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  • A Different Kind of Happily Ever After

    A Different Kind of Happily Ever After

    No one gets married thinking it will end.

    No one walks down the aisle, holds their partner’s hands, kisses their lips and thinks to themselves, “We might not make it.“

    No one would buy a house and build a home with their best friend if they knew one day they will have to prep it for market alone. No one has ever watched as their lover cradled their newborn and imagined having to tell it that it will have two homes instead of one.

    No one.

    And yet, it happens. Every day. Marriages fall apart despite best efforts. People change both for the better and for the worst. And while no one plans on it, marriages end.

    My marriage has ended.

    In the end, it isn’t something I want to talk too much about in this space. At least not in personal detail. I know that one day my daughter is likely to stumble across my tiny piece of the world wide web and I want to respect her and her father. But it is something that I need to talk about to an extent — for myself. I don’t need to necessarily talk about the things you might want to read, but rather I need to speak certain truths aloud to acknowledge them fully:

    I need to say that I’m okay now. Really, I am. There was a time when I wasn’t. Not by a long shot. There was a time where it felt as if my heart was literally being ripped out of my chest. There were nights that I sobbed big heaving sobs into my pillow for hours on end. There were days that I had to be medicated just to function as an attorney and mother. There were days where I couldn’t really function well as either. But now I’m okay. I’ve found my footing. I’ve rediscovered pieces of myself that I didn’t even know I had lost. I’ve come full circle and I’m proud of the growth I’ve done in the last six months. Every inch of it was hard fought.

    I need to say that I’m thankful. More thankful than I could ever convey. For all of my friends who have risen to the occasion – both near and far. For every night they came over to help me. For every meal they shared with me. For every random gift they sent me. For every afternoon they took off early to sit with me. For every bottle of wine they split with me. For every cry and fear that they soothed. And I’m thankful for my family too. For how they stepped up and in with grace and kindness in a tricky situation. For every road trip they made. For every favor they bestowed on me and my daughter. For every home repair they helped make happen. For every helpful offer they gave. I know without doubt that I wouldn’t have made it through 2019 without the overwhelming love and support of my village and I’ll never have enough words to express my gratitude for these people.

    I need to say that I’m lucky. I’m so lucky to have a resilient daughter who has helped me keep my head above water on the hardest days. I’m so lucky to have access to good mental health care in America. I’m so lucky to have an understanding boss and amazingly supportive co-workers. I’m lucky to have had the time and space to deal with all the emotions that come with a failed marriage. I fully grasp that my burdens on this journey have been lightened based in large part on my privileged position and a variety of factors associated with it — most of which I had little to no control over but all of which I’m incredibly lucky to have received.

    I need to say that I’m optimistic. I wasn’t always, but I am now. I was once sure that my life was over. I was certain that there was nothing worse than being a thirty-something divorced mother. But I’ve done the hard work of confronting myself. I’ve stared down my fears and unmasked them. I’ve walked through fire and learned that while it does burn, it can also purify. I feel as if I’ve been forged anew in these fires and it has left me a bit dizzy with both pain and anticipation. I’ve seen and felt utter happiness when it was least expected. I’ve been pleasantly surprised by the universe on more occasions than I can count. I’ve laughed enough in the last three months to drown out all the tears I’ve cried over the previous year. And now, I’m optimistic because I still believe in love and yes, even in marriage. And because I believe that both are still possible, even for a thirty-something divorced mother like myself.

    I need to say that this was for the best. That sounds crazy, I know. I didn’t always see it like that of course, but I do now. Considering I once felt like this was the single most terrible thing that could ever befall me, it is weird to admit now that it was wholly necessary. The burden was so heavy for so long that I was once certain I would perish beneath it; that I’d never rise up again. But it’s inescapable now to think of my life unfolding in any other way. This needed to happen for so many untold reasons and while I am certain that I will never be happy that my marriage ended, I am grateful for this outcome all the same.

    No one gets married thinking they’ll one day be divorced, but I’ve learned that you can find peace and hope in the ashes of a failed marriage. Of course, it isn’t easy to find either of those things in the aftermath. It requires getting your hands dirty. Digging through the rubble that is left behind. Watching the world as you know it disappear into smoke. But it is possible and I know that now. Parts of me may forever be tinged by the ashes I’ve managed to dig myself out of, but I know without doubt that I am capable now. Of this or anything else.

    And maybe that’s just a different kind of happily ever after.

  • The Misunderstood Value of Female Friendships

    The Misunderstood Value of Female Friendships

    So many things in 2019 have forced me to stop and take stock of my life decisions. I’ve spent countless hours pouring over all the choices I’ve made through the years in an effort to capture what went wrong or, better said, where I lost myself along the way. And while a few of these decisions are clear-cut and I can now resolve not to stray from the path again, one haunts me: Why did I give up my girlfriends?

    The common excuse of course, would be that life is busy. Being a full-time mom, attorney, and wife (not to mention daughter and sister) left me with fewer hours to spread around. And while that’s perhaps the easiest, and most commonly accepted rationale, when I dive into it, it just doesn’t hold water.

    If time alone accounted for my decision, then how do I explain the fact that in the same time period, I watched and re-watched the entire Parks & Recreations series… like four times? That’s 125 episodes of let’s just say, approximately 20 minutes each. That means that I spent 2,500 hours (or a little over 104 days) of my life over the past several years just watching one show that brings me joy. When I break it down like that (not to mention all the other countless hours I’ve wasted on re-watching shows or scrolling through social media) the truth becomes clear — it just isn’t solely about time.

    So I continued to turn this question over and over in my head, until I arrived at a hard and uneasy truth: I didn’t understand or appreciate the value of female friendships.

    That stings to admit to myself, much less publish for all to read. After all, the All-Encompassing Power of Female Friendships are well documented and are embraced by feminists the world over. So why then have I spent years of my life discounting or ignoring them?

    I think the fault lies within myself of course. Like the vast majority of women in America, I grew up feeling inadequate. Society, including the people closest to me, constantly sent me subliminal messages that I alone, wasn’t enough. I wasn’t pretty enough. My breasts were big enough. My stomach wasn’t flat enough. My features weren’t dainty enough. I wasn’t smart enough. I wasn’t funny enough. I was instead, merely Kate and that alone seemed inadequate.

    And where did I seek comfort for feeling inadequate? Sadly, it was typically from the very source of those inadequate feelings. Don’t feel fit enough? Here, read all these magazine articles featuring fitness models that you’ll never look like and follow this easy 10-minute routine each night before bed. Don’t feel funny enough? Well, self-deprecating humor is a cure-all. It always gets a laugh and has a built in trigger to keep your self-esteem in complete check. Don’t feel pretty enough? No problem. Find a dude who will tell you aloud that you are beautiful and then turn that into a relationship even though it may not suit either of you.

    None of that is to say that I haven’t had my share of female friends over the year. I have — Growing up. In college. In law school. And even now. But during each of those phases of my life, I didn’t allow the amazing women I knew to play the role they were born to play and in return, I certainly didn’t do the same for them. More directly, I did not realize that for female friendships to have power over our lives and our destinies, we have to first, hand them the torch.

    So what does that look like?

    I’m still learning this honestly, but I think I’m getting better at it. It means checking in with friends – not out of obligations, but out of genuine care and concern for them. It means asking for a lunch date – not just because you need to vent about life but because you want to hear about theirs. It means showing up to events not because there is anything in it for you, but rather, because it means something to them and that alone is worth schlepping across town in the middle of winter. It means admiring qualities in females without envying them. It means realizing their path is not yours and that’s okay. It means stepping out of the spotlight so that it can shine on your fellow female instead. It means realizing that judgment – of them or of yourself – only serves to benefit those who cares about neither.

    Each time I’ve done these things, I am stunned at how the universe returns the favor. I’ve literally had my breath taken away by the stunning generosity and care I’ve received from women who, quite frankly, didn’t owe me a damn thing.

    I used to think that the single most important relationship in your life was your partnership. Your marriage. I used to think that you should prioritize it over everything else, because at the end of the day, the kids grow up and friends move away, but your partner is always your partner.

    But perhaps it isn’t healthy to have a “single most” important relationship. Maybe that’s the fallacy that causes us (or well, caused me at least) to give up on the girlfriends in my life. What if by insisting on such a thing, you and any such relationship, are inherently made less healthy and whole?

    Like me, you are a beautifully complex and magnificent creature. You read that correctly. (As women, we’d do well to remind ourselves of it more often.) One person cannot possibly understand and appreciate the complete wonder that you contain. Frankly, it is irresponsible to place that burden on a single set of shoulders. Plus, that wonder within you aches to learn and to grow from the experiences of other women. It desires to support another woman on her journey. It craves a type of validation, care, and understanding that an intimate partner simply cannot provide.

    I’ve seen the error of my ways. I thought relationships existed in a vacuum. I thought I could work hard on one without much regard to the others. But that’s wholly incorrect. Intimate relationships and friendship are really an amalgamation. Neither can truly thrive if you are wholly neglecting the other. I now understand that I need and deserve the strong, unshakable, and incomparable beauty that female friendship brings to my life and to my spirit.

    And so do you, my friend.

  • the in between

    the in between

    I’m stuck in an in between.

    I’m limited in what I can share at this precise time, but suffice it to say, life in 2019 has been anything but slow and easy. Rather, it’s been grueling in more respects that I could ever have anticipated.

    Usually when you engage in grueling work, you end up having something tangible to show for it. You can point to some outcome, some result, some product; you point to it and marvel at everything you have accomplished through the tears and the toil. I long for that type of satisfaction but it eludes me.

    Despite everything this year has thrown at me, I’m decidedly stuck in an in between world right now and I find this world debilitating in every sense. I keep trying to make lists of things that I can accomplish here. Of tasks that I can do. But each check mark seems to bring me full circle back to the purgatory that is now my home.

    There is no true rest in this purgatory. There is no true growth here. There is no true peace here. I’ve searched for all three relentlessly and my only solace has been only catching small glimpses of them through the cage I now live in. I see how I might one day interact with them when I’m finally on the other side of this, but the the iron bars surrounding me are strong and I can’t reach them. For now, they elude me and I’m left deeply inhaling the faint whiff that trails each of them as they past by my prison. Their combined aroma brings my comfort so I cling to each as tightly as I once clung to the things that have left me behind.

    So my head hits the pillow each night, deliriously torn between longing for either the past or the future, and cursing this in between and the lack of meaning to it all. But before I can drift off into another night of uneasy sleep and restless dreams, my mind replays the moments from the past for the millionth time. But this time it is different. Instead of watching only the highlight reels, I give myself permission to examine the scraps on the cutting room floor. I piece them together and arduously examine details long forgotten (either from willful ignorance or bliss I do not know). As the full picture comes into view, I lose my breath but somehow find my strength. I use my newfound strength to piece together these discarded scrapes and I pin them to the walls of my mind. I draw bright red circles around them and annotate them so that future me will not only remember them, but learn from them.

    As the hands of the clock move closer towards midnight I find a frenzy of energy from this re-examination of my life and it gives me the space to process a re-imagination of the life I may still lead. At first, the re-imagination is unwelcomed. It feels as if I’ve slipped into a stranger’s shoes — they are okay, but surely not meant for me. I want the life that I broke in; the ones that are comfortable old friends. But I force myself to sit it in this discomfort. I try to examine it. Is it truly bad or is it just different than I the one I wanted? After awhile, I decide that it’s different. And then I decide that it’s okay. And as my eyes close, I finally decide that maybe one day, in the far future, it could be more than okay.

    So I give my mind permission to stop. Permission to embrace this in between.

    I’m okay.

    I will be okay.

    And one day, I’ll be more than okay.

    That’s enough for now. It has to be.

  • Year 32

    Year 32

    Birthdays have always been a big deal to me. Truthfully, I used to celebrate my entire birth month but then #LittleLadyHolland came along on October 14th and I had to reevaluate that a bit. Since her birth, the month of October has understandably been about her and I’m 100% okay with that for super obvious reasons. But the kid inside of me still loves a good birthday celebration even if my birthday is a bit of an afterthought now.This year feels different though. Perhaps it is because my 32nd year on Earth was my hardest yet. I honestly went into my 32nd year feeling more hopeful than ever. In Year 31 I had visited France. I was more plugged into my community. My job and my family seemed better than ever before. I felt like life was more than good; it was amazing. And as I continually saw glimpses of what the future held for me and my family, I became more and more excited to see how the next year would unfold.But I never saw it unfolding like it did. I’m still in the throws of it all. I have good days and bad days. More accurately, I have good hours and bad hours. And while I cannot share too much, I can now say with confidence that on October 18, 2018,  I only saw half of the picture. Waking up to the reality of the other half has been hard, but easy things don’t refine you. I’m overdue for some refinement.

    As always, let’s revisit my 40 by 40 list of things I hoped to accomplish this decade. Here’s a brief rundown of what I’ve marked off my list in Year 32:

    Write a letter to myself that I can read at 50 (Level 1)

    I just did this yesterday. I was looking over my list and becoming a little disheartened that I hadn’t truly accomplished as much as I wanted to in the past year and I thought — I should do this one. You see, I had been putting this one off. Even though I initially put it down as a Level 1 accomplishment, and therefore, an easy one, I’d discovered over the past couple of years that it was, in fact, harder than I thought. I’d started it a few times but always gave up on it. I kept thinking that I needed life to be “set” before I could write it. I needed to know where I would land — I needed to be able to point to something concrete so that future Kate use it as a guidepost back to harmony in the event she’d strayed. With that sort of pressure, it was hard to get anything out of my head and onto paper because life, of course, is chaos and we are never truly “set”. But yesterday morning, as I settled down at my desk, ready to embark on a day of work, I suddenly realized that I couldn’t think of a better time in my life to write this letter. Yes, life is full of ups and downs right now. It is far from set. But maybe that’s what I need to remember. I need to remember that somethings never change and thankfully, others are always in flux. So I wrote myself that letter — it’s four pages. When finished, I sat down and read it aloud to myself in front of some photos of me and Holland while sipping hot tea. It was a moment I hope not to forget and one that, in seventeen years, I hope I can vividly recall as I open my letter for the first time.

    Go zip lining (Level 2)

    In June we went to Colorado for a family reunion of sorts. While I’d flown through and over Colorado many times, I’d never actually visited the state itself. It is such a beautiful state. Don’t get me wrong — I think I’m still likely pick a beach over a mountain a majority of the time, but I gained a new appreciation for the mountains on that trip. Much like the beach, I found that they have a humbling beauty to them that in person, make you feel as if you are both terribly important and supremely insignificant. One day during the trip, we visited the Royal Gorge. The Royal Gorge is a canyon, very fittingly, of the Arkansas River located west of Canon City, Colorado. My generous grandparents-in-law offered to pay for me to zip-line over the gorge so I took them up on the offer. At 1,200 feet above the Arkansas River, the Royal Gorge zip line is the highest zip line in America! It was amazingly fun and the only downside is that the ride itself was fairly short overall. It was fantastic though and I truly hope it isn’t my last zip-lining experience!

    Take a girls only vacation (Level 3)

    In July, my best friend Alex, accompanied Holland and me on a tip to Santa Barbara, California. Though it was not originally scheduled as a girls only vacation, unforeseen events turned it into one and honestly, it was amazing. I shared details pretty liberally on Instagram at the time including the first time Holland’s tiny toes touched ocean water (a moment this beach-loving mama will never forget). So many moments from that trip have already morphed into fond memories that I often recall when life feels hard. While I sincerely hope it is not the last “girls only” vacation in my 30’s (I already tentatively have a few others in the works) it is one that I am supremely thankful for and already cherish!

    ________________________

    In additional to officially crossing the above items off my list, there are a few “Honorable Mentions” this year. This last year really pushed me out of my comfort zone and while I could technically cross some of the following off my list, I’m not going to quite yet because I think there is more to come in these areas. So let’s quickly visit a few honorable mentions:

    Attend service at a house of worship of a religion I am not familiar with 

    Earlier this year I felt a calling to find a church family. I know how that sounds — especially if you aren’t religious or spiritual but it’s true. Years ago I had given up on ever finding a church that encompassed and lived out the Gospel as I interpreted it. For years I had kept that side of my life private — reading Rachel Held Evans‘ blog and Twitter feed and feeling, mostly content, with the community it offered. But then, as you probably know, RHE tragically passed away. For someone who did not personally know her, I was shocked as just how crushed I was to lose her. But underneath the sorrow, there was a small voice. I heard it every time I checked #BecauseofRHE for new messages of lament. I slowly realized that there was a whole community out there who read the Gospel as I did and I realized that maybe, just maybe, I could find a church community that did too. Each time I pressed this thought down in my mind, it would arise again. Finally, I relented and put a list together of churches that I’d be open to visiting. On my second such visit, I hit the jackpot. I found my way into a local Episcopal church, and while it was supremely different from any “church” experience I’ve ever had in the past, I fell in love with it. With the people, with the traditions and customs, with stained glass and the choir. While parts of it still feel foreign to me, I am really enjoying learning more about it and settling in. I also love that Holland talks about going to church with enthusiasm and that we often find ourselves having somewhat theological chats before bed or at dinner. While I still plan on attending service at a house of worship that is not Christian, I feel like my foray into the Episcopal church this year is noteworthy and is a first step on a much needed path.

    Put a wild color streak(s) in my hair (even if temporary)

    I’m not sure if it totally counts as “wild” but earlier this year I broke my nearly decade long “no-color” streak and went ombre with my hair. At first, the ends were a bit amber in color but over time, I’ve lightened them even more. In person, the tips of my hair are definitely blonde and that’s a color that, for this brunette, is at least somewhat wild. I do however, still plan on incorporating a truly wild color in my hair, at least temporarily, in the future so I’m not going to cross this one off the list quite yet.

    Get a Holland related tattoo

    While I do not yet have my Holland related tattoo, I have figured out what that tattoo is going to be and have already set a date (plus paid a deposit) for it. Not spilling the beans yet, but let’s just say, this is one that I’m definitely crossing off the list in Year 33.

    Go Scuba Diving

    Speaking of things I plan to cross off the list soon, an opportunity has hit my radar where I might, just might, get to go on a week-long scuba diving trip in 2020. A lot of things would have to fall into place for me in order to make it happen, including me being able to find the finances to pull it off (at the moment, that particular piece seems the most challenging). Nonetheless, I’m excited about the prospect so I’m going to put this out into the universe and hope it can all come together! Wish me luck.

    ________________________

    The more I think about it, technically speaking, today is not the end of my 32nd year (that was yesterday). Today, I turn 33 so it’s really the beginning of my 33rd year. I like that framing better. In the midst of so many endings, I like the idea of beginning anew. Sometimes we need to rest and to re-evaluate the lives we lead before we set off on new travels. This post today has helped me do that – I’ve been blessed before, I’m blessed now, and I’ll be blessed again. It’s time to start anew in a new year of a new life. Let’s go 33 — I’ve got big plans for you! 

  • I used to be you.

    I used to be you.

    This morning I sat across the table from a stranger and sipped hot tea. The drive to the cafe was eventful. The interstate was bumper to bumper following an early morning wreck so I took back roads — praying silent prayers for those involved in the accident and for the fact that I now know Little Rock well enough to take back roads (something college-Kate, would have marveled at). When I arrived at the cafe, a full 2-minutes ahead of schedule thankyouverymuch, it wasn’t hard to spot my companion. As an eager first year law student, she was, of course, the one wearing a polished dress and blazer at 8 a.m. to meet me. I wanted to tell her that I wasn’t important enough for all that and that I wouldn’t have judged her one bit for showing up in sweatpants. But I bit my tongue.

    She introduced herself and patiently waited as I ordered hot tea and a bagel. Then we started the familiar dance of the mentor/mentee relationship: What college did you attend? What did you major in? Why did you go to law school? What’s your favorite class so far? What do you think you want to practice when you graduate? 


    The questions and answers rolled off my tongue casually. With ease.
    I’ve done this before. Several times in fact.
    And each time, I sit and I talk. I sip my hot tea. I try to provide what I can, though honestly, I’m never sure that I have much to provide.

    She seems nice. Eager. Quick on her feet. I tell her that she’ll survive this. I feel truth in those words as they pour from my lips. But before we can make moves to throw away napkins and push in our chairs, the familiar question bubbles up from her mouth: “How do I get where you are?”

    This time though, the question hits me differently than it has before. I want to scream “You don’t want to be where I am friend. My life is a mess. Everything is crazy.” But I of course, stop myself. This 1L did not sign up for my drama.

    So instead, I smile and I tell a story.
    An honest story.
    The true story of me in 2013.

    I was graduating soon. I was jobless and scared. I watched classmates accept job offers and I cried into my pillow — half from jealousy and half from despair. I prepped for a bar exam and prayed that something awaited me on the other side of it though I had no clue what that thing was or whether it would be what I wanted. And even though I didn’t know it at the time, I practicing a form of faith. I wouldn’t have called it that – I would have called it preparation. I prepped by studying ten hours a day, six days a week. I prepped by sending out cover letters and resumes and by asking for lunches with attorneys I’d met during my clerkships. I prepped by combing through online job listings and by casually dropping by career services just to say hi.

    All of that prep — all of that faith — formed a path to good things. I got a job offer a week after I sat for the bar exam. That job served me well for nearly three years and I learned a lot from it. Met amazing people. When I left it for my current position back in 2016, I was once again unsure of the future but I now love my current job — nearly everything about it. What I do. The people I work with. The flexibility it gives me. Everything.

    And as I poured forth this true story, I could see her taking stock of what I said but also what I meant by it all. What I meant was that there isn’t a “color by numbers” that will get her the career I have nine years from now. No — she has to form her own path. And her path won’t all be sunshine and rainbows. She’ll have peaks and valleys along the way. She’ll cry tears of angst and of joy. But that if she keeps laying the bricks, the path will emerge and it will lead her to the professional life that she is supposed to have — not mine; hers.

    So we threw away napkins and pushed in chairs. We gave familiar handshakes and parted ways. And as always, I left not knowing if I imparted anything worth imparting on her at all. I’m just not sure. I never am. There is however, certainty in one thing. Because you see, as I recalled my true story aloud, I realized that my life is once again calling me to lay down bricks in faith.

    Years later and scary things loom again. There is so much uncertainty on the other side of it all.  Once again I see life unfolding for others and I’m left crying in my pillow at night — half from jealousy and half from despair. Once again I’m researching and prepping and desperately throwing down bricks and crossing my fingers that somehow, someway, they will converge into a distinguishable a path on the other side. A path towards good things. But just like before — I can’t possibly orchestrate it all. It has to unfold. In its own time. In its own way. All I can do is what I can do. That’s it. No more. No less. And just like the student I met today, my path won’t look like yours. And that’s okay. It’s mine.

    So instead of falling apart in the cafe parking lot, I breathe deep.
    I drive back across town in peace.
    I arrive at my office. I tackle my inbox.
    And I lay another brick.

  • 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. 
  • A Beautifully Terrible Motherhood Truth

    A Beautifully Terrible Motherhood Truth

    Last night I had a moment. It was a moment that I think most moms (and dads) of growing kids could probably relate to. I had come home from work and Holland was excited to see me. She wanted to tell me about her day and to ask me about mine. I sat at the kitchen table, watching her effortlessly glide across the floor towards me, dancing and twirling as she came, and it hit me…

    She isn’t a baby anymore. 

    In that moment I was filled with both immense pride for the human being she is growing into but also, deep sadness that as the years slip by, I lose tiny pieces of her “babyness” that shall never return.

    I paused and told her just how grown she looked and she just smiled widely. She, of course, only understands that growing into a BIG girl is a good thing. And it is…

    This morning, as I drove into the office, a deep truth of motherhood that I’d never before understood hit me.

    One day, if Holland chooses a life that includes children, she will understand those bittersweet moments I’ve experienced because she too will have them. More than that, she will understand the depth of a mother’s love. She will understand the feeling of desperately wanting a child to sleep so you can just have a moment of silence and peace, only then to feel an intense (and irrational) desire to wake up that same child so you can hug them and be assured of their presence after running across a picture of them or, sometimes as it happens in the world we live in, reading or thinking about a sad story like a recent school shooting. She too will feel this intense, this amazing, this difficult, this relentless love for her child or children. But… she will never feel that for me.

    Oh, she will love me. (At least, I hope she will). A child’s love for a parent is a special bond in and of itself of course. It can also be deep and difficult and I personally believe it expands to new horizons once that child becomes a parent itself. It becomes more understanding of their parent — of their hard choices and their sacrifices. But… it isn’t the same. It is quite different than the love that a parent feels for their own child.

    So becoming a mom is this amazingly terrible double-edged sword. Because, by doing so, in a sense — you sign up for a love that will never quite be requited. You make this silent pact within yourself to give a piece of your soul up — knowing deep down that the soul you are giving it to will never be able to give you the same piece of their own soul. That piece is, of course, reserved for their own future children. As it should be…

    When this realization struck me, I quite literally lost my breath for a second thinking about the beautifully terrible nature of this cycle. It has such loss and sadness, but also, this prevailing hope that coaxes us into continuing it. It is as if the generations of humanity are built upon this deep and willing sacrifice that parents make that requires them to pour out a certain type of love that will never be returned to them.

    When I arrived at my office, I found myself having to wipe away a few silent tears.
    Silent tears marking the realization I had just made.
    Tears for the sadness of knowing that my daughter won’t love me, ever, in the same way I love her.
    Tears for the intense joy of knowing that one day, my daughter will feel this love for her own kids.

    Tears for the love my own mother poured into me that I’ll never be able to give back to her in the way she deserves.

    Tears for all the parents who have or who are participating in this beautifully terrible cycle of love and self-sacrifice that is the backbone of all humanity.

    As I gathered my things and found my composure, I prayed a silent but thankful prayer.
    Thankful for the love I received. For the love I give. And for the legacy of love that we all pass along through our beautiful children.

  • Why My Nose Stud is a Love Letter to My Nose

    Why My Nose Stud is a Love Letter to My Nose

    If I were a betting woman, I would bet that you don’t like your nose.

    Funny thing is — I don’t have to see your nose or even know who you are to probably be accurate in that guess. Odds are, you don’t. Our noses are this weird thing in the center of our faces that help us taste our food and amplify the sounds we hear and yet, quite a few people don’t like the version sitting on their face.

    I’m one of those people.

    Again, if I were a betting woman, I’d say right now you’re thinking, “What? Your nose!? Why? There is nothing wrong with your nose!” But if I were to say the same about your nose, you’d disagree and be able to immediately pinpoint all of its perceived wrongs.

    I don’t recall a time in my life, ever, that I was consciously aware of my nose’s existence and didn’t hate it. You see, I share my rather distinct nose with other members in my family and extended family. And in the family, it has always been deemed an “unfortunate” nose.  Wistful words about rhinoplasty around the house were not uncommon and it didn’t take long for me to join in the lament.

    My negative nose self-talk really didn’t improve based on my school experience either. In addition to my “unfortunate” nose, I had rather prominent dark hair on my arms and legs. And since I was not allowed to shave my legs until 6th grade, school bullies had taken to calling me “Woolly Mammoth”. One particular bully, Bryce, decided to up the torment when I was in 5th grade. He proclaimed that my nose was so pointed, it looked more like a beak than a nose and decided my new nickname should be “Woody Woodpecker.” On days that Bryce and his friends were feeling particularly vindictive, they called me “Wooly Woody.” That still stings a bit if I’m being honest.

    With time, I shaved my legs (and arms — yes arms!) and the Woolly torments eventually died down. But the Woody ones never really did. In fact, the day I graduated high school, I recall Bryce slinging his arm around my shoulder and saying something to the effect of, “Well, we made it Woody.”

    Needless to say, I became very self-conscious about the point and sharpness of my nose. I’ve never liked it. I’ve always said I would “fix it” as soon as I had the money. I was adamant on this point.

    Until… I had my daughter.   

    After Holland was born, I took a reevaluation of my negative self-talk generally. I started to worry how it might influence her. I of course, want her to be happy and healthy, but I don’t want her growing up with a mother who is constantly trying to lose 10 pounds or thinks that her thighs look terrible in shorts. I made a conscious decision early in her life, that in order to encourage her to love her own body, I must love mine. That took work and yes, some days I eat a whole pizza and start to doubt my own self-love. But for the most part, I’m happy with my body knowing that it has served me well and that I’m mostly, good to it.

    But making peace with my nose has proven to be a much harder task. I often wonder how I will feel if my daughter grows up to have my nose. Will I think it is unbecoming on her as well? Surely not. Like everything about her, I’m sure I’ll think that it is beautiful and amazing. So why then do I have a hard time accepting it being in the middle of my own face?

    But if my child, in her early years of life, hears my own negative-nose talk, I’m afraid that she too is likely to learn by example that her nose is ugly. It breaks my heart that she might one day be as hard on herself about her nose as I have been, and continue to be about my own, on a daily basis.

    That’s why, last Friday afternoon, I got my nose pierced.

    When I was a teenager, I got my naval pierced. Afterwards, I started making plans for tattoos and other piercings I would get once I was grown up and could decide for myself. One day, I said aloud to someone that I loved (and who loved me), that I would get my nose pierced. That person, full of doubt and hate for their own nose, wasted no time in telling me that was a bad idea. They said, “Kate, you don’t put fancy treatments on an ugly window. It just draws attention where it shouldn’t be.”


    That person loved and continues to love me deeply. But they were blinded by the very nose on their face and likely generations of people telling them that this nose is just not good enough. Regardless, their words have stuck with me. I think about them every time someone catches a photo of me in profile — something I try to always avoid. I think about them when I put my makeup on each morning. I think of them each time I get a zit on or around my nose. “You don’t put fancy treatments on an ugly window.”


    Maybe we should though. 

    Maybe, we can dress that window up enough that we’ll look at it more often. And maybe, instead of avoiding it, all the attention put on it will slowly turn our disdain for that window into acceptance of it. And maybe with time, that acceptance will become admiration. And perhaps, if we are truly lucky, admiration will blossom into adoration. Maybe. Just maybe.

    I’ve spent 32 years of my life locked into a pattern of avoidance and disdain towards the very nose on my face.

    No more.
    I’m done.
    For me.
    For Holland.
    For future kids or grandchildren who might also share this nose one day.
    The time has come for me to break the cycle. To break up with the self-hate.

    I’m not there yet. Not even close. I still cringe at photos of me in complete profile and I find myself occasionally looking up plastic surgeons in my area.

    But each time this tiny jewel catches the light and draws in my eye, I see my nose a little more clearly. And I have high hopes that one day, I’ll be able to admire the window for itself. With or without the fabulous drapes.

  • 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?   

  • A Personal Revolution

    A Personal Revolution

    Each year, like millions of others, I try to embark upon some new journey. To strive towards some new goal. To improve the life I’m already living in some novel way.

    Some people do this by choosing a word to define their year.
    Others do it by paying entrance fees to races they are determined to run or by buying new calendars and to-do lists.
    I know people who don’t necessarily mark the occasion with anything so concrete, but nonetheless make steady vows to themselves every time the ball drops.

    I’ve been all of these people at one point or another.
    I will be again. Perhaps I am now.

    Like most, I think there is something refreshing about a new year; it’s a new opportunity, a clean slate, and all that jazz. And while in truth there is never a perfect time to start a new journey, there is something whimsical about declaring one in conjunction with another turn around our favorite star.

    In years past I’ve proclaimed to the world that I planned to focus on Intention and Effort. And while I indeed did just that, at least for a while, I would be lying if I claimed not to still struggle with both. Daily. Oftentimes by the hour.

    Perhaps that’s why this year, I’ve been a little slower to jump on the resolution bandwagon.
    I’m not anti-resolution you see, it’s just, well… I’m craving (and have been for some time) something greater than a resolution.

    I need a revolution.
    A personal revolution.

    And truly, I can say that I’m in the midst of one. It began before January 1st though I couldn’t tell you an exact time or place. It may have come from a place of self-love or self-loathing. I’m not entirely sure nor do I feel compelled to be. Either way, it pressed itself upon me before I had time to notice that I was stumbling towards it, not halfheartedly, but in dire need of it altogether.

    My revolution is both grand and insignificant.
    Some may notice changes while others perceive nothing out of the ordinary.
    But me? I’m noticing.

    Let’s start with obvious changes: I’ve given up Diet Pepsi, a long-held favorite since the moment my lips took their first sugary, carbonated sip. I’ve also discovered a new, more holistic attitude towards self-care that has resulted in me being more consistent in the gym than I’ve been in my entire adult life. Perhaps most strangely of all, I’ve found this time to be not only rewarding, but wildly liberating in a sense I never expected. I’ve also begun reorganizing our home with a fervor and insistence that I don’t think I have previously been capable of — finding myself easily parting with things that a year ago I would never have parted with without substantial tears.

    But those are just the obvious things.

    The subtle changes are much less perceptible. They are, so intangible in fact, that I even find myself struggling to find words for them at all. It’s been, if anything, a mindset shift that perhaps only I can truly feel though I still won’t purport to fully understand it myself. It is ongoing. Evolving.

    If I’m being honest (and it’s my blog so I will), I’ve found myself taxed in recent years – not by life necessarily, but by myself. By the weight of the things that I’ve taken from others or that I’ve put on myself. These burdens are based on both inner and worldly expectations. I’ve done this willingly. Sometimes even happily. But it always ends in the same place and I’m discovered this simple fact: I don’t want to live in that place any more. 

    So yes, this revolution of mine is personal. I’m dropping perceived notions of myself that I’ve held for decades and shedding the weight of opinion, judgment and skepticism of others. I’m taking a stand for what works best for me and being unapologetic when that doesn’t align where others think it should. I’m rediscovering my life and how I relate to it in all aspects… emotionally, physically, spirituality, and mentally. It’s like meeting myself for the first time and learning about my actual needs, desires, and interests.

    In recent years, it’s become more difficult to ignore the world around me. I embraced this fact and dived in unapologetically and head first. But I’ve discovered that life is both cruel and kind. It is shockingly just and still terrifyingly unfair. The pain and the elation of it all is overwhelming and yet, oddly serene. With these discoveries I’ve found an odd question burning on my lips: What about me?

    Each day is unpromised yet it’s impossible to live each as if it is our last.
    What if, instead then, we just live each striving towards ourselves.
    Not our best-selves. Just ourselves.
    Towards inner-peace. Towards self-reflection. Towards those monstrously subtle delights that make this revolution around the sun worth the ride.

    Viva la revolución.