Anxiety is setting multiple alarms every day so that you are never late for anything but then being uncomfortable if you arrive too early.

Anxiety is working efficiently and being over productive but then crying in the shower because it’s all just too much.

Anxiety is leaving text messages from friends unanswered because you overthink your response but then believing unanswered messages from friends must mean they don’t like you.

Anxiety is being too exhausted to be awake but too exhausted to fall sleep.

Anxiety is feeling like your brain never stops racing but being unsure how to sit in the silence.

Anxiety is believing that you are not enough and then worrying that you are too much.

Anxiety is something that has shaped part of your story.

But...

Anxiety is not something that defines you.

Anxiety is not something to be ashamed of.

Anxiety is not something you have to manage alone.

Anxiety is not something to avoid talking about.

You are more than anxiety.

As I was listening to my sons tell me all about their impromptu baseball practice session at the field the other day, critiquing each other’s stance, swing and follow through, I realized that life is a lot like getting up to bat in baseball.

The People

Your fans
Behind you are your friends. They are the people in the crowd who are there for you and want you to do your best. They know when you need to be cheered on and when you need them to be quiet. They get you.

Fans of the other team
Behind you may also be some people who are not your friends. They wouldn’t mind seeing you strike out because they are there to root for someone else.

People only there for the snacks
Then there are the people that are just acquaintances. They are the people behind you who are totally uninterested in what you are doing — they are taking selfies on their phones and carrying on about something totally unrelated to your at-bat. Even though they are neutral, you still might not want to make an error in front of them.

Your coaches
Then there are your role models. They are your coaches. You look to them for guidance and advice. They motivate and push you.

The umps
Let’s not forget about the authority figures in your life. Perhaps they are bosses or others who are quick to judge you. They are the Umps, ready to call you “out.”

Your teammates
But, as you make your way to the plate, you also feel the presence of your team. Your success is their success. Your failure will also be felt by them. Maybe they are cheering you on, chanting your name, reminding you that they believe in you.

Your opponents
Then there is the other team — waiting in the outfield, watching your every move. Willing you to strike out and send them a nice pop fly.

Does any of that seem a bit like how real life goes?

It does for me.

I can identify people in each of those roles: fans for my team, fans for the other team, neutral acquaintances, people quick to judge or point out my errors and also my team who has my back.

Once you are in the batter’s box, all that other stuff fades away as you face off with the pitcher.

The Fear

• What if you swing and miss?
• What if the pitcher throws a crazy ball and you get hit?
• What if you get hurt?
• What if you completely strike out?
• What if you let yourself down?
• Worse yet, what if you let your team down?

I have seen countless batters step into that box throughout my years as a baseball mom. One single bad experience can set some kids into an incredible slump. Great hitters suddenly freeze, afraid to swing the bat. Some confident batters suddenly find themselves jumping out of the box because they have grown afraid of being hit by a ball again. Others lose their focus and can no longer seem to make contact with the ball. I have spent many seasons cheering on my sons, hearing coaches remind them that baseball is in large part about confidence, focus and staying in the box.

Look around. What is it like in your batter’s box of life now?
1. ​Who is cheering you on?
2. Who wants you to strike out?
3. Who is part of your team?
4. How are they supporting and encouraging you?
5. Who are your coaches and how do they motivate and bring out the best in you?
6. How does it feel in your batter’s box?
7. Do you need to make some changes to your stance?
​8. What are you thinking when you step into the batter’s box?
9. Is your fear of striking out so great that you just stand there, frozen, as the pitched balls fly by you, hoping they are called balls and not strikes?
10. Are you so scared of being hurt that you back out of the box on each pitch?
11. Do you lack confidence in yourself so you find yourself closing your eyes and swinging wildly at any pitch?​

As you move through this week, notice all of the children who are taking to the fields with their gloves, bats and balls. Let those images be a reminder to you to take some time to reflect on your life and what it is like in your batter’s box.
​
How can you regain your confidence, drown out the negative noise behind you, lean in, keep your eye on the ball and smash it out of the park?

The other day I fell into a sinkhole. Again.

You know the kind of sinkhole I’m talking about - the metaphorical kind. The kind that opens up and drags you under, disrupting your life - usually without warning.

This same stupid sinkhole has plagued me for years now. Each time it gets patched up, the fix only lasts for a short while before it becomes dangerous again.

Over the years, I’ve learned a lot about the sinkhole.

I’ve learned what causes sinkholes and how you can try to decrease your chances of encountering them.

I’ve learned how to add supports and reinforcements to reduce the risk of falling into the sinkhole.

I’ve learned to make the sinkhole more stable so that I could more safely move near it.

I’ve learned how to calmly drag myself out of the sinkhole each time it swallows me whole.

I’ve learned to minimize the toll the sinkhole has on my life.

I’ve learned to normalize sinkholes - afterall, we all hit sinkholes sometimes.

But, the other day I fell in it again. My reinforcements hadn’t worked, minimizing it hadn’t worked, normalizing it hadn’t worked. Nothing had worked.

There I was again - inside the sinkhole. I was powerless and defeated - again.

When people tried to help me out of the sinkhole, I yelled at them to go away, or I ignored them, or I begged for them to tell me it was ok to be a mess because I was back in the effing sinkhole again.

And then my child fell in behind me.

Of course he did.

It was only a matter of time before this happened. Afterall, he’s watched me and this sinkhole for most of his life. If I couldn’t avoid it then how could I expect him to avoid it.

That’s when it hit me.

I needed to be done with this sinkhole.

Like, completely done.

I’ve tried everything to keep the sinkhole from being a looming force in my life. Everything except one thing. I have never decided to stop letting the sinkhole be in my life.

I COULD make the one choice I hadn’t yet given myself permission to make.

There are always other routes we can take to get where we need to go.

Maybe those routes will take us longer to get where we are going.

Maybe those routes won’t make sense to those people who have never fallen into the sinkhole or who can’t imagine that particular sinkhole being so bad.

Maybe we’ll be judged harshly and criticized for my decision to take a new route.

But, the truth in life is that there will always be criticism. There will always be people who don’t understand us. There will always be people who disagree with us.

There will always be sinkholes.

When the sinkholes become too big, too scary, and too damaging we CAN take away their power in our life.

We CAN stop allowing them to dictate how our journey goes.

We CAN stop allowing them to wreak havoc in our life.

It was time to do it.

So, together my child and I pulled ourselves out of the sinkhole and decided to drive away.

One last time.

​We didn’t look back.

To the mama who didn’t get to have a normal childhood,

I see you.

I see your daily pain as you move through the journey of parenthood, realizing over and over again just how much you were mistreated and abused by your own caregivers.

Your heart breaks almost daily for all the things you missed or had taken away from you during what was supposed to be your childhood.

YOU NEED TO HEAR THIS:

You didn’t deserve any of the abuse, neglect, and mistreatment that happened to you.

None of it.

It was the job of your caregivers to keep you safe, make you feel loved, and allow you to be a child.

They failed you.

You didn’t fail.

None of it was your fault.

You need to believe this - in your core.

And now look at you - making the decision every day that the cycle of abuse will stop with you.

Every day you make the active choice to give your children and yourself a better life.

Each time you tell your children that you love them so they don’t go to sleep at night wondering what they have to do to earn your love - you continue to break the cycle.

Each time your child feels safe coming to you for advice after they have made a mistake instead of cowering in fear - you continue to break the cycle.

Each time you spend time with your children at their sporting events, extracurricular activities, or just snuggling on the sofa, reminding them that you not only love them but you LIKE them too - you continue to break the cycle.

Each time you apologize and take ownership for your mistakes as a parent and clarify that your child is not responsible for your emotional well-being - you continue to break the cycle.

Each time you set a boundary and protect your child from people that do not respect them or cannot be trusted - you continue to break the cycle.

Each time you seek support for yourself so that you can be a better version of yourself - you continue to break the cycle.

I see your efforts and I know that the work you are doing is hard.

You are tired.

You doubt yourself.

You fight daily to prevent those negative thoughts and messages from your own childhood from coming to the surface.

Keep going. Keep moving forward, building the life your children so deserve - the life you never got to have as a child.

But be sure to also take time to think about all the ways your children will never have to experience what you experienced.

Take time to be proud of the parent that you have chosen to be.

Your children are lucky to have you as their mama.

Remember that.

Love yourself just as fiercely as you love your children.

You deserve it.

You are worthy of love and compassion - especially from yourself.

It’s easy to miss them.

It’s easy to miss all the little moments that remind us that we matter.

It’s easy to miss those exchanges that show us how much we are loved.

It’s easy to let those moments happen, pause for a brief bit of gratitude, and then return to the hustle and bustle of life.

It’s easy to miss the weight of all those moments.

It’s easy to miss the weight of the quick text from a friend after your child’s sports game telling you your son played great and asking you how you are feeling.

It’s easy to miss the weight of that little package of skinny drink syrups and a cup of good gin left on your doorstep by someone who knows you share the same taste in quality cocktails.

It’s easy to miss the weight of a daily funny meme text from a friend just to make you laugh.

It’s easy to miss the weight of a Facebook message and post from high school friends who are just checking in on you.

It’s easy to miss the weight of a hug from a friend who stops mid conversation when you enter their house just to give you a hug - one of those nice long hugs that only real friends can give.

It’s easy to miss the weight of posts from online friends that you have never met in real life yet have somehow become some of the most important people in your life.

It’s easy to miss the weight of an Aunt who puts together a gift of snacks and teas and a Golden Girls mug to remind you of your grandmother.

It’s easy to miss the weight of group texts from friends who make you laugh, keep you connected, and accept you - even with all your flaws.

It’s easy to miss the weight of a 15 year old son taking time each day to ask you how you are feeling - even two weeks after you have surgery.

It’s easy to miss the weight of a 12 year old son somehow finding his way into the crook of your arm to snuggle a bit - even after all these years.

It’s easy to miss the weight of your 7 year old niece giving you a handmade card on HER birthday asking how you are feeling.

It’s easy to miss the weight of your sister bringing an extra bag of dark chocolate Cadbury mini eggs just for you because she knows you don’t like milk chocolate.

It’s easy to embrace these moments, soak them in for a bit, and then file them away in the back of your brain - filed in that dark space where the volume is set too low.

It’s easy for those moments to get overshadowed by the moments of self doubt, low self esteem, and insecurities - all of those seemingly stored in a place where the volume is kept too high.

It’s easy to miss them.

But we can’t LET ourselves miss them.

We need to remember how much we are loved and how much we matter.

Drag out your memories of those moments and shine the light on them.

Turn up the volume on those moments.

Write them down.

Cherish them.

Hold onto them.

Turn to them on your dark days.

Those are the moment that matter.

Those are the moments that are real.

If you’ve been here for a while, you know I’m all about being real and giving space to things that are difficult to talk about.

So, here I am!

It’s been 6 days since my 6 hour surgery to evict my broken uterus and excise my endometriosis and since I write about everything else, I figured it’s probably time to write about this too...

For starters, I read my surgery notes yesterday.

Yikes.

It turns out I was a mess internally. Endo had been doing quite a number on my insides. Organs were not where they belonged. Stuff was stuck to other stuff. Endo was growing through muscles and was literally everywhere. I had to have a lot of stuff removed, put back in place, and put back together. I’ve got internal sutures and dissolvable mesh and am waiting on lots of pathology reports from things that were removed.

Explains why the surgery took 6 hours.

Already it is lovely to no longer be feeling the daily pain my uterus was causing me for years now and it’s startling to be starting to really understand just how much pain I was in on a regular basis before last week’s surgery.

But, man do hormones suck.

My doctor had told me that I might feel pretty hormonal afterwards for 4-6 weeks. Endo is hormones and my body would likely react to the sudden hormonal change when lots of endo was removed even though I was able to keep my one remaining ovary. I felt great a few days ago and thought I was out of the woods.

Ha ha ha.

Silly me.

My doctor was right about everything else so of course he was right about this.

I feel first trimester pregnant now. I’m nauseous. I’m tired. Everything makes me cry. I’m foggy.

And I’m a bad Amazon shopper now too. It turns out that fogginess plus online shopping is not a good match.

On a slightly related note, does anyone need a random round battery from Amazon that fits absolutely nothing?

Back to the hormones...I only want to eat bland carbs and Cadbury mini eggs.

And I’m craving weird things.

Like that raspberry lime rickey in the photo.

I typically don’t drink anything other than water, tea, and alcohol and nothing sweet.

But man did that raspberry lime Rickey taste good.

So, basically right now I’m a lot of fun.

All of the hormone symptoms get worse the more I push myself. They also seem to peak in the afternoon so I am trying to find a balance between doing something and doing nothing.

I sort of suck at that.

I taught a class today and that went well but now my brain is mush - as evidenced by the choppiness of this post.

So, what is the point of this post?

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Sometimes the point is that there is no point.

Sometimes you just have to be in the process - without really knowing when you’ll get to the other side of the process.

Sometimes you just have to be in it - wading through the mud and muck and dragging yourself to the other side.

So, this is my update from inside the process.

Reminding you that if you are in the middle of a process right now - keep holding on.

Keep moving forward.

The other side is there. You’ll make it there.

And if you love someone going through a process and they aren’t so fun to be around right now, love them anyways.

They’ll get back to being themselves soon.

And seriously, when your brain is mush and foggy, step away from the online shopping...

I have a confession.

All around me this week people are sharing their posts from a year ago - posts from when our lives as we knew them came to screeching halt.

Although those 2020 feelings of dread, fear, and uncertainty are there beneath the surface and I can easily tap into them, those feelings are not how I define my memories of the past year.

I remember things a bit differently.

I remember my oldest son walking around in a bike helmet all day on a dare from his brother because what else was there to do? The photos from that day will forever make us chuckle.

I remember pulling out all our board games to pass the time, working our way through all the boxes that filled our hallway closet. Those games allowed us to share laughter and create memories.

I remember learning Tik Tok dances much to the embarrassment of my sons. Somehow those silly songs now hold a special place in my heart.

I remember group FaceTime calls with my friends as we showed our stashes of toilet paper and hand sanitizer. Those calls brought us closer and provided me with a connection I desperately needed.

I remember creative date nights at home planned by my husband. His Dominican feast on the day we were supposed to be traveling alone to Punta Cana certainly did not replace our trip but it was a pretty good back up plan.

I remember sitting at our kitchen table every morning. That tiny table that somehow fit four humans, their four laptops, and mountains of paperwork became the center hub of our home as we all made the switch to remote learning and remote working.

I remember watching the entire Marvel Cinematic Universe and Star Wars catalog as a family - twice - once in the release order and once in chroniclogal order. Those films became the soundtrack of our year.

I remember crafting a new kitchen island as a family after on a whim I said we needed a bigger space to do our work. Now that Island anchors my family and serves as the gathering place in our home.

I remember building a new patio as a family, brick by brick, because our backyard would be where we would spend our entire spring and summer. Even now under cover of winter in New England, that patio makes me smile as it is a piece of my family’s heart.

I remember hugging my sister, brother in law, my nieces, and my nephew for the first time after the initial lockdown. In that moment, standing in my dining room with tears in our eyes, we all decided that we needed to be in each other’s bubble always.

I remember spending time with friends outdoors when at times it almost felt like normal life.

I remember how when we struggled we were there for each other.

I remember how we all adapted.

I remember how we learned important lessons about ourselves and our family.

I remember how we decided to make lasting changes to our lives.

I remember laughter.

I remember joy.

I remember love.

I remember hope.

I remember that the year we were forced inward and were forced to slow down was also the year when we learned how to stay connected and truly enjoy life.

I remember that we found out just how lucky and loved we truly are.