One More Semester.

This is almost it.

We're in class for one of the last times - finishing up fall semester, the last fall semester of school that I'll ever have. About to present our case reports on Friday. Applying for graduation. Applying to take the boards. Taking pictures tomorrow.
I'm surrounded by my fellow classmates, and it's weird. We've all come so far. 3 years ago, I was freaking out about whether I'd be accepted for an interview. Now, we're all preparing to go to our last clinics in January and exchanging stories about treatment and clinic sites and life in between. The 1st year physical therapy students buzz around us, the second years are practicing for their big musculoskeletal competency, and we are practicing skills that a year ago may have made me scratch my head. Talking updated CPT codes, funny ICD-10 codes, how annoying (or helpful) FOTO can be, and gait training with crutches versus gait training amputees. "Have you learned A-P mobs yet? What about strain counter strain?"
It's all delightfully familiar, and fun, and relaxed. My days have some classes and paperwork to do, but for the most part, the stress of exams, of competencies - is over. We have a clinic full of high expectations ahead of us, but we are ready for the challenge. We are making that transition from student to clinician and preparing ourselves to go out in the real world and be independent, practicing doctors of physical therapy. Next semester we will hear our names called at graduation and then we will go out into the world and live our separate lives as professionals.
My life is so much different now than it has been in the past years. I find I have more time for life skills - for every day things, such as going to see movies or play trivia in the evenings. I can paint during semesters, instead of leaving my canvas untouched for the months of classwork. All of those scary classes and long lists of requirements that I used to stare at, wondering how in the hell they were ever going to get done - they are done. I've finished them. I've run the race. I've jumped over the hurdles. PT school has sucked, it's been hard, but it's changed me. It's made me a professional. It's taken my quiet self and, yes, I'm still quiet, but it's taught me how to talk to patients and act confident and teach and to heal. Soon, I'll have a real paycheck. Soon, I'll have decent health insurance. Soon, I'll have student loan payments. Soon, I'll be managing my own caseload of patients.
It's not "eventually" anymore, or years from now. The future I've been building for years now is soon.
And it's been a long wait. It couldn't come soon enough.

Marriage Can Bring Out the Worst in You.

Marriage can bring out the worst in you.

6 months in, I think that can sound like a horrible thing to say.
"You're supposed to be in the honeymoon phase!" "Just wait until you have REAL problems!"

Well, to that I say - people like that don't know how life works.
Life doesn't care about what phase your life is supposed to be in. It doesn't care if the problems of today are easier or harder than tomorrrows - frankly, they all seem hard in the moment.
And that is where I really started to notice that marriage could bring out the worst in me.

I spend all day trying to help people not be in pain at work, it's hard to find 5 minutes to rub my husband's calves/back/shoulders.
I have time for other people but my most inpatient, worst self can be present when it comes to hanging out around my husband.
Passive aggressively folding laundry not bothering to ask him for help because, you know, I want him to want to help, not feel like he has to help.
Sometimes he tells me the same stories and I grumble about how "I know" and skip to the ending.
I'm sometimes short with him when I shouldn't be.
When a job doesn't work out, and you sit on the couch wondering how you two are going to grapple paying bills with half as much income, and you're fighting to figure out if it's human error or if it's God's will somehow trying to teach you a lesson.
When you're trying to plan your life together, and you realize the sheer depth of what it means to have your failures and shortcomings be the others' shortcomings, and how deeply yours and your spouses choices impact each other - that's humbling. That's hard.

Yes, folks, marriage brings out the worst in you. My worst behaviour is around my husband, and I'm ashamed to say it. There have been times when I am more polite to complete strangers than I am to him.

So, this brings me on to my next caveat before you go thinking "Wow Lacy, you're a horrible person."
Yes, marriage can bring out the worst in you. It's totally true: Every little flaw you found in your friend/boyfriend/fiance before: They're going to be there and if they drove you crazy then, you can bet they'll drive you batshit crazy once you're married. My point though:
I can be a nice, polite, charming person. I can also be a positively selfish, horrid person. My husband literally loves me nonetheless. He loves me the same whether I'm that nice person he met at swing dancing, or if I'm the person bickering at him over some silly, stupid thing that only married people would find it worth their time to bicker about. I literally got in a fight with my husband because he accidentally put my princess dress in the dryer. What's amazing is: it doesn't matter. He shows me Christianly, Godly love daily through his love of me, through good times and bad, and for that, he's a wonderful leader for our tiny family of 2 people (and 5 pets.)

It is so easy to fall in love, but marriage makes you work to understand what the true meaning of love means. It means that, even when you're tired, inpatient, pissed off, short fused: you choose to love instead of knocking the other person down, even if it may be easier to do that. When you are angrier than you have ever been (and trust me, that time will come), you have to literally will yourself to forgive, even though it may seem like that person is the least deserving person in the world at that moment (trust me, they aren't). Sometimes your spouse isn't going to act like a good person. Your job is to still see the good in them. Sometimes it's easy to want to blame the person you're with for absurd things simply because it's the easy thing to do! Don't do that, either. It's not your job to knock them down. The world will knock them down. It's your job to bring them back up. Uplift them.

Marriage can bring out the worst in you. But marriage makes you work hard to be a better person so that you become a better version of yourself than you ever could be alone.
Cast aside the selfishness, the thoughts of "me". Marriage isn't the place for that. This has been hard for me. I'm such a prideful, independent person. I pride myself in having it all handled and doing things just particularly my way. (Maybe it's not perfect, but it's perfect because it's my way). Independent work - independent savings - independent drive - independent, self-made life plan - independent free will. My belongings. My stuff. My choices.
It's easy to be those things or proclaim possession of your things. What's not easy is surrendering your independence in some ways. No, ladies, this doesn't mean you have to become a subservient housewife. It means that you let someone into your life to share those things with you. Our way. Our savings. Our belongings. Our life plan. Our decisions.
It's not easy to swallow your pride and say that marriage is not an always perfect, beautiful fairytale of people who build lives together and go on fun adventures and always agree on what to watch on Netflix and always offer to rub the others' feet and do each other's laundry (lol). But you have to swallow your pride. Because that's how you become better: you set your pride aside, accept that you don't know everything, and you accept the lessons that life gives you. Let life sift you and see if you are more wheat or chaff.

Marriage isn't for you. It isn't about you. And it's easy to spout those things when you're not going through hard times and when you feel blissful and happy. But when life pounds down on you hard, and makes you make hard decisions that impact both of your lives very early on, that is when you fully come to terms with this statement. Hard times will come, early on or in between or later. They will come. They test you and show you your weak points. If you get through them, you learn together. We are married for God's glory here: our marriage is to display that glory. To mirror marriages after Christ's relationship to his bride: the church. This requires harder things of us than we ever imagined, because contrary to what society might tell you, we don't get married solely to make ourselves happy. That is not the point at all. It's to show you a great, powerful, incredible love, full of ups and downs and the decision to weather the storms come what may. That it is so difficult, humbles you to think of how much love God and Jesus have, to so freely give love despite their bride's constant shortcomings.

It's through working to build our marriage in a manner that reflects this kind of love that makes us better people. That teaches us to set our selfishness, our pride, our blame, our pettiness aside, and open our minds to something greater than we ourselves alone could ever have thought of. We do it for God - and we do it because we so greatly love the person we vowed to love forever, our best friend, our closest companion, the one person that will love you despite the good and bad, that will work with you tirelessly and help you become better. You do it because although there are hard times, there are infinitely more beautiful ones. Waking up to your loved one's smile every morning. Sharing in their victories. Driving through the mountains singing songs from the early 2000's together. Being on the same side in an argument with someone else. A dancing buddy. Your Netflix and chill partner. Laughing til you cry together. The inside jokes. Sharing one life together: a life so full of meaning you can't imagine it without the other person.

It is humbling. It is hard. It is backbreaking work, but it can also be the lightest weight to carry when you do it with your best friend. It is fun. It is beautiful.

It's the greatest journey I (we) have ever been on. And I know that despite its hard times, despite my own shortcomings and the bad sides of me: it's making me, us, better than ever before.

Can't Be Perfect.

I can’t speak for anyone else’s life, but regarding myself, I feel as though I may spend entirely too much energy convincing myself that I lead this “perfect” life, when in all reality, there are a lot of aspects about my life I don’t love. Now, there’s a fine line between what I would call this pursuit of convincing myself of perfection – and choosing to be optimistic and happy about my life. I’m a become proponent of leading an optimistic life. I have been through the whole depressed (teenager) phase, and it’s not an alleyway of life that I’d like to find myself going down again. What’s more, I find that it’s simply a better use of my time to focus on the good, the happy, the positive – and to set myself up to operate under a mindset of what I can change in order to make life better, versus moping about what I do not like. I value action so much. When I am distressed, I find myself loathing talks sometimes… they seem so useless. Like, I could be spending this time doing instead of speculating. Talk is nice, but what can we do to fix this now? Activity and action are such a comfort to me. That makes me a bad, inpatient conversationalist sometimes. That makes me harsh sometimes, because I demand action from those I love to ease my own distress. Just ask my husband – it’s not always easy to be around me. And I feel bad about that sometimes, but just find myself thinking that it’s so easy to get caught up and feel helpless in this world where so much is out of your control. That sometimes – it’s simply soothing to focus on what I’m not helpless to change.

But still – it’s so easy to fall into that “wanting to be perfect” trap! It’s all too easy to screen your life through social media, taking photos of the good times, occasionally being “candid” about the things we don’t like as much, gleaming important lessons through these things for the sake of being open and real to an audience, but still reluctant to share the real things about us that make us feel insecure. Man, if I had a dollar for every one of those things, I’d never have to gripe about not having insulin again. This is something I’d like to improve about my own life, but again, I can’t speak for anyone else’s. I just think that we’d save a lot more energy if we were more honest and open with ourselves. Looking at my own life, I can find prime examples of this.

My life isn’t always glamorous. Newsflash – no one’s is. And we shouldn’t stress about it not being that way. And as a result, I get cranky, I snap at people, sometimes I get mean. I get human. I love visiting new places with my husband, going on adventures, but you don’t see the times I tiredly get home after working 10 hour shifts and then I get cranky with my husband and myself as I try and clean for the next two hours muttering about how I clean all the time.

I’m convinced every girl has these thoughts - yeah: Sometimes, I don’t like my weight. Or how I look. I'm constantly comparing myself to others and it makes me unhappy. I’m happier with where I am now – but I used to be a lot skinnier, and with being on insulin, sometimes it’s just really hard to lose weight. Or maybe it’s just me, and insulin doesn’t have as big of a role in it as I would like? Do I like to cast blame on that? That’s an ugly part of me I confront a lot. My husband brought me home a burrito once and I irritatedly asked him to make me a sandwich because I didn’t want to eat the burrito.

I’m 23 and I still spell sandwich wrong way more than I should. And restaurant.

I like to talk about my accomplishments because I’m proud of everything I’ve fought to do. But damn, if I don’t feel like it sometimes makes me a worse person. The kind that forgets to call people enough or reply to texts or have the energy to chat with them when we’re hanging out.  The kind that neglects personal growth or relationships with others in exchange for having a full schedule and trying to climb the success ladder. My ambition gets in the way a lot. The tired days when I feel stretched way too thin because I’ve worked 7 gigs but still have a 54-60 hour work week ahead of me interning. The times when I’m on my phone but shouldn’t be because Kris is trying to have a conversation with me. Sometimes, I need to learn to put the work away and just focus on the now and the people around me. Don’t get me wrong, I’m thankful for the work, but a lot of me seems way too caught up on trying to accomplish things, to hang successes on my “mental” wall. It lets things slip through the cracks on accident sometimes. The other side of the coin I get lazy after working a lot and end up procrastinating on assignments, or not calling customers quite on time., or being late to things I said I’d be on time for.  Life is just hectic!

My walk with God – I forget to trust him all the time. I rely on myself too much. Don’t like to give up control of my life. I’m stubborn. Kris and I are now (thankfully) getting back in the habit of going to weekly church. Not just podcasts. It’s good for us.

My internship has got me down a lot this semester because I’ll be honest: A lot of the time I just don’t feel good enough, or smart enough, or charismatic enough to be a good PT. Sometimes I see patients and I’m trying to treat them and I have no idea what to do. The stakes are higher when you’re dealing with real people. Sometimes they tell you stories so sad you go home and sit in silence just thinking about the weight of those words. Sometimes you feel like you’re never going to get there, you’re never going to be that good. Sometimes I feel like I’m not making a big enough difference, especially with difficult chronic pain patients, and I feel as though all my schooling has gone to waste. Did I choose right? Am I in the right profession? Will I be satisfied with it? Is it truly my calling? Maybe it’s healthy to constantly question things. Maybe. I’ve questioned all of these things in my pursuit of finding career fulfillment.

And Diabetes… that’s the worst of all. I want to you to think that I’m in control. I want to be. But I’m so insecure and bad at the Diabetes thing somedays. Somedays, I let my blood sugar run high… sometimes I just don’t care enough. I let it run high for two weeks recently. I shouldn’t have, but I did. I’m too tired to deal with it somedays. Yes, I know the complications that can be a result. But burnout is a real and unfortunate thing that all of us diabetics succumb to sometimes. The insulin store in my fridge is getting lower than it’s ever been and I need to figure out how to get more soon. But part of me is afraid to go see someone for it because what if they yell at me? Tell me I’m irresponsible because I haven’t seen a doctor in over 2 years now? No insurance – no time. Fear and disappointment over knowing I likely can’t afford a visit and the monthly insulin anyways. Maybe I just didn’t order my priorities correctly these last few years, and I should have tried harder to get insulin.

Bottom line – none of us, least of all me, are the perfect person, the perfect wife, the perfect worker bee or student, the perfect Christian, or diabetic, or whatever you may be. We all have slip ups time to time, and they can be extremely irritating. I think it’s good to take step back and focus on the bad along with the good sometimes though. Healthy for us. Helpful to remind us how to become better people and prioritize what we want to change.

I've Worked All Throughout College, Partly Because of Need, Mostly Because I'm a Workaholic.

Ever since I was a little kid - I wanted to be a princess like my mom. My mom would come into the office dress in silky light blue, hair curled in wisps around her face, black choker around her neck. I'd always ask her, "When can I be a princess?" To which she said, "Once you get your braces off."
Well, getting my braces turned out to be a long, drawn-out, 5-year procedure that involved many awkward years of school photos.

I remember my first party: I was 14, it was a glamour party, and I was able to help with the stations and getting kids dressed while my mom face painted. I had been practicing my face paint skills with my mom for the past year, and I couldn't wait to get out and start doing parties myself. I started doing princess parties, my first princess being the classic "Blue princess" aka Cinderella. "No eyeliner," my mom would say, as I got ready. My mom or my dad would still have to drive me to parties, but that was okay. The first party I ever drove myself to was an Ariel party. My mom made the balloons for me, because I couldn't twist yet. She got me a little Aquacolor face paint kit - it was tiny, like the size of a colour pencil box, but I loved that kit and was constantly practicing face painting on myself. I wanted to be good at this. I wanted to be a princess. I was proud of the work, too - I've always been a saver. I saved my first $1,000 from the time I was 12 years old, because I literally saved every bit of money that people would give me for holiday and birthday gifts. I'd meticulously save up the money I made from princess parties, not touching my bank account all through high school. (I was spoiled, of course, I didn't pay for rent or for food unless I went out. I whined about paying for gas for my truck. I wish I only paid for gas now!)

I spent 3.5 years working for my mom in highschool. The work was perfect for a highschool/college student - only on the weekend, the occasional day care during the week. It made (Better) money than a part time job you'd work all week, with only two days of work. I knew in Senior year of highschool that I was going to move up to Macon when I accepted my letter of acceptance to Wesleyan college. I talked with my mom about taking the plunge into getting my own gigs up there. Even if I only got one, two, four jobs a month - that would be some extra income I could use for necessities, food, even for fun. It was perfect. Except, I was terrible at talking to people! I dreaded phone calls. I advertised on a website called Gigmasters and I clearly remember that first summer. Gigmasters sends bids that clients submit to vendors. Once you submit your bid, it is helpful to call potential customers in order to try and book them. I acutely remember submitting my bids, awkwardly calling people I'd never met or talked to in my life and asking them if they wanted to book a face painter/princess (now balloon artist!) My mom had taught me a couple of simple balloon animals and I also took it upon myself to watch Youtube to learn more and build up my balloon animal portfolio. Terrible as I was on the phone, I managed to book maybe two or three gigs over the summer. Fall rolled around, and I started school at Wesleyan. I remember one excited afternoon where I managed to book three gigs in a day - and two gigs per weekend that August! I was so proud of myself for doing it. Gigs started to become more steady - I'd get jobs nearly ever weekend from then on out. Occasionally, my mom would take calls for me and book events. But, I started consistently placing bids for clients, calling them, writing up invoices, taking photos of my costumes, practicing balloons. I wasn't new to doing parties - I was new to entrepreneurship, but gradually, the calls started getting easier and easier.
I learned a lot of things the hard way the first year or two. Such as, take deposits - before you end up driving all the way to a party and getting cancelled on! Some people, I'd call on the phone, and they'd yell at me! Some people were just plain awkward to talk to.
But I learned, and soon started a steady stream of business that kept me working each weekend, and I'd have to take weekends off to go visit home soon enough. I started getting good reviews. Booking more. Buying costumes. Regularly ordering supplies. Talking on the phone like a pro. The business that was supposed to only be a one to four gigs a month type thing, turned into a full blown, steady stream of weekly business with 3-6 gigs a weekend. Weekdays were filled with calling potential clients between classes, doing invoices, practicing more balloons. I started advertising on some more websites. Getting better clients, bigger gigs, regulars.

The entrepreneurship and the love for what I did made me a workaholic. I loved saving up more and more money from my gigs - I was still very meticulous with saving. I loved starting to explore Georgia, seeing the state. And the fact that it was in my own hands just... I don't know, it made me assume this kind of responsibility that I felt blessed to have at my age. Running a business is hard, and it's frustrating, but it's incredibly fulfilling and gives you incredible freedom. Doing events changed my personality from someone timid and introverted - to someone still introverted, but someone that could be extroverted, that could be driven, that could be a go-getter. A business woman. I loved that title. I loved the work. I couldn't have done it without my mom, and I've been incredibly blessed for that. I couldn't have done it without the gift of my truck from my grandparents, and I'm so blessed for that, too. I'd like to say I did it all by myself, but that's a boldfaced lie. I'm still proud, though. Proud that I took those gifts and made them into something sustainable.

Give a man a fish - feed him for the day. Give him a fishing rod - feed him for a lifetime.

My mom never coddled me. Once I was out of the house, I was on my own. Even in highschool - if I wanted things - I paid for them. But my mom gave my something that I will always attest is infinitely more valuable: She gave me the skills and the tools to become a business woman, and for that, I will thank her more than I ever would have been able to had she just given or bought me things. In metaphorical terms, he gave me the fishing rod that made me a fisherman. This business has shaped my entire personality as a woman: I am fiercely independent, I live and breathe capitalism and free economics, I love researching tax policies, and I have a damn good work ethic. I've seen different cultures, developed a love for people of all backgrounds, all races. Shared in their joy at different events. Made little girls giddy with joy over their favourite princess coming to visit them. I've been to beautiful houses in rich buckhead - wealth I could never imagine - I've played the chicken dance with a birthday girl in a wheelchair in the middle of a rainy pecan tree farm in a crowded trailer. I've taken events for deaf children only to be told, to my shock, that I'm the only vendor who was willing to accept the gig. I've learned the art of people, and that's an invaluable lesson that has helped me in physical therapy. I don't worship money, but I value it for the hard work that it represents. I understand the value of it now that I've worked for it for years and years. I value the independence that saving money since high school has given me. I am not rich, but I am comfortable. I live sustainably. I am self-made, and I revel in what that freedom and knowledge has given me. To me, working gives me the freedom to do what I want when I do take time off. I can go out without worrying what my bank account balance is. I can buy nice things. No, I don't have insurance to allow me to get insulin whenever I want, but I take comfort in the fact of knowing that I have a cushion in which I know I can buy insulin when I need it.

Of course, there's a dark side to all that, too. Going through college, I did take it too far. I'd skip out on important events, or work holidays, just for an extra dollar. Friends/significant others would get mad at me for that. I was stingy for a long time before I learned balance. And what's more... I fell victim to a lot of jealousy, which is something I do not say proudly. I love that I work for all of the reasons I've stated above. But I would get jealous, watching friends be given money, or taken on shopping trips with their mom. Their parents giving them money. I shouldn't have, but I did. How come they were just given these things, while I came home Sunday nights, back aching and drained from events? I would brush people off as lazy, many times unfairly. It was so silly of me to get jealous of petty things like that - but for a long time, I did. I did get too obsessed with chasing the dollar and working, and I knew it. Even when I had saved up enough that working on weekends wasn't always necessary - I found it hard to turn down gigs and still found myself working weekends, missing dinners, being late to things I'd promised I'd be at. I skipped out on a lot of college events - candlelighting/alumnae ceremony at college, pep rallies, the like. I found myself working for the sake of working, unable to turn down people requesting me to work their parties. I'd pledge days off to people and then cave and book something at the last second. I almost killed myself in a car accident on the way to work one day. I've gotten tickets because of speeding to gigs. The idea of having no money in my bank account scared me, and I literally slaved through weekends and even skipped classes a lot just to work gigs to ensure that never happened. I'm not brilliant, but I consider myself reasonably intelligent, as I've been able to get good grades all throughout college. Before I worked every weekend, I had incredibly good grades in college - I'd make a game of memorizing the study material after reading it multiple times and see how many 100's I could get on exams in class in a row. Tests were easy. At Wesleyan, I would take a good grade - but a lower grade - in exchange for working. No, it wouldn't be the highest grade I could have gotten if I'd studied weekends. But I took pride in the fact that I could still get the grades I needed while working. In grad school, I took it a little too far - I probably needed to work less, study more, because I was distracted and the school work was harder and I made the mistake of thinking I could coast. My grades did suffer. I had to cut back on working.

If I could go back and teach young, budding entrepreneur Lacy, anything - it would be to chill the f*** out. Maybe not sacrifice so many experiences and holidays. Drive slower. Study a little harder, work a little less. Rest... don't take only one day off per month. Don't be so stingy with money. Never put money and work before relationships and people. These are all lessons I've had to learn the hard way, and I'm glad I've learned them, but I wish I had known them before. I'm a workaholic. I have my reasons for being so, and my party business is one of my proudest accomplishments. I've had so many gifts and firsthand insights into the human experience, and I'm so wealthy in those experiences, so blessed to have seen what I've seen, to have lived what I've lived. I find purpose in what I do, it's hard work, but I would never have put myself through all those long days if I wasn't passionate about the work I was doing. My advice to others? Obvious, of course - don't be like me and make work the first thing in your life. But, value your accomplishments, and value to merit of a hard days' work. Use the tools you've been gifted with, whether it's a skill your family taught you, or something else. We, as humans, are so incredibly capable and we are built to do things we never thought ourselves capable of. Work will always be hard - but if you love it, you'll find it worth it. Do something that makes you grow as a person. You are capable of more than you give yourself credit for, if you push yourself. You've got the tools to make it. Work hard. Love life. Be a fisherman.

INFJ.

I feel like any comments about one's personality test should be prefaced by "yes, I know, personality tests are not the end all be all." I'm totally okay with this - it's unreasonable to expect that the billions of unique people on this planet can be oversimplified into a few letters. Since I was younger, though, I have loved delving into personality tests. We love anything that gives us an opportunity to understand ourselves better.

I know that personally, I am not exempt from this category - I was that kid that never felt like they "fit" in anywhere. I preferred to have one or two close friends, which I have always been totally content with.  Trying to keep up with several friendships is draining to me. I didn't like small talk - I have always preferred deep conversations about faith, politics, books or philosophy. I'm quiet. I'm slow to get to know people. I enjoy social events, but I don't like to stay at them long - they drain me, and I prefer to sit in the corner at them and find someone to have a conversation with. I like to have long drives alone to think and listen to music. I like to have thoughts in the form of ongoing dialogue in my head - and frequently stare off into space, just thinking. There's only a handful of people I feel as though I can be myself around. I'm extremely private - I'm very hesitant to open up about my private life and share information. It doesn't mean I don't like someone if I don't share with them - I love to listen to other people's stories and life details, but I can only open up on my own time, when I'm ready, and there's only a few people I have been able to do that for. I feel like I've lived almost my whole life in this little bubble of isolation, and it's not just a matter of just learning to be extroverted - it's not that simple. It's just a fact of life for me.

As a result, my introvertedness and extreme privacy meant that I wasn't ever the popular kid - a fact that I've known and voiced since second grade. Second grade me was a little sad about this, but had no idea what to do about it - I think she realized it was useless to try and fit herself into a round peg when she was obviously a square, unable to change the person she was. So, instead I learned that I didn't want to be that person. I liked people - I wished I could connect with them more - instead, I found a couple people I could connect with, and spent the years teaching myself to be content with the fact that I have to work with the personality type I was given.  I was nerdy, I would read at sleepovers (and any time, really), and I liked to follow the rules. Me trying to fit into popular social constructs made me end up feeling like I was an actress who was on stage and suddenly couldn't remember her lines. Frankly, I feel that I'm kind of weird. I've struggled with communication and self confidence for a lot of my life, and much of my college career has been spent attempting to improve these two qualities so as to make myself successful in my current and future work life. My personality makes me the type that is extremely satisfied by working for myself - I have worked for other people in the past, but I have always made children's entertainment my primary form of income, and it is the work thus far that has made me feel most fulfilled. I love the freedom of working for myself, booking events, savoring a hard days' work and mixing my creativity and love for people/happiness into my work while being able to build financial freedom for myself. I've always felt a little boxed in working for others. It's this same mindset that makes me feel relatively confident that I can be successful as a home health physical therapist. This isn't to say I'm only happy working for myself, of course. I value purpose and meaningfulness: I can find meaningfulness in anything that helps people in some way, and truly, I have been able to rationalize all of my current and past jobs into fields that have been meaningful, and thus fulfilling, to me in some way.

Despite learning to be content with my God-given personality, my feeling of "weirdness" made me desperate for anything to explain why I was the way I was. I took the Myer's Brigg at the start of my sophomore year of college for class - and there was my personality, "summed" into four letters - INFJ.

My Myer's Brigg test obviously doesn't define me. But I was thankful for it, because it made me feel that I wasn't crazy to be the way I was. "The idealist," or "the advocate", my personality type claimed to be "rare", making up only 1 percent of the population. My mode of living is focused internally - that's extremely accurate. My internally focused life has always made it difficult for me to externally express myself. I have always had an easier time of expressing my thoughts on paper, and I love to write. The way I grow is by taking quiet time to reflect and jot down my thoughts. I've kept a journal since 2nd grade and it's been pivotal to my sanity, I think. When I was diagnosed with Diabetes, part of the reason why I took it so hard was because Diabetes, a chronic illness, seemed like yet another thing that made me feel personally isolated from the rest of humanity, or at least the 99% of people I didn't seem to click with. That's part of the reason why I started this blog - it's taken the place of my journals for the most part, because I wanted to have some window through which I could try to explain what life with a chronic disease is like. And it's a hard one, in many ways - because Diabetes is an invisible illness that makes it very easy to underestimate the grave psychological as well as physical impact it has on people who have it. This blog also became a challenge to me - trying to take my introverted self and express myself in front of other people.

I'm old enough now to understand that no matter what my attempts, I'm not going to just wake up one day, connect with everyone and become a social butterfly. I have learned to be more extroverted when I needed, but that's never going to really be me. It's taken me a long time to be okay with that, but this post isn't meant to solely be me griping about my inability to fit in and have effortless conversations. If there's anything that my (almost) 23 years have taught me, it is to be thankful for who I am. I'm thankful for my internal-focused life - it has helped me to delve into writing and art, it has pushed me to educate myself through literature and to strive for furthering my education. It has given me the opportunity to have had some great conversations with people and to build very meaningful, true and lasting friendships, and connect to those who I am friends with on a deeper level. It has helped me to be a dreamer who has the push to turn her dreams into action. It has prompted me to spend time focusing on the human experience and learn how to feel empathy. It has helped me build a very stable and positive emotional mindset, to pursue a well-balanced and healthy life, and it has encouraged me to be in constant reflection of myself, which has helped me to grow.

Any fellow INFJ's out there? Do you feel that your Myers-Brigg helps explain your personality type? I'd love to hear other people's thoughts!

Two More Semesters.

Monday marked the start of my last fall semester of school - ever. It also marks two years since I began my Doctor of Physical Therapy program.

Uhh... where to begin?! I can't even begin to describe how changed I feel. Part of me looks back on my clueless 20 year old, 1st-year self and cringes. Was I really that bad at answering those questions? How did that subject matter not make sense? Why was I so bad at practicing and applying myself? Things that used to seem like Greek to me now seem so much simpler. I can rattle off transfer skills and how to treat different joint arthroplasties and perform a Tinetti from memory - things that would blow the mind of first year me. Shy, tepid, super unsure - I went into this program not knowing what to expect. And, admittedly, struggling a good bit. It took a lot of tired, sleepless nights, tears, and anxiety to get to where I am today. It took a couple of kicks in the rear for me to realize what was at stake, and how much I needed to step up my game. I came out of undergrad tired and worn out - and, what's more, used to coasting in a lot of my classes - and arrived to Grad School grossly underprepared for what was to come. Looking back, I don't feel proud about that. But, all you can do with the past is reflect and learn... right? Learn I have.
I cannot believe I'm finally almost there. All the competencies, exams and practicals... the comprehensive exams - some days, most days, it felt as though it was all too much. It felt like an impossibly long road, to traverse the 5 academic semesters to clinic.

I remember seeing the third years coming back from clinic as a first year, and they seemed as though they knew so much! Now, I don't feel like I know half as much as I thought people in my position would know, but I know I've come a long way. I still have so much to learn as I begin my internship in Outpatient physical therapy next week, but I am excited. I really feel as though clinic prepares us to make the transition from student mindset to professional mindset. There's something different about gaining real life experience as opposed to learning in a classroom. The lecture on G Codes, severity modifiers and function limitations actually made sense today since I had experience billing and coding in the hospital this summer. Last spring, I would have been lost. Furthermore, it has been actually fun to go to work, get my busywork done and then go home and enjoy life. Sure, some days I have school to do - but it's nothing like juggling 18 some-odd credit hours while, staying at school all day and then studying and practicing skills and doing assignments the remainder of my free time. For the first time in a long time during my career as a student - I have the joy of being able to learn in school, but to freely enjoy my life. Enjoy life with my new husband. Exercise after work. Make plans with friends. Go out for a drink. It's such a new, novel concept to me - to be able to have a little free time to throw around as I please. And I am looking forward to spending my life like this.

I am excited to see these changes in me that have taken place. I went into my first clinic struggling for communication skills and confidence. I still have work to go, but I feel so much more comfortable with my ability to interact with people and I am starting to feel like I know what I am doing in this huge, wide world of physical therapy. I grew to love the patient interactions I experienced - hearing their stories, feeling empathy for them, troubleshooting problems.

I am excited to see how these semesters are changing me out of a student mindset that I've built from starting college at age 15 - to the mindset of someone who is going to enter the workforce in less than a year now. The long, stretching road before me that seemed as though it would last forever in undergraduate - the counting down, but having so many semesters to go - they are drawing to a close soon. And I feel like I am a runner who has hit their runners' high at this point, because I can't express to you how long I've fought and how hard I've sought to get here. Ever since I was a girl, I have dreamed of the day I can support myself. I have dreamed of it as I have gone through school, struggling to obtain medications for diabetes, not being able to afford a Doctor, struggling for a better life for myself. Sacrificing my weekends to work to save up money instead of partying or sleeping in. Striving for the day when I could finally finish this race and be successful. For the day that I could be Doctor Mason: PT, DPT.

I know that the next two semesters - and the boards - and, of course, post-graduate life - will be tough, and have their own challenges. But this semester, at least right now, it's nice to revel in the fact that my school years are starting to wind down to a close.

91.

There was a time in my life in high school when I thought I weighed too much. That's so silly, really - I weighed less than than I do now. But summer of my Junior year of high school, I decided enough was enough. I became obsessed with the thought of losing weight: getting back to my gymnastics weight, fitting in all my old size 00's. I think a lot of ex-gymnasts struggle with this - one day, you wake up and realize you aren't all muscle anymore, and on top of that, you don't burn food like you used to. It started off harmlessly enough: living at my friend's house that spring. I started shrinking my food portions. I'd go biking every morning and follow it with a swim. Go for a walk in the afternoon. Physically, I was healthy enough. Mentally, maybe not so much - I wrote in my journal every day. Sad, angry entries, expressing frustration over my life. Angst over a boy. Hurt over family and divorce, my belongings in a storage unit with my mom's. Some was teenage angsty stuff, normal enough - but a lot of it expressed a heap of sorrow and hurt that I didn't realize had such a great impact on me. I lost some weight.  5 pounds. I felt like people didnt take me seriously when I told them that - just a high schooler on a fad. I'd show them. I moved into my mom and I's new home. It was quiet there; a little secluded from a lot of my friends. I lived my life in that little room in that house. And I decided I still weighed too much, even though my size 2's and a lot of my size 0's finally fit comfortably. I, depressed ex-gymnast living in near isolation, was a prime candidate for an eating disorder.

My diet shrank, still harmlessly enough, perhaps. 1500 calories. I found a track behind the local middle school I could walk or bike to. I began to visit it 5 days a week. I'd run 10 laps, setting up an interval schedule. I was still self conscious about my body. I'd wear one piece swimsuits. I reduced my diet even more - 1200 calories. There was no one around to tell me otherwise, so I kept on. My mom was out of the house working majority of the time, and I couldn't drive. Isolation was easy... and key to eating healthy and running regularly. When I ate out, I chose salads. Snacks were fresh fruit. I felt guilty if I ate pizza or ice cream. I bought two bikinis. "You'll look great in them, with a body like that," the sales rep told me. I didn't believe her, but I smiled politely.

It wasn't enough. Eventually, my diet shrank to 600-800 calories a day. It was easy to do that, being homeschooled with a two day a week college schedule. Oatmeal in the morning. A 40 calorie ice cream bar in between breakfast and lunch. A sandwich and apple for lunch. Chicken and some green vegetables for dinner. If I wanted something sweet, I'd have another ice cream bar... or a single M&M. I didn't recognize that I had a problem, not really. People commented on my weight loss. Some told me.not to lose any more weight. I'd covet those statements. I didn't want to go out and hang with my friends because then I'd mess up my diet because they'd want to go out to eat. I didn't want to do that. It morphed into the need for control of my life - control I felt I didn't have elsewhere. It morphed into a way to take my frustration and depression out on me in what I could skew as a "healthy" outlet, even though I knew deep down it was hurting me. And me, being depressed, kind of liked that it hurt me. Even though I still told myself it was "healthy". "Lacy will never be fat," one of my friends told me one day. I smiled with inner satisfaction. My size 0's were getting loose. I lost 10 pounds during summer camp; hiking 10 miles in the woods, swimming all day, cutting down on carbs in the meantime; I relished it simply for the weight loss aspect.

By the end of the summer, I'd lost 25 pounds. At 16, I fit the same clothes I had worn at 12. People couldn't believe I'd had 25 pounds to lose in the first place. My size 0's were big on me. I wore a belt and put them in the dryer after washing them so that they'd fit on me. Finally, I was stick thin. 100 pounds. Finally, I was happy. School started, and my diet remained the same. I'd still run. Fall came around. One month, I didn't have my period. Couldn't that happen if you lost too much weight? I checked the scale at Publix. 91 pounds. I got a little scared. I guess I can't really lose any more weight. I thought. I never let myself lose any more weight than that. But the impact of that summer has followed me. A love-hate relationship with food; being picky about eating out. Not choosing the unhealthy options. I've calorie counted every day since I was 15, just like I carb count now. I pick at food, just move it around, subtly throw it away if I think it's too unhealthy.

Eating disorders come in all different shapes and sizes. For post-athletes, they can hit hard; it's hard to have once had a great body, and been able to eat anything you wanted, and then gradually realize that you can't eat whatever you want anymore when you aren't working out 4 hours a day 6 days a week. It can cause you to feel like you've lost part of your identity. It can lead you to desperation to maintain who you once were. That's certainly a component of this story.

Why else am I telling this story? I guess because diabetes has been an interesting experience for me because of my past history with food. I grew used to denying myself the food I wanted. Skipping the dessert, hard as it was. Eating low carb on my self-inflicted Atkin's diet that I'd basically began 2 years before I was ever even diagnosed with Diabetes. Watching my food like a hawk. Unfortunately - once you get used to doing those things - old habits die hard. I'm still dealing with a lot of residual issues when it comes to food and weight. Yes, being diagnosed with Diabetes was hard. It's hard to follow a diet by choice, but then have to follow a diet not by choice - the loss is still real, and I was bitter towards my disease because of that for a long time. I'd never had to physically count carbs before, just kind of "guesstimate". With Diabetes, if you're on a food to insulin ratio like me, it affords you a lot more freedom that giving insulin for a specific amount of carbs and specifically planning your meals to have that amount of carbs at specific times of the day doesn't, as you can imagine. I basically eat what I want - within reason, because it's easier to manage diabetes on a low carb diet and uses less insulin - and then I give insulin in a ratio that is 1 unit of insulin per every 5 grams of carbs. As you can imagine, this makes being precise very important. So, I've had to learn that. In hindsight, I wish I'd treasured my freedom more leading up to my illness. Wish I'd treasured food more than hating it. The reason I didn't notice I'd shrunk from 110 to 89 at the same of my.diagnosis was because I was on another dirt - granted, a more controlled one- and I assumed the diet was working. Not that I was losing weight from illness.

But frankly... some days, I'm thankful for diabetes, and that's old high school me coming out. Because sometimes I like an excuse to have to eat healthy. To not feel like I have to justify myself for getting the diet soda or the salad, like I had to do in high school. There are plenty of more reasons to hate diabetes - insulin makes you gain weight, and losing weight can be hard and more complicated with insulin and diabetes. Needles suck. On top of that, as a diabetic privy to the world of social media, I've spent a lot of time researching a condition called Diabulimia - a condition where people will purposefully not take insulin in order to run their blood sugar high to lose weight. Because, you see, Diabetes untreated, in addition to wrecking your organs, ruining your eyesight and sensation, destroying your kidneys and other unpleasant side effects, essentially starves your body of nutrition until it wastes away. Cue photo of me in high school just prior to my diagnosis. I thought I looked nice - but I was also 89 pounds and didn't know it, because I'd stopped weighing myself on a scale long ago because of my unhealthy predisposition to obsess over those numbers.

It's been a hard road, learning to enjoy food again and still manage my Diabetes, and then learn to change my diet around Diabetes again and again, trying to fine tune it. I need some carbs - otherwise my insulin will make my blood sugars too low. I can't eat to many - my blood sugar will get too high. It's been hard to learn how to be healthy and not hate food at the same time. It's been hard to not let myself learn to re-hate food because of how diabetes impacts my diet. I have dreams about my used to being able to eat and not give insulin. And frankly, those dreams make me sad. It's even been hard to occasionally ignore the temptation to not give myself insulin - almost like letting a meal not count.

But I've made a lot of progress, leading up to my wedding this past May and onwards. Working out using Insanity with my then-fiance now husband. Biking instead of driving to the grocery store and restaurants, or even just for an evening outing. Choosing healthy options to eat, but still treating myself out. Exercising portion control. I've dropped a few pant sizes - but I also know I'm never going to be that 89 pound girl again right there, and I'm not going to fit into my 00's anymore. I finally bagged those up and got rid of them this year. Because, eating 600 calories a day while working out isn't healthy, and neither is having your blood sugars run so high that your body starves itself. I'm also not going to be a level 9 competitive gymnast working out 24+ hours per week ever again. These days, I work out - I hydrate - and I'm a healthy, comfortable size 2. High school me would have scoffed at that and considered size 2 next to fat - but high school me was also extremely unhealthy, and I have to remember that. Whether it's biking, hiking, insanity, or simply walking to play Pokemon Go - and eating well without starving myself. I'm good at choosing healthy food options and eating well (I've had years of practice, I've just had to learn to incorporate it into my life in a healthy and balanced way). My blood sugars aren't always perfect, but they are well controlled. Learning to be healthy, mentally and physically, has been an ongoing road since ending my time as a competitive gymnast - and a reinvented one since being diagnosed with Diabetes. Taking care of yourself is work, and it always will be - it's all about making your health a lifestyle. Looking at where high school me was, I'm a lot healthier, mentally and physically, than I once was - and grateful.

The Throwback Thursday Playlist

I put on Spotify's "Throwback Thursday" playlist this evening and was hit with a surprising wave of nostalgia. I forget how powerful music is; its instant ability to take you back and bring back old emotions, memories, states of mind. I feel too young to be nostalgic about music from 10 years ago, but there it is: I am.

Music from 10 years ago brings me back to hot, sweaty afternoons in the gym as a gymnast. Waking up at 6 for 8 am practice during the summer: 8-1, 5 days a week, all summer. Running miles in the heat for conditioning. The ankle sprains. Being so sore I could hardly climb steps or get out of bed the next day. Roller skate days on Friday. Overcoming fear: learning to backhandspring on the balance beam. To do a roundoff backhandspring back layout with a full twist. Fighting tears over how hard doing 200 pushups was. Listening to Over my Head by the Fray and Kelly Clarkson on the radio. Eating Campbell's microwaveable soup in the front office before gym practice after middle school. Having to make up an entire semester's worth of Biology in 2 weeks my first year of homeschooling because I procrastinated.

Music from 6 years ago brings me back to my high school/community college days. Fresh faced and 15: taking on Valencia community college, now Valencia college, for the first time. Being so nervous my first day. Treating myself to a chocolate chip cookie once a week between class; finishing homework in the library. My distaste for college algebra. Laying in my bed at night as a teenager; daydreaming, looking at my glow in the dark stars. Playing my favourite songs Penelope by Saosin and Syndicate by The Fray before I fell asleep, thinking of all of my hopes and dreams. Counting the years until 18 because my angsty self didn't want to live at home anymore. Spending Saturday afternoons or off-school days researching graduate schools for physical therapy, trying to plan a future that seemed so far away even my imagination couldn't decide what it looked like. I was a kid who hadn't even applied to real college yet. Whose parents still drove her to school. Still hoping for my first boyfriend. Writing in my journal every day, in my impeccable handwriting that has only worsened over time. Pants too big because I didn't eat enough.

This was all pre-diabetes, when I was free to eat what I wanted. Pre insulin shots, pre callused fingertips. There's post-Diabetes too, but I've got a lot of blogs on that.

I remember the day I left home for the last time as someone who lived there. 17 years old. My old white Ford truck was packed to the brim for college with all of my wordly belongings. I remember the brown dress I wore. And I had far too many clothes and T-shirts. I remember my excitement about the road ahead; and surprisingly, almost a lack of understanding over how monumental this event was in my life. I'd never live at home in that little blue house in Apopka, Florida again. Never more see the glow in the dark stars light my ceiling before I closed my eyes. Sleep in my little silver day bed I'd had since 4th grade with my canopy pulled close around me. No more girl: I was growing closer and closer to a woman, the one I wanted to be.

Two years ago? That takes me back to a time that I am now celebrating the anniversary of: It's two years since I've moved to Atlanta. And how life has changed! The song of that August was "Rather Be", and "Cardiac Arrest" by Bad Suns. I remember packing all of my belongings in my stuffy, too-big and too-empty apartment in Macon... thinking about the dreams I had dreamed as a girl at 15 and how I felt like so many of them were broken, expired. Left to dry out. Now, I was packing up the remnant of those dreams in cardboard boxes, waiting for my move to Atlanta like a swimmer longs for a breath of fresh air as he swims to the surface from the deep. I didn't know what I was in for with PT school, or with life.
Young me learned so much those first few months. I discovered my favourite coffee shops, my favourite Kroger, and my favourite spot: a secluded spot in the middle of Glenwood in East Atlanta. I discovered the joy of a glass of wine at night as I turned old enough to drink. Fighting traffic to get to school in the mornings... and the hour long commute to get home. I discovered swing dancing: at first, it was just to impress a guy, but I watched it become so much more through the coming months.

These are parts of my life that are settling; they have cemented themselves into my memory, like bricks on the bottom row of a wall that lay the foundation for something bigger to be laid on top. I'm still young, but I've grown. These 22 years of mine, I feel that they have lived a lot of life in them. I've experienced my share of sadness, of heartbreak, of disappointment. Of joy. They've experienced a lot of forced responsibility. Of struggling to learn how to make it on my own; on struggling with a chronic illness; of struggling with loneliness, and the burden of mistakes I've made. I've seen myself come through dark times and come through them stronger. I forget I have a lot of these memories sometimes, but they are buried in me, deep inside - sometimes, evidently, they only need some songs from 10 years back to awaken them. And I'm glad I have them. I'm glad for where I came from, even if it saddens me sometimes. There's so much joy in where I came from, too. More than enough to balance it all out.

Transitions.

When I was a kid, I remember watching my parents walk into the gas station (because debit cards weren't as common) to give the clerk cash and turn on the pump. I remember being so intimidated by this - it was like I had stage fright for the real world. I was too scared to ask anyone for anything. It went the same for drive thrus, too. I would watch my parents order, giving them my order - trusting them to convey this to the employee at the window.
Occasionally, my parents would make me give my own order. Or make me ask a clerk for something. I would dread it. My cheeks would get red. I'd quietly state my request, then look to my parents for help.

I think of me then - a little kid - and I look at myself now. If little me saw the life I led today, she'd wonder how I do it all. How I got there. Do you ever look back at yourself and wonder the same?
I guess the answer is, transitions. Life is a constant string of transitions from one stage to the next.

Some slow. Some put you on the spot, and force you to grow. Others happen without you really even noticing it. My life has transitioned to this point - gradually, all of these responsibilities have piled themselves around me, and I have had to adapt and assume the challenge, or fail. I remember all of the times I've had to grow. Crying at my kitchen sink Senior year of undergrad, questioning all of my life decisions. Stuck in a limbo where I didn't know where my life was going. Feeling all of the changes around me making me grow - but bending under the weight. Senior year was probably the pinnacle of forced growth for me - I was working 4 jobs at once, I had gotten in a traumatic car accident, bought another car, had that car die, and then bought another car - was going through a breakup - and I had been put on a waitlist for graduate school. I didn't know if I could do it. I was depressed. I remember scrolling through my newsfeed, and a bible verse from Phillippians showed up. "Do not be anxious," it said. I know my shortcomings: I get stressed too easily. I'm not the best communicator. But I know I can bounce back from anything: I guess that's a gift I can own up to. I'm determined to the bitter end. I'll play a chess game I know I'm losing and refuse to go down without a fight. Sometimes I need reminding of this - but when it comes, I'll roll with the punches, and I'll get back up again.
Atlanta was a transition, too. But all that time, God was helping me grow, piling on more responsibility and teaching me that I had a deep well of strength from which I could draw from.
I am who I am because life has never stopped changing and forcing me to grow.

It amazes me just how strong we as people are for doing that, because it's not just me - it's everyone. We all had to fight and fail and conquer and try to get to this point. And whether we are happy with ourselves or not, we face more and more responsibilities each and every day. New roles to play. New challenges. So much to do.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,   

But I have promises to keep,   

And miles to go before I sleep,   

And miles to go before I sleep.

One of those new roles I am recently learning is that of a wife. And let me tell you: It's the sweetest, most wonderful role I think I've ever had to learn. People ask me a lot now, "So how do you like married life? Do you find it any different?"
And yes, of course, I do. In the obvious ways. We share a bank account now. My name is different. It still feels weird to say "Lacy Mason".
 I nag at my husband to do chores - and he keeps having to redo the dishwasher dishes because I load the dishes in wrong.

In some ways it doesn't feel different, because my husband was my best friend before, and the same applies to now. We still go on adventures, we hike, we cook together, we drink coffee. We do all the same things we did. But at night I get to call him husband, and that's the sweetest name of all. Being married to Kris just feels right. And I don't say that just in a gushy, newlywed way - I say that in a very honest one. Because life is hard. And life has been hard on all of us.

When Kris was transitioning from one job to another during our engagement, that was hard. I sometimes wondered some nights how on earth we were going to pay for a wedding, on top of furnishing our future home, one top of the normal, day to day expenses. When I get way too stressed out about not having adequate means to obtain Diabetes supplies, or school, that's hard. Diabetes is a big problem. And now it's not just my problem - it's Kris's problem, too. It's a problem he chose to assume when he married me. And I think that's pretty amazing.
We've both made slip ups, but we are there to pick each other up. It's true what "they" say - marriage isn't hard. It's life that makes it hard. But at the end of the day, we're there to face life together. It's amazing how marriage works - two people come together and willingly take on each other's problems as their own. I don't feel like a very selfless person at all. Deep down, I know I sin and I know my heart can be jealous and selfish indeed. But looking into the eyes of the man I chose to marry - the man whose accomplishments I share, whose troubles I share, whose life I share - I feel a bond with him. A selfless one. Because I will take his burdens on as my own and I will gladly face his - our - troubles - right by his side. Just as he will face mine.
It's been a whirlwind 7 weeks facing life with him, learning the new roles and responsibilities that being a wife entails. Transitioning. And it all feels different - but it feels just how I know it's supposed to feel. It feels right.

Our Wedding: Blog 1

Wow! It's been a week and a half since Kris and I's wedding, and I'm still in awe of the incredible outpouring of love and support that family, friends and complete strangers have given us! Our wedding day was quite simply, the best day I've ever had. It was the day I got to marry my best friend, and I'll never forget it. It will take a whole blog (if not more!) to rave about our wedding and how wonderful it was. And how wonderful marriage is. A whole blog (or two)... that will be saved for a different day. This one is about actually getting to that day.

It was a tumultuous trip to get to that day. Wedding planning is stress, as I'm sure anyone that has planned one knows. Getting the venue was a rush - trying to visit places to tour their venue before anyone else booked the dates we had in mind. Trying to find a caterer was one of the most stressful things - and the most expensive. Doing your registry. Stupid little things - like tablecloths and flower arrangements and if I want the garter toss or bouquet toss first. And what kind of skillets should I register for? What colour towels? Thankfully - I had a lot of help from my family and friends for those "little" things.

And then there's people. Don't even get me started on guests. I love every single one of the people I invited, don't get me wrong. But if you're planning a wedding, be prepared for some pretty heartbreaking cancellations. On the forefront of those cancellations is one that really upset me more than anything. Yes - I'm okay about it. Yes - I've talked about it with others (and it's helped). But yes - it still hurts, which is why I'm doing the cathartic thing and writing about it.

My dad cancelled the day before my wedding.
My dad and I don't have the best relationship. I've always loved my dad - when I was a kid, my dad hung the moon for me. My parents haven't been together for a long time, but I remember the excitement of weekends I got to spend with my dad, watching my fill of cartoons and eating cheez its until I was sick. Selling art for $.25 to my siblings and their friends - my best (and only) customers. My dad would let me set up my Barbie tent on the bed so I could sleep on it. When I got older, I saw my dad less. He moved away for a long time. I didn't see him for two years. I prayed for my dad every night those 2 years, missing him. One year, he came back. I was in middle school. In high school, we drifted apart because of some family drama.  But my mom and I had moved right down the road from him, so in the last three years of high school, I still got to see my dad a little more. Things got strained over the years just because of some wacky family dynamics. My dad missed a lot of milestones in my life. But he made it to others - one of my ballet recitals. My Phi Theta Kappa induction. Senior prom. (One) of my graduations - my graduation from Valencia Community College, right before my high school graduation. Sometimes, my dad would drive me home from school. Once, he drove me to Georgia. He was usually 3 hours late, but it meant the world to me that he was there. Sometimes, I'd get cards for birthdays - sure, they'd be labeled wrong ("Happy Graduation!") and 3 months late, but they got there.
But once I moved to Georgia for my Bachelor's degree, things just got more strained because of family. And slowly - my dad started fading out of my life more and more. I still made time to see him on vacations home. He always promised me he would come visit me in Georgia, and I believed him. The cards got less frequent - they weren't late. They just never came.
I guess the other people in my family that knew my dad were trying to protect me from the disappointment of the fact that my dad just isn't reliable. Or doesn't care. Or maybe both. In college was when I started to learn it. Then, the night of my college graduation from Wesleyan - my proudest accomplishment to that date - my Dad cancelled on me. "He'd had some drama with work happen and he was just drained," he said. I was sad... but I did forgive him. I didn't forget it, but I tried to give him as much grace as I could muster. Maybe it really just was a bad work week.

But my dad and I drifted apart more as I really started to feel the brunt of his not seeming to care. I started visiting home and I wouldn't ask my dad if he was around to visit. I just didn't have the heart to see him and spend 4 hours listening to him talk about himself, while he had never even asked me what I was going to school for or what I wanted my career to be. Or even a simple, "how are you?" I loved my dad, but... he had hurt me. And my disappointment in my dad was real. Maybe it hurt even more knowing that he could be there, but he simply... chose not to?

Kris proposed to me. I hadn't seen my dad in a whole year, and my life had completely changed. Kris had never met my dad. I told him that he didn't need my dad's blessing to propose. I just couldn't put that stipulation on Kris when my Dad hadn't even remembered my birthday. In December, I decided that Kris needed to meet him. I texted my dad to see when he was free while we were down. My dad didn't text me back until the day we were leaving. He did it like nothing was the matter. "2 pm ok?"
We had a full day planned, but I moved things around. I wanted to give my dad a chance.
We spent 4 hours listening to my father talk. He didn't ask about Kris or I. He didn't ask Kris anything about his life. My dad talked about billboards, and the president's he'd shaken hands with. He talked about his old car. His first trailer. I pasted a forced smile on my face and laughed at the same jokes I'd heard every time I spent time with him dad. I gave my dad our wedding invitation. He gave me a Christmas card. He took a photo of us. We left. Kris and I drove off, and the smile fell off my face. I was unable to hide my disappointment in my father for not even taking 5 minutes to express interest in the man I was going to marry. But he had promised he'd be at the wedding. My dad RSVP'd.
Still... my dad hadn't been there for me throughout my life. And I had had multiple father figures. So ultimately, I decided to nix the first dance with my father and I asked my sweet grandfather to walk me down the aisle. I did these as safeguards, but I honestly did still believe my dad was coming. It wasn't until 2 weeks before that I started to get this sinking feeling that maybe... maybe he wasn't coming. He'd sent me a text complaining about his health about a month before. The day before my wedding, at my sister's bidding, I finally got the courage to ask my dad if he was still coming. I guess I hadn't asked earlier that week because I was worried about how disappointed I would be - I was worried about the disappointment I was trying to mask.
I texted my dad. And he texted me back.
"Won't see you in person honey.... but LOVE YOU! xoxo"

Kris was standing with me and my joy about the weekend fell off of my face, the hurt hitting me like someone had shoved a pile of weighted bricks into my arms. I couldn't help it.
My dad cancelled on me, and he didn't even call to tell me. I couldn't help but to ask him when he was planning on telling me. When I looked for him in the crowd, just like I had anxiously searched the crowds at my ballet recitals and gymnastics meets as a little girl? I had been a girl anxiously and joyously wanting to share her life with her daddy. And part of me was still that little girl, heart and stomach fluttering with butterflies, just hoping with all of my heart to see my daddy in the crowd - this time to see him in the crowd on the biggest day of my life. I guess the last bit of faith I had in my dad crumbled that day, and part of my heart, quite honestly, broke a little. Part of me felt a little more alone as I grew closer to the day that I would marry the love of my life and never be alone again.
I was so thankful for the pep talks that Kris and my other loved ones gave me. They really helped. But there's part of me that will always mourn the fact that my dad neither showed up to my wedding, nor got us a wedding gift, or even told me on his own accord that he wasn't coming - the things that might of shown that he at least cared a little.
This blog really isn't intended to be a "bitch fest", but rather, it's just to help me heal and try and start to forgive my dad, at least for the sake of my own heart, so that it doesn't become bitter towards him.
And it's also to say that I'm so incredibly thankful for the people that have been there for me in my life, in the best and worst of times. It's to say that I'm so thankful that I gained new family when Kris and I married - to emphasize the fact that my family in law is some of the most genuinely kind, caring and helpful individuals that I've ever me. To emphasize the fact that my mother in law is an absolute rock star and that she was literally like my "wedding guardian angel" and that Kris and I probably would be a little less sane without her. I adore them, and my heart is so full and happy with knowing that I get to have the honour of being part of their family. It's to thank my good friends the Newman's - especially Bryan Newman (I hope it's okay that I'm bragging on you), who has known my father from Junior High and who was there for me not only on my wedding day, but even on my college graduation day, when my father cancelled. And more than that... he's just always been there, since my undergraduate days, watching over me and helping me with more things than I can count. And he did it all on his own accord - he just reached out to me one day and was gracious enough to make me feel like I had people to watch over me even when I was far away from home.
I'm thankful for Kris and I's friends Katy and Connor, who stepped in to be a groomsman and bridesmaid after we had cancellations. We're going to Europe on our honeymoon with Katy and Connor in December, and they are some of the coolest Jesus-loving folks I know. Katy agreed to be my bridesmaid when I'd never even met her, and more so, she basically coordinated my entire wedding without my even asking her to. I'm so incredibly thankful for them, even though I was a terribly mess of nerves and disorganization that weekend and I know it showed.
I'm thankful for my mom. And my grandma. They did all of the little things I didn't even want to think about. My mom and grandma and I all disagree sometimes (stubbornness is hereditary) but they were patient and loving with me. They were generous and they were there to help. Mom and grandma were so incredibly creative with planning the wedding decor and much of the food and I truly valued their love and wisdom and just plain support for Kris and I.
I'm thankful for my sister (and matron of honor), who was rock during these past few months, and who really sympathized over all of my family drama with me. My sister is incredibly organized (unlike me) and planned a beautiful bridal shower for me. She created these incredible books filled with photos of my bridal shower and bachelorette party and captured countless precious memories about pre-wedding things over the months leading to our wedding. I'm thankful for my maid of honor, my best friend Kelle, who planned an incredible bachelorette party for me and who is also far more organized than I will ever be. I'm thankful for the Osburn family, who helped me make beautiful wedding props and who have basically opened their house to me on a permanent basis to crash at and have opened their fridge to me on more occasions than I can thing of. I'm thankful for the VonBartheld family (probably still spelled their last name wrong), who not only gave Kris and I an awesome bird, but who helped me plan my other bridal shower in Georgia with many of my loving classmates - who gifted me with their friendship - who have been amazing comedic relief throughout these past few months when I got stressed. I'm thankful for each and every one of my bridesmaids. I'm thankful for my stepdads, who were there for me even when it wasn't the most convenient thing in the world for them. One of them had to work the next day... but he flew in that Sunday to be there for me for our wedding for 3 short hours, before he had to get on a plane to leave for back home. I'm thankful for my entire family. I'm thankful for all of our friends who showed Kris and I endless support and love. I'm thankful for everyone I may have overlooked in writing this post.
I'm thankful for my incredible groom - the love of my life, the best husband ever, and my best friend. Every moment of difficulty in planning a wedding was worth it when I walked down the aisle to you. I'm overjoyed to spend every day with you.

I'm just plain thankful. And blessed.

So there. I got the sad stuff off of my chest first, and then I wrote about the good stuff - and now I feel very happy and loved indeed. In short - Kris and I are so incredibly blessed and thankful to be surrounded by so much love. We're so happy to be married. And life is a sad, mysterious, joyful and wonderful place indeed.

The Long Road Behind Me

This time two years ago was a dark time for me. The summer before I moved to Atlanta for physical therapy school. It’s not something I have opened up to a lot of people about. It’s deeply personal and it’s hard to share. Sometimes I feel ashamed that I wasn’t stronger. What was happening and the mistakes I made during that time. All the sad songs I listened to, trying to capture the extent of my heartbreak – the lonely nights alone, just my cat and I, spent in a big, empty apartment with hardly any furniture. I would leave the TV on all the time just so I didn’t have to live in silence.

I went to work at the local children’s gymnastics facility down the street. I swam occasionally. I worked out. I cooked quinoa and chicken. Wash. Rinse. Repeat. And at night – I’d suffer. Those of you who know me close, knew that during my time in Georgia, I’d been in the same relationship – the one that had ended the February of that year. Through those long, lonely summer nights, I suffered as I struggled with letting go of a relationship that I knew I needed to let go of, but didn’t know how.

One night in particular comes back to me – it was one of the worst that summer. Against my better judgement, I went to see my ex. I knew that I shouldn’t – every time I did, I felt in my heart and stomach a pit of despair and darkness. But I didn’t know what else to do. I hurt so incredibly badly. And the alternative – the scary thought of being alone – sometimes, it seemed like that was worse… I couldn’t get out of the cycle. I couldn’t bring myself to let go completely. Breaking up was one step – saying goodbye forever was another. It was that night that he confronted me about talking to other people. I was young, I was newly single – and I was trying to mask my heartbreak by distracting myself and moving on. I was in a terrible place, and seeing my ex during that time only made it exponentially worse. I hadn’t known it, but my ex was capable of doing something called “cloning” my phone – he was able to see all of the messages I received from other people. He was even able to see if anyone came over to my apartment based on IP addresses pinging my wifi from their phones, since he had helped set the wifi up. And it was bad. He confronted me about it – and I didn’t have anything good to say. How could I explain the heartbreak I felt? How utterly terrifying it was to face the thought of truly letting go of my first and only love, forever, and facing a scary new world alone? But knowing that that relationship was terrible and poisonous to both of us – and so at the same time I couldn’t help but try and move on? Trying to explain that I felt both of those at the same time seemed impossibly shallow to me, but it was much more complex than that. Maybe you’ve been in a similar situation.

A confrontation that night turned into raised voices, and raised voices turned into complete screaming. I don’t even remember exactly what was said, but I remember that – the harsh, grating, scary screaming.  His anger. The feeling of being paralyzed by helplessness. I tried to leave – I wasn’t allowed to. He took my phone and locked me in a completely pitch black room and wouldn’t let me go. I cried and cried desperately. I was so desperate to get out that I literally broke the old wood door keeping me in – which only made him yell worse. I ran out the door and down the street. He followed. “You can’t leave,” he said, threatening me. Tears poured down my face. I knew he wouldn’t let me leave – I sat down on the curb in the dark of the night and cried. In an effort to get him to let me go, I let him drive me to the house of this guy I had been on a few dates with – and he forced me to walk to his door while he knocked on it and yelled that I didn’t care about him. I finally got the chance to go home, then – I’d changed my locks so that he couldn’t get in anymore, and I tried to pretend the notes on my car when I went to random places didn’t bother me, and tried to pretend that I didn’t feel like this was an endlessly hopeless situation that I would struggle with forever. I tried to pretend that I wasn’t worried that I would be stalked around town. That I couldn’t even invite people over for worry that he would find out. I just wanted to close my eyes and forget everything. I wanted to be free. But I didn’t know how I could get there.

I don’t have a word for what that summer was like. Abuse? I don’t know. The thing about that word is, at least in my case, I didn’t think about it that way as it was happening to me. I just thought, “I deserve this. I’m an awful person – what I’ve done, by breaking someone’s heart – was awful, and these are the consequences I have to live with. This is my burden to bear. This is a hell I don’t know how to escape from, but it will be ok. I’ll be ok. He’s justified in being angry and emotional. He’s hurt too.”

Atlanta was a scary place, but it was a beacon of hope to me that summer, compared to Macon where I spent those last few months. Atlanta was a chance to be free. If I could just make it through that summer… that horrible, horrible summer – THAT was my chance to leave this hell behind. And the day I moved, oh thank god, I was so ready. I was ready for my new life. It turns out it wasn’t as easy as that, of course – my past still followed me. In fact, my ex followed me – he moved to Atlanta shortly after. I was careful to conceal my address, but somehow, he found my new address, and he’d leave notes for me there, too. Sometimes he’d wait for me to come back home. One night, I had to stay at my friend’s house, for fear of him confronting me if I went home.

One morning, it must have been 3 am – I got repeated phone calls from his new number. I hadn’t blocked it yet. Finally, he sent me a message saying there was something for me downstairs. School was at 8 am in the morning, and I was exhausted. I went downstairs, though. There were big windows that my roommate liked to leave the blinds open to that faced the street – I remember literally crawling down them, afraid to walk up tall, worried me might see me if he was still there. I opened the door, and there was a plastic bag. In it was a box – a box I had painted for him long ago for his birthday, filled with all the cards and letters I’d ever written. And one last letter from him – the last I ever received. And I wept, and wept, and wept. I was so tired, and so hurt, and so heartbroken from these last few months. I felt like I was dragging a body, the body of what my life used to be - behind me wherever I want – that’s how big the burden felt to me. I lived in fear, and heartbreak, and darkness, and no one could get me out of it. This was my burden to bear. This was my loneliness. My past. I filled journals with my hurt that the memories and that the lack of privacy and the stalking and the notes left me. His constant ability to find ways to leave my messages and get in touch with me and never leave me alone or let me forget. 

In fact, it wasn’t until the week before I met Kris, that things finally ended – for good. That I finally cut all ties with that dark piece of my past. I had still been trying to come to terms with the fact that even though I had moved on and I was seeing other people, that it didn’t make me forget my hurt – and I felt as though I constantly lived in a state of questioning if my decisions over the last year had been the right ones, or if I would be doomed to date people under a state of heartbreak that shadowed any feelings I felt forever. Just comeuppance for my bad deeds, perhaps. I remember the last time I ever saw him – I went to a bar with one of my friends, and there he was, bartending – and he brushed past me. I had a long cry that night… and then I let it go. I blocked every form of communication I could possibly find for him to talk to me to. I finally felt ready. And then I met Kris 3 days later. And for the first time ever – I finally, truly let go. I let go of the heartbreak and the hurt. I told Kris everything, and this burden was lifted from me. For the first time, I could think back on all of those memories – and they didn’t hurt anymore.

I felt peace. And funny enough, that’s one of the many reasons how I knew that Kris was the man that I would marry. Kris is kind, he’s hysterically funny, and he makes the best life partner and partner in crime I could ever ask for. He shares my longing for adventure and my passionate, determined spirit. And loving him – it’s just like one of my favourite poems, which goes like this:

“She asked ‘you are in love, what does love look like’,

To which I replied, ’like everything I’ve ever lost come back to me.”

Atlanta’s symbol is the phoenix, and the phoenix perfectly captures my life here. Out of ashes, my life was reborn and remade. I was always whole before I met Kris, but Kris gave me something more than that. He filled my whole self with joy, and all the things I’d lost in those dark pieces of my past – the loss I felt – was replaced my peace, replaced by a feeling of wholeness. He brings me closer to God and he taught me to let go of that hurt. He is the man that makes me feel as though everything I’ve ever lost and that I used to mourn every day and night before I cried myself to sleep – has come back to me. Newer, brighter and more perfect than ever before.

And in just less than 5 days, I’m lucky enough to get to marry him. If that isn’t a happy beginning to a love story, I don’t know what is. 

Why I'm Glad I Conceal Carry - And What Happened That Made Me Even More Glad.

I want to share with you guys a story of a recent trip I went on. 

As you know (if you follow any of my feeds or anything, or you just know me), I'm super pro-gun and pro-carry. It started as an annual hobby: we'd go shooting for summer camp in high school every year. That was cool. Then I moved to Georgia - it was normal for a lot of people to carry there, so I had some practice. By the time I was 21, I had already made up my mind to apply for my concealed carry. It took a while - between having to take a class, obtaining finger prints, a background check, a passport photo, complete my application and pay a lot of money throughout the process, I finally was able to submit my application. On top of that, actually getting a firearm wasn't easy either. I was a Florida resident living in a different state, where they didn't sell guns to you if you lived out of state and had no license to carry. It took me a month to actually get my gun once I'd bought it because of Florida's 3-day wait period (you have to wait 3 days after buying your gun to pick it up) - and trying to plan that in between full-time classes and work.

The day I actually picked up my Bersa 9 mm was a proud day for me. A lot of research and a lot of practice had gone into my decision to get my gun, and I loved it from day 1. Guns are fun to shoot - but I also liked having the knowledge and the comfort that having a gun could at least give me a shot (no pun intended) of not becoming a victim should anything ever happen. Going out of town, traveling, staying at hotels, even being at home alone just felt a lot more secure knowing that I had a weapon that was both intimidating and that was powerful enough to hurt someone that was trying to hurt me. Especially being a woman - a woman that goes to stranger's houses for a living to entertain at parties and events - it just felt nice to know that I had something in between me and danger. I became increasingly more pro-carry after actually being license to carry a gun (and doing so). Bachelorette party? Carry. Trip to charleston with a friend? Carry. Walking around Atlanta? Carry. I'd worked hard for my permit and I'd trained to use my weapon. The campus carry bill was exciting for me. I hoped it would be passed. I'm pretty sure a lot of my friends thought I was a little too over the top about wanting to carry my gun places - but again, after having a firearm and getting used to the security that it lent me, it was hard to leave it at home. I trusted my ability to protect myself a lot more with a gun than I did with pepper spray or a knife.

As far as actual self defense goes (and I know, this isn't great), I didn't know a ton about it. Someone attacks you? Make noise and try and fight them off. Go for the areas that hurt. I knew stuff like that. I recently took a class in self defense and I had no idea that I might actually have to use it sometime soon - but I guess that's the point. You never know why you might need to use it. Something I appreciated about the class was that they did address having a firearm. I had a gun and I knew how to use it, but it's hard to predict that you'll know the appropriate thing to do in a situation where you actually need it. I learned a lot about how you shouldn't pull your gun out obviously - how you need to read the situation - and when to make the choice either to run for it, or if the person needs to not be able to run after you.

The day after the self defense class, some girlfriends and I decided to go on a camping trip in Alabama. I've never been hammocking before, but I thought it might be fun. We built a fire, brought out wine, and set up our camp site. We were sitting around the fire in our chairs when my friend and I were laughing about what might happen if something actually did go down. "You've got the gun. You'll distract them and keep them away while I run to the car. And then you get to the car."
It was around midnight when I heard something and asked, "What am I hearing?"
"Coyotes," One of the girls said, obviously much more comfortable with camping and much less worried about the coyotes than I was. All I could picture was coyotes eating me in my sleep before saying, "Uhh.... I don't like coyotes." One of the other girls piped up that she wasn't the biggest fan, either. The hammocks weren't high - the fire was dying and the wood was low - we decided to go home. We started picking up and putting out the fire.
But I'd never been in a hammock! I crawled in just to spend some time seeing what it was like. It was comforting - rocking gently between the trees. But I was glad we were going home. It was dark and a little creeepy.

The occasional car had passed by on the dirt road at this point, but this one was louder. I peeked my head out of the hammock and saw the girls were over by the fire, putting it out and listening to. I turned off my headlight. Rocks and gravel rolled underneath big tires of an obviously large vehicle. I looked at the girls again, then back at the road. Something wasn't right. "Get to the car," one of them shouted. I leaped out of the hammock and grabbed my backpack full of insulin immediately. I pulled my gun out of its holster and hid it in my sweater; I ran to the car, ready to bolt. I hid back behind the headlights of my friend's car, slightly in the dark. A huge truck blocked the entrance to the gravel exit of the campsite and a loud voice shouted over the intercom, "THIS IS THE TUSKEGEE NATIONAL PARK SERVICE. PUT YOUR HANDS UP and QUIET. STAY RIGHT WHERE YOU ARE." I could hardly see because the lights of the giant truck were on high beams and they were so bright. Adrenaline was pumping through my body at this point. My hand gripped my gun harder, finger off the trigger, but ready to shoot. My hands weren't up, but I was off to the side. The other girls had their hands up. "STAY WHERE YOU ARE. DOES ANYONE HAVE ANY WEAPONS". I said nothing - I didn't want anyone knowing I had a gun. One of the girls shouted "Yes." Silence enveloped the 4 of us. "No... tell them it's a knife. A pocketknife. Or something." I muttered. "Just not a gun." "We're not a threat." One of them said. "Don't tell them," I said as I shook my head, hand still on my gun. They kept demanding to know what the weapon was. I thought. No. "Ask to see their identification," I said, remembering my mom's old lessons to me to never trust someone saying they were law enforcement - especially until they could show some identification. "You can have the site if you want it." One of the girls said. "We were just leaving." "DO YOU HAVE ANY WEAPONS OR ALCOHOL. IT IS ILLEGAL TO HAVE ALCOHOL ON THE PREMISES." I later learned this wasn't true, but part of me legitimately thought "Shit, am I seriously gonna go to jail tonight for drinking and possession of a weapon?" We were all silent. I was ready to shoot or bolt depending on what happened next.

A woman in a pink shirt with ratty brown hair smoking a cigarette got out of the car, laughing. "Aww... we're just kidding!" She said. I was so angry. My hand was still on my gun, hidden in my sweater. I walked closer to her. "You need to leave. Now." I said. My friend was nicer. "You guys have a good night," she said. The lady threw the cigarette on the ground. "Aw, we're just out driving around. You guys have a good night." We tried to catch their plates but the lights around the plate were busted out as the truck backed up and away - and we bolted, hurrying to pack up the rest, not wanting to stick around in case anyone came back.

And what's more: one of the girls called 911 right away to tell them that someone was visiting campsites impersonating an officer and was likely drunk and tried to give as good of a description of the people and vehicle as possible. 911 said: "That's cool... well, I don't know what you want us to do." "Well, we're leaving. Just wanted to let you know," the girl said. "You're leaving? Really?" 911 asked. "Uh, yeah. We're leaving. Of course we're leaving."
It seems like such a silly situation, but being in that situation - it was scary. We had no way of knowing who these people were: Threat? Not a threat? It was unpredictable and we were 4 women alone in the woods. It was pitch black except for the bright vehicle lights. I didn't know if these people had a gun, or if they meant harm. I was thankful for that self defense class though, so that I didn't just pull my gun out in plain sight and potentially make myself a target. And I was also thankful for my gun - thankful I didn't have to use it, but thankful I had it, in case things became worse. I'm glad we're all safe, and I'm glad it was just some people pulling a joke. But it could have been a lot worse... impersonating an officer isn't cool.

So, yeah. It's situations like that that there's NO way that you could predict that make me very, very glad that I conceal carry.