Everything I Never Wanted to Know

I am NOT a helicopter parent. My children have grown up knowing what it’s like to fend for themselves, and rely on each other for entertainment. I’m not saying it’s right, in fact, I admire the hovering moms, thinking they must somehow love their children more than I do, or their mommy DNA is just a tad bit stronger than mine.

But for whatever reason, my kiddos ended up with me as their mother, and I do pride myself on how well-adjusted they are to change. How even as young children we could pick up and head out the door if we chose to, without having to worry about dinner time or bed time. They would adjust and be happy, my little gypsy babies.

They survived two moves to two different states and though it took a decent amount of time to adjust, they learned to thrive completely on their own. I mean sure, I parented, we parented, but it was always to the tune of “Everything is going to work out,” or “I promise you, this won’t kill you.”

There was nothing that life could throw at us that could become so overwhelming, that we would have to recreate who we were as people, as parents.

Enter Type 1 Diabetes, stage left.

It was the weekend, thank God, and I was looking forward to doing exactly nothing for the next 48 hours. Instead we got an ER visit, a trip in an ambulance, 24 hours in the ICU and a two-day diabetes “camp” on the glorious set of the children’s oncology ward. Oncology. Seriously.

My son had been sick for like 5 hours, that’s literally the only symptoms we saw. He came into our room around 5am Saturday morning and told me he threw up all over his room. A very faint bell went off in the back of my foggy pre-coffee brain and went, “Well that’s weird,” this family knows how to time their vomit like it’s an Olympic Sport.

I had him crawl in bed with me and try to rest for a few hours, as no one needs to carpet clean throw up before sunrise. A few hours later, once we had recovered enough to turn the lights on, I looked at my kid and thought, “Well, he looks like he’s dying.” Yes it set off my mommy alarm. I pictured the guy from Into the Wild, the last few minutes of the movie as he starved to death. He had black circles under his eyes, his dry cracked lips stretched thin across his face, his contoured cheekbones bulging outward. I knew he was dehydrated from being sick the night before, but being a champion of vomit myself from my brief binge/ purge method of dieting back in seventh grade, I knew this just wasn’t normal. I told my husband to look at our kid, and he was alarmed instantaneously. We made him some broth and gave him some apple juice which he promptly threw up all over my room. At that moment my husband, myself, and our two daughters all decided a trip to the ER was in our immediate future.

Thankfully (for the first time, I’m saying thankfully) we live in a small town. Within about 10 minutes of walking into the ER he was hooked up to IV fluids. The nurse was asking me 300 questions about his medical history, and if there was anything different about how he was feeling recently. I racked my brain for anything alarming and couldn’t come up with anything. He’s 13. He’s thin because he just outgrew me last week. He’s tired because he’s a teenage boy. And then because I felt stupid about not having anything else to report, I told her how he had been complaining about how thirsty he had been and how much he had to pee. “At least I pay attention,” I thought, I do know my kid. She promptly ordered blood work.

About a half an hour later, the doctor asked if she could speak to me outside.

“Has anyone every talked to you about diabetes,” she said.

Say what now? Of course no one has talked to me about diabetes, my kids are healthy. I looked at her like she was crazy and that she got her medical degree online. She proceeded to tell me that she knew as soon as she saw him, how thin and gaunt he was. I told her that he doesn’t look like this normally, he’s gotten really tall recently, and hello, he’s here because he was throwing up, obviously it makes you thinner.

She told me that his blood work confirmed it, and that we would be spending the next few days at the children’s hospital an hour and a half away. Oh, and that his levels were so critical he had to be transported via ambulance. You know, so he wouldn’t die in the car ride over.

We’ve learned so much in such a short amount of time, my brain is full of information I never wanted. There is both fast acting and long-lasting insulin. We need both. He can’t get a pump for at least six months post diagnosis. There’s basically an epi pen for diabetes, in case we find our kid passed out and unresponsive. He probably should never live alone (this one hit me pretty hard since I tell all of my kids they should live alone at least once in their life, even if it’s just for a few months). 1400 is not an acceptable blood sugar reading. Diabetics and cancer patients are placed on the same floor of the hospital because they can’t make each other sick. And, having a kid with a chronic disease is expensive, sometimes it’s okay to have to ask for help.

It’s been exactly two weeks, and my laid back, passive approach to parenting has died an early death, just like my sons pancreas. I have the school nurse call me everyday to tell me his blood sugar and confirm the amount of units of insulin he is supposed to receive before lunch.IMG_20190202_134313 I have a drawer full of snacks that are portioned out and labeled with the amount of carbs on them. I yell for him across the house if I haven’t heard from him in over an hour. I worry about his blood sugar as I lie awake in the middle of the night. I pack his lunch every day, and make him dinner every night. I feel his head, and look at his face every time he is near me. I’ve taken a step back in my job to make room for sick days and day trips to the endocrinologist.

I hover so much, I can hear the helicopter blades chopping above us.


Or is that just what my heart sounds like now. Now that it knows how quickly things can change, how fragile life can be. Now that it knows how much love it holds for one boy.

Now that I know…

All the things I wish I never knew.


The Fine Print

I remember the first time I ever felt like an actual adult. It took me by such surprise. I had married a man, had a baby, bought a car, bought a house, sold a house, and yet I still felt like a sixteen year old girl playing make-believe.

It wasn’t until my psycho cat had reached her expiration date, and needed to be put to sleep, that I realized I was not only qualified for the position, but also that I was required to come through for her.  No one else could, or should do it. This crazy black and white terror of a feline had been with me through most of my childhood and well into the actual adulting stage of my life. She pissed in coffee pots, crapped in toasters, and required my presence in the middle of the night to watch her eat.

She was a horrid little creature but she was mine. And while she had terrible habits, she also had endearing ones, like climbing up my body to eat marshmallows out of my mouth, so it wasn’t all bad.

I waited until the last possible moment, to take her, hoping that I could somehow get out of having to do it. I was sure that some other adult was far more qualified to handle such an event. In the end though, it was me. I was finally a grown up.

I was twenty-three years old.

Nothing had prepared me to have to put down my cat. It was just something that came along in life and had to be handled. If you sign up to love something, truly love something, you not only sign up for the good but you also sign up for the very fine print that no one wants to even acknowledge.

I remember the first time I ever felt like death wasn’t fair. I lost all of my grandparents to old age. I didn’t have to mourn them. They lived long, happy lives with people who loved them until the very end. I lost a few relatives, entirely too early, but to deaths that could have been avoided by some better life choices. I only mourned them for the others that mourned them.

I have watched people mourn the loss of others, and I have never understood it. I’ve been removed enough from the situation to not feel it, and black and white enough to rationalize that death comes for everyone and we should just accept it for what it is, a part of life.

And then I lost someone who didn’t get to grow old. Someone that didn’t make poor choices that resulted in his demise. I lost someone my age, who I had known for two-thirds of my life. He was someone’s son, someone’s brother, someone’s father and my friend.

I was yesterday years old.

Almost two years ago, he was diagnosed with brain cancer, and I was so immune to the emotions that go along with people dying, that I basically signed up to go on this journey with him. I had no idea what I was doing.

Snapchat-729574969I didn’t know if I was helpful or encouraging or down right annoying and it led to me feeling mostly terrible, all the time. But when it got rough and I thought I was maybe in over my head a bit, I would repeat my mantra, “I will heal, he will not,” and I just kept with him.

He made quite a comeback though. So much so, that I thought for sure he was going to beat this. The monster in his brain would not defeat him. I thought he would be the one that baffled all the doctors, the one who would grow old and gray, and tell stories about how once when he was young he was told he had cancer and how he defeated it because he had the strength and will power to do so.

I thought.

I thought.

I thought.

He called me a month ago to say good-bye. He knew it was almost the end, and he wanted to thank me and my husband for being there, for welcoming him into our lives, for allowing him to come here and stay with us and go on whatever adventures we could drum up. I couldn’t stand what he was saying, that he was using whatever energy he could to get his words out correctly.

I  thanked him for letting me in his life, for sharing some of his time with us, for giving me memories that I will never forget.

We said good-bye. I got to say good-bye.

But it left me with the feeling that I had had from the very beginning. Every time I talked to him, or saw him, every adventure we went on, I expected to feel relief and closure, and I just never did. I felt anxious and fidgety. I thought of more things that I wanted to say. And then I finally realized, it will never feel like enough because it just isn’t. There will never be enough time with him because he didn’t have enough time. No one that loved him will feel like they said it all or spent enough time with him, because they didn’t. His life was being cut short and nothing would make that feel okay.

On Friday morning while drinking coffee in bed, I looked at my husband and said, “I think he is gone.” I had no reason to think so, I was in a cabin at the bottom of our mountain with no form of technology available and two states away, but I just knew.

I believe he is in a better place, and I can say all the positive things about how he doesn’t feel pain any more.

But I do.

I feel it as I walk around my house with a heaviness upon me, and I feel it every time I start to fall asleep. I feel it when I think about his parents and his son, and all the people who knew and loved him more than I did. I feel it every time I hear someone say he lost his battle to cancer.

Because he didn’t.

He won battle after battle after battle. He just lost the war.

Nothing prepared me for losing my friend. I signed up to love him through the worst time in his life, but I didn’t read the fine print.

The part that said I might feel his absence……………………………………….

more than I EVER felt his presence.





Something Snakey This Way Comes

I remember summer days, running through fields of grass, rolling down hills, lying on my back, staring up at the clouds.

Just kidding, I was so not that girl.

Sure I did the outside thing if I was forced to, but I was more of a pretend to be a mermaid in the swimming pool kind of girl, than a fairy running through a field of flowers kind of girl. Yet here I am thirty-ish years later, a wood fairy, not a swimming pool for miles.

I fought it for as long as possible, knowing what may be lurking just out of sight. Knowing that in The Nature there is something out there skulking in the trails and the waterfalls, hiding in the crevasses of the rocks, disguised by the leaves.

The Danger…

Not the mama bears protecting their baby bears, not the poisonous plants that climb the trees, not the cliffs or the rushing water that could so easily sweep you away. For me The Danger is one thing and one thing only, sssssssnakessss.

We all have an irrational fear, don’t we? Some of you may be terrified of spiders. I on the other hand could pick up a spider with my bare hands. I mean, I don’t, but I could if I needed to. Some of you may be afraid of heights. I love heights, as long as it doesn’t involve falling.

The point is we all have our crazy. Mine just happens to slither on its belly and stars as the bad guy in the book of Genesis. I hid inside for 8 months from the devil lurking around, and then one day just like that, enough was enough, I went into the nature.

Four months and fifty-something hiking adventures later, with not a snake in sight, I thought I conquered my greatest fear. I knew they were out there, but we were coexisting quite nicely. I mean, sure it was like 20 degrees outside and they were probably in their snakey hidey holes deep in the Earth, but to me, we had made nice.

But then the weather warmed and the green things greened, and The Danger slowly but surely made its presence known again. First there were their skins left lying around taunting me, “I’m herrrrreeeeeeeee, hisssssssssssssssssss, you can’t see me but I seeeeeeeeeeee you.” Then one seemingly uneventful day while my husband was weed-eating right outside our house, he came across a little devil leisurely lying around, basking in the sunlight, waiting to sink its fangs into our ankles. My warrior conquered the serpent and spiked its corpse on display, Game of Thrones style.

I thought that was the end of it, the enemy was conquered, its body on display for all to see. But the bad guy doesn’t work alone, and once he makes his presence known the story has only just begun. And like all good stories, this one comes to you as a trilogy.

Part 1- A New Hisssssssss

It was a Sunday afternoon, the sun was shining and we were enjoying a day at home. Our sixty-pound pit bull Guinness was outside on a potty break. After a few minutes she started barking to let us know she was finished and that she would like to come back inside. When we didn’t get to her immediately, the princess became impatient and increased her volume and frequency. My husband found her outside not barking out of impatience but defending herself and her castle from a deadly viper. My husband rescued the princess and brought her inside and then returned once again to slay the serpent. When I went to praise Guinness for protecting the realm, I noticed that she was acting strangely and we began inspecting her for bites. Sure enough she had blood and puncture wounds on the side of her nose. We shoved Benadryl down her throat immediately and covered her with essential oils to help fight infection. Our nearest vet is a half an hour away and it’s closed on the weekend. The closest emergency vet is an hour and a half away and we figured by the time we got her there she would already be dead if it was going to kill her. IMG_20180722_133508So we rode it out, continuing to baby her as she swelled, giving her medicine every few hours and covering her in bacon grease. Yes, bacon grease. As it turns out, according to Google, farmers and mountain folk alike, swear by bacon grease for snake bites.

For a long time she did nothing but swell and stare at us miserably, but within about 10 hours, she was up and walking around and eating. Her battle was victorious, the enemy was slain, and she lived to fight another day. Roll credits.

Part 2- The Nature Strikes Back

The following Friday night as Princess Guinness continued to make a full recovery, the kids took the puppies out for a final bathroom break before bedtime. Honestly this is a pointless task  because all they do is walk around and then come inside to crap on the floor, but still. Only moments after they stepped outside, they stormed back in yelling, “Mom! Where’s the Benadryl?”

Part 2 is always dramatic, the battle at Helms Deep, Solo frozen in carbonite, everything gets worse in 2. Maybe a pit bull can take on a Copperhead and survive, but could a 5-pound, 4-month old feist puppy? The girls went to work on Lyla, while the boys went out into the night to hunt down the enemy.

Snapchat-148172792Of course it was the weekend, again, so we were stuck doing the same things we did before. Benadryl, essential oils, bacon grease, repeat. Lylas paw oozed black and blood continuously for hours, and every time she had to move an inch she screamed out in pain. None of us really expected her to make it, but the next day she was hobbling around and fighting off her sister, being territorial over her breakfast.  Her paw may never be quite the same, but Luke Skywalker lost like half an arm and still continued on in his badassery, so there’s hope for feisty Lyla. Cue victorious and inspiring film score.

Part 3- Return of the Viper

A few weeks later, while the scars were still fresh in Guinness and Lyla, my husband was down at the bottom of the mountain doing some landscaping while our dog Xena was running around keeping him company.


Pre snake bite. (Shes our fifth dog, and she lives outside, this is her only picture.)

Xena is an extremely impressive specimen. She showed up on our property one day, covered in ticks and starving. We fed and took care of her and she decided we were her people and this was where she belonged. She lives outside and sleeps on the porch and runs up and down the mountain about a hundred times a day. She visits all of the guests that come here and is well-loved by all. She basically dogs better than every other dog in the 20 acre wood.


She was only a few feet away from my husband when she suddenly let out a yelp and started limping immediately. Knowing from previous experience that it was a viper attack, my husband picked her up and drove her to the house. He shoved Benadryl with bacon grease down her throat and held her for as long as she would let him. She hid under the house for a few hours and then disappeared for the night. My kids were convinced she went off to die and they were mourning the loss of her, but she showed up the next day smiling and running around like nothing ever happened. As it turns out she’s in heat and probably got knocked up while defending the mountain but that’s a different story altogether. Maybe she will mother future doggie Jedis who will fight against the dark side and protect us from the vicious serpents. Until then though, she will continue to defend our honor and protect the realm.

The Danger is still out there, we won a few battles but the war is ongoing. I haven’t reverted back to hiding inside, in fact I do everything exactly the same, including stupidly wearing flip-flops everywhere I go. We still have to leave the house, the dogs still have to pee outside, life goes on. I refuse to be afraid of where I live. I’m so over it, but I’m not afraid. I just keep Benadryl on hand, bacon grease in the freezer, and every time we walk outside we say “Viper no viping, viper no viping, viper no viping!”

Just Kidding.

“Awwwww, man!!!!!!”


The Dark Side

Recently, I have learned something about myself that is probably not so admirable. It was excusable the first time. I thought to myself, “Oh I must have read that wrong.” But upon return and reexamination, I came to the very same conclusion.

I root for the villain.

Book after book, movie after movie, I tend to side with the one person you are absolutely designed to hate. I’m not talking murderers or kidnappers or rapists, I don’t side with criminals. Well, I side with Dexter, but don’t we all? I side with the disturbed, tormented and broken. I side with the evil queen over the princess or the stalker instead of his victims.

I look at their flaws and see something worth forgiving. I try to see myself in them, and realize that we are all terribly messed up over something. Just because we may make one awful choice as a reflection of our experiences, doesn’t make us evil. Does it?

What if the witch in Hansel and Gretel was just lonely and needed company, so she lured them to her gingerbread house because her own grandchildren won’t give her the time of day? I mean it doesn’t excuse her trying to eat them, but what if she was diabetic and was only surrounded by sugar and carbohydrates, and was delirious with hunger and her blood sugar was throwing off her decision-making skills? It’s possible, right?

Side note, I’m pretty sure this mountain is trying to fatten me up Hansel and Gretel style so that one day it can eat me, but I’m not about to blame the mountain either!

I read a book years ago, written from the villain’s point of view. He was obsessed with this woman. He followed her everywhere, broke into her house, hacked into her computer and tricked his way into making her go out with him. It wasn’t until he started killing people I even realized he was the bad guy. I was rooting for him the whole time, thinking, “He really loves her, he’s willing to do anything to protect her and make sure she’s safe.”

I immediately recommended that book to a friend and was like, “Just wait, your mind is going to be blown!”

Later, I asked her how long it took her before she realized she was on the wrong side and she was rooting for the bad guy. She looked at me like I was an idiot. It was so clearly written that we were reading it from the perspective of the villain, and I almost missed it altogether.

Then I realized, maybe I root for the villain because I am a villain myself. I definitely don’t always use good judgement, I’ve definitely made terrible choices that have hurt other people. I tend to see things in grey instead of black and white. And if there’s a line drawn in the sand, I’m definitely going to backflip over it a few times.

I can look back on many events in my life where I have intentionally made the wrong choice. I looked at the scenario, and weighed out my options, and decided to take the chance and live with the consequences.

Here’s the thing though, I always thought the consequences were worthy. If I made a mistake, it was because I thought that in the end, the results would justify the choice. There was always something weighing in my decisions other than myself.

Are those the actions of a real life villain? Maybe. But, probably not.

The villain won’t sacrifice themselves for someone else. They don’t raise their hand and admit they are awful.

IMG_20180719_130839The villain will lie to you over and over again. They will look you in the eyes and tell you they love you but never choose to show it. They will put themselves above everyone else and make you feel bad for questioning them.

Here’s the hard part though, the villain isn’t ALWAYS the villain. There is always some good mixed up in the evil. Enough good, that they can spread out their douchebaggery, so that we can continue to second guess OUR people judging skills. They can be charming and kind. Maybe they would even give you the shirt off their back. There’s a good chance it’s mostly because they like the way they look naked, but still…

It’s not their fault. You don’t blame the snake for being a snake. They don’t even know they ARE a snake. They just do what they have to do to survive. I think the villain does the same. They are so caught up in their own lives, their own stories, their own hurt, their own insecurities, that they can’t see past what’s staring at them in the mirror. They can’t feel that people love them, they can’t see that others are hurting because of them.

We can’t change someone else. We can’t fight their battles or love them enough to turn them into the people we wish they were. The only thing we can do is decide how much of ourselves we are willing to lose to someone who isn’t willing to lose anything. How many of our pearls are we willing to cast before swine?

I will still always root for the villain. I will always hope that somehow the good will start to outweigh the bad. I will be waiting for the plot twist where I can throw my hands up and jump up and down and scream, “I knew I was right to stand by them!”

I’ll just keep my pearls to myself until then.

till death do us part

Soul mates. Does it hurt to think about it? Does it trigger emotion? Hope. Longing. Desperation. Relief.

We are programmed to believe that there is one perfect person out there that was put on this Earth for the sole purpose of completing us, and that if we are lucky enough to find them in the masses, that we will live happily ever after.

We watch and read stories that depict what it looks like when two people are meant to be. We see (or read) the loneliness before they meet, the instant connection between them, the conflict before the happy ending, and then the reuniting of souls that were so meant to be together that nothing could keep them apart. Fairy tales that we assume end perfectly because that’s what is shown over and over.

But what happens after the credits role or after you finish the last line of a perfectly delicious book? Is their life complete because of that ONE person, or does life eventually get real?

What about the people who never find that one person to share the rest of their lives with, the people that don’t settle down and get married and have 2.4 children? Do they not have a soul mate? Did they not look hard enough? Can they not live happily ever after? Do they not get a good story to tell?

I’m calling soul mate bullsh*t.

If you actually believe that in the billions and billions of people who walk the Earth, there is only one person that could possibly complete you, that you are going to stumble around life and bump into that person and experience your own version of a meet cute, and that you are going to live happily ever after, then it’s time to switch to non-fiction. Seriously.

Not that I don’t believe in soul mates, I do, I so do. It’s just not about the happily ever after.

I believe in soul mates, but I believe we have several. I believe that we meet people throughout our lives that we have an unbreakable connection with. We love them in a way that makes no sense. We love them even when it hurts us. We like them even when we disagree with them. They humor us through our differences instead of annoy us. And they keep showing up.

I found my first Soul mate when I was 13. IMG_20180530_114600She had polka-dotted skin and flaming red hair and huge lips. I don’t remember how we met, we just suddenly were.We were everything to each other. Food, water, oxygen, but more than anything, we were relief. In a world where neither one of us quite fit in, we fit together, and nothing could separate us.

Except maybe like 1200 miles.

Only a year and a half into our happily ever after, she moved. It was heart wrenching and soul shattering, and I didn’t think I would ever find someone like her again. We stayed in touch as much as we could and in as dramatic and love declaring ways as possible. But this was before the internet, and before cell phones, so after a few moves we had completely lost touch.

But I found love again. My second soul mate came in the form of a leggy blonde girl. We were nothing and then suddenly just like before, we were everything. There was no secret we couldn’t share, no body we wouldn’t bury together. We fought, we had our differences, but we always had each other.

Until a boy came between us, and then all at once, we were over. For the record, no girls, you cannot share a boyfriend with your best friend even if it starts out as a joke, it does not end well.

But the thing with soul mates that’s different from your everyday, cookie cutter friendships, is that they come back in full force. Sure you may take a ten-year break from each other, but somehow they find their way back to you. I found my redhead again on Myspace, yes Myspace. And though we were as different as two people could possibly be, we once again found relief in each other.

I didn’t see her again until years later, I flew in for her wedding. We stayed up all night laughing, with her mother yelling at us to go to sleep from the next room over. It was like not a moment had passed. IMG_20180530_120722We talk about everything, we disagree on a lot, but she’s the person I message to say, “Can I just say the worst thing in the entire world and be a horrible person for a moment, and then just pretend like I never said it?” Soul mates are great for when you need to be a terrible human.

My blonde leggy girl came back too, and then we broke up again. But soul mates survive girl drama and she’s back again like nothing ever happened.

There are no rules to soul mates, they can take any form. They can be your best friend, or your cousin, or the girl who lives just down the street. But best of all, they can be all of them. Soul mates are not monogamous and they shouldn’t be. Because, loving someone in a way that doesn’t make sense, in a way that drives you completely mad, in a way that defies geography, and time, and logic, is not a choice. It’s a gift.

I know what your thinking. Why would I be calling soul mate bullsh*t? Haven’t I been married to mine since I was practically a child?


And no.

The thing is, even though I may be married to my soul mate, marriage has a way of pissing all over everything. Calm down, it’s not as bad as it sounds. What I’m saying is that you take vows for a reason, you make promises for a reason. Whether you marry one of your soul mates or not, it doesn’t matter. Marriage takes work. So yes, he’s my soul mate, but so is the redhead, and the blonde leggy girl, and Harry Potter. We don’t have a choice with our soul mates.

He’s the love of my life, because I do have a choice. Everyday I wake up and have to choose. Is it still worth it? Can I still handle it? Does the good outweigh the bad? Are we still us? Can we survive the muck any longer? He’s the love of my life because I choose yes. We could break up tomorrow and he would still be my soul mate, I would love him until the day I died. But he’s the love of my life because I choose him to be.

It’s beautiful to think that there’s one person out there that is made for us. One person that completes us and makes us whole. But isn’t it even more beautiful to realize that there’s not? That even if we never find that one person to share the rest of our lives with, we can still be made whole by love. We can love fiercely and be loved back, by our best friend, or our neighbor, or the lady we meet at the grocery store. No one ever said soul mates had to move in together and have babies, they just need to find each other and recognize love for what it is. A selfless, rule breaking, unexplainable, maddening, beautiful gift.

We have to stop believing the stories, and waiting for our story, and realize…

We already are the story.



I may regret this in the morning

Snapchat-227406686As promised, I’m writing this while drinking gin. I have no plans of topics as of this very moment and won’t be editing at all. This is kind of like my version of Drunk History, only not actually about history because I skipped that class every day to go to pottery or drama. Sorry Mr. Spencer!


My husband of course, thinks that this is a very bad idea. I already have difficulty in the truth department. Not because I don’t tell the truth, I tell it even when no one wants to hear it, and sometimes it comes out with some bite to it.


I used to care what everyone thought of me, so much so that I found myself being a different type of person with different people. Not that I was being fake, trust me, I don’t do fake. I just only let people see the version of me that I thought they càould handle, or that they would approve of. It was exhausting.


Snapchat-2137313804I feel warm, lol. My husband has huge biceps.


Anyway… There’s a beautiful thing that happens in your 30’s, I mean it’s not an exact science, maybe it’s your 30’s, maybe it’s your 40’s, but whatever, it happens eventually, thank the freaking Lord. For me it happened over the last year. Maybe it’s my midlife crisis, I don’t know, maybe it’s just defeat. I am just so sick of not being comfortable in my own skin, but anyway, somewhere along the line, your Give A Sh*t meter, breaks. Or, at least it goes MIA.


We moved here (Tennessee, duh) a little over a year ago. We had just started over, three years prior, so I knew what I was in for. I knew how hard it was to meet new people, I knew how hard it was to make true friends, I knew it would take time. What I didn’t know, was how little interest I would actually have in doing so. I ran out of drive very very quickly. I just didn’t have it in me to fake it again. I didn’t want to be on my best behavior until I had made a strong enough connection with someone to let them see the real unedited version of me. I just didn’t really care this time around.


For a while, I felt bad about it. I knew that if I just tried harder I would find my people. If I just faked it a little more, my tribe would come. But then I kind of realized, how the actual F are they my tribe if I have to fake it at all. I don’t want fake friends. I don’t want people in my life that I have to be the edited version of myself around. I want the people in my life that I can Snapchat my make-up free face with a double chin and a messy bun, still in my bed at 10am with a caption of, “This is as good as it gets today,” and they respond with, “Ain’t nothing wrong with that.”


Snapchat-1694206332My dog just farted on me.


Why are we editing ourselves? Why do we post our perfect lives on Instagram or Facebook or whatever other stupid ass social media, while we cry ourselves to sleep at night. I mean, I do it too, but I also go out of my way to post ugly me so that I can keep it real. Yes, I can be pretty and I definitely want everyone to know that, but yes, I can also look like a complete garbage human that you can smell off of your screen as well, and I make sure to post that shiz too.


Here’s the thing, this life is so hard. The people you put on a pedestal fall, hard. The people you love, die. The people you grow, leave. The people you trust, betray you. There is no time for being fake. There is no room for lies.


We’re watching The Darjeeling Limited, it’s basically the story of my husband’s life.


Snapchat-836632906We go through legit horrible difficult stuff. We need real, true, actual, friends. How do we expect to find these people if we refuse to be honest about who we really are?


I love Harry Potter, and I have a foul mouth, and apparently I drink too much when given the opportunity. I love Jesus, and my husband, and my children, but a lot of the last year I have spent wondering if I should wander into the woods and never come back.


Paul just said my name out loud and I’m not gonna lie, it sounds weird. “Bethany.”


Honestly, if I wasn’t real with the few people in my life that I am real with, I wouldn’t have made it.


My kid just said you could smoke scorpions. IDK.


Snapchat-875691970I am a girl who holds a grudge. Seriously. I will friend for life but if you burn me, I will light the match and watch that bridge burn behind me, peace the F out! I hold a grudge. But also, I have learned that sometimes, the path of least resistance is also forgiveness and that your tribe isn’t actually perfect, and that sometimes your people need a second chance. The people that are there for me right now, are second chancers. They aren’t new, fake friends. They are the friends that know me, know me, and I am grateful for them.


Ok, and also, let’s embrace the thick thighs already. There’s more to life than being perfect. The one that loves you will love you even if you just freaking relax and enjoy your dinner already. Don’t give up on being better, just give up on being perfect. Life is too short to regret everything, order dessert, you could die tomorrow even if you don’t.


To quote my favorite author, “ Let people feel the weight of who you really are, and let them f*cking deal with it.” -Tarryn Fisher


Seriously, let them f*cking deal with it.

Never Say Never

I have come to realize recently that my thirties are basically for me to question everything I have ever been taught or believed. They are a time for me to really dig in to the nitty-gritty of life and figure out who I really am as a person. Since I pretty much took a blind leap from childhood into the deep end of adulthood, and then spent the next 10 or so years treading water and trying to catch my breath, I have decided that it is indeed just fine for me to take however long I need to actually figure out me.

I would like nothing more than to pay it forward, all of these words of wisdom I have so painstakingly learned as legit, undeniable truths. You’re welcome.

Water, wine, bread. It doesn’t have to be in that particular order or even that particular combination, but please, just please, do not try to be a hero, and out drink everyone around you, especially on an empty stomach. This rule applies to college (or highschool, let’s be honest) aged kids all the way through, well everyone, it applies to everyone. Gone are the days where you can get drunk, throw up, embarrass yourself in front of a handful of people, and show your face again on Monday. Friends, your friends are Snapchatting your ass, singing the Bohemian Rhapsody while barely being able to stand up straight. Do yourself a favor, hydrate. Balance that booze out with some water so that you can have a chance of not sleeping with your head in the toilet. And for the love of all that is holy, eat bread, while drinking. Even communion wine is served with a cracker, and Jesus knows best. No Keto or Atkins or GlutenFreePaleoBullshit can stand a chance against a belly full of tequila. And for the love of God, if you listen to nothing else, put down your phone.  Drunk you really should not be texting, trust me, I know from experience. Luckily, I just get really freaking nice, and tell people I love them, but honestly that’s almost worse, people think I’m dying, seriously.

Yes, it gets worse. Adulting is pretty much the equivalent of doing back to back Ironmans for the rest of your life. I know that’s not entirely true, some of you did that whole, “I went to college and partied for four years,” thing. Or the, “I took a Gap Year, and backpacked through Europe,” thing. But let’s be honest, that’s not really adulting, now is it? I’m talking about the paying your own bills, “Oops, I guess we are eating dinner in the dark because I forgot to pay the electric bill, because I haven’t even had the time to eat or shower in 48 hours, because this kid is sucking the life out of me,” thing. Or the desperate need to socialize, “I made plans with my friends but now I am too tired to physically put on a bra, so I am going to pretend I’m sick,” thing.  It literally gets so bad that when everyone around you has the flu and you are taking care of them, you pray to God that your immune system goes MIA so that you too can just be fussed over for a few days and not have to make excuses for not getting out of bed, or changing your clothes.

But you don’t get the flu. You just throw out your back so that you can barely walk and it feels like the lower portion of your body is made up of razor blades that are slowly but surely slicing through your spine, but you still have to take care of everyone that does have the flu. Yeah, adulting sucks, that bad. When you think that you have finally survived the stage that you are currently in, and you triumphantly pour yourself that well deserved adult beverage, because you can, remember…

Water, Wine, Bread, because it’s about to get worse, promise.

 You are going to become your mother, deal with it. I can hear the cackling from down the hill, even just as this thought was taking shape in my mind, my mother is living it up, dancing around the fire pit, and screaming into the heavens, “I told you so!!!!”

Out of spite, I’ll keep it short.

You can spend your whole life thinking that you are an individual, or that God, “broke the mold,” when He made you, or that you are, “just unique,” and that’s sweet and all, but it’s a load of crap, really. One day you are going to open your mouth, and your mother is going to come flying out. One day you are going to look in the mirror and not recognize your face as your own but you are going to see her. One day, someone will tell you, you are beautiful, and what will pop in your head will be, “So basically you would have a thing for my mom, thanks.”

I can no longer think that I am creative because, I am just so me, or that I write because we all have our own little things. Nope, I am creative because she is, and I write because she does. And to make it worse, my Grandmother wrote too, and my brother does as well. Gross.

We have to take the good with the bad. It could be worse, I guess.

Never say never. Being the thick-headed, stubborn little brat that I am, I had to learn this one over and over and over again. Thirty-six year old me wants to laugh in the face of twenty year old me. I want to grab her by the shoulders and shake her until her frizzy hair comes flying out of her head and scream in her face, “You know nothing!!!” I won’t of course, mostly because it is physically impossible, but also because I am sure fifty-eight year old me will probably want to bitch slap thirty-six year old me right across the face. We know nothing.

Sure as the years pile up against us we learn little things here and there, and we are able to reflect back on how wise we have become. We get comfy in our own skin eventually, and start to think that we have some form of control in this life.

We don’t. And if you dare to use the word never, you should pretty much start planning for it to happen, like immediately.

“We will NEVER follow my family and move to Georgia.” -Did it, got the t-shirt.

“We will NEVER buy a brand new vehicle.”- Signed along the dotted line, with a smile.

“We will NEVER get another animal until all the kids are gone and we can just live for ourselves.”- Enter Goats. Not one goat, two goats. And with the plan of at least one more, and the possibility of future baby goats.

The thing is, we only know what we want and what we believe in our current circumstances. And we only know and believe it because we are comfortable with it. One day your whole life may turn upside down and you will have the opportunity to reevaluate everything. You will have this awakening of sorts, and sit back and say, “Is this me? Is this who I want to be? Is this what I believe?”

“Could I dare take on my past NEVERS and possibly be happy?”

The answer is yes. You can, and you should. We change, all the time. We have the right and the responsibility to question things, even if that means questioning ourselves.

goatI went from being a free-spirited teenager, who only cared about boys and theatre, to a wife and a mother with a completely closed mind and judgy heart, to this weird nomady creature who questions literally everything. Even though I still feel like I am seventeen. I still listen to the same music I have since the mid-nineties, and some of my closest friends are those that knew and loved one-dimensional, rebellious me, with black makeup and stripey tights, I’m just not her anymore. Who knows, maybe she will circle back again. But until then, the current me is just trying to figure out how to live my best life, right now.

And honestly, right now my best life is covered in baby goats…

Even though I said, NEVER.






One Year Later

As we close in on our one year mark since we chose the road less traveled, I have been all but forced to reflect on all that has happened during the course of this journey. As we pulled away from our old house, I was filled with optimism and hope. I could see the future before me and it was full of peace and discovery.

Little did I know that this would all but break me. That I would be pushed to my limits as a wife, as a mother, and as a human being.

After my initial breakdown of “WHATTHEHELLHAVEWEDONE,” I was able to level out a bit and find humor in the happenings of this mountain. People would always ask me how I was doing or how I was adjusting, and my answer would consistently be an honest, “I’m okay about 80% of the time.”

Then my cats disappeared, and reality crept a little closer. They were here one moment and then taken from us right outside our door. We knew that there were greater scarier creatures, too close for comfort and there was nothing we could do about it. I felt their loss for all of about five minutes before I realized it was just the beginning of things that were not okay and I did the only thing I knew how to do. I turned it off. I stopped feeling.

The summer months brought plenty of traffic to our cabins and we were busy enough for me to not worry about all the dark little clouds floating around in my head. We found adventure on the river, and a breath of relief when our friends would come to visit. I was ok about 60% of the time.

Through the fall and the beginning of winter, I found joy in the crisp brisk air outdoors. I chose to find a new me hiding somewhere in the woods. I started putting me first and focusing on the things that made me feel whole again. I was ok 100% of the time.

100% of the time I was off of this mountain, on my own, and hiking in the woods, that is.

By the time the holidays were over and we were deep in the heart of winter, I was okay 0% of the time. The New Year brought its own set of challenges and something inside me broke. The only thing I felt was regret. Well, regret and hate. I hated this place. I hated my husband for bringing us here, and I hated myself for letting him. I regretted being a supportive wife. I regreted not having my own opinion on things. I regreted everything. EVERYTHING.

All I could think about was how I needed my friends, my old friends. The ones that know me, know me. The ones that I could crawl into bed with and be honest with. The ones that I could actually breathe the words to, “I am not ok.”

I needed sunshine, and to be warm. I needed a break, and for the first time really, I didn’t feel guilty saying that.

Thankfully, my mother had been putting off a trip to Florida for several years. My Grandparents both passed over four years ago and she had been unable to make the trip by herself to finally put their remains in their final resting place. When I burst into tears while texting my wifey just because I missed her so much, we decided to fast forward our little jaunt to Florida and headed out the very next weekend.

Now if I’m being honest, and let’s be honest, I’m only honest when I’m writing, I knew this would be a crying trip. I needed catharsis, and I was actively seeking it by going to Florida. I had held and held and held for too long and I honestly felt I was at a turning point. I could either help myself and figure my shit out, or ignore everything and become a bitter angry woman who was ready to bolt at any given moment. Thankfully, I chose the former.

My mother and I left at about 5:30 in the morning on a Friday, and after a quick ten hours of singing at the top of our lungs, we were parting ways, she went straight to our beach hotel and I drove straight to my wifes (not everyone can be your BFF, she is my wife, every woman needs a wife). It took about five minutes of me being with her, for me to verbally vomit all of my deepest darkest secrets and feelings and insecurities. She let me say everything I needed to say and only chimed in at pausing points. We drank, I held her baby, I cried a bit, and we had a slumber party on her couch. The following day, when we had to part ways, I was already feeling better. I ran around a bit, visiting other old friends that always welcome my surprise drop in visits, and my “Hey, I know its 8:30 in the morning on a Saturday but I am down the street and stopping by,” texts.

Just writing that makes me realize how much I suck as a friend. Sorry, Kristin.

Saturday evening was spent with my ex-wife/ back and better than ever BFF. Basically she called me out on all of my bullshit and we drank until I needed someone to take my phone away. We had dinner with my mother and Facebook stalked one of my husbands ex-girlfriends. We took a bunch of stupid selfies and I passed out to the sound of her snoring (sweetly) in my ear. But before that, I went to take a shower in the hotel, and dismissed them with a “carry on with out me” wave, and noted how nice it was to just be around people who know me and just love me without me even having to try. I didn’t have to think about how I looked, or what I said, or if they accidentally saw me naked, or if they know that I sleep-eat desert in the middle of the night if I take a PM medicine. I was just comfortable, and loved, and I felt it.

On Sunday we had Leslie Knope approved hotel waffles and parted ways. I dropped by unannounced again (sorry Kristin, again) to a super/stupid bowl party and then went on to have dinner and a sleepover with my mistress (it’s not what you think, seriously). And so part two of the verbal vomit began. This was basically a competition of “WHOCANTALKTHELOUDESTANDTHEFASTEST,” filled by some gasps and uh-huhs and awwwwws.

Monday, I cried all day. I cried in the empty mansion of my mistress as I tried to wrap my head around saying good-bye to all of my dear sweet friends. I unexpectedly cried at my Grandmothers grave (on her birthday). I cried at my brothers grave, even though he died before I was even born. I cried after I layed my Grandparents ashes in their final resting place. I cried when I hugged my wifey goodbye for the final time. I cried and I cried and I cried.

And I don’t really cry, like ever.

But still, I wasn’t really okay, but honestly, no one was. After four days with my closest friends, I realized we were all a freaking disaster. I don’t know if its our age, or just the stage of life we are in, but literally everyone I talked to was kind of a hot mess. None of us are really okay. We are learning who we really are, we are making choices we may regret, we are living with choices we wish we could change and we are holding on by a thread. But it’s okay. As long as we can admit that we need help, or a break, or a minute to breathe, as long as we can honestly come to one another and say, “I am not okay,” we will be okay.

It wasn’t until I was back at our hotel for the final night and I was reflecting back on the weekends events, tucked in bed with a bottle of wine, that I allowed myself to let everything go and miss home.IMG_20180216_182807 I started texting my husband and my kiddos and realized that even though some of my heart will always be in Florida, most of my heart will always be wherever they are. It doesn’t matter if we are in the city or the woods, in the mountains or on the beach, my forever people are my family, and I always have to choose them.


“….the woods are lovely, dark, and deep. But I have promises to keep.”

I have promises to keep.



Over the last several months, I have been doing the thing in the nature. You know, the embracing my inner hippie, hiking, roughing it thing. The thing that I was kind of forced into because we moved into the middle of nowhere and I had to embrace and change and test myself, or ignore and slowly but surely die inside. Anyway, I have been growing as a human and doing my part to find a new, happy, adventurous me, and posting it all obnoxiously to my Facebook page. Say what you will, but I hike in makeup and earrings for a reason and my #humblebrags actually worked for good instead of evil.

A little over a month ago, a dear friend of mine messaged me in a panic. Her twenty-something year old daughter had gone hiking with her friend the day before and hadn’t returned. She had an idea of where they went but not an exact location.  She was asking everyone that was willing to help, to go out to various trails, and search. Since I had been so showy and sharey of my recent adventures, she knew I would be willing to put some boots on the ground and do my part.

Except, it was a Sunday morning and I was happily drinking coffee in bed. The day was supposed to be completely wretched with rain and plummeting temperatures. Hiking sounded like a terrible idea. But how exactly do you say no to a mother with a missing child?

I am a complete garbage human, so I was wracking my brain for all the reasons to not have to go, but I made the mistake of telling my husband and he basically flew into action, ready to jump in the car, drive for two hours, and save the day.

As we were walking out the door with all of our hiking gear and our youngest child, the hubs grabbed the air horn, just in case. Thankfully he didn’t see me roll my eyes behind his back. Honestly all I could think was, “What is the point?”

Now in my defense, I wasn’t thinking, “What is the point, they are obviously going to die out there.” It was more along the lines of, “I am sure they are fine and will find their way back and how are we actually going to locate two lost girls somewhere in the vast nature of North Georgia?”

On our way out, we stopped to say hello to a neighbor that we had only met one time (and by we, I obviously mean I stopped the car and my husband went to talk to him because I hate extoverting) and in that 5 minutes somehow the neighbor offered his airhorn to help with the search, just in case. (Insert eye roll here)

We headed in the general direction of the particular trail she asked us to scour and because I didn’t Google map it from the beginning, it took us almost an hour longer than it should have. We also had to stop at McDonald’s because my son desperately needed a cheeseburger to survive the day.

When we were 7 miles from the trailhead, our arrival time was still saying that we were over 45 minutes away which made no sense whatsoever. Until of course we came upon a gravel and extremely bumpy road of continuous switchbacks. It was treacherous.  I looked at my husband with that silent, “Are we seriously doing this,” stink-eye, and we carried on. The next road we turned onto had a sign that said “Road closed from January to March,” it was December 17th. We slowly crept along sliding on ice patches and snow and pulled over at a waterfall to reevaluate once again. I called my friend to see if anything had changed and she was crying and talking to the police and said she would have to talk to me later. So, not good news.

I was staring at the road ahead of us and seriously doubting whether we would make it to the trailhead alive when a very rugged off-road Jeep covered in mud pulled up beside us. My husband being the guy that will literally talk to anyone, approached the Jeep and talked to a handful of teenagers about the road conditions and why we happened to be there in the first place. The guys said that the road was awful and they weren’t sure if we would make it up, but offered to take him to the trailhead themselves.

I of course, was hesitant, because, you know, stranger danger, but then the guys said that they did see a red car at the top but no humans anywhere in sight. I pulled up a Facebook post of the car that the girls were driving and they all agreed that it could be the same one. That was enough for my husband to jump in the Jeep and take off while my son and I stayed behind to wait in the car. Yes I the hiker, stayed behind while my husband left to rescue my friends kid.

Garbage. Human.

In my defense, we didn’t all fit in the Jeep and my son was definitely not dressed appropriately for the conditions, but still.

I was expecting to wait for about twenty minutes. They would get to the top of the mountain, take a good look around and return empty-handed. But over an hour passed without them returning and I was starting to panic a bit. I checked Facebook about every 43 seconds to see if there were any updates, and of course, nothing good was being reported, just desperation.

After a few unsuccessful attempts to reach my husband, I called him one last time to beg him to wrap it up so that we could get home and maybe feel our toes again sometime this century.  This time he picked up. He was out of breath, so naturally I thought he was dying.

“I have them,” he said.

Disbelief flooded me. I thought for sure he was mistaken.

“You have the girls? The right girls?”

“Yes, positive ID. I have them.”

And then he hung up.

With no other information I was hesitant to call my friend in case somehow he was wrong, but I knew as a mother, every second for her was torture not knowing if her daughter was safe, so I made the call. I told her that the girls had been found and were safe but that I hadn’t personally seen them so not to call off the search just yet. It turned out that she was close by. She had headed to the same trail she told us to go to but turned around because of the road and was planning to hike up the mountain if she had to, to find the girls. I told her I thought she could make it to the waterfall and to turn back and come meet us there. Within minutes we were together waiting for the return of everyone.

About twenty minutes passed before we were all reunited. The girls were found wet, freezing and starving. They had wandered off the trail and hadn’t been able to find their way back. They had survived the night because they happened to have a lighter on them and were able to build a fire, and slept with their two dogs piled on top of them. They had no food or water.

If we hadn’t taken the long way to get there, or if my son didn’t so desperately need a cheeseburger, we wouldn’t have arrived when we did, at the same time those boys were passing by in the Jeep. If they hadn’t stopped and been willing to drive my husband back to the trail, we would never have made it to the top. And if my husband didn’t listen to that little voice inside him that said to grab the air horn, this story would have ended differently.

Because that’s what found them after all, that stupid air horn. The one that I rolled my eyes at. The one that the neighbor confirmed we should have. The one that my husband turned back for once he was in the Jeep. Three times, it came up three times.

When the Jeep full of friendly strangers and my persistent husband reached the abandoned car, it was unlocked and the girls stuff was inside. They found their IDs, they knew they were in the right spot. So they searched and searched and searched. They all split up in different directions yelling the girls names. And when they were defeated and giving up because it seemed hopeless and the weather was getting unbearable, my husband blew the air horn, and the girls finally heard them. They heard a distant yell and he blew it again and again and again until they finally found them. 25443289_1729730320430395_5438267262212795135_n

None of us can take any credit for what happened, we couldn’t have manipulated the circumstances that brought those girls home that night. And when it seemed like God had turned His head and ignored everyone’s crying pleas, He was there all along.

In the details.



Guess what time it is? Time for reflection, anticipation, regrets and promises. We are just days away from a new year, and for the first time, I am so ready to say good-bye to this current shit storm, and am looking forward to the next.

I have always given a big fat eye roll to all that were bidding adieu to the passing year. As if the calendar actually matters. As if the ticking of the clock and the dropping of the ball could wash away all the sins and injustices of our lives. We kiss our loved ones, breathe a sigh of relief because we survived the last 365 days, and we believe that when we wake up in the morning everything will be just fine!

And it totally will! We will wake up, rested, refreshed, reset, and move on with our day. And it totally won’t! Our problems don’t come and go at the stroke of midnight, we aren’t Cinderella, sigh.

This has been my most trying year. My life has been rocky, my marriage has been rocky, and my children have been rocky AF! People that I love have died. People that I love have almost died. My animals have died (not the ones that I could do without either, those chickens are indestructible.)  Money sucks (I know, join the freaking club) and everything, literally everything is breaking. And even with all of that, I am still waiting for the OTHER shoe to drop.

It’s just been one of those years where everything that could go wrong, has.

In fact, if I could describe the feeling of this year with one word it would be…


I feel like the last 364 days have been me holding my breath, treading water, sinking, and kicking as hard as I can while gasping for air. And I really need a break. I need dry land. I need to kiss the ground of the beach after the battle for shore. I need sanctuary, a haven.

However, I know that no clock will bring me peace. I won’t breathe a sigh of relief at midnight. There is no magic number of days that I will have to endure this stage of my life before the pendulum finally starts to swing back up. I know that every day is just a continuous climb to the top of this mountain, and every day faces new challenges, and tomorrow may be even more difficult than today.

I had fully anticipated this last year to be spectacular. We were moving, we were going to grow and get closer as a family. We were going to have new adventures and new animals and all of our dreams were going to come true. That didn’t really happen, like, at all. The bad definitely out weighed the good.

But there was still good. There were moments this year that I wouldn’t trade for anything. There are people in my life this year that weren’t there before, people I didn’t even know that I missed that showed back up completely unannounced, people who I am just so thankful for. I am doing things that I never thought that I would, I am growing as a person and finding the things that ignite my heart and soul. So I am not going to write off the entire year and wish it never happened. I am going to be thankful that I had another year at all.

I am going to be thankful that I am still breathing. And at the end of the day, isn’t that all that matters? If we can just survive, isn’t that what counts?  We aren’t promised a privileged life or even just a life without suffering. We aren’t even promised tomorrow. What we are promised is that we can handle our life. Even if that means that God must think we are a complete bad ass because the shit keeps on piling up.


We have to believe that we are given the children that we have, because we can handle them. We have to believe that we have been given the marriage that we have, because we can work through the challenges. And we have to believe that when everything falls apart and we just can’t handle one more moment, that we have been given the people in our lives to help carry the weight for us.

There are people who have been placed in my life, that I didn’t want or choose, that would drop everything at a moments notice to help me if I needed them. And there are people that I would crawl over broken glass for if they so much as breathed that they needed my help.

I fully anticipate this next year to be amazing. Even though nothing is actually going to change overnight.  I am going to wake up on January 1st with the same set of problems I went to bed with the night before, I am still going to have an amazing year.

I am going to climb an insane amount of mountains, and read a stupid amount of books. I am going to continue to work on my body and learn to love it at the same time. I am going to continue to do the amazing things that I am doing because I started them months ago. I didn’t wait until after the holidays were over, or for New Years Day, I made my choices and I started them THAT day, because that was the moment I had control of.

I won’t be making promises I can’t keep. I am not going to give up coffee, or start sleeping normal human hours. I am not going to try to do anything that makes me less me. I don’t need any “New Year, New Me” goals to make life harder than it actually is. I need to love and accept myself for the crazy, psychotic, amazing, complicated, disaster of a person that I am.

If I want to change something about myself or give up something or learn something new, I am not going to pull out my calendar and see when the right time will be that I can fit it into my messy life. I am going to just do it, then. In the moment I am in. And if I fail, I won’t wait until Monday or February or Summertime or after the holidays or next New Years to start again, I will just start again, then.

So lets grab our booze and toast to a New Year and know that it means nothing more than that we are still alive. Lets stop pretending that it will fix everything. Lets stop pretending, we will be better, our lives will be better, our bodies will be better. Lets stop pretending the clock has any power at all. Whatever power is out there belongs  to us to take control of whenever and wherever we want.

Stop pretending!

Pretending is for children.

And children can’t drink.