But I didn’t.

I had one hour in this one setting; 60 minutes out of a week of solitary mothering, to come to this place where little, loud, narcissistic people were actually welcome in public, to find a friend. There were many days that I drove back home, wiping silent tears from my cheeks, as Haven babbled loudly in the backseat alongside her brother and sister. I just couldn’t do this thing alone anymore.

The next week we tried again. I pulled into the parking lot beside another mother. We both read the sign stuck to the door from our cars. “Baby Gym, closed.” I remember glancing at her through the passenger window. Our eyes met, the same way you’d expect two strangers to fall in love at first sight. But what I saw in this woman’s eyes, mirrored there, was our shared desperation at this moment.

Someone suggested the park. I had know idea if that meant we were both going. I drove there resigned to wet slides and solitude with children (if there is a word for that, I’d love to know what it is). I got out of my car to see the woman from the gym doing the same. She unstrapped a baby from his car seat and my heart skipped to find a connection; we had babies that were similar in age. This could be a beginning, a talking point.

We walked the stretch of the bridge together toward the park. On one side we were strangers, meeting by chance, with a shared angst for parenting alone on a day to day basis. We traversed across each wide plank, slowly with the union of our stumbling kids, our shared struggles, our humilities turned to common ground. And on the other side, a new place opened up to me, a destination for both of us to be, together.

(You sally ass clown, you know who you are.) Courtney and I parted that day with the awkward request for exchanging numbers. I really didn’t know if she was in to me. We talked about snowboarding, and painting, and making things with our hands. We talked about the kids too, but I had almost forgotten what a conversation was like for two women existing as entities in a world of mothering. She reminded me.

This story has a happy ending, because good friends are few and far between, and Courtney and Charity are both dear to my heart still today. They have taught me that I am able to give and receive friendships with many women, on many levels. The public world is a scary place by yourself, with kids. It doesn’t make itself available to mothers with children, without ridicule. We need to pipe down and be nice in public, and it isn’t always possible.

Having a comrade in parenting opens up spaces that once felt prohibited. We free each other from that ostracized feeling, and normalize the joyful noises kids can make. We empower one another to be moms and women in life; to be mindful and mama. I couldn’t do it without you.

-Emily

EGO VS. REALITY- The pain of knowing that others are unfairly judging you.

In my divorce, nearly a decade ago, friends and family divided, each of us naturally gaining sole custody of those we’d laid claim to before meeting. As is standard, there were raw emotions and bruised egos. We each constructed a story of what went wrong that would help us more easily mitigate the personal damage. Those stories were facts to us but in reality only half-truths. Of course, they were shared with those we were closest to… and probably several others.

Childless and 30, the perception others held of me was of disproportionate importance, whether I feigned fortitude and apathy or not. It was incredibly painful to know that these people, who I’d done life with for 10 years, believed falsities about me. And even more difficult to swallow was the acceptance that I’d have to be okay with that.

I knew, as it was unfolding, that this was a gift in the making, the greatest gift of my divorce, outside of peace. I was keenly aware of the strength that would be gained, a strength my soul desperately craved. My mantra became the reminder that only I needed to know my truth. If I was operating from a place of personal integrity, the perception of others was moot.

Still, it hurt. But, cutting the strings of my delicate ego, with scissors honed from authenticity, won out. True liberation, even if it was scary as hell.

I breathed deeply often, observing negative thoughts slither in, that ego-crushing feeling taking over, and then I dismissed them. I was acting as the best version of me, even if it didn’t feel like it to those around me. I could answer only to myself.

It took tremendous effort for me to acknowledge that others responses to my actions, or what they believed to be true, were strictly owned by them. If I knew that I was operating from my highest self then I could do no more. The rest wasn’t mine.

It bears explaining that major soul searching and uncomfortable honesty are paramount to knowing if you’re operating from a place of authenticity versus ego. If you have anger towards another, that’s you. Authenticity and integrity are peaceful states of being.

Of course, over the years, there have been moments when I deserved judgment, when my ego stepped in and caused emotional bedlam. And, there have also been moments when the hurt wasn’t mine to claim. It’s my natural inclination to always question myself first, to check for ego activity. That means that I have to sit with the vulnerability, the ugly emotions. I have to pick apart my actions to search for signs of inauthenticity and palpability. This is difficult work, and I often erroneously take responsibility for the insecurities of others because of my uncommon willingness to wade the murky waters of my ego.

At this moment, intuitively, I believe that a friend has shared half-truths and misinformation with other friends. Emotionally, it’s my divorce all over again. I moved away from these women, so the friend gets custody of them. I have a choice- to confront or to be still. We’ve all been there, sat with the feeling of being misrepresented and desperately wanting to fix it, to heal the wound inflicted upon the ego. (None of them will see this because I know you’re wondering.)

But I won’t. I choose silence because I know my truth, and I have faith. It’s been a rough year, having to decipher what is and isn’t mine in various interactions. I have had to learn to trust my judgment and my growth, to see my heart clearly and then pardon myself because I know it is pure. I’ve learned that if I feel saddened, it’s probably not mine, but if I feel angry, I’m likely the proprietor. I believe that when the universe senses you’ve elevated beyond a learning curve you’d previously struggled with, you’ll be gifted situations that test your faith in that growth.

I hear you Universe, and I thank you.

-Angi

"ARTIFICIAL FEARS"- GROWING UP WITH NEW TECHNOLOGIES.

“Echo.”

Olive peeks over the edge of the counter. She lifts her chin to direct her words at the black, round device plugged into the wall. A ring of blue lights responds to the voice of my five-year-old girl, communicating that the hockey puck-shaped appliance is listening.

“Tell me a joke.”

Our artificial-intelligence-tool hops into action, giving Olive what she asks for: a joke that she can’t possibly understand. But I see my little girl swell with a bit of pride; she rises onto her toes, grinning simply because her individual desire has been acknowledged. (I bet she wishes I had flashing blue lights to announce my undivided attention…).

Alexa goes by her other name, Echo, when someone like me wants to circumvent the idea that we have brought an invisible woman into our home with the only intent of telling her what to do. “Echo” makes her more of an AI, and less connected to a woman with an actual woman name. Before we were gifted Alexa for Christmas, I felt tormented each time my father in law criticized this woman voice.

“Alexa, stop.”

Once again, she had not delivered the correct results when he demanded them. He raised his voice a little higher to command more specifically and clearly. I felt myself shrink into the couch in his living room as he disapproved of her performance.

“Arrgh. Alexa! You’re worthless.”

“Sorry...I don’t know that one.”

But it didn’t take long for our family to integrate this voice-activated servent into our own lives. Echo or not, I found myself frustrated at ‘her’ when she repeatedly answered my request for Cyndi Lauper’s “True Colors” by playing the motion picture soundtrack rendition from Trolls.

“Echo! Gah! STOP.”

Olive’s pencil pauses atop her drawing. Her ice blue eyes find mine, searching me. Before I can justify my outburst, she has already taken whatever lesson I just bestowed upon her and gone back to her picture. Fuck.

Here is this little human. She will never know what life is like without Echo. An A.I. will live in all of her childhood memories. What layer of her growth would this bind to; writing her interpretation of the world? (Yes, this is the normal level of crazy that my mind functions at when it comes to my kids.)

Of course, the earth continues its journey around the sun. And each generation has parents consumed by some similar worry over a technological advancement that “in my day” was never a thing: guns, motorized vehicles, televisions,... Echo seems a smidge trifle in comparison. Nonetheless, it’s my job to thoroughly exhaust every evil that could contaminate my kids. This skepticism, to scrutinize what isn’t visible to the naked eye, runs deep.

I have vivid memories of my mom’s outlook on our Nintendo. On an early Monday morning,  my sister and I missed the school bus.  I stood there beside her, glancing back up the steep, winding trail that led us home. The alternative was to walk forward into the woods where I could go and live, and never face the wrath of my mom. We didn’t own a vehicle. School was too far away to trek it. We had just guaranteed ourselves a day off, to be interpreted by whatever mood my mom was in when we woke her up to tell her.

I crept softly into her dark room, blankets hung, blocking out the light of day. I crouched beside her bed and very soothingly whispered her name,

“Mama.” She responded with a grunt of acknowledgment. “We missed the bus…” A single beat of silence as my heart thumped in my throat.

“Okay.” She pulled the blankets up around her face and fell back into a slumber. We were scot-free! We poured ourselves seconds on cereal and happily hunkered down in front of the tiny TV to play Super Mario Bros. Sarah could never beat me. I still kick some serious ass at that game. But on that morning, which quickly bled into the afternoon, my mother slept on, and our cereal bowls accumulated, and shoes were strewn about with unused backpacks. We bickered slightly over whose turn it was to be Luigi, our voices rising, forgetting the precarious situation that had allowed us to play video games for the better part of this Monday.

Suddenly the french doors to my mother’s bedroom were thrown open. My sister and I both thought we’d die of heart attacks, clamoring for the solace of each other as if we’d never argued a day in our lives. My mother stood there; think Cruella Deville after she wrecks her car in the snow, only to resurface at full terrifying force in her hunt to slaughter dalmatian puppies. My mom tore into the living room, clawing at the air in front of her until she had located the gray console atop the tv.  She ripped it from its plugs, both controllers dangling, and without a word, she pivoted and stalked back into her bedroom. Light flooded abruptly into our two-story home as the blankets in her window were wrenched away; the sound of straining metal as the window was heaved open; our hearts freezing during the second of silence that came before a faint crashing of plastic tumbled down the mountain below.  

This outburst was premeditated. My mom had often complained of the time we wasted on “that thing”; time we could have spent playing outside, or, cleaning something. Miraculously, the following day after she had defenestrated our beloved video game, we found our mother’s demeanor changed. After some tampering and vigorous blowing, we were able to play our game once again. They just don’t make things like they used to.

Back in this present day: I am forever indebted to Echo for: correctly spelling things, for sharing just enough news with me, and for 9 times out of ten, playing the correct song as I wash dishes. I say “thank you” to this thing, this object, to which she cleverly responds “no worries”.  And when I lose my cool with her, Olive reminds me to be nice to Echo. Even Opa has found a calmer voice when it comes to faulting a device that depends on people asking good questions.

When the kids request that Echo play Parry Gripp for the umpteenth time at volume 10, and I find myself conditioned into singing along,   “It’s raining tacos....” I do momentarily consider my mother’s tactics. But so far, so good. And that’s pretty much my outlook now: we’ve come so far, and we have so far to go. Our advancements will continue to progress. I hope to continue embracing them as opportunities for good.

-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