The Greatest Fear

There's that quote that's thrown around all the time.

Something about how what we fear most in not failure, but, in fact, our own majestic, glowing potential to do good and be good and vanquish our own weaknesses.

And yes, perhaps that is valid for some people. Maybe one of you harbors a deep-rooted terror of your own excellence. If that is your cross to bear, your own brand of hamartia, then it is real to you. I'm not trying to discount that.

But for me, my shining potential is a million miles away from my greatest fear. More pressing fears include spiders (and any possible spider mutations allowing them to fly), tight, crowded, and/or loud spaces, enduring a Russian prison sentence, accidentally joining a gang, the candiru and the myths surrounding it, getting lost in a city at night, sharks, riptides, people who lurk, any situation that would cause me to be portrayed as a victim on an episode of Law & Order: SVU (which is a great show, but also kind of terrifying), and having to repeat high school.* 

In the grand scheme of things, I think fear of greatness falls somewhere between my fear of choking on a mini-marshmallow while drinking hot cocoa and contracting rabies from a rabbit bite. 

So, no, not a big fear of mine. 

My biggest fears are the stuff of cliches, yet I wonder sometimes if things become cliche and over-used and mocked because they're actually essential human truths that we're too scared to admit plague us because they're embarrassing. Because they reveal too much of our gooey centers and put dents in our glossy, scared-of-our-own-perfection topcoats. 

Isn't everyone scared of being alone? Scared of turning out to be tragically insignificant? Scared of losing what they have?

Hasn't everyone, at some point, laid in bed contemplating how small they are and how infinite the universe is and how totally unfathomably minuscule they are in the grand scheme of things?

Regardless of religion or level of devoutness, we all, at some point, allow ourselves to wonder what happens when we die. What if, by some tragic turn of events, this really is all there is and death is really the end? What if we all end, with the crisp finality of a lobbed-off ponytail, and end up 6-feet-under with no way out?

These are the fears of madmen and heretics, the fears of kings and soliders... the fears of the human condition.

We want to matter. We want to be relevant. We want to be unforgettable. We want, we want, we want. We spend our lives, from our first breath to our last, wanting.

My greatest fear, I suppose, is that no one will be willing to look up from their wanting long enough to see me, really see me, and say, "I see you. I need you. And you're enough."

And I guess I'm also scared that I'll be too consumed in my own wanting to do that to someone else.

I do not fear my potential to be great. I fear my potential to love and be loved. We all do.

So we face that fear everyday.

We learn to look past wants as we decide to see others as we so desperately need to be seen. We love, not because it is easy, gentle, or painless, but because it is something we need. We love because we know the glittering paradoxes of the human condition and know that acceptance is the one thing that cause ease the nausea when the glitter goes to our heads. We love because we are human and because we know we must face our fears.

We love because we are scared, but also because it is the one thing that seems to make us feel safe.

We love, we love, we love. 

Peaches

I know I haven't written in a while. There's a very good reason I haven't. But you're not going to hear that reason because it is boring and sad. Instead, I'm going to get a little personal, if y'all don't mind. I share this not for pity. I share this because I honestly believe it could help someone.

Today, I want to talk about my personal battle with my self-esteem. Ever since I can remember, I've struggled to accept my body, my personality, and my mind as "pretty" or even "normal."The mirror has, I kid you not, reduced me to tears more often than I care to admit. This isn't just an "off-day"type thing-- it's something I live with and fight against every day. And no, it's not like I've never felt "cute" or whatever. I have periods of time that are better than others, months when the girl looking back at me from the mirror is satisfactory. 

A lot of this problem stems from the way I grew up, surrounded by conflict. I was often made to feel that I was the problem, even when I wasn't, but I didn't know any better. I learned that my mother didn't like herself very much, and I felt like she didn't like me much either. We later learned that her self-loathing was rooted in mental illness, and that her illness caused her to project her feelings about herself onto those around her. The first time I remember feeling ugly was when I was in 4th grade. 

I went through a phase in middle school wherein I was convinced I was some kind of genetic freak (though it can be argued that nearly everyone does). Kids told me I had a big nose. I felt stupid almost daily. I measured my self-worth by the number of people that said hi to me in the hallway. An adult once told me that I could be a model if they photoshopped my face out of the pictures. I grew up in this strange state of conflicted logic. Disliking myself was all I'd ever known, so I figured it was normal for me to feel ugly, dumb, and weird. On the other hand, I would compare myself to other girls and think, "If I looked like her, I would be happy," because I assumed that the pretty, smart, normal girls must be happy. As I grew older, I learned that getting attention from boys was where it was at. I measured my love for myself by my romantic prospects, as well as how many friends I had, what grades I got, and how severe my acne was on any given day. 

Then things changed pretty dramatically. My parents separated. My dad and I started talking a lot about my childhood, the way my dear mother's illness had effected both of us, and how we can heal from the damage that had been done. 

I resided in my convoluted logic for years and years. The script I ran in my head told me I was unattractive, stupid, inferior, unwanted, and unloveable. It wasn't until my senior year of high school that I realized the way I felt about myself wasn't healthy or good, and that maybe, just maybe, I didn't see myself clearly. The mental script that I read myself each time I saw myself was harsh, cruel, and perhaps untrue. 

I still struggle with loving myself, but I am making slow and steady progress, but I am a different person than I was a year ago. I see beauty in myself more frequently. I've learned to be gentle with myself, to allow error, and to accept that everyone's a little bit flawed. I've learned that God loves me, simply because I am me, and that He made me the way I needed to be to get the most out of this life. I have discovered unconditional love in places I didn't know I would. I have only just begun to realize my own potential for happiness and love. And I've only just begun to appreciate the girl in the mirror. 

There are two quotes that I adore that I'd like to share. These quotes have gotten me through my toughest days over and over again.

"No one can make you feel inferior without your consent." -Eleanor Roosevelt

"You can be the ripest, juiciest peach in the world and there's still going to be somebody who hates peaches." -Dita Von Teese

Please remember to love yourself... It's worth it. And the more you find beauty in yourself, the more you'll see it in others.

Have a lovely weekend!

x,
   m

Enjoy the Ride

This morning, my dear grandmother passed away. She battled cancer for 8 years, fighting the disease with more grace, bravery, and elegance than I ever thought possible. Everyone who knew her was blessed by her love.

Last week, she expressed her desire to live until Thanksgiving, but her rate of decline made it clear that she had days, not months, to live. So we gathered together to celebrate our own Thanksgiving. The meal was not traditional Thanksgiving fare-- We feasted on ham, toss salad, squash, scalloped potatoes, and two types of Jell-o salad. Everyone agreed that it was the best Thanksgiving meal they'd ever had.

After dinner, we gathered in Grandma's room. She had been bedridden for about a month, and unable to stay awake longer than a few minutes. We talked to her, and though she couldn't respond, I know she heard us. Her bedroom felt sacred. I felt the presence of angels in the room. She woke up to take a few bites, then fell back asleep.

Throughout the night, we all took turns sitting with her and holding her hand, having our private moments with Grandma. My dad, who was in Pennsylvania, talked to her on the phone. My cousins and I sang to her. Being there with her and my dear family was the most sacred experience I've ever had.

This morning, Grandma passed away. She was with my grandfather, her eternal companion. I got the call from my aunt at 9:28. Our family gathered once again to comfort each other and make some final arrangements. The love and support of family is a tender mercy of the Lord. Though this is a time of deep sadness, I can't help but thank God for all the many blessings He's given me and my family. It is beautiful and right that my dear grandmother's death should bring us all together.


Life is challenging and heart-breaking, but it is also sweet. In the turmoil of living, it's easy to forget that each person has the ability to create beauty in their own unique way. Our family, drawn closer by greif-- beauty, created from impossible circumstances.

I know I've said that the last two years have been tough, but they've also been filled with the most tender and radient experiences. The feeling you get when you find joy-- even briefly - in the midst of pain is the purest and most sacred feeling. Living, really living, isn't meant to be easy and smooth. It's meant to take you to the lowest of lows, so you can fully appreciate the soaring joys you're destined to experience.

Gordon B. Hinkley, former president of the LDS church, included the following quote in a devotiona he gave at BYU:

Anyone who imagines that bliss is normal is going to waste a lot of time running around shouting that he's been robbed. The fact is that most putts don't drop. Most beef is tough...Most jobs are more often dull than otherwise...
Life is like an old-time rail journey—delays, sidetracks, smoke, dust, cinders, and jolts, interspersed only occasionally by beautiful vistas and thrilling bursts of speed. The trick is to thank the Lord for letting you have the ride.

And I do. Grandma, it was a blessing and a privilege to be your granddaughter. Thank you for your love of beauty, faith in God, and your always-inspiring example of what it means to be a strong, dedicated wife, mother, and grandmother. I miss you terribly, but I know you're no longer suffering, and that your parents and old friends are so excited to have you with them again. I'll see you in about 80 yeas. I love you.

Grandma, Dad, and Me

Here's to enjoying the ride, cinders, ashes, and all.

x,
   m

Hurricanes

I remember a church dance I attended shortly after turning 14. It was the kind of dance where boys asked girls to dance, and the girls were always supposed to say yes the first time a boy asked them.

I was having a great time dancing with my friends to Livin' on a Prayer, but as the song ended a familiar tune began to fade in. The piano into to You and Me by Life House started to play, the cue for all the girls to scatter so they could look lonely enough to get asked to dance. I did just that. Much to my delight, an older boy wandered over to me and offered his arm. He was at least a full foot taller than me, so once we began to dance, my neck was craned up to him at an uncomfortable angle. We started to chat bout who knows what, blowing through the easy topics quickly. We ran out of things to talk about before the second chorus. As we swayed in uncomfortable silence, I wracked my brain for things to say.

"I like your tie," I said. I'm pretty sure my voice cracked. He graciously avoided laughing.

"Thanks... So... if you were weather... what would you be?"

We looked at each other. What a stupid question, we thought in unison.

"I'd be... a spring day?" That seemed safe. Everyone loves spring.

"Cool, me too."

Then, mercifully, the song ended. I never talked to him again, but I wish I could. I need to change my answer.

You may have heard of heard me talk about John Green before. He is my favorite author, hands down. His novel Looking for Alaska, literally changed my life (I'll tell that story someday). There's a quote in the book that replays in my brain at least once a day:

If people were rain, I was drizzle and she was a hurricane.

I've learned a lot since I was 14. I've learned how to cook, clean a bathroom in less than 20 minutes, break-up with someone, fill awkward silences, and properly apply eyeliner. I've learned that I actually enjoy action movies, and that Mean Girls may be the best movie of all time.

But more than that, I've learned that normal is boring. When I was 14, I thought that being "normal" or "average" was somehow the key to being happy. I tourtured myself over that for years, changing my clothes, my hair, the way I talked, my sense of humor, all to meet some imaginary standard of what a "normal person" would do.

Drizzle is average and boring. No one writes news stories about drizzle. There is nothing at all spectacular about drizzle. It almost seems apologetic as it falls.

But hurricanes... Hurricanes demand attention. They are big and powerful and do whatever they want. Never has a hurricane apologized for itself, never has a hurricane held itself back simply to appease other people. Much like the proverbial honey badger, hurricanes don't care. You know when a hurricane has been somewhere because it changes things, rips things to shreds, turns things upside down.

Now, I know that hurricanes are serious business and I'm not trying to make light of the damage and casualties they can cause. I'm just saying... if people were rain, I'd rather be a hurricane than drizzle any day.

Especially now, when someone I love dearly is fighting for her life against cancer, I can't help but think of the mark I'm leaving on the world. My dear grandma is the greatest hurricane I know. When she enters a room, you know. You can see her path through the world because it's marked with the beauty that she imparts on everything she touches. Grandma turns things upside down because they are better that way-- it's just that no one else would have had the good sense to change it.

I want to honor my grandmother by being a hurricane myself. Maybe I'll get there someday. Today I feel like a heavy, no-nonsense downpour, and that's good enough. But because of Grandma's example, I won't be going back to being a drizzle.

Please keep my family in your prayers in this difficult time.

x,
   m