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Pride

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This Pride Month has hit a little bit differently than in the past. We’ve always stood as allies of the LGBTQ+ community, but now, more than ever, we understand the need to defend the rights, the very existence of LGBTQ+ human beings.

I am the mother of a transgender young adult.

I am the mother of a transgender person who is currently transitioning, having started hormone therapy nearly two months ago.

I am the mother of a transgender young woman.

The person known as E will now be known as N, with she/her pronouns. I will not live in the middle anymore. For her, when I speak of her, of her existence, of her as one of my children, she will not be E or he. She will be N and she. I have one son and two daughters.

I am not sorry if this makes you uncomfortable. I’m not sorry if you don’t agree. I’m not sorry if you feel you can’t accept this. I’m not sorry if you believe transgender is something made up, some kind of sickness, some attention-seeking action. My daughter was diagnosed by a psychiatrist and has been under the care of a therapist for over a year now. This is who she is. I will not put your feelings and thoughts ahead of those of my child. Her health and well-being matter to me more than anyone else’s comfort. I will not justify her existence as she is to anyone. She is my child and I love her no matter what body she’s in, no matter what name she uses, no matter what gender appears on her identification.

If you’d like to have an honest, open discussion, I’m willing to engage. I will not discuss what’s happening to her, to her body. Her journey is hers to discuss and share, if and when she wants. I will continue to talk about my journey as her mom.

It is a dangerous time to be a transgender person. It is a terrifying time to be the parent of a transgender person. It is awkward to go from talking about my “son” to now talking about my daughter. It awkward when people ask my how my children are doing, people who’ve known N her whole life and they suddenly are confused by my calling her N and using “she” and “her”. But if she can have the strength to live her life as she is, to have courage to go out into the world that doesn’t generally accept her as she is, want her as she is, then I can deal with the awkwardness of some conversations.

Am I sorry if this sounds defensive? Maybe a wee bit. I already know we have people in our lives who not only know what’s been going on the past year, but they have been supporting and cheering us on, loving our N for the courage and strength she’s shown to live her authentic life as her true self. We are now putting it out into the world, beyond our very-immediate family and inner circle, come what may. I know there will be some (maybe many?) who will not accept this reality in our family, will not accept N as she is. Those can see their way out. Is that harsh? Maybe. But my child comes first, before anyone else’s beliefs or comfort.

Pride hits a little different when some of those letters in the acronym describe your family. Here we are. Take us as we are, or not. I’m proud of ALL my children – my son, and my two daughters.

The 7’s

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I had a birthday last week. It wasn’t a big birthday, and it was relatively quiet. I don’t typically mind having a birthday. As my Daddy used to say, it’s better than the alternative (not being alive for another birthday) and I generally take them in stride. What I have noticed is it’s usually the 7’s birthdays that give me some hesitation and struggle.

It started when I turned seventeen. I was so ready to be done with and out of our very-small town, ready for the next journey in my life. I had one more year of high school yet, and knew it would be somewhat challenging. I’d had some major friend drama the spring before and it was spilling over into basically every part of high school, including the cheerleading squad I was on for my Senior year. I knew academics would push me – I was in the race for Valedictorian and Salutatorian and the competition was rough going. We had another round of SAT’s, college applications, and so on. I also had the internal emotional pressure, sense of failure over never having dated anyone much less have a boyfriend. It made me feel somewhat immature, at the same time I knew there were more important things in life for me to be focused on. I don’t know why I struggled so deeply with that birthday. I still have the whole world, so much life in front of me. But I was in a funk for a few months at least. It was also kind of a lonely birthday – my birthday always fell a few weeks after we got out of school for the summer, and people/my friends were usually gone on summer vacations or busy with summer jobs. Honestly, I don’t remember what we did or didn’t do to celebrate. I just remember I struggled with it.

Twenty-seven wasn’t a whole lot different. I had left home, gone to and finished college, started a career, moved out of my mother’s house (into my brother’s). But I had just the year before ended a three-year relationship I’d thought would be the one that lead to marriage. I felt I was behind in life. Most of my friends were married, or had been married, had children, careers they truly enjoyed, were buying houses, beginning to travel. I had a career I didn’t love, was in debt, living in my brother’s home and nowhere near being able to buy my own home, an unreliable car, a career I did not love, and some health issues that were ongoing. I just wasn’t where I’d expected to be at that point in my life, and here I was now in my LATE 20’s. I felt like I was coming up against a finish line I was completely unprepared for. I just thought I’d be further in life. It made me sad and depressed, lonely, disheartened.

It’s amazing the difference ten years of life will bring. By the time I reached thirty-seven, I was married (and had been for 8 years), we had three children, and had bought or second and forever home. I’d left my career after baby #3. Did I still struggle with turning 37? A bit, yes. Life was relatively good, but aging and thinking about aging is weird. I still felt I’d missed the boat on some of life, had not met my own expectations for my life. But I knew I had a good life, a good marriage, incredible children, a beautiful home, amazing friends. At 37 I still struggled with self-esteem and self-image, HARD. I sometimes felt lost in being a wife and mom. Our lives were busy, and about to get busier, as far as the kids’ school and activities. And, my god, I was going to be FORTY in three years!! It seemed so overwhelming. So 37 was easier than 17 and 27 had been, but still gave me pause.

Then came 47. Oof….that one was so difficult. I was staring 50 in the face. I wasn’t young anymore, and was really starting to feel middle-aged. Perimenopause had begun. Our teenage daughter was driving me to distraction – she was such a challenge. I was exhausted, feeling all the feelings, and just in a general malaise. The one thing I did like about being in my 40’s was learning to not care as much about what other people might think about me. I was better at setting boundaries. I had fewer effs to give, and it was freeing. I still struggled emotionally with the thought of being in my late forties – just aging and the idea of aging.

If you’re keeping track, you may have figured out where I am as far as my age. I will say, this was the first seven I didn’t really struggle with at all. I’m in a very good place in life. I’m happy. More than happy, I am content. I know how privileged a life I lead not just financially, but in the partner I have, the friends I’m surrounded with, my relationships with my children, the things I get to do, and see, and be. I retired at the beginning of this year and having each day be my own for the most part has had a huge impact on my outlook on life. Do I see 60 staring me down? Yep. Is acknowledging I’m in my “late” 50’s sting a bit? Also yep. But I am happier with me. I have even fewer effs to give, and am VERY good at setting and sticking to boundaries. I’ve learned to only spend my time and energy and care on the people and things that give the same in return and have earned it. Aging is still a thing – the body doesn’t look the same, the face has some spots and wrinkles I didn’t used to have, 10pm seems like a very reasonable bedtime, going out after 8pm seems aggressive, conversations with friends of an age now include discussions of our injuries, aches, and health conditions as well as our hormone patches and things we blame on menopause. Friends of my children I’ve watched grow up are getting married and having babies of their own. We are actively planning retirement life (Spouse still has 8-10 years left working full time), and prioritizing travel locations.

Did you have a specific year that always gave you trouble? How are you handling aging?

Missed Milestones

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Lately, I have been seeing a lot of graduation photos and posts. I didn’t think much of it at the beginning – it is, after all, that time of year. But then I began seeing all the college graduation posts of N’s peers -friends and people they went all the way through compulsory schooling with – and it kind of took my breath away for a minute.

N took their last finals at the local community college. It isn’t official, but they have technically earned an AA degree. And that’s where it will end. They have determined they will not pursue further collegiate education. It’s fine. College isn’t for everyone. Not everyone who’s successful in life has a Bachelor’s or higher degree. N hasn’t quite found their path yet, but they know they are done with schooling. They will take a winemaking/viticulture class in the Fall at another community college, but it isn’t for any grade or credit. They are done. To be honest, I don’t have the energy or motivation to push the issue. They are an adult, for all intents and purposes, and we are allowing them to make the decision.

Often, I can almost forget their autism and the impact of the outside world on them. Oh, we see their social delays, anxieties, emotional age that lags far behind that of their peers. It’s just who they are. We haven’t had to deal with it in an educational forum for four years. Seeing all the college graduation photos of kids I’ve known since N was in kindergarten just reminds me our world is not like that of neurotypical kids/young adults. The contrast is more evident when your child isn’t reaching those same life milestones.

We always knew N would have a different path. Somehow, though, I had convinced myself they would reach a point they’d be less “different”, more capable. I still imagined them going off to a four-year university at some point. Over the last couple of years, we’ve become aware that was not a likely prospect. It isn’t off the table completely. They could do it f they chose, with supports of course, especially if said school were far away from home. But they’ve decided they are just done with school. Fine – I get it. I just need to come to terms once again with their journey looking oh so different than many of their peers.

I guess calling this a “missed milestone” infers someone is less than if they don’t go to college and graduate. I don’t mean that in the least. That’s not my intention with this discussion and sharing of where we are. My point is, in spite of N’s autism, I had always pictured them going off to college like their siblings have done, as many of their friends have done. The visual reminders that that will not be is what has hit me lately. It’s another thing N won’t be doing, another sign of their difference.

Side note – WordPress now does “memories” like you’d see on social media apps, linking other posts I’ve written on June 1st over the years. One that came up was titled “Diffability” talking of the time we were flying and N saw on their pre-board pass it was for people with any disability. We had a discussion about that word, and how they didn’t see themselves as disabled. We came up with another word – diffability – as they are just differently-abled, not necessarily disabled. It served as a good reminder for today’s topic. This part of the journey is just another sign of their different abilities, and we will see where this road takes them.

PS – Happy Pride Month!!

Fundamentally

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I have been contemplating grief quite a bit lately. It’s been just over two years since Mom-Mom passed, five-and-a-half years since Daddy died. It seems there’s a theme to my reading this year I didn’t seek out, and yet four or five of the books I’ve recently read deal directly or indirectly with grief and loss. I was having a conversation with another reader about a book I very recently read that dealt very directly with grief and the grieving process – how grief just fundamentally changes us. I’m sure there’s some scientific study out there that may confirm we’re changed even chemically by grief and loss. I haven’t felt the same since that very early morning Daddy took his last breath, nor when I walked away from Mom-Mom that last time, getting that call just hours after I’d said goodbye, told her it was okay for her to go, and left my sister’s house.

I’ve read and heard in various ways we shouldn’t avoid our grief or try to negate it when we’ve lost someone – it is a sign of the wealth of those memories and that love that we grieve them. For me, the process was a slow letting go of knowing they were there for me, just a text, phone call or drive away. But I have been different – so very different – for years now. I still will have those thoughts of, “Oh, I need to call Daddy and tell him about this or that (or whatever I’m seeing/doing/feeling” only to remember I can’t call him anymore, and haven’t been able to for a long time now. The other day, I caught myself wondering what I should get Mom-Mom for Mother’s Day this year. This will be our third Mother’s Day without her.

One book I recently read had a line that made me gasp when I read it, because it said so eloquently what I couldn’t process or put into words in those very early days/weeks of loss. It goes, “but when death knocked at our door, I wanted people to know. Maybe so they could act a little kinder and be more understanding when I stood in the supermarket unable to choose between brands of biscuits, but also because I wanted the pain to be visible because it was all I had left of my mum.” DAMN! (PS, the book is This Book Made Me Think of You, by Libby Page). In another chapter she writes, “My grief is un regalo – a gift. He gave it to me. It is our memories. Our love. I don’t want to put it down. I carry it gently.”

Initial grief for me has been a quiet storm, intense, overwhelming. It kept me separate from the “normal” world, unconnected, untethered. Every little thing felt too much. Even my skin felt overly sensitive. Everything was too loud, too bright, too close. I huddled within myself. Words were too much – seeing them, hearing them, even reading them. Music with words just sent me into a spiral. Movies and tv shows seemed either too silly, too superficial, or entirely too deep and close to the pain I was feeling. The brain fog was so intense, I found myself standing in rooms I didn’t remember walking into, holding things I didn’t remember picking up. I knew to give myself grace and space, but it was so damn heavy. I’d wake, forgetting for a moment, or feeling it had just been a nightmare during the night, only to recall it was all too real.

Time has helped with the deepest of that grief, but again, grief fundamentally changes us. I am not who I was before, and I’m okay with that. I don’t want to be that person, not that she was a horrible person, ungrateful, or mean. I am simply changed. I carry my grief gently now, with memories, with love, by carrying their essences with me. I also try to be kinder and more giving-of-grace when I see someone having a day, or standing in the middle of the grocery aisle seemingly lost in thought while blocking the way. They may be in the midst of those early days of grief. As TJ Klune said in his book Somewhere Beyond the Sea, “it’s okay not to be okay, along as it doesn’t become all we know.” And then Allen Levi in Theo of Golden said, “life would and must go on, even if altogether new and subject to a grief that would be present with every step.”

My grief will be present with every step. I am fundamentally changed. And I know when loss comes my way again, as it will, that grief too will come with me, will be “un regalo” a gift of the life and memories I have/had with that person.

Therapy

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Our family moved from a large city to a very small town when I was ten years old, my sister eight, and my brother fourteen. To say it was an upheaval and traumatizing doesn’t even begin to touch the level of impact it had on all three of us. We know now our parents were doing their best for our family, and I am glad I spent half of my childhood in that small town, but it was very difficult. It took me a few years to feel settled, like I belonged, had my own space and friends. I don’t fully grasp the deep scars it left on my siblings, particularly my brother.

I was just-turned eighteen, and had just graduated from high school when my parents split up. If I’m being honest, they probably should have separated when I was nine or ten (maybe that was part of the impetus for the move – a reset and restart of sorts?). They came back from a weekend away in Reno, had a huge blowout fight – which was extremely abnormal for them as they never fought, ever, in my memory – and that was that. That was the end. Just over two months later, I left for college, a five-plus hour drive away from home. I felt the guilt of leaving, starting my own life to a certain extent while my parents were suffering at home, while my sister was the only kid left at home to endure the fallout.

College is an adjustment on its own. Add the normal childhood trauma, as well as my parents’ divorce, feeling torn between two (or three) worlds, the struggle to learn how to study in an entirely different way, and to accept that school was going to be more difficult than it had been for years, feeling like a failure, in addition to an eating disorder exacerbated by all of the above, and by my second semester of my first year, I was a train wreck.

I was in my tennis class and had the mother of all meltdowns. The instructor/coach pulled me from the courts to a bench in the shade. He said something like, “This seems like more than not being able to hit a tennis ball where you want it consistently.” I huddled into a heap of tears on that bench. No one besides my closest friends knew what was going on at home. No one really had bothered to look deep enough. We were all so caught up in studying, having fun, experiencing life away from home for the first time. At home, it never felt we children were able to need deeply, to show strong emotion. That coach let me cry it out for a good bit, then said to me, “I think you need to talk with someone,” once I gave him a brief picture of what was going on in my baby-adult life. This is more than one person can deal with on her own. He prayed with me (I went to a private Christian college my first two years of school), excused me from tennis for the rest of the day, and sent me back to my dorm room. Later that day, my Resident Director came to my room with a number to call – the on-campus therapist.

That was my entry into therapy. It wasn’t a magic pill by any means, but having someone to talk with, someone outside of my circle/family, someone who didn’t judge me, judge my parents but rather just let me work through things was life-altering. It didn’t fix everything immediately. It would be years before those hurts were more easily managed. Of course, in the way of life, there would be new hurts to come along. Back to therapy.

I don’t know who I’d be, how damaged I would still be if I hadn’t had that coach set me on a road out of that space, introducing me to therapy. I know plenty of people who don’t believe in therapy, in talking things through with a professional. I know plenty of people who don’t think it’s a viable option for them. To each their own I guess. Therapy is work. It’s scary telling someone you don’t know your issues, what’s happened in your life. It’s scary and it’s work, and then you’re given work so you can get to the root of your issues, learn to manage them and/or your responses to triggers. I still encourage people to seek it out, if they’re at all inclined. It saved me.

I’ve spent the past couple of years thinking about that childhood as I try to figure out why I feel the way I do sometimes, my reactions to situations and other people. I haven’t gone back to therapy, but I have taken that toolkit back out I was given so long ago, the things I learned in therapy in college, right after, and as a young mom. There was a situation last week (not an emergency or anything, just a situation) in which someone I know was struggling with something that wasn’t really a problem but more of an inconvenience. They were extremely frustrated in the moment. I knew it was more than just that immediate problem. I also knew it wasn’t my job to fix everything for them – logistically there was no way I could fix it, but even in theory, I couldn’t fix it. But I felt my whole body tighten, my heart begin to race. I recognized my reaction for what it was – my need to manage everything, to make everything perfect for everyone in my life so they’re never inconvenienced or unhappy, and feeling like it’s my failure if something goes wrong for them. I noticed that reaction, and then made myself stay quiet. I wasn’t there to solve the problem for them. I didn’t have to solve the problem for them. They weren’t asking me to solve the problem for them. They just wanted me to be there while they worked through the problem. I made myself NOT try fix it. I told myself their inconvenience was NOT my failure, and I breathed. Thank you, therapy.

Therapy doesn’t make us perfect, doesn’t make us “healed.” It doesn’t make it so we never have bad reactions or emotional responses. It doesn’t make us stop feeling those feelings. It just helps us recognize and then change the destructive reactions. It’s not that I ALWAYS can do what I did in the moment the other day. But it gave me those tools, helped me recognized my own patterns. To that coach whose name I couldn’t recall if I tried, and that first therapist, I thank you deeply.

“Nothing weighs more than someone else’s belief in you.”

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I retired 22 days ago. Still feels weird to say that. I don’t consider myself technically old enough to be retired. I definitely don’t consider myself “old”, and yet here we are. I am retired. In the months leading up to my last day, it felt I was constantly being asked, “What are you going to do?” How does one justify their existence when the children are done being raised, but you are not being productive in the way the world understands ie a paycheck or something tangible to show you’ve DONE something with your time? I knew I would be busy. I knew I had plans. But even those sounded the tiniest bit lame when I said them out loud, even moreso when I said them out loud to successful businesswomen. Was I doing the right thing, walking away from something I’m good at, leaving behind a ten-year career even if it wasn’t a C-Suite type of career (I left that life behind a very long time ago, when baby 3 arrived in under 4 years)?

What plans do I have to fill my days? First, I plan to slow down. For over 25 years, life has been lived at a pace set by others….career, spouse, home, children and all their various schooling and activities, pets, family responsibilities, volunteer responsibilities I’d signed up for. Mornings were a five-alarm fire drill from the moment the phone starting beeping its wakeup call until the children were dropped off, but only to rush me into getting all the things done in the few hours I had while they were at school, followed by the next fire drill of getting them to and from extracurriculars, feeding, herding through homework and bedtime, taking just enough of a breath to get ready for the next day. I still have an alarm set for weekday mornings, but it’s set back over an hour from those busy school days, and half an hour from the past four years, post having children in compulsory school. I don’t jump right out of bed….I allow myself to slowly wake up, clearing texts and emails that come in over night, checking my sleep app, and the weather for the day before rolling out of bed to brush teeth, put on the exercise clothes, start the coffee, and get the dogs their treats and breakfasts before feeding myself. I take time to journal a few lines in my planner most days, play my New York Times games (Wordle, Strands, Connections and the Mini, in that order), and grab my current non-fiction reading selection for 10-15 minutes. I’ve spent the first few weeks of the new year organizing/reorganizing, getting the donation truck here, putting away holidays, celebrating my retirement over a long weekend visit from my bestie. Now I am just settling in to the plans I had set for myself.

I went to our club yesterday to sign up for golf lessons. Spouse is an avid golfer, and I want to at the very least not embarrass him on the course, and keep up the pace of the game. I’ve had clubs and gone out a few times a year for maybe ten years? But I’ve never had a lesson, sooooooooo…..lessons it is! Just waiting to hear back from the club pro to schedule the first lesson.

I have been journaling more in general. It feels good, centering, cathartic, healthy. The house is less cluttered, more clean, than it’s been in years. I have the time every day to wash those few dishes, actually put the laundry away that no longer languishes in the dryer for days at a time (if it even makes it that far). The new puppy is taken outside frequently in a solid effort to get her potty trained. She’s a teacup Yorkie, so you know that is a huge challenge. Yorkies aren’t known for being easily potty trained. Challenge accepted.

The other thing I am doing….I knew I had to put it out there, verbally and in writing, to hold myself accountable. I am writing a book. I am trying to write a book. I am working on writing a book. I feel like an imposter of the highest order, just saying it out loud. I don’t know it will ever be published, but I promised myself when I was young and writing in my very first journal that someday, I would put my words out into the world. My biggest dream was to be an author, a real one. My daughter has known this wish of mine for years. She knows I had pushed off my dreams for career and motherhood. She knows now is the time. She knows what I’m writing about, and she believes in me. I do feel that as a weight, but not in a bad way. It pushes me…..I want her to see her mom live a lifelong dream, whether or not my words ever see a shelf in a bookstore. I have to try. I have to overcome my own fear and insecurity and at least try. Each day I don’t write, I feel the weight of ignoring my dreams and wishes, of shoving hopes down. It’s not just the weight of her belief in me though, it’s that of friends and family I’ve told of this thing I want to do, to be. They believe in me, in my ability.

I don’t know my thoughts and words will ever be published, out there for the world to see, judge, buy. But I have to try. I have to do this for me, for those who believe in me. That’s what pushes me to my computer, not every day, but right now, at least one day a week, to put those words down and craft them into something like a book that hopefully someday people will hold in their hands.

PS….the quote titling this post is out of my favorite book of 2025 (heck, it’s in my top ten of all time), My Friends by Fredrik Backman.

A Small Thank You to the Tism

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My friends with young adult children and I have been talking lately about the things we don’t miss from our kids being younger. Among the things we miss least (or not at all) is all the driving around – school drop off and pick up, and the hauling around to all the various activites/practices/rehearsals/classes/camps. For. The. Love. The time I am NOT spending in the car anymore is so much better spent these days. I’m still thankful for it, and it has been nearly four years since the last time I had to do a school drop off or pick up, and even longer since the last time I took a child to the dance studio, golf practice, or any kind of meet/rehearsal/game.

From the time they were old enough, we had all three kids in all the activities….dance, little league baseball, soccer, golf camp, Y camp, swim lessons. You name it, we did it, or at least tried for one season. The back of my SUV always had blankets, camp chairs, snacks, various uniform parts, water jugs/bottles, and the wagon to haul it all. We essentially lived in the car on weekdays, starting our days with school drop off at 7:45am, getting home from our last practice often around 8pm or later as they got older. I could never finish any projects at home because as soon as I’d start something, we’d have to leave to take or pick up from one thing or another. I felt like my world was in constant chaos, everything halfway done, if I even started it at all – laundry, dishes, cleaning, grocery shopping.

From the age of five until about eight, we had Z in all the activities as well, painful as it often was, and let me tell you, it was very frequently PAINFUL. As Z got older, we began to realize it just wasn’t worth it. We were torturing them, their teammates, their coaches, ourselves, for very little gain. Their peers were outpacing them in ability and size to the point it was a danger to our child. They just couldn’t keep up, and didn’t care to keep up. When it came time to register them for Minor B baseball (coach pitch at the beginning of the season, and kid-pitch by the end), we knew we were done with baseball. That following summer, we made the decision to pull them from soccer as well. Suddenly, they weren’t doing any extracurriculars.

Z is on the spectrum. They also are ADHD, oppositional/defiant, and have executive function disorder, as well as sensory issues. They are also our youngest – they were going to get slightly different parenting as it was. But add in all those other issues, and everything just looks different.

Why a small thank you the Tism? When I think about Z NOT being all those things, and what life might have looked like if they had been neurotypical, I get even more tired. With just two kids doing all the activities all the way through high school, I was exhausted and often overwhelmed. I can’t even imagine adding all of that for a third, youngest kid. It’s not that we didn’t have things for them….when they were first diagnosed on the spectrum, we had weekly therapy, monthly psychiatrist visits, IEP meetings, med checks, on top of all the “normal” doctor, dentist, parent/teacher conferences and school stuff. We did not have two or three practices a week and games on the weekend to add to the chaos.

So, thank you, Tism, for giving me one small reprieve.

“It doesn’t take any talent…”

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There was an interview the other day of a certain pastor of a Christian Nationalist church that’s getting a lot of attention. There are a ton of sound bites. I won’t give him a name or credit here. I refuse. I was infuriated on so many levels watching the interview/piece on this church and its growing following/community. To be honest, I was completely disgusted by essentially everything the lead pastor and his associates – all middle-aged white men, for the record – had to say.

I was born in 1969. In my lifetime, women have gained the ability to have their own checking account, their own credit card account, buy a home in their own name, open a business themselves and own it. Those are just a few things, a few rights we have been granted since my birth. Do I think we’re still figuring our way to really defining feminism and feminist rights, what it means to be a woman in the world in the 21st century? Yes, I do. Our roles and outlooks are evolving. I do not, however, believe that women are and should be “just vessels” nor do I agree with the whole “submitting to your husband” the way this church is currently defining submittance. But that’s not what I’m here to write/talk about today.

This man said, “It doesn’t take any talent to biologically reproduce.” Sir, with (ahem) respect, you’re a fucking moron. I’m going to take it to understand you have zero clues what women go through from the moment their periods first start when they’re teenagers, what happens when we’re trying NOT to get pregnant, when we’re trying TO get pregnant, what happens to our bodies and how we care for them while we’re pregnant, what childbirth is actually like (even when everything goes 100% right, which, to be honest, is rare), much less post-partem and then just being a mom in general. It indeed takes a ton more than biological talent. It takes a strength you’d never have the depth of understanding. It takes a will, it takes tolerance, it takes mental, physical and emotional skills you couldn’t hope to achieve in your lifetime.

But let’s back up a minute…..no biological talent….really? Has anyone you’ve ever known suffered through infertility? A premature birth? A still birth? Do you know what a miracle any pregnancy is, how many gajillion things have to go absolutely right to result in a viable fetus? Seriously dude……We endured 18 months of fertility treatments, granted that’s a pretty short stint in that world. I did EVERYTHING I was supposed to do, endured so many tests and procedures, most of which were painful and invasive. I took fertility drugs that caused all kinds of fun side effects. Then we gave birth 14 weeks early and spent three months in the NICU with our son fighting for his life. But sure, no biological talent.

Do you really think all women are complete idiots who are only capable of reproducing and offer no other skills to society? That is offensive, ignorant, and 1000% wrong. Do you know where you’d be, where we’d be as a modern society without the gifts and contributions of women?

In all honesty, I am a woman who chose to leave her career when our third child was born, to stay home and be a mom/homemaker. It was the best choice for our family, especially given the different needs of a preemie and then an autistic child. But I am still offended, and am allowed to be offended by anyone who says that’s all I was meant to do and be. I worked my way through college, and then twelve years of a career before I became a stay at home mom. Even during the years I was at home, I was much more than a submissive, passive, non-contributing, unworldly woman. I would say that of nearly all women who make the same choices I did, with the only exclusions being the women in this man’s church who believe the BS he’s feeding them.

As a woman, even one whose children are grown, I see this movement as dangerous to everyone BUT white males. The witch hunts of hundreds of years ago….those had nothing to do with real witches or religion, but rather fear of women who refused to dumb themselves down, who would not stay “in their place”, refused to hide their skills, talents, minds. They had everything to do with men who were afraid of those women, and their potential to bring the idea of an equal presence in the world to other women.

Now if you’re a woman who chooses the lifestyle this “pastor” is presenting as viable, go you. That’s your choice. But I will fight with all I have to keep this from becoming the norm for all women. In the words of another recent in-the-news person, “We are not going back.”

By Myself

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I had debilitating shyness growing up, as in, I lived most days in fear and anxiety of people, of having to speak, of being left on my own to fend for myself out in the world. I don’t remember NOT being that way, ever. It stuck with me all through elementary, middle and high school. Oh, I did things that pushed me out of my comfort zone – music, sports, cheering – but that extreme shyness, introvertedness were just part of who I was, bone deep.

When I left for college, I knew I was going somewhere no one knew me. They didn’t know I was that shy. No one there could call me out for breaking my own mold, getting outside the small box I’d created of myself that my small town had only reinforced. I was also in a safe space of a small college, so I decided I would change. I would break myself of that shyness. I would be social and outgoing, I would speak up for myself, I would learn to do things on my own in spite of any fear or hesitation. It wasn’t a quick process, but I took the small steps each and every day.

Years later, when college was in the rearview mirror, I was still taking those steps to push myself….road trips on my own to go visit my post-college boyfriend and other friends, taking myself to Oakland to meet my brother and father at the Coliseum to take in a ballgame, lunches and movies all by myself….I learned to do things on my own, all alone. Okay, that kinda sounds sad but I don’t mean it in a “I don’t have any friends” kind of way. I mean it in a “I am strong, I am independent and I can do this by myself, for myself” kind of way. I had to speak for myself. I had to do all the things for myself instead of relying on anyone else to speak or ask for me.

Does it still give me anxiety? Uh, yep. But I do the things anyways. It’s easier if I’ve been to a place or done an activity before. The more the unknown, the more difficult it is, but I still make myself do it. I’ve learned to speak in public, to advocate for myself and my children, to give my opinion without sounding like I’m apologizing for existing, trusting in my own abilities and knowledge. I take myself out to lunch with confidence. I’ll go see a movie on my own because I can.

Last night, I went to an author talk, alone. Most people were there with friends, their book clubs, their person. I went alone. I bought my ticket knowing no one I knew had one. Honestly, until I pulled into the parking lot at the venue and easily found a spot, I wasn’t sure I was going to do it. It still isn’t the easiest thing to walk into a social gathering, an event, a venue, a restaurant all alone. But I did it. I parked and walked in, sat down in the auditorium while trying to just blend in. I traded comments with a couple people around me – we were all there for the same reason after all, had that one little thing in common at least. I had an amazing time, listening to and meeting an author I adore.

I guess my whole point is, it’s scary to do things on my own oftentimes, but I make myself do them. It pushes me past my natural hesitance and shyness. It stretches me in a good way, and keeps me from becoming the isolated hermit I might let myself become if I really leaned into my tendencies. Get out there – you can do it. Take yourself to lunch or a movie. Go grab a coffee and sit there with your book, even if you have your headphones on. Take the road trip. Go to the author event. Boldly walk in by yourself.

Marks on the Wall

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It’s been nearly fifteen months since Mom passed. I’ve said before, grief is strange and, while universal, is also very personal, and not at all linear. My mom and I were not super close. I didn’t have the usual teenage daughter battles with her, we were just very different people with very different outlooks on life. Mom changed after her stroke – she was much more appreciative, much kinder, much more forgiving – unless you didn’t bring her wine or ice cream when she asked for it hahaha. We grew closer, even though her ability to talk diminished with the damage from the stroke. She spent three months here about six months after her stroke. While those were, besides the three months Big Man was in the NICU, the most difficult three months of my life. They also gave me time with her I so appreciate. They bonded us, they bonded me and my sister as a shared experience.

Mom stayed in our downstairs guest room that happens to have an en suite bathroom. She was wheelchair bound, and while we had one small enough to get through the doorways, that bathroom is pretty small. I ran into the walls and doorway with that chair pretty much every day, multiple times a day, leaving gouges and marks on both. We don’t often go into that room, much less that bathroom, so I forget they’re there. We’ve never fixed the marks. Mom was here five years ago. I don’t know that I’ll ever fix those marks. Part of me really doesn’t want to.

Mom is gone. The marks remind me of her. Even though that time here was difficult, it was a time that healed a lot of things. When you no longer have the person, you hang onto the memories and reminders. I do have other reminders of Mom around, but for some reason, those marks on the wall just hit me every single time, maybe because they hold so much emotion, are caused by a chair that was the result of a horrific medical event in Mom’s life? Had Mom not had that stroke, she would not have been in that chair, would not have spent those three months here – at least not consecutively, and we would not have had that time to become closer, mend some things, develop a better relationship.

I hate those marks, but I love those marks. I miss her.