Author Archives: thriveintheflow

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About thriveintheflow

I am a mother, a wife, a friend, a daughter, an adoptee, a life long learner, a book lover, a nature lover - especially the beach, a traveler and a seeker. Through various adventures and mis-steps along the way, I've discovered that when I go with the flow, things ALWAYS fall in to place. Maybe not the way I may have chosen, but they always work out. I thrive when I let go of control, while moving towards my best life. Letting go is NOT a natural instinct for me, in fact, I need to remind myself daily to get out of my own way. Living in the "flow" is worth it. I hope you'll join me on this adventure.

With the Ease of Someone Completely Adored

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Last night I had a disagreement with my husband and knew at the time I was not articulating myself well, so I headed to bed.  I woke up around 5 AM feeling unsettled and picked up my book, hoping it would lull me back to sleep.

“With the ease of someone completely adored.”  That line jumped out from the page.  This – this is the very thing I was doing a terrible job of trying to explain last night, my words getting jumbled with emotion and frustration that he didn’t understand me. 

As an adoptee, my baseline at birth is very different from people whose birth parents keep them.   Research is uncovering how the preverbal trauma adoptees experience impacts them throughout their lives.  This is not to say that we sit feeling sorry for ourselves.  No, that is not the case.  Many stay “in the fog” a term used by adoptees who have not yet confronted their adoption trauma.  I was that person for decades, exclaiming, “I’m fine!  I’m lucky!  It’s all great,” while feeling so uncomfortable inside but not understanding that discomfort was not experienced by the world at large.

If you are an adoptee, you’ll identify with this immediately.  If you’re not, please stay with me because it is important that you understand if you have an adoptee in your life.

At birth, most non-adoptees live from equilibrium, safety, connection, security and love.   There are cases where this isn’t true – if a birth mother dies or the child is separated from the parents, but for the most part, there is this sense of ease.  I see this baseline of safety in my own children – even in their hardest moments, and they’ve had many because they have a genetic bone disorder, they have the absolute knowledge that they are loved, adored, and safe with us.  I see it in my brother – the biological child of my adoptive parents, my husband and his siblings.  I’ll think “how entitled,” when they act in a certain manner, and they are, to no fault of their own.  They don’t know how lucky they are and how much harder it is for me to feel safe and secure.

An adoptee begins life from a place of fear, the unknown, alone, loss, confusion.  After 9 months of being literally dependent on another being, we are born and torn away from this being.  She is not there.  No familiar sounds or heartbeats.  No recognizable smells or the person we desperately need to feed us, hold us or comfort us. Adoption now allows adoptive parents to be with the child at or immediately after birth, and while this allows the new family to bond, it does not take away the trauma the baby experiences.  Yes, someone is with them attending to their cries, but not the person they are seeking.   This is not to say that the baby does not form attachments to their adoptive parents, it’s just that adoptees start from a place of loss – our baseline is from a place of disequilibrium, and we must work harder to get to that place of security and equilibrium.

There is plenty of trauma-based research out helping adoptees understand and heal.  I’ve spent the better part of five years working through my adoption trauma and still get triggered.

Back to our disagreement. I created a quick medical consent form, while preparing for a quick out of town getaway.  Overkill?  I hope so.  For me, the “just in case” aspect of the form gives me comfort.   It has my children’s insurance information, their allergies and consent for my sister-in-law to make decisions in case we are not available.  My husband asked why I was all “doom and gloom” which sent me into a tailspin.  Don’t get me wrong, he’s been incredibly understanding and patient as I’ve worked to unravel a lifetime of denial.  I felt myself sputtering to explain and getting angry, so I put myself to bed.  I didn’t want to say something I’d regret because I was triggered by our disagreement and couldn’t explain myself clearly.

I’m jealous and in awe of the ease with which he moves through the world with a confidence that no matter what, he is not only meant to be here, but is very cherished.   I’m proud of myself for stepping away from a petty argument and instead waiting to explain my actions from a grounded place.

Before you say, “but you are cherished, your parents love you,” please stop.  The love I have experienced in my life does not erase the infant trauma of being separated from my birth mother.  The baby inside of me was alone.  My first weeks in life I was scared and searching.   This fear lives inside me and all adoptees.  We can heal from it, but it is always there and sometimes it is triggered. 

I hate that I must explain myself, but I’m grateful for the work I’ve done to heal.  If I look back on the fights we’ve had over our 18 years of marriage, I can now see where my preverbal trauma was running the show and I’m even more proud of myself for recognizing it last night and heading to bed.  My husband may not need a “Consent to treat” form, but if it makes me feel at ease, then this is what we’ll do until I don’t need to do it anymore.

Domestic Supply of Infants

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“Adoption is an institution that fulfills several purposes in contemporary American society.  It provides parents for infants who are relinquished by birth parents…It provides individuals and couples a means to bring children into their families when they are unable to conceive or carry a pregnancy to term due to fertility issues……Because of the decrease in the domestic supply of infants, more affluent women and couples have sought to adopt children from other countries.”  Jones, Jo Ph.D. (August 2008) Adoption Experience of Women and Men and Demand for Children to Adopt by Women 18-44 Years of Age in the United States, 2002 Centers for Disease Control, Vital and Health Statistics Series 23 Number 27) pg. 1  https://www.cdc.gov/nchs/data/series/sr_23/sr23_027.pdf

The phrase “domestic supply of infants” is beyond insulting.   I first heard this phrase in May when Justice Alito referenced the journal article above in the leaked SCOTUS document.   I saw that it was not Justice Alito who coined the term, but the CDC.  He was using it to prove a point that safe-haven laws could help increase our domestic supply of infants, thereby another reason to overturn Roe V Wade.

I’m not here to argue semantics but speak for adoptees. 

Did you know that adoptees are 4x more likely to commit suicide?   We suffer multiple traumas being separated from our birth mothers and families of origin.  Most states do not allow us to obtain our original birth certificates. Our identities are erased.   We have no access to our medical information, so therefore do not know if we have family history of various diseases.  We are over-represented in mental healthcare settings.  Often, we are not able to discuss our feelings with our adoptive parents because they are worried about their roles in our lives. 

Don’t get me wrong, I’m one of the “good” stories and yet my adoption impacts me in a variety of ways.  I have very dear friends who are adoptive parents.  I have no doubt that they love their children and are wonderful parents.  Being a wonderful parent doesn’t prevent your child from suffering the trauma of being separated from their biological family, even if they were adopted at birth.  Adoptees, even in the best circumstances struggle with abandonment issues, depression, disconnection, and fear.  A “better life” comes at a price, even if you do everything “right,” there are still issues. 

And let’s not forget the 1-5% of adoptees who get returned.  Yes, you read that correctly.  Parents change their minds and put the children up for “second chance adoption.”    Don’t believe me, read the 2018 article in The Atlantic, “When Families Un-Adopt a Child.”   If you deem a child too difficult or your lifestyle changes, you can put them up for second-chance adoption.  Frankly, this one takes my breath away.

It is important to point out that the adoption industry is a billion-dollar industry.  People are making money off babies.  Adoptees are treated like a thing –a product – a person to be bought/sold.  The industry has an age-old sales pitch that everyone wins – the birth mother’s “problem” goes away, the adoptive parents who can’t have children get a baby, the baby is given a better life, and everyone lives happily ever after.   Except that this is not a Disney movie.

People need to understand the dark side of adoption.  Stop saying that adoption is the solution to abortion.  Please stop using us as a pawn.  Please stop ignoring adoptee voices.  Please stop telling us that “I know of a good adoption.” Just stop.  Listen to adoptees.  Hear what we’re saying.  We can help.  But do not speak for us.  Sex education, birth control and abstinence are ways to prevent unwanted pregnancy, not adoption.  Adoption has a place in our society, but not in the way that is has been handled in the past. 

If you’d like to read a really good book about the history of adoption, check out:  American Baby: A Mother, A Child, and the Shadow History of Adoption by Gabrielle Glaser.  Not only was it well-written, but quite eye opening about the “industry.”

“Aren’t you glad you weren’t aborted?”

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A friend reached out to tell me she thought I was brave for sharing my thoughts about a woman’s right to choose.

It is assumed that as an adoptee, I would be pro-life.  Over the years, countless have said to me, “aren’t you glad you weren’t aborted?”  I’ve never been quite sure how to respond to that one.  Sassier folks may have shot that question right back to the questioner, but I’ve sat there silent and stunned.

You see, I am not a “THING,” a “COMMODITY,” “SOLUTION TO PROBLEMS.”  I am a living breathing person whose biological parents could not keep her.  I was cut off from my biological family and while I was raised in a family that loved me, that doesn’t take away my genetic roots.  My boys were the first people I met who were biologically related to me.  Growing up, I sat there silent, while the rest of the family sat around talking about who looked like whom.  Occasionally a family member would say, “you look like us, even though you are not related to us.”   Unless you are adopted, you do not understand how it feels to have no one who looks or acts like you.  It’s as if you are living in a foreign country without access to the language – you are always slightly out of step.  Maybe that’s why I love traveling so much because it feels so comfortable to me.  Just because I was loved does not mean I didn’t experience pain or trauma growing up.

Please do not tell me I should be grateful.  My whole life I’ve had to tell the “I’m so lucky” story.  I had it down pat.  Am I though?  I’ll never really know. My story starts at three weeks old.  I don’t know my birth story or anything about the first three weeks of my life.  It’s why I always feel sad and uncomfortable around my birthday, which is a trait many of us adoptees seem to share.   I never realized this was missing until I had my own children.  They love to hear the stories about their birth – the moment I first laid eyes on them or the first time I felt them kick me while pregnant.   Adoptees carry around pain that society doesn’t want us to acknowledge, we are told to be grateful and be quiet.  We are silenced because to speak our pain makes us look disrespectful and unappreciative of our adoptive parents.  Even now, I’m worried about my parents’ feelings.  We carry around everyone’s baggage – our birth parents, our adoptive parents and our own. 

Do not get me wrong, I’m not sure my biological mother keeping me would have made my life better, it just would have been different.   But this is MY reality – I was conceived, I was given up for adoption and I was raised by another family.   I am not a political pawn, an answer to infertility or an unwanted pregnancy.  Adoption is not all good and it is not all bad.  Please stop making it so black and white.   

Adoption is not a solution to abortion.  Birth control, abstinence, mutual consent – THEY are solutions.

Thanks for holding space for me.  This is hard for me to share, but if I can’t speak my truth to friends, then how will anything change?

Unclenched

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I’ve been coming to terms with my adoption trauma over the past few years.  It all started when a cousin contacted me on 23andMe, yet if I’m honest, it started when I decided to do the genetic test.  Before then, I pretty much lived in denial with a CAPITAL D and when mentioning my adoption, it was “all great, I’m so lucky,” the most typical party line we adoptees of a certain age were told to share with the world when asked about our adoptions.  But that is not the truth.  And I’m tired of living a lie and carrying baggage that is not mine.

Adoptees refer to the awakening I’ve had as “coming out of the fog.”  This process is not for the faint of heart.

One of the realizations that has come out of this process is that I don’t know how to relax.

“Just relax!” has been a common refrain my entire life.   I was reminded of this again last night in the middle of a restorative yoga class, while struggling to allow the floor to support me.   My mind raced as I was lying down holding a pose, forced into stillness.  Relaxing is incredibly challenging.  In fact, I have been uber critical of people who are good at relaxing and I usually call them the “L word” – the word my kids know I can’t stand…LAZY.  I read somewhere that what you judge is what you need more of in your life, and I thought about that while attempting to relax in yoga.  I don’t like it, but it is true.  I need to relax more, let go, rest, let my guard down, and embrace laziness.  Typing that makes me shudder.

To make matters more complicated, our society rewards busyness, and I’ve come to learn that constantly being on the move has its benefits.  There are the accolades from the outside world and if you are busy, you don’t have time to sit down with those troubling thoughts and feelings.  I know this firsthand because I am always on the run. After all, I did get my Master of Science degree at night while working full time, volunteering, working as a teacher’s assistant and as an adjunct professor, all while managing a NYC single social life.  That makes me tired now to think about it.  Not that my days are much calmer now, balancing work, and my two boys’ schedule.  The shadow side of all that action is that I’ve run from the very truth that I’ve been avoiding – the truth that motivated me to apply to graduate school in the first place.  When you are still, things bubble up to the surface. 

While on the outside I seemed super together, the truth has lived in my body, just ask any massage therapist or my long-time chiropractor and she’ll tell you.  I’ve lived my life clenched, rigid …. tight…. gritted jaws, neck, shoulders…. waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop.   My shoulders are usually up around my ears and the second I feel any tension, it ends up in my neck and shoulders. It is only recently that I’ve made a concentrated effort to remind myself to put my shoulders in their “pockets” and breathe.

Not that this knowledge slowed me down.  Marriage, kids, work, parental demands…. you name it.  I kept whirling around keeping all the balls in the air.  Busy busy busy.  Look at me, I’m not lazy!  There’s nothing to see here.  I’m fine! I have it all together!

Then COVID19 hit. 

Life screeched to a halt.

When I was contacted by my birth cousin a year earlier, I had begun working with a therapist untying the knot of my adoption, but the extra pause of COVID gave me more time to dig deeper, as there were no external distractions, nowhere to “run” to avoid sitting with the pain and uncomfortable truths of my life.  I’ve been shedding layer upon layer – some more painful than others.   I had no idea that being unable to relax was a common phenomenon for adoptees until I read a post written by another adoptee.  Another book further confirmed adoption’s impact on children, even those of us who were adopted shortly after our birth.    

The trauma we adoptees feel is very real and has long term impact.  I learned quickly after my birth to fold into myself when my cries weren’t answered, when I wasn’t held or coddled by my birth parents.  I spent the first month of my life with strangers.   There was no one person for me to count on because the adult caregivers were constantly changing. It was always believed that I was fine because I was adopted within the first months of my life – after all, what could a little baby remember, but research shows that the first few months are vital to helping a baby regulate their nervous system and like other adoptees, I was in a constant state of “fight or flight.”

Once I was finally placed with my adoptive family, I learned to adapt but I could never quite let go of the fear that I’d be given to someone else. Within a span of a few weeks, I was in the care of yet another adult.  How long would I stay with these people? Because my parents were not biologically related to me, they never really understood me or the way my mind and body worked.  I can’t tell you how many times I heard, “who do you think you are,” when my mother was frustrated by my behavior.  Something as simple as “tanning easily without trying” made sense when I finally met my biological cousin.  My Mom constantly accused me of intentionally forgetting sunscreen in hopes of a ‘Ban de Soleil’ tan– I wasn’t – it turns out that I simply have more melanin in my skin, like my biological family.   But that is another post.

It was quite comforting to learn that I’m not the only adoptee who does not relax easily.  It made me feel less foreign and more understood.  There is work to be done to heal from a constant state of “fight or flight” from my early years.  Just look at my face in the picture, taken around eight weeks old.  My expression says it all.

As I learn more about myself, both in therapy and from biological family, I can slowly relax into who I am as a person.  I may never be able to completely shed the initial response of “fight or flight” – but if I can remain open, practice yoga as often as possible and breathe into the moment, perhaps I can learn to let go, be light and free.

Mistake

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I’m ridiculously hard on myself and always have been but haven’t thought much about the reasons why I’m so hard on myself until recently. 

A few weeks ago, my husband made a mistake – a big, costly mistake.  In reaction he simply shrugged his shoulders and said, “Oh, I made a mistake.”  Immediately I felt myself tense up. I was shocked by his reaction. I thought to myself, are you kidding me?  THAT’S YOUR REACTION?  You make a huge mistake and you shrug your shoulders??!!!   Even typing this a few weeks later I can feel the tension building in my stomach and shoulders.  How can he react like that, so calm about his mistake?

I was startled by his response, along with being completely annoyed by his reaction (and the mistake), but I was simultaneously curious.  How is possible for him to react so casually about this mistake?  Why isn’t he taking this more seriously?  Why isn’t he yelling at himself or punishing himself?  And it was with this question that it dawned on me that I have some work to do around mistakes, especially because my children seem to be taking after me and are extra hard on themselves when they make a mistake. 

When it comes to mistakes, I am tough on myself.  I personalize it. I say the meanest things to myself, but usually not out loud.

And here’s where the hard truth comes out – the one that hurts to admit.  The one I am scared to share yet has colored much in my life without me even realizing it. 

I am a mistake.

Yes, you read that correctly.  I am a mistake.   A whoopsie, an “oh no I am a pregnant, 20-year-old un-married Catholic dating a Protestant” woman’s child.  I can’t say what I ingested while in-utero, but I suspect that the words screamed at my birth mother were not kind nor supportive.  The little I do know is that her parents were pissed, and she was sent out-of-state to have me and give me away.  No black marks on their perfect Catholic family.

So, you see, I really was a mistake.  

I was adopted and raised by loving, but flawed people.  My Mom is a perfectionist and so when I made a mistake or didn’t measure up, she’d get upset.  I understand now that my mother’s perfectionism had to do with her own trauma and anxiety, but as a child, I had no clue and would get very nervous when my mom got angry for fear that if I upset her, she’d give me back.  Spilled milk infuriated her.  She would get impatient with me when I didn’t behave in a way that she understood or when I didn’t agree with her.  I understand now that this disconnect had to do with the fact that we are not genetically related, as more research is done on adoptive families.

To me, a mistake was proof that I was damaged, and it confirmed my worries and belief that I was unworthy.  It was an earthquake, rattling the foundation of what was an already shaky sense of self.  One who was trying so desperately to please her parents, to do whatever they wanted to ensure their love, but would always slightly miss the mark.  I was fearful that a mistake would cause my parents to give me back – to return the damaged goods.  I felt like I had to be the perfect daughter in the mold they wanted – and when I fell short, which was frequently (because let’s be honest, who is perfect?), I was super hard on myself, figuring it was a character defect keeping me from this elusive perfection.

The amount of tension I feel in my body as I write this is incredible.  I feel sick to my stomach, afraid to even put this on paper.  If I’m brave enough to post it on my blog, which I don’t promote and that my parents may never see, will I still be punished for it?  Why am I terrified to share this painful truth?  I’m sure I’m not the only one who has felt like a mistake.

Whoever thought that revealing one’s self would be so challenging?

I’m doing the work, through journaling and therapy because I no longer want to go through life being hard on myself.  I certainly don’t want my boys to feel that they are anything less than the wonderful, flawed humans that they are. I am working to heal myself.  And while it is still cringe worthy when I make a mistake because old habits die hard, I’m working on being gentle with myself.   I’m going to post this without agonizing over whether it is “perfect” enough to put out there.

Here’s what I do know:  I’m here. If I was truly a mistake, I wouldn’t be here.  Maybe my birth mother and her family believed that I was a mistake, but I’m not.  She MADE a mistake by not using birth control – or having sex before marriage – however you want to look at it, but I AM NOT THE MISTAKE.   I am here for a reason, so that can’t be a mistake.  I can’t carry her mistakes or her shame anymore.  I can’t carry my mother’s anxiety and perfectionism either.   They’re on their own.  They’ll have to heal themselves because I’m focused on repairing myself.

I wish I could wrap this up with a nice tidy bow, saying that I’m no longer hard on myself, but that wouldn’t be honest.  Instead, I’m taking this day by day.  Every day is a new day to practice, to embrace my shortcomings and work on saying, “oh well, I made a mistake but I’m not a mistake.”

Coming out of the Fog

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At 50 years old, I’m coming out of the fog and for the first time, understanding how my adoption impacted me.  I was the poster child for adoption success stories, or rather I told the story adoptive parents and birth mothers wanted to hear.  Frankly, I believed it.  What I’ve come to realize is that I’d been living in complete denial.

I never heard the phrase, “coming out of the fog,” nor had I known that I was living there.  My awareness came to light by accident, as it does for many – an event, a crisis, or a loss wakes them up to a new level of understanding. Two years ago, a birth cousin reached out to me on 23andMe and all that I previously believed about myself began to unravel.  I had never considered how my genetics played a role in who I am as a person. There was no space to explore that part of my story even though I always felt a little bit different from my family.  Ironically, it was my parent’s request for Ancestry for Christmas that prompted me to do 23andMe to find out more about my health history.

I was adopted domestically at almost three weeks old. I was told about my adoption while I was young, so I thought of it as a trait, like the color of my hair or eyes.  I looked “enough” like my family so there was no reason for anyone to think that I wasn’t biologically related.  My adoption was rarely brought up.  The one time I approached it, I was told that my biological mother had moved on when she gave birth to me and would likely be upset by my contacting her. My adoptive mother made it quite clear that she was my only mother.  It made me feel that the case was closed.  If I searched for my biological mother, my Mom would think I was disloyal and ungrateful, and I could potentially lose the only family I had.  This is not to say that my adoptive parents were bad or got it wrong.  They did many things right.   It is just that as I’ve come out of the fog, I can own that adoption impacted me.

I realize how differently I experience my place in the world when I look at my children’s behavior.  They have no problem expressing exactly how they feel – even if it makes me upset.  There is an underlying confidence, a knowledge that no matter what they do or say, they are supported and loved.  I did not have the same certainty growing up.  I was always a little bit nervous that I would say or do the wrong thing and it would cost me my family.  Because of this, I can read a room and know how to act to make other people happy. I know how to push aside what I think, feel or need, to put someone else’s desires before mine.  I’m quick to diffuse a tense situation and the first to offer “I’m sorry,” even if it isn’t my fault because tension makes me want to crawl out of my skin.  I say “yes” when I mean “no” because I hate disappointing people.  I don’t like the feeling of being left out. 

Adoption impacted my behavior in ways I never understood.  For example, my husband once commented on my near panic to be one of the first parents at pre-school pick up.  When I was 4 years old, my mother was late picking me up and I remember being inconsolable because I thought she had decided that she didn’t want me anymore. Consequently, I am never late picking up my boys. I now recognize that behavior stems from my abandonment issues – normal people don’t have that same underlying panic about being late to pick up their children.  I never once considered how my adoption colored my actions or my behavior. 

At 50 years old, I am a recovering people pleaser.  I’m learning that I can say “no” and the world won’t fall apart. I share my opinions instead of keeping them inside because I understand that I can have an opinion. I don’t adopt a “role” anymore to make someone else feel comfortable. I can be myself.  Adoption has taught me how to be highly adaptable, able to interact, connect and feel comfortable around all types of people.  I am a good listener. I’m learning that I can be myself.

Now that my eyes have opened, I know this for sure – adoption is complicated and impacts children, even those who were too young to remember what happened to them.  This fact can’t be glossed over or emphasized enough.  Adopted children need to know where they come from and have access to their genetic roots.  Adoptive and biological parents need to hold space for the child to explore her many parts of herself.  Children should no way be burdened by either parents’ insecurities or be forced to withhold feelings to make an adult feel better.  Parents should talk honestly with their children and provide them with the support needed to navigate this complicated experience.    

I’m still a work in progress.  I feel lucky.   I may not be the poster child for adoption as I once was, but I believe as I continue with my metamorphosis, I will grow into a better, well-rounded and more honest voice for adoption.  Let us make space for all experience and voices.

Weeds

Folks are always commenting about our lovely landscaping and I like to joke that we have nothing to do with it because the previous owner was a landscape designer.  We do have to maintain it, which was not a problem. Until now.

After several days of rain and hot weather, the weeds multiplied by the thousands. Our beds are covered in green, and not the pretty kind. This situation is particularly frustrating because just a few months ago, my husband weeded and sprayed every bed before laying down mulch.  But now those gorgeous beds are being choked by massive weeds.

My morning run did little to clear my head so with time to spare, I decided to tackle the weeds with the “Fly Lady” approach –tackle the yard in 15 min increment because when I look around the yard, I get completely overwhelmed by the number of weeds.  Good god, maybe we should have stayed in our town house, beautiful yard be damned!

Just so you know, yard work does not come naturally.  As a child, my brother and I weeded as part of our summer chores.  How I hated it!  I wanted to play or go to the pool, not weed the yard.  So here I am many years later with a shovel and a yard full of weeds.  Fifteen minutes, I only need to do this for 15 minutes, I kept saying before I began.

I grabbed the shovel and went to work.  Hmmm… when was the last time I had my hands in the dirt?  The soil, rich and earthy smelling, had worms, lady bugs, mysterious seeds and rocks, scattered here and there. Some weeds were definitely harder to pull than others and I had to dig deeper or make my hole wider to get at the roots.  Other weeds were so pretty with delicate flowers making me question if they were really weeds.

I continued to dig and pull, finding myself in a bit of a meditative state and the fifteen minutes passed quickly.  After another five minutes, I had to put my shovel down and start my day.  That afternoon, while the boys played outside, I found myself at another bed and one hour later, I felt such a sense of accomplishment when I saw that I had cleared out an entire bed of weeds. 

This approach continued throughout the weekend and I’m happy to report that we only have one bed left to weed, which I hope to attack one early morning this week.

I surprised myself and found the whole process therapeutic and so unlike my experience as a teenager.  I was brought back to the earth, pulling weeds, one at a time as I cleared out space in each bed.  What satisfaction I felt when I walked past a weeded bed – “I did that,” I thought. “Look how nice it looks.”  

As I was digging in the dirt, I thought about how weeding is a metaphor for life –  how something so overwhelming and BIG and scary can be tackled just one task (or weed) at a time in small increments.   With some problems you have to work harder to remove them from your life and dig a little deeper, other times it is easier to make a change.  But easy or hard, you need to tackle whatever you are facing -one thing at a time.  You can’t clear a bed unless you pull each weed out.

And what about those “weeds” in our lives – those negative thoughts, patterns or behaviors which no longer serve us and cause us harm?  How often have I held onto an old way of being because it was comfortable and the way I always reacted to a situation?  What would happen if I cleared some space in my life for new things to blossom?  What if one by one, I pulled out the negative patterns and made room for new behaviors?

I have a tendency to want to change everything at once, and I know I’m not alone in that.  How many of us have pledged that we’ll exercise every day while starting a diet, consuming only certain foods in an attempt to lose weight? And how many of us are successful when we try to do everything at once? 

What I was reminded of in the garden was that that my hands will get dirty and I may have to dig deeper to remove something that is stuck, but if I take it one step at a time, I can confront the problems facing me.  New ones will certainly crop up, just like new weeds will grow in my garden, but a few minutes of work every day can keep my garden cleared of weeds and my mind clear.

Just like my garden, I am a work in progress.   

Looking back on a difficult time

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A friend called me with some sad news last night, which compelled me to pull this out of the archives.  It is five years old, and yet reading it again brought me straight back to that pain and anguish.  To say it was a difficult time for me would be an understatement.  About a year after this post, we found out we were expecting Peter’s little brother.  That happy news was dampened by my father-in-law’s cancer diagnosis and quick passing.  SO much has happened in our lives, both wonderful and challenging, since this post.  And I pretty much stopped writing (not that I ever really started in the first place.) I’ve come to learn that life is filled with moments – both good and bad, and I am grateful for the friends and family who have held me up during the difficult moments and have celebrated during the good times.  Our struggles are a part of us, but we are so much more than those struggles.  And so, to my beautiful friend, please know that I am here for you: as a shoulder to cry on, someone to yell at, someone to sit with you quietly – whatever you need right now.   I know there are no words that can make this right, but please know that I am holding you in my heart right now.

2010

It is a beautiful Saturday afternoon and Peter is still napping, giving me a few moments to relax outside before the madness begins again.  I’ve “wasted” a good part of nap time chatting on the phone, reading parts of Oprah’s newest magazine and reading email.  Where does this efficient, “I have to always be doing something” persona come from?  I have some ideas, but am really not in the mood to analyze at the moment.  No, instead I want to type my first post for my new blog.  For years, I’ve wanted to write.  I’ve taken writing classes, joined a writing group, only to skip all the meetings except the first one.  I even taught a writing class to nursing students at a local university. And still, I don’t write. You see, I’m scared that no one will think my work is any good, or care about my thoughts, or find any relevance to what I have to say.  And yet, today, in Oprah’s magazine, in an article there was this very quote – “Accept that you’ll never get rid of self-doubt.  An adventurous person will always have moments of feeling like a fraud – it is a sign that you are creating new roles for yourself – that you’re evolving.”  (Oprah Magazine, June 2010, p. 141)  Oh it felt like a message to me.  Written just for me. And so, even though I feel like a fraud, I’m writing at this moment.  It feels scary and a little exciting.  So much crosses my mind that I’d like to share.  Little things – like the extraordinarily beautiful peonies that sit on my kitchen table or reading the paper outside before Peter wakes up.  And the big things  that eat away at my heart, like secondary infertility or disagreements with my husband.  Or the mundane – like how will I ever potty train Peter? The infertility feels like a huge weight holding me underwater.  We’ve been trying for over 20 months to get pregnant with our second child and have been unsuccessful to date.  I’ve put on a brave face for people around us and know that we’re truly blessed, but there is also a part of me that cries and hurts and screams because we’ve been unable to get pregnant again.  Everyone, and I mean everyone, around me has gotten pregnant with their 2nd or 3rd child (and they’ve all had their babies already).  Of course I’m happy for my friends – especially those who’ve had a difficult time conceiving or happen to be of “advanced maternal age” like me.  And then there are others -who seem a bit smug about their second (or third pregnancy) and say, “Well you need to stop trying so hard and you’ll get pregnant” or “You’re so blessed.” Do they not know that I already know all that?  That I try really hard to stop trying so hard and relax – except it is darn hard when you’re close to your period and you are focusing on every part of your body to see if there are pregnancy signs. (I’ve given up on pregnancy tests too early in the process as they throw me in despair when they are negative, which they’ve always been of late) As I write I worry about how people will judge my thoughts.  Are they going to think, ‘Oh get over it.. Get a life! Who cares about your infertility?’  And yet, I’m still compelled to write.  I can’t be the only one who feels this way.  I know there must be other women out there who suffer as I do each month when we find out that we’re not pregnant and then suffer again when we hear about someone else’s ease at getting pregnant.  Remember the “smug marrieds” from Bridget Jones?  Oh how that struck a cord with me at the time.  I didn’t marry until I was 35 and in hindsight, I am so glad I waited because I had so much growing up to do (but that’s another posting).  That said, it doesn’t mean that I didn’t suffer through the endless heartache of wanting to find “the one” while all of my friends were getting married in their late 20’s and early 30’s.   Like the “smug marrieds”, it seems like there are the “smug fertiles” out there  – the ones who “weren’t trying, but can you believe we just did it once and got pregnant again?” Or the folks who tell me to relax and it will happen. It is much harder to get pregnant than we realize, especially if you’re older than 35.  But this blog isn’t just about infertility because there is so much more to me than my infertility.  It is about trying new things – like cooking new recipes, growing a vegetable garden for the first time and trying new foods. It is about rediscovering old passions – like swimming, bike riding, spending time in nature and traveling to new places. It is about the simple moments filled with such grace and joy – my son’s and husband’s laughter as they play together, going on a bike ride with my family on a perfect spring day, laughing with friends or how great I feel after a 6 AM yoga class. And the things I hope to do someday, like complete a triathlon, make new friends, travel the world, potty train my son and continue to write this blog, as much as it may scare me.

Balance is elusive….c

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A friend sent forwarded me a mother’s blog about balance yesterday.  In it, the author shares how quickly time flies but she also acknowledged that in the moment, time can feel like forever yet when you look back, it seems like it happened in seconds.  There are workout slogans that promise that “Pain is temporary.”  Older mothers tell me all the time to enjoy this moment because before I know it they will be out of the house.  Why, when I know this to be true, do I find myself still struggling ‘in the moment.’  And why, when it seems time takes forever, can I not get what I want done?

Last week I agreed with my college roommate Jess that I would write for ten minutes a day, but then life got in the way, as it always does.   Or maybe I’ve just gotten really good at putting what I need aside for other pressing matters, like my son needing my help to “go pee pee right now!”

It was a busy week – we were visiting my mother-in-law, so surely I should be able to set aside ten measly minutes to write, since I had another set of hands, but no, that did not happen.  Ideas floated up in my head, often while I was floating in the pool with the boys, but then I couldn’t find the moment to write these thoughts down later, my brain occupied by making dinner, chatting with my mother-in-law, moving kids to bed. Instead of berating myself as I’ve been known to do (at least in my head), I decided to just get up today and start again.  It’s not as if I’m being graded or have to turn this in.

Sometimes I miss those days of getting so absorbed in my work that when I come up for air, I can’t believe how much time has passed.  That happens to me now from time to time, and when it does, it feels great.  Now, there are constant interruptions – emails dinging with messages, phones beeping, children needing something immediately, colleagues requesting something as soon as possible.  Everything lately seems to be URGENT.  And I’m not the only one to feel this.

I remember when I had large gaps of space to fill in my evenings and weekends and how lonely that felt at times.  I envied my friends who were married and having children – they had the life I wanted.  Little did I know that I would miss some of that space – the time to ponder and dream and think without distraction.  I feel like it is so hard to string a sentence together lately, my mind racing in a million directions and my body shuttling us to all the places we need to go in a day.  But as I learned two years ago when I was training for my first race, it is simply one foot in front of the other.  One minute at a time.  Or as I re-learn in each and every yoga class – breathe in, breathe out.

Why is it so hard to find time to write?  Is it because it is something I really enjoy and it scares me?  Because I am afraid that I don’t have something to share, or that my thoughts will be judged? Am I afraid of having my light shine – like that Nelson Mandela/Marianne Williamson quote?  Or have I forgotten how to do the hard stuff in our world of convenience?  No, I’m not sure the last one is true, especially after slogging it out last Saturday in a downpour for 13.1 miles. Every step of that race was hard, but I was determined to finish – or at least get to the finish line as quickly as possible so I could get warm and dry.  And as a parent, it seems like there is hard stuff every day.

When it comes down to it, writing for 10 minutes is a good place to start.  I will keep aiming for 10 minutes each day and know that sometimes I will miss the mark completely, and other times, I will write for longer.  I do have something to say, but I’m not sure what IT is today.  I will aim for some semblance of balance – have the scales tip a little more in my favor, write a little more each day.  And when all else fails, breathe in, breathe out.

Take Ten

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One of my college roommates and I exchanged text messages last night, too busy to talk, but enough time to connect through text.  She had come across my blog and we bemoaned the fact that we don’t have time to write.  I had told myself that I would post something weekly, but I haven’t put anything up in a months, let alone write a thing.   I told her that I am so busy working/taking care of kids/making meals/cleaning up/vacuuming again/running to appointments that sometimes it feels like my head will spin off.   Recently I saw an article on the internet that said that “busyness” is the new “thing” or status symbol – I am too busy to….go ahead, fill in the blank.   Deep sigh.  Busyness just feels like my life.  Even meditating seems difficult lately, because there are constant interruptions.  Whenever I put Oprah’s meditation challenge on and Deepak Chopra starts talking, my entire family converges upon me.  I can’t hide from them.  The boys even come into the bathroom, “Mama, Gregory just took my toy!” “Mama, I can’t find my Lego piece!”  –  the cat even tries to get in, her little paw underneath the door jiggling and jiggling in hopes that she’ll be able to open it (it’s a sliding door, so I don’t think she’ll be successful).  Just yesterday, my three year old came in while I was in the shower and declared he had to “go pee-pee RIGHT NOW” (we are in the throes of potty training) but refused to use my bathroom.  It was the one time I was thankful we had a snow day so my seven year old could help him.

But I digress.  Jess and I agreed that we would “take ten.”  Life would ALWAYS get in our way.  She is a busy working Mom with three beautiful girls and I am a busy working Mom with two boys (and one who insists he is potty trained but poops in his underpants. EVERY DAY!) There will always be closets to be organized, beds to be made, laundry to be folded and sorted, dishes to be washed, floors to be vacuumed, work to be done, reports to be filed, underpants to be changed.  But if we just gave ourselves ten minutes each day to write, something that fills us both up – just ten minutes for ourselves, what could that do for us?

And so here I am, day one of “Take 10.”  My ten minutes to get my thoughts, however jumbled out on paper and start filling up my soul.

The timer just rang – ten minutes goes quickly when you are doing something you enjoy OR when you are trying to get kids out the door.  Have you ever noticed how quickly the time flies by during the eating-brushing teeth-getting dressed-going to the bathroom-getting your coat and shoes on- backpack on-c’mon let’s hurry we don’t want to miss the bus mornings?

So here’s my unedited “Take 10” or rather 13 minutes, a commitment to myself.

I can’t wait to see where it leads.

Thanks for the inspiration Jess!