categorically kate

Category: give a damn

  • Languishing

    Languishing

    In the year of our Lord 2023, I find myself happily languishing through a relatively still, easygoing era of my life. If you would have told me three years ago that I would spend 95% of my waking hours within the same four-walls, with largely just myself and my pets for company, I certainly wouldn’t wager that I was happy. But here I sit and quite frankly, it’s lovely.

    The daily theatre of my life is largely a one-woman show.
    I wake. I work. I relax. I sleep. And then I do it all over again.

    Of course, I also parent when my daughter is home, but between school, shared custody, and soccer practices, that time feels distinct, precious, and rarer than I prefer. I simultaneously exist in two parallel universes: In one, I am with my daughter; In the other, I must find a reason to still exist without her. This post is about my time in the latter universe.

    My waking hours are typically quiet and low-key.
    I watch a lot of television. I binge a lot of social media.
    I read a respectable number of books. I research a bunch of interesting things just for the hell of it.
    I start, and occasionally manage to finish, fun, ADHD-inspired projects.
    I accompany my 12-year old dachshund on delightful morning walks and I take wonderfully refreshing afternoon naps basically whenever I want them.

    Despite the regularity of my solitude, I assure you that I haven’t been completed isolated while in this Languishing Space. Notwithstanding the occasional calendaring conflict, I not only see my closest friends quite frequently but I also choose to regularly leave the comfortable confines of my home. These practices have helped me savor this time while also helping me avoid a slip into full Hermit mode. All in all, it has been a really, lovely time. Quite lovely. So lovely in fact that ─ despite instinctually knowing that it is time for something else ─ I hesitate to leave this behind.

    Sure, it can get a little quiet here, but at least I am at peace.
    I haven’t always felt peace you know.

    Sure, it can get rather lonely here but at least I am safe.
    I haven’t always felt safe you know.

    Sure, really amazing things might await me out there, but I really appreciate everything I’ve got here.
    I haven’t always appreciated what I have you know.

    But its clear now that I have tried to make a permanent home out of this temporary situation and like a Bear awakening in the Spring, I realize my Languishing Cave cannot sustain me much longer. If I stay, I will eventually starve. My carefully constructed refuge now only offers the illusion of safety. Lingering here too long will bring about my own ruin. And I know it.
    And yet…

    Each step away from this place of shelter and respite, brings closer the avoided feelings: Discomfort, Fear, Anxiety, Anger, Sadness.

    I want to write again, but what if its bad?
    Worse yet, what if its good?
    If its good and no one ends up reading it, will I be a failure? Again?
    If its good and people do read it, will they like it? Will they like me?
    Worse yet, what if they don’t? Will I be sad again? God, I don’t ever want to be that sad again.

    But the Bear cannot reacquaint herself with the cool, refreshing pleasures offered by nearby glistening waters until she sets her sight on the hills it nestles in between and she walks away from Winter’s den. So then I too should set out on this journey and hope the road I travel leads to new possibilities and maybe even second chances to delight in pleasures I’ve now forgotten.

    In this new era of my life, the daily theatre will still feature work, play, restoration, and slumber but there will be a new castmate: Discomfort. For me. And for others too.

    I don’t like that and frankly, it is a big part of why I think I have chosen to languish in the comfort of the here. The comfort of the now. The comfort of the quiet.
    I really don’t want to disappoint anyone. I really don’t want to hurt anyone.
    I really don’t want to offend anyone. I really don’t want to embarrass anyone.
    But I do really need to write words again. And I really do need to tell stories again.
    And I really do need to be able to express myself again.
    And I need to be able to do it without putting absolutely everyone’s comfort, peace, and well-being ahead of my own.

    I can no longer drown in the lives of others while waiting for lifelines they may never cast.

    And who knows, maybe this time I will be seen. Maybe this time, I will be appreciated.
    Maybe this time, I will be loved in the way that I love.
    That would be something, wouldn’t it?
    There are no promises, but there is certainly a chance.
    But there’s no chance without deliberate choice.
    So you see, I cannot languish here much longer. I cannot.
    I wish I could. I really, really wish I could.
    I’ve lived out a million invisible lifetimes trying to find a scenario in which I could linger in this languishing forever… And I cannot.

    Once upon a time, I was the type of person who would enjoy poking a sleeping bear just to delight in the surprise of it all. Maybe I should be that type of person again.

    I would like to know what happens when the Bear awakens. Really awakens. What then?
    Once she has rubbed the sleep from her eyes and shaken the last traces of Winter from her fur, what possibilities await her then? What wilds will she see? What adventures will she encounter?

    I don’t have answers yet, but on the breeze there are subtle notes of Spring’s renascent splendor and for the first time in a long time ─ in the year of our Lord 2023 ─ I don’t think I want to Languish here anymore.

  • Year 34 + a twist

    Year 34 + a twist

    I put off starting this post quite a bit this year and had trouble putting my finger on why that was. I did want to write the post. I truly love this annual tradition of mine and this year has been eye-opening for me. I wanted to share more about it, but something seemed… off. I couldn’t place it.

    So I decided instead to “prepare” for writing this post. I determined the best preparation would be reading and re-reading my original 40 by 40 list, taking honest stock of what I did do, what I didn’t, and what I wish I had already done. But every time I revisited the list, I found myself struggling with that “off” feeling again and it sent me into a frustration spiral.

    One night last week, with my birthday looming, I laid in bed willing myself to focus on reading the last “Classic” necessary to technically cross another item off my list and it suddenly hit me: I no longer fully align with the woman who made the list.

    The original list was published shortly after my 30th birthday in 2016. That was the year I watched my daughter turn one and the year I first suspected (though couldn’t admit to even myself) that my marriage might not last. My job change that year that would ultimately put me on a professional path I had never before considered and along with the rest of the world, I watched the 2016 election unfold. I cried as one of my heroes gave her concession speech, and then held my breath to see what would happen next.

    A lot happened next.

    2016 and the version of who I was at 30 years old seems far, far away. We can all argue all day about how the world has changed in that handful of years, but I am certain of one thing: I am NOT the same woman who wrote that list.

    The world isn’t a static place full of static people with unchanging desires and dreams. I could spend the next five years of my life identifying all the ways I’ve changed in the past five years of my life only to find that the passed time had once again shifted my alignment.

    What I am trying to say is this: If I made a 40 by 40 list today, some of those same things may possibly make the cut, but not all of them would.

    With that realization, it started to seem rather silly that I felt obligated to check boxes off a list that another woman had written. Why would my annual reflection or self-critique be beholden to desires that I no longer have? Even more, how could I properly reflect on my own growth and awareness without holding myself accountable for working towards new dreams I discover along the way?

    So what does all this mean? Well, I’m not cutting any items from the list but I no longer feel compelled to complete them all either. Now I see each item as a time capsule reminding me of a moment when something in particular held my interest or attention. And I want to add new things to my list as I go because there is so much more I want to do on this side of 40 that 2016-me never even considered.

    So here’s my updates and additions. And I can honestly say that over the next five years, absolutely everything is subject to change:

    Purchase and Display Original Artwork from a Local Artist (Level 2)

    I did pick a local artist and friend (Looking at you Meg!) who I adore and discussed the piece I wanted with her earlier this year. But you know, life happens and it isn’t yet hanging in my house. That’s okay. The thought of it being there one day already makes me happy and I plan on sharing the shit out of it when it does finally grace my walls!

    Meet 5 “Internet Friends” in real life (Level 3)

    As an elder millennial, I remember a time where people thought it was weird to call people from the internet you’ve never met in person your friends. But between the lockdown and the pandemic, that ship has sailed and I will happily admit that I love so many people that I’ve never had the pleasure of embarrassing in public. Next week that will change though when the beautiful Natalie Kristeen comes to the Natural State! I absolutely cannot wait!

    Invest in Luxury Bedding (Level 3)

    Over the last 5 years I have bought multiple sets of expensive sheets and duvets all boasting high ratings and long lists of happy customers. And yet, I still find myself regularly sleeping on Target brand sheets and curling up for the night with a fuzzy blanket from my sofa. So, this is officially a cry for help: Help me find luxury bedding that I don’t hate y’all. I sleep hot so I prefer cool sheets. I am needy so I prefer something weighted. And I have a toenail that can get a little snaggly at times so durability is a must. Oh, and I like my fitted sheet to be TIGHT. Super tight. No oversized saggy mess over here. So feel free to hit me up with any (and all) suggestions at this point. I’m beyond tired of spending money only to end up disappointed and back at Target.

    Go Scuba Diving (Level 4)/Take a girls only vacation (Level 3)

    Check, check, and CHECK! This summer I had the pleasure of taking my very first dive trip in Bonaire with some amazing women and friends. Was it perfect? Nope. But life seldom is. There were hiccups along the way (including at at least three missed flights) but at the end of the day, I got to experience something I’ve always wanted to experience and it was pretty damn cool. So I’m pretty damn happy about it.

    List Additions (For Now):

    Get Published- My original list included writing something small for myself that I was proud of and that was nice. But I’ve done that time and time again and I want to challenge myself to more so I am officially expanding the original item: I’d like to be published. I’m working on a variety of things and one day, I want others to read them because quite frankly, I think the things I have to say are worthy of hearing. A younger version of myself never would have said that and I think that kind of growth is pretty fucking cool.

    Climb a Tree – I get how crazy this makes me sound but I don’t care. As a kid, I loved to climb trees. Hell, I literally used to climb a tree in my backyard and write poetry in a notebook made of homemade paper. Somewhere along the road to adulthood, I stopped climbing trees and I’m not even sure why. So the next time I see a tree that is begging to be climbed, I want to go for it without hesitation. Life is too short to not climb the tree.

    Low Priorities (For Now):

    Keep a garden alive for one full season (Level One) – I have no desire to be Annie Oakley; I am a city girl who enjoys the farmer’s market and my lawn guy in equal measure. I don’t see myself learning the intracentries of fertilizer anytime soon but I suppose I can never say never.

    Renew wedding vows (Level 2) – I hate to be the one to break the news, but I’m divorced. And my ex-husband is remarried. So, the odds of renewing the wedding vows we exchanged when I was 26 is approximately… Zero. In truth, I’m not sure I am the marrying-type anymore. I suppose only time will tell. Either way, I’m not losing sleep over not being able to cross this one off the list.

    Curate and maintain a stylish and versatile wardrobe that
    compliments my body type (Level 3)     – Pssst! Guess what? What compliments my body changes over time because my body changes over time! Bless the innocent heart I had at 30 thinking that once I was done having kids I would fall into a steady routine and maintain the same figure the rest of my life. But I do enjoy reducing my carbon footprint through thrifting and experiencing with styles I once considered too out of the box for me. So all in all, I like where I’m at with this one for now.

    ____________________________

    So that’s the end of 34. As I enter into my 35th year, a recent TikTok keeps popping up in my mind. It declared that your 20’s aren’t your prime, but are instead the primer. I like that but I want to add to it. If your 20’s are the primer, your 30’s are for experimenting with color. Enjoy in some haphazardness and don’t worry too much about drop cloths or taping off the corners. It’s just paint babe. You are always capable of adding another layer.

    So what do you say?

    Let’s all go experiment in color this year!

  • “Mama”

    “Mama”

    I’ve been struggling to find the words that need to be said. So many of my friends have made eloquent, touching posts online about George Floyd’s murder and our unacceptable racist system that continues to condemn men and women of color to execution. And as a white woman, I know it is my duty to not only speak out but to use my privileged position to do everything in my power to end it all. It feels so heavy and yet, I’m not really carrying a burden at all. My child is white. When she ages, I will not have to worry about cops or entitled white people with guns mistaking her for a “scary” or “dangerous” person upon first glance. I will worry for her health and safety but the idea of her getting killed simply because she reaches in her purse for her license or she goes for a jog in a neighbor where a robbery has been reported, are fears that will never cross my worried mind. But they are the fears of black mothers in this country.

    Each time one of these egregious events occur (which is far too often) I always think of the mother. The mother that carried that child and felt it kick from within. The mother who anxiously awaited the birth of that child and bled and toiled to hear its first precious cry. The mother who peaked into a crib at 3 in the morning, exhausted but smiling. I think about what joy she felt when that child took first steps or said her name aloud. I think about all the times she was overwhelmed and yet, pushed her own needs aside for the benefit of that growing child and how she never thought twice about doing so.

    And then yesterday, I thought about how George Floyd, in his last unbearable moments in this world, cried for his mother.

    There aren’t easy answers and there will be no quick fixes. It pains me to say that but it is true. More black mothers, who are, in the wake of George Floyd’s murder, currently worrying about the child they love beyond measure, will get the worst phone call of their life. More black lives will be taken over nothing more than a white person’s perception of their own superiority. More self-identifying liberals will threaten the lives of people of color over nothing more than their outrage of being addressed by them. More people will write more articles about all the things that white people can do to combat this ongoing and systematic evil.

    And yet, our nation’s leaders will spend more time raging against social media for fact checking them than they ever will spend thinking about George Floyd’s mother.

    Please think about her today. Put your phone and your computer aside and just think about her. Think about the mothers of all those precious lives that have been unjustly stolen. And then, think about your own mother or maybe your own child. Regardless of your political affiliations, please try to see yourself or your own mom in their place. Don’t do the easy thing and push it away as someone else’s life or problem. Get on your knees and envision yourself or your mother dropping to knees as a casket is lowered into soil. Feel it. Make yourself feel it. Weep. Yell. Be stunned into silence.

    And then, get up. Because we all have a hell of a lot of work to do.

  • Overcoming the Mountain

    Overcoming the Mountain

    I’m overcome.

    With anger.
    With sadness.
    With despair.
    With rage.

    I cling to my own child while reading horror stories about other children.
    Children who weren’t fortunate enough to be born in this country.
    To be born white.
    To be born middle class.
    To be born privileged.

    I cry.
    Sometimes I cry at my desk at work.
    Sometimes I cry in the shower.
    I often cry in the car.

    Then I’m overcome with guilt for my tears.
    Who the hell am I to cry? I’m lucky. I’m untouched by these perils. My daughter is safe.
    But the tears flow like clear, hot lava and my soul burns.

    I’ve donated.
    I’ve prayed.
    I’ve journaled.
    I’ve volunteered.
    I’ve shared resources online.
    I’ve called my elected representatives.
    But I keep coming back to the same question, “What have I really done?” or rather, “What can I even really do?”

    What can you do when you see a picture of a father and his young child face down, drowned in a river as they searched for a better life? A life I freely lead through no right other than circumstance and chance. First, I stopped to notice…

    I noticed that the child was tucked under his shirt and that made me think about his actions before wading into the waters. How he probably comforted her, told her that by sharing daddy’s shirt she would stay close to him… near his heart. I thought about how scared he must have been but how tucking his daughter into his own shirt must have given him some assurance that they’d be together. That they’d be okay.

    I noticed how, even in death, the child clung to her father — a little elbow crooked around his neck. That little arm signified a deep trust. Trust that daddy was doing everything he could. That daddy would keep her safe. My own daughter has clung to me in a similar way, but never through a coursing river as we journeyed towards safety, towards peace, towards a chance of life.

    I couldn’t stop thinking about their last moments. What he said. What the child did. What I was doing in my own life as they journeyed through literal hell on earth. I bet I was peacefully sleeping, my own child safe in the room down the hall where I can watch the rise and fall of her chest on a monitor.

    Next, I wanted to do something, but what?

    Cry?
    Scream?
    Curse the very earth I walk upon and all the horrors it spews upon humanity?

    I’ve done those things. Hell, I’m doing them as I type this. But what do they accomplish? How do they stop the horror? They don’t undue the torment on those young souls. They don’t bring back the dead. They don’t rain down justice on the perpetrators.

    I say again — I am overcome.

    I ran from faith for a long time. I never truly stopped having it, but I quit embracing it. Embracing it felt like an acceptance of all the nasty things that have sadly become associated with faith. With hatred. With judgment. With pride. With arrogance. I couldn’t bring myself to embrace those values so I convinced myself that I didn’t need faith in my life on a daily basis.

    But as I watch the horrors unfold around me I feel moved to reevaluate my position. As I stared at that picture of that sweet drown baby girl and her father, I remember…

    Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.

    Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.
    Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.
    Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled.
    Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy.
    Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God.
    Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.
    Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness’ sake: for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.

    I may be overcome but if there is a shred of justice in this world, they will be blessed.
    I don’t know how. I don’t know when. But they must be. 
    I don’t think I could stand to breathe another breath if I didn’t have faith that somehow their torment on this earth would not stand unanswered and unaccounted for or if I believed that after the misery and toil of this world, nothing better awaited them. No, surely they are blessed. They are blessed beyond measure. Blessed more than any of us will ever be and I praise that and embrace it as fact based not on evidence, but on faith alone. I cling to that because I too am drowning, not in water but in sorrow and rage. I cling to this newfound faith. I need it as much as I need oxygen.
    This new faith has brought new authors into my life and I recently I finished a book entitled “Jesus Feminist: An Invitation to Revisit the Bible’s View of Women” by Sarah Bessey. The book isn’t new but my discovery of it is. As I read, I got a sense that many other women, be they of faith or not, probably feel as overcome as I do now. You may feel overcome. In the book, she puts a spin on a favorite verse from my childhood. The verse is Mark 11:23 and it says: “Truly, I tell you, if anyone says to this mountain, ‘Go, throw yourself into the sea,’ and does not doubt in their heart but believes that what they say will happen, it will be done for them.“
    As a child, when I was nervous about a test or some other trivial thing, I’d turn to this verse and remind God of it. “I do not doubt!” I’d say. “I do not doubt that I will ace the ACT and get into a good college and get a good scholarship so I’m willing it into being through prayer per Mark 11:23 Lord. Let it be so. Cast this mountain into the sea!”  I have nothing but deep sighs and eye-rolls for past me and my prayers that were narcissistic in nature, not to mention probably a borderline attempt to blackmail God with the Holy Book. 
    According to Sarah Bessy though, “[S]ometimes our most holy mountain-moving faith looks more like spending our whole lives making that mountain move, rock by rock, pebble by pebble, unsexy day after daily day, casting the mountain to the sea stone by stone rather than watching a mountain suddenly rise up and cast itself.”

    I see what the mountain is now. It isn’t tests or high school crushes, it’s hell on earth. It’s children being separated from their families and left without basic provisions and care. It’s families stuck in war zones at the mercy of people in power who think of nothing else. It’s mothers who watch their children die of disease or hunger when resources existed to help — but they just couldn’t get past enemy lines. It’s unarmed black men being gunned down in their own cars in front of babies. It’s addicts who can’t afford health care and high maternal mortality rates for people of color. And yes, it is a child clinging to her father, even in death, in a river on the border of the wealthiest, most powerful country in the world, one which also happens to so boldly proclaim: “In God We Trust.”

    That’s a mountain. It’s vast. It seems impossible to move. It’s hard to overcome.

    But we have to and if that means taking it pebble by pebble, well give me damn shovel! I’ll rejoice in it.  I’ll kiss the blisters on my hand as they form!

    You see, I’ve suddenly realized that “overcome” has another meaning… a powerful one. One that means I do not have to succumb to but rather, one that hints at a power I possess. One we all do. Bessy refers in her book to our “preaching-with-our-feet-and-voices-and-hands-money-lives.” We have those and we can chose to wield them! Instead of feeling overcome by the mountain, we can decide that by deed, word, action, and faith we will instead, overcome it.

    It won’t happen all at once.
    There will be more horrific stories and photos that will send us reeling and looking for answers. And it will be okay to seek them. We can cry. We can mourn. We can even ask ourselves why are we here — blessed, happy secure — while others are not. It’s okay. But we cannot get so bogged down in despair that we forget that we’ve been enabled with a power to overcome. Our safety and security in this world comes with a solemn duty to those trapped by the mountains:

    A duty to pick up a shovel and get to work.
    We’ve got mountains to overcome.

    Here are some resources you can use to help move this mountain. Please grab a shovel — we’ve got work to do:

    DONATE to one of these organizations:

    PLEDGE

    • Use your frequent flyer miles to help get more attorneys to the border to provide pro bono immigration services to those being detained.
    • Sign online petitions to show elected officials that you are not okay with this humanitarian crisis occurring anywhere, much less on our own soil. Don’t miss this one from the ACLU that will be sent to the Secretary of Homeland Security.
    • Use a spare room or property to host a refugee in crisis.
    INFORM YOURSELF and OTHERS
    • It’s not okay to bury your head in the sand and it is your duty to confront those you love who choose to do so. Read, listen or watch the news. I suggest NPR, PBS Newshour, and the BBC for solid reporting. 
    • Learn the facts about family separation so that you can wield truth to those who are misinformed.
    SPEAK OUT
    • Contact your elected officials today, tomorrow, and every single day about this crisis. Urge them to support the following legislation at the national level:
    • Find events near you so that you can speak out and show up in person.
    • Write an op-ed to your local paper detailing why you support ending this humanitarian crisis.
    HOLD ELECTED OFFICIALS ACCOUNTABLE
    • You may not be able to hit the voting box for at least another 7-months or so, but make a plan now to only support political candidates who have concrete plans to end family separations and espouse productive and humanitarian methods of ending the immigration crisis in our country and reuniting families and children. 
  • Ending my Addiction to Fast Fashion

    Ending my Addiction to Fast Fashion

    Overall the years, I’ve given up a lot of things in pursuit of a more ethical lifestyle that would also reduce my carbon footprint.

    First, I gave up meat. Technically, I first gave up beef and pork. Then, over a year later, I finally gave up poultry as well. I had discovered the true cruelties of the meat industry, the terrible impact of meat on your physical health, and of course, came to terms with what I’d known my entire life as something that felt “wrong” to me. At first, giving these up seemed a little daunting but I soon realized that there were, in fact, pretty easy to do. My fear and comfort zone held me back more than anything. And making the changes made me feel better than ever — physically, mentally, spiritually.

    Next, I gave up all of the beauty and household products I had even known. I went from loving Clinique and pretty much everything that P&G sold to understanding the horrors of animal testing and just how dangerous many of the ingredients in those products are thanks to the US’s super lax standards. I of course, replaced these items with brands that were cruelty-free and eco-friendly (including favorites like Dropps and Grove).

    Then, I started parting with money by regularly donating to organizations that I believe are pursing worthwhile causes to support ethical endeavors around the word. This too felt good.

    After that, the universe started to impress upon me the importance of sustainable and ethical fashion. It began when Adam randomly played “The True Cost” on Netflix one day. That led me to feeling reaaaaal crappy about my fashion choices and out of guilt, following a few key people in the sustainable fashion movement like Livia Firth online. But then — Old Navy, GAP, and Target hit up my e-mail y’all and I bet you can guess what they offered me:

    Cute clothes
    Real cheap
    Decent(ish) quality
    Credit card that offers in-store rewards

    And I bit. Hook, line, sinker. I continued supporting the fast fashion industry. Of course, I’d still get frustrated when a top fell apart after a first (or fifth) washing but I’d roll my eyes and think, “At least I didn’t spend THAT much on it.”

    Then Marie Kondo told me to clean up my act. Not once. But twice. First with her book back in 2017. Then again with her Netflix special in 2019. Both times I threw out copious amounts of cheap clothing that I either never loved, no longer loved, never fit properly, no longer fit properly after washings, or that was worn out completely. Both times I vowed — “Nope. Not again. Not me. I shall break my fast fashion habit.”

    Narrator: “She did not break the habit…”


    I had good intentions. I did. I always DO. But I’ve been groomed my entire life to not only expect a bargain but to practically crave them. Each time I hit “Buy Now” my brain is flooded with feel good chemicals that softly whisper, “Sssh.. it’s okay if it isn’t exactly what you want or need. It will do for now. And you got such a great deal on it. Don’t worry. You’ll love it!” This is reinforced when tracking information is sent. Oh, I get a high from a watching a tracking number that is somewhat embarrassing to discuss. And don’t get me started on the joy I feel opening the boxes that arrive on my front porch. It is… so freaking satisfying. It’s a treat to myself from myself that, at least temporarily, makes me feel good about myself.

    But like any addict – I know that my high is always temporary. And soon, I’ll have to search for another promo code, another deal, another item to ship and track and open. The cycle repeats and as the highs fade I’m left with closet full of things I don’t necessarily love.

    Using the skills I’ve recently learned by reading The Power of Habit, I want to CHANGE when those feel good feelings flood my brain and what message they relay. And I’m proud to say, for the first time ever, I think I’m taking some concrete steps to override my addiction to fast fashion.

    What’s the plan now?

    Well… first I raided my “sales” e-mail account. You know, that e-mail account you keep solely to provide to sales clerks when they ask if you are on e-mail lists or that you type in when you get to a website to get an initial promo code. Yup. That one. I raided it. It received, on average, roughly 60 messages a day from my favorite fast fashion retailers — Old Navy, Gap, Banana Republic, Kohls, J. Crew Factory — and I did the unthinkable to each e-mail: I opened them and I unsubscribed.

    Then I went to my Instagram account and did something just as hard: I unfollowed nearly every single blogger in the feed that pushes products from these places (I will admit — I left one or two on the follow list but only because I really like them a lot outside of them peddling cheap, fast fashion).

    Next, I went on a mission to replace these things with quality, sustainable brands and ambassadors. If bloggers and promotions e-mails were fueling my fast fashion habit, then perhaps the best way to build a love for sustainable and ethical fashion was to find brands and influencers I loved. As online analytics picked up what I was doing, I was pushed ads for ethical, sustainable brands I’d never heard of before. I started to look forward to logging online and scrolling through Instagram just to see which new brand would advertise to me. By doing this, I also discovered tools like Good on You (supported by Emma Watson) that would further help me explore better options for clothing.

    Then, I picked up Overdressed: The Shockingly High Cost of Cheap Fashion from my local library. I’m still reading it, but with each page that I turn I become more and more resolved to finally overcome my fast fashion addiction. I’m making plans… Plans that, in years past, would have raised my blood pressure.

    Plans to cut up in-store credit cards altogether (Ek!)
    Plans to stop looking at Target’s clothing each visit (Gasp!)
    Plans to never step foot into Old Navy again (*RIP Kate*)

    Plans to, after YEARS to lip service, finally curate a sustainable, eco-friendly, ethical wardrobe that is versatile, somewhat compact, and that meets all my needs. 
    Plans to treat each and every piece of my wardrobe as an “investment piece”.

    This is hard. And yes, I realize that these choices I’m making are heavily influenced by my economical privilege. People can’t treat every item of clothing they buy as an investment piece if they are worried about putting dinner on the table. But regardless of where you fall on the disposal income scale, you can make choices that will reduce your reliance on fast fashion. The best thing to do is to thrift — give old pieces new life. Another great idea is swapping. Instead of trashing old duds, get together with friends and trade them. And if you have to venture into H&M for a piece of clothing, engage in some basic quality tests to see if it might (at least somewhat) stand the test of time.

    Out of all the habits I’ve broken to reduce my carbon footprint on this planet, ending my love affair with fast fashion has to be the hardest yet. But I’m determined this time to see it through and I feel confident that I’ve already made more progress than in any of my prior attempts. I plan to keep updating here including sharing many of the brands, influencers, and resources I’ve discovered.

    So tell me.. have you reduced your reliance on fast fashion?
    What are your favorite sustainable brands and influencers?   

  • Ruffling feathers

    Ruffling feathers

    I was born and raised in the South.
    Despite its flaws, I love the South and for the most part, I love the way I was raised.
    I was taught to respect my elders.
    To always say “Yes Ma’am” and “Yes Sir.”
    I was taught to be kind.
    To always be nice and agreeable — especially to people in positions of power.
    I was taught not to ruffle feathers or to cause a scene in public.

    But….

    Children are senselessly dying or killing others after gaining access to unsecured firearms.
    Mothers are being murdered in front of their children by partners with histories of domestic violence.
    Men are killing each other over parking spots and cell phone conversations in movie theaters.
    Teens are taking their own lives with weapons they can easily obtain from family members.
    And of course, as we know too well by now, we all live in constant fear that a madman with a gun will storm our office, school, grocery store, local restaurant, or park.

    And despite these things, our culture and our politicians tell us that all we can do to protect ourselves from this nonsense is pray and pack heat ourselves.
    They tell us that it is all about “defense” and that there is no offense we can play in this game.
    I grew up where the Friday Night Lights shined bright and I know that there is always an offense.

    It is time to ruffle feathers. 
    It is time to cause a scene. 

    Last week, I had the immense pleasure of attending Moms Demand Action for Gun Sense in America‘s annual leadership conference aptly named, Gun Sense University (“GSU”). Even though I’ve been a volunteer, member, and leader for the Arkansas Chapter of Moms Demand Action for quite awhile now, I was eager to meet up with other mothers, fathers, grandparents, aunts, uncles, friends, and yes, gun owners, who like me — desire to see some sanity introduced into the “gun debate” in our country.

    In the event you do not already know, Moms Demand Action is a non-partisan organization that (much like Mothers Against Drunk Driving) was created to demand action from legislators, companies, and educational institutions to establish common-sense gun safety reforms. The organization is not “anti-gun” but rather, believes that the 2nd Amendment and common-sense gun safety measures can (and should) co-exist. Moms Demand Action envisions a country where our children and families are not constantly plagued by gun violence and it works towards this goal by educating, motivating, and mobilizing supporters to take action that will result in stronger laws and policies at local, state and national levels.

    GSU was overwhelming for me in a lot of ways. I spoke with survivors of gun violence. I hugged mothers who had their children murdered by someone who should not have had a gun. I sat and talked about self-care and racism with a woman who had been shot five times (3 of those in the head) by her partner in front of her two young children. I listened to friends and family who lost someone they loved dearly to firearm suicide. I learned from police officers and community health workers who talked about real-world consequences of the number of guns on our streets and how they end up there in the first place. I danced alongside those who once contemplated taking their own life but were able to get help before they were able to find a gun. Hell, I even got to share a belly laugh with a celebrity I’ve always loved who shares my passions.

    I was so inspired by people with full-time jobs and multiple kids who despite having just as much time in their day as the rest of us, still manage to care so deeply about gun violence prevention that it has become their life’s work.  I walked away from GSU knowing that things can change. Even better, I walked away knowing that things are changing. And they aren’t changing because a handful of full-time activists are coordinating huge national strategies backed by millions and millions of dollars either.

    They are changing because a single mom in Indiana chooses to write postcards supporting Gun Sense Candidates during her kids’ nap time.

    They are changing because a working father in Florida enters volunteer information in a Moms Demand Action data bank at night rather than spending an hour scrolling through Facebook.

    They are changing because a grandmother in California who has never “been political” learned who her state representatives were and decided to go talk to them during the legislative session about how important gun violence prevention is to her and her family.

    They are changing because a teenager who watched the aftermath of the Parkland shooting decided they didn’t want to live in fear anymore so they attended a meeting with peers to talk about things they could do to help.

    They are changing because an Aunt in Arizona attends a festival and hands out free gun locks and a flyer to people who pass her table.

    They are changing because a stressed out mom in Texas, who juggles a full-time job and boatload of responsibilities at home, decided that she could find one hour a week to contribute to the cause.

    You see, they are changing because average citizens are finally mounting an offense. Our offense is currently 5 million volunteers strong.

    Activism is sometimes scary.

    It can seem overwhelming and hopeless. It can seem as if you are already treading water and that adding one more task might cause you to drown. It can seem like you don’t have anything of value to offer to a movement or cause. Or for those like me, it can seem to go against your nature or the way you’ve been raised.

    It ruffles feathers. It can cause a scene.

    But activism doesn’t have to be scary.

    Activism can be brainstorming gun violence prevention strategies with friends over dinner. Activism can be making a few phone calls a month. Activism can mean wearing a t-shirt to the grocery store and being prepared to explain it to a random stranger who may ask. Activism can mean giving up one hour of TV or Facebook a week to do something that will have long-term meaning on the world that children (perhaps, your children) are growing up in.

    Activism can be as simple as texting “JOIN” to 64433 today rather than putting it off any longer.

    Activism is offense. 


    I’ve had #Enough so I’m in the game.
    Are you? 

  • Families Belong Together

    Families Belong Together

    I am a mother.

    Typically, I don’t lead with that statement because I am also a lot of other things. And in our society, women are sometimes pigeonholed and their identity as a mother is used to place them in a very narrowly defined category. For that reason, I usually like to let people know that I am a lawyer. A feminist. A wife. A friend. And yes, also a mother.

    But this week, the “mother” part of me has been distraught. The lawyer part of me has had to go into the office and do “lawyerly” things. The feminist part of me has continued to call out sexist behavior and support the women in my life. The wife part of me arranged for a date night with my sweet husband. The friend part of me set up dinners and reunion weekends.


    But the mother part of me? 
    Well, she raged this week.
    She wept this week.

    Photo Credit: theRealNewsNetwork

    She raged and wept at the cruelty that is occurring on the southern border of this once-great nation. She put herself in the shoes of those mothers. She imagined her own child. Her sweet, precious, innocent child — full of wonder and potential. She imagined that child being ripped from her arms. She imagined that moment — her child screaming and her arms bare. She imagined that child put in a cage. She imagined that child crying for her warmth. For her comfort. She imagined that child being scared without its mother there to provide reassurance. She imagined that child alone and afraid. She imagined scary strangers with weapons and harsh faces, instructing that child to eat or bathe. She imagined it all and the thought broke her. It broke her.

    But these thoughts that tortured the “mother” in me this week, well… they didn’t happen to me.
    They have and are however, happening to other mothers. And that doesn’t break me. It shatters me. 

    Last night, I put my child in her bed. I placed warm blankets over her. I kissed her cheeks and her tiny nose. I sang her our favorite lullaby. I told her that I loved her and that she made me happy.

    I wonder what that mother did last night. I wonder how she managed without her child in her arms. I wonder how that precious child fared last night. I wonder if it cried itself to sleep.
    Why has that mother been destined to a different fate than I?


    Is it because she is brown?
    Is it because she is poor?
    Is it because she is out of options?
    Is it because she didn’t have the fortune of being born in this country?
    Is it because her native lands aren’t safe for her and her child?
    Is it because she did the only thing she could to help her child live a better life? 
    To to live at all?

    You see, to me — those are reasons to help this mother and her children. Those are reasons to embrace her. Those are reasons to give her comfort and shelter. Those are reasons to show her love and mercy. Those are reasons to care.

    But our country’s leaders see those reasons as cause to persecute her. Reasons to treat her a subhuman. Reasons to punish her. Reasons to belittle her. Reasons to actively do her harm.

    Honestly, I don’t care about your political identification today. I don’t care how you voted in 2016. I don’t care if you identify as pro-life or pro-choice. I don’t care what church or religious persuasion (if any) you find solace in. I don’t. Not even a little.

    I do however, care if you cannot find love and mercy in your heart for this woman. For these women. For these children. For these families. If you cannot? Well, I think there is a very special place in hell for you.

    And if you do find love and mercy in your heart, I care that you act on it.
    Call your Senators. Call your Representative.
    Post about it online. Raise hell.
    Demand that our government find love and mercy as well. Demand it. Demand it over and over again until this madness ends.

    Silence is complicity.
    Do you want to be complicit in this human rights violation?


    The mother in me continues to rage and weep. But she also is taking action.
    Please, for the love of God and His people, join her.

    #FamiliesBelongTogether

  • Compromise is NOT a dirty word

    Compromise is NOT a dirty word

    Back in elementary school I was, admittedly, a bit of a bully. I never called people fat, stupid, or ugly. It wasn’t that kind of bully. But I wasn’t the easiest-going kid on the playground. You see — I really liked getting my way. That meant that if I wanted my playground friends and I to swing, we would swing. If I wanted to play Red Rover, we played Red Rover. I think you get the picture.

    I honestly never saw myself as a bully, but looking back at it all now I can clearly see what I was. In high school, a young woman who I was casual acquaintances with at that point, laughingly told me that once in elementary school I slapped her across the face because she kept advocating for a different game than the one I wanted to play. She may have laughed about it but I was shocked. I have zero memory of this incident but I cannot outright contest it because I know that I was a very strong-willed child who did not like to compromise.

    As a near-adult, learning that I may have physically hurt someone because I didn’t want to give in, was well — sobering. It honestly scared me a little and it shamed me a lot. But it also made me very, very grateful that I did, in fact, grew up and learned the art of compromise.

    I feel that as a society, we have reverted to our baser selves and have begun to abhor the idea of compromise.
    And that’s no good.

    Barry Goldwater once said that politics and governing demand compromise.
    He was right. It does. And when we have entire political parties taking no-compromise pledges, progress on all fronts grinds to a halt.

    Earlier this week, Congressional Democrats struck a deal to reopen the government with the GOP. The deal essentially funds CHIP for 6-years (funding for CHIP had previously expired and the GOP refused to bring it to a vote thus jeopardizing the health care of approximately 9 million children in our country) and it reopens the government until February 8, 2018. In addition, the Democrats obtained public assurance that the GOP will allow a vote on DACA. DACA is a program instituted by the Obama administration that protects approximately 800,000 illegal immigrants who were brought to our country as children from being deported. In September of 2017,  President Trump decided DACA would expire in March of 2018 unless Congress took action. Public support for DACA is overwhelming and the consequences for it expiring are truly terrifying for families and could be devastating for our economy. Once this deal was struck however, people immediately took sides. Trump and company proclaimed that the “Democrats Caved” and Democrats worried that Senate Minority Leader Chuck Schumer sold out DACA recipients, those supportive of the DACA program, and of course, larger immigration reform.

    And while, as a former playground dictator, I understand the urge to be terribly unsatisfied with not immediately getting everything you want — I feel that these knee jerk reactions against good ole’ compromise cannot possibility be good for us as a society.

    As much as I wish everyone in our country would decide to tighten up on gun control, stop spending massive amounts on beefing up our military, start investing more in early childhood education (and education generally), declare healthcare a basic human right by changing to a single-payer system, and make serious progress on prison and immigration reform, I realize that’s not going to happen. It just isn’t. At least not any time in the near future. But the next best thing is working towards those things in a multitude of ways. I can obviously advocate for them personally; I can call my Congressmen and write letters until my hands cramp. I can help raise the next generation to be better and to do better by teaching them to that love, compassion, and empathy are the keys to everything — looking at you #LittleLadyHolland. But I can also compromise and get some of the things I want now in the hopes that in the future, as the situation and demographics of our country evolve, I can get even more of the things I want. That allow can change minds, change representation and ultimately, it can change votes.

    Compromise is not a dirty word but we are treating it like it is. Compromise should be a word that invokes pride because strategic compromise is truly a fierce thing to behold. It is truly magical to “fold” in a such a precise way that you end up getting exactly what you wanted anyhow all while your opponent is none the wiser. Young playground me did not understand that and now, I fear that America does not understand that either.

    Despite all the outrage at the deal Schumer reached with the GOP, I am okay with it. I now know that millions of children — the most vulnerable among us — will be okay and that their parents are no longer losing sleep at night wondering how they will afford medications when their state funding disappears. And I know that DACA is going to get it’s day too — it’s not now and yeah, that ticks me off. Hell, it ticks me off that DACA or CHIP were both on the table at all thanks to GOP tactics. But they were. And now, thanks to some strategic compromise on behalf of the my party’s leaders, the GOP will not be able to continue kicking them down the road forever.

    I don’t want to be that person quoting Maroon 5 in a political piece, but I think they may have honestly said it best: “It’s not always rainbows and butterflies. It’s compromise that moves us along.”

    And I truly believe that compromise will, eventually at least, move us along.
    So I think that it’s high time we leave the playground bullying behind, all grow the heck up, and start embracing the act of compromise.

  • me too – a story in three parts [part III]

    me too – a story in three parts [part III]

    Over a decade later, I finally have more anger than shame about what happened to me that summer. But even now, the shame is still there. It lurks in corners and sometimes pops out to surprise me when I least expect it. Like when I was trying to write these blog posts. It enveloped me all over again and I began to doubt myself.But when I’m thinking rationally I know — the fact that I was drunk does not justify what he did to me. The fact that we were friends does not justify what he did to me. The fact that I do not remember the act itself does not justify what he did to me. And most importantly, the fact that I did not report it to campus police or other authorities (or even tell my friends) does not mean it did not happen. It happened. It hurt. It still hurts.

    It changed my life. I became a different person. I pushed away people. I pulled away from friends. I thought of myself differently. I valued myself less. I made bad decisions. I did stupid things. At the time, I did not even realize why I was doing those things but in retrospect, it is clear to me now. It took time — a long time — before I realized that while what happened to me that night changed me, it did not define me. Now, I can usually reject the shame and embrace my anger.

    Several years ago when I worked in downtown Little Rock, I saw Brian* in a crosswalk as I was driving to my office building. I immediately began to sweat. The hairs on my neck stood up and I got dizzy — woozy even. I ducked my head down low as he passed in front of my car. I silently prayed he wouldn’t turn my way. That he wouldn’t catch my eye. And that if he did, he wouldn’t recognize me. As soon as he cleared the front of my car, I felt myself exhale lingering shame as I sped away. It had been years since that night in the yard and I was now a successful, happily married lawyer. And yet, once I got to my office, I shut the door behind me and sobbed.

    Shame does crazy things to people. 

    I decided to tell my #metoo story, in part, because just the other day, his face popped up on a friend’s Facebook post. The post asked people to share two photos of them with their significant other — one in the year they met and one current photo. I scrolled through the comments happily looking for some familiar faces and suddenly, there he was again. As with the day in the crosswalk, it literally took my breath away. I nearly dropped my phone. Tears immediately stung my eyes and I found myself pushing down a ball of dread in my stomach as I forced myself to examine his second photo; a photo in which he stood proudly beside a smiling blond while clutching a toddler in his arms– he now has a son.

    My monster — the one who changed my life and led me on a downward spiral of shame, humiliation, and self-doubt and destruction – the one who to the rest of the world has always appeared to be a nice guy — that monster now has a son. There really are no words for what I felt in that moment but perhaps panic is close. I had to quickly click away from the photo — it was too much.

    As I attempt, once again, to balance my anger and my shame, I wondered what he will tell his son about consent. About me? Or the others? Over the years, I’ve become convinced there were others. He was too blasé about what happened to me for there not to have been others. Will he talk about us at all? I wonder if one day he will secretly confess his crimes to his son. They were and are crimes. I wonder if he will beg his son to not repeat his mistakes. A less hopeful side of me wonders instead, if one day he’ll teach his son his ways. When his son comes of age, will he tell him to always be the “nice guy” who takes drunk girls home? Because perhaps, even after all this time, it was not rape in his eyes.

    Is my monster raising another one?

    I do not know what what he’ll tell his son, but I do know what I will tell my daughter about him and about that night. I’ll tell her the truth. I’ll tell her that affirmative consent matters. Every time. I’ll tell her that she should be smarter than I was but in no way, shape, or form does that excuse rape or sexual assault. I’ll tell her to always have a sober, female friend to get her home. I’ll tell her that she can always call me. I’ll tell her that not all men are monsters but that some monsters parade around as good men. I’ll tell her that you never get over the anger you have when sexual assault or rape happens to you. Or the shame. Or the pain. I’ll tell her that it sticks with you — that you have to come back to it continually whether it is with your future partner or your OBGYN. It never truly leaves you.

    And then I’ll tell her that as a society, we are working on it. And now, I’ll be able to tell her that I spoke out and told my story too. I’ll tell her that I voted for politicians who do not blame women and who refuse to sweep things like this under the rug. I’ll tell her that no one deserves to be a victim — and I’ll tell her that though it has taken me years to even admit it to myself — I know that I did not deserve what happened to me.

    I am raising a force to be reckoned with…

    And one day, should I be lucky enough to have a son, I know what I will tell him. I’ll tell him that affirmative consent matters. Every time. I’ll tell him that he has a duty to speak out — to call out his male peers on the slightest type of predatory behavior. He’ll know that women aren’t delicate flowers, but I’ll tell him that it isn’t fair that young females aren’t allowed to go out, to be young and stupid and to make mistakes like their male counterparts. I’ll tell him that a heavy weight rests on his shoulders but that the weight is really a blessing. That weight means that his generation can end the culture that perpetuates such acts against women.

    It has to end. For me. For my daughter. For yours. For his son. For our sons. For us all.

    It has to end.

    #metoo

    *Brian is not this individual’s real name.

  • me too – a story in three parts [part II]

    me too – a story in three parts [part II]

    I soon got my chance to confront Brian*. In college, there is always another house party just around the corner. I was no longer in a mood to drink or even to be mad at my friend and the guy I had been interested in before this all went down. My primary motivation was to find Brian and get him to admit that he was lying to people — to have him clear the record. We did not sleep together. And I wanted some explanation as to what happened the night when he took me home. Where did the blood come from? Why was I so sore the next few days? Did I fall? Who had taken off my clothes?  

    I found him at the party quickly and asked that he come outside to talk. He agreed and if he had any hesitation at all, it didn’t show. We walked out to the front lawn to a quiet patch away from the house and road.  He just stared at me. I decided not to beat around the bush so I simply asked, “What’s up with you telling people we slept together?” He shrugged his shoulders and replied, “I mean, we did.”

    My heart dropped into my stomach. I think in that moment, all the denial I had been experiencing crashed down around me. Of course I hadn’t fallen on anything. Of course he had been the one to take my clothes off. Of course. It all made sense but still — I could not truly comprehend it. Or maybe, I was not prepared to really admit it.

    “What?” I stammered, “What do you mean? We didn’t have sex.”
    “Yes, we did,” he insisted. If he felt at all mournful or regretful for his actions, his face did not betray him. Rather he simply tossed out: “You were just too drunk to know it.”

    The night was starting to swirl around me. I couldn’t be hearing what I was hearing. “What do you mean?” I asked again, trying to find my voice again. “If I was too drunk to know I was having sex, then I was too drunk to have sex.”

    He laughed. He fucking laughed. “Practically,” he said with a grin. “I mean, it wasn’t like you did much more than lay there.”

    I felt anger and shame boil inside of me. It mixed and mingled and I didn’t know which one there was more of in that moment.

    “Did I say I wanted to have sex with you?” I demanded probably less forceful than I wanted to sound. His smiled started to disappear but he didn’t break my glaze when he said, “You didn’t say anything. You were drunk. Really drunk. Passed out drunk.” Then, as if fighting off a laughed he added, “But I mean, you didn’t say no.”

    “If I didn’t say yes…If I didn’t say I wanted to have sex with you, it wasn’t consensual!” I was trying very hard not to scream at him. Did he not understand what he was admitting to? Did he not understand that having sex with someone who is passed out is rape?

    He shrugged. “Yeah, so…”

    Yeah, so. Yeah, so. Yeah, so. Those two words would haunt me for a long time.

    “You hurt me,” I blurted out. “Like, I was bleeding.”
    He shrugged again. “That happens sometimes when someone isn’t used to anal. It will be better for you the next time you try it.”

    I was stunned. But I was also ashamed. Ashamed it happened. Ashamed I didn’t remember it happening. Ashamed I had been drunk. Ashamed that I had been drinking at all. Ashamed that I hadn’t been able to admit to myself what had happened to me before this very moment. Ashamed that this guy — this person I thought was my friend —  thought so little of me that he could do that to me without my permission. Ashamed that I was apparently so worthless that he’d feel no remorse for his actions.

    It was now clear that I had more shame than anger. The shame in fact, was overwhelming. It smothered me. I could no longer make eye-contact with him. I broke his gaze and stared intently at the ground trying to conceal my tears.

    He shifted front foot to foot — clearly uncomfortable for the first time since our conversation began.
    My tears flowed freely as I continued to peer towards the ground. After a while, he spoke: “Look, I’m going back inside if you don’t have anything else you want to talk about.”

    My tears and shame enveloped me and I was silent. I never responded.

    Until now. 

    *Brian is not this individual’s real name.