I’ve heard it said that sometimes, people who have been very bad at things can actually be the very BEST people to teach about those things. Wisdom born of struggle, they say, is often deeper than wisdom born of ease. I’m counting on that to be true because I’m about to talk to y’all about self care.
I am a proud possessor of a first-class ticket on the Self-Care Struggle Bus. I have always had a pretty healthy (or UNHEALTHY) workhorse complex. I was that way even before I had kids, so when my son was born and I quit my job to stay home with him, it reached critical mass. I always felt like I had to be somewhere doing something for someone, not letting anyone down or missing anyone’s need and yes, proving my worth.
But that, my friends, is a recipe for disaster. I became exhausted, impatient, resentful and was NOT even enjoying this motherhood thing that I had waited my whole life to do. So, I reluctantly (after a scolding or two from my own mother) conceded that “self-care” needed to actually be a thing for me. So embarked on a journey that would require me to get better at doing something I that had a lifelong pattern of proudly sucking at. And I’m still not great at it, work in progress is an understatement. But, here are a few things I have learned along the way that are CRUCIAL if we ever hope to be successful at taking better care of our minds, bodies, and spirits.
This is not a drill. It’s almost time for THE OLYMPICS!!!!!!
Let’s take a moment to prepare our hearts, with the help of your friend and mine, Mr. John Williams:
I absolutely love the Olympics and I’m not even the teensiest bit ashamed. I love the events, I love the pageantry, I love the human interest stories, the sportsmanship, the culture, the national pride, and the way the world (and our divided country) all comes together for two weeks. It is absolutely my jam. And for the winter Olympics, I love that I get to see snow. I love watching the ski racers careening down the slopes amid falling flakes. I was seriously disappointed by the balmy temps in Sochi four years ago, I pouted.
In our house, as you know, we #watchallthesports. It is what we do. And when it comes to the Olympics, we do not discriminate. We are not the “Oh, I’ll watch skiing and maybe some figure skating” people. We watch the curling and the ski jumping and the ice dancing and that crazy thing where they cross country ski and then shoot targets. We also do it in the summer, when there are a lot more events. That’s just more to love for us!
This year, we are super excited to share it with the kids. Cam is almost six and Kendall is three and a half and they are starting to enjoy watching #allthesports with us. Kendall has added an extra element for us because she is super-aware of when it is GIRLS who are playing the sports and doing the things. She was only two and a half when we were watching softball and her eyes got big and she said, “Mom! Is dat a she? Doze are GIRLS wif da bats!” So making sure that we watch the women’s events as well as the men’s is a HUGE priority for us.
I’ve made this handy dandy little checklist to hang on our wall to keep track of all the sports we’ve seen and make sure we don’t miss any. Click here to download the PDF.
They aren’t exhaustive, there are far more divisions of some of those events than I included, but I tried to focus on the ones where my kids could SEE the differences, like the heights of the ski jump hills, the number of people in the bobsleds, and how many gates the skiers are trying to hit as they come down the hills.
Also, when you see N/A in the women’s column, it means that event doesn’t exist for women (four-man bobsled, doubles luge, and ski jumping). When you see it in the men’s column, it means that it’s a mixed team event (ice dancing, pairs figure skating, and the luge relay).
SO LET THE GAMES BEGIN! If you need me in the next two weeks, you’ll know where to find me.
Or at least that’s what my five-year-old tells me.
A “PokéMom,” according to Mister Cameron, is a Mom who plays Pokémon Go with her kids. And that would be me.
Before we started playing, I had heard all sorts of opinions about the game. Some see it as just another excuse for people to walk around staring at their phones. Some people see it as a fun way to get out and about and even to meet other people. I even heard about a friend of a friend who lost 15 lbs because he and his wife go Pokémon hunting every evening.
For us, it has been nothing short of a blessing. I know, weird, right? But, it entered into our lives at exactly the right time and has enriched the past six weeks for us in ways that were really needed.
My rise to PokéMotherhood began when our family spent a weekend in a beach house on the Oregon Coast with my parents, my aunt and uncle, and my cousin and his family. My cousin, his kids, and even my aunt had been playing Pokémon Go for over a year now and it’s really, like, a thing for them. Cameron and I had visited my aunt and uncle in Colorado earlier that summer and Cam had a chance to spin a few Pokéstops and catch a few Pokémon.
To say that he was intrigued by the whole thing was an understatement. I mean, he’s five and it’s Pokémon. My stance on the issue, however, remained somewhere between responsible parent and first-rate stick-in-the-mud. The idea of introducing yet another screen-based activity that would have an impatient kindergartener clamoring incessantly for my phone sounded only slightly more appealing than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.
But, with the weekend at the coast looming and the carrot of increased opportunities for family bonding dangling, I took the plunge and downloaded the app. If you ask Mister Cameron, he would probably declare this my single greatest act of parenting to date, surpassing in grand fashion even the act of giving birth to him in the first place.
Six weeks later, we have already reached Level 23. We got to Level 21 in almost exactly a month.
My original intention was for the game to provide Cam with a way to connect with his cousins. As it turns out, it has given us so much more. What follows are the true confessions of this PokéMom about the great things it has brought to our lives.
Because of Pokémon Go, I have had a chance to reconnect with MY cousin. Tim and I are the only children of a pair of sisters, but with nearly a decade between us in age and nearly 3,000 miles between us in distance, we haven’t exactly been as close as either of us would like. Pokémon Go has us texting almost daily, sometimes multiple times a day. Cam’s and my quick rise through the levels in the game has EVERYTHING to do the fact that we have been very well-coached. Tim is a PhD-educated archaeologist and professor of historical anthropology and he has brought the full weight of his intelligence and well-honed academic approach to bear on the world of Pokémon. I swear, he knows EVERYTHING about all of the “‘mon” and an understanding of the nuances of strategies that ought to land in him in the PokéPentagon, if there were such a thing. Both Tim and I play jointly with our kids and we frequently congratulate each other on what EXCELLENT parents we are to be so devoted to Pokémon Go “for the children.” Our grandparents would be so proud of us…
Because of Pokémon Go, both kids and I have logged more hours at more local parks this late summer and early fall than we ever have before, possibly collectively. The game is designed to encourage people to get out and explore their communities and it DEFINITELY done that for us. There is a diligently curated “nest map,” maintained by users in our area, that shows where different Pokémon can be found “nesting” near us and by using that to guide our Pokémon hunts, we have stumbled onto and spent time at really cool outdoor spaces in our community that we might never have explored. We will hit a new park, look around for Pokémon, and then Cam will inevitably hand me the phone and run off to play on whatever play structure is there or head down the trail system ahead of me to explore. Kenzie is with us some of the time as well, shes like to spin Pokéstops and catch the occasional ‘mon herself (her favorites are “da purple mouse” and “da fire unicorn”).
Because of Pokémon Go, my own fitness journey has been less miserable. I have continued the work on running and walking in the month since Portland to Coast happened (read more about that here) and Pokémon Go has been a nice distraction and guide for my runs and walks. By “walking,” you can earn precious candy to power up or evolve the Pokémon you choose as your buddy and you can hatch eggs as you walk that might contain rare ‘mon, so I open up the app as I log my miles on the road. I will sometimes locate my runs on trails where certain Pokémon we are hoping to catch can be found nesting so it’s helped me switch up my routes. Spinning Pokéstops as I run by and catching the occasional much-needed or less-common ‘mon along the way helps to break up the pounding of the trails and sidewalks.
Because of Pokemon Go, I ended up walking the streets of a historic town in Utah after dark with my favorite paranormal fiction author, which was both completely fun and exhilarating creepy. (Amy Kessler and I were bridesmaids in our friend Ashlee’s wedding and the little town where the wedding was held was filled with gyms and Pokéstops. Her “Here, Witchy Witchy” books are about my favorite thing ever)
Because of Pokémon Go, Mister Cameron is learning about things like reading maps and giving directions (“Mom, at the next street turn right. There’s a yellow gym), about saving up for things that you want and spending resources carefully (buying items with Pokécoins, saving up candy for the evolutions), about the long-term payoffs of resisting instant gratification (waiting to evolve your Pokémon until you have a Lucky Egg going to get double XP and other strategic moves), and about choosing carefully what times we go play and about sharing with his sister.
Because of Pokémon Go, Cam and I have had a hobby to share in a season when we really, REALLY needed it. He started kindergarten about a month ago and we’ve been walking through the adjustment process as a family. Playing Pokémon Go together has given us excuses to get out of the house and get active, and spend time together- not to mention providing a fantastic distraction for me while he’s at school. I’ve been known to hit the parks, with Kenzie and alone, in search of particular ‘mon I know he’s been hoping for. It’s been kind of like a glue that has helped us hold it together in this season.
I have no idea what lies in our Pokéfuture. At press time, we are about 43,000 XP from hitting level 24. We went out today and grinded out about 30,000 XP through Pidgey and Weedle farming and catching a new ‘mon while using a Lucky Egg. The weather is turning cooler and, inevitably for Oregon, rainier so it won’t be as easy for us to get out and about. Maybe we’ll keep going or maybe we will lose interest. We shall see. But it sure has been fun so far and we’ve made some happy memories.
But honestly, I’m not quitting at least until I get a Gyarados. You know, for the children. Because I’m such a good PokéMom…
So, in Part 1 of this series, I explained to y’all why Portland to Coast 2017 was such a big deal to me.
In Part 2, I took you through a dead battery and my first leg, five and a quarter miles uphill in the heat and, my nemesis, the full sun.
Part 3 finds Team #HashHags Van 1 lounging on a tarp in the middle of a field attempting to sleep. Some successfully, some unsuccessfully. I fell into the latter category.
I loved laying in that field. I did. I wasn’t sleeping and I knew that was going to make things tough later, but I know me and I know that I’m not really gonna sleep in daylight in a field. So I read, I prayed a lot, and I rested and relaxed my muscles and marveled at how none of my parts hurt. But I figured that was coming like a freight train. There is no way I could put THIS BODY through ALL OF DIS and not end up with some serious stiffness and soreness, right?
About 7:30, we all got up and started to pack up for the hand-off from Van 2 and the start of our last legs, our night of waking and walking. To be honest, the next few hours in the van are a bit of a blur. I tried to sleep, and was at one point successful in procuring a 15 minute power nap that saved my bacon. It was FREAKING COLD outside in the Coast Range of Oregon in the middle of the night and as much as I wilt in sun, I’m also quite unhappy to the very depths of my soul in the cold. The fatigue was intense, the cold was taunting me, and I had zero idea how I was going to walk 5.33 more miles. Fortunately, I was not the only one feeling that way, we were all up against a bit of objection and dread, but if all these other people I was passing on the road could to it, then so could I.
While Tara walked her final leg, most of it up hill (that girl is Da Real MVP, y’all), I prepared for my final leg. I decided that shorts and a sweatshirt were the best way for me to balance the cold temperatures with an exertion-warmed body, I got headphones, app, and playlist ready to go, and I made a plan to hit the ol’ Honeybuckets just as we got to the exchange point. I was as fully ready as I was ever gonna be to walk 5.32 miles in the chilly, pre-dawn after basically being awake for over 24 hours, having already walked five and a quarter miles, and ridden close to a hundred more in the third row of a Honda Pilot. This was gonna hurt, I was sure of it, but I was gonna do this.
And then, you guys. Then we hit the log jam of traffic going into Tara’s and my final exchange point. Just when I was gearing up, getting my motor running and ready to go, we found ourselves stopped in a line of vans and SUV’s over a mile long heading into the exchange, getting passed by the very walkers and runners we were trying to get ahead to meet. It became evident quickly that I had two choices: let Tara pass us and wait for us at the finish line or have me jump out early and walk in with her so I could make it to the exchange on time. I chose the latter and jumped out of the car somewhere between a quarter and a half mile before the exchange point and started walking.
The upside to having yet another chaotic exchange was that I didn’t have time to fret and fuss and psych myself out for my last leg. Those last few minutes were a blur: out of the van, down the road, into the Honeybucket, over to the exchange, and next thing I knew, the bracelet was on my wrist and my feet were hitting the cold pavement, alone in the dark.
And that, my friends, is when everything changed for me.
The traffic jam at the exchange point had thinned out the foot traffic enormously, so I there were no other runners or walkers around me. I’m not sure what I expected to feel or experience as I began my second leg, but this sure wasn’t it.
I. Felt. Amazing.
In the cool, in the dark, on a downhill slope, my feet were flying as if on their own. I had expected stiffness, soreness, and to feel my body groan and complain about being pushed into things we had spent the past 39 years believing it didn’t do. I had expected to wonder how I was going to make it through the next few miles. But instead, it felt effortless. Comfortable. Like a release, a rhythm I had been waiting for.
I generally find the term “defining moment” to be overly dramatic and when I see or hear it, I always think, “Whatever. I’ve never had a defining moment.” Well, now I’ve had a defining moment. It’s a good thing I was alone on that road in that moment because I started to cry. “Lord, I did it! I’m doing it!” I prayed as I walked. In that moment, the glass box I that I had been putting around myself for the past two and a half decades, the one that said, “Fragile, do not push,” came shattering down around me.
On that 5.32 mile stretch of Highway 202, I stopped being the girl who almost passed out in a dressing room and became the girl who could easily walk five more miles, even after all that had happened in the past 24 hours. I stopped having the body that couldn’t do what other people’s could and started having the body that felt amazing, without an ounce of stiffness, soreness, or pain, even after all that had happened in the past 24 hours. I stopped feeling like someone who was trying to force my body to do something that was meant for other people and started feeling like maybe, just maybe, my body was made for this.
For the first time ever, I walked without music. I listened to the sound of the woods at night, to my feet on the pavement, to the encouraging words of the runners as they passed me, and for possibly the first time in my life, to the rhythms of my body, doing an ATHLETIC AND SPORTSY THING that it was doing automatically and almost effortlessly.
The sun came up as I walked and the woods around me started to take shape. It was fully daylight about halfway through and I had the most beautiful view of a stream running to the left of the road. The mountain streams that run alongside the roads to the Oregon Coast are just about one of my favorite things ever and this felt like a hug from God, just for me. If all had gone according to plan, it would still have been dark and I never would have seen it. Sometimes, things work exactly as they’re supposed to…
By the time I snapped this picture, I was tiring and ready to be done, but I loved every minute of that hour and fifteen minutes.
I have never had an experience that has made me feel differently about myself like this has. I look at myself in the mirror differently. I think about my body and what it can do differently, in a way I never have before. This is a body that can walk ten and a half miles and be stuck in a van for hours without hurting. This is a body that can walk five miles uphill in direct sun and not have an issue. This is a body that can keep up a 14:05 pace for the last 5.32 miles and not have to push to the limit for it.
I went on a run/walk this morning and I hit faster paces than ever I had before. And what’s more, I enjoyed it. Every minute. It was the funnest, most relaxing thing. Going for a run/walk used to feel like subjecting myself to a full-on view of my shortcomings. The time on the road was about what I couldn’t do- but this morning, and that night in the mountains, it was about what I COULD do. And maybe, just maybe, about what I might be able to do if I keep this going. And I plan to.
There is more to tell, the fun beach party at the finish line, the moment the last runner in Van 2 came in and we walked across the finish line together (it was anti-climactic, actually), but I’m already 1400 words deep in just this post, so I’ll leave that for another time.
I can’t close this story, however, without mentioning these girls. #HashHags Van 1: Tara, Lindsay, Taneha, Katie, and Noelle. It was probably just as brave of them to invite a total stranger into their van for 36 hours as it was for the total stranger to jump in and join them. I enjoyed them immensely from the minute I met them, but about the time we got in the van for the second leg that I stopped feeling like I was among strangers I liked and started feeling like I was among friends. Thank you to all of them for their support, for the laughter, the friendship, and for providing the framework for me to upend some of my deepest-seeded negative beliefs about myself.
So I leave you with this pic of me and my medal. “Where’s my medal” is pretty much my favorite phrase to utter once I’ve completed something difficult, and this is the first time anyone has actually given me one. WOO HOOOOOO!!!! It’s just a participation medal, but sometimes, participation is everything. Sometimes, participation CHANGES everything. And this was one of those times.
In Part One of this tale (which you can read here), I bared my soul to you, dear reader, and let you in on why this ten and a half miles I walked was such a big deal to me (summary: thyroid disorder, fragile teenager, always afraid I was gonna pass out, carried those feelings into adulthood, etc., etc.). I also brought you up to the moment the race started. I looked approximately like this:
So, to pick up our story, I was the last walker in van six, assigned legs 18 and 30. The first was 5.23 miles in St. Helens in the mid-afternoon, the next was 5.33 miles downhill in the Coast Range sometime at zero dark thirty the following morning. Riding in a Honda Pilot with a group of women who had known each other for years and done this several times before added to the general sense of “What on earth have I gotten myself into, I have exactly zero business being here.” But “here” I was, and I was still determined to do all of my hard work justice and not let these ladies down. I had shown up and I was going to do the danged thing. Yes I was.
I kinda was getting the hang of it, a feel for the general rhythm of each of the legs for the walker, observing the exchanges, making sure #allthethings I was going to need to get through this were charged (Music. This girl needs music), and feeling like I could do this.
Then, approximately forty five minutes before my first leg was scheduled to start, Team #HashHags Van 1 found ourselves stranded on the side of Hwy 30 with a dead battery. I kid you not. And nobody parked around us had jumper cables. And nobody stopped to offer assistance because seeing a vehicle parked on the side of the road isn’t a red flag during Hood/Portland to Coast like it is at any other time and our vehicle was angled in so nobody could see our raised hood until they were past us. Plus, they had walkers to support, people counting on them. Not sure we could have stopped either were the roles reversed.
Fortunately and by the Grace of God, my WONDERFUL husband happened to be heading into Scappoose with our kids to meet his parents for lunch and then hopefully find me along my route in St. Helens to cheer me on. He grabbed a battery pack from his dad, came and helped us start the car. Apparently once they got back in the car after procuring the battery pack, Mister Cameron announced enthusiastically, “LET’S GO SAVE THE RACE!” How adorable is he? He is so adorable. Anyway, with a newly-charged battery, we headed to the next exchange to set me on my way.
This fiasco not only flustered all of us, including and especially this newbie getting redy for her first leg, and it put us behind schedule. Picture me changing into my walking clothes for my first leg in the parking lot of St. Helens High School, frantically pinning my number to my tank top, then scrambling to the exchange point to meet Tara and pray that everything went off without out a hitch.
I stood at the exchange point, as keyed up as a 100 meter sprinter ready to get in the blocks and go. Or, you know, what I imagine that would feel like. Because, as I’m sure you know if you read Part 1, I have absolutely no idea what that actually feels like. Bless my heart. My over-the-ear earphones were on my ears, my Nike Running Club app was ready to go (I knew from experience that if I didn’t keep a solid eye on my pace, I could easily slack off) with my beloved and carefully-curated PTC Pacing Mix playlist at the ready (did I mention I NEED my music?). Tara walked down the homestretch, slapped that bracelet on my wrist (I’m not kidding, literally slapped. They actually use those 1980’s-style snap bracelets), I clicked “start run” on my app, and off I went.
When my feet hit the pavement and the beat dropped on the first song, I settled into a familiar rhythm and all of a sudden, I was home. This was what I had been training for, as much as the past 10 hours since I woke up that morning had been unfamiliar and a tad disorienting, this was familiar. This was comfortable. This is what I came to do and had been doing. This, I could do. And wouldn’t you know it, shuffle mode on my playlist sent this song out first. I shoulda known right then that everything was going to be just fine.
I’m not gonna lie, it was hot in St. Helens at 1:30 in the afternoon in full sun, my nemesis. I wilt in the sun. Heat is ok, full sun withers me. This made me nervous. But I had water in my hand, a breeze was kicking down Hwy 30 and I was cruisin’. My first two-ish miles and my last mile are my slowest and I was walking much closer to a 14 minute pace than a 15 minute pace and thinking, “I’m doing it! I’m doing it! I’m really doing it!”
Some time around three miles, Jeff and the kids jumped out from behind a parked car to surprise me and cheer me on. I slapped them high fives and the kids even ran a little bit along behind me for a few yards or so. When I got home the next day, Kendall said to me, “Mommy! I saw you in da purple shorts!” Leave it to Kenzie to have her most vivid memory of an experience center around Mommy wearing purple.
Just after that, however, the path turned uphill again. And I was tired. And it was hot. And that blessed breeze from the highway had not made its way up into the neighborhoods. And it was absolute and total Bee Ess. Like, why would anyone do this for fun? People do this FOR FUN? THIS IS NOT FUN! THIS IS MISERABLE! THESE HILLS AND THIS HEAT CAN, if you will pardon my French, SUCK IT!!!!
But, before I knew it, I could see the exchange point and hear the cheers of the other walkers welcoming us in. OK, just kidding, it wasn’t before I knew it. I felt every second of the push to the finish. Good grief. But finish I did and collapse in the shade I also did.
I hadn’t fainted in the sun and the heat. It was hot, it was uphill, I was tired and I and my body had handled our business and gotten through it without much fuss. I hadn’t even felt like there was a danger that I was going to push too hard and end up blacking out. What’s more, nothing hurt. My back, my feet, that one tendon on the inside of my right knee, none of it had bothered me. I had done it, 5.23 miles uphill in the sun and the heat, I hadn’t felt fragile- and i had done it at 14:13 pace. The glass box I had put around myself was starting to crack. I was starting to see that maybe there was more to me than the sick and skinny 13-year-old who passed out in dressing rooms.
Here, you can read Part 3, in which I attempt to sleep in a field and have yet another flustered exchange- and the glass box shatters altogether and comes crashing down around me.
This is going to be a super-duper long post. A three-parter, even. A series, if you will. Because, this weekend I did a thing. And it was a big and brave thing. This past Friday and Saturday, I participated in the annual Portland to Coast relay walk.
Maybe that doesn’t seem like a big and brave thing to you or to some other people. I walked ten and a half miles and stayed up all night. Big whoop. But this isn’t some other people’s story. This is my story, a walk in my very own shoes, so to speak. And for me, this was really big and brave. And in the process of doing this big and brave thing, I learned some even bigger, braver, and more wonderful things about myself and about the sacred work of challenging ourselves, facing down our demons, and uncovering the truth about ourselves that can too easily become buried under the lies we’ve come to believe about ourselves.
Portland to Coast is something I’ve always kind of wanted to do. I have heard the whole Hood to Coast experience is amazing, and I do love to walk. Put some headphones on me with my jams playing and I will walk it out all. Day. Long. So when my friend Tara posted on FB that her Portland to Coast team needed a few more members, I hesitated about 30 seconds, ran it by my husband (one cannot make away-for-a-weekend choices without the other parent fully on board when your kids are 3 and 5), and said, “ME! ME! PICK ME!” I PayPalled her some dinero and all of a sudden, I was committed to doing a thing. A walk. A relay walk. No big deal, right?
Here’s the thing, though. I had never met Tara. We are “internet friends” who had connected through Project Mother, but never actually met in person. I also had never met anyone else on the team before. And I would be spending 36 hours in a van with these people. And also, I had never actually done any kind of a race before. Like, ever. Not even a 5k turkey trot. Matter fact, I pretty much don’t do athleticky things. My idea of participation in sports involves a carefully-curated Beaver game day outfit, a frosty beverage, and lots and lots of watching.
But more than that, I’ve always identified as DECIDEDLY un-athletic, even to the point of being a little scared of pushing myself. When I was 13, I was diagnosed with a thyroid disorder, Graves Disease, or autoimmune-induced hyperthyroidism. By the time they finally figured out what was going on, I was 5’3″ and weighed only 75 lbs, my resting pulse was 140, and I was getting lightheaded in dressing rooms trying on clothes. As a matter of fact, the day that finally propelled us to a diagnosis began with a morning walk with my mom and me getting so lightheaded that had to sit and wait under a bush for her to run home and get the car to come get me- and also call the doctor and say, “We’ll be right over. We need answers this time.”
Those were some very formative years for me, the years in which other kids were playing sports and doing athletic activities, and I was almost passing out from just walking. Even after I began treatment and my body started to normalize, I was still fragile, easily fatigued, easily lightheaded. Gym class was a nightmare. My body, already a long and lean type by virtue of genetics, also didn’t develop muscle well or even normally in that season as my out-of-control Graves-driven metabolism consumed every ounce of available matter to feed itself. This rendered me also less physically strong than other kids my age and with my long limbs without an ounce of fat on them, I was horrifically awkward trying just about anything. So I stuck with choir and theater and let sports be for the other kids.
Even though my body functions perfectly normally today and I live with no lingering symptoms as long as my meds are right (I did radiation treatment in my early 20’s and have been on a maintenance dose of Synthroid ever since) the misgivings I carried from that season have never really gone away. To this day I’m intimidated as heck of pushing myself athletically, both for fear I’ll be unable to do the things others can and for fear that I’ll, you know, end up passing out. It’s hard to release that self-preservation instinct that kicks in when I really start pushing myself and feeling the endorphins kick up, that wave of panic that the world is about to dark and I need to back off. So my self-identification as a bit of a weakling and my avoidance of sportsing and athleticizing has always run much deeper than, “It’s just not my thing.”
So I started training. If I was going to do this, I was going to do it right and I was DETERMINED not to be the weakest link on this team of women I had never even met. I told myself that if I couldn’t walk under a 15 minute mile, I might as well not even show up. On my first official training walk, I did three miles at that pace and could barely walk the next day. Plus it became evident early only that both my lower back and a tendon on the inside of my right knee had the potential to be problematic. But I walked, I lifted weights, and while I certainly could (and possibly should) have trained harder, I did enough to give myself a solid shot and I went into the race stronger and more ready than I had been when I first signed up.
The week of the race, Tara asked all of us for updated pace times and I told her I was confident I could do my legs at a 14.5 minute pace. At 3:30 on race day morning, my alarm went off, I drove across Portland to meet my teammates for the first time and get in a van with them for thirty-six hours. We loaded up the van, headed to the start downtown, and at 6:15, one of my five new besties, Noelle, hit the road- and we were off. Here. Went. Nothing. Y’all.
This is where I conclude Part 1. Standing at the starting line, ready to do the danged thing- but with no clue how it was going to go. Click here to read part 2.
Are your kids as into the movie Trolls as mine are? We are a little late to the party since we didn’t see it in the theater (because we can’t hold still that long yet), but we just got the DVD and although we are late, WE ARE VERY MUCH AT THE PARTY!
Kenzie runs through the house shouting “NO TROLL WEFF BEHINE!” multiple times daily.
And the soundtrack- OH, THE SOUNDTRACK! Cam has it on his iPod and it’s become my go-to when I need TWO CONSECUTIVE SECONDS OF PEACE in the car.
It was just such a moment, one in which the Trolls soundtrack was giving me a blessed break from sibling squabbles, that the most amazing lyric jumped out at me like a Bergen at Trollstice.
“What U Workin’ With” is basically a kid-friendly club anthem, the usual “move it and work it” narrative with family-safe spin. If you’re unfamiliar with the song, scroll to the end of the post and click “play” on the video and listen while you read.
But at the end of the bridge, Justin Timberlake drops the following truth bomb”
“It ain’t about, ain’t about, it ain’t about what you not. So what you workin’ with?”
Let that sink in for a moment…
Thank you, Justin, for pausing with us.
But you guys, do you realize that that quote is EVERYTHING!?!?!
“It ain’t about what you not! So what you workin’ with?”
Women, AND PARTICULARLY MOMS, spend an awful lot of time focusing on what we are not. We aren’t organized enough, patient enough, skinny enough, put together enough, you name it. There’s always SOMETHING that someone else is that we aren’t that we feel like we should be.
But how often do we stop to take inventory of what we ARE working with, the wonderful things that we- AND ONLY WE- offer to those around us often without realizing it? I know for me the answer is just about never.
We live in a performance-driven culture in which we are always being urged to move to the next thing, to be better, to do better and to keep our eyes on the prize. Self-help books and blogs, meetings with our supervisors at work, for teachers like me the ever-increasing standards for my students- it all pushes us upward, keeps us focused on what we could be doing better. I have a list a mile long of all of the things I’m not, all of the things I need to get better at, and all of the things I admire in others.
But that list doesn’t tell the whole story. That list makes Gwen Stefani angry.
BECAUSE IT AIN’T ABOUT WHAT I’M NOT!!!!
So…the existential question: what AM I workin’ with?
THAT is where my heart and mind should be dwelling. THAT is what I should be focusing on and running after. Not the things that I’m not, but the things that I AM! What is it that I bring to the world, to my family, to the Justin Timberlake/Gwen Stefani dance party of life? If you’re like me and have a hard time finishing the sentence, “Well, I’m really good at _______” or “My best quality is ________,” then we may be better suited to approach it from the angle of, “I feel most like myself when I am _______________” or “________________ comes naturally to me.”
For those who are Bible-readers like me, scripture tells me that we are formed in the image of God (Genesis 1:27), we are fearfully and wonderfully made (Psalm 139:14), God takes great delight in us (Zeph 3:17). I mean, I have to be actually pretty wonderful because GOD DOES NOT MAKE JUNK!
“IT AIN’T ABOUT WHAT YOU NOT, SO WHAT YOU WORKIN WITH?”
If we all wrapped our brains around that and worked to live into what we’re workin’ with and stopped worrying about what we’re not- can you imagine what that would look like, a world full of moms who aren’t held down by thoughts of what we are not and are walking through the world basically throwing sparkle all over the place like that troll who sings in Autotune and toots glitter?
Now, I’m not saying we should abandon self-improvement and ignore areas of opportunity for growth, that would not be helpful at all. But if we saw those things as ways to IMPROVE on what we are already workin’ with, ways to become even better versions of who we were created to be? The lies that the world has to tell us about not being enough would be SHUT DOWN and would hold no sway over us. NO SWAY, I SAY!!!!!!
So let us take the sage words of Stefani and Timberlake into the world with us this week, and the next, and the next. It’s not about what we aren’t, it’s about what we are. About what we, AND ONLY WE, are workin’ with as only we can.
Now please enjoy some tunes. And dance in front of a mirror. It’s good for you.
It’s been awhile since I’ve written over on my very own blog. I’ve been blogging twice a month for the Mother Manifesto blog and helping to manage their FB Community, workin’ my Noonday business, and trying to keep my kids alive and my house in a condition in which one can walk in a straight line safely and cook a meal without contracting food poisoning. Plus also HOLIDAYS.
But I wanted to hop on over here for New Year’s Post to talk about something that is heavy on my heart right now- heavy in a GOOD, GOOD way. I feel a beautiful, BEAUTIFUL burden as the new year emerges, and it all centers around one thing: My. Girls.
It’s been awhile since I’ve added any mood music to a blog post, but I think this calls for one:
Y’all, God has blessed with some amazing women in my life. I’ve got ‘em comin’ at me from truly every aspect of my life: my family (my mother and aunt are the kind of women that make the devil say, “Oh snap! She’s awake!” each and every morning), my friends from childhood and college, my Sister Moms, my Noonday Ambassador Sisters, my Church Girls- I’m not even lying when I say that my world is a smorgasbord of Female Ass-Kicking Talent (and they all either cuss a little or love me even though I do, so I feel like I can safely say that without shocking any of them).
My beautiful and exciting burden in the new year is to cheer. them. on. Because you guys, they are doing the Lord’s work, each and every one of them, whether they know it or not.
The Bible tells us that we were all created in the image of God and my relationship with God has made that feel so very really real for me. There are things about me that I know I couldn’t have mustered myself and when I see His reflection in others, it is BLINDINGLY beautiful in ways that nothing else is. It’s a real, REAL thing.
The problem is that we live in a culture that seems to be more focused on what it wants from women rather than on what God wants to show forth through them. The World has taken Glorious Image-Bearers of Our Almighty Creator and attempted to condense us in to easy-to-digest, bite-sized morsels of easily consumable “femininity,” a product whittled away to the sum of our uses. It is so easy for us to get so distracted by pursuing what The World seems to want from us that we lose touch with the still small voice that is whispering to us of who we really are.
When women bravely step into and run after the call they feel on their hearts, it deals a powerful blow to the current order in this world- and to the enemy of our souls. When a woman steps into her purpose, first of all, she is giving one of the greatest gifts imaginable to everyone in her life and in the world at large. God created us each of us unique and different, with gifts and talents that only we have- and He did this ON! PURPOSE! The Eternal I Am knows exactly what His creation needed, needs, and will need and He put gifts in each of us to fill those needs as only we can. When we pursue the fulfillment of that, we are building His kingdom and everything that is and and is to come benefits from that.
Second of all, when a woman bravely steps up and steps out, she is basically taking a metaphorical sledgehammer and dealing out a crushing blow that leaves a CRACK in the walls that have been built around women. Because not only is she doing it, OTHERS ARE SEEING HER DO IT. Her family is watching her, her friends are watching her, other women, men, CHILDREN- everyone is watching and y’all, that changes the status quo. When any woman looks at the things that are holding her back and holding her down and says ENOUGH, she is creating space for other women to do the same.
So in 2017, I’ll be spending the year cheering my little arss off for the women in my life as they do the brave and hard things
And my Sisters, let us be very clear that what constitutes the brave and hard and important and necessary things that need doing in your lives will differ from woman to woman, from girl to girl. Just as we and our lives are distinctly different from one another, so are the things that need doing in order to fulfill who God created us to be.
One person may feel called to start her own business or pursue a career she’s always felt called to and another to leave her job to stay home with her kids.
One may decide to fight for her marriage and one may decide she’s fought long enough and it’s time to break free.
One may be bravely pursuing the dream of motherhood amid obstacles she never even imagined and yet another might be struggling to create an identity for herself distinct from her children.
One may be fighting slavery, poverty, trafficking and injustice all across the globe while another is focused on changing hearts and minds in her own family and circles.
One may need to leave behind toxic relationships and another might bravely pursue friendship and connection in the face of crippling social anxiety.
One may decide that this is the year she finally sheds pounds and changes habits to get healthier while another decides to finally stop striving and love her body just as it is (although, we should ALL love our bodies, whether we are called to change them or not).
There may be a woman out there deciding that 2020 is the year that she will be elected the first woman President of the United States while another may be deciding that this week she will leave her house and walk to her mailbox despite fears that seem larger than life- and both of those women are doing brave and hard things that are shifting the atmosphere and making room for ALL of us to live into everything we were created to be.
And y’all- each of those women need their sisters cheering for them because they’re not just doing for themselves, they are doing it for all of us.
So please excuse me if I embarrass the heck out of you by being basically being the Sister Mom version of THAT MOM in the stands at the basketball game who’s all, “THAT’S MY BABY! YOU MAKE THAT BASKET, SWEETHEART!” That’s basically gonna be me shouting, “THAT’S MY GIRL! YOU GET IT, SISTER!!!! I KNOW HER! SHE’S MY GIRL!!!!”
Run, Sister. I’m cheering you on. Will you do the same for me? Let’s do this.