When I was a young girl, I went to sleep away camp each summer. I always enjoyed it. There were new friends made, lots of skits and songs, crafting and campfires, sports competitions and adventures in the woods. But, what I loved most was getting ready for camp. 

A few weeks before my week or two away, the camp would send a packet about drop off and pick up procedures, medical records needed and my favorites: the programming agenda and a checklist of what to pack. 

I would study both of these lists. I would know the agenda to a “T” (and plan outfits accordingly). Then, dutifully, I would pull together all the items needed, checking each off the list as I went. I loved getting my sleeping bag, my “mess” kit and stationary and stamps for letters home all organized and ready to go. 

I liked the agenda and packing list for the element of excitement of course. It got me all sorts of jazzed about the time away. But, I think there was also something not just fun, but also comforting to me to have a tangible schedule of events and list to move through. I liked to have a guide and a plan. Something telling me, “This is what you are going to do and this is what you need. Follow and understand these lists and you will be all set for the time you are away from your normal.”

But, what I also loved was that studying the schedule, mapping out my plan for each day and packing was something to do as I looked ahead to the unknown.

For the same reasons, I loved back to school shopping and prepping for moving into the dorms, the time before studying abroad, planning my wedding and even baby prep. I loved being armed with a list. Get these things, do those things, and then you will be ready and find success and fun. (Now, if you are seasoned reader you will know that is not exactly how the whole baby thing went down… but, in the expecting part I felt so ready.)

I am a planner. A bit of a rule follower. At times, a worrier and even prone-sometimes- to hyperbole. But even more than all of those, I am a doer.

Professionally, even with all my big ideas, I am far more an integrator than a visionary. Doing things, trying new systems and procedures, studying data to see what works best. That’s my jam.

Personally, I set goals and just do the things to get me there, making the time in the margins of life. Even my “relaxing” looks like folding laundry.

This week, I felt untethered. 

There was an antsy, uneasiness to the point of losing focus. Anxiety? Probably, yes. But… anxiety over the virus? No. I am pretty sure that wasn’t it.

Instead, it was a strange anxiety that something *might* happen (ahem… actual, government mandated quarantine…) and I wasn’t sure how and for how long to prepare. I felt like I needed to do something. But, what? 

All week it felt like, “Here I am. Waiting for instruction.”

Waiting for my list of items needed to check off for the exact amount of time I am going to need them. Waiting for a guide and a peek into what to expect. A tool to let me know what to do to be not over prepared or under prepared, but perfectly prepared.

On Wednesday things seemed to escalate.

There was the first case in our town. There were so many “what if’s?” and “should we’s?” out there. And then everything started to get cancelled and postponed. Including two events I had been working towards for weeks and even our vacation to Florida. All off the calendar for the foreseeable future and, in a time when I felt like I needed to be doing something, everything that I had been doing that had an actual purpose disintegrated. 

Now I really had nothing to do. Nothing to do but scroll.

And, I did.

It was all bad. Every refresh was more uncertainty or something new getting thrown off the books. A couple hours in I even convinced myself I had corona virus because it felt hard to breathe. My lungs felt heavy and tight. 

The night continued and Tom Hanks announced his positive results. Unable to sleep well and reaching for my phone to keep me company while up, I finally said “enough” around 4:30 AM. I told Adam I was going to the gym and then keeping the kids home.

Not because I was scared of germs or wanted control.

But, because I needed to opt out. I needed to get off and away from my computer and phone. I needed to stop waiting. I needed to be distracted. I needed to do nothing.

And, we did. 

We watched Frozen Two. We went to the park and on a walk. We made cookies and dinner. We took naps.

And, I didn’t even know that March Madness was completely canceled until Friday… It was awful- and glorious.

Right now there are calls on social media to do a lot. 

Some crazy. (“How to make your own Purell!”) 

Some good. (“Check on your elderly neighbors.”) 

Some inspiring. (“Issac Newton discovered calculous when Cambridge closed for the Bubonic Plauge…”) 

Some downright outrageous. (I am looking at you color coded daily schedules. Stop giving parents such false hope.)

But, maybe what we should do, is nothing.

Maybe we should stop stocking up on TP so there is enough for everyone who actually needs it. Stop laughing at the “green” momma who picked up some Lysol with no hesitation. 

Maybe we should stop mocking the naysayers AND those panicking. Stop pointing fingers at politicians or making armchair opinions. Stop saying and believing blanket stereotypes about other countries.

Maybe we should get off the phone and TV. Maybe we should consume something other than media.

Maybe we should stop making jokes and memes about the wine or beer needed to “survive” a quarantine because some one struggling with alcohol is genuinely worried about how to be alone with themselves.

Maybe we shouldn’t say a word about working from home and how “hard” it is because it’s no where near as hard as having to choose between the health and the safety of you and your family or making rent.

And, maybe we should stop talking about how “weird” or “crazy” this is because if that is all we have to say about it, we are very, very lucky.

Maybe, just for a little while, we should do nothing.

On Valentine’s Day, I found myself following a funeral procession. I didn’t attend the funeral, but I knew of the man who passed away. You couldn’t not know who he was in our town.

And, I knew that the funeral was that day.

I just didn’t know I would be right there… in it.

I got the kids a little early from school in hopes of having some fun to celebrate the holiday with my little loves and Adam, who was finally home from a week in Louisville. But, on our way home, a Sheriff held traffic at a light as the large funeral procession turned onto the country highway and made its way towards our small town. The final car made the turn and then the Sheriff waved us across the street to begin normal traffic once again.

Except the drive was so far from normal.

It was a whopping 7 degrees that afternoon and many families stood at the end of their driveways as cars slowly drove by. Some people held posters and even a large pine tree was draped with a sheet reading, “Thank you.”

The man that passed away ran the funeral home in our town and the family even lived in a beautiful, old home right next door.

Very “My Girl,” at least in my mind.

But, what didn’t get through in that amazing coming of age story or in Dan Ackroyd, is that this man saw so many members of our community on their worst day. He was right there- right next door. He was a part of their heartache and he made it just a little better. His work was often overlooked and in the background, but so important.

As the procession crept into the main part of our town, two fire truck ladders reached to the sky and, together, held a large American flag. More people lined the street, including the entire fire department. It was impressive and it was very hard not to cry.

But, I had seen this town do this before. A few times actually.

It had been done for a couple police officers killed while on the job and soldiers who never made it home. But, this Americana pomp and circumstance has also been put on display for teachers, young people and now the local funeral director.

When I got home, I told Adam about it and asked, “Were funerals always this big when you were growing up? I feel like we have seen 4 or 5 funerals like this. I never saw anything like this growing up.”

“Welcome to life in a small town,” he replied with a smile, “There may only be 1500 of us, but we all make an impact on each other.”

I thought for a moment.

For a long time I felt strange claiming this small town as my home. If we are really being honest, I still kind of do.

My high school had 2000 students. And, my town had three high schools of the same size. It was completely normal to not know anyone when you went to the grocery store or when driving down the road.

In the early days, people- even good friends of Adam’s- thought I was a little cold when they see me out running an errand or when I didn’t wave back when driving. It sounds dumb, but has just been such a strange new habit to get into to know that you will likely see people who know you (and want to say “hi!”) when you are driving.

The first time Adam brought me here was on 2008’s New Year’s Eve. We were headed to Purdue to celebrate and he had to swing by his dad’s office. When we got to Purdue and the night began, one of his friends asked, “So, Claire, what did you think of Russiaville?”

I shrugged, looked at him and then to Adam, “I mean, we just ran by the office, I didn’t see much of it.”

Adam lifted his beer to his lips and just before he took a long pull, he said to his friend, “She saw it all.”

There isn’t much here.

There isn’t a Starbucks. There isn’t a bar or even a stoplight. But, there are 1500 people.

1500 people that live in community every day– so much so that they wave when driving and pull out all the stops for the funerals. Especially the funerals of those who committed their service to this small town.

Small towns and even the whole middle part of the country get a bit of a bad rep for being isolated. Sure we don’t have public transportation or share walls with other people, two things that- I think- rely on the goodness, neighborly feelings found in living in community. But, we do have funerals like these.

Goodness, love, community and service lives here too.

And, so do I.

This year will mark the longest I have ever lived anywhere. This home that I am in now- the one in this small town- will surpass the length of time I lived in the home I claim to have grown up in.

Note: I say “claim” because… There were a lot of them. So, I feel like in exchange for being the “new kid” multiple times, I get to have a choice.

Before college, I lived in seven different homes in many different cities across the midwest making the question “Where are you from?” still tricky.

Chicago sometimes is the answer because I was born there and that was where we were in many of my years before 10. But, Dublin, Ohio wins out a lot too because it was ages 10-17 and I feel like those were more formative years than those pre-10.

But, these last seven in little old Russiaville may have been even more so.

There has been work and learning done here that is some of the most important I have ever done. Even more important than those lessons in high school and my own coming of age.

There has been care shown to me here that surpasses even some of the care of my early years in Chicago.

It’s crazy, really, because this is the most unexpected place I have been in my life. More unexpected than the Mexican family party I was attended in LA, dancing on the bar on a mountain in Switzerland, in the Dean’s office for underage drinking, washing cars in a dry clean only suit paying my dues at my first job, or crying as I collect called home from Australia at thirteen. (Just a whopping $300 phone call… Thanks, Mom and Dad.)

But, it has been this growth and this love that has made this place my home.

It’s not exactly chic, there isn’t much to do and you won’t find it on a “Must Visit” list. There are part of this town that has room to grow in mind and millennium… But, it’s where I live.

And, it’s also where a lot of people I have grown to know and love live too.

In the last few weeks or so I have felt the “blah” feeling I have come to find normal in entrepreneurship. The “Why do I even care…?” and “What is the point?” and “Maybe I should just go find a normal job…” stuff. I circle back to this place that sends creativity and drive to a standstill (and sends me to waste hours on job boards…) often.

Like, maybe quarterly.

But, this funeral and more importantly this outpouring of straight up love on a day best known for it has helped shake me of the funk.

Because when I dream of growing my company- my biggest, crazy dream- it isn’t about the world at large or a massively HUGE impact. I need to remind myself of this because I get hung up in that thinking I have to serve everyone. I have to be it all and go so big. This stops me because who am I to think that is possible? Who am I do be that person?

But, really when I stop and think about it, it’s about them. It’s about Russiaville.

It’s about providing good food and the families I know and love cooking at home, together. Gender roles and gas station food be damned. It’s about creating safe, rewarding jobs and maybe even someday a fun place to make memories together as community. It’s about being a part of the conversation of growth and what that looks like in so many ways. And, if I reach a little more, it’s about maybe even putting this place- my home- on a “must visit” list.

If you are in the middle of building something like me, know that these feelings and the little voice telling you to quit are normal. And, know that I wish more people talked about this.

If you want to make change, do something creative or make an impact, this spot where it all feels terrible and that you are not making anything worthwhile is a real thing. And, it’s a crusher.

If you have dreams of reaching the masses with words or products or colors and textures or a mission that you feel in your bones that you have been called to share and it feels like you are not doing a thing to make progress, take a moment and remember who it is about.

Most likely, it is about love and the everyday people who are right in front of you. So, go home and love them.

This tiny, sleepy town has been mine for the last seven years. It isn’t exactly chic. There isn’t all that much to do. It’s not the world’s stage.

But, it has loved me, taught me things and made an impact on me.

It is my home.

It is the place I least expected to be, but also first place I put down roots.

It is in the middle of nowhere; but, it is where I found purpose, love, growth, myself and true community.

This place is my greatest teacher and my most epic adventure.

This is my home.

Last summer, I was out to lunch with a friend and our kids. As we settled everyone into the table with the right high chairs and booster seats, crayons and sippy cups, the waitress- with her arms full of water and menus- commented on how cute all the kids were.

We laughed and said friendly a “Thank you!”

The waitress continued to sing praises on the cuteness of our kids joking that we were “in trouble.” And then she looked at Savannah. “Especially with that one, Mom. You are going to have a lot of trouble with that one…” 

Oh, great. Here comes a cliched, rude, sexist comment about boys wanting to date my toddler, I thought. Here comes the “dad better get a shotgun.”

But, she finished her thought with, “… with the other girls.”

I have an unfortunately expressive face and I fought- with likely zero success- to make it not read, “Seriously?”

I looked at Savannah. She is cute. But, I feel like she is objectively cute in the way that all kids are cute.

But, what hit me most in the comment from the waitress was the implied idea that Savannah may have trouble with female relationships because of how she looks. That crushed me.

Society has a way of telling us what female relationships should look like. It tell us that females are enemies, competing for grades, boys, attention and- more that ever- whoever looks the best. 

Just look at any comment section with a photo of Meghan Markel and Kate Middleton together at an event. It immediately becomes a vicious pile of words comparing how the two look. 

Society tells us that girls, especially those who are attractive, are mean and society loves a girl fight. 

Just look at any show on cable, a 2000’s teen movie or talk to the parent of a middle schooler. I know that is the narrative. I lived it and am not proud to say that yes, I have even participated in it a bit.

Sometimes society and even innuendos from history goes as far to tell us that girls couldn’t possibly be real friends.

But, despite my few cocktail fueled attempts at “mean girl,” on that particular day I was out to lunch with a friend that has been my friend for over twenty years.

She was there for middle school and high school. College and post grad and pregnancy. And, through all of it- the hormones, the awkwardness and the desire to be “cool-” all I can remember is her championing my beauty. And, I hope that is what she remembers of me too. 

Not that we were knock out’s. (We weren’t.) Like any other girls from our time, we had bad eye brows, fake tans, choppy layered haircuts, braces and lingering baby fat. 

… Okay, actually just me. I can’t remember this friend with any of those things but braces.

But, still she thought I was beautiful and, likewise, I thought the same of her… because she was my friend.

She was a real friend.

A real, great friend.

She liked me for me, not because of my clothes or hair. We shared our insecurities and laugher over smart humor. We pushed each other to be our best in the pool and in school and tried hard to resist to compete because- at the end of the day- we knew our “best” was our own. We embraced our differences, like how she liked rock and roll and I liked country music, and we recognized we were never going to convert one to the other… and that was okay.

We didn’t always see eye to eye and we challenged each other in good, hard ways over the years. But, still, we loved each other through every success and heartache that has come our way. And, with the two of us, we have seen our fair share of each.

Without this real friendship, and my deep net of so many more, there would be such a void in my life. Far more valuable to me than a size 4 booty, flowing hair, or the whitest, straightest teeth are these friendships.

If females can reclaim anything from what society tells us we should be I hope it is that female friendship is actually wonderful. 

Essential even.

We were made to be connected and we serve each other so well by sharing bits of wisdom from our many life experiences, not just our beauty regime. (Even though, that still can be fun- and valuable- too.) Men are great and in a lot of ways very important too, but a man can’t do what a female friend can. They can’t understand like another woman can.

I wish I told this to the waitress that day who was clearly still living inside a catty, superficial understanding of female relationships designed by a society that lead her to believe this as truth. 

But, there is one gal who will not miss this lesson. 

Through action- my own and my friends- and so much conversation, I will be certain that Savannah seeks friendship… real friendships. Friendships that are not based on power, relational aggression and “attractiveness.” 

And, even more so, she will know that her value is not found in how she looks; but, rather who she is. 

She will be charged to rewrite this narrative from society too and, in that, know that that her truest beauty and value to this world will be found in her ability to laugh and motivate, to be honest, open and kind. 

She will know that- no matter what society tells her- one of the most attractive things of all is a real, beautiful friend.

As always, this blog post can be found on the podcast. After the reading, Claire discusses the friendship showcased in this clip from the Today Show: https://www.today.com/video/meet-the-sorority-sisters-celebrating-6-decades-of-friendship-78227525951?fbclid=IwAR2tHvF-9Ktx9cChrmECXZZJf4xoPIU8xHRn88bMA9tuixJHzppoDpo68Ds

At the end of the year, I took stock on lessons learned and things accomplished in 2019 and my sourdough starter made both lists.

Adam and I attempted to build and maintain a sourdough starter years ago. Like, maybe as far back as 2014. It was… unsuccessful. The bread was dense and never rose. The starter always seemed to be lacking life. And, we gave up on it all together. For years.

But, over the summer I found find myself gravitating towards sourdough focused Instagram pages lusting over beautiful round, gold loaves. I got googley eyed watching bakers score the dough in artful designs that shifted- as if magic- as the bread baked. 

I wanted to do it too. I wanted to make pretty sourdough bread. I also wanted to eat really good, fresh sourdough bread. (With lots of butter and/or super juicy late August tomatoes… but, I digress.)

I came into this project fully understanding that my “why” was rooted mainly in aesthetics; but, the bonus of great food was a supporting factor in my follow through. 

… As things are with most of my endeavors. 

[See also: Adventures in egg laying hens- pretty and yummy fresh eggs; Gardening- gorgeous, abundant vegetables; and, now, sourdough- pretty Instagram pics and #carbs.]

However, like in gardening and raising chickens, what I am finding in making sourdough bread is so much more than just beauty and good food; but, also lessons.

Lessons in faith and life, longing and simplicity and sitting still. Lessons in mistake making, in care and in trying again. Lessons in love, trust, my own instincts and motherhood. I finding all of this in every loaf of sourdough bread.

I ordered a dehydrated sourdough starter on Amazon (as one does these days…). You can make one on your own, but that is what we did the first time and I thought better to go with the pro’s and get their well packaged instructions to come with it. 

The cute envelope arrived full of the well designed print instructions and recipes I desired and I got started right away. I followed their steps to a T- a challenge for this Enneagram 7- but, I did it. 

Again. 

And, again. 

But, every day things didn’t look right. I kept telling myself, “one more day” and “be patient.” I know enough about building and growing something that sometimes it doesn’t look like much for a while.

… Inside, I worried I had killed the starter before I even got started.

Finally, about ten days in, I took matters into my own hands. The starter still clearly wasn’t taking. I pitched the instructions that I had clung to for nearly two weeks and I scoured the internet. I compared notes, studied a few YouTube videos and I gleaned pieces of this and that… and I tried again. 

I brought in new tools- like a kitchen scale, which proved to be key- to help. I found my own method and it took. Every day my starter looked better and better until it was clear it was thriving.

Then, I made my first loaf. 

Ya’ll. 

I was like a proud momma with that thing. I photographed it. I bragged on Instagram about it. And, both Adam and my mom got immediate “Look what I MADE!” texts.

Then, I made another and another. Every time was a little different. Every time I learned something new. 

A few didn’t work out- or just at least not at first. I had to observe the dough, consult with the internet experts, take what I had learned and combined it with that feeling in my gut to move forward. Even if the conditions were not right or it didn’t look right, I would figure out how to get back on track. Every time the dough surprised me with its ability to bounce back. 

What also surprised me? The time it takes to make one loaf. ONE loaf takes THREE days. One time, as I stared at a beautiful ,just baked loaf of bread, the entrepreneur in me wondered, “I wonder how can I scale this so I can sell them?”

You don’t, Claire.

You don’t turn your kitchen into a bakery. You don’t become a bread baker for the masses. Because: 

1. You can’t. Hello? You want to write books, market a farm, be present and fun for kids, pursue that husband you like to smooch on occasion and maintain a day job. You CAN’T.

2. You don’t want to. You don’t want to cheapen this process, scale it or make it a chore.

There is magic here.

It is the same kind of magic I find in gardening and raising babies. All of it requiring faith in things you cannot see. Faith in the process. Faith that the elements are right and ready. Also maintaining, faith in myself, the work I have done, my care and intuition.

And, as with growing babies or tomatoes, raising chickens or raising bread there isn’t clear cut instructions. You can read all the acclaimed books. You can follow all the recommendations and “tried and true” steps. But, this kind of building isn’t like just punching code into a computer and yielding the same results every time. These things are physical. They require attention and observation. The need intuition and even a little moxie. They may need a little course correction, but always will surprise me with their resilience.

Sometimes to do their best, I need to walk away. I need the garden, bread or even my own kids to do things and grow on their own. Plus, I cannot see the work or changes if I sit and stare. But, if I give them a little time and space more often than not, I find something new- and stronger- when I return. In order to rise, the baker has to release control. In order to grow, the gardener must release control. In order to mature, the parent must release control.

And, also somewhere in the rise and growth, there must be hope. The mother, the gardener, the caretaker of animals and the baker must all find the hope and belief that it will all work out. That it will be good.

And, whether it is- or it isn’t- they must also keep the hunger and come back for more.

More growth. More Love. More faith. Another chance to rise and make a little magic.

In September, my mom texted me: “No blog since July?!”

Nope. No blog since July.

And, here we are. Not longer in September or October. But, November. And, no blog.

It’s not that I didn’t have ideas or things I wanted to write about. As an introspective person, I have about fifteen essays rolling around in my head at all times. A blessing and a curse, because this kind of brain activity is exciting… and exhausting.

Speaking of exhausting thoughts rolling through my brain, the past four month’s current events have not been easy. There were the many shootings in August. ICE raids. The climate- literal and political. And, the upcoming election.

Like so many, I wrestled with sadness and anxiety. Fear and concern. Heartache and headaches. Questioning myself to try to understand what are my thoughts and opinions… really? What is best… for us all? How do we move forward… better?

In all of this, the polarized state of the nation and its people has been front and center. It feels like you have to take sides. You are this OR that.

And, one thing that it was clear in all of this was that I am very, very privileged.

When “privilege” first hit the mainstream a few years ago, I found the word hard to swallow. 

I wanted to fight back. It sounded like an insult.

The word brought to mind really rich kids. Like the ones you would see on Super Sweet Sixteen back in the day or in a satire about Greek Life.

I never got a new car with a bow on it, let alone my own car until I bought one with the cash I saved up on my own. To have spending money, I got my first job at 15. I had to work for every grade to get into– and out of- college. I was well studied, practiced and prepared when it came time to interview for a job. As a young adult, I opted out of indulgences knowing I should save my money for something meaningful or for a rainy day. I even planted a garden because I wanted to do something good for the planet… and maybe even prove my ability and willingness to get my hands dirty. 

I did things on my own. 

I even did things the hard way.

And, you want to call this- ME- privileged?

I didn’t understand. 

I didn’t understand for a long time that “privilege” actually only has little to do with money. I also didn’t understand that “privilege” doesn’t equal or make me “bad.”

The little bit of privilege that it does have to do with money was easy to learn. And it was easy to see that, yes. Okay. In fact the way I grew up, even with a hand-me-down Volvo, was a privilege.

But, so was opening any story book as a young girl and seeing illustrated characters that looked just like me. To watch TV shows like Full House, Lizzie McQuire, Dawson’s Creek and Friends and see myself, my family, my friends and relationships like my relationships play out on the screen. I could go pick out a Mother’s Day card and find families and skin tones that looked just like mine and my mom’s without thinking about it.

All my life, I could walk into any room and not receive stares. I could play on the playground or walk into the building with ease. I was as normal as “normal” could be. 

I got to live in a house. A house that valued cleanliness and respected bedtime so we could all perform well the next day. To have parents that not only loved me, but also each other. They advocated for me to be in enriched programming, tutoring, and lessons for sports because they could. They had the time and energy to do so.

Once I started to dip my toes into the “privilege” water, the reality of my true privilege came cascading down in front of me. 

I am so crazy privileged. Even that garden. The one that took- yes, work and getting my hands dirty- but, also time, money, space and care to grow? Privilege.

And, oh my gosh. Just the ability, time and freedom to write and be a little introspective in the pursuit of passions, purpose and joy is privilege. 

So, in the last four months, thanks to books, podcasts and even a few hard, uncomfortable conversations I have gained new awareness of systemic racism, minor everyday aggressions, and my own many advantages. 

It has been good… and crushing. 

There have been times I have wanted to- and have actually- chimed in when I should have just listened. It’s wrecked things I thought I knew to be true… both good and bad. And, been so eye opening.

But, then came something else: Shame.

Shame for being so wrong. Shame for living so long completely clueless. For not seeing these things in our everyday. For even perpetuating some of these things without even realizing it.

Then, the embarrassed, “Oh my gosh. I did nothing to deserve all this!” kind of shame. 

The shame in thinking for so long that many of my achievements were achievements of my own accord, when really they were the success of the community around me. I was dealt a good hand when it came to family. I grew up in a place and time that was built for someone like me. Many of the things that I thought were my own personal successes, were a society in favor of a white, upper middle class, straight, able bodied and able minded, female.

All of this new awareness also led a desire for action. To make change, impact and deserve this life I have by doing good.

But, how?

Advocate? Influence? March in the street? Say and write profound things? Foster kids? Provide jobs? Create a farming program? Run for local office? Give time? Money? Both?

See? My brain has been busy.

On top of everything in the last couple months, my grandmother also passed away. 

As death goes, her’s was the one we all wish for: Peacefully, in bed, at 90, in the loving presence of her kids… with the “I love you’s” said, loose ends tied up and wishes put on paper years ago.

Death is sad 100% of the time; but, as death goes, what a privilege.

We celebrated my grandmother and the life she lived as a family last weekend. It was great. I loved to hear the stories about her life, even the ones that I already knew well. 

She had this photo album that I first discovered when I was in college. It was of her high school and college days. I loved it. 

She attended a girls school and then Carnegie Mellon where she studied music. There she was a Delta Gamma and had a very active social agenda- made very clear in this album. 

Sisterhood events at the lake. Clippings from classmates on Homecoming and spring carnival courts. Playbills from productions and dates. Formal invites for Proms and from fraternities for parties. Her bid day card and thank you’s for her help with they rush events. Love letters from boys at other colleges. Telegrams and small cards from florists noting which of the many men in her life sent what on Valentine’s Day. Even just napkins from a night out at a bar and a bundle of tissue paper confetti from a New Year’s Eve with a young man’s name written next to it.

I loved this peak into her life as a young person. It was exciting. Full of life, love and fun. Different- obviously- to my college years, but also very much the same.

Over the weekend, my mom gave me the album. Now, nearly 80 years old, it kind of stinks and is falling apart. She knew I liked it and she told me it was mine, even if I just threw it away.

I gently turned the deteriorating pages. I studied the images of young people at the peak of their life. Living well. Attending football games and dances. Decorating floats for homecoming parades and sending chocolate for Valentine’s Day.

Then, I read the dates.

They stuck out to me because I had just finished reading “The Tattooist of Auschwitz,” a gripping, true story of the years a young man spent in the concentration camp. (Highly recommend.) The years of my grandmother’s album overlapped with the operation of Auschwitz. My grandmother was living a wonderful, young, white American existence at the same time her peers in Europe were facing beyond horrifying realities.

But, then, there wasn’t social media. In fact, little was known about Auschwitz at the time. It’s even been deemed a little controversial that the Allies did not act, despite reports of it. And, even after it was liberated, the atrocities of Auschwitz received little Western press.

I can’t help but wonder… What was it like to learn about this when she finally did? Did she feel the shame of her privilege? Shame for living a wonderful existence in a time of such pain? Shame for being completely unaware of it? 

Did she feel like me? Like a bit of a jerk for being so clueless? Did she feel clumsy in trying to do better after her awareness grew? Did she also feel called to act?

But, in the years that followed, my grandmother didn’t run for office or speak out about injustice or foster kids.

Instead, she sang.

She sang at church, at luncheons, and in her home for guests. But, she also sang for volunteer organizations around Pittsburg and often for the blind.

It wasn’t playing big as far as action goes. But, was also not shrinking back in shame of her talents, abilities, advantages and privilege trying to make them smaller. That is not, as I am learning in real time, productive or engaging with privilege the right way. 

Instead, it was taking her talents, privileges and gifts out into the world. 

Giving them back to the society that helped shape her, her comfort, her belonging and happiness to making things better, happier, and more beautiful. 

And also, using them to make life just a bit better for the people that are not seen, heard or afforded those gifts or even just given recognition. 

To plant a seed for awareness, compassion and, perhaps, even some change. 

Also in the years that followed, my grandmother shared her love of music with me. We played and sang at the piano. She taught me to love musicals like Mary Poppins and The Sound of Music. In 2018, I was able to see Wicked with my sister’s in law and I cried a little as Glenda performed. Her style, spunk, snark, and “popularity” matched my grandmother’s diva-ness and I thought, “Dang. She would have been perfect for this role.” 

My Grandmother took me to see Beauty and the Beast when I was five years old. In the theater. I was so excited. Hello? Five. Disney. That night out with her will always be a special memory to me.

As it turns out, the music from musicals like Wicked (and Hamiltion and The Greatest Showman…) and Disney films like Beauty and the Beast (and Frozen and The Lion King…) are what I find that both my kids and I can agree on. (These… and Taylor Swift.) And, just this morning, the updated version of “Tale As Old As Time” came across our playlist.

I have heard it a million times. And, I really do love the version with Ariana Grande and John Legend. But, for the first time, one line stuck out and gave me chills.

“Bittersweet and strange, 

finding you can change. 

Learning you were wrong.” 

It was her.

Speaking to me in a song. A song I first heard with her. Answering the questions I wondered all weekend and have asked myself for a while.

It is strange and uncomfortable, but that is what growth is. I need to continue to push through that discomfort. To not spiral in shame and inaction.

It was her telling me to use my talents to plant seeds for others in my community- the one that shaped me, my skills and success- to do the same.

So maybe for you, your talents are as a leader and that looks running for school board to make sure the playground is wheel chair accessible. Or, to have conversations about what can be done to ensure African American students in your district are graduating at the same rate as their peers. 

Maybe, your talent is your selflessness and it is fostering to be that warm, quiet home for a child that has only known chaos and noise.

Maybe you are a talented cook and it’s picking up a cookbook from a culture that you know nothing about in an attempt to learn and understand more.

(Fun Fact: I did this recently with Priya Krishna’s “Indian-ish” and learned within seconds that I had been calling dishes “curry” when curry- in this context- is not a thing. It’s definitely not an Indian thing. I was embarrassed and ashamed that I have said on multiple occasions- even written it here- that I like making “curry.” Now, I know better and will get it right.)

Maybe it’s just time spent in your mind and your past. It’s coming face to face with your privileges and looking at them with a new set of eyes and doing some work on you. To see them for what they are, not as something “bad” or shameful. But, rather decades of a system that perpetuated a reality that lead to advantages for people like you.

For today, for me, it will be with words that hopefully have you think a little more, embracing that you were maybe wrong. And, let you know that seeing that will be strange. Hard even. That is okay. I will write words that will help inspire action and helping you find that you can also change. We all can move forward better… for good.

As the priest welcomed everyone to the rehearsal, I noticed her sitting alone in a pew.  

I knew she must have also been a wife or girlfriend of a groomsman because she was trying- just as hard as I was- to not look awkward, alone, in the back of the church.

The fact that she didn’t have a technicolor tissue paper bouquet like the bridesmaids did also helped.

I sat down in her pew, leaving a good four-invisible-people-buffer between us and gave her a quick smile.  She leaned over and whispered, “Hey.  Which one’s yours?” pointing up at all the guys.

“The tall one, third from the right.  Adam.” 

“Mine’s Adam too!” she exclaimed and she scooted a little closer down the pew, “He’s behind the best man.  He grew up with the Bradley.”

I glanced up at the guys and nodded.

“I’m Allison.  How does your Adam know Bradley?”

“They were fraternity brothers at Purdue.  I’m Claire,” I said reaching out my hand to shake hers.

“You went to Purdue?  Me too! Where do you live now?” she asked.

I hesitated.  

Adam and I were getting married later that month and I had just moved in with him earlier that week.

This was the first time I would tell someone where I lived… and I wasn’t sure I was ready to claim it.  The town was so small and rural.  It was so different than where I grew up.

And, to be completely honest, I was a little embarrassed by it.

At 23, I thought I would be in LA or Chicago. Not in a town with a population smaller than the number of students in my high school. Not in a town that had a weird name and an even weirder pronunciation.

“Oh, it’s a really small town…”

She nodded with a warm smile pushing me to get past my vagueness.

“It’s, um, called Russiaville. It’s near Kokomo,” I said with my voice trailing off as if this was a question, because it kind of was. She probably didn’t even know where Kokomo, the next largest town, was.

Her eyes got wide.

“Seriously?”

I winced.  She knew Kokomo. And, in 2011, Kokomo was far from cosmopolitan.  In fact, thanks to the recession, some argued that it was dying.  As a mid twenties girl who loved amazing food, unique shopping, and culture it somedays felt like the worst place I could be.

“I grew up in Kokomo and literally just moved back.”

________________________________

I didn’t think I needed a new friend at that point in my life.  

I had many friends from growing up and college.  With texting and social media it was easy to keep up. Plus, my job had me traveling often. I would be in Chicago and Indy all the time.

So, while I thought I had lost something in the sense of shopping and restaurants with my move to Kokomo, I figured I was good on friendship.  Plus, at 23, making a new friend seemed like something that just wouldn’t happen anymore.

That was until I met Allison.

She became my newest friend.  My new, everyday friend. 

We got dinner the week after the wedding.  That dinner that turned into another.  Then, into pedicures and double dates with our Adam’s on the weekends.  We met up after work for workouts and/or drinks.  We planned weekend trips and tailgates at Purdue.  She became friends with my friends.  I got to know her parents.  

In this season, my job was cut and, together, we dreamed of business ideas over margaritas. My first thoughts of entrepreneurship being a possibility were with her. She also reintroduced me to volunteer work thanks to her connections in the community, showing me people and parts of Kokomo that were inspiring… and thriving.

A year later, Allison’s Adam proposed.  We talked about wedding dresses side by side on treadmills and swapped Pinterest ideas at work.  She even asked me to be a part of her wedding.  It was an honor and a joy to have that backstage pass to her wedding weekend.  I cried at her rehearsal and celebrated when we woke up to snow on the big day. (The Pinterest inspired wish we both had for her December wedding.)

All the while, I couldn’t help but think how absolutely crazy that we didn’t do this for my wedding. She was not even at my wedding. I did not even know her yet. Crazy.

Soon after they were married, jobs called Allison and Adam away from the city that I just had started feeling comfortable calling “home.”  

Many thanks to my newest friend, Allison.

___________________________________

We did what friends who live hours away do.  Texted noteworthy updates, but not everyday details.  Sent Christmas cards.  Celebrated at baby showers.  But, unfortunately for that time, life and distance got in the way.  We didn’t even see each other when our sons were born.

Three years later, just as both our sons approached their birthdays, Allison announced they bought a fixer upper and they were moving home.

I was thrilled and immediately booked her for lunch.  I could not wait to see her.  We agreed to bring our (little) boys, too.

Driving to the restaurant, I had a lot on my mind.  

It had been a while.  Would we still connect?  What if too much time had passed? We didn’t have a longtime foundation of friendship. We didn’t know each other with braces or in Prom dresses.  Would we be able to pick up where we left off?

And, a little guilt washed over me too. Had I not made enough of an effort when they lived further away?  

I was nervous.

But, I also had more than butterflies in my stomach.  

Just two weeks before I had learned that I was expecting another baby.  It was a little surprising, but so wonderful and exciting.  

It was early, though. And I wondered, “Should I share this with her?”

At lunch, passerby’s awe’ed at our boys, Theo and Hank, as they munched on torn up pieces of grilled cheese.  One cute older couple commented that they could pass as brothers with their matching blonde curls.  

Allison and I ordered salads and I asked about their new home.  They were living with her parents for the time being.  She shared that it was a blessing, but it wasn’t always easy.

It was even harder because just a week before she had a miscarriage.

My heart fell to my stomach.

And, my mind raced.

There were so many things I could say.  Should say. But, no one knows what to say when they hear this news. 

I listened as she shared when the baby would have been- should have been- due date. She told me about the procedures and conversations with her kind doctor.

I listened, but also tried to sort though the many thoughts in my own mind. Do I tell her? Do I let her do the math when I start sharing this news in a month or two? What is best? Is that worse?

And, then she shared how it surprised her how sad it made her.

She shared her truth with me.  She deserved the same from me.

I knew my news would hurt her.  But, I knew it would hurt her to keep this from her, only to find out later and through a happy social media post.

I told her.

I told her I was sad too because I was pregnant. What a fun time it would have been to be pregnant together. To have babies weeks apart and be on maternity leave together. I was so sad for her and Adam and Hank. For the baby that wouldn’t get to experience this amazing family. I was sad too.

I spun my wheels for weeks after that lunch questioning if it was the right call or if I shouldn’t have said anything.  

Fortunately for me, Allison loved me through it.  We stepped right back into our friendship.  Our everyday friendship. 

But, thanks to motherhood and that lunch where we shared more of ourselves that we ever had, we also stepped into something more.

We made play dates and took the boys to get doughnuts on Saturday mornings.  I helped to host Hank’s birthday party since their house was down to the studs.  She babysat for Theo.  Her family visited us at the Farmer’s Market.   She connected with my friends to make my 30th birthday a great celebration.  I added her to the list of people who can pick Theo up from daycare in case of an emergency. 

And, then one weeknight late in the summer, we were invited to their newly finished home for dinner.  

As the Adam’s started up the grill, I asked Allison to show me around.  On the tour, after seeing all the great work they did to the master bedroom, she stopped in a doorway of the extra room upstairs and said, “And, this is the nursery.”

I looked at the room, complete with crib and changing table, and then back at my friend.  

The room was ready to go.

I was a little confused, but also hopeful. I reached out from my own growing belly, grabbed her arm and whispered, “Are you pregnant?”

She nodded as a smile crept onto her face.  

I looked back at the sweet room, then at my friend and leapt into her arms for a hug.  There in that embrace, I said a silent prayer for the baby that would call this room their own.  

As her healthy pregnancy progressed and I neared my due date she sent me a text.  

An everyday text.

“Cute story- Adam and I were talking with Hank about the baby.  We asked if he thought it would be a sister or a brother.  He said, ‘a baby brother.’  Then without missing a beat, ‘Like Theo, Mommy.  Just like Theo.’”

An everyday text, from my everyday friend. 

My newest friend.  

A friend that I came into my life when I needed one the most.  Even when I didn’t think I needed one.

A friend who helped me make my home, my home.

A friend to walk alongside in motherhood.  

And maybe best of all, a friend that has given my son a friend.

His first friend.

An everyday friend.

A friend that will be his oldest friend.

Because, I now know you are never too young- or old- to make a friend.

One of the mornings that I was in the hospital with postpartum preeclamplsia, Adam, with Theo in his arms, shifted to look out the window.  He boosted himself up a bit and looked out even further. He smiled, grabbed his phone and snapped a picture. 

“You have to see this,” he exclaimed, lighting the dark room with his phone as he brought it to me. 

Based on this picture, just outside, three floors below was a little yellow car that look like… a banana.  

It was weird and strange and after a few days of bad news in a dark room Adam thought it might make me smile.

It worked.  

We both giggled.

We imagined who drove this car.  Was one of the doctors? What does this person’s neighbors think of this silly car? Was this the car they drove every day or was today a special occasion?  I imagined the person starting that rainy April day and getting into their banana car just like they might every single day.  Totally normal and routine. No big deal.

Nothing like my life that morning.

I looked past the silly vehicle and through the busy hospital parking lot.  People coming and going, shaking umbrellas.  I looked out to the highway.  A highway I drove all the time.  Cars sped by, just like I had done too many times to count. All without a thought about what was going on in that building.

Then, I would have been going to a meeting, dinner with friends, over to my in-laws or heading out of town.

Now, my life felt like it was standing still. Like pause had been hit on the world as we waited in this period of sadness and challenge.

Except pause had not been hit. Life was still going. The world was still turning. People were still running to meetings, dinners, family and friends homes, the grocery store and more.

And, in a few days, I would be back in it.

Running the same errands. Visiting with friends. All the while, carrying the sadness and heaviness of the hospital stay for months. Carrying it with me out in the world, pushing it down with a smile on my face. Being normal and routine.

The clouds of rain from that day would still be with me, but few would see them.

But, the more I recognize sadness, trauma, and hard times for what they are the more I know we are all followed by a rain cloud from time to time. This is not said to make sad and hard times a “right of passage” or “normal.” It sucks. It uproots your life and everything you thought to be normal. But, still, not one of us is exempt from periods this.

As I write this, people in my close circle are dealing with hospitalized children, addiction to alcohol, babies with life long illness, recovery from surgery, aging parents, divorce, job loss, the sudden death of a spouse and a stillborn infant.

This isn’t just pulling from headlines or social media. These are people in my phone book that I could call and it wouldn’t be strange.

And, it is all happening right now. 

Real stuff.

Real hard stuff.

But, they are still going to the grocery store.

They see their friends and go to work.

Life goes on and they are out in the world.

Their days- seemingly surreal- are completely normal and routine to other people. With their heart hurting and mind heavy, anxious or not all there, they are still doing life out amongst us all.

Here is the thing: My circle of friends is not unique.

Nor was I in 2016.

Let me be crystal clear here… I say this and don’t mean to make these things smaller. I hate that the people I love are facing these life altering realities. What my friends are going through is major and beyond painful; but, it’s not just my friends who are walking these hard times. 

There are people like this out in the world every day.

They are all around us. We see them all the time… But, do we really?

We are quick to get annoyed with the woman moving slow in the freezer aisle. We want to flip off the man who blows the stop sign. We don’t leave a tip for the waitress for being forgetful. We breezily ask what “what are you shopping for?” and assume the customer is super rude when they don’t respond.

But, could she be shopping for what she will be wearing to her husband’s funeral?

Could it be the due date for the baby she lost at twenty weeks?

Could the man have just gotten news that his son was rushed to the hospital?

Could the woman moving too slow at the store be dealing with something? Some thing sad? Something hard?

She could. In fact, odds are that she might be.

Sometimes I find myself getting really introspective, I can’t help but wonder what it’s all about and why this happens. Get me a glass of wine or two and let’s chat about it. Why do these bad things happen? To good people?

And, if the wine is good and my mood is a particular flavor of dark, I go there and I wonder if maybe life is just one big trauma. 

It sounds very doom and gloom, right? I know. Like, all we are here to do is get punched around and banged up?

Well… actually, yes. Kinda.

As certain as there is to be good things in life, there will be bad.

So, maybe life is just… lifey.

It sucks and it’s hard sometimes. It throws curve balls and gut punches. It isn’t fair and it tests us. And, there isn’t much we can do about it.

Sure. Yes, of course! There is therapy. Couples therapy. Groups and more. Good conversations with professionals and doctors. There are so many crazy-smart people working to cure illness and make our world safer, cleaner and happier. Use them and have faith in their expertise.

But, maybe one of the biggest and best things we can do as normal people about this weird, mean, wonderful thing called life… is to keep living. 

To keep going to the store or the meeting. To your friends and family’s homes.

Or, to get in your banana car and hope that it makes someone smile.

To look up and acknowledge someone’s pain on the days that you have it pretty good. To not bristle and assume they are an idiot or lazy. To see them. And, give them a little grace. 

Because out there in this wild world, you never know who may need it.

Either way, at one point or another, we all will.

And, today? It might be one of my friends.

A mini blog because it was too long for Instagram…

Theo is currently obsessed with Toy Story.

Savannah too.

Just this weekend at the pool, Savannah screeched, “NO TWO!” as I counted “1, 2, 3!” reaching for her to jump in. She rattled something fast and toddlerish that took me a few times to understand was, “To Infinity and Beyond.”

This isn’t the only quote we are a fan of. Theo made us laugh hard when he found Rex’s “I am SO glad you are not a dinosaur!” hilarious.

It was so funny that we find ourselves busting it out when we are proud, happy, reuniting, or just trying to make anyone in the family smile.

It’s becoming a weird way of saying “I love you.”

Example: “Hey Theo? I am SO glad you are not a dinosaur!” Cue laughter and hugs. Or “Thanks for refilling my wine, Trost. I am SO glad your are not a dinosaur.” Insert wink.

Theo also spent the holiday weekend toting around my brother’s Buzz Lightyear from circa 2001 that he found at my parents. Watching my son loving on a nearly twenty year old toy really brought the whole Toy Story thing full circle.

I was in third grade when Toy Story came out and we were all obsessed. We were Andy’s age. We loved our toys. I remember marking Barbie and American Girl doll feet with my name just like Andy and many of my other friends did.

Toy Story 2 came out in 1999 and I was 12. A full on tween, loving white eye shadow (Whyyyy was this a thing?), flavored lip gloss, and body glitter. NSYNC, YM and hours spent on the phone recapping the day’s drama. And, I sniffled quietly in the theater during the musical number with Jessie and her first owner, remembering my own dolls. The ones with my name on their feet tucked away in boxes in the basement or up on a shelf in my room.

The third Toy Story took a while to come around and by then I was just out of college. Adam was my boyfriend, but thoughts of marriage were not far away by the time we watched the movie at his home. We didn’t see it right away, being twenty two after all. But, after a couple of thumbs up from friends and family members we checked it out. Probably at RedBox because… that is what you did in 2010.

We, of course, cried in the final scene when Andy gives his old toys to Bonnie, explaining their strengths, importance and impact. Well… sobbed, actually. Because, how could you not?

Though already past college, we were still bridging childhood and adulthood. We were getting our first taste of jobs and rent and not needing to worry about what was on special at the bar because we could afford the drink we actually wanted. There were things we were letting go of in order to move forward. Things that couldn’t come into adulthood with us and needed to be left behind. We sobbed for this.

But, I found myself moved at a different point in Toy Story 3 too.

I know, I know. Tears. Twice. In a G rated movie.

It was when the group of toys finds themselves in the landfill, traveling towards the incinerator, with what seemed like every attempt to stop the conveyor failing. They all looked up, reached for each other and it was as if they said all the things. They were scared, but holding hands they were loved, safe and in it together. Good and bad. To infinity and whatever is in the beyond.

I know, right? Dang it, Pixar.

And, now there is a 4th movie?

Am I emotionally prepared for it?

Probably not. But, of course we will see it. Probably 500 times in a row given our kids fixation on one particular movie at a time…

This is movie that I will enjoy in real time- for the first time- with my own children as we pull the Buzz action figure and the dolls that once were mine out of the basement at my parents. Then, these toys, and the ones in the movie, taught me all about play and growing up. Mortality and love.

Now, it’s their job to teach it to these kids of mine. These kids of mine who teach me new lessons every day about play. Growing. Mortality. And, of course, love.

I am SO glad they are not dinosaurs.

I sat in the all too familiar waiting room at my OBGYN’s office with a tablet on my lap.  I was instructed to fill out the questionnaire on the screen and bring the tablet back to the woman at the front desk when complete.  

I stared at the sample statement, illustrating the instructions for the questionnaire:

In the last seven days, I have felt happy:

A. Yes, all the time

B. Yes, most of the time

C. No, not very often

D. No, not at all

If you were to select B, this would mean: ‘I have felt happy most of the time´ during the past week. 

The statements requiring response that followed read things like, “I have been anxious or worried for no good reason” and “I have been able to laugh.”  

My chest tightened and mind fogged, like they did everyday… then.  

My memory wondered and I was in my living room.  

It was four weeks after the birth of my son.  

Three of my closest friends, all from different areas of the country, came in to welcome my baby.  

I would see a picture of this weekend months later and wonder when it had happened.  They would remind me when it was and that yes, even Megan-all the way from Texas- was there.  

Thanks to the memory jog, bits and pieces of that weekend would come back to me. Including the moment when I looked at my three friends sitting on the floor passing my small baby around.  

It was finally spring, not that I was aware. They wore sun dresses. I was still in maternity leggings and milk stained shirt from a plus sized collection at Target.  They looked beautiful, drinking wine and laughing. And, far more natural than me with the baby.

They looked better-could do better- at this than I could.

And, I wondered, “Will I ever laugh again?”

And, then an even more strange thought with a strange word came to me: “Will I ever sparkle again?”

I felt dull and dark. Hallow, but heightened.

It’s all so obvious now.

Back in my OB’s office, I stared at the tablet.  

This was my second time filling out this questionnaire, but the first time I really read it.  And, the first time I realized just how bad it had been with my son.  

Because, this time with my daughter, my second child- the surprise, oh shit, we never imagined having babies this close together child– it was so different.

I had been happy everyday.  Not once did I cry.  I wasn’t scared or panicky or worried.  I laughed… often. And, while I was not a “glitter is my favorite color” kind of girl (I never had been), I sparkled with the zest for life, people and connection that I always had.

The appointment for Savannah came and went and everything checked out “perfect!” for six weeks postpartum. But still, the questions from that tablet ran through my mind even when I go home. 

 I tried to piece together elements of those dark, hazy, lost, disorienting weeks and I always came back to the start.

The birth of my son was far from beautiful.  Slightly overdue, I was induced.  Told that I had “done a good job” and to “just go over and get it over with.”  After drinking the natural birth Kool-aid, I was crushed; but, never one to make a big fuss, I obeyed the doctor’s orders.

Intervention after intervention was utilized over the course of the next two days, only to find myself whisked into the operating room after my baby’s heart rate skyrocketed while- finally- pushing.  

Swiftly upon arrival, my grey and not breathing son was taken to the NICU and I wouldn’t hold him until the following day.  

Watching someone else hold him first, someone else softly shushing his first tears, and someone else tell him it would all be okay made me sob so hard that the anesthesiologist wiped at the tears on my cheeks with his gloved thumb as they stitched me back up.

My son would check out of the NICU in 24 hours and be fine, but soon I was not.  

Within one day of being home, I called the on-call obstetrician.  

Again, not wanting to make a fuss, but things didn’t seem right. I wondered that maybe I that I might have an epidural injury. They were, after all, the epitome of evil thanks to my natural birth training.

I was curious if it was something to worry about or if I should schedule an appointment.  My body- back, chest and head especially- hurt, my skin was a yellow-grey and my vision seemed blurred as spots and flashes danced in my periphery.  

She told me to come to the ER where they found that my kidney’s were showing signs of shutting down, fluid was encroaching on my lungs, and there was a fear that my brain was swelling.  

I had postpartum preeclampsia.  Something I had never even heard of.  

My husband, watching my stats in triage, texted his mom- a nurse- when my blood pressure reading climbed to 204/110: “What do I need to prepare myself for?”

Four days later, and forty two pounds of fluid lighter, I was released on blood pressure medication that I would no longer need a week later as my body snapped back to normal.  

An always healthy woman, with an extreme medical experience, with new baby with his own extreme medical experience, now both “fine.”  

But, so far from it at the same time.  

“What if’s” left me anxious and the desire for a “do over” clouded the early days.  Fears of death- mine and his- followed us for months.  Questions of “How did this become my story?” and “Why did my body fail me?” filled my heart with sadness. 

 And, always, a pinch of guilt accompanied every feeling because there is no need to make a fuss.

We were fine.

Not everyone gets to say that.  

Fear, guilt. Sadness, guilt.  Fear, guilt. Sadness, guilt. I lived on this carrousel for months.

Did I feel happy?  No, not not very often.

Did I cry? All. The. Time.

Was I anxious?  Yes, all of the time.

Was I able to laugh?  No.  Not at all.

Two weeks later after Savannah’s postpartum appointment, I was back at my OB’s office.  This time to review birth control options, because two babies under two was 1. Not the plan. And, 2. A whole lot of work.  We weren’t going there again.  

But, when I made the call for the appointment, I asked for twenty extra minutes to talk.

Nervously, I explained that I wanted to know more about my son’s birth and all that happened after.  I told her that in taking the the postpartum questionnaire for my daughter, it was clear to me that I had either postpartum depression or postpartum anxiety in some capacity with my son and that I thought it may stem from all that went down.

Quickly and with a soft laugh, I told her that I think I am okay now.  We didn’t need to talk about it too much. I just wanted the medical-ness of it all explained.  What really happened? What does it mean that his heart rate was nearly 200? Was my blood pressure really that bad? How high did it get? Did we almost… die? Or, were we okay all along? I wanted to know if there are things I need to worry about in terms of my physical heath and my son’s. Now and in the future.

She pulled up my file so we could walk through it together and then she gave me what I didn’t realize I wanted.  What I needed.  She said, “Oh.  There is trauma here.  Multiple traumas.”

Trauma?  My inner monologue runs a tad dramatic, but even that seemed extreme to me.  

Plus, I was already pretty convinced I was out of the thick of it. I just wanted physical details. Like, do I have to worry about learning delays because my son wasn’t breathing or could there be damage to my kidneys that I need to look out for as I get older?  (Probably not for both.)

She saw my face, the one that doesn’t like to make a fuss, and said, “Claire.  You need to start calling this what it is. It’s trauma.”  

She explained that things like PTSD and postpartum depression or anxiety can easily be linked in situations like mine and, looking more closely, she was not surprised I had both.  

The more we talked, she affirmed my feelings, validating my fears and sadness, but wouldn’t let me feel guilt.  Just because we were “okay” doesn’t mean it wasn’t trauma.

She pointed me in the direction of groups, counseling and therapists, if I wanted them, and gave me the permission to finally call it what it was.  Trauma.

I thought the haze of it all had lifted well before that appointment; but after just twenty minutes, I walked out feeling lighter than I had in nearly two years.

My best advice to new moms: When it comes to your health, physical or otherwise, don’t make what you are feeling smaller. Speak up. Don’t hide in embarrassment, guilt or shame.  Make a fuss.