ON BEING YOUR OWN PERSON

The truth is, I’m a total passenger princess when it comes to hunting (and driving, anything to do with snow removal, car repair, waxing skis… should I keep going?!). Back to hunting. Two years ago we committed to only eating meat from the freezer, which is mostly game animals plus some fish from Alaska.

I could not be more on board with the ethics of hunting, and I have a lot to say about how it’s influencing our parenting choices. But I have no interest in being the person to shoot the animal. It’s beautiful, connected, raw, honest. I love the connection it brings to our food and the reverence that we feel for the animal that gave its life. I love sneaking around the woods on crisp fall days, trying to think like a big prey animal, and the stillness of waiting. But I really don’t care about being the person on our team to hunt.

Practically, we now have now have a dependent. One of us needs to watch him. But there’s more to my wanting to stay home and wanting Jake to go out without me. I LOVE that he has a true passion that’s his and his alone. Something he’s excited about 365 days a year and practicing 365 days a year. It’s purpose and it’s commitment beyond our family.

My girlfriend sent me an instagram video of a husband carrying eight different sports equipment items and a wife looking at him wondering what her hobbies are. It resonated, and almost stung as I realized part of me is morphing into something that I feared before having a baby.

There will never be anything in the world more important to me than my children and raising my children. And I need to remind myself that it’s not my only identity. I see and am so wary losing my identity and only finding purpose and joy in my children. It seems like that would but undue pressure t on the kids, it could feel really hollow once the kids are big etc. And when I look at how I spend my time, I wonder what the hell I do for fun thats mine and mine alone?

Pursuing my passions, finding things that bring me joy is some of the most important role modeling I can do for my kids. Showing Augie that unconditional love and taking care of my grown ass adult self coexist beautifully is an essential, foundational lesson.

And first few years of parenting are freaking intense! Working or not, daycare or not, it’s a full court press to raise little ones. Jake and I are both working, both full time childcare, both engaged in a long distance endurance event 24/7. I’m happier and more settled than I’ve ever been in my life. I feel like my dreams are coming true with each passing day, AND now that my child’s over a year old I need to make more time for myself completely outside of motherhood.

Here are the three things I’m doing that are pure JOY for me and are my hobbies alone outside of my marriage and motherhood:

1. hip hop “classes”: Once a week gathering with a few friends after baby bedtime and taking an online class together. Dancing is 110% the most stress reducing, joy inducing activity for me. And working on “booty rolls” with two friends at 9 pm on a Tuesday is absolutely absurd and really fills my cup.

2. Singing lessons: Another pure joy activity for me that I haven’t formally practiced or learned since I was a child (looking at you, Julia!). I asked Jake for lessons for Christmas, so stay tuned ;)

3. A few mornings a week, going to the gym without the baby. I LOVE working out with Augie, and I think it’s so important for him to see it/learn it. And I’m playing with filling my own cup— waking up early and so I can get to the gym and home before Jake has to go to the bakery. Especially after a hard night of nighttime parenting, it’s made a huge difference in my mood and energy levels.

I’ll report back, but I have a feeling that efforts to be my own person will only help the team :)

ON KNOWING

I thought I wanted to be a coach. I’ve been working as a rock climbing coach for five years, and I worked as an outdoor educator (often coaching) for years before that. One of my rock climbing athletes is a wildly successful executive/leadership coach, and he repeatedly told me that I’m good at what I do and I should consider working for him too. He offered to fill the mentor role, and more than anything, my ego was flattered— someone who had ‘made it’ in the industry saw potential in me. I figured I’d explore this and maybe open doors to new paths, clients, income. At the very least it would make me better at my current coaching job, which I care deeply about.

I signed up for a coaching program, ready for transformation, certainty, a path to help people, a way to make more money. I spoke to people I respected— “I knew that THESE WERE MY PEOPLE when I walked into the room” (or in his case, Zoom meeting). It was four days long. I committed to being fully bought in. I think socially it’s cool to be a skeptic, and uncool to be fully excited about something. I wanted to be aware of that, knowing that we were spending money to learn tools and have personal growth and transformation, my in laws flew across the country to watch my baby, etc. etc. I was bought in, ready to experience personal transformation, and take the first step towards career and financial freedom.

After the first day, I felt ambivalent. I walked out of the office building eager to see my baby and unsure of what I had just learned. I went to sleep that night slightly delirious and visualizing experiencing mind, body, and soul transformation the next day. Two more days of the same— it was interesting, but did this ignite my soul on fire? No. In our practice sessions, I think I did a reasonably good job and gave fine feedback. But was I inspired to spill my soul and commit to building a business of my own? No. By the fourth day, we exchanged feedback. Others were crying, glistening, glowing. I expressed my genuine appreciation for everyone’s time, help, and vulnerability, but I knew in my heart this wasn’t my path.

I nervously approached Jake. I had been SO excited and sure that this was going to be my path, a flexible career that I could do while raising our babies, worth every penny and second in training to learn. I told him it wasn’t for me. He looked at me sweetly, “I know that.” And to my complete and utter surprise he verbalized the blurry thought living in my head: “You want to write a mom blog.”

I haven’t been able to find a better way to put it than 'mom blog',’ though I feel self conscious stating this as my truest truth career goal. I want to write and think and share and help others do the same. I have so many interests— training, philosophy, mindset, food, rock climbing, expeditions, personal growth, gardening. I had a hard time picturing how I could build a thread that’s niche-less. But recently, i’ve realized that they all fall under the umbrella of my main purpose, passion, and career— motherhood. There’s an entire book to write on the role of a mother in my life, in a family, and in society. But for now, I’ll say that through my own matrescence (evolving into motherhood and leaving maidenhood behind), there’s a serenity and clarity i’ve only felt a few other times in my life— a total intuition, higher self, God centered knowing that isn’t in the head but is in the heart. It’s not in feelings or reason or lists. One of those times was knowing I wanted to spend my life with Jake. One was knowing that we were ready for a baby to come into our lives. And one of those times is my certainty that I am a writer and that I want to share our lives through this medium

So here’s my commitment to press publish and to make time to put words and beautiful photos on paper throughout the week. Because as i’ve learned in EVERY other facet of my life (training, cleaning, eating well and so many more): “don’t wait for inspiration. It comes while working.” —Henry Matisse

ON NEUTRALITY

There is no neutral.

I was on a llama packing trip with some friends earlier in the summer. Augie’s godfather Willy and I were talking about our shared hope that camping influences our children. I told Willy I felt conflicted, because I am so averse pushing my interests on my children. How can you love unconditionally and want them to like something? I want my children to know that I love them exactly for who they are and that nothing they could ever do or say would change that. But I love being in the mountains, and I hope that he loves being in the mountains. Aren’t those two ideas in conflict? And with one simple sentence, he made me hold my breath for a moment. “There is no neutral.”

We booked the camping trip before two of the expedition mates were born. I thought that taking a one year old camping would be good training for me and Jake as the parents. Proof that we could do it. Motivation to get out of the house and out of our comfortable routine. Some kind of validation that we could still do the things we loved with a child. Certainly for our baby, someone so young who wouldn’t remember it, it wouldn’t make a difference.

But once the baby was born, I was humbled by how mistaken I had been. Over the course of the past year I have learned and re-learned the truth about our impact. Sleeping under the stars for a week influences the baby. My presence— peaceful, stressed, somewhere in between— impacts the baby. Our nervous systems are so much more intertwined than we admit to ourselves. Last week I read about a study in which pregnant mice were zapped every time they smelled peppermint. They released the stress hormone cortisol every time they smelled peppermint, anticipating pain. When their babies were born THEY TOO released cortisol when they smelled peppermint, even though they themselves had never been zapped.

Going camping with a baby is important to me because there is no neutral. Everything we expose or don’t expose our small, impressionable child to has impact. We are going to spend our time some way, so we might as well choose it consciously and provide opportunities for positive influence. I hope to be a parent who consciously culls, lives with intention in hopes that he does too. I’m so lucky to have a partner who role models this for us daily— reminding me that the small, conscious acts are what make up our life. That we should choose our words and actions with precision and awareness. That how we spend our moments is how we spend our days is how we spend our lives.

I hope our son loves camping because I hope that he loves wild places, values simplicity, finds magic, seeks meaningful connections, takes care of his body, knows the names of his neighbors, the animals, and the plants around him, and appreciates how incredibly comfortable and luxurious our life at home is. I hope he learns to try hard things and succeeds and fails and keeps getting up.

It’s all new— parenting for us and life for him. We are constantly learning, being humbled, and adapting. But it’s the coolest thing in the world that the three of us make the rules and the three of us get to make the traditions. Some that we’ve come up with in our short year together: We collect the flowers for his birthday book. We go camping every August 10. We write down the birds we see. We grow and harvest and forage as much of our food as we can. We get to influence these early years so much. It’s the greatest blessing, privilege, and responsibility we’ve ever known.

ON HOLDING YOU

I will never regret keeping you close.

I will never regret holding you while you sleep, nursing you whenever you need it— for food, for comfort, to help you fall asleep— or bringing you to our bed.

We started bed sharing accidentally. For the first few months of your life, you slept in your own space until the early morning, when we’d bring you to bed to sleep on our chests. We could all relax in one another’s arms, and the best part of my day was waking up to your little hand holding your dad’s or your head tucked perfectly under my chin.

Then we were traveling and there were two other babies in the house who were sleeping through the night. In my effort to not wake them, I brought you to my bed and spent the night curled around your tiny body. I thought to myself— I’d do this all the time if it weren’t going to be so hard to quit one day in the future. But then we slept another night like that. And another. And soon you were calling for me from your crib, asking me to join you in the warmth of our family bed.

And I continued to bring you to the safety of my arms and learn from you. You have taught me the most invaluable lesson of my life in your short 9 months, my darling.

Presence.

You made me present in answering the question— What will get us all the most sleep tonight? And you have made me present by remembering to parent the child I have now from a place of love, not the child I may one day have out of fear. I try not to make fear based decisions in any part of my life, so why would this be any different? Worries are a decision that something in the future is more important than actual life, this present moment. What a waste to have worried when I have these moments with you, my baby!

I’m sure whenever one of us is ready to shift our systems there will be growing pains, but I don’t fear that challenge. Instead I choose relish in my time holding you close. I know babies don’t keep.

Your dad and I love sleeping next to you and waking up to your smiling face and chatter. We love going to bed reading with your little hands outstretched in ours. We love feeling you reach for us as you rest your head on our shoulders. I love when you learn a new skill and I see you practice it in your sleep, like how you quietly clap while we nurse. Being your safe space is the greatest privilege of my life, little one.

Sometimes it’s hard. Sometimes you need a lot of support throughout the night and we don’t sleep as much as we’d like to. Sometimes I don’t want to go to bed at 9 when you call for me, and sometimes I don’t want to wake up at 530 when you call for our dog. But ease and comfort aren’t what make our lives rich, and more often than not we all enter our days well rested with full hearts.

Jake saw a friend the other day with a 19 year old daughter. When he asked how the daughter is doing, the mother sighed and told Jake that we need to treasure every second of our children needing and wanting us as much as they do. Snuggle them, hug them, bring them to your bed. I know babies don’t keep.

We are in the good old days right now, and they are the best days of my life to date. I love you so much, my baby.

ON A BREECH BABY

Disclaimer: I have no idea if I actually had any impact on August’s decision to go head down in my womb. So maybe a more apt title for this post is “what I did between the time that I found out my baby was breech and I found out he was head down.”

At our 20 week anatomy scan, our little baby was perfect. We could see him wiggling around, playing with the umbilical cord, opening and closing his tiny mouth. The doctor dragged a few more lines across the ultrasound image and, without much bedside manner, dropped his jaw— “this baby is huge!” He was measuring eight weeks ahead. I know that ultrasound measurements are notoriously inaccurate, and still the nervous first time mom in me panicked. Will I be able to give birth to a baby who’s two months too big? Do I have gestational diabetes? Did I do something wrong?

The doctor suggested we have another ultrasound at 28 weeks to check in on his size (in retrospect this seems absurdly unnecessary). At 28 weeks our OB lathered up my belly with the cold jelly and let out a little yelp— this baby is frank breech! She quickly demonstrated a pike position, and showed me that his feet and his head were up at my belly button and his bottom was floating above my pelvis. I started rattling off rapid fire questions: how do I get him to flip? What are the statistics on a baby finding his way down at this stage of pregnancy? Could we do a version (where the doctor manually spins the baby from the outside at the end of pregnancy)? Would a version even work for me (first time mom, anterior placenta)? Do I have to have a c-section if he stays this way or could you deliver him butt first?

She politely answered each of my questions, but I sensed hesitation in her tone. “He’s really long, so you might have less time than someone with a shorter baby to try to get him to flip.” I cried on our car ride home and wondered what I had done “wrong” and wondered if I was destined for surgery.

I did some homework, and my doula and I created a plan. Here’s what I did that I think helped.

1. I saw a chiropractor a LOT. I learned that babies aren’t randomly breech— they want to be head down but if we have imbalances that restrict their room and mobility, they can end up in funny positions. My pelvic bowl was all wonky, and the chiropractor worked to make it a welcoming, spacious place for him to put his head. Specifically, seek out a Webster certified Chiropractor. They specialize in pregnancy. She released a few very tight uterine ligaments and I instantly felt my belly center. I believe that the chiropractic work helped my body find better balance and my baby find his way down.

2. Bodywork. Similar to the Chiro— I saw my friend who is a massage therapist weekly (ended up being three times over three weeks). Because everything in our bodies is connected, I thought releasing tight muscles and fascia would help make space for him to move to the right place.

3. Exercise. I went swimming a few times a week and did a lot of flips. I also walked a lot. I was careful not to do any deep squats, because I didn’t want him to settle lower into my pelvis (a good idea until you know your baby’s head down, left occiput anterior at the very end of term).

4. I did the Spinning Babies breech protocol (lots of inversions, specific stretches. etc). Thanks, Alexa for the ironing board that I spent hours laying on :).

5. Pulsatilla. Under the guidance of my doula, I used the homeopathic herb pulsatilla. I don’t know how it works, but she had stories of it flipping a full term baby and I trust her implicitly.

6. We talked to him. Both Jake and I talked to him a lot and asked him to turn. I also meditated (you can download the meditation “turn baby turn”) which helped me relax and connect with him.

Here’s what I did that I don’t think really helped:

1. Acupuncture. I love acupuncture, and I personally never felt him wiggle a ton during or after like some people experience. I did love the Eastern Medicine idea that a breech or transverse baby is trying to get closer to mama’s heart when she is holding onto fear or worry. I think that my acupuncture sessions helped me examine my fears and think about how to let go of them/not burden my baby with them.

2. Moxa sticks. I burned the stick near my pinky toe and made my house smell like cigarettes. I was willing to try anything, and I don’t think it helped.

3. Ice on the top of my belly. I sat with the bottom half of my belly in a warm tub and cold peas near his head. The idea is they move away fro the cold and towards the warm. I really doubt he could feel anything, especially with my placenta in the front.

From 28-32 weeks I was in a full court press, doing everything in my power to help August find his way down. I didn’t want to look back on my pregnancy and wish I had done more or something differently. And, honestly, it was stressful. I was stressed so my husband was stressed and our lives were unnecessarily stressed. At the gym one day, my friend Liz shared a mantra she took on at the end of her pregnancy, seven words that changed my life: “I want a baby, not a birth.”

I felt my whole body relax when I said that out loud. I want a baby, not a birth. The whole point of this was to bring a beautiful, healthy life into the world. What’s the big deal if it’s via section? What's the big deal if it’s not the idyllic dream I had pictured as transformational, growth-inspiring, team-building? What If the transformational experience was actually RIGHT NOW? Could I learn to be strong, at peace, graceful with the distinct possibility of a different outcome than I had pictured? Maybe the real challenge wasn’t the pain of contractions, but the pain of uncertainty and not getting my way? I started crying talking to her. I had missed it all along. August was already teaching me so much, bringing me to my knees with humility.

I want a baby, not a birth.

I also had to trust him. Babies are breech for a reason, and sometimes it’s to protect their wellbeing. Maybe I had a heart shaped uterus and his head was stuck in one of the lobes. Maybe his umbilical cord was shorter than we thought, and he couldn't move as freely as other babies. Who knows why his head was up, but I was ready to trust him and trust the universe. It was the most relaxed I had felt in weeks.

That night, a Monday, I went to sleep and as I was drifting off I felt him wake up and start moving around as he usually did in the evenings. An hour or so later I woke up with a startle because of how big his movements were. This was the first time he had woken me up with his wiggles. I didn't think much of it until the next morning at my 32 week appointment. My OB felt where his head had been at 28 weeks and said she couldn’t tell what was there— might be a butt might be a head. I felt a wave of disappointment— he was still breech. I begged her for an ultrasound, though in my heart I knew he hadn’t moved. We snuck into the one US room while the patient using it was in the bathroom and she screamed— that’s a head!!! She then put her hand on my belly— the back of his head— and wiggled it. Instantly he responded. She showed me how I could do that to know he had stayed down there.

I of course will never know when he flipped or why he flipped. But in my gut I believe it was when I relaxed and centered myself on the point of it all. A baby, not a birth!

ON THE FOURTH TRIMESTER

It’s hard to believe, but our baby is twelve weeks old, which means he and I are almost through the fourth trimester. I dare not say I’m almost finished being postpartum, because for the rest of my life, I am postpartum. I have had challenges, like crying uncontrollably in the bathroom convinced I’d never heal. Or snapping at my caring, loving husband about bone broth because I was bone-tired. Or feeling socially overwhelmed running into friends and feeling phony as hell talking to them with a forced smile.

But I can count those moments on one hand (okay maybe two hands? three? how many fingers on a hand?). More than anything, these twelve weeks have been magical. Our son is joy and Light and love and puts everything else in perspective. He separated from me when he left my body. But in the intimacy of the past three months, I can’t tell where my body ends and his begins. He is so peaceful and so happy. A call to presence and serenity. Our love for him feels like the most natural, necessary, vulnerable thing we will ever do.

Beyond the magic of becoming a mother, I’ve fallen in love with Jake all over again as I watch him thrive as a parent. It’s challenging to re-write the relationship ten years in, but I’m so grateful to figure it out together. And I’m so grateful that the doubts that filled us before August’s arrival (Are we ready? Do we have enough “figured out”? Are WE solid enough to bring life into this world?) vanished with his first breath.

I don’t mean to say it’s been easy, or that anyone’s experience is entirely within their control. So many factors— our birth, our work circumstances, our community— have made the transition smooth. But practically, these twelve weeks have been better than I thought they would be because of a few choices that we made and a few fortunate circumstances. If I were giving advice to someone who is pregnant or the partner of a pregnant person, here is what I would tell them:

Prepare for the absolute worst. I don’t mean to sound dire or melodramatic, but I felt terrified about the fourth trimester. I nervously anticipated what was coming— an unparalleled hormonal crash, feeling weak, soft, and squishy in a way I never had before, minimal sleep, a lot of physical pain, learning a lot of new, challenging skills, figuring out a new partnership and parenting with Jake, emotional highs and lows. I knew that one out of every seven women deals with post partum depression or anxiety, and that most women have some level of “baby blues” in the first couple of weeks. I spent time learning about this reality and how bad it could be. We spent time talking about my mental health. I tried my hardest to learn what I could to feel as good as I could afterwards (knowing that a lot of it was luck, but things like spending two hours skin to skin right when August left my body for each of our physical, social, and emotional wellbeings). Anticipate that it will be really hard. And be grateful if it’s not (always).

Lean on community. We have the most incredible village to lean on. Our next door neighbor created a meal train for us scheduled from a week after my due date for three months. It’s still going. Close friends brought us food, acquaintances cooked for us, fellow gym members invited us to pancake Saturday. A woman Jake sells bread to signed up to cook us three meals over the last two weeks. Most deliveries came with half a week’s worth of groceries or enough leftovers to feed us three more times. My sister sent soup from New Jersey. I got so many texts on non meal train nights— “bringing pasta now!” or “cowfish takeout?” I will never be able to express sufficient gratitude for the people who cooked for us and for our friends who set it up. The baby came on his due date, much earlier than I expected, and our close friends rallied to bring extra food a week earlier. It can be hard for me to ask for help, and I cannot recommend enough asking for help with food. Even if you don’t have community where you live, let someone build you a meal train with friends from other cities (door dash! grub hub!). To be nourished and rested was the greatest gift we could ever receive. Can we keep the meal train going until August’s sweet sixteen?

Cook. A lot. In addition to the meal train, I cooked and froze twenty or so meals ahead of time so that we’d have easy, quick dinners and breakfasts when we were low on time and energy. It’s helped tremendously.

See a pelvic floor physical therapist. Even if you “don’t need to.” I started seeing a wonderful PFPT at twenty weeks to help with some pubic symphysis disfunction and round ligament pain. I saw her for the rest of pregnancy, which culminated in an appointment with Jake. She talked us through how he could help me manage pain in an unmedicated vaginal delivery, how to optimize my position if I got an epidural, and how to manage a c-section. She became an invaluable resource. Pregnancy and birth were hard I’m sure they would have been 10 times harder without her. I’ve emailed her over a dozen times post partum with specific healing questions and wanting to know various “when can I?” questions.

Get more breastfeeding help than you think you need. If you choose to breastfeed, expect it to be hard. Figuring out supply, latch, bottles, nipples, flange sizes, positions, tension, unclogging ducts (ice not heat! who knew!) Our birth class had a breastfeeding section. I took a separate breastfeeding online class. I read a breastfeeding book. My doula came over daily. to help me with feeding— learning what a good latch is, how to use the various pumps, how to burp the baby. The public health nurse came over the day after my milk came in to help me figure it out. And ten weeks in when something didn’t feel right, I arranged to meet with an IBCLC lactation consultant for help (paid for by insurance!). I’m an over preparer, and a lot of breastfeeding factors were pure luck (my anatomy and his), but I think that learning and asking for help have made our journey a little easier.

Build an unstoppable team. I was given maternity leave from two of my jobs. My good friends covered my meetings with clients. I had another close friend, Russell, answer all calls from tenants for a few weeks and coordinate with any sub contractors. We asked for a lot of help walking the dog, and close friends incorporated him into their daily adventures.

We asked one of my closest friends to be our doula. She is a labor and delivery nurse in midwifery school who we trust implicitly. She was with us every step of the journey— from our miscarriage to the day we found out we were pregnant again, doing baby appointments throughout the pregnancy (comforting me with at home non stress tests when I was nervous about August’s wellbeing and telling me exactly what position he was ini), giving me homeopathic remedies when August was butt down, facilitating our birth experience, bringing us meals in the hospital, anticipating our needs for the weeks after he was born (asking people to leave my house when I needed it, bringing me matcha, making me pads). She also facilitated conversations between me and Jake about our birth plan, our short term post partum plan, and our long term post partum plan. She took a training on maternal and fetal positioning that (I believe) led to a four hour labor and fifteen minutes of pushing. She was absolutely critical in my loving postpartum. I realize few people have their own Courtney. But how can you ask for help? Can you afford to hire a doula? Or ask a close friend to be you and your partner’s support in your labor space? Can you hire someone to clean your home once a week? Or make a list of things for friends to help out with and post it on your fridge? Can you put a fund for someone to mow your lawn or lactation consultant visits on your registry? Get creative! Loved ones want to help, even if they’re far away.

Get professional help. I gave birth at an awesome hospital that offers five free counseling sessions to postpartum moms. Throughout my fourth trimester, I’ve had so many friends say that they had postpartum depression and didn’t know it at the time. I thought that I was feeling fine, but didn’t my girlfriends as well? I called the hospital and booked an appointment and cried for an hour for no obvious reason. I’m honestly not sure if seeing this particular person helped me, but I like the idea of preparing for your mental and emotional well being preemptively.

Say no. To people wanting to visit, hold your baby, or ask for your energy in any other way if I doesn’t feel good. I tried to be discerning with who came into the sacred space of our home. The best guests washed their hands when they walked in the door and capped their visits at 20 minutes max. The blur of being a new parent is real, even though we were high as kites, managing anything outside of our little family unit drained me dry.

Make a plan that supports you and your partner. Jake and my mental and physical health matter when making parenting decisions. As my friend Scott put it, “people often make decisions that are 2% better for the kid but 25% worse for the parents. That math doesn’t add up!” We have done our best to line up our actions with that value. Of course, our baby’s wellbeing is our priority! And asking— is this a difference that makes a difference? helps us keep perspective. I planned to breastfeed but also was ready for if it didn’t work so our baby could be fed. We chose to introduce a bottle in the first week so that I could have freedom to leave the house without the baby, which has felt critical to my mental health. We’ve figured out how to navigate Jake’s needs (nights away to hunt!) and maintain balance in our home (I sleep downstairs when he gets back ;). When we were changing August’s diaper every feed, I’d feed him and Jake would change him.

I think both of us having realistic expectations around my ability and energy in the first few weeks home was really helpful. We planned on me resting and nursing and Jake doing all of the shopping, cooking, cleaning, laundry, etc. Every morning he’d bring us coffee in bed (a tradition we’ve kept!) and make a beautiful brunch a few hours later. I’m usually very diligent with laundry, dishes, and clutter, but I blissfully let it all go and Jake carried the team (setting up elaborate pillow arrangements for my comfort with lavender essential oil diffusing and bowls of grapes… I kid you not!).

ON MY HEART AND MY EGO

Our heart is incredibly resilient. It is our ego that isn’t.

Sometimes, I identify too tightly with my small self. Fueled by fear and lack, I make myself a victim of the world around me. I can remember too many examples in my recent past— raising my voice, becoming infuriated because of something that someone else did, shutting down a channel of honest communication or feedback.

If I exist in a repeated cycle that is ineffective or unhealthy (someone else “isn’t listening” or something “makes me feel” a particular way), what is my role? How can I communicate more effectively or differently? How can I reframe the notion that anyone can “make” me feel anything and take ownership? How can I put up healthier boundaries in order to take care of myself? Can I feel my pain with compassion and move through it gracefully?

We are a small self and a greater self at all times. When I react, it is my small self, the fragile being that finds worth externally, that consumes, that cowers or yells or needs to win. It’s a helpful reminder for me to realize that when I sway with the forces of the wind, my ego is dominating my energy.

But I am resilient. You are too. I am even and brave and rooted in love. My soul, as writer Amyra on the Tiny Buddha says, is a honey badger. I can reach my heart out to the sharpness of another’s tone and know something is going on for them. I can let myself cry and remain present in my body and not live in my head. I can let go of the asinine idea that other people’s reactions have anything to do with me.

I can choose love again and again and again.

WRITE HARD AND CLEAR ABOUT WHAT HURTS

I love this quote. I have it on my desktop background as a constant, steady reminder. Write hard and clear about what hurts. In essays or emails or letters or thoughtful conversations. Put it out there. Practice succinctness. Choose bravery. Hemingway is my favorite author for exactly that— brevity, clarity, directness. Most people need 900 pages for what he can do in 100. He chooses to write hard— to cut to the heart of life and skip the fluff.

You know the saying that you are an amalgamation of the five people you spend the most time with? When I think about their common trait, it’s this very quality of Hemingway that I so admire. I feel so fortunate to have these strong, inspiring examples surrounding me, to hopefully help me amalgamate (is that a word?). They set a high bar for facing reality, always always always having compassion (for themselves and others), and total presence. I mean presence in the sense of fully experiencing the joy or the pain in themselves. Or fully sharing my joy or my pain without wishing it away or making it about them.

In trying to be brave and share “clear and hard” about what hurts, I’ve noticed which interactions feel nourishing and which interactions feel depleting. Nourishment: active listening, compassion, holding space. Depletion: advice, making the pain and the conversation about themselves, misplaced energy that’s overwhelming.

We all have real, silent struggles. When someone seems rude or annoying or disengaged, what’s really going on for them? Is a loved one sick? Are they awaiting a diagnosis? Is some sort of trauma present for them every day? I want to continue to write hard and clear about what hurts. I want to talk hard and clear about what hurts. And I want to take cues from my five about how to create a nourishing space for others to do that: sweet empathy, question asking, ease in silence.

Thank you so, so much to those who have created that space.

PUT IN THE WORK

In the past week, I’ve reached a handful of physical goals. I sent (climbed without falling) a rock climb that a year ago I would have said was impossible for me. I did more pull ups than I’ve ever done in my life. I did a pistol squat. I’m not trying to brag (or be “brag-a-dotious” as my endearing NOLS student called it). Each of these milestones is a reminder to me to show up every day whether or not I want to. Because more often than not, I don’t want to.

I remember the journey to the first pull up. It was years— no exaggeration— of sporadically working hard to build the strength to lift my long body over the bar. I had every excuse in the book dialed— I have a plus four ape index (my arms are really long), I’m an endurance athlete not a strong one, it’s harder for women to do pull ups. And then I started living in Lander full time and saw how many strong women had my body type and could do pull ups. So I put in the work consistently over six months and shocked myself when one “random” day I could pull my chin over the bar. It wasn’t random at all— it was like an ice cube melting. The temperature rises for a long time before you start to see water.

There’s something so tangible about reaching physical goals. I know that if I’m consistent, put in the work, and break it down in to micro goals, I’m almost guaranteed to reach them (if I choose the right goal in the first place). When I wanted to run 50 miles, I started nine months out and chipped away slowly. If I want to lift a certain weight, I add weight little by little over the course of months. My body adapts and changes.

Why is it so much harder to chip away at non-physical goals? I face rejection with writing weekly if not daily, and I use it as an excuse to quit. This must mean this vocation isn’t for me. Well, I guess I should just move on and save face. If I were more skilled/talented/gifted, this wouldn’t happen.

But who gives a damn about talent?

Can I show up when I don’t want to? Can I choose failure one thousand times for each single success? Yes. Of course I can. I just need to go to practice. Write a little bit every day. Some people won’t want it. That’s fine. Some people will .Authenticity, love, vulnerability— that’s what I can be about.

I can’t remember where I heard it, but recently I learned about Steve Martin’s story. As a teenager, he did magic tricks and sold guidebooks in Disneyland. He started writing and performing standup, getting booed offstage at tiny clubs around LA. Years later, he began to have small breakthroughs in comedy.

Magic tricks at Disneyland. Years later. There are so many helpful reminders for me. This isn’t going to be easy, and it’s not going to happen overnight. But the only way I can give it a fair shot is to show up to practice every day. Chip away and put in the work. Because nobody’s going to do it for me.

ON BOUNDARIES

Recently, I read Brené Brown’s Dare to Lead. It’s great and mostly covers the same topics of her other books through the lens of leadership. I read quickly— yeah, yeah, been through this before, vulnerability, shame, yada yada yada.

Then, boom, I hit a concept like a brick wall. You only feel resentment when you haven’t created good boundaries. My eyebrows furrowed and shoulders rose to my ears. Say again? I cause my own resentment? Impossible! It’s the others’ fault! Intellectually, I believe that I’m the cause and the root of my own feelings. It’s all my reaction or response to external stimuli. But I think resentment’s one of the ugliest feelings one can hold (maybe in the same category as spite or rancor). It’s bitter indignation at having been treated unfairly. I don’t think you can feel indignation without self-indulgence, and what the heck is fair? Is it realistic or setting me up for success to want the world to be fair?

Jake’s carrying the team financially right now as I transition careers. Is that fair? Probably not. Fair by definition would mean I’d be making 50% of the team income. I hope to be soon. I hope to be able to support Jake when he wants to venture out and try something that’s financially scary. But I don’t think “fairness” is at the root of that. Love, learning, responsibility, support. These things I value. Overvaluing fairness to me seems like a child being upset that his friend got a lollipop and he didn’t.

I digress.

I don’t like resentment in myself or the people around me. I really don’t like admitting that I’m causing it. Okay so how do you create your own resentment by not having good boundaries? Let’s look at an example I heard recently. A few individuals were talking about a friend breakup they went through. They told the story of the friend’s behavior— he took and took and took without giving. Doesn’t sound like a great friend. He didn’t thank his friends for all they did for him. Doesn’t sound like a great friend. They felt personally slighted, un-appreciated, taken advantage of. Fair enough. Did they ask for anything to change? No. Did they speak about it directly with him? No. They talked with one another and built up years of collective hurt. Finally, an egregious ungrateful act led the friends to cut off all ties. It’s not crazy to not want to be friends with this person. But to let someone take your energy for years and years without asking for it to stop and also blame them for it? That seems crazy.

I’m trying hard to notice twinges of resentment in myself and examine what boundaries I haven’t established. Feel like a friend, job or family is "taking advantage of me” is my doing. Maybe not the first time around. But it seems to me like any time there’s a repeated pattern of take and I feel empty, it’s my fault. Definitely haven’t nailed this one. But trying.

THE PAUSE

Some people are wired for the pause. Other people are wired to be explosive and reactive. They’re emotionally intense.

I heard this in a podcast interview with Brené Brown on my flight to New York. She had so many incredible one-liners that it took me nearly double the time to listen as I paused and scribbled them onto the side of my planner. The one-liner above is present in my daily lived experience, but I don’t think I had every heard it put so bluntly. My husband, thank goodness, is wired for the pause. I, on the other hand, have a hard GO wiring. There are perks— I can get a lot done in a little bit of time, I try to think ahead with logistics, and I can try things without attachment to outcome. I get plenty of positive reinforcement for acting quickly and intensely.

And there are drawbacks. That emotional intensity—explosion, reaction— can make me act like a brat. I can react with a sharpness or sarcasm that I’m not proud of, that impacts my relationship. I can go from angry to wanting a hug in the time it takes to flip a light switch. I can create a self-indulgent story about being wronged with little information. I don’t read the directions before I try to set up the complicated 40 piece Ikea wardrobe.

I waiver between this is who I am! Take it or leave it! and maybe it would serve me to slow down sometimes. I remember traveling in Japan a few years ago and feeling stunned by the intention. There was ritual and deliberateness in every moment of life, from how you stand in a subway line to evening bath time habits. I’m sure I did more things improperly than I’ll ever know, and I already know a lot of them— I laid under the tatami mat thinking it was a very rigid blanket, I rode public transportation wrong, I’m certain I was too loud. But I remember coming home and wanting to change. Really wanting to hold that same reverence for each moment that I saw others doing. Trying to focus on washing the dishes and laying the silverware just so, because that moment, too, mattered.

Jake and I were engaged in a heated discussion recently. I think it came after I responded mindlessly to him. Like a brat. Zero reverence/attention/awareness. He reminded me that we can’t only act on purpose for the “special” moments. Or I guess that there are no special moments. We can carry ourselves with reverence for each and every moment. Life is fleeting and fast and who knows what could happen tomorrow.

When my ego is hot and all of my defenses are up (like in the moment of proving my rightness and trying to dismiss his response as too sensitive), I can find ways to justify and downplay flippancy. I’m human! So I rolled my eyes! Who cares!

When I can temper that self-destructive (and relationship destructive) behavior, it’s so clear how right he is. Can’t I move on purpose ALWAYS? Not just once we’re fighting and I realize I need to? Brené Brown kept going: I think calm is a practice you can teach yourself. Breath is huge— breath, questions, slow.

Calm is a practice I can teach myself. I’m not compromising my personality or changing anything core to my being by learning to breathe, by choosing kindness, by being aware of my tone. When I state it so simply, it seems twisted that I could ever resist calm, resist moving on purpose.

Breathe more. Ask more questions. Move more slowly. Thank you, Jake, for always being my role model.

ON PUTTING YOURSELF OUT THERE

I’ve said this before. I feel perfectly comfortable being really, really vulnerable with complete strangers. Maybe because it feels so low consequence— they don’t know your people, they don’t have any attachments or stories about you, and they can’t use personal information as power. And being vulnerable with the closest in my circle is what forges family-like friendships. My people know my ugly and I know theirs, and we love one another just the same.

But sharing with people that I’m friendly with but not calling when I’m crying? That’s fucking terrifying. Most of my writing so far is personal essay and narrative (hello, no research!), so it’s about real things that happen in my life— talking about my imperfect romantic relationship, my imperfect self esteem/self worth, my imperfect path forward. Sharing that with folks in my community can feel quite scary. I don’t want to feign perfection or that I have everything together all of the time, and I also want to acknowledge that my stomach turns when I hit submit on my newsletter.

And yet, I continue to be reminded that putting myself out there is the only way. The. Only. Way. I heard Brene Brown quote Roosevelt:

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”

I keep reminding myself to get into the arena. This week, I shared on social media and Mailchimp a piece about femininity. The outpouring of love and support from total strangers and friends alike was unprecedented for me. Between e-mail, texts, and Instagram, over 100 women (and a few men) reached out to share their gratitude, validation, and appreciation.

I got rejected about 3084 more times from different publications. My ego is definitely crushed when I first read the e-mail. Sometimes if I see an e-mail from an editor in my inbox I’ll avoid opening it for half of a day because I’m scared of what it’ll say. Once I decide to act like an adult again, I move on or I fight back. The more times I get my hopes up and then get let down, the stronger I feel. My sister-in-law suggested watching this video about rejection. It’s awesome.

I also finally asked people about a part time job I’d been drooling over for months. I spent hours talking to Jake about this dream. Our conversations usually ended with my saying “but I’m too scared to ask!” and him making chicken noises. I did it and they said yes!

All healthy reminders that being in the arena is the only way to live. I couldn’t feel luckier to get to try.

ON SELF EMPLOYMENT

Here I am four full weeks into self employment. Some musings so far:

1. I’m (more or less) alone riding the highs and lows. When I have successes or break throughs, I can only celebrate and congratulate myself. When I am rejected and dejected, again I’m alone. I have a lot of people in the bleachers cheering for me, but I’m the only one on the court.

2. It’s not so lonely. I love and need people. And I was really, really concerned about going from the most social job in the universe— either in the field living in a group of humans 24 hours a day or in the office where I worked with all of my friends and then spent after work hours— to running my own show. So far, I’ve loved seeking out social time instead of being overwhelmed by it. I’m so lucky to live in a community with people I love surrounding me. I’m remembering that I create my world— if I want it to be full of wonderful people, it will be.

3. Dealing with 9238 checks is annoying. Introducing SQUARE . I was on the fence about spending the $49.95, but after trying to keep track of checks for the past month, it’s worth it.

4. High schoolers are so sweet (one on one). I am loving getting to know juniors in my town. It feels like the perfect change of pace from the NOLS course—I really enjoy still being connected to students, while simultaneously sleeping in my own bed, eating vegetables, and exercising.

5. ACT tutoring’s not so different from a NOLS course. I never would have guessed this one. It’s my job to create opportunities for people— teach skills, guide them through the appropriate progression for them, assign homework. But more than anything, I think it’s my job to see the good in them and build it up. If someone does the work, is confident in who they are, and believes in themself, they’ll do well on this silly test.

the timing is never right

I’m studying for the ACT, a standardized test used for college admission. Yes, I am turning 29 in just a few weeks. Yes, I matriculated a four year college when I was 18. No, I don’t plan on getting another bachelor’s degree.

I’ve now convinced multiple people that I’m dissatisfied with my score from high school and have decided to take it again. It’s awesome. I’m met with scrunched eyebrows and fake smiles (does she need to talk to someone?!), and I sense a new distrust in my judgment.

But I’m not studying for the ACT to take it myself. I’m studying for it to tutor high schoolers. It’s scary. What do I charge? How can they trust me? I was an SAT kid who never even took the ACT… how am I an authority? Can I guarantee an improvement in score? Can I guarantee anything?

The timing’s not right— we now have a mortgage, I want to save money to have a family (in twelve years), I am getting all of the NOLS work that I want for the first time in my career. But will the timing ever be right? I don’t think so. I don’t believe there will be a time when I feel less scared— scared of failure, scared to move on from life as I know it. The heaviness I feel in my belly will always be there. And I’ll always be able to come up with reasons to avoid taking a chance.

Here I go! And I got my first client today. If a woman I’ve never met trusts me to help her daughter, I can trust myself too.

ON BRAVERY

Yesterday I told my boss that I’m not coming back next summer. I told her that I’m starting a business and that I’m going to write. I explained that I didn’t have the discipline or energy to work the 8-5 job and write in the evening. She expressed excitement for me and my next steps and gratitude for my contributions over the past couple of years. I felt so brave saying the hard thing out loud to her.

The moment I left her office, I saw the hallway through heavy, nostalgic eyes. I was still in the building, but already I missed each smiling face, the hallway banter, spending ten hours a day in the same building as my sister, the warmth of the laminator. At night I went to a co-worker’s house and watched a movie with others from the office. The warmth, familiarity, and comfort felt so good. I love these people. I love my work.

Am I making a huge mistake? I’m lucky enough to have found a job that I’m good at and that I believe in. No one finds that. Or at least not many. Why am I messing it up by leaving?

Conversation after the film moved to a work topic that we’ve talked about hundreds of times. One of the most frustrating things about our jobs— entitelement. The other four in the room started to escalate, building off of one another’s irritation.

There’s the reassurance I needed. I didn’t care. Not in a flippant way, but in a time to move on and try something new way.

So here I go. Feeling scared, which means it’s likely the right move.

On Rejection

Writing is good life practice.

You work really, really hard on something, put your heart on the page, and get rejected. You think you have an original idea and find out not only are there 20 others with the same idea, but they're more qualified to carry out the vision. Or you get really attached and excited about an idea of the next week/month/year and find out that so-and-so doesn't want to partner with you or thinks your work is meh or can't see you as a good fit. 

Again and again and again.

Love, friendship, school, and my career thus far have all flowed into my life joyously. It sounds corny but I can't think of any other way to describe it. I've wanted something, worked hard for it, and boom, it's happened. There have been plenty of bumps along the way, but what's right for me has always prevailed and not much rejection has stumped me. When I've followed my intuition, the path has been one of ease. 

And now I'm writing. Which means now I'm facing rejection. Lots of it. It comes with the job, and I'm learning to love it. I'm getting shut down time after time and I need to find the strength and will within myself to want to keep going. It's a call to resilience louder than running an ultra-marathon or finishing a rock climb. It's a way less comfortable resilience for me to lean into and know that I have deep down. It's forcing me to build a loving shield around myself and be more neutral and unaffected by my surroundings. 

In other words, writing is giving me thick skin, and I feel good in this new skin. 

Bring it on. I can take it. 

On Vulnerability

I feel so comfortable shouting my love from the rooftops. I’ve shared it on the local billboard, made heart shaped pancakes at breakfasts with friends (okay, maybe that one’s a little embarrassing in retrospect), and have published four articles on a popular online magazine about how deeply I love my partner. Writing about our relationship is effortless and fluid. It sounds cheesy, but so much feels poetic in the life we create, that writing prose feels like a gimme. I am so proud of our imperfect, sometimes messy, always rewarding relationship.

After I published the most recent essay about Jake on Adventure Journal, so many people in Lander told me I was brave—to publicly share something so personal, to be vulnerable in front of strangers, to attach my name to something that can feel beautiful and fragile. Really, I’m not. This isn't false humility or trying to feign an air of modesty. My love feels like the most rooted and certain part of my life, as sure as the sun’s rising. I process and work through everything by writing about it. Writing about Jake makes me feel connected to him even when we’re not directly in one another’s lives. It’s not brave. It’s essential, indispensable.

Writing about rock climbing, on the other hand, is terrifying. While being published by Rock and Ice Online is exciting, I am experiencing strong imposter syndrome. What the hell do I know? I'm a writer, a woman who dabbles in twelve different sports and has expertise in none. I have a hard time calling myself a climber. What I do know intimately well is my own experience, so that's what I can share.

Agreeing to be published by Rock and Ice is vulnerable because of my self perception. Sharing it with people in my community who rock climb is extra-extra-extra terrifying. I re-read that last edit 38 times to be sure it felt like me. Even as I write this blog post, I wonder if I'd be brave enough to show my Lander community another rock climbing essay again. Holy smokes that feels so uncomfortable. 

But I think that's where growth happens, right? Right. Right?

#goals

I just spent a week with a dear friend whose mom gave her a notepad with the header "#goals." We laughed about it, especially when our grocery list was on there and it looked like taco ingredients were her #goals. But I think she's onto something. She moves through the world with her goals in mind-- whether professional, personal, or athletic-- with an inspiring amount of consideration and purpose. Emulating that quality is definitely a #goal of mine.  

In many ways, my lifestyle makes me move with intention every few months.  Seasonal work forces me to ask myself the same few questions three times per year: what will be fulfilling, stimulating, and promote growth for me next season? How much do I want to work? What are my priorities?  How do I want to balance time with my partner, sisters, friends, and students? There's space for complacency too (like in any other job), but more than other careers I get to re-evaluate and have input as to where I'll be and what I'll be doing every four months.  

I love that. And I love that I'm surrounded by others who move through the world with intention and seasonal deliberateness.  I love that I get to be the author of my story, instead of a victim of my surroundings.  

I don't love the word or idea of a "resolution"-- implicit is the notion that we need to "resolve" or settle something unsettled.  I am not incomplete or defective.  I am whole and growing and broken all at once. I do love the idea of intention-- of thinking and acting and speaking with thoughtfulness and purpose. Writing is the right medium for me because editing is 90% of the process. Being intentional as opposed to impulsive is definitely something I'm still learning and will continue to work on for the rest of my life. It's a good thing I'm so flexible because I often sit or stand with my foot in my mouth. The medical definition of intention is "the healing process of a wound," which also fits. The idea of gently working towards optimal function. 

We're now nearly a week into the second year of the month. For me there's something powerful in putting my thoughts to paper (screen?) in order to hold myself accountable.  For the past few months I've set intentions at the start (including saying Rabbit Rabbit), and do my best to move towards that purpose over the following four weeks.  

This February, I decided that 1. I will be published twice. Any public forum works. 2. I will meditate 10 minutes/day. and 3. I will continue to simplify by selling and giving away belongings and limiting plastic in my life. There is looseleaf spinach in rural Wyoming, and we don't have to buy non-recyclable clamshells! 

So far so good, but I've got three more weeks of this month to keep working and dancing towards these three. I'll take all the time I can get. 

Happy Birthday VW!

I feel immensely grateful to share my birthday week with some of the most kickass, genuine, and spunky women I know. Cheers to you today, Virginia Woolf, for your authenticity, fire, and feminism. 

the thing you are most afraid of

I love this and I hate this. 

She's right.  I've had so many moments of sweaty fingertips sliding off the keys of my computer and heartbeat pounding through my t-shirt.  Of feeling my guts squirm and protest as I press publish, send, submit.  Processing and writing and sharing what feels closest and deepest in me-- being honest with others and myself about what feels fragile and precious and breakable.  

The content varies. Often it's my love and what feels inexpressible and joyful or heavy and painful. Often it's my insecurities and their demons that hold so much power when they go unnamed.  Sometimes its my parents or sisters or both. Sometimes its my past-- experiences or decisions that are so vivid I can pause mid mental replay and see the print on the t shirts of the background characters. 

In the past two years, I've let my creative self atrophy.  My time has looked like this: field work followed by recovering from field work, not speaking to my partner for months followed by spending 24 hours a day together, working 18 hour days followed by a month off, feeling responsible for the wellbeing of a dozen others and neglecting my own needs followed by dogged commitment to self care.  

I've ignored any commitment and space for making.  A few drawings here and there, a few love letters, a few unfinished essays or short poems. Mild and inconsistent at best or easy and lazy at worst. So I've decided to listen to Ms. Waheed and do the thing that feels scary. I've created a space in order to commit to writing, creating, and trying to get my work out there. This website is a start and a small accountability metric. I've gathered some of my past work and plan to make lots more. 

It's scary, it's exciting, and it's time.