Why Am I Doing This: How I Keep Going through Self-doubt

Some weeks, I really put off opening my computer to work on the blog. When I do get the nerve to open my computer, I might mess around Facebook or check the weather before I turn to writing. Posting day is no doubt the hardest (I’ve already checked Facebook 3 times and know that there’s a 15% chance of isolated showers around 5pm today).

At the heart of that procrastination is the most backwards reasoning in the world: If I don’t try, then I can’t fail.

But I know better. Continue reading

Running Away: a Bad Thing? 

Runaway shows up three times in my iTunes library.  Not the same song, but three different songs by three different artists all titled Runaway.  It gave me pause. Yes, I have turned away from some tough times, but I have also hunkered down and pushed through. Surely, I am not a runner.  Surely, there is another explanation for why I have so many songs that share that title.  Set on finding a different explanation for the multiple Runaway songs, I came up with another hypothesis:

Continue reading

Loving a Homosexual: We All Do

I met my best friend when I was 1 year and 361 days old. My best friend is loving, funny, caring, smart, thoughtful, loyal and a great runner. He is taller and much more attractive than me. We have had our differences, but don’t all brothers and sisters?

He has been gay since the first day we met. People wondered, they assumed, they questioned, but I never understood why. It never mattered to us and it should not matter to anyone else. But for some reason, it does, and today, we were all horrifically reminded of that fact.

Continue reading

The Line on His Nose

It’s no wider than a string, no longer than a grain of rice.  Its faint red color protrudes from his right nostril.  No one else sees it.  If they do, they do not notice it.  I see it.  When I see it, I take a deep a breath.  I smile away the tears that threaten.  He was born six weeks early.   During labor, my doctor gently informed me that my delivery room experience would be different.  There would be extra doctors and nurses. There would be special equipment in the room to help them deal with potential complications or health concerns.  I would likely not be able to hold him.  Whether because it was my first labor, the fact that my husband was in flight on his way to the hospital, or the kind, warm demeanor of my doctor as he delivered the information or simply that I had never experienced the love of your own child, I could not appreciate the gravity of his words.

He spent the first month of his life in the hospital – constantly monitored to ensure he was breathing and that his heart was beating.  He would not eat. Or he was too young to know how – they said.  Despite our efforts, the only option was the small tube running down his nose.  “If not changed daily, it could leave a scar,” one nurse told us when we asked why it kept changing sides.  We learned the truth of her words in the days before discharge.

Initially I was angry about the scar from his feeding tube.  We would have a visual reminder of this experience for the rest of our lives.   In our time there we held our screaming, crying four pound baby as he was poked, prodded and tested for chronic conditions that would explain his distended stomach and impact the rest of his life.  We witnessed a mother and father as they were told that their baby was revived the night before, but that the episode would repeat and the child would not survive the next time.   I did not want a visual reminder of this experience.

We left the hospital with our son.  We know not all families have the same fortune.  It’s a responsibility we do not take lightly.  Slowly I began to embrace and love his scar.  Like his life, it is a blessing.  It drives me to live my days and stare down my fears.  It nudges me everyday when I forget to live my days and stare down my fears.  It reminds me of the urgency of life, its fleeting moments and fragile nature.

Starting a blog scared me.  I dreamed of it.  I dreamed of writing for a wider audience since I had my first diary.  This dream stuck with me as I scribbled in my well-guarded notebooks in high school, bound journals in college, Moleskins as my career began and finally urgent typing on my electronic devices.   For as long as I can remember as my thoughts circulate in my mind I try to determine how I would write those words to others.    How I would describe the sight I am seeing and the sensations I am feeling.  Every few years, I would mention my crazy and silly dream to write someday.  Supportive friends would say, “you should!”  And that was as far as it went.  His line makes me realize that my fear of failure and being judged is precluding me from following my dreams.  That realization coupled with the greater fear of looking back with regret for not doing this led me here.  Welcome, thanks for reading and hope you are having a good day.